by Les Weil
"We're all ridin'," said Cal, a grim little smile that had no humor in it showing at his mouth corners. "'Cept for Sunfish an' Joe an' Skimpy who'll stay here. We're finishin' this thing if we got to keep going from here to Christmas."
In the dark of night before moonrise they were at the line cabin, eight men, silent mostly, dropping into blankets for a few hours uneasy rest. Cal sat hunched on a log in no mind even to try to sleep. "Where's Dobe?" he muttered to himself. "If that fool's gone an'-" He started with a little jerk. The sound of hoofs, muffled, directionless, came to him. Stopped. He noted that Powder Kent, dim shape in blanket fifteen feet away, was sitting up, gun in hand. He peered into the silence of the night. "Ees you," said a soft familiar voice and the slim deadly compactness of Dobe Chavez seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Cal could see the glint of teeth showing in a grin. "Always," said Dobe, "to know how the ground goes, eet ees good. I see what Powdair he scratch on the door. I go find Jose who cut the wood and Manuel who take the sheep into thees ground. They tell me of thees mountain."
* * *
Only a hint of glow to the east spoke of dawn when they moved out, nine men jacketed against the night-cool on nine deep-bottomed range-bred horses, jogging steadily into distance, Cal Brennan and Dobe Chavez in the lead, working upward, always upward, into the high rock regions. The sun rose, warm on their backs, warming the air, and they shed jackets and rode on, working upward. Three times they stopped to breathe the horses and once by a trickle of springfed stream to water them briefly.
"Where you takin' us, Cal?" said Sugar Wyman. "You ain't aimin' for the notch."
"Maybe they kept on that way," said Cal. "It's the shortest way over, yes. They can't be movin' fast, not with the stock they took to worry along up these grades. An' they don't know we know yet. I'm wrong, we can still catch 'em before they get down the other side. But I'm playin' a hunch. I figure they'll want to change brands soon as they can an' maybe hide 'em out for a while. Dobe's found out about a place that ain't been used since Marino an' his gang of hoss thieves was cleaned out years back. Hard to track into if anyone was tryin' that. We're goin' direct."
The sun was high overhead, arched past noon, and they moved steadily on, winding up high slopes forested in patches, and the hours in saddle of this kind of riding began to tell on Cal and he felt old and tired and dull anger burned in him that certain men and circumstances should lay this kind of dirty business on him far out past the reach of the scant law of the territory in this great clean wilderness of mountain land. Then he thought of the eight men riding with him, of each in turn, testing them in his mind like coins between his teeth and striking the true metal, eight men riding quiet and uncomplaining wherever and into whatever he might lead them, and he felt better and he shifted weight to ease his aging bones and rode on and they came out on an all but bare reach of rock where the ground seemed to drop away into nothingness before rising again, abrupt and sheer, to the final peaks beyond.
"Ees right," said Dobe. "Manuel he tell me right."
"Leave the hosses here," said Cal. "We'll just take a look over."
Crouching low, they moved on foot to the edge of rock. Hundreds of feet below, a narrow canyon, not much more than a stony now dry stream bed, ran between sharp rock ledges. On ahead it widened into a pine-clumped little valley that stretched three quarters of a mile between steep side slopes and dwindled again in narrowness to be lost in the clefts of the climbing rock.
"Watch it," said Hat Henderson, suddenly grim. "Don't go showing against the sky."
A third of the way up the valley, near the edge of trees around a central clearing, was a small slant-roofed cabin, chimney fallen, doorway and windows blank, chinking long since gone from between the logs. Thirty feet in front of it a once-stout log shed leaned crookedly, roofless, walls partly ripped down. Out from the shed ran the remnants of railed fence of a good sized corral now obviously patched into temporary reuse. Along the left side of the corral, outside, stood four saddled horses rein-tied to the fence. Inside forty-odd footsore cows and half-grown calves and yearling steers milled restlessly in the far right corner. In the opposite corner where a small fire sent a thin streamer of smoke upward four men worked over a hog-tied steer on the ground. And between them and the frightened cattle another man, hard angular body upright in saddle, paced slowly on a chunky roan, coiled rope in hand.
"Goddamn it," said Monte Walsh, bitter, low-voiced. "That's Shorty. I'd know that horse anywheres."
"No," said Cal, voice the same. "Not the Shorty we used to know."
"Kiens," said Pete Williams. "That's the son of a bitch there with the iron. Who're the others?"
"It don't matter," said Hat Henderson. "Picked up from them hangouts along the river. Two-bit crooks. It don't matter a damn. They're done for too."
"Yes," said Cal. "It's certain now an' it's come to that." He sighed, long and slow. "All right. We're finishin' this complete. I don't want no tag ends left to bother us afterwards. We're showin' this time so maybe it'll stick nobody plays smart with the Slash Y. Hat. You an' Petey an' Dally drop back an' work around to the head of this pocket which is the way they'll make a break if they get the chance. Then you start comin' down to the buildings. We'll give you forty minutes before the rest of us bust in this lower end."
* * *
Deep in the narrow stream bed canyon Cal Brennan picked his way carefully along the bottom, leading his horse, and five of his boys followed. A mile and more away, at the head of the valley, screened by a stand of young pines, three more led horses cautiously down along the edge of an ancient rockslide.
Cal led his horse out of the stream bed to the soft springy needle-carpeted ground where the canyon began to widen. He swung into saddle and took his rifle from its scabbard. Behind him five men did the same.
Cal lifted his old silver watch from a pocket of his worn vest and looked at it. "All right," he said softly. "Spread out. Take it slow. Closer we can get before they know, the better. Anythin' breaks, ram on in."
Cal nudged his horse forward, weaving through the trees, and the others moved out, spreading as the valley widened. All but one, close beside Cal like a shadow.
"Damn you, Dobe," said Cal in low hoarse whisper. "I know I'm old an' tuckered plenty but I can still hold up my end. Swing out."
"No," said Dobe Chavez. "Hat he tell me-"
A shot slammed out of bushes fifty feet ahead and Cal jerked in saddle as his horse reared and his rifle dropped to the ground and he followed down in plunging fall.
"Peegs!" shouted Dobe. "They hide one!" Dobe's spurs sank in and his horse leaped, pounding forward, and crashed into the bushes and the hidden gun slammed again and Dobe's rifle matched it, speaking its own piece, neat and thorough, once, twice, and a man's voice rose in a gurgling cry that stopped abruptly. Blood dripped from a slice along the neck of Dobe's horse as he swung back to Cal.
"Only .., nicked," gasped Cal, up on one elbow. "Get on ... in there." He was speaking to the rump of Dobe's horse as it pawed high, wheeling on hind legs, and raced away. From on ahead, out the sides, he could hear the pounding of hoofs as the others, all caution gone, drove on into the valley.
Old Cal Brennan heaved to his feet and pulled a bandanna from a hip pocket with a savage little jerk and stuffed it under his shirt low by his belt on the left side where a small spreading stain showed. Limping, stumbling, holding his side, he hurried to the near slope and dragged himself up some ten feet. He leaned against a big rock and looked up the valley. A grim smile that had no humor in it tightened the corners of his mouth as he watched, in snatches through the trees, his boys in their brief bitter burst of activity.
* * *
The men in the corral had wasted time jumping to stomp out the fire and to open the gate and drive the cattle out. The man on the chunky roan was scattering them on up the valley. The other four ran now angling across the corral toward the side fence and their horses just beyond it. But Monte Walsh, on a big rawboned bay that was h
ammering its heart out for him in furious rush, was streaking in toward their horses, jamming his rifle back in its scabbard, fumbling in a pocket. They slowed, pulling their guns, firing, and Monte and the bay drove straight on and the bay screamed once and its forelegs crumpled and it went down, somersaulting, and Monte was thrown rolling over to crash into the corral fence. He was up, moving swift, steady, behind the partial protection of the rails, pocketknife open in hand, slashing at the tied reins as the four horses reared back jerking. Freed, they scattered fast and Monte flung himself down, belly flat by the lowest rail, and reached for his side gun as Sugar Wyman raced on past, heading for position at the far end of the corral.
From the opposite side came the coughing blast of Powder Kent's rifle and one of the men in the corral went down. The other three turned and ran, weaving and ducking through the cross fire, toward the front end and the possible protection of the cabin beyond it. But Chet Rollins was sliding to a stop there in a flurry of dust. He leaped from saddle and jumped through the empty doorway of the cabin and the barrel of his rifle appeared in the blank front window and steadied on the frame and another man went down. The remaining two, desperate, snapping a few shots at the cabin, dashed for the ruined shed and flung themselves over the remnants of walls and ducked down inside.
Silence, sudden and strange after the sharp crackling of sound through the little valley, then a scattering of shots from the men in position around, answered from the still solid lower bulwark of the shed.
Monte Walsh appeared around the left front corner of the corral, easing along close to the rails, gun in hand. Shots snapped from the shed and dust flew by his feet and splinters from a rail and he jumped back.
Silence again except for the faint drumming of hoofs as the man on the chunky roan raced away up the valley and into the cover of trees.
From his post by his big rock Cal could see the rear of the cabin. Out of brush to the left came Dobe Chavez to stop and look up at the lower edge of the roof a few feet above his head. Out of brush to the right came Powder Kent. Both dropped rifles and Powder cupped his hands and Dobe put a foot in them and jumped as Powder heaved and Dobe was on the roof. He lay flat, reaching down to take the rifles from Powder. He grasped Powder's right wrist and pulled as Powder braced feet against the rear wall and scrambled up.
Together they crawled forward and lay flat by the front edge, rifle barrels poking over. Rifles roared from the roof and shots answered from the shed and Dobe's rifle jammed and he flung it aside and rose to his knees, taking his side gun as he rose, and it bucked blasting in his hand and he jerked back, dropping it, falling, and the rifles of Chet Rollins below and Powder above roared together.
On up the valley from somewhere in the cloaking of brush and tree clumps more shots sounded like echoes. Silence followed, everywhere, seeming complete and unending. At his post by the rock Cal took out his old silver watch. "Eleven minutes," he said. "Eleven little minutes since I gave the word."
* * *
In the serene light of afternoon sun slanting down the valley Cal Brennan, stripped to the waist, sat on one end of a rickety split-log bench brought from the cabin while Hat Henderson, big hands surprisingly gentle, placed a pad made of a piece of his shirt over the gash along Cal's side and wound a strip of blanket around, tight. On the other end of the bench sat Dobe Chavez, also naked to the waist, gnawing on his black mustache in silent endurance as Petey Williams bandaged his right shoulder with some of the same materials: Out through the valley ranged the others, rounding up horses and cattle and driving them toward the corral.
"Shorty," said Cal.
"He tried to bull through," said Hat. "Shooting every jump soon as he saw us. I think I winged him, then Dally got him."
"Which made it complete," said Cal. "An' I didn't do a damn thing." That grim little smile tightened his mouth corners. "Not that I was needed any," he said. He sighed, long and slow. "All right. I better talk now 'cause I ain't apt to be able to say much soon, just hang on to a hoss. Have Monte take his pick an' head back right away. He can change to a fresh hoss at the line camp. He moves along the way he can maybe he'll have the doc out there by time me an' Dobe get there. Doc'll have to dig that bullet out of Dobe an' I expect I'll need patchin'. Chet an' Powder can go with us to see we make it." Cal sighed again, wincing as Hat wound more blanket around him. "Which leaves the real chores for you, Hat, an' the others. It's only decent you bury 'em. They set some new posts so there must be a shovel or two around. Chuck their gear in the cabin so if they got any friends ever come lookin' they can have it. Then you'll have to work them cows back down to the range. We'll leave what grub we got in the bags."
"Sure, Cal, sure," said Hat. "Quit fretting yourself."
"I'll try," said Cal. "An' one thing more. You get back down I want you to knock over one of them steers. Save the meat for Skimpy an' bring me the hide. That brand-changin'll show plain on the underside. In case anybody ever gets to askin' questions."
* * *
So that too was that. Monte Walsh rode a horse fast steep miles to a shuddering stop barely able to stand at the line cabin and another faster miles across the lower levels into town and borrowed another there to ride back out with Doc Frantz by way of the ranch buildings. He and Doc and Sunfish were at the cabin with a supply of candles and a good fire going along in the small hours of the night toward morning when Chet Rollins and Powder Kent brought Cal and Dobe to the door tied to their own saddles. Doc worked over Dobe, muttering something about range wolves, and he worked over Cal, muttering something about an old he-goat, and he said with sleep and food they could be moved down to the ranch by late afternoon.
The Slash Y had lost no stock, except one steer whose hide, scraped clean, hung in the barn with the old scar of the Slash Y brand and the fresher cross on the slash and the added Z showing plain. It hung there undisturbed, though rumors about it did spread here and there through the back country. But no direct questions were asked, not in the neighborhood of the Slash Y. Down at Socorro and up at Santa Fe certain officials did hear at last that certain men of troublesome reputation seemed to have disappeared from their hangouts along the river, but they regarded this as a kind of backhanded blessing no sensible person would look into too closely.
Yes, that too was that. The days were rocking along again, seeming about as usual. But a bitterness still remained. A nasty unpleasant job that had to be done had been done, but no one took much pride in it or thought of it without tasting the bitter. Likely more than one of the men lay awake at times thinking of Shorty Austin lying under dirt and piled rocks up in the lonely dark of the mountains. Tempers were still edgy and there was not much free and easy talk in the evenings.
And one of those evenings they were loafing around the bunkhouse, fidgety and sullen, with a slow casino game going at the table in the light of the one lamp lit and others were doing this and that with no particular interest, and Jumping Joe spoke up. "Dally," he said and there was a sharp edge on his voice. "Why did you have to plug him? Whyn't you run him down, grab him, anythin' but that?"
"Save him for a rope, that what you mean?" said Dally, short, irritated. "You know goddamned well that's what it'd of had to be."
"I hadn't--I hadn't thought of it like that," said Joe. "Maybe I was thinkin' wrong."
Dally turned away to sit on the edge of his bunk, head down, staring at the floor. He pulled a broken bridle from under the bunk and started taking it apart. "Grab him," he said to no one in particular. "Christ a'mighty, he was shootin' too, wasn't he?" Dally let the bridle drop from his fingers and they clenched into fists as he stood up. "You think wrong too damn much, Joe," he said. "I'll bet back there a ways you was even thinkin' it was me."
"Maybe I did," said Joe, rising to his own feet. "Yes, by God, maybe I did." He braced himself for the shock, fists coming up, as Dally exploded into action toward him.
"Quit it, you two!" shouted Hat Henderson, jumping between them, sending them reeling apart. Instantly, on th
e rebound, they both piled into Hat and he staggered into Sugar Wyman on a chair by the casino table. "I ain't takin' that' from anybody," said Sugar, heaving Hat away and following with fists flying and tangling with Dally on the way.
Fast action, mixed-up, indiscriminate, held the center a the room.
"My oh my," said Monte Walsh, grabbing the lamp off the table as it tottered and jumping to hand it to Dobe Chavez sitting upright on his bunk. "Hold this," said Monte, "so I can see who I'm hitting," and plunged headlong into the slugging scramble.
"What the hell," said Chet Rollins, following Monte in.
"Reckon it's free," said Powder Kent, rising from another chair by the table as it banged over on his shins. "May I have this dance?" he said, bowing low to Petey Williams by the wall. He straightened, belting Petey with nice precision alongside the jaw. He staggered back as Petey bounced off the wall and rushed into him, hammering, and the two of them were part of the general mix-up.
"It does seem to make some sense," said Sunfish Perkins, on the edge of his bunk, pulling on his boots. He stood up, took a deep breath, and his barrel body plowed into the whirling melee.
Anyone against everyone, lovely, lovely, hitting out against all the hoarded tensions of the days and the secret thinkings of the nights and the regrets for doing what had to be done. Bitterness ran down arms and out in the thuddings on flesh. There was tart sweetness in the bruising of bodies careening against walls and crashing into bunks. And Dobe Chavez, shoulder bandage showing from under his old underwear, sat on his bunk and held the lamp and shouted himself hoarse in impartial encouragement to them all. One by one temporary exhaustion claimed them. They sat on the floor leaning against walls or drooped on the edges of bunks, bodies limp, chests heaving, silly lopsided grins on battered faces.
"What d'you know," murmured Monte Walsh. "I ain't felt so good in months."
The door opened and Cal Brennan stepped in, body at a slight angle because of the stiffness down his left side, followed by the lean youngish length of Sonny Jacobs from the Diamond Six to the south.