“How the hell should I know?”
Monte tapped Dave on the knee. “It was a paper binder the army uses to wrap paper money for different outfits. This was marked G Company, Third Cavalry, Fort Bowie.”
“It figures, Monte.”
“Now I ain’t too bright. Wouldn’t be a saddle bum if I was. But I begins to figger. Remember I said Jess was down on his luck when I runs into him. We get over the border and suddenly he’s living like a hidalgo for months without doin’ a lick of honest work. On top of it, he was losing more money at faro and monte than he was winnin’!”
He killed the marshal and got the payroll.”
“Keno!”
In the silence that followed, Dave thought of the slick kid who had worked the deal on Monte. It was like him. Slick as a wet saddle. Now all he had to do was soft talk Leslie, and take over the Double W.
Monte relit his pipe. “Now you know why I had to break away. One thing bothers me. Jesse won’t ever forget what I did, Dave. He’ll gun me down at sight.”
“You can raise dust for the border again.”
Monte shook his head. “No. I ain’t never been much good. John Waite treated me square when I worked for him down south. I ain’t about to sit tight and watch that swift-talking kid do that girl outa that fine spread. That’s why I threw in with you. You’ve got the guts and brains to help her. I’ll ride the rio with you until we get this settled.”
Dave raised his head. He heard the faint sound of bellowing cattle. He stood up. “Listen!”
Monte dropped his blanket. “Cows!”
“Come on!” Dave snatched up his Spencer and trotted through the brush. Monte was right behind him. They went to the mouth of the canyon and looked out into big Twelve Mile Canyon. “Coming from the south,” said Monte.
The moon was casting a faint light into the canyon. A cold wind searched through their clothing. Dave shivered. It was almost as though there were ghost cattle in the distance. “I’ve heard that sound before,” he said.
Monte gripped Dave by the arm. “Hoss comin’,” he said.
They faded into the brush.
A lone horseman appeared, riding slowly, with his head raised as though listening to the phantom sound, too.
“Frank Andrews,” whispered Monte. “Has a small spread near the Lazy E. He was up to the Double W a few days ago asking about some of his stray critters. Lost twenty head.”
“Is he all right?”
“Miss Leslie sets a store by him. He hates the Edricks like jimpson weed.”
Dave took a chance. “Andrews!” he called.
Andrews kneed his horse into the shadows. “Who is it?”
“Talk to him, Monte,” said Dave.
Monte stood up on a rock. “It’s Monte Hollis of the Double W! Come on over for a palaver!”
“Who’s with you?”
“An amigo! Come on!”
Andrews slid from his horse and drew his Colt. He glanced keenly at Dave. “Yeamans! What the hell is this, Hollis?”
“Bring your cayuse in here. Where you headin’?”
“After my cows. They must be in here somewheres.”
Dave eyed the rancher. His face had been battered badly at some time in his past and then Dave remembered the story about how Andrews had been beaten to a pulp by some of the Lazy E corrida and was saved by John Waite.
“We just heard some cows down the canyon,” said Monte. “You ain’t aimin’ to go down there alone, are yuh?”
Andrews eyed Dave. “Maybe. You’re travelin’ in bad company, Hollis.”
“No. You can depend on Yeamans, Andrews.”
“A killer? Not me, Monte.”
Dave took another chance. “Cass Simmons trusts me, Andrews.”
“So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“I was working with Mort Hastings.”
Andrews sheathed his Colt. “Then you knew about the association?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Mort?”
“Dead. Strung up. Just as John Waite was done away with.”
Andrews paled. “Well, I’ll be damned! We wondered where he was.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Monte.
Dave headed for the hide-out canyon. “Cass Simmons and some of the honest ranchers hired Mort to work as a stock detective. I agreed to work with Mort. Never had much of a chance.”
Andrews turned and whistled sharply. “I wasn’t alone,” he said. “Had a friend trailin’ behind me. He’s all right.”
Mack Muir urged his horse out of the shadows. “Hello, Yeamans,” he said, “Monte.”
Dave stepped back and looked quickly at Andrews. Andrews waved a hand. “Mack is in the association now. We asked him to join awhile back. He’ll work with you, Yeamans.”
Muir dismounted and held out a hand. “Let bygones be bygones, Dave. I’ll admit my temper got hold of me a few times but I’ve been in love with Leslie ever since she came here. Let’s work together. After we settle this rustling we can decide who’s the man for her.”
Dave gripped the proffered hand. It was hard to resist Mack Muir when he put on the charm. He was a good man, too and God knew they needed every reliable man they could get. “We’ve got coffee up at the hide-out,” he said.
The four men went to the lean-to. They squatted about the fire. Monte piled it with squaw wood and set the pot on a rock. Andrews lit a cigar. “I’ve traced cattle into this damned mare’s nest of a country time after time and lost them. Mack claims they take them clear south somewheres. Me, I think they never left this canyon country.”
“Keno,” said Dave, “I’ve done some trailing myself and can’t see how they were ever driven out of this area.”
Mack Muir waved a hand. “Maybe. But where are they?”
“It’s a big country,” observed Monte. “Helluva lot of canyons. Plenty grazing. Good water. You could hide thousands of critters in here and no one would know the difference.”
“That was John Waite’s theory,” said Andrews. “Mort Hastings backed it up.”
Dave filled his pipe. “We all know what happened to them.”
“Dan Edrick is behind it all,” said Mack Muir. “Slick as a greased hog.”
“I wonder,” said Andrews. “He’s worked hard trying to put down the rustling.”
“A front,” said Muir. “He’s got enough men to do the rustling while he gallops about like a ranger looking for long loopers, playing vigilante. Edrick is power crazy. What better set-up could he have? Plenty of men to do the dirty work. Bart to cover up for him. Gets rid of every man who gets in Dan’s way. Waite, Hastings and Yeamans here.”
“Jesse Vidal had something to do with me being put out of the way,” said Dave quietly.
“Maybe he’s in on it, too,” said Andrews.
Monte shook his head. “I know better.”
“We won’t settle it by crying about it,” said Muir as he accepted his cup of jamoka from Monte. “I’ve got a plan. Yeamans and Hollis can stay around Twelve Mile. Andrews, you can go back and tell Cass to call a meeting of the association. Get every man you can to stand by. Cass can have two or three of them stay down at the south end of Twelve Mile in case the cows are driven out that way. The next time cows are rustled we can plug up the north end with more men. Then, by God, we can sweep through this area like a dose of salts!”
“Sounds good,” said Andrews. He sipped his coffee. “How can we lose?”
Dave puffed at his pipe. “One flaw, Mack. Supposing you do bottle both ends of Twelve Mile? You’ll have every man in the association out in the field. That’ll leave herds practically unguarded throughout this country. If the rustling ring is big enough they can pick steers where they damned well please and run them somewhere else besides Twelve Mile.”
Muir leaned forward. “Yeh! Let them pick ’em up! If we find the place they been hiding them in here they won’t be able to run them out! Don’t you see? We’ll force them into the open that way!”
Andrews slapped his thigh. “By Godfrey! It’s worth the risk of losing more cows to find out where the lost ones are! He’s right! I was always one for forcing a fight.”
“You’ll get it,” said Monte gloomily.
Muir stood up. “We can win this war my way.” He smashed his right fist into his left palm. “You men with me?”
Andrews nodded. Dave stood up. “Monte and I will do our part.”
Andrews gripped Dave’s hand. “Good luck,” he said. “You can depend on Frank Andrews.”
“I’ll ride north with you, Frank,” said Muir. “I’m going to keep an eye on Jesse Vidal at the Double W.”
After the two ranchers left Monte eyed Dave. “You ain’t too happy about this, Dave.”
Dave relit his pipe. “I was thinking of the bloodshed, Monte. No man is going to be safe around here until we corral the actual rustlers. I know one thing, we’re getting out of this canyon right now!”
“Why? We got a snug spot right here.”
Dave looked at the little man. “It was snug until someone besides us knew about it. I’m used to playing a lone hand, Monte. I aim to keep on playing that way until this thing is over.”
Monte grinned. “What about me? You’re not alone now.”
Dave spat. “One slip outa you, old-timer, and I’ll sick Jesse Vidal on you.”
Monte laughed. “Yeh. Yeh, I know what you mean.”
They broke camp. Dave got the horses. He mounted and headed west up the canyon. “That ain’t the way!” protested Monte. “Ain’t we goin’ by Twelve Mile?”
Dave turned and rested a hand on his cantle pack. “No, but I’ve got a feeling this canyon is a helluva lot bigger than we realized. We’ll ride up it a piece. There’s just enough light to see. We can camp up there and pull out before dawn if it’s a box.”
There was no other sound other than the occasional clatter of hoofs on the loose rock that littered the canyon floor. A cold wind poked inquisitive fingers through their clothing. A coyote lifted its melancholy howl far up the canyon. The wind shifted. Dave raised his head. He could have sworn he had heard the bellow of a steer.
thirteen
THE MOON WAS HIGH when Monte and Dave made their new camp deep in the narrow, winding canyon. A shallow stream trickled over the rounded stones of its bed in the center of the canyon. To the south was a sheer wall of cliff, broken up by faults and cracks in which brush and scrub trees struggled for a living. To the north, trending toward the valley where the Double W was located, was a chaotic mass of shattered rock formations, thickly studded with trees and brush. As Monte strung the tarp between two trees, Dave eyed the south wall of the canyon. He estimated the distance between the canyon and Ruins Canyon to be about three miles. “I’d like to climb up there, Monte,” he said. “There must be mesa land between here and Ruins Canyon.”
“You could see a helluva lot of country up there.”
“That was my thought. You game to try the climb?”
Monte shrugged. “Now I don’t rightly know. I ain’t much for the mountain goat stuff.”
“Maybe you’ll feel like it in the morning.”
Monte grinned. “A little sleep won’t change my mind.”
They bunked down for the night. Twice during the night, when the wind shifted, Dave stirred fitfully, and once he sat bolt upright. He could have sworn he had heard the faint bellowing of cattle.
In the morning Monte still wouldn’t try the cliff. “I’ll back you in gunplay, Dave,” he said as he made their breakfast, “but I ain’t about to try that climb.”
Dave took his coils of rope from his gear and tested them. “Fill my canteen, Monte,” he said, “and dig out my field-glasses.”
“You’re loco.”
“Maybe, but we’re not getting anywhere. I’ve heard steers bellowing around here half a dozen times at least, and unless they’ve got wings and are flying around here at night, they must be somewhere between here and Ruins Canyon.”
Monte brought the canteen and glasses. He made up a packet of food. “I heard tell of the Ghost Steer of Val Verde down in the Big Bend country,” he said. “Great big bastard. Pure white with shining silver horns. Any vaquero sees him is doomed to die.”
“We’re a long way from the Big Bend country.”
“Yeh. But they’s queer things around this country, too. I even heard tell of a camel galloping around in the desert with a skeleton strapped in the saddle, still wearin’ soldier clothes. Big red beast. Sure death to see him. Imagine that! A goddamned camel in Arizona.”
Dave grinned. “Could be. Jeff Davis worked out some kind of a deal with camels back in ‘56. Landed at Indianola, Texas. They were brought out here to help open a new road. The war broke up the experiment and they were set adrift. Great rusty looking beast was seen now and then after the war. Carried a dead man on his back. Last I heard of that whopper was that the legs of the rider was all that was left of the skeleton. Still in the stirrups.”
“Yuh see?” said Monte triumphantly.
Dave looked up at the cliff. “I don’t expect to see a camel up there, nor any ghost steers.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can you make it into Deep Spring to see Cass Simmons?”
“Why not?”
“Bueno! You tell him what you told me about Jesse Vidal. I want Leslie warned about him. Be damned careful.” He looked up at the cliff again. “If anything happens to me I want you to clear me on that Slim Edwards shooting. Write out a statement and give it to Cass if you’re willing.”
“I am. Anything else?”
“Ask Cass if he ever found out anything about an hombre named Riley or something like that.”
“Riley? You mean old One-Eyed Riley?”
Dave turned quickly. “You know a man named Riley?”
“Used to. Rustler. Hoss thief. Tinhorn. Quite a salty hombre was old One-Eyed.”
“Is he in this country?” Dave gripped Monte by the arm.
Monte spat. “Hell no! Old One-Eyed was stabbed to death in a hurdy-gurdy hall in Tucson two years ago. He told Big-Nosed Molly she had fingers like a bunch of bananas. Now Big-Nosed Molly didn’t like that. It seems that …”
Dave shook his head. “Get going. That’s not the same Riley.” He grinned as he watched Monte saddle his horse. “You can tell me about Big-Nosed Molly and One-Eyed Riley when you get back.”
Monte waved a hand. “If you get back, amigo. If you get back!”
Dave hooked his canteen to his belt and took off his one spur. He looped the coils of line over his shoulder and pushed his way through the brush until he reached the foot of the cliff at the bottom of a long angling fault that traversed the cliff face. He climbed over a pile of talus and worked his way up the fault. He was about one hundred feet up when he dared to look down. Monte was almost out of sight. Dave worked up another twenty feet and stopped to rest on a crumbling ledge. He made a running noose in one of his lines and cast it upward toward a projecting rock. It slithered back. He made it on the third try and drew it tight. The line was knotted at two-foot intervals for easy handholds. He rested for a time building up his nerve.
Dave spat on his hands and gripped the line. He worked up it, swinging his legs up above his body, planting his feet on the cliff face, and then pulling himself up. Sweat had soaked his ragged shirt by the time he reached the end of the line. He repeated the process until he was fifty feet from the lip of the cliff. He repeatedly cast the line until it drew taut. He rested, watching a hawk drift through the canyon, veering off when he saw Dave.
Dave coiled his remaining line over his shoulder and started up. Fifteen feet from the top he was swinging out over the void. The line gave a little. With a furious outburst of strength he swarmed up, gripping a stunted tree at the top just as the line parted. He crawled over the edge and lay still, his breath harsh in his throat. He opened and closed his chafed hands. “Monte was damned near right,” he said, forcing himself to look down into the canyon. He s
huddered a little. “Come to think of it, I have to go back down there too.”
Dave sipped some water, coiled his lines, slung them over his shoulder and started south. It was a mesa, cut up by deep gullies, stippled with shintangle brush. Cat-claw, ocotillo and high-stalked pitahaya waved in the wind. Half a mile southward was a curious humped formation rising about two hundred feet above the plateau. Dave used it as a landmark. When he reached it, preparing to start his climb, he heard a dull buzzing noise at his feet. He jumped sideways, clattering down the rocky slope as the diamondback struck hard. Dave cursed. He picked up a rock, hefted it and then threw it with all his strength, driving the scaly monster back. The second rock broke the back of the writhing killer.
Dave worked his way to the top of the hump. He uncased his glasses and studied the country to the south. The mesa rose at a low angle toward Ruins Canyon which he could easily identify by a curiously colored cliff. Yet he could see no other canyon between him and Ruins Canyon. He studied the terrain until his eyes grew weary. He rolled a cigarette. “Must be someplace in here for cows,” he said, “unless Monte is right and we’re hearing phantoms.” He lit the cigarette and leaned back against a rock, studying the horizon from beneath the brim of his battered hat.
Dave snatched the cigarette from his lips. Unless he was mistaken he could make out a tendril of smoke drifting lazily up into the clear sky. It was between him and Ruins Canyon. He snatched up the glasses. It was smoke all right. He lined it up with a tall butte to the south and slid down the hump, striking off through the jungle of brush and rock.
The sun beat down, reflecting mercilessly from patches of naked rock. Dave reached the top of the slope just about noon. He stared in astonishment. “Well, I’ll be double-damned,” he said.
A vast canyon spread out before him. Far to the right was an escarpment, lit brightly by the sun. Rugged humps of rock thrust themselves out from the canyon walls. At the bottom, in stark contrast to the purplish red of the canyon slopes, was a winding trace of bright green, denoting the presence of a watercourse. The sun glinted on pools of water. To Dave’s right, far below, was an area of rough reddish rock, bare of vegetation. There was no trace of smoke now, and no sign of life in the canyon under his view. He looked over the edge and shook his head. It was a long drop down to the smooth talus slope below.
Range Rebel (Prologue Western) Page 11