So far as he knew he was not a wanted man, but Colburn and the others were, and Spooner might be a bounty hunter. Undoubtedly there were reward offers on all four of them.
Hardcastle was the town’s stock dealer and it was to him that Riley went to buy horses. Stepping through the bat-wing doors into the saloon, he noticed two men deep in conversation with Spooner and Hardcastle at the far end of the bar. When he came in, Hardcastle looked up, then walked up the bar toward him.
“How are you, Riley? What’ll you have?”
The two men glanced his way. Spooner said something to them in a low tone, and they looked once more. One of the men shook his head.
“I’ll have rye whiskey, and then we’ll talk horses—if you have any to sell.”
Hardcastle took a bottle from beneath the bar and filled two glasses. “You’d do better to buy them yourself,” he said affably. “It would save you money. I haven’t anything you’d be likely to want, but I hear Oliver out at the Boxed O has a few head.”
He lifted his glass. “Luck,” he said, and then commented, “Too bad Shattuck wouldn’t sell you some of his Herefords. You’re going to need more cattle.”
“I’m in the market.”
“About those horses,” Hardcastle said. “Oliver might not want to sell. I hear that Shattuck has put the word out.”
“What do you mean … ‘the word’?”
“Not to sell to you. He wants to be the only man around with any Herefords. He’s afraid if anybody else has them there’ll be some rustling of his stock.”
“He needn’t worry.”
Riley finished his drink and went outside, pausing on the street. The words of Hardcastle had made almost no impression, in part because Riley rarely took for granted what he was told about other people, finding most gossip malicious or irresponsible, and based on the most fragile of rumors. What he was thinking about was the two men at the end of the bar; he had seen neither of them before, but he knew their type.
Their horses, tied at the hitch-rail, supplied what he had only guessed. They were from Texas—he recognized one of the brands; and the double cinch was still almost a Texas monopoly—and they were gunhands for hire. The horses they rode were too good, their saddles and other gear were too expensive for ordinary cowhands.
But why here … in Rimrock? Such men followed the tides of cattle wars, and feuds, and there was nothing of the kind in northern Arizona or southern Utah.
Bounty hunters? They could be.
Absently, he noticed the Boxed O on a buckboard in front of the general store, and turned that way.
Peg Oliver was little, plump, and attractive, one of those merry, friendly, outgoing girls, liked by everyone. She was talking to Darby Lewis when he saw them.
Darby turned to greet him. “Boss, this here’s Peg Oliver. They’re throwing a wind-ding out at their place, an’ we’re invited.”
She turned to Riley, her eyes bright and eager. “Will you come, Mr. Riley? After all, you’ll want to get acquainted with your neighbors, and they’ll all be there.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, we’ll come, and thank you.” He started to speak about the horses, then decided against it. That could wait until he met her father.
Sampson McCarty came to the door of his office and motioned to Riley.
“Will you excuse me, Miss Oliver? I’ll see you at the dance.”
McCarty’s eyes twinkled. “See you’ve been roped—be careful she doesn’t hog-tie you.”
Riley grinned. “No danger. I’m right skittish around womenfolks. Never had much experience thataway.”
“Then you’re in more trouble than I thought. If you’re going to escape women, you have to know something about them—and even that doesn’t help.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“Uh-huh. You were looking for whiteface or Shorthorn cattle. I’ve got a tip for you.” He went inside and Riley followed him.
“I like to see a young man try to better himself, and I just heard about this. You’ve been asking about Herefords and Durhams—or Shorthorns, if you want to call them so. Well, do you know where Spanish Fork is?”
“Yes.”
“A tenderfoot named Beaman heard about the Texas trail drives, and he decided to make one from Oregon. He bought up three thousand head of mixed Durhams and Herefords, with a few odds and ends of dairy cattle among them, and started east for Kansas.
“His trail drivers quit him in Spanish Fork. They heard about the Sioux outbreak in Wyoming and Nebraska, and they wanted no part of it. He’s holding those cattle outside of Spanish Fork—at least he was last week. And he’s ready to sell.”
Riley thought of the country between Rimrock and Spanish Fork, much of which he knew. The Outlaw Trail led through that country—a trail known to none but outlaws and Indians; and a wild, wild country it was. Bringing cattle down the main trail would be sheer insanity, for there were farms, hayfields—such a herd could do more damage than they were worth. But if a man knew the water holes …
“Hadn’t you heard?” he said. “Shattuck doesn’t want anybody to sell to me—or so they tell me.”
McCarty shrugged. “Shattuck’s a good man, but he’s a dog-in-the-manger about those Herefords of his. Anyway, he had his chance and turned it down.”
Riley stared at him, waiting.
“He turned it down because he said the man didn’t live who could bring those cattle down here without paying damages to every farmer between here and there.”
“So why tell me?”
McCarty smiled faintly. “I thought you might have some other ideas.”
CHAPTER 7
THE BOXED O ranch house was wide and sprawling. Oliver was a Gentile from Illinois, and one who had been friendly to the Mormons through their difficulties there and in Missouri; as a result had been disliked by some of his neighbors. Migrating west, he had settled among the Mormons, and his ranch had for fifteen years been a headquarters for the settlers in the vicinity and a hotel for travelers through the country.
At first these had been very few, then the flow of travel increased, but settlers were few and far between in the vast, wide-open country where he had chosen to live. Dan Shattuck had been his first actual neighbor, and their ranches were miles apart.
From the first, Oliver’s ranch had been different from others in the Southwest, for, like his Mormon friends, he did not rely strictly on beef cattle. He had planted corn, wheat, and rye, and he had grown vegetables, raised chickens, and kept bees. From the beginning, the operation had been successful, self-supporting after the first year, and a money-making venture in most of the years that followed.
Gaylord Riley stopped in a cottonwood grove a few miles from the ranch and peeled off his range clothes. He took a dip in the stream, then dressed in the black broadcloth suit he had bought on his last trip to California. He packed his range clothes in his slicker and rolled them behind his saddle, remounted, and rode on to the Oliver ranch.
Half a dozen buckboards already stood in the ranch yard, and the hitch-rail and corral fences were lined with the mounts of the cowhands and others who had ridden in from around the country.
He hesitated in the darkness after tying his horse. He brushed his clothes with his hand, tried the crease in his sombrero, and ran a finger around inside his shirt collar. It was a long time since he had worn a collar and tie.
The last time had been in Los Angeles when the Colburn gang had ridden into town for a celebration. Unknown there, they had passed themselves off as ranchers and horse buyers from Arizona, and had taken rooms at the fashionable Pico House. They had come to town to relax, smoke good cigars, eat meals they did not have to cook, and drink the best of wine.
Now, standing there in the darkness, looking at the laughing, talking groups on the wide verandas, Riley was glad he had had those few weeks on the coast. It had given him one of the few chances in his life to meet people other than cowhands or outlaws.
There had been little enough
to do but attend the new Merced Theatre next door to the hotel or stand on the walk outside and watch the stages come in from Wilmington, but it had given him the chance to meet people. Surprisingly, it was Kehoe who taught him what he needed to know, for the tall Irish outlaw had the manners of a gentleman when in company, and carried himself with a certain elegance that Riley had done his best to imitate.
It was Kehoe with his easy, friendly ways and polished manner who made friends, and they were invited, Kehoe and himself, to some of the best homes in town.
Nevertheless, he had never gotten over a certain shyness when among strangers, and now he walked slowly toward the house, realizing he would know no more than one or two of the people here.
Everyone was welcome, he understood that, but he was wary of encountering someone who might know him from elsewhere. It was this as much as his natural shyness that held him back.
Finally, after one reassuring touch on his gun to make sure he had it, he approached the house. People glanced at him, and several turned to look after he passed. Self-consciously, he went up the steps.
The first person he glimpsed as he stepped through the door was Marie Shattuck. She had turned toward the door as he stepped in, and for an instant she remained still, staring at him, startled at his unexpected arrival.
“Miss Shattuck?” He spoke in his best Kehoe style. “It is good to see you again.”
“Why, yes—I didn’t know … I mean I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I invited him.” Peg Oliver was suddenly beside her. “After all, we can’t let him think we aren’t hospitable.”
Across the room he saw Dan Shattuck turn and glance toward him, and saw the older’s man’s expression change and become bleak.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I’ve got a long ride before me.”
“You’re leaving?” Marie was surprised at the intensity of her own voice, and saw Peg glance at her suddenly.
“To buy cattle,” he said. “I heard of some I can buy—if I hurry.”
Dan Shattuck was suddenly beside them. “If you mean the herd at Spanish Fork,” he said, “you’d be wasting your time. The farmers along the trail will not allow any trail herds to come through.”
“I’ll bring them through.”
Dan Shattuck was irritated. This young man disturbed him and aroused his ire, and that very fact served to nettle him even more. Why should he worry what Riley did? Only … his were the only whiteface herd in the Territory, and he was proud of the fact. Also, there was that matter of rustling—as long as his were the only cattle of the kind, his herd was relatively safe. But which was the more important reason?
“You’ll have to have hands,” he said, “and they aren’t easy to find. But even with enough cowhands, there’s no way you could get those cattle through without sprouting wings on them.”
The music had started and Riley turned quickly to Marie. “Will you dance with me?” He spoke quickly, before her uncle could interrupt, and in an instant, while Dan Shattuck’s face hardened with anger, they were out on the floor with the others.
“He’s a handsome man, Uncle Dan,” Peg said, “and he likes Marie.”
“He’s a damned fool!” Shattuck replied roughly, and strode away.
Gaylord Riley danced well, for he was a man handy with his feet, and with rhythm in his blood, and there had been times here and there about the country when he had danced with girls from the Rio Grande to the Sacramento.
“You dance well, Mr. Riley,” Marie said.
“It is because I dance with you,” he said, and was surprised at how easily the words came to him.
“Are you going to stay with us, then?”
“Yes.”
“You must not let Uncle Dan worry you. He is a good man, but very proud.”
“There are too many other things about which to worry,” he said, then looking down at her: “I have not known many girls.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said quickly, and added, “Peg likes you.”
“I like her,” he agreed, “and she thought to ask me over.”
Suddenly the small talk died within him. A thin, stooped man, his face deep-lined, was standing at the far side of the room. He wore a low-slung gun, and his eyes were watching Riley.
“What’s the matter?” Marie asked quickly. “You sure you’re feeling well?”
“I never felt better,” he said, “but let’s get off the floor.”
That man was Desloge, an outlaw, one Riley had met and known slightly near Lordsburg—at a town called Shakespeare, actually. What was he doing here, of all places?
He had never liked the man, and Jim had refused Desloge sharply when he suggested he throw in with the Colburn gang. He was a hired gunman, but the stories about him went beyond that. Several times he had outlaw companions who disappeared abruptly, and others who found themselves in the hands of the law under peculiar circumstances. Nobody could prove a thing, but too much had happened to be mere coincidence.
And now he was here, and Riley was sure the man had recognized him.
How long had it been? Most of two years, and Riley had changed—but not enough.
They stood together on the porch, with other couples around them, and they talked quietly. For the first time Riley forgot who he was and what he had been, and was simply a man talking to a girl. From time to time he was aware that a number of young men wanted to interrupt, but all of them hesitated.
Desloge appeared in the door, and Riley saw his eyes darting this way and that, searching. It was time to ride out.
Suddenly he saw Darby Lewis out at the edge of the light. “Marie,” he said quickly, “there’s Darby Lewis. I’ve been watching for him, and it’s time to go. Will you excuse me?”
Before she could even reply he threw a leg over the porch rail and dropped to the ground. A moment later he disappeared into the night with Darby. Nettled, she stared after him in the darkness.
Peg Oliver came up beside her. “What happened, Marie? What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. We were just talking, and all of a sudden he excused himself and disappeared.”
She was irritated, and somewhat taken aback by the sudden leave-taking. Had she offended him somehow? But how?
Surprisingly, she was dismayed and hurt. It was not like her to be worried by what any man might do, and there was no reason for her feeling so now. Certainly, he had said nothing to her to lead her to believe he was interested in her. And she was definitely not interested in him.
Definitely… .
She was still telling herself that hours later, when she lay in bed. And then for the first time she remembered something else.
That strange man standing in the doorway—the one with the lined face. In the moment before they left the dance floor she had seen him—was he the reason for Gaylord Riley’s sudden wish to go out on the porch? And later to disappear into the darkness?
She was imagining things… . Only, that man had been there both times, and he had seemed to be looking for someone.
She must remember, and tomorrow she must find out who he was.
She snuggled deeper under the blankets, for the night was chill. She went to sleep remembering how Gaylord Riley moved and talked, and the way he looked at her. There was something strange about him, strange and exciting.
CRUZ WAS AWAKE when they rode in, leading the four extra saddle horses Oliver had sold them. The Mexican got up and strolled over.
“Get some sleep,” Riley suggested. “Tomorrow we ride to Spanish Fork.”
When Darby had led the horses away, Cruz said, “Somebody should stay here. I have seen tracks.”
“Fresh tracks?”
“Si.”
“Many riders? Or one?”
“One only … he watches.”
Riley was relieved. One rider would scarcely mean the Colburn outfit. Yet who could it be? Was it the man who had been in Trail Canyon that night when Riley returned from checking the outlaw ca
mp? If, indeed, there had even been a man.
Despite the need for sleep before the long ride, he lay awake for some time, pondering the situation. Why was Desloge in Rimrock? And who were the two strange riders talking to Spooner? Three gunhands in the space of a couple of days could not be coincidence. Trouble was breeding, but for whom?
He lay staring up at the stars, hearing the remote sounds as night and the cooling of the rocks brought little movements to the darkness.
What must Marie think of him? He had left her so abruptly… .
One thing he knew. He did not wish to talk to Desloge, nor to be seen talking to him. He had left all that behind him—or had he?
CHAPTER 8
DARBY LEWIS WAS a good sleeper, and the light rain that commenced to fall shortly before daybreak lulled him into an even deeper sleep. He did not hear the soft hoof-falls of the horse, nor did he hear the hooting of a lonely owl.
Cruz did hear the owl. It was the wrong time for an owl to be hooting, and Cruz was a man alive to such things. He awakened, but lay still, listening.
Gaylord Riley rose swiftly and silently, belted on his gun, and picked up his hat and slicker. The three men were bedded down on the floor of the newly completed room, but Riley had been closest to the door. He opened it without a sound, and stepped out into the night.
Cruz lay still and listened. He heard Riley’s footsteps as he walked through the rain, heard him pause, and then the splash of heavier steps, and a low voice.
Rising silently, with a glance at the sleeping form of Darby Lewis, Cruz stepped to the window, closed only by shutters. Through a crack he could see the dim outlines of a man on horseback and of Riley; then the two walked away toward the lean-to that had been doing duty as kitchen and dining hall.
Riley stirred up the coals and added fuel, moving the coffeepot to the hottest of the coals. Cruz watched for a few moments, but he was unable to see the stranger’s face. It was chilly, and anyway this was Riley’s own business. After a little while he returned to his bed and went to sleep.
The man under the lean-to with Riley was Kehoe. “You’ve got things going here, kid,” he said. “I think you’ll have yourself a place.”
Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Page 5