Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  They would be ready for him now, so he abandoned the roof, dropping through the trap door into the hay. As he landed in the hay, a man standing just inside the barn door whirled about to stare up at him in shocked surprise. Riley was off balance, but he fired from the hip, and the man dropped quickly, firing in return. Both men missed. Instantly, both fired again, and Riley hit the hay rolling over.

  When he rolled up to his knees to fire again, the man was gone. He had darted down the slope from the door, and outside a gun roared … then came a second shot.

  Kehoe appeared suddenly in the doorway. “Got him,” he said.

  Outside there was sudden and complete silence. Among the attackers there were tough, gun-hardened men, veterans of cattle wars and outlawry, but there were saddle tramps, too, drifters who had joined up for fighting wages, and who now were getting more fighting than they had bargained for. A rushing, surprise attack on a few men taken unawares was one thing. To attack half a dozen entrenched men, battle-hardened and ready, was quite another.

  Suddenly there was a sound of a retreating horse, in full flight—somebody had had enough. The contagion spread, and another man left, then another. This last one was Eustis.

  Two bullets had seemed to come near him … actually they had been some distance off; but the sound of a ricochet can often be heard by several people in completely opposite directions and each will swear the bullet had passed close—a near miss.

  There are few more unpleasant sounds than a ricocheting bullet, and Eustis’ pugnacity evaporated. All at once it came home to him that he himself might be killed—that hanging rustlers, no matter how guilty or otherwise, might prove to be dangerous work.

  His ranch was some distance off and if he was going to make it in time for lunch, he would have to hurry. He made it in time, but he had no appetite.

  There were a few sporadic, defiant shots, but the attack was over.

  Gus Enloe, his calfskin vest still intact, led the shattered remnants back to Rimrock. Of those who had ventured the raid, seven were dead, and several more had wounds. Strat Spooner was not among them.

  Strat was a man who used his gun for hire, and he had no intention of getting killed. He was the second man through the gap when the first rush took place, and when he had swept on through he turned once to look back. Two of his men were down, and he had no taste for that sort of shooting. Besides, he had other things on his mind. As he rode through he had noticed a saddled horse at the corral … it was Marie Shattuck’s mare.

  Sooner or later Marie would be going home.

  GAYLORD RILEY WALKED slowly back across the ranch yard in the sunlight of the early morning. Off to the west the upper walls of the vast red canyons were bright with the risen sun; shadows still lay beyond the mountains to the east, and darkness held in the canyon depths. He stood for a moment in the ranch yard, looking off toward the east, where the riders had fled, circling the ranch, taking any way they could to escape.

  Marie came out from the house. “Are you all right?”

  “We were lucky,” he said, “all of us.”

  “I am going back with Sampson McCarty,” she said. “Doc will stay on a little longer.”

  They stood together, enjoying the warmth, their minds empty of thought, half numbed by the shock of events. They simply absorbed the warmth, the clear air, the faint smell of woodsmoke from the house fire.

  “When this is all over,” Riley said, “I’ll be riding to call.”

  “Do that,” she said.

  In the sickroom Weaver lay alone, listening to the stillness. He could hear the faint murmur of voices, but there was no other sound. Cruz and Kehoe had gone from the room, but the faint, acrid smell of gunpowder remained. It was an old smell, a familiar smell.

  He lay very quiet, completely comfortable, wanting nothing at all.

  The wild, hard-riding days were over now, and the boys were settled. He had been right about the kid, right all along. Maybe when his own sins were totaled and his failures accounted, this would add up to something on his side of the ledger. Weaver rolled himself up on one elbow and looked out the window, the glass shattered by rifle shots.

  The air was cool. It felt good and carried the smell of the pines. At this moment Weaver knew that he was going to die.

  He had been feeling better. He had enjoyed the sound of the guns. He had lived to that sound, and he would die by it.

  There was something yet to be done. He pulled over a piece of brown wrapping paper that lay on the table and wrote painfully:

  Last Will and Tesimint of Ira Weaver. Everything to the kid, Gaylord Riley. Hang up your spurs Jim, Parry, and Kehoe. I’m lightin a shuck.

  Ira Weaver

  He lay back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. He could hear the voices of the kid and his girl out there, a low murmur.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said aloud, and he smiled as he said it. “I got my boots off!” Slightly amazed and quite pleased, he died.

  CHAPTER 15

  FOR A LONG time after Valentz and those who accompanied him had passed, Shattuck remained where he was. Uneasily, he had the feeling he should pull out and return to the ranch. There were things happening here in which he had wanted no part, and he had come this morning hoping more to have the note disproved than proved.

  Marie was in love with Gaylord Riley—that he believed. If Riley was actually a rustler, he feared to know it for the truth for her sake. She had been his only family for many years, his only excuse for being.

  He had been irritated by Riley’s purchase of whiteface cattle. He had faced that issue and admitted it, reluctantly, to himself. He had enjoyed a childish pride in being the only owner of whiteface cattle, and it was that pride even more than fear of rustling that had been hurt.

  He had not for a minute believed anyone could bring that herd of cattle down from Spanish Fork, but it seemed beyond doubt that Riley had done it. Which meant that he knew of some trail other than those usually traveled.

  The Outlaw Trail, to be widely known in later years, was at this time no more than a rumor. The few who had ridden across the San Rafael Swell had spoken of lack of water—scarcely enough water for even a small party, let alone a herd of cattle. Nevertheless, the Mormons who had gone into the San Juan country had crossed that country somewhere. His knowledge of their trek was vague, but he knew it had been accomplished.

  The fact remained that Riley had brought his cattle down across the country, and had become one of the largest ranchers in the area by that one trip. Which indicated he was a man of enterprise, perhaps a man of vision.

  Dan Shattuck took a cigar from his vest pocket and clipped the tip, then put the cigar between his teeth. He knew he should ride out of here, and now.

  It was at that moment that he heard the shooting that led to the death of Darby Lewis and two others. The shots were distant, but clear enough. He listened to them, started to turn his horse, and then hesitated.

  He must know. Marie must never marry a thief, a rustler. He rode forward toward the old corral. And it was empty.

  The sun that was to rise upon battle at Riley’s ranch, that was to shine upon death along Dark Canyon Plateau, had not yet risen. The morning was gray with the light that precedes the sun, but it was light enough to see that not only was the old corral empty, but that it showed no evidence of being used in many months.

  Beyond the corral there was a slight slope, covered with aspen. Some small movement drew his eyes to that slope as Martin Hardcastle stepped from among the trees, holding a Winchester.

  “You turned me off, Shattuck,” he said hoarsely. “You made light of me. You held me as unfit to marry your niece.”

  Dan Shattuck looked into Hardcastle’s eyes with a fine contempt. “Of course, Hardcastle,” he said quietly. “Of course. My niece has a mind of her own, and she will marry whoever she wishes, but certainly not you. You’ve run a saloon, you’ve trafficked in women. You’re no fit man for any decent girl. You should have known bette
r than to ask.”

  “I’ll have her,” Hardcastle said, “one way or another. Without you, there ain’t nobody to stand in my way, and you’ll be dead.”

  Shattuck measured the time in his mind. How far could he draw a gun before the bullet struck him? He had never been a fast man with a gun … he would have to be now.

  “You’re mistaken.” He watched, hoping the gun muzzle would dip or sway to give him an added chance. “My niece is in love with young Riley. If you weren’t so blindly concerned with yourself you’d have seen that.”

  “Riley?” Hardcastle was astonished. “That kid? You’re crazy!”

  Shattuck shrugged ever so slightly, and managed to move his hand an inch closer to the gun butt. “She told me so herself,” he lied, “and she’s up there at the ranch with him now.”

  “She’ll be killed! There’s going to be a raid on the ranch!”

  Shattuck said nothing, but inched his hand back a bit farther. His mouth was dry, but his eyes never wavered from Hardcastle.

  “I’ll have her,” Hardcastle said again. “Strat will kill Riley, and I’ll have her.”

  “You’ll have to kill Ed Larsen and Sampson McCarty, too,” Shattuck said. “They’ll not allow such a thing to happen.”

  “Like hell! I—”

  Dan Shattuck made his try. His hand swept back, grasping the gun butt, but even as his fingers closed around the butt he felt the shock of the bullet, and fell with the whip of another one near his skull. He hit the ground and lay still, not quite unconscious.

  Hardcastle walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle, glancing at the still figure that lay upon the ground, and at the dark stain of the blood.

  “If you aren’t dead yet,” he said, “you soon will be.”

  He reined his horse around, holding the rifle ready, but there was no stirring of the muscles, no flicker of movement. He half lifted the rifle for another shot, but why? The man was dead.

  He stared at the body, feeling the stirring of triumph. The damned old fool—to try to stand in the way of Martin Hardcastle!

  He heard the sound of the running horse, and turned in shocked surprise. Even before he saw the horse itself, he caught a glimpse of the Mexican sombrero.

  Pico!

  He had forgotten Pico.

  He jacked a shell into the chamber and lifted the rifle, ready for a quick shot.

  Pico swept into the open at a dead run. Hardcastle’s rifle leaped up and he fired—a wide miss. He swung his horse, lifted the rifle again, and saw Pico charging at him.

  He was no such rider as the vaquero, no such shot. He fired, but not quickly enough. The Mexican was riding right at him and suddenly, when not ten feet separated them, Pico’s pistol began to blossom with crimson blasts of fire.

  Hardcastle never even got another cartridge into the chamber, for the Mexican was too close. Holding his pistol low, Pico triggered the gun three times into Hardcastle’s belly.

  Martin Hardcastle felt the solid blows, trip-hammer blows in the belly, and he felt himself falling. He grabbed wildly at the pommel, but his horse was racing away, burned by one of the bullets. Hardcastle’s shoulders hit the ground, his foot still caught in the stirrup.

  The plunging horse raced through a patch of dead brush, Hardcastle’s body bounding alongside. On through a patch of small rocks, over a stretch of lava. For a quarter of a mile Hardcastle’s heavy body bounced and smashed against brush and rocks, and then his boot pulled off, releasing his foot. Even now he was still conscious, still aware.

  The horse’s hoofs clattered upon rocks, pounded upon earth, and then it was gone.

  Martin Hardcastle lay torn and bleeding, his body raw and lacerated, and in his belly the holes of three bullets, one of which had gone on to nick his spine.

  An hour later, unable to move, his body one vast ocean of pain, he saw the first buzzard in the sky. It swung in a wide, lazy circle.

  And then there were two.

  CHAPTER 16

  GAYLORD RILEY LOOKED around, taking stock. So much had happened in so short a time. There were the bodies of two men to be moved; undoubtedly others lay out in the brush.

  The others emerged, and Cruz walked toward the house. Doc Beaman checked the bodies of the fallen men, then followed Cruz inside. Nobody said anything, nobody felt like talking. Tell Sackett, who was leaving, went to the corral to catch up his horse. Marie had gone. She had ridden off with McCarty.

  Colburn and Parrish went out to where Nick Valentz lay. “Knew him down on the Brazos, years ago,” Parrish commented. “Never was any good. Spooner an’ him, they’ve run together for years.”

  They had begun to dig graves when they heard the sound of horses. Riley came out, easing his pistol in its holster.

  It was Pico, and seated on another horse was Dan Shattuck. “The doctor is here? He is hurt … bad.”

  They got Shattuck inside, and Doc Beaman got busy again. For a while it was touch and go; but Beaman was a good doctor, and Shattuck was a strong man. After a time the doctor came out with a satisfied look on his face. “He’ll live,” he said.

  Riley stood beside the corral while Sackett saddled his horse. “If you’re this way again, stop by.”

  Sackett accepted his wages. “I might be,” he said. “I’m a drifting man.”

  It was mid-morning before Ed Larsen rode into the ranch yard. He turned in his saddle, looking around. There was little to see. The bodies had been taken to their gravesides, the patches of blood covered with fresh sand.

  Riley went out to meet him and, as carefully as possible, explained what had happened. Doc Beaman stood beside him, listening. At last he said, “That’s the way it was, Ed. They were attacked and they defended themselves.”

  When Larsen had ridden on toward the corrals, Doc Beaman said, “That man in there … he died.”

  Riley could only stare at him, for he had no words. Weaver dead … in a way he had expected it. That wound had gone too long without care. At least, he was out of it.

  Sheriff Larsen glanced slowly around, then dismounted. “I could drink coffee,” he said, and followed them into the house.

  Holding a cup in his hands he glanced over at Colburn. “The last time I saw you I vorked in a store in Dodge. You rode for Pierce … came over the trail with him. You hadt the name of being a goot hand.” He tasted his coffee, and glanced at Cruz with respect. “I chudge a man by his actions,” he said.

  When he was gone, Colburn looked after him, then smiled and said, “Riley, I never thought I’d really like a sheriff!”

  Jim Colburn walked to the door with Riley. “All right, Lord,” he said, at last, “we will stay … as long as we cause you no trouble.”

  “This will end it,” Riley said.

  “Then one last order from your old boss. Go see that girl, and don’t waste time. Go now!”

  Strat Spooner was a careful man and he knew the penalty for molesting a woman in western country. But the time for thinking reasonably was past, for he was a man obsessed.

  Moreover, with the country in a turmoil over the raid on the 5B, with the drifters leaving the country in all directions, it would be difficult if not impossible to say which one of so many had done what he planned to do at the Shattuck ranch.

  He took his time, keeping to low country and utilizing every bit of cover, for he did not wish to be seen at all. Yet he made no effort to cover his tracks until he rode on the range that was claimed by Dan Shattuck. Once, from the shoulder of Horse Mountain, he saw Marie. She was riding with someone in a black coat, which could only mean Sampson McCarty or the doctor. And the chances were they would ride on toward town when she turned off to follow the trail to the Lazy S.

  He checked his guns again. There was little to worry about. At this time of year Shattuck usually had only two hands aside from Pico. They would be miles away, over on the Horsehead where Shattuck ran most of his cattle.

  The old cook was sure to be there, but he would offer no opposition.

&nb
sp; From a hilltop near the ranch, Strat Spooner sat and smoked, watching the place. He saw Marie arrive alone, saw the cook come to the door to throw out some water, but after an hour he had seen nobody else. At this time of day, if anyone was on the place they would surely be moving around. He got to his feet, brushing off his pants.

  He would go down there like he was riding the grub line. Nobody in the West ever turned down a hungry man. Once inside, the rest would be easy, and he would know in a few minutes if anyone else was around.

  He felt oddly excited, but nervous, too. His mouth was dry and he kept wetting his lips. He turned several times to look all around, but he saw no one. He rode into the ranch yard at a walk, eyes alert for any movement.

  He knew the favorite horses of both Dan Shattuck and Pico, and both were gone.

  He tied his horse with a slip knot and went up to the kitchen door, which stood open. He thrust his head into the door. “How’s for some coffee?”

  He looked past the cook at the open door that led to the rest of the house. From inside he heard faint stirrings of sound.

  Baldwin, who had cooked for Dan Shattuck ever since they left Baltimore together, was frightened. He knew Strat Spooner, and knew that, while any man might stop for a bite to eat, it was highly unlikely that Strat would stop, knowing how he was regarded on the Lazy S.

  “Just in time,” Baldwin said quietly. He filled a cup, and was surprised to see that his hand was trembling.

  The old Negro was shrewd, and he realized that Spooner had not come here by accident. Moreover, he had arrived only a few minutes after Miss Marie had come in.

  He placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table and a large slab of apple pie. He did not like Spooner, but the apple pie might put him in a pleasant mood, and might get him out of here. Mr. Shattuck and Pico had left hours ago … no telling when they would be back.