Silver Canyon (1956)

by L'amour, Louis

  Aside from the rich grass of Cottonwood Wash, and the plentiful water supply, there were miles of bunch grass country before the desert was reached, and even the desert was rich in a growth of antelope bush and wool fat.

  It was a good ranch, with several waterholes other than the stream along the Wash, and with sub-irrigation over against the mountains. Only to the west were there ranches, and only from the west could other cattle get into the area to mingle with the Two-Bar herd.

  Ball’s calves had largely been rustled by the large outfits, and if we expected to prosper we must rid ourselves of the stock we had and get some young stuff. The cattle we had would never be in any better shape, but from now on would grow older and tougher. Now was the time to sell yet a drive was impossible.

  Ball was frankly discouraged. “I’m afraid they’ve got us bottled up, Matt,” he told me. “When you came along I was about ready to cash in my chips.”

  “Outfit down in the hills past Organ Rock.”

  Ball’s head lifted sharply. “Forgot to tell you. Stay clear of that bunch. That’s the Benaras place, the B Bar B. Six in the family. They have no truck with anybody—an’ all of them are dead shots.”

  He smoked in silence for a while, and I considered the situation on the ranch. There was no time to be lost, and no sense in being buffaloed. The thing to do was to start building the outfit now. An idea had come to my mind, and when I saddled up the next morning I drifted south.

  It was a wild and lonely country, toward Organ Rock. Furrowed and eroded by thousands of years of sun, wind, and rain, a country tumbled and broken as if by some insane giant. Miles of raw land with only occasional spots of green to break the everlasting reds, pinks, and whites.

  Occasionally, in the midst of a barren and lonely stretch, there would be an oasis of green, with trees, water, and grass. At each of these would be a few cattle, fat and lazy under the trees.

  A narrow trail led up to the mesa, and I took it, letting the buckskin find his own way. There were few horse tracks, which told me that even the boys from the B Bar B rarely came this far.

  Wind moved across the lonely mesa, the junipers stirred. I drew up, standing in the half shade of the tree and looking ahead. The mesa seemed empty, yet I had a sudden feeling of being observed. For a long time I listened, but no sound came across the silences.

  The buckskin walked on, almost of his own volition. Another trail intersected, a more traveled trail. Both led in the direction I was now taking.

  There was no sound but the footfalls of my horse, the lonely creak of the saddle, and once, far off, the cry of an eagle. A rabbit bounded up and away bouncing like a tufted rubber ball.

  The mesa broke off sharply and before me lay a green valley not unlike Cottonwood Wash, but far wilder and more remote. Towering rock walls skirted it, and a dark-mouthed canyon opened wide into the valley. The trail down from the mesa led from bench to bench with easy swings and switchbacks, and I descended, riding more warily.

  Twice antelope appeared in the distance and once a deer. There were tracks of cattle, but few were in evidence.

  The wild country to the east, on my left, was exciting to see. A vast maze of winding canyons and broken ledges, of towering spires and massive battlements. It was a land unexplored and unknown, and greatly tempting to an itching foot.

  A click of a drawn-back hammer stopped me in my tracks. Buck stood perfectly still, his ears up, and I kept both hands on the pommel.

  “Goin’ somewhar, stranger?”

  The voice seemed to come from a clump of boulders at the edge of a hay meadow, but there was nobody in sight.

  “I’m looking for the boss of the B Bar B.”

  “What might you want with him?”

  “Business talk. I’m friendly.”

  The chuckle was dry. “Ever see a man covered by two Spencers who wasn’t friendly?”

  The next was a girl’s voice. “Who you ridin’ fo’?”

  “I’m Matt Brennan, half-owner of the Two-Bar.”

  “You could be lyin’.”

  “Do I see the boss?”

  “I reckon.”

  A tall boy of eighteen stepped from the rocks. Lean and loose-limbed, he looked tough and wise beyond his years. He carried his Spencer as if it was part of him. He motioned with his head to indicate a trail into the wide canyon.

  Light steps came from somewhere behind him as he walked the buckskin forward. He did not turn in the saddle and kept his hands in sight.

  The old man of the tribe was standing in front of a stone house built like a fort. Tall as his sons who stood beside him, he was straight as a lodge-pole pine.

  To right and left, built back near the rock walls, were stables and other buildings. The hard-packed earth was swept clean, the horses were curried, and all the buildings were in good shape. Whatever else the Benaras family might be, they were workers.

  The old man looked me over without expression. Then he took the pipe from his lean jaws. “Get down an’ set.”

  Inside, the house was as neat as on the outside. The floors were freshly scrubbed, as was the table. Nor was there anything makeshift about it. The house and furniture had been put together by skillful hands, each article shaped with care and affection.

  A stout, motherly-looking woman put out cups and poured coffee. A girl in a neat cotton dress brought home-baked bread and home-made butter to the table. Then she put out a pot of honey.

  “Our own bees.” Old Bob Benaras stared from under shaggy brows. He looked like a patriarch right out of the Bible.

  He watched me as I talked, smoking quietly. I ate a slice of bread, and did not spare the butter and honey. He watched with approval, and the girl brought a tall glass filled with creamy milk.

  “We’ve some fat stock,” I told him, “but we can’t make a drive. What I would like is to trade the grown cattle to you, even up, for some of your young stuff.”

  I drank half the milk and put the glass down. It had been cold, fresh-taken from a cave, no doubt.

  “You can make your drive,” I went on, “and you can sell, so you will lose nothing. It would be right neighborly.”

  He looked sharp at me when I used the word, and I knew at once it had been the right one. This fierce old man, independent and proud, respected family and neighbors.

  “We’ll swap.” He knocked out his pipe. “My boys will help you round up and drive.”

  “No need—no reason you should get involved in this fight.”

  He turned those fierce blue eyes at me. “I’m buyin’ cows,” he said grimly. “Anybody who wants trouble over that can have it!”

  “Now, Pa!” Mother Benaras smiled at me. “Pa figures he’s still a-feudin’.”

  Benaras shook his head, buttering a slice of bread. “We’re beholden to no man, nor will we backwater for any man. Nick, you roust out and get Zeb. Then saddle up and ride with this man. You ride to his orders. Start no trouble, but back up for nobody. Understand?”

  Nick turned and left the room, and Benaras turned to his wife.

  “Ma, set up the table. We’ve a guest in the house.” He looked at me, searchingly. “You had trouble with Finder yet?”

  So I told him how it began, of the talk in the stable, and of my meeting with Blackie later. I told that in few words, saying only, “Blackie braced me … waited for me with a drawn gun.”

  That was all I told them. The boys exchanged looks, and the old man began to tamp tobacco in bis pipe.

  “Had it comin’, that one. Jolly had trouble with him, figured to kill him soon or late.”

  They needed no further explanation than that. A man waited for you with a gun in hand … it followed as the night the day that if you were alive the other man was not. It also followed that you must have got into action mighty fast.

  It was a pleasant meal—great heaps of mashed potatoes, slabs of beef and venison, and several vegetables. All the boys were there, tall, lean, and alike except for years. And all were carbon copies of their
hard-bitten old father.

  Reluctantly, when the meal was over, I got up to leave. Old Bob Benaras walked with me to my horse. He put a hand on the animal and nodded.

  “Know a man by his horse,” he said, “or his gun. Like to see ‘em well chosen, well kept. You come over, son, you come over just any time. We don’t neighbor much, ain’t our sort of folks hereabouts. But you come along when you like.”

  It was well after dark when we moved out, taking our time, and knowing each one of us, that we might run into trouble before we reached home. It was scarcely within the realm of possibility that my leave-taking had gone unobserved. Anxious as I was, I kept telling myself the old man had been on that ranch long before I appeared, that he could take care of himself.

  Remembering the sign on the gate, I felt better. No man would willingly face that Spencer.

  The moon came out, and the stars. The heat of the day vanished, as it always must in the desert where there is no growth to hold it, only the bare rocks and sand. The air was thin on the high mesa and we speeded up, anxious to be home.

  Once, far off, we thought we heard a sound … Listening, we heard nothing.

  At the gate I swung to open it, ready for a challenge.

  Suddenly, Nick Benaras whispered, “Hold it!”

  We froze, listening. We heard the sound of moving horses, and on the rim of the Wash, not fifty yards off, two riders appeared. We waited, rifles in our hands, but after a brief pause, apparently to listen, the two rode off toward town.

  We rode through the gate and closed it. There was no challenge.

  Zeb drew up sharply. “Nick!”

  We stopped, waiting, listening.

  “Whatis it, Zeb?”

  “Smoke … I smell smoke.”

  Chapter Five.

  Fear went through me like a hot blade. Slapping the spurs to my tired buckskin, I put the horse up the trail at a dead run, Nick and Zeb right behind me.

  Then I saw the flicker of flames and, racing up, drew rein sharply.

  The house was a charred ruin, with only a few flames still flickering. The barn was gone, the corrals had been pulled down.

  “Ball!” I yelled it, panic rising in me. “Ball!”

  And above the feeble sound of flames I heard a faint cry.

  He was hidden in a niche of rock near the spring, and the miracle was that he had lived long enough to tell his story. Fairly riddled with bullets, his clothes were charred and his legs had been badly burned. It took only a glance to know the old man was dying … there was no chance, none at all.

  Behind me I heard Nick’s sharp-drawn breath, and Zeb swore with bitter feeling.

  Ball’s fierce old eyes pleaded with me. “Don’t … don’t let ‘em git the place! Don’t… never!”

  His eyes went beyond me to Nick and Zeb. “You witness. His now. I leave all I have to Matt … to Brennan. Never to sell! Never to give up!”

  “Who was it?”

  Down on my knees beside the old man, I came to realize the affection I’d had for him. Only a few days had we been together, but they had been good days, and there had been rare understanding between us. And he was going, shot down and left for dead in a burning house. For the first time I wanted to kill.

  I wanted it so that my hands shook and my voice trembled. I wanted it so that the tears in my eyes were there as much from anger as from sorrow.

  “Finder!” His voice was only a hoarse whisper. “Rollie Finder, he … was dressed like … you. I let him in, then … Strange thing … thought I saw Park.”

  “Morgan Park?” I was incredulous.

  His lips stirred, trying to shape words, but the words would not take form. He looked up at me, and he tried to smile … He died that way, lying there on the ground with the firelight flickering on his face, and a cold wind coming along from the hills.

  “Did you hear him say that Park was among them?”

  “Ain’t reasonable. He’s thick with the Maclarens.”

  The light had been bad, Ball undoubtedly had been mistaken. Yet I made a mental reservation to check on Morgan Park’s whereabouts.

  The fire burned low and the night moved in with more clouds, shutting out the stars and gathering rich and black in the canyons. Occasional sparks flew up, and there was the smell of smoke and charred wood.

  A ranch had been given me, but I had lost a friend. The road before me now stretched long and lonely, a road I must walk with my gun in my hand.

  Standing there in the darkness, I made a vow that if there was no law here to punish the Finders, and I knew no move would be made against them, I’d take the law in my own hand. Rollie would die and Jim would die, and every man who rode with them would live to rue that day.

  And to the Benaras boys I said as much. They nodded, knowing how I felt. They were young men from a land of feud, men of strong friendship and bitter hatred, and of fights to the end.

  “He was a good man,” Zeb said. “Pa liked him.”

  For two days we combed the draws, gathering cattle. At the end of the second day we had only three hundred head. Rustling by the big brands had sadly depleted the herds of the Two-Bar.

  We made our gather in the bottom of Cottonwood Wash, where there was water and grass. Once in that bottom, it was easy to hold the cows.

  “Come morning, we’ll start our drive.”

  Nick looked around at me. “Figure to leave the ranch unguarded?”

  “If they move in,” I told him, “they can move out again or be buried there.”

  The canyon channeled the drive and the cattle were in good shape and easy to handle. It took us all day to make the drive, skirting the mesa I had crossed in my first ride to Organ Rock. My side pained me very little although it was still stiff. There was only that gnawing, deep-burning anger at the killers of old man Ball to worry me.

  They had left a wounded man to burn. They had killed a man who wanted only peace, the right to enjoy the ranch he had built from nothing. He had been an old man, strong for his years, but with a weariness on him and the need for quiet evenings and brisk, cool mornings, and a chair on a porch. And that old man had died in the falling timbers of his burning home, his body twisted with the pain of bullet wounds.

  At the ranch we told our story to Benaras, and as he listened his hard old face stiffened with anger.

  We ate there, sitting again at that table that seemed always heavy with food, and we talked long, saying nothing of what was to come, for we were men without threats. We were men who talked little of the deeds to be done.

  Looking back over the few days since I had first come to Hattan’s Point, I knew I had changed. It is the right of youth to be gay and proud, to ride with a challenge. The young bull must always try his strength. It was alwavs so, the test of strength and the test of youth. Yet when the male met his woman it was different. I had met mine thus, and I had seen an old man die … these are things to bring years to a man.

  When day came again to Organ Rock, Jolly and Jonathan Benaras helped me start the herd of young stuff back up the trail. Benaras had given me two dozen head more than I’d asked in trade, but the stock I’d given him were heavy and ready for market as they stood.

  Jolly had been at Hattan’s when the news of the raid reached the town. The Apache trailer Bunt Wilson, and Corby Kitchen had been on the raid, and three others unnamed.

  “Hear anything said about Morgan Park?”

  “Not him. Lyell, who rides for Park, he was along.”

  Ball might have meant to say it was a rider of Park’s rather than Park himself. That was more likely.

  Jonathan rode back from the point. He had gone on ahead, scouting the way.

  “Folks at your place … two, maybe three.”

  Something in me turned cold and ugly. “Bring the herd. I’ll ride on ahead.”

  Jonathan’s big Adam’s apple bobbed. “Jolly an’ me, we ain’t had much fun lately. Can’t we come along?”

  “Foot of the hill. Right below where the house was.” A
n idea hit me. “Where’s their camp?”

  “They got them a tent.”

  “We’ll take the herd … drive it right over the tent.”

  Jonathan looked at Jolly. “Boys’ll be sore. Missin’ all the fun.”

  We started the herd. They were young stuff and full of ginger, ready to run. They came out of the canyon some two hundred yards from the camp, and then we really lit into them.

  With a wild yell, I banged a couple of quick shots from my gun and the herd lit out as if they were making a break for water after a long dry drive. They hit that stretch with their bellies to the grass and ran like deer.

  Up ahead we saw men jumping up. Somebody yelled, somebody else grabbed for a rifle, and then that herd hit them, running full tilt.

  One man dove for his horse, missed his grab, and fell sprawling. He came up running and just barely made it to the top of a rock as the herd broke around it.

  The tent was smashed down, the food trampled into the dust. The fire scattered, utensils smashed and banged around. The herd went on through, some of them going up the hill, some breaking around it. The camp was a shambles, the gear the men had packed up there was ruined.

  One man who had scrambled into a saddle in time swung his horse and came back. He was a big redhead and he looked tough. He was fighting mad.

  “What goes on here? What the hell’s this?”

  He rode a Boxed M horse. Rud Maclaren’s men had beaten the CP to the ranch.

  Kneeing my horse alongside his, I told him. “I’m Matt Brennan, owner of the Two-Bar, with witnesses to prove it. You’re trespassing. Now light a shuck!”

  “I will like hell!” His face flushed with anger. “I got my orders, an’ I—”

  My fist backhanded into his teeth, smashing his lips to pulp. He went back out of the saddle and I swung my horse around and jumped to the ground as he started to get up. I hit him getting off the ground and he went down hard. He started up again, then dove at my feet. I jumped back and as he sprawled out I grabbed his hair and jerked him up. I smashed a fist into his wind, and then shoved him off and hit him in the face with both hands. He went down, and he didn’t make any move to get up.