“Eustis is right!” Beaman declared. “If the sheriff here doesn’t see fit to act, then we must band together and do it ourselves!”
Larsen buttered a thick slice of bread, bit off a piece, and chewed it with appreciation. Whatever else might be said of Shattuck, he certainly had the best butter in the country.
“When dere is acting to do,” he said cheerfully, “I shall do it.” He lifted his old blue eyes and looked across the table at Doc. “And if Eustis or anybody else moves against anybody, I shall arrest him, and I shall see him convicted of whatever crime is committed.” Larsen smiled. “That includes you, Doctor.”
There was no anger in his voice, not even a ring of authority, simply the calm statement of fact, but Doc Beaman had no doubts. Ed Larsen would do exactly as he said.
When the others rose to go into Dan Shattuck’s study for brandy and cigars, Larsen lingered at the table with Marie. He said, “I am an oldt man. The gompany of a young lady is more inspiring dan brandy. I stay.”
Marie was suddenly frightened. Was he going to pry? To ask questions? Hurriedly, she said, “Sheriff, everybody says you are Swedish, but you do not sound like a Swede.”
He chuckled. “My papa is Swedish, my mother was Flemish, undt I was born in Holland. I talk Swedish, Dutch, Flemish … undt some French.
“Mostly,” he added, “I listen. I was listening to the druggist. He likes to talk, that one.”
Though Marie was frightened, her expression did not change. She would not, she could not give them away. The strange rider had trusted her, and he had helped her. Perhaps nothing would have happened—not really—but no one had ever laid a hand on her before. Not in that way.
She must be careful, very careful. “I was in there tonight,” she said calmly, “but I am afraid I gave him very little chance to talk.”
His eyes twinkled. “A sheriff,” he said, “in such a place as dis has to be more dan a sheriff. He must be chudge also. The courts,” he added, “dey are far away. It is better we settle our own pusiness here.”
She filled his cup, waiting for what had to come. When it did come she was surprised. He said, “A young girl … she must be careful. I do nodt ask what you do with the bandages.”
She sat down suddenly opposite him. “I gave them to a man whom I believe to be an outlaw. I do not know that he is, and I do not care. Had it not been for him, I—”
She hesitated, and then without naming location or place, she described briefly what had happened.
“Ah, so? Strat should be more wise.”
There was no need to ask questions. He fully understood the situation now, or believed that he did. But he was positive that the wounded outlaw would be one of the Colburn outfit.
What he had said was true. Court was a good long way off to the north; to get a prisoner there for trial was not difficult, but to get witnesses and a substantial case was extremely difficult. To be a sheriff called for a nicety of judgment, and also for sharpness of eye on one hand, blindness on the other. Some things had a way of straightening themselves out, and sometimes the removal of one factor in a situation caused things to settle down. Ed Larsen rarely made arrests, even more rarely did he go to court with one of those cases.
The Colburn gang were outlaws and wanted men, yet as outlaws went they were a decent lot. Bold, daring, and extremely shrewd, yes. But decent enough in their way. So far they had committed no crimes in his area; if cornered, he knew they would put up a desperate fight.
As he sat over his coffee he chuckled to himself. Marie had left the room, and now he sat alone, remembering the way she had carefully avoided mentioning any particular creek or place, and had avoided describing the outlaw. But trouble was coming, and he could not see his way clear to avoid it.
Only Dan Shattuck’s seeming lack of interest had kept the pot from boiling over. Eustis, he knew, was fighting to get control, to take the lead that Shattuck had automatically enjoyed all these years.
Marie, it was obvious, had not told her uncle about Strat Spooner stopping her, for if she had, Dan would be riding to town with Pico and his hands right now, and within the hour Spooner would be strung to the nearest tree.
Ed Larsen put down his cup. It was up to him. He was going to have to see Spooner and order him to leave town.
He was, he felt, a reasonably brave man, but when he thought of Spooner something turned over inside him. Larsen had never been a gunfighter. He had fought Indians, hunted buffalo, and long ago had served a hitch in the army in Europe; but he was no match for Spooner with a pistol. Yet tell him he must.
McCarty was waiting for him when he left the dining room. “Riding in? Figured you might want company.”
“I do,” Larsen said. “I surely do.”
Sampson McCarty was a man he could talk to, and he talked now as they rode away. He told him briefly and concisely the events of the day, even mentioning that he suspected the outlaw who had come to Marie’s aid was one of the Colburn gang. Then he went on to speak of the bandages and medicines.
“It figures.”
They rode on in silence for a while. Then McCarty spoke. “Ed, did you ever hear those rumors about there being five men in the Colburn outfit instead of the four everybody talks about?”
“Heard dem.”
“There’s only four now, anyway. There were only four at Casner Station.”
“I t’ink you speak of dat other man in your paper one time.”
McCarty dismissed the suggestion with a gesture. “I must have been mistaken. Nobody ever saw more than four that they could be sure of.”
They rode on toward Rimrock, unaware that hands were being dealt in Rimrock that would alter the situation, and quickly.
Strat Spooner, left alone in the dark, splashed around in the water, trying to find his pistol. When he failed, he started in the direction his horse had gone; and in that, at least, he was lucky.
Not a quarter of a mile down the trail he found the horse, the bridle reins entangled in brush. He mounted and rode to Rimrock. By the time he arrived he was thoroughly chilled and in a murderous fury.
Nick Valentz was lying on his cot, reading a paper, and he turned his head to stare at Spooner, when he came in, still soaked to the hide.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Shut up!”
Nick Valentz took another quick look at Spooner’s eyes and remained silent. He watched the big gunman strip, dry himself with a dirty towel, and then dress once more.
Suddenly Spooner turned to him. “Heard you tell Hardcastle you’d seen Riley somewhere before—have you remembered where it was?”
Valentz hesitated. In this mood Spooner was dangerous, and he had no desire to provoke him, but he had promised Hardcastle, and that was where the money was.
“No,” he said.
Spooner turned on him. “Damn you, Nick, if I find out you lied, I’ll shove a shotgun barrel down your throat and let you have both barrels.”
He would do it, too. Nick sat up slowly, touching his tongue to his lips. What was money, after all? He’d never seen a dead man spending it.
“I got an idea,” he said, “only I ain’t sure.”
“Let’s have it.”
“I seen that Riley—I think it was him—over to Prescott one time. He was with Jim Colburn.”
Spooner stamped his boot on the floor to settle his foot in it, and nodded with satisfaction. “Good! Damned good! Then that feller out to the creek was Kehoe.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“How much reward money would you say was ridin’ on the Colburn gang?”
“Eight, maybe nine or ten thousand. Most of the money is on Weaver, but there are rewards out for all of them.”
“Get on your feet. We’re goin’ over to see the boss. Then we’re goin’ to round up the boys and collect ourselves some fresh money. I know where that gang is at.”
MARTIN HARDCASTLE SAT alone in his office after Spooner and Valentz had gone. He had waited
longer than he had planned, but the situation was now ripe. True, it had not gone just as he planned, with a cattle war over rustling between Shattuck and Riley, in the course of which Shattuck would be killed. Shattuck had for some unknown reason failed to react as expected, but this new situation was even better.
Strat Spooner would take his boys, with a few of the locals like that hotheaded Eustis thrown in, and they would strike at Riley’s ranch in the Sweet Alice Hills. The Colburn gang would strike back and there would be shooting, and with known bandits in the country they would be blamed for whatever happened. The opportunity for which he had waited had come.
Hardcastle got to his feet and went to the back door of the saloon. Chata, a half-witted Mexican boy who slept in the shed back of the saloon, sometimes ran errands for him, and Hardcastle wanted him to go on one now. He gave him a dollar and a message for Dan Shattuck.
Then he returned to his room behind the bar and took a rifle from its case. He cleaned it carefully, then loaded it. He checked his six-gun with care, and reloaded it. This was one job he was going to do himself. He wouldn’t miss it for anything.
“And after that,” he said aloud, “Marie.”
CHAPTER 13
GAYLORD RILEY TOPPED out of Fable Canyon and drew up on the rim of Dark Canyon Plateau. He was hot and tired, but the sun was going down and he had completed the job he had been planning.
He had cut out some of the best young breeding stock and herded them, with a young bull, into the lower part of Fable Valley where the grass was rich and they would be unlikely to stray.
Unknown to him, it was at this moment that Strat Spooner turned into the trail that was to take him to his meeting with Marie. Jim Colburn had already reached the ranch and was waiting to speak to Riley on his return.
Left alone in the canyon camp with Weaver, Parrish paced the ground and swore. He was no fool; he knew more about wounds than the others did, and he knew Weaver was in dire straits. Kept here, without medical attention, he would surely die. Drastic measures were needed, and Parrish decided suddenly that he would not wait for Colburn’s return.
Swiftly, while Weaver muttered and cried out in his delirium, Parrish broke camp and packed up. What he was about to do might kill Weaver, but he would die here anyway. When he was packed and had the horses saddled, he went to Weaver. “We’re pullin’ out, Weaver,” he said. “You got to get up.”
Weaver had been an outlaw too long for the words not to reach him. If they were pulling out, there was danger and pulling out was necessary. With the help of Parrish he struggled to his feet and was helped into the saddle, where Parrish tied him.
Taking no time to destroy evidence of their camp, Parrish started out, leading Weaver’s horse and the two pack horses. Colburn had been gone scarcely an hour, Kehoe even less.
All over the desert the strings were drawing tighter; men and events moved steadily toward a climax of which none of them were aware.
RILEY RODE INTO the ranch yard with the sun behind him, and the first person he saw was Colburn. The white-haired outlaw was walking toward him, and Cruz was standing in the door, watching.
Scarcely had Colburn begun to ask for help for Weaver, when Parrish, leading the horses, rode into camp. “Jim,” he said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”
“Cruz!” Riley yelled. “Fix a bed for him up at the house!”
While the Mexican worked swiftly to prepare a bed, Colburn and Riley untied Weaver and helped him from the saddle and into the house.
Gaylord Riley took one look at the wound and turned to the door, catching up his hat. “Where you off to?” Colburn asked.
“He needs a doctor, and there’s one in Rimrock.”
He waited for no argument, but went outside, shifted his saddle to a fresh horse, and turned into the trail to Rimrock. It was a long ride and a hard ride, but the dun he was riding was a stayer, and fast along with it.
McCarty was sitting on his bed with one boot off when he heard the pounding on the door. It was Riley.
“McCarty, you know Doc Beaman. We need him out at the ranch.”
McCarty hesitated. “Beaman’s got it in for you, Riley. He thinks you killed his nephew and stole his cattle.”
“I can show him a bill of sale, but it makes no difference what he thinks of me. He’s a doctor, and there’s a man who needs help at the ranch. I’ll have to take my chances.”
Beaman was seated at his desk going over some accounts when McCarty and Riley came. He glanced at Riley, his face hardening.
“I hear you’ve no use for me,” Riley said abruptly, “but that’s neither here nor there. One of my hands has been shot, and he needs help the worst way.”
“You’re a damned murdering coyote,” Beaman said coldly.
“Doc, if you say that to me after tonight you’d better have a gun in your hand. Tonight I need you too bad to resent anything you say. However, I’ve a witnessed bill of sale for those cattle.”
“Witnessed?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t matter now.” Doc Beaman got to his feet. “I’ll see your man. After that we’ll straighten this out once and for all, and don’t think your talk of gun play intimidates me. I was using a gun before you were dry behind the ears.”
When they arrived at the ranch Doc Beaman wasted no time. He glanced sharply at Kehoe, who stood outside; then he went into the house. He checked the wounded man’s pulse, and unbound the wound.
He turned to Riley. “Did you get the bullet out?”
“No, I wasn’t there. It’s still inside him somewhere.”
“It’s got to come out, and no time wasted.”
Suddenly there was a pound of a horse’s hoofs in the yard, and Riley went swiftly to the door. Jim Colburn was at the bunkhouse door, Kehoe near the stable. Both held rifles.
It was Marie.
“Gaylord”—she called him by his first name for the first time—“you’re going to be raided. Eustis and Strat Spooner stopped by the ranch to get Uncle Dan. He would have no part of it.”
It was Riley who took charge now, and did so without thinking. “Kehoe,” he said quickly, “get up on the mountain. There’s a trail—you’ll find it just past the corral over there. You can see all over the country. When you see them, come on down.”
Doc Beaman had come to the door. “Marie, you can help me. Come in here, will you?”
He turned back inside, and Riley followed. From a niche in the wall he took a leather wallet and from it the bill of sale.
“Isn’t that your nephew’s signature? And there’s the witness. He’s a bartender in Spanish Fork.”
Beaman glanced at it. “Yes, that’s Coker’s hand. And I know the bartender.”
He pushed by. “No time for that now.”
“I figured you ought to know … we’re going to be attacked.”
Beaman turned around sharply. “Damn it, man, I’m busy! Keep them off me, that’s all I ask! Keep them off if you want this man to live!”
Riley went outside to Colburn and Parrish. “You heard him. It’s up to us.”
“And to me, amigo,” Cruz said. “I am one of you, am I not?”
“When this is over,” Colburn said, “we’ll ride out of here.”
“If you do,” Riley replied, “I go with you.”
“What’s that mean?” Colburn demanded.
“It means you’re not leaving. Look, Jim. Weaver’s fighting for his life in there, and lucky to have the chance. Parrish had a narrow escape just a while back. The odds are all against you, and if you ride out of here you’re riding into trouble, and you all know it.”
“So, then?”
“I need help, and you boys own part of this layout. My suggestion is you all stay on and work with me. You’ve got a first-class Morgan stallion there, and we’ve got some mares. This is good horse country. What I mean is, you boys have ridden your last trail. You stay here, where you belong.”
“And what about that Swede sheriff?”
> “I’ve got a hunch he knows who I am, and he’s left me alone. He made a remark once about giving things a chance, and I believe he meant me. Well, I think he’ll give you a chance, too.”
Jim Colburn stared out over the hills. He would be a fool not to admit that he was tired—tired of running, tired of being on the dodge. It would be good to settle down, to have friends, to smell the smoke of branding fires and handle a rope again.
“I think he’s right, Jim,” Parrish said, “and I can speak for Kehoe. We’ve been talking about quitting. The fact is, Kehoe would have quit a long time ago but for you—he didn’t want to leave you holding the bag.”
Colburn continued to gaze at the hills. He had gotten into this business without really intending to, and there never had seemed a way out. Now there was. He had taken money with a gun, now he could repay it in a measure by building something.
He paused to ask himself whether he really meant it, or whether the old night trails would call again; but no sooner had he put the question to himself than he knew all the desire had gone out of him. They had been wild young cowboys when they began; now they were men, and it was time to change. It was just lucky that they had been given the chance.
It was a strange thing that the boy they had tried to save was now to save them all.
“All right, Riley,” Colburn said, “we’re workin’ for you.”
STRAT SPOONER DREW up where Trail Canyon cut off on the left. “There’s no way out of that hole,” he said, indicating Trail Canyon, “but Nick, you take four men and go around through Ruin Canyon and come across the saddle and take them from the north. We’ll hold on here, and when we move in we’ll go in fast an’ shootin’—hit anybody who ain’t on a horse.”
Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Page 10