Curtis wheeled and strode across the street to his horse. “Let’s get moving, Mark,”—he said loudly, and added in a low voice—“before they think you done it.”
Mark jammed the rifle into the boot, completely confused, and untied the sorrel. As he stepped into the saddle, Ackerman called: “How about it, bub? Was it like the gent says?”
“I guess it was,” Mark answered. “I saw his beard and started hollering.”
Mark swung the sorrel and put him into a gallop. He caught up with Curtis, dust rolling up behind them, but even then he wasn’t sure. The redhead’s voice sounded exactly like the voice that had said: I found it.
Chapter Four
They camped on the Crooked River that night. Prineville was ten miles downstream from them. Mark kept his worry and fear bottled up until they staked out the horses and built a fire. Then he burst out: “You don’t think anybody would believe I killed my own parents?”
“Why not?” Curtis was slicing bacon into a frying pan. “I reckon any of us would do ’most anything for $8,000.”
“I wouldn’t!” Mark cried. “I loved my parents. I don’t know what to do without them.”
“No, reckon you don’t. You’re a chicken-livered kid in some ways. Other ways you’re a damned fool. Take hollering at Ackerman the way you done and trying to get your rifle out to shoot Malone. He’d have plugged you right in the guts if I hadn’t had my gun on him. You know that?”
“Yeah.” Mark swallowed. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. When I heard his voice …”
“Oh, hell.” Curtis squatted at the fire, his back to Mark. “Nobody can identify a voice. It ain’t like seeing a man.”
Mark was silent then. It wasn’t a thing he could argue about. Maybe Curtis was right. Hearing a voice wasn’t like seeing a man’s face, and that was a fact. All he’d heard was one sentence of three words: I found it.
No, it sure wasn’t like seeing a face: the color of a man’s eyes, the length of his nose, his mouth, all definite things you could see and identify. But a voice that had said just three words. … No, Curtis was right. Now that Mark thought about it, he knew he couldn’t be sure. Not sure enough to go into court and swear that Red Malone was the man who had murdered his parents.
Mark walked to the river and, hunkering down beside it, idly tossed rocks into a deep pool in front of him. It was a slow and turgid stream, entirely unlike the cold, swift-flowing Deschutes. More like the lower end of the Santiam before it ran into the Willamette.
Suddenly he was filled with a depressing sense of uncertainty. He couldn’t live off the country the way Bronco Curtis could. Now he couldn’t even go back to Prineville and get a haying job. Not after he’d run away. Ackerman might think he’d killed his folks. He asked himself why he’d left with Curtis the way he had, but he had no answer. He had acted without thinking, just as he had when he’d heard Malone’s voice and grabbed for the rifle.
“Come and get it!” Curtis called.
Mark returned to the fire. He squatted beside it and ate his supper while dusk settled down; the rimrock and buttes to the west became vague and indistinct shapes as purple shadow flowed across the land. Then dusk turned to night, and for a time there was no sound but the whisper of a riffle just above them where the shallow water flowed over a gravel bed.
Curtis threw wood on the fire, then stretched out on the grass, his head on his saddle. As he rolled a cigarette, he said: “Well, I never figgered I’d be nursing a wet-nosed kid, but looks like that’s what I’ll be doing.”
Angry, Mark said: “I didn’t ask you to. I’ll make out.”
Curtis laughed. “The hell you will. You’d strike out across the high desert and die of thirst. Or some sand lizard would pull you out of the saddle and eat you alive.”
It was ridicule, bitter and scathing, designed to take the hide off Mark’s back and make him forget his grief. For a moment it succeeded. He said: “To hell with you. I’m not scared.”
Curtis laughed again, turning his face so that the fire threw a dancing light upon it. Mark had not realized until that moment that Curtis’s nose was long and hooked like a hawk’s beak, that his dark face had a predatory cast to it.
“That’s better,” Curtis said. “You’ve got a little spunk in you. Mostly the Willamette Valley raises people like it does grass and ferns. Soft as mush. Too much moisture over there. Come winter, there’s no strength to the grass. Over here the bunchgrass is like good rich hay, cured with all the strength in it.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Mark said. “I don’t owe you anything, either. In the morning you ride one way, and I’ll ride the other.”
Curtis shook his head. “We’ll stick together. For a while, anyhow. Maybe I can make something out of you.”
“Why?” Mark demanded. “Why do you bother with me?”
Curtis stared at the flames, silent for several seconds. Then he said: “I can’t forget the way I found you, lying beside the road and looking like hell wouldn’t have you. Somebody’s got to look after you, and I reckon that somebody’s me.”
“That’s not good enough,” Mark said. “You could have unloaded me in Prineville.”
Curtis sat up and tossed his cigarette stub into the fire. “Yeah, there is something else. When I was a kid, younger’n you by a hell of a lot, I was in the same boat. I had to scratch or die, and, by God, I’d have died if a man hadn’t come along and looked out for me. Let’s say I’m paying that man back.”
He grinned at Mark. “Hell, this kind of gab ain’t getting us nowhere. Now, there’s a thing or two about me you’d better know. I’m a getting man. When I see what I want, I’ll take it. I’ve got some money. Been saving for quite a spell, then got into a poker game a week or so ago and hit it lucky. That’s why I’m here. I always have liked it on this side of the mountains. I don’t have much more’n a nest egg, but before I’m done, I’ll hatch it into the biggest damned ranch in eastern Oregon.”
He leaned forward, his knees under his chin. “That was why I was arguing with Red. We busted up this morning, and he figgered I’d show in Prineville, so he was waiting for me. He wanted to go to The Dalles. It’s a river town with a lot of crooked gamblers and pimps and women who’ll do anything you ask ’em if you pay ’em, and suckers waiting to be taken. But that’s Red’s kind of life. It ain’t mine.”
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Red wanted me to go because he needed my money, but I didn’t figger that way. He’ll wind up with a slug in him or stretching rope, but me, I aim to get me a ranch, and I’ll keep looking till I find what I want. I’m just as tough as the country. Now we’re gonna find out if you are, or whether you’re as soft as that Willamette Valley grass. But don’t make no more mistakes like you done with Red. If a man’s on the shoot, accommodate him.”
Mark nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t, not really. He wondered what would have happened if his folks had lived and bought the ranch on the Ochoco. They were kindly people, who had taught him about God and law and being neighborly. Probably they should have stayed in the Willamette Valley, for that was their kind of country.
He thought of the damp kiss of the wind that blew in from the Pacific, the ferns that were tall and green and utterly useless, and the grass that lost its strength in winter just as Curtis said. No, it wasn’t Bronco Curtis’s country, but it had been his.
He stared at the fire, vaguely aware of the coyote chorus that broke out from a distant rim to the south, and he wondered if he could change, if he could learn from Curtis all that he had to know. At least the man had left the door open, and he would go with him, and try.
They headed south the next morning, traveling across the high desert with its naked rims and juniper forest and sagebrush, and bunchgrass in spots as high as a man’s stirrups. Good stock country, Bronco said, or would be if there was water. He seemed to be in no hurry, and apparently he wasn’t headed anywhere in particular.
They angled back and forth, toward the pines in
the foothills of the Cascades, or again into the desert. Sometimes they made a dry camp; sometimes they found water. Occasionally they put up at a ranch, with Bronco looking everything over and asking questions, and often turning down offers of a job. They crossed the line into California, and then into Nevada.
Every day Mark learned something. From observation, from the things Bronco said, from having to do things he had never done before. He learned to ride, and, as Bronco had told him in Prineville, he found that in time he lost his soreness, that he could stay in the saddle day after day.
He lost count of those days as they dropped behind, and eventually time blunted his grief. When he thought about what had happened on the Deschutes that bitter night, it seemed to him it was in the dim past, a past he had to forget because it was too painful to remember.
When Bronco decided Mark would do, he had him get his revolver out of the slicker. He taught the boy how to wear it, how to draw, and he gave grudging praise as Mark improved. When they hit a town, they bought large quantities of ammunition. At first Mark paid for them, but his money was soon gone, and after that Bronco bought them. Every night, if they were camped by themselves, Bronco had Mark practice.
They became friends of a sort, with Bronco giving the orders, a relationship that Mark accepted because he had no choice. He was never sure what was in the other man’s mind, and he knew better than to ask, but he didn’t doubt that Bronco Curtis had a definite purpose. He was that kind of man.
But Mark had a purpose, too, and he was accomplishing it, learning to live off the country. Sometimes at night when he couldn’t sleep, he would think about the murder of his parents, and he would promise himself that someday he would go back and put the stone markers on the graves, as Fred Baxes had suggested, and then he’d start out on the trail of the murderer.
Always on the following day, when he was in the saddle, his resolve would melt as he examined it in daylight. The trail was too cold, the man was long gone, and only the foolish devoted their lives to the grim purpose of revenge. He had his own future, his own life, and even under the tough tutorship of Bronco Curtis he never entirely lost what his folks had taught him, principles about God and man and law.
He grew taller and he lost weight. Peach fuzz sprouted on his face, and black whiskers grew on Bronco’s. Both wore their guns; they were always careful with strangers, never giving them the bulge. When they rode into town and stood together at a bar or bought supplies and ammunition in a store, people let them alone, giving them the respect they would have given a pair of wolves that had drifted into town from the wilderness.
Eventually it occurred to Mark that they had a wolf look about them, maybe a wolf smell. Bronco laughed when Mark mentioned it to him. “You’re damned right we have. If we looked and acted like we was soft, people would jump us same as a pack of dogs jump a stray that gets into the wrong neighborhood. But if you look and act like you’re tough, by God, they’ll let you alone. You might be a hardcase like you look, and there ain’t many men who are real anxious to find out.”
He gave Mark a long, measuring look. “We’ve been lucky we ain’t run into somebody who did want to find out. If we keep riding, we will. Maybe some drunk. Or some son-of-a-bitch who wants to fight just for the hell of it. If that happens, you watch my back. I can take care of the man in front of me, but I sure can’t keep my eyes on the one behind me. If it’s in a saloon, cover the bartender. Some of ’em won’t butt in no matter what. Other ones will. When they do, it’s on the side of the man they know.”
Mark listened and nodded, not thinking anything of the sort would happen. But it did the next day. They hit a small place in Nevada just north of Quinn River, a couple of houses and a store and saloon in one false-fronted building. A lathered horse was tied in front of the building, but no one was inside except a skinny man who stood fidgeting behind the bar.
“Watch it, boy,” Bronco said in a low tone. “Something wrong here.”
The bar consisted of two unplaned planks set on barrels. There was no mirror in the place, no fancy chandelier suspended from the ceiling, no brass foot rail. A shelf behind the skinny man held a dozen or more bottles and some glasses, most of them dirty.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the skinny man asked, grinning nervously.
Bronco glanced around the room, then turned his gaze to the skinny man. “Who’s here?”
“Nobody.”
Bronco motioned to the lathered horse. “I reckon that animal walked up and tied himself.”
“Oh, that.” The skinny man shrugged. “A cowboy rode up a while ago. He’s out back.”
“Let’s ride, Mark,” Bronco said.
“How about your drink?” the skinny man asked.
Bronco didn’t answer. He took two steps toward the door, then wheeled as a man came in through the back, calling: “Freeze, mister. I’m swapping horses.”
The newcomer was pulling his gun as he said it. Bronco didn’t take time to ask questions. He went for his gun, and even though the other man had his revolver almost clear of leather, he never got off a shot. Bronco was that much faster. His bullet caught the man in the belly.
For a moment Mark was shocked by surprise at the suddenness of the whole thing. Then he remembered what Bronco had told him, and he drew his gun just as the skinny man was straightening up, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He stared at Mark, blinking, and laid the shotgun on the bar as Bronco wheeled to face him.
“You’re lucky to be alive, mister,” Bronco said.
“I didn’t mean nothing.” The skinny man’s face had turned green, and sweat was rolling down his cheeks and on down his chin. “I just don’t like my place shot all to hell.”
“Get out here,” Bronco said, and holstered his gun. “Keep him covered, Mark. If he makes a fast move, shoot him in the guts.”
The skinny man walked around the end of the bar, feet dragging, gazing at Mark as if uncertain how long he had to live. Bronco ran his hands down the front of the man, down his sides, then grabbed a shoulder and yanked him around and felt of his back.
“Outside,” Bronco said, giving the fellow a push toward the door. “Put up your gun, Mark. We’ll be moseying. This jasper is taking a walk in front of us.”
“I told you I didn’t mean nothing,” the skinny man whined.
“Shut up,” Bronco said in disgust. “You’re lying like hell. You figured the boy here would stand pat and you’d let me have it in the back, then plug the boy and rob us. And the booger who wanted to swap horses. You had one carcass to bury, so you figured you’d just dig the grave three times as wide. Now get outside.”
The skinny man obeyed. Mark and Bronco mounted and turned north. The bartender walked in front of them for fifty yards. Bronco let him go back, saying: “I’ll put a window in your skull if you’re here the next time I ride through. Now git.”
He started back in a shambling run. Bronco lifted his horse into a gallop, Mark matching the pace. For a time Mark thought he was going to be sick. He had never seen a man shot down before; he hadn’t looked at the body, but it was enough to know it was there. But what bothered him most was the way Bronco took it, as if killing a man was all part of the day’s work.
Presently Bronco pulled his horse down to a slower pace. Before dark they crossed back into Oregon. That night after supper Mark asked: “How’d you catch on so quick?”
Bronco grinned. “I’ve been on the dodge a time or two. You get so you smell things like that. My guess was that the booger I plugged had a posse on his tail and needed a fresh horse bad. He probably hadn’t been there long. He may have been hooked up with the skinny gent, but then again maybe he wasn’t. You never know about a deal like that, and you can’t wait to find out.”
Bronco didn’t commend Mark for his quick thinking, but Mark didn’t expect him to. He knew Bronco too well. Now he knew him a little better yet. The incident had taught him two things: Bronco had been wanted by the law, and Bronco could kill a man and take it in stride.<
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Both facts worried him for a time. They reminded him of a remark Bud Ackerman had made in Prineville, about its being funny Bronco had showed up so quickly after Mark had discovered the murder of his parents. Then Mark reminded himself that Bronco hadn’t been the man he’d caught getting out of the wagon. Besides, the kind of murderer who would knife two sleeping people wouldn’t be bothering with a boy like Mark. The suspicion died.
In the morning they rode northwest. Mark wondered how long this aimless wandering would last, but he didn’t ask. He was afraid to do or say anything that might give Bronco an excuse to tell Mark to go his own way. He wasn’t sure Bronco wanted such an excuse, but he might. The shooting had demonstrated more than anything else that had happened how raw and violent this country was. Mark knew he had graduated out of the greenhorn class, but he also knew he was a long way from being able to take care of himself.
Near the end of the week they reached an alkali-crusted lake, the shore around it the most sterile piece of ground Mark had ever seen. It was, Bronco said: “Coyote country with a coyote smell about it.”
Even in late summer the wind was bitter cold. A human skull lay at the edge of the water, grinning at them as they rode past. Mark shivered in spite of himself, and he was glad to get out of the valley. As they picked their way through a break in the rimrock to the north, Mark was convinced that the ghost of the man whose skull they had seen was still in the valley.
He asked Bronco if he knew what the place was called. When Bronco answered—“Ghost Valley.”—Mark knew he was right. He felt it in the back of his neck and along his spine and deep down in his belly.
“Ever been here before?” Mark asked.
“No, but I’ve heard about it,” Bronco answered. “’Most everybody circles it, but hell, I figger you ain’t got nothing to worry about if the ghost is there but the man ain’t.”
Late in the afternoon they reached a combination store and saloon set alongside a trail that ran south to Nevada. There was a water hole nearby, the only sweet water for miles around. Bronco said: “Someday men will die for that water, but it ain’t worth a killing to me. We’ll do better.”
Ten Mile Valley Page 3