“Yes, my house, my cows.”
The Indian lit his pipe and smoked without speaking for several minutes. Finn rolled a cigarette and lighted it, waiting. The Indian nodded toward the valley. “My home … once. Long time no home.”
“You’ve come back, huh?” Finn took his cigarette from his lips and looked at the glowing end. “Plenty of beaver here. Why not stay?”
The Indian turned his head to look at him. “Your home now,” he suggested.
“Sure,” Mahone said. “But there’s room enough for both of us. You don’t run cattle, I don’t trap beaver. You and me, friends, huh?”
The Indian studied the proposition. “Sure,” he said, after a while. “Friends.” Then he added, “Me Shoshone Charlie.”
“My name’s Finn Mahone.” He grinned at the Indian. “You been to Rawhide … the little town?”
“Rawhide no good. Rico no good. Plenty bad white man. Too much shootin’.” Charlie nodded. “Already see two white man, ride much along big river. One white man tall, not much meat, bad cut like so.” He indicated a point over the eye. “Other white man short, plenty thick. Bay pony.”
Frank Salter and Banty Hull. They had been scouting the upper Laird River Canyon. That was on this side of Rico, and beyond the Rimrock from the Laird Valley. It was far off their own range. If they were scouting along there, the chances were they were looking for the route he took to Rico on his cattle drives. He forded the river in the bottom of that canyon.
“Thanks. Those men are plenty bad.” Mahone watched the light changing on the mountainside across the Crystal Valley. The Indian knew plenty, and given time, might talk. He had a feeling he had won a friend in the old man.
“I’m headin’ back,” he said, “after a bit. Suppose you need sugar, tobacco? You come to see me. Plenty of coffee, too. I always have some in the pot, and if I’m not home, you get a cup and have some. Better not go into Rawhide, unless you have to.” The Indian watched him as he rode away.
He was restless, knowing things were coming to a head. It disturbed him that Remy thought of him as a rustler. The girl had stirred him more deeply than he liked to admit. Yet, even as he thought of that, he knew it went further. She was so much the sort of person he had always wanted.
If he had read the bullet-marked playing card right, Texas Dowd finally knew he was on the range. The fact that he was riding for her would account for the excellent cattle she had, and the condition of her grass. In his months of riding the Highbinders, he had watched with interest the shifting of the Lazy K cattle. The ground was never grazed too long, and the cattle were moved from place to place with skill instead of allowing them to range freely. They had been shifted to the lowlands during the spring months and then, as hotter weather drew near, moved back where there was shade and greener grass from subirrigated land near the hills.
Dowd would know that Finn Mahone was no rustler, whatever else he might think of him.
Once home, he stabled his horse, gave it a brisk rub-down, and went into the house. After a leisurely supper he brewed an extra pot of coffee, hot and black, and sat down by the lamp. He picked up a book, but found himself thinking instead of the girl with golden hair who had watched his fight from the boardwalk. He recalled the flash of her eyes as he had told her he refused to sell the stallion. He sighed, and settled in to a few hours of reading.
In the rambling adobe house on the Lazy K, Remy walked into the spacious, high-ceilinged living room, and sat down. “Dad,” she asked suddenly, “have you ever heard of a man named Mahone?”
Frenchy Kastelle sat up in his chair and put his book down. He was a lean, aristocratic man with white hair at his temples and dark, intelligent eyes. He was French mixed with California Spanish, and he had lived on the San Francisco waterfront in exciting and dangerous times. Finally, he had gone into the cattle business in Texas.
His knowledge of cattle was sketchy, but he got into a country where there was free range, and made the most of it. Yet he was just puttering along and breaking even when Texas Dowd rode over the border on a spent horse. The two became friends, and he hired the taciturn Texan as foreman. Few better cattlemen lived, and the ranch prospered, but newcomers began crowding in, and at Dowd’s suggestion, they abandoned the ranch and moved westward to the distant Laird River Valley.
The route had been rough, and not unmarked with incident. Texas Dowd had proved himself a fighting man as well as a cattleman.
Frenchy knew how to appreciate a fighting man. Casual and easygoing in bearing, he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a gun. He was, he confessed, a man who loved his leisure. He was willing enough to leave his ranch management to the superior abilities and energies of Remy and Dowd.
He looked at his daughter with interest. For the past two years he had been aware that she was no longer a child, that she was a young lady with a mind of her own. He had looked at first with some disquiet, being entirely foreign to the problem of what to do about a young lady who was blossoming into such extravagant womanhood.
This was the first time she had ever manifested anything more than casual interest in any man, although Frenchy was well aware that Pierce Logan had been taking her to dances in Laird.
“Mahone?” He closed his book and placed it on the table. “Isn’t he that chap who lives back in the mountains? Buys a lot of books, I hear.”
He studied his daughter shrewdly. “Why this sudden interest?”
“Oh, nothing. Only there was a fight today, and this Mahone fellow whipped that brute Leibman from over at Rawhide. Gave him an awful beating.”
“Whipped Leibman?” Kastelle was incredulous. “I’d like to have seen that. Leibman used to fight on the coast, rough-and-tumble fights for a prize. He was a bruiser.”
“Dowd won money on Mahone, and from the way he acts I think he knows something about him. He seemed so sure that he would beat Leibman.”
“Then why not ask him?” Kastelle suggested.
“I know, Dad,” she protested, “but he won’t tell me anything. As far as that goes, I don’t even know anything about Dowd!”
“Well, it is sometimes best not to ask too much about a man; judge him by his actions … that’s a courtesy that I have taken advantage of as much as anyone. Texas Dowd is the best damned cattleman that ever came west of the Mississippi, and that includes Jesse Chisholm, Shanghai Pierce, or any of them! What more do you want?”
“What do you know about him?” Remy demanded. “What did he do before he came to us? He had been shot, but who had done it? Who, in all this world, could make Texas Dowd run?”
Kastelle shrugged and lifted his eyebrows. “A man may run from many things, Remy. He may run from fear of killing as much as fear of death. Fewer run for that reason, but a good man might.
“I’ve never asked him any questions and he hasn’t volunteered anything. However, there are a few things one may deduce. He’s been in the army at some time, as one can see by the way he sits a horse and carries his shoulders. He’s been in more than one fight, as he is too cool in the face of trouble not to have had experience.
“Moreover, he’s been around a lot. He knows New Orleans and Natchez, for instance. He also knows something about St. Louis and Kansas City, and he’s hunted buffalo. Also, he knows a good deal about Mexico and speaks Spanish fluently. We know all these things, but what is important is that he is not only our foreman but our friend. He has shown us that, and that is the only thing that has any real meaning.”
Remy walked out on the wide flagstone terrace in front of the ranch house. The stars were very bright, and the breeze was cool. Looking off in the distance she could see the dark loom of the Highbinders, jagged along the skyline. She tried to tell herself she was only interested in Mahone because of that magnificent horse, but she knew it was untrue.
She detected a movement near the corrals, and saw Dowd’s white shirt. She left the terrace and walked toward him across the hard-packed earth of the yard. “Texas!” she called.
&
nbsp; He turned, a lean, broad-shouldered figure, the moonlight silver on his hat. “Howdy, Remy,” he said. “Out late, ain’t you?”
“Texas,” she demanded abruptly, “what do you know about Finn Mahone?” Then hastily, to cover up—“I mean, is he a rustler?”
Texas Dowd drew on his cigarette, and it glowed brightly. “No, ma’am, I don’t guess he is. Howsoever, men change. He wouldn’t have been once, but he might be now. But offhand, I’d say no. I’d have to be shown proof before I’d believe it.”
“Where did you know him?”
“Don’t rightly recall saying I did,” Dowd said. “Maybe it was just a name that sounded familiar. Maybe he just looked like somebody I used to know.”
“Where?” she persisted.
“Remy,” Dowd said slowly, “I want to tell you something. You stay clear of Finn Mahone! He’s a dangerous man, as dangerous to women in some respects as he is to men! I don’t believe there’s a man on this range could face him with a gun unless it was Byrn Sonntag.”
“Not even you?”
He dropped his cigarette and toed it into the dust. “I don’t know, Remy,” he said quietly. He drew a long breath. “The hell of it is,” he said, sighing bitterly, “I may have to find out.”
He turned abruptly and walked away from her toward the bunkhouse. She started to speak, then hesitated, staring after him.
Remy Kastelle practically lived in the saddle. Her white mare, Roxie, loved exploring as much as she did, but in the next few days Remy studiously avoided the wide ranges toward the Highbinders in the west. But, time and again she would find her eyes straying toward the high pinnacle that marked the entrance to the Notch.
Then one day she mounted and turned her horse toward the Rimrock. As she drew closer, her eyes lifted toward the great red wall of the mountain. It was like nothing she had ever seen. In all her riding she had never come this far to the west, although she was aware that Lazy K cattle fed as far as the wall itself.
When she drew near, she turned the mare and rode along toward the Notch. She was riding in that direction when she saw the bullet-marked card on the Joshua tree. Curiously, she stared at it. This was not the first time she had seen a card with the corners drilled by bullets. Many times she had seen Texas Dowd shoot in just that way. It was the first time she had ever seen the other four bullet holes. She studied the card for a while, then shrugged and rode on. It meant nothing to her.
She rode on, and the sun was warm in her face. She knew she should be turning back, but was determined to see the Notch at close hand. A shoulder of the rock jutted out before her and she rounded it, and the air was suddenly filled with the rushing roar of the Laird River. To her left was a dim trail up through the pines. Scarcely thinking what she was doing she turned the white mare up the trail into the Notch.
Remy told herself she was riding this way because she wanted to see the Notch, and because she was curious about Crystal Valley. Carefully, she kept her mind away from Finn Mahone. The tall rider could mean nothing to her. He was just another small rancher, and a brawler in the bargain.
Yet Dowd’s warning, and his obvious respect for Mahone, stuck in her mind. Who was Finn Mahone? What was he?
The trail dipped suddenly and she hesitated. Only eight feet wide here, and a sheer drop off to her right. The tracks of Mahone’s stallion showed plainly. “If he did it, I can!” she told herself, and spoke to the horse. They moved on, and the trail narrowed, almost imperceptibly. Roxie shied nervously at the depth to her right, and Remy bit her lip thoughtfully as she studied the trail. It would be impossible to turn around now. For better or worse, she must keep going.
When the narrow trail finally ended she was nearing the bank of the Laird. She had heard that three crossings must be made, and she hesitated again, looking at the sky. There was going to be little time. The thought of going back over the trail in the dark frightened her.
She forded the Laird and rode up the opposite bank. The side from which she had just come was sheer cliff, towering upward to a height of nearly four hundred feet. The trail was narrow but solid, some fifteen feet above the tumbling Laird.
The country was wild and picturesque. In all her life she had never seen such magnificent heights of sheer rock, nor such roaring beauty as the rushing rapids below her. Tall trees towered against the sky, and when there was a glade or open hillside on her right the grass was green and thick. Entranced by the sheer beauty, she rode on, passing a waterfall that let the Laird go rolling over its brink in a smooth, glassy stream of power, thundering to the stones thirty feet below.
This was the country of which she had heard, the country that was almost unknown to the outside world. She pressed on, forgetful of the dwindling afternoon, and thinking only of the beauty of the landscape. She forded the Laird again, a swift, silent stream this time, and her road came out under great trees, turning the afternoon into a dim twilight as though she rode through a magnificent cathedral of towering columns.
Roxie was as interested as she herself, the mare’s ears forward, twitching and curious. They continued, came out in a steep-walled canyon, and forded the stream for the third time. Again it was white water, but slower than below. The trail took her out of the canyon then, and across a valley of some fifty acres, the river, wider and deeper, was backed up behind a natural dam until there was a small lake among the trees. A bird flew up from the water, but she caught only a glimpse and could not identify it.
Then suddenly the trail channeled again and she was in another narrow-mouthed canyon. Great crags leaned over the trail here, and the river was no longer near, but had taken a turn away to the right. Then, riding out of the canyon, she stopped, staring across the first of the dreaded shale banks.
Evening had come, although it was still light, and there was no sound but the soft whisper of the wind in the trees. This was a lonely land, a land where nothing seemed to move, nothing seemed to stir, not even a leaf.
Looking up, she saw the long, steep slide of shale, and looking down, she saw that the shale disappeared in growing darkness below. But when she looked off to the right now, there was no canyon wall, no river. There was only a vast and empty silence, and the somber shadows of twilight lying over a gloomy desert. These were the lava pits, a trackless, lifeless region of blowholes and jagged rock. It lay below her, something like a hundred feet below.
Roxie shied at the bank, and backed away nervously. There was a route across. That much Remy knew. Yet how it went, or how one knew where to enter, she could not guess. Hopelessness overwhelmed her, and anger, too. Anger at herself for failing now, and for persisting so long.
Fortunately, they would not be worried at home. She often rode to the McInnis ranch, or to Brewster’s. Occasionally, she stayed all night. But the thought of staying in this lonely place at night frightened her. She did not want to turn around, yet the slate bank was appalling in its silent uncertainty.
Dismounting, she walked up to it, and stepped in with a tentative foot. Her boot sank, and almost at once the shale began to slide under her feet. She drew back, pale and disturbed.
Roxie pulled back nervously; the mare was obviously afraid and wanted none of it. Standing there, trying to make up her mind, Remy was suddenly startled.
A horseman was riding out of the darkness on the far side, and he rode now up to the edge of the awful drop-off into the lava pits. From across the distance she could hear he was singing, some low, melancholy song.
Remy stood still, her heart caught suddenly by the loneliness of the man, and the low, dreaming voice made the night seem suddenly alive with sadness. Stirred, she stood still, her lips parted as though to call, watching, and listening. It was only when he turned his horse to ride on that she became aware of herself.
She called out, and the man reined in his horse suddenly, and turned, listening. Then she called again. “Hey, over there! How do I get across?”
“What the devil?” It was Mahone. The realization made her eyes widen a little. �
�Who is it?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Remy Kastelle!” she said. “I started for a look at Crystal Valley! Can you help me over?”
He sat his horse, staring across the way, his face no more than a light spot in the darkness. She could almost imagine him swearing, and then he moved his horse to a new position. “All right,” he called, “start toward me. Come straight along until I tell you to stop. How’s that mare of yours? Is she skittish?”
“A little,” Remy admitted, “but I think she’ll be all right.”
“Then come on.”
Roxie hesitated, put a hoof into the shale, and snorted. Remy spoke soothingly, and the mare quieted. Mahone called again, and the sight of the stallion on the other side of the bank seemed to encourage the white mare. Gingerly, she moved into the slate. It sank sickeningly, then seemed to reach solid footing. Stepping with infinite care, the mare moved on.
When they had gone something over twenty yards, Mahone called to her, and she reined in.
“Now be very careful!” he shouted. “See that tall pine up there? Turn her head and ride that way. Count her steps, and when she has gone thirty steps, stop her again.”
Her heart pounding, Remy spoke to the mare, and Roxie moved out, very slowly. This was a climb, and the shale slid around her hooves. Once the mare slipped and seemed about to fall, but scrambled and got her feet under her once more.
When they had gone thirty steps, Mahone called again. When she looked, she saw he had shifted position. “Now ride right to me!” he said.
It was so dark now she could make him out only by his face and the brightness of some of the studs on the stallion’s bridle. She turned again, and after stumbling and sliding for another fifty yards, the mare scrambled onto solid earth and stopped, trembling in every limb.
Remy slid to the ground and her knees melted under her. “I wouldn’t do that again,” she protested, “for all the money in the world! How do you ever live in such a place?”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 Page 46