“He mentioned no children?”
“There was a son.”
When Rose had gone, Chick crossed to the stable for his horse. The hostler walked back with him. “Ain’t you that Castroville Ranger? Name of Bowdrie?”
Bowdrie nodded, waiting.
The old man nodded widely. “Figured so. Gent comes in askin’ who your hoss belonged to. Seemed mighty interested. I told him I didn’t know.”
“What did this fellow look like?”
“Oldish feller, shabby kind of. Thin hair, gray eyes. No color to him but his guns. They seen plenty of use.”
The hostler pointed out the inquirer’s horse. Chick looked it over thoughtfully. Dusty and tired. He put a hand on the horse. “So, boy,” he said gently, “so …” The horse was too tired to resent his hand as he picked up the hoof. Holding it an instant to let the horse get used to it, he turned it up and examined the shoe. It was badly worn on the outside. So were the others.
Bowdrie straightened. “Thanks. Do you a favor some time.”
At daylight he was out of town and riding for the border. Crossing the river, he pulled up at the house of an old Mexican he knew in Boquillas.
Miguel watched Bowdrie as he came up the walk from the gate where he had tied his horse. He started to rise, but Chick put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up, my friend. I have come to talk to the one who remembers all.”
“You flatter an old man, señor. What is it you wish to know?”
When he explained the old man nodded. “Sí, I have not forgotten, but it was long ago.” He leaned forward. “It was the Chilton gang, amigo. There were six, I was among those who fought the two who were killed. Before one died he told us one of the others was Bill Radcliff.”
“The Chilton gang …”
Bowdrie remembered them from the files of the Rangers. Dan Chilton, Bill Radcliff, and Andy Short had been the core of the group. Robbing payrolls had been their game, at ranches, mines, and the railroad. “One was killed in El Paso,” he said.
“Radcliff.” Miguel lighted a fresh cigarette. “The killer was never known. Some thought John Selman. He was marshal then. I do not think so.”
“Chilton?”
Miguel shrugged. “Who knows? He was the best of them. Wild, but a good man. My brother knew him. Short was the worst. A killer.”
They talked into the hot afternoon about the border and bad men and Indians and wars. It was only with great reluctance that Bowdrie got up to leave.
“Vaya con Dios.”
“Adios, amigo. Till next time …”
Bowdrie rode toward Glen Springs Draw. He thought again of Andy Short … it could have been the name the dead man had been saying, shaping the name with his lips as he died.
Sunlight flashed on a distant hillside, and instantly Chick Bowdrie reined the roan over and slapped spurs to his ribs. The horse jumped just as the bullet whiffed past Bowdrie’s head, but the roan was startled and the second bullet missed by yards. Only the sunlight on a rifle barrel had saved his life.
The shot had come from the slopes of Talley Mountain, and Chick kept the roan running, dodging from arroyo to arroyo and swinging back toward the mountain whence the bullet had come. Suddenly he eased to a canter, then a walk.
Dust in his nostrils, a settling of dust in the road, and the tracks of a horse … with shoes worn on the outside!
Making no attempt to follow, he turned his horse into the trail that led to the Bar W and the RM. Both outfits had headquarters beyond the ridge, and the trail swung suddenly left into a narrow cut. Hesitating only briefly, Bowdrie started into the opening. The sheer walls offered no place for a sniper, and the low rocks within the cut gave no shelter. He rode slowly, however, his six-gun in hand, and suddenly drew up, aware of a clicking. The sound stopped, and he started on. It began again. Suddenly he smiled ruefully. His horse’s hooves were scraping against the eroded stones that lined the base of each wall.…
Shortly before sundown he walked the roan into the yard of the Bar W. The old adobe house, the pole corrals, the sagging roof of the barn gave no evidence of life. Then a rusty hinge creaked and Bowdrie saw a man step from the barn.
He saw Bowdrie in the same instant, and for a moment he hesitated, as if half-inclined to drop the bucket he was carrying and grab for a gun.
Unshaven, big and rough, his shirt was dirty and he had a narrow-eyed look like a surly hound.
There were, Bowdrie noted, six mules in the corral, and several fine horses … he took out the makings.
“Howdy”—his voice matter-of-fact—“takin’ on any hands?”
“No.” He jerked his head. “Go try the RM.”
Bowdrie continued working with his smoke, taking his time. “Old place,” he commented, “could stand some work. Figured there might be a job.”
“You figured wrong.”
“Don’t rush me, amigo. I’m interested in old places. Why, I’d bet this one was here in the days o’ the Chilton gang.”
The name brought no reaction. “Never heard of ’em.”
“Some years back. Nobody ever did find all that loot.”
The big man was interested now. He walked toward Chick. “What loot?”
It was possible, Bowdrie decided, to drop a pebble in this pool and see what happened to the widening ripples. It might cause dissension in the ranks of the enemy. Or create a diversion. “A quarter of a million in gold and jewels,” he said carefully. “It was cached. Somebody right close about knows where it is.”
“You don’t say!” The man was interested now. “So, what’s the yarn?”
Bowdrie explained, then added, “Ticklish business, huntin’ for it. Two of the outlaws must be still alive.”
The man was greedy and interested, but obviously a hired hand who knew nothing. Chick reined his horse around. “Your boss prob’ly knows the story. Oldish man, isn’t he?”
“Not more’n twenty-six or seven.” The big man grinned maliciously. “An’ pure D poison with a six-gun. You maybe heard of Rad Yates.”
Bowdrie had … no definite record. Bought and sold cattle, gambled a good bit, usually consorting with outlaws and men along the fringe. He had killed, according to report, nine men. All had been in what were apparently fair fights.
Yates was not old enough to have been one of the Chilton gang, but the Strawhouse Trail pointed right at the Bar W … or the RM. Scowling, Bowdrie considered that as he headed off, down the trail.
Somebody had attempted to dry-gulch him, and that somebody rode a horse with worn shoes, as had the killer of the man in Venado Canyon. That somebody had come from this direction.
Tracks in the dust stopped him. Again the worn shoes … and the tracks were fresh!
He skirted wide around a clump of mesquite, then spotted the rider ahead of him, just disappearing down a slight declivity. Swinging wide again, he took the roan at a run toward the wash. Sliding into it, he put the horse up the far side along a trail cattle had taken. Dust hung in the air, and it followed the rider he was seeking. He swung around and drew up at the trailside. There were no tracks … and then he heard the hoofbeats of a cantering horse.
The rider rounded a low knoll, and Bowdrie stepped his horse forward, gun in hand. “All right. Get your hands up!”
He stared into the astonished eyes of Rose Murray.
His astonishment matched hers, but he was quick to note the rifle in her scabbard. After all, what did he know about her? She had been curious about the dead man, and a woman can squeeze off a shot as well as a man. He lowered his gun.
“Can I lower my hands?” Bowdrie nodded. “Who did you expect to see?”
“Not you …” He hesitated only briefly. “Riding home?”
As they rode he explained about the mysterious rifle shots and his visit to the Bar W.
“Rad Yates seems very nice,” Rose said. “He’s called at the ranch.”
They rode into the yard and swung down. Bowdrie caught a vague movement up the mountainside.
There was a man there, his clothing blending perfectly with the background. Only his movement had betrayed him. Rose had just stepped inside, so he followed, getting a corner of the barn between the hill and the door as he reached it.
A Mexican woman brought coffee, and after a few minutes Bowdrie asked, casually, “Had that horse long? The one you were riding?”
“He was born from one of my mares. Nobody has ever ridden him but me.”
There had been her chance and she had passed it up. She seemed to have no suspicion of his reason for asking the question. In fact, she was not suspicious as a guilty person should be.
A drum of hooves and a hail. The Mexican woman answered the door and a moment later a big young man walked in. He had brown hair and a bold, handsome face. He walked with a casual swagger and his guns were tied down.
This would be Rad Yates. He was not the man on the hill; his clothing was bright and colorful. He grinned when he saw Bowdrie. “Heard you were out at the place,” he said. He turned and spoke to Rose, and Chick moved where he could see Yates’s horse. It was a flashy paint.
Rose came over to him, followed by Yates. “We’re going towards Rad’s place to start a tally on the cattle in those canyons,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to entertain you. Would you like to come along with us?”
Chick Bowdrie looked thoughtfully from one to the other. His dark eyes showed one of their rare flashes of amusement. The pieces were beginning to fall into place now. “Maybe,” he said. Then he shifted to the attack. “Sure he’s got himself in place yet, Yates?”
Rad Yates tightened and his head lowered a little. His smile remained, but became set and hard. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“That gent up on the mountain with the rifle.”
Yates was caught flat-footed. “What gent? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bowdrie’s hands were on his hips, only inches from his guns. “Your first name is Radcliff, isn’t it? Maybe the son of Bill Radcliff? Or his nephew?”
“And if it is?”
“Well, it’s an interesting point, Yates. But even more interesting if you and the gent up the hill get what you’re lookin’ for. Then what happens? You shoot it out?”
Rose was looking from one to the other, frankly puzzled. “What are you two talking about?”
Bowdrie smiled. “Why, Rose, we’re talkin’ about the loot from this ranch stolen and buried by the Chilton gang. Andy Short was one of them and Bill Radcliff another. Unless I miss my guess, that’s Andy up there on the mountain right now, waitin’ for me with a rifle.”
Yates had recovered himself. “Rose, I reckon these Rangers are suspicious of ever’body. We’d better forget the ride. All right if I come over tomorrow?”
“Of course, Rad.” Her voice chilled. “But I expect that Mr. Bowdrie will be leaving now.”
She turned on him when they were alone. “You’ve no right to accuse on so little evidence. Rad is one of my best friends.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bowdrie said. “But I would bear in mind that a man’s been murdered for coming to help you. You should be careful.”
Rad Yates was frankly stumped. When they learned a Ranger had come upon the body of the dead man, they were worried. For the first time an unforeseen element had intruded upon what seemed a perfect plan.
Almost a year before, Andy Short, only recently released from prison, had come upon Yates in an El Paso saloon. A casual word had told Yates who Short was, and he was disappointed to discover that Short did not know the whereabouts of the loot. Only Dan Chilton actually knew … and nobody knew where Dan Chilton was.
Yet Andy Short had an idea. Using Yates’s place as a base, he had searched the hills to no avail. He could not locate the hidden loot. But on a casual visit to the RM, Rad Yates had seen the letter from the mysterious man in California and had gone at once to Short.
Short, a slender man, gray of face and cold of eye, had been immediately excited. “Chilton!” He slammed his fist on the table. “He’s comin’ to give that loot back! He was always a namby-pamby!”
Chilton had had a map. Short took it from the body after the shooting, mounted his horse, and rode off. From the side of a distant hill he glanced back and suddenly he was frightened.
Dan Chilton’s body was gone!
Swinging back, he had seen the bloodstains and the tracks of a staggering man. Somehow, Chilton was still alive, and he had gotten into the saddle again.
Short had gone after him, but Chilton had disappeared. When he saw him again it was in the streets of Valverde and Chick Bowdrie was explaining to Houdon.
Had Chilton lived to talk?
Carefully, they remained away from the location of the loot, waiting to let the Ranger move first. He would show his hand if he knew anything. If he came after the loot, they could kill him. They watched and waited, and then, on Bowdrie’s return from Mexico, they had tried and failed.
Now he was here. And he had known, somehow, about Andy Short being on the mountain.
The plan had been simple enough. Yates would get him out on the mountainside, Short would do the shooting, then Rad would make a show of chasing the killer. He’d impress Rose and then he and Andy Short would go dig up the loot. But the Ranger was onto them, somehow, and he had posed a disturbing question. What would happen when they got the money? Was he ready to kill to get it all? Was he ready to kill simply to keep his part of it?
When Chick Bowdrie had scouted the area to be sure he was not to be the target of a hidden marksman, he rode away and took back trails for town. His warnings to Rose Murray had gone unheeded. That she liked Rad Yates was obvious, that she did not appreciate Bowdrie’s seemingly unfounded suggestions was equally obvious.
The existence of at least two sets of shoes worn in an identical manner damaged what little case he had and left him without evidence. For a supposedly abandoned route, the section of the Strawhouse Trail through the sandstone bottoms got more use than he would have expected. The horse Rose Murray had ridden was not the horse he had seen in town. Neither was the horse ridden by Yates.
Valverde was somber with darkness when he dismounted at the stable. The hostler took his horse. “I’ll give him a bait of oats,” he offered. Pausing, he added, “Stranger in town. Tall young feller. Askin’ about the dead man.”
Over a late supper, Chick pondered his problems. He had stumbled upon the body of a murdered man, yet he was no further along than in the beginning. Andy Short could be the killer. If he was actually around. On the other hand, so could Rad Yates. And Rose? That was still an open question. There might be more to this than appeared on the surface.
A quicker solution might be reached if he found the loot. The outlaws had been hotly pursued. Implying little time to conceal the treasure. No time to dig a deep hole. If it had not been recovered by the surviving members of the gang—and he was positive it had not—then that implied a place not too easy of access or too easy to guess.
The outlaws’ line of flight had been from the hacienda through the Chisos Mountains, but by the time they reached Rough Run the loot had already been cached. That left many miles of country to be searched. Yet, there could not be too many possible hideaways on that route.
The door opened and he looked up. A tall young man had entered the room. He was blond and deeply tanned. “You’re Mr. Bowdrie?”
“And you’ll be Dan Chilton’s son.”
The blond young man was surprised. “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, that’s my name, too. I didn’t expect you to know me.”
Chick Bowdrie was thinking swiftly. Chilton was an attractive young man, and more attractive, if he was any judge, than Rad Yates. He grinned suddenly. “Look,” he said, “your father was trying to do a good deed out here, that’s what got him killed …” Bowdrie carefully explained to the young man what he knew and what he suspected. He ended by asking for young Dan Chilton’s help. “Rad Yates is involved somehow, and he’s currying favor with Rose Murray. You go down
there, and no matter what happens, stick close to her. I don’t know what his scheme is, but you’ll be in his way.”
Chilton nodded. “And what excuse will I give? The son of the man who robbed her family?”
“Just that. You want to atone for what your father did. He was returning to help her; you want to carry on. She’ll listen.”
He hesitated, trying his coffee. “Can you use a gun?”
“I have one. A thirty-two Smith & Wesson.”
That explained the ammunition. Bowdrie nodded. “It’s small, but it will have to do. Don’t use it unless you have to.” He explained about Yates, who and what he was. Chilton nodded, offering no comment.
In their conversation Chilton had been able to tell him very little, but Bowdrie sat alone over his coffee in the now silent town and pieced that little together with what he knew.
The searchers, old Dan had told his son, had all looked in the Chisos Mountains, and that was the wrong place. This narrowed the distance by more than half. The old trail led from Oak Spring at the foot of the mountains to the Rock Hut at the base of Burro Mesa. I’ll lay two to one it wasn’t cached far from that Rock Hut, he told himself.
One thing he decided. If, as he believed, the presence of Chilton at the RM would keep Rad Yates around Rose’s ranch, it would leave him free to hunt down Andy Short. For he no longer had any idea of waiting to be shot at. Now he was going to hunt the hunter.
Finishing his coffee, he got up and walked to the door. Pedro and his spouse had long since retired, so he merely blew out the light and turned the knob. For several minutes he waited, listening to the night sounds in the empty street of Valverde.
A sign creaked rustily in the vague wind. A paper brushed along the street. All was still.
Suddenly a horseman appeared at the end of the street and started forward, coming along toward the saloon. Bowdrie stepped through the door and eased it shut behind him. Then he shifted away from the door and stood flat against the building.
The rider reached the marshal’s office near the saloon and drew up. His saddle creaked as he swung down. Chick strained his eyes in the dim light and could see only that this was a big man, vaguely familiar.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 Page 49