Milo Talon

by Louis L'Amour

  Pablo’s head turned. “The mountains I know better than the plains.” He jerked his head toward the hills. “I was born back there, where there is a small valley. My father, he was a friend to all, but especially he liked the Utes. He traded with them, hunted with them, hid some of their women and children from the Kiowas.”

  He smiled. “It is why I do not fear the Indios. They know me, I know them.”

  “My home is in the north, at the edge of the mountains also.” I looked up at the stars, thinking. Does he think this girl is hidden in the mountains?

  Pablo sat up. “How is it at your place?”

  “There’s a valley, then a series of mountain meadows reached by trails, each higher than the last.”

  “Here, also. I think we have something, my friend.”

  “But the pictures, they were not of Colorado. I am sure they were California.”

  “Si? And why not? Maybe she was there and then has come here. Have you thought of that?”

  Of course. Newton had written in that letter that soon she would be old enough to travel by herself, which meant she was not intended to remain in California or wherever she had been when the letter was written.

  It was not yet daybreak but I was up building a fire when I heard approaching horses.

  “Pablo?”

  “I hear them. Do what you are doing, but be ready, amigo. I think this is trouble.”

  When they rode up to the camp I had the fire going and was putting some coffee on. There were three of them, and I remembered there seemed to have been three after Tut, too.

  They pulled up at the edge of the camp and I stood up slowly. All three had Winchesters in their scabbards, but they weren’t planning to use them, not right now. All three had their coats unbuttoned and moved back to make drawing easy. Perhaps I was foolish or overconfident, but I was not worried. I’d had to use a gun a few times, here and there.

  “You!” He was a big, red-faced man with a mustache and a narrow-brimmed hat, worn more often in the north. “Where’s the greaser?”

  “Who? You’re not very polite.”

  He swore. “You’ve got a bad lip there. Something like that can get you killed.”

  “I was about to suggest the same thing.”

  A short man in a mackinaw coat said, “He thinks he’s salty, Bolter. Shall we show him?”

  “Not yet.” He stared hard at me. “I asked where the greaser was.”

  From the darkness beyond the firelight there was the very audible click of a cocked rifle.

  “Now you know where he is,” I said, smiling. “And you, Shorty? Did you want to show me something? Just the two of us, maybe?”

  He was staring at me, but he was hesitating, too. “Any time, Shorty. I’ve fifty dollars that says I can part your mustache right under your nose.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “You first, Shorty. You just choose your time.”

  Looking past him at Bolter, I said, “You seemed in a hurry when you rode up here. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing, riding around the country?”

  “I’m minding my own affairs,” I replied. “What are you doing?”

  Bolter didn’t like it. He had expected to ride up here and frighten us, run us out of the country, perhaps. He knew nothing of me but he didn’t like what he was hearing, and he didn’t like the sound of that cocked rifle from out in the darkness. Right now he wanted to get out and get away, but he hated to back down.

  “Whose horses are those?” he demanded.

  “Shelby’s,” I said, which was the name of Pablo’s employer. “If there’s something you don’t like about them, take it up with him.”

  Now Shelby was running some ten thousand head of cattle and a lot of horses. He also had two dozen hands around, riding herd, breaking horses, or whatever, and among them were some salty lads, all of which Bolter probably knew.

  “You work for him, too?”

  “I work for myself.”

  He didn’t like what I said and he didn’t like me. He started to speak but I interrupted. “I don’t know what you had in mind when you rode up here, but you don’t act very friendly. My advice is to turn around and ride back where you came from. When you get there you can tell your boss they’ve raised the bets and if he’s smart he’ll throw in his hand.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You tell him. He’ll know.”

  The third man had sat silent, not talking, just watching me. “Let’s go, Sam,” he said, finally. “Can’t you see he means it?”

  Angrily, Bolter reined his horse around, giving me a wide-eyed, angry look. Shorty hesitated, not wanting to leave it, but I waited, watching him.

  “One thing more,” I said mildly, “you boys had better go easy calling my friend a greaser. He can take any one of you any day in the week and twice on Sunday.”

  They rode away, not looking back, and I watched them go. They had ridden up expecting to run a bluff, prepared to kill somebody if necessary. If I had been guessing I’d bet they were the ones who killed Tut.

  “Coffee’s boiling, Pablo,” I said.

  He came in from the dark, rifle in hand, glancing off in the way they had gone.

  When he had a cup in his hand he said, “It was you they wanted, not me.”

  “I know it. The trouble is, Pablo, I’m in a game where several people are holding cards but I don’t know who they are.”

  With breakfast behind my belt I mounted up and started for town. As I rode I asked myself questions. Whose side had Tut been on? Who killed him, and why? What had been in Nathan Albro’s safe that he wanted removed? Where was it now? What had the Magoffins found out?

  Nathan Albro had been involved in various financial operations. I knew he was active in both ranching and mining, perhaps in railroads. Jefferson Henry was busy in the same areas, so it was possible to assume that whatever Nancy had that they wanted could lie in those fields. Albro had been acting in the girl’s interest. Despite what he said I doubted if Henry was … or his son, either.

  One thing seemed obvious. Newton had hated his father, and the feeling seemed to have been mutual. Had Newton married against his father’s wishes?

  Suppose … just suppose that Newton, knowing something his father wanted or needed, had deliberately tried to circumvent him? Suppose what Jefferson Henry had wanted was in that safe, and that Newton had married Stacy Albro to get it?

  All guesswork, but nonetheless, all very possible.

  I needed to know more about Albro and more about Henry also. There was a chance Penny Logan could tell me. If not, she could tell me where and how to find out.

  It was sundown when I rode into town and left my horse at the livery stable. Carrying my rifle and saddlebags, I returned to the hotel.

  My room was undisturbed. Taking out the suitcase, I opened it again. For a long time I studied the painting. Those had to be Digger pines, and the ghost-like tree could be a buckeye. The patch of gold in the distance looked like California poppies, and the masses of small blue flowers looked like what was sometimes called baby blue eyes—

  This was probably the same area in the background of the photographs. California … the high desert, perhaps the San Joaquin Valley, but more likely the former.

  If I played my cards right I might not even have to go there to find out.

  And if they didn’t kill me first.

  CHAPTER 10

  LYING IN BED, I considered the situation. The three men who had come to Pablo’s horse camp had been acting on their own, I believed. They undoubtedly worked for somebody else but when they followed me to the camp, if that was what had happened, I believed they were not under orders.

  I sat up suddenly, locking my arms around my knees, and looked out into the night. If only I knew what was going on! If I knew what the stakes were!

  Item by item I went over what had happened and what I knew, but there were holes everywhere. I simply did not know e
nough.

  Why had Newton wanted to get Nancy away from her mother? Who had killed the Magoffins? Was Tut trying to sell out the Newton faction or was he working on his own?

  This was not for me. I needed to be out in wild country, hunting, working cattle, or just drifting. Why had I ever got myself into this? Because I needed the money, that was the reason.

  Who sent for the Arkansawyer? Was he hunting me?

  Finally I laid back on the pillow and went to sleep.

  When I tiptoed past Molly Fletcher’s door the next morning there was already a crack of light showing at the bottom of the door. I went on downstairs and walked along the street to Maggie’s.

  The air was fresh and cool. The dog was lying on the step this time but he flopped his tail at me. I squatted on my heels and said, “How you doin’, fella?”

  He flopped his tail again and I ruffled the hair on his back a mite, then went around him to Maggie’s. It was still gray with early dawn but lights were showing here and there. As in most western towns people were early to rise, but I would have blamed nobody for staying in bed on this morning. It was dull and gray and looked like rain.

  As I stopped at the door of the restaurant I saw a reflection of an upstairs window across the street, saw a curtain fall back into place.

  Now a lot of people look out of windows, but I was in no position to make any wrong guesses. Once inside, with nobody in the place but German, I said, “Who lives upstairs across the street?”

  “Woman who owns that building lets rooms. There’s four rooms up there and she rents ’em by the week or month.” He brought me four eggs easy-over and some fried potatoes. “Old woman, pays no mind to much except that she gets what’s coming to her. This time of year those rooms are usually empty. Roundup time, they’re apt to be full, with buyers comin’ in.”

  The eggs tasted good. I was setting back to enjoy my coffee when Molly came in. She gave me a quick smile and went on through to the back, soon coming out, tying her apron. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said.

  “Ever know a man called Tut?” I asked, just on a chance.

  Her hands, tying the apron, stopped. She then finished tying it and came over to my table and sat down. “Milo, I wish you would drop all that. Leave it alone.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  She hesitated, then evaded the question. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Tut did get hurt,” I said. “They killed him.”

  She started to speak, then stopped. I said, “Molly, you’re going to tell somebody, sometime, so why not me? Sooner or later they will find out who you are, they will find out that you know something, and you will be in trouble.”

  “I am Molly Fletcher. That’s all I am.” She went to get coffee and came back, sitting down again. “Yes, I did know Humphrey Tuttle. I am not surprised that he’s been killed. He was always mixed in something shady.”

  “Did you know Newton Henry?”

  “Yes, I did, and he was an evil man. He was very smooth and polished and he talked well, but he was vindictive and cruel.”

  “And his father?”

  “I never knew his father. Newton hated him, I do know that much.”

  “Did you know his daughter?”

  “He never had a daughter.”

  “What? But—?”

  “Nancy was not his daughter.”

  “Not his daughter? But I thought—”

  “So did everybody.”

  Well, I stared at her. Now I had been around enough to know that nobody can complicate their lives more than just average people. “But I thought Stacy was married to Newton?”

  “She was. Nathan Albro was a good man but stern. He was also kind and generous enough, but Stacy didn’t understand him until too late. Eventually she ran off with Newton, then divorced Nathan so she could marry Newton. The worst of it was, she took Nancy with her.”

  Well, I just sat there. Molly went about her work and I began to mull that over in my mind. It changed a lot of things but brought up even more questions.

  “Molly?” She stopped by my table. “What about Jefferson Henry? He claims Nancy is his granddaughter.”

  “By marriage, I guess she is. He doesn’t want to find her because she will inherit from him. He wants to control her so he can have the power her property will give him. That’s why Newton married her.”

  “To help his father?”

  “Newton hated his father. He married Stacy to get her away from his father, and from Nathan Albro, too. You see, and I only know what I’ve heard, Jefferson Henry wanted to use some mines in which both he and Nathan as well as others had money for some stock manipulation. Nathan was a strictly honest man and would not allow it. Jefferson Henry always considered Nathan his rival.

  “There were attempts to kill Nathan so he put all that property in Nancy’s name, but it was quite awhile before Jefferson Henry found out.”

  It was too much for me. I had a feeling I was in the wrong business. What I should do was go to Jefferson Henry, give back what money remained, and tell him I hadn’t found her.

  Again the question came … why me?

  Also, I had the uneasy feeling that quitting would not be that easy. Maybe that was why Baggott was here, to insure that I would be put out of the way if anything went wrong. The more I thought about it the more I wanted to quit, but I’d never left a job undone in my life and the thought was one I couldn’t abide.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Molly? Who knows how much you know?”

  “I—I don’t know. I don’t think anybody does, but—”

  “How did you happen to come here? I know what you told me, but was that the only reason?”

  She hesitated, and I said, “Molly, I don’t want to frighten you but I think you should know that the men in this game plan to win, regardless of who gets hurt. Did you notice the rather stern looking old man who ate in here the other day? The man with a somewhat southern accent?”

  “Yes, I remember him.”

  “They call him the Arkansawyer. Actually, I think he’s from Missouri but it doesn’t matter. His name is Baggott and he makes a profession of eliminating people who are in the way of his employers. I don’t know why he is here. Probably for me, but I don’t know that and it might be somebody else. My advice is, stay away from windows and don’t leave at the same time each day.”

  When I left I went by the back door.

  Hoping that I would find Pablo, I went to the small saloon where I had been a few days before. He was not there. Two rather rough-looking Mexicans were seated at the table where Pablo had sat on that other day. I thought one of them looked familiar, and nodded. He merely looked back at me from cold black eyes.

  At the bar I ordered a beer. The door opened behind me and two men came in. One walked to the other end of the bar from me and the other sat down in a chair near the door. I took up my bottle and refilled my glass.

  That man who sat down near the door bothered me. When a man came into a saloon he usually wanted a drink, so why—?

  Turning my left side to the bar I lifted my glass with my left hand, looking along the bar at the man who now for the first time turned to face me. It was Shorty.

  “I come in to say good-bye,” he said.

  “Are you going somewhere, Shorty?”

  “No. You are. You got two choices. Ride out or get carried out.”

  Two of them, but I had not thought Shorty had that much sand. The other man was on my right but a little back of me, and to make both shots was going to call for a lot of luck. Only … suddenly I saw it clearly enough. Shorty would make the challenge and before I could draw the other man would shoot me.

  It was a neat trick, and evidently from their attitude they had done it before.

  “You and that Mexican partner of yours,” Shorty said, “are holding a lot of horses.”

  That was it. He was going to call me a thief, and—

  “You’re just a couple of damned—!�
��

  What he might have said was cut sharply off by the short, ugly bark of a gun behind me.

  Backing away to get the room in my range of vision without turning my eyes from Shorty, I saw the man by the door half rise from his chair then slump to the floor, a gun falling from his hand.

  The Mexican with the hard black eyes was standing now. He looked at me and smiled, showing all his teeth. “He drew a gun, señor. I thought he was going to shoot me.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Then he added, “Any friend of Pablo’s is a friend of mine.” He slipped his gun back into its holster, bowed slightly, and went out the door, followed by his friend.

  Shorty’s face was a sickly yellow behind the stubble of beard.

  “You started to say something, Shorty. What was it? We’re all waiting to hear.”

  He tried to speak and the words would not shape themselves, then finally he made it. “Nothin’. I was just makin’ talk.”

  “You know, Shorty,” I said, “I don’t think much is going to go right for you here. Why don’t you just mount up and ride? There’s a lot of country south of here.”

  He fumbled in his pocket for some change, his eyes empty, his face slack.

  “Don’t worry about paying for your drink, Shorty,” I said. “It’s on me.”

  He started for the door, and as he stepped around the body I said, “Take him with you, Shorty, but leave the gun.”

  He took up the body, dragging it clumsily through the door. The bartender looked after them, then poured himself a stiff drink.

  PENNY LOGAN WAS making coffee when I came through the door. She smiled and motioned me to the table where we had sat before. “Find what you wanted?” she asked.

  “I haven’t had time to look at it all yet,” I admitted. “I’ve been doing some riding around.”

  Accepting some coffee and doughnuts, I said, “Ever hear of Nathan Albro?”

  “Of course. Mining, railroads, lumber, and ranching. He’s been into all of it, and made all of it work for him.”

  “What’s he have that Jefferson Henry would want?”

  She was thoughtful. “Almost everything he had, I’d expect, but if you are talking of particular things, Nate Albro held a controlling interest in at least three good mines and a railroad. He owned sufficient stock in several other mines to control them if he voted with one or two other large stockholders.