Son Of a Wanted Man (1984)

by L'amour, Louis

  “It could be. It is very wild up there,” and he added truthfully, “I’ve never been up there.” He lifted his head, listening for a moment. He thought he had heard horses coming, but it was too soon for Ben to arrive. If anyone else stopped by he would have to get rid of them, and promptly.

  Visitors, however, were extremely rare.

  Then he heard the sound again, closer. He got up quickly. “Stay here!” He spoke more sharply than intended.

  His immediate fear was a posse, and then he recognized Kerb Perrin. He had seen Perrin many times, but doubted if Perrin had ever seen him or had any idea who he was. There were several riders, and they were Ben’s men, but Ben had always assured him the outlaws knew nothing of the V-Bar or his connection to it.

  He walked out on the porch. “How are you?” He spoke mildly, suddenly aware that he was not even wearing a gun. “Anything I can do for you?” Where were his hands? Why had the sentry not warned him?

  “You can make as little trouble as possible,” Kerb Perrin said harshly. “You can stay out of the way and maybe you won’t get hurt. We heard there were women here. We want them and we want your cattle.” Voyle Ragan stood tall and alone. “My advice is for you to ride out of here, and ride fast.

  You aren’t welcome.” He paused, stalling for time. “The only women here are decent women, who are visitors.” Ducrow slid from his horse and shucked his Winchester. At that moment Garfield appeared at the corner of the corral. “All right!” he shouted.

  “Back off there!” The others were on the ground, spreading out.

  Garfield was cool. He stepped out, his rifle up. “Back off, I said!” He saw a movement and his eyes flickered and Ducrow shot across the saddle. Garfield took the bullet and fired back. A man beyond Ducrow spun and fell, Garfield worked the lever on his rifle and Ducrow shot into him. The cowhand backed up, going to his knees, fighting to get his rifle up. Another shot knocked him over, yet he still struggled. Ignoring the shooting, Kerb Perrin started up the steps and Voyle Ragan hit him in the mouth. The blow was sudden, unexpected, and it landed flush. Perrin put his hand to his mouth and brought it away, bloody. “For that, I shall kill you!” “Not yet, Perrin!” The voice had the ring of challenge, and Kerb knew it at once. He was shocked. Bastian here?

  He had left Bastian a prisoner at Toadstool Canyon, so how could he be here, of all places? And if he was free that meant Ben Curry was back in the saddle.

  He must kill Mike Bastian and kill him now) “You’re making fools of yourselves) Ben Curry is not through and this place is under his protection! He sent me to stop you. All those who get in the saddle and ride out of here now will be in the clear. If you don’t want to fight Ben Curry get going, and get going now!” Kerb Perrin went for his gun.

  Kerb Perrin knew he was going to kill Mike Bastian. There had never been a time when he was not sure of his skill with a gun, and now even more so. Who did this kid think he was, anyway? Kerb Perrin was smiling as his hand dropped to his gun, yet even as his gun cleared its holster he saw a stab of flame from the muzzle of Bastian’s gun and something slugged him hard in the midsection. Staggered and perplexed, he took a step backward. Whatever hit him had knocked his gun out of line, and the shot he fired went into the dirt out in front of him. He lifted his gun to swing it into line when something hit him again, half turning him.

  What was wrong? He struggled with his gun, which was suddenly very heavy. There was a strange feeling in his stomach, something, never experienced before. Suddenly he was on his knees and could not remember how he got there. A dark pool was forming near his knees, and he must have slipped.

  He started to rise. He was to kill Mike Bastian, he had to kill him. He peered across the space between them. Bastian was standing with a gun in his hand, holding his fire. What was the matter with Bastian? Did he think he, Kerb Perrin, needed time? He lunged to his feet and stood swaying. His legs felt numb and he was having a hard time getting his breath. That blood … it was his blood! He had been shot. Mike Bastian had beaten him. Beaten him? Like WE His gun muzzle started to lift, then fell from his fingers. He had another gun. He would He reached for it and fell into the dust. His eyes opened wide, he tried to scream a protest but no sound came.

  Kerb Perrin was dead.

  In the instant that Kerb Perrin’s gun came up too late, Ducrow wheeled and ran into the house.

  Kiefer, seeing his leader fall, grabbed for his own gun and was killed by a shot from Voyle Ragan’s rifle, hurriedly grabbed from its place beside the door.

  The others broke and ran for their horses, and Mike got off one quick shot as they fled. He had lifted his gun for a final shot when he heard the scream.

  Ducrow had come to the ranch for women, and it was a woman he intended to have. Dashing through the house while all eyes were on the shooting, he was just in time to see Juliana, horrified at the killing, run for her bedroom. The bedroom window was open and Ducrow grabbed her and threw her bodily from the window. Before she could rise he was through the window and had caught her up from the ground. Swiftly, he threw her across the saddle of a horse and with the few swift turns of the experienced hand she was bound hand and foot. Her scream was partly stifled by a backhanded blow across the mouth, then Ducrow leaped to the saddle of Perrin’s mount, which was better than his own. Catching up the bridle of her horse he went out of the yard at a dead run.

  Mike had wheeled, running for the house, believing the scream had come from inside. By the time he glimpsed them they were disappearing into the pines. He saw two horses, one rider and” Where’s Juliana?” he shouted.

  He had already glimpsed Drusilla standing on the porch. Voyle Ragan ran around the house.

  “He’s got juke!” he yelled. “I’ll get a horse!” “You stay here! Take care of the women and the ranch! I’ll go after Juliana!” He walked to his horse, thumbing shells into his gun. Dru Ragan started toward another horse.

  “You go back to the house!” he ordered.

  “She’s my sister!” Dru flared. “When we do find her she may need a woman’s care!” “Come on then, but you’ll have to do some riding!” He wheeled the big bay and was off in a jump. The horse Dru mounted was one of Ben Curry’s big horses, bred not only for speed but for staying power.

  Mike’s mind leaped ahead. Would Ducrow try to return to Toadstool? Or would he join Monson and Clatti” If he did, then Mike was in trouble. He worried about no one of them-but all three?

  He held down the bay’s pace. He had taken a swift glance at the hoof tracks of the two horses he was trailing.

  Mike Bastian went over the situation, trying to view it from Ducrow’s standpoint. Ducrow could not know that Juliana was Ben Curry’s daughter, but at this stage he probably would not care. Yet he would realize Ben was back in the saddle again, so a return to Toadstool was out of the question. Also, Ducrow would want to keep the girl for himself. That he would kill her had to be understood, for any attack upon a decent woman was sure to end in hanging if he was caught.

  Long ago Roundy had taught him that there were more ways to trailing a man than merely following tracks. One must follow the devious trails in a man’s mind as well. He tried to think as Ducrow would be thinking. The fleeing outlaw could not have much, if any, food.

  On previous forays, however, he must have learned where there was water. Also there were ranch hangouts that he would know. Some of these would be inhabited, others would not. Owing to the maps Ben Curry had him study, Mike knew the locations of all such places.

  The trail veered suddenly, turning into the deeper stands of brush, and Mike followed. Drusilla had not spoken since they started, but glancing back he saw her face was dusty and tear streaked, yet he noted with a thrill of satisfaction she had brought her rifle. She was Ben Curry’s daughter, after all, a fit companion for any man. He turned his attention to the trail. Ducrow must know he was followed or would be followed, and he would want to leave no trail. Nor was he inexperienced. In his many outlaw raids as one of Ben Cur
ry’s men and before he would have had much experience with such things. And now it had happened. Despite the small lead he had, Ducrow had vanished!

  Turning into the thicker desert growth he had dipped down into a sandy wash. There, because of the deep sand and the tracks of cattle and other horses it needed several precious minutes to decide whether he had gone up or down the wash. He searched, trying not to disturb the sand until he had worked it out.

  Then he saw a recognizable hoofprint following the winding of the wash as it led up-country.

  Ducrow would not stay in the wash long, as it was tiring for the horses to walk in the deep sand, and he would wish to save his horses’ strength.

  From there on it was a nightmare. Ducrow rode straight away, then turned at right angles, using every bit of cover he could find and mingling his tracks with others wherever found. At places he had even stopped to brush out tracks, but Roundy’s years of training had not been wasted, and Mike clung to the trail like a bloodhound.

  Following him, Dru saw him pick up sign where she could see nothing. Once a barely visible track left by the edge of a horseshoe, again a broken twig on a bush they had passed. Hours passed and the sun began to slide down the western sky. Dru, realizing night would come before they found her sister, was cold with fear for her.

  Mike glanced back at her. “You wanted to come,” he said, “and I am not stopping because of darkness.” “How can you trail them in the dark?” “I can’t, but I believe I know where they are going and we will have to take a chance.” Darkness closed down upon them. Mike’s shirt had stuck to his body with sweat, and now he felt the chill of the night wind, but grimly he rode on.

  One advantage he had. He had never ridden with the gang, so Ducrow might not suspect he knew of all the hideouts. Ducrow could not know of the hours he had spent with Ben Curry and Roundy going over the trails and checking the hideouts and what he could expect at each one. The big bay horse seemed unwearied by the miles of travel, yet at times Dru heard Mike speak encouragingly to the big horse. At the edge of a clearing he suddenly drew up, so suddenly she almost rode into him. “Dru,” he whispered, “there’s a small ranch ahead. There might be one or more men there, and Ducrow is almost surely there with your sister. I am going to find out. his “I’ll come, too.” “Stay here! When I whistle, come and bring the horses. I have skill at this sort of thing, and I have to get close without making a sound.” Removing his boots he slipped on the moccasins he always carried in his saddlebags. He was there a moment, and then he vanished into the darkness, and she heard no sound, nothing. Suddenly a light appeared in a window … too soon for him to have reached the cabin.

  Moving like a ghost, Mike reached the corral.

  There were horses there, but it was too dark to make them out. One stood near the bars, and putting a hand out he touched the horse’s flank. It was damp with sweat.

  Without so much as a whisper of sound, Mike was at the window, his head carefully to one side but peering in.

  He saw a square-faced man with a pistol in his hand, and as Mike watched, the man placed the pistol on the table with a towel over it. Soundless in his moccasins, Mike walked around the house and stepped into the room.

  Obviously the man within had been expecting the sound of horse’s hoofs or even a jingle of spurs and a sound of boots. Mike’s sudden appearance startled him, and he made an almost inadvertent move toward the pistol under the towel.

  Bastian closed the door behind him, and the man stared at him. This black-haired young man in buckskins did not look like the law, and he was puzzled but wary.

  “You’re Walt Sutton. Get your hands away from that table before you get blown wide open! Move!” Sutton backed off hurriedly, and Mike swept the towel off the gun. “If you had tried that I’d have killed you.” “Who are you? What d’you want here?” “You know damn” well what I want! I am Mike Bastian, Ben Curry’s foster son.

  He owns this ranch. He set you up here, gave you stock to start with! Now you double cross him. Where’s Ducrow?” Sutton shook his head. “I ain’t seen him,” he protested.

  “You’re a liar, Sutton! His horses are in the corral. You’re going to tell me where he is or I’ll start shooting.” Walt Sutton was unhappy. He knew Ducrow as one of Ben Curry’s men who had come for fresh horses. He had never seen this young man before, yet so far as Sutton was aware nobody but Ben Curry and himself knew the facts about the ranch. If this man was lying, how could he know? “Listen, mister, I don’t want no trouble. Least of all with old Ben. He did set me up here, and I been doin’ well. Yes, I seen Ducrow, but he told me the law was after him.” “Do I look like the law? Ducrow’s kidnapped Voyle’ Ragan’s niece, and they are friends of Ben’s. I’ve got to find him.” “Kidnapped Voyle Ragan’s niece?

  Gosh, mister, I wondered why he wanted two saddle horses.” Mike backed to the door and whistled sharply.

  “Where did he go?” “Damned if I know. He rode in here about an hour ago wanting two packhorses with grub and blankets. He took two canteens and then lit out.” Drusilla appeared in the doorway and Sutton’s eyes went to her. “I know you,” he said. “Evenin’, ma’am.” “Get us some grub, and make it quick. Then I want the two best horses Ben left here, and I want them fast!” Sutton put bread and meat on the table and ducked out of the door. Mike watched him hurry to the corral and saw him bring two horses from the stable.

  They were typical Curry horses, big, handsome animals. Sutton led them to the door and then sacked up some supplies and tied them behind the saddles.

  “You’ve been a help,” Mike said, “and I’ll tell Ben about it. Now-have you any idea where Ducrow might be going?”—“Well-was Sutton hesitated, obviously frightened. “He’ll kill me if he learns I told, but he did say something about Peach Meadow Canyon.” “Peach Meadow?” Bastian frowned. The canyon was a legend in the red rock country, and Roundy had talked of it. “What did he ask you?” “If I knew the trail there and if it was passable.” “What did you tell him?” Sutton threw up his hands. “What could I tell him? I’ve heard of that canyon ever since I came into this country, and I’ve looked for it.

  Who wouldn’t, if all they say is true?” As they moved out Mike put his hand on Dru’s arm. “Dru? This is going to be rough, so if you want to go back-?” “I wouldn’t think of it.” “Well, I won’t say I’m sorry. I like having you with me. In fact-was His voice trailed off.

  There was more he meant to say, and Drusilla realized it. She also knew he was very tired. She had no idea of the brutally hard ride before he arrived at the Ragan ranch or the crossing of the canyon, but she could see the weariness in his face.

  They rode side by side when the trail permitted, and Mike explained. “I doubt if Ducrow will stop for anything now. There isn’t another good hideout within miles, and he will know he’s pursued, although not by whom or how many. I almost wish he knew it was me.” “Why?” “Because he wants to kill me,” he said simply, “and he might stop long enough to try.” Then they were alone in the night, with only the horses under them, only the stars to watch. “Is it far?” “I do not know,” he said. “If Ducrow knows where it is he has found the perfect hideaway.

  Outlaws often stumble across such places in making getaways from the law, or they hear of them from some Indian, some trapper or prospector, and file the knowledge away against future need.” “What is Peach Meadow Canyon?” “It is said to be near the river, one of those deep canyons that branch off from the Colorado or one of its tributaries. According to the stories somebody discovered it years ago, but the Spanish had been before him, and Indians before them. There are cliff-dweller ruins in the place, but no way to get into it from the plateau. The Indians had a way, and the Spanish are supposed to have reached it by boat.

  “The prospector who found it told folks there was fresh water and a small meadow. Somebody had planted some peach trees, probably from pits he carried in his pack. Nobody ever saw him or it again, so the place exists only on his say-so. The
Indians now say there’s no such place, but they may just not want anybody nosing around. Ducrow might be trying to throw us off, but he might actually know something.” “You’ll try to follow him in the dark?” “No, not actually. It is night and he will be taking it easy as this is rough country. He can’t get out of this area where we’re traveling, so we’ll stay behind him until he leaves the canyon. By that time it will be daylight and we can pick up his trail.” “I am worried for Juliana. his “Of course, but I think he knows somebody is following, so I don’t think he will stop until he reaches the canyon or turns into rough country.” For several miles they rode down a highwalled canyon from which there was no escape. Ben Curry and Roundy had both told him of it, as one of the approaches to Walt Sutton’s place. Once they emerged from the canyon, however, he must be extremely careful.

  At the canyon’s end, where it opened upon a wide stretch of semi desert, he pulled up and swung down. “We can’t have a fire,” he said, “because in this country a man can see for miles, and we want him to think we’re pushing hard on his trail.” He put his folded poncho on the ground near a flat-faced boulder and handed Dru a blanket.

  “Rest,” he said. “You’ll need it.” She was feeling the chill and gathered it close about her. “Aren’t you cold? If we sat close together it would be warmer, and we could share the blanket.” He hesitated, then sat down beside her and pulled the blanket across his shoulders. He was desperately tired but feared to fall asleep. Ducrow might leave Juliana and double back to kill him. He had unsaddled and ground-hitched the horses but had no worry about them drifting off. This was one of the few patches of grass anywhere around.

  Yet he did sleep. When the sky was faintly gray he awakened suddenly, listened, looked at the horses who were cropping grass contentedly, and then eased from under the blanket.