Lost Trail

by Paul Lederer

  Tanner did find water – in a blundering way. Walking through the willow brush, his forearm held up to fend off the dry twigs, he stepped right into a shallow pond. Muttering a small curse he stepped quickly aside and led the horse forward. The gray dipped its muzzle into the pond, found the water palatable and proceeded to drink its fill while Tanner watched, seated in the shade.

  Deciding that he had better see that Becky’s dun was watered if they were to travel on that evening, he started to rise to return to the camp. Just as he was getting to his feet, a pistol fired near at hand. Tanner hit the ground, seeing no one nearby. The bullet must have been slightly deflected by a twig on a low-growing willow, for it only stung his cheek and sang off into the brush. Either that or the gunman had been a poor shot.

  Crouched defensively, Colt in his hand, Tanner saw a shadowy figure darting away from the pond. Apparently the man had no stomach for a face to face fight. It was chancy, but Tanner took aim at the fleeing man, led him slightly and fired his .44. There was a small grunt and then a crash of brush as Tanner’s bullet tagged home. Carefully Tanner crept through the tangle of dust-covered willow brush, his eyes alert to any movement, any small sound. Blood trickled down from his cheek which had now begun to burn savagely.

  Tanner moved on, one step at a time, wiping the perspiration from his eyes. No breeze stirred in the close confines of the canyon.

  He found the man curled up and unmoving a few dozen yards on. He rolled the gunman over with his toe and crouched down beside him. The dead man was narrowly-built and wore a drooping black mustache. Tanner didn’t know his name, but he had been one of the men who had sided with Ted Everly back at the C-bar-C.

  That could only mean that Everly was nearby. Tanner sighed. He should have taken more pains to leave no clear tracks on the desert. He had thought that he had enough lead that it was not necessary. He figured that the end of the trail was near enough that it made no difference. He should have already learned that there was no end to this trail.

  Rising, he started back the way he had come, gun in his hand. He passed the gray horse without collecting its reins. He did not need the big oaf crashing through the brush behind him. Tanner approached the camp silently, his eyes alert to every shadow.

  The dun horse was not where he had left it.

  Becky Canasta was gone.

  Perhaps, he thought, she had heard the shot, panicked when she did not see Tanner around and ridden out on to the desert on her own. That was the best alternative, but it was not what had happened. In the soft sand it was easy enough to see the tracks of two other horses in the camp. Ted Everly – it had to be. Tanner looked around just long enough to discover the earthen ramp formed where a section of bluff had collapsed and formed a path leading up out of the dry wash. There three sets of horse tracks followed one another up to the desert, heading east toward Split Rock.

  At least they were headed in the direction Tanner wanted to go. There were deeper shadows beneath the willows now, and he glanced westward toward the descending sun, calculating how much daylight remained. Then he collected the reins to his patient gray horse and began to follow the party of riders ahead of him.

  EIGHT

  The night was still young, but the temperature had dropped precipitously. The gray horse slogged on at an even pace. Here is where Tanner had the advantage, or so he believed. The gray had been used sparingly over the past few days, and now it had been watered well. Becky’s little dun must be worn down, and so probably were those of Ted Everly and the other man riding with him – whoever he was. Tanner felt sure that he was gaining ground on them. Split Rock was not that far off now.

  The silver moon hung low on the horizon like an observing eye as he continued to move eastward. Now and then Tanner glanced behind him, because you never knew. The man he had shot in the gully would not be following, nor did he think Charlie Cox or Wes Dalton would be. The two were both strangers in a strange town, and Tanner could not see them raising a gang without money to pay them. Neither seemed up to it. That just left the two men riding ahead of him, returning Becky Canasta to the C-bar-C. For whom? Certainly Ben Canasta could not have sent them. That meant that it was Monique who had wanted Becky brought back – and Tanner himself. For what purpose? Monique hated both of them, blamed them for Matt Doyle’s death on that summer night. Could she have held that grudge for so long?

  Certainly.

  Ahead now Tanner could see the monolith which was Split Rock jutting into the starry sky. Further along he began to smell pine scent, and straining his eyes he could make out a ridge which had separated itself from the mountains, like an island on the desert where pine trees grew cutting serrated silhouettes against the moonlit sky. Closer and closer – it was hard to believe he had finally made it back this close to the C-bar-C. In fact he could just tag along and let Becky be returned to the ranch, but would Ben Canasta even be aware of Becky’s return if Ted Everly delivered Becky to Monique. The dark eyed woman was mad with vengeance – that much she had made clear to Tanner. No, Tanner had to recapture the girl before they reached the ranch.

  He lifted the gray’s pace a little, scanning the wide land as he approached the stone monument.

  He saw no firelight, saw no standing horses, but perhaps they were on the eastern side of the huge rock. He slowed the gray again. He was positive that the travelers would pause before the last leg of the trip. Simply because he knew the condition their horses must be in. The dun, in particular, had already been ridden nearly into the ground.

  He moved along the moon-shadowed trail past stands of mesquite and nopal cactus, leaving it to the gray to find the way as he slicked his rifle from its scabbard, listening to and watching the night.

  Tanner decided to circle the bulk of Split Rock from the north, his left. It was the way less used. Stillness blanketed the night as he walked the gray carefully around the towering rock. And then he heard it – a horse nickered somewhere not far ahead of him, around the shoulder of the landform. Grinning, his mouth tight, teeth clenched, Tanner continued on. He could feel the warmth of the day accumulated by the huge rock.

  John Tanner heard a voice – or believed he did – and then inching ahead, saw the vague golden light of a dying fire. He rounded the shoulder of the towering rock and a rifle cracked, breaking the stillness of the night. John’s horse drew up, staggered and then rolled. Tanner had barely enough time to kick free of the stirrups, losing his rifle as he leaped from the saddle. Then he scrambled rapidly away from the horse whose thrashing hoofs struck out wildly as it flailed through its reflexive death run.

  The night returned to silence. Tanner lay next to the base of Split Rock, trying to still his breathing. Even the pulse of his blood sounded loud in his ears. He had not been as silent or as clever as he had thought. He had lost his hat; his hair hung in his eyes. He had lost his Winchester; his Colt was clenched tightly in his perspiring hand. He could hear cautious boot steps whispering across the sand, approaching cautiously.

  One man or two? He thought only one. He rolled on to his belly, braced himself on his elbows and cocked his revolver. His eyes picked out one low star and he kept his eyes focused on it. It shone silver-bright and then blinked off as a figure pass in front of it and Tanner fired three shots in a row, the smoke curling past his head, stinging his eyes and nostrils. There was a grunt and a thud and the star beamed on again.

  Whoever the man had been, he would not be rising again, Tanner knew. There was no point in remaining where he was, and so he began crawling forward, the rough ground tearing at his elbows and knees. He heard a muted, urgent whispering and then the sounds of creaking saddle leather, and incautiously John got to his feet and rushed around the shoulder of the rock. By the light of the small, dying campfire, he saw a man swinging his leg up and over a black horse’s back. From the corner of his eye he saw Becky, sitting on her dun horse, looking weary and defeated, but he forced himself to concentrate on the man riding the black.

  ‘Everly!’ he ye
lled, and Ted Everly tried to do too many things at once.

  Instead of just lining his horse out of there, which is what he should have done, Everly tried to control his horse, turn in the saddle, draw his gun and find a target for his pistol sights. By the time he finally located Tanner’s shadow pressed against the rock, it was already too late for Ted Everly. The two men’s shots were only a split second apart, but Tanner had been braced and ready while Everly had been trying to control his horse and fire across his shoulder. Everly’s bullet rang off the face of the rock and spattered Tanner with red dust before ricocheting away into the vastness of the desert.

  Tanner’s bullet struck home.

  The black horse reared up as Tanner’s bullet knocked Everly from the saddle. Then it circled warily, confused by the commotion. Tanner approached Ted Everly’s still form, but he didn’t need to take much of a look – Everly was dead.

  Rising, Tanner took the black horse’s reins in his hand and stroked the horse’s neck, trying to soothe it.

  Becky Canasta stood silhouetted by the golden glow of the dying campfire. Her hands were clasped, her head slightly lowered. She looked smaller somehow, pitiable. Her eyes, when she lifted them to John’s, were damp. He could not differentiate which expressions of hers were sincere, which simply dressing. He vowed that he would no longer try, that he no longer cared, although he was not quite being honest with himself. A little more gruffly than was necessary, he told her:

  ‘Get your horse ready. We’re riding home.’

  ‘Tonight?’ she asked in a weary voice.

  ‘Tonight. I’m taking you back where you belong.’

  They rode on then into the face of the coming moon. Becky’s little dun moved on steadily, almost eagerly despite its recent trials. Ted Everly’s tall black horse had an uncertain gait. Tanner thought he knew why that was. The long-legged animal was probably used to a high-stepping pace, but now, out of weariness, it didn’t seem to have the vigor required for that sort of traveling.

  Now the ridge to John’s left stood out starkly against the night sky, a row of pines along its crest. They were close to the C-bar-C, very close. He glanced at Becky, but her face was expressionless. He wondered what thoughts were in her mind, but was glad that he did not know. Silently they made their way toward Ben Canasta’s ranch house. John wondered if the old man were still alive, or if all of this had been for nothing.

  Tanner smelled smoke before he saw it rising in a nearly straight line from the main house. Both of the horses pricked up their ears and tried to hasten their pace. Home: they could smell it, hear their horse-friends, scent water and hay. They slowed the eager horses and rode directly toward the front of the house. They walked the horses through the huge oaks in the yard. There were no sounds near the house, nor from the bunkhouse.

  When the figure appeared suddenly in front of them, the black halted sharply without Tanner’s command.

  ‘It’s about time you got back here!’ the shadowed figure yelled. ‘I thought you’d run off to Mexico.’

  Now peering through the shadows, Tanner made her out – Monique. She had recognized Becky’s pale hair, the dun she rode, and likewise recognized Ted Everly’s tall black horse. But with Tanner’s face shadowed by the brim of his hat, she had not recognized him, and naturally enough, took Tanner for Ted Everly.

  ‘Have you got a gun, Monique?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘Of course not. What do I need a … who are you!’

  ‘Tanner. Why don’t you let us pass? I mean to see Ben Canasta.’

  ‘It’s late,’ Monique said, nervousness causing her voice to grow taut, raising it a pitch.

  ‘I know it is,’ Tanner said. ‘But I’ve been riding long and hard with only one goal in mind – to return to Ben what’s his. We’re passing now – I hope I don’t hear you calling out for anyone’s help.’

  ‘What would be the point?’ Monique said in a softer, defeated voice. She turned and started back toward the house, her skirts dusting the ground.

  Ben Canasta was awake, but barely as Tanner knocked on the door to his bedroom and found the man, propped up on pillows, staring into the conscience of the night. His watery eyes flickered toward Tanner, startled.

  ‘John! What’s happened? Did you….’

  Then Becky emerged from the shadows of the hallway, walked past Tanner and went to her father’s bedside to kneel, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her tangled pale hair. Tanner retreated to the hallway and seated himself on a bench of dark wood inlaid with ceramics. He kept the saddle-bags between his boots.

  A half an hour or less elapsed before Becky emerged from the old man’s bedroom, her eyes seeming triumphant.

  ‘He wants to see you now,’ Becky said, and there seemed to be a hint of warning in her words. Tanner shrugged the impression off; probably he was imagining it. He had done nothing but imagine things about Becky Canasta since he had met her.

  Shouldering the three saddle-bags he tramped into Ben Canasta’s bedroom. The old man still sat, propped up on his pillows. His watery eyes watched Tanner’s movements gravely. John found himself wondering what Becky had told her father. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore, none of it. He dropped the saddle-bags on the floor beside a red-plush upholstered chair and sat on it, tilting his hat back curiously.

  ‘Is that all of it, John?’ Ben asked as if it made no difference to him.

  ‘Except for what they spent and what I needed to travel on. I really never had a reason to count it.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ben said, letting his eyes close. ‘And you brought my Becky back to me. I owe you more than you will ever know, John.’

  ‘You’re welcome to my time, Ben. I’m only happy that it’s all over with.’

  ‘I hope it is,’ Ben Canasta said in a low voice. ‘If only … my daughters could get along, I could die in peace.’

  Daughters?

  John gave voice to his question. ‘Ben, do you mean that Becky and….’

  ‘Yes, Becky and Monique are sisters. Half-sisters, really. I have been twice married.’

  That made the antagonism between the two somewhat clearer. Ben went on as if talking while he was half-asleep. Perhaps his thoughts were bogged down in the swamps of his past. ‘They never got along, you know. Monique always figured that I favored Becky – I don’t know! Maybe I did. If so, I should have never let it show.’

  ‘Matt Doyle,’ Tanner suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ Ben sighed, opening his eyes again. ‘They both wanted him. Maybe he wanted both of them. Monique thought that her sister had set her eyes on her man, the one thing she possessed that Becky couldn’t have. Something like that. I don’t understand women, and they never confided in me. After you shot Matt Doyle, Monique went a little over the edge. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t see it. Not that I could have done much about it.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said with a deep sigh, ‘that Monique set out to avenge herself on Becky by having her kidnapped by that loathsome Morgan Pride, rewarding him with the money from my safe.’

  Tanner nodded. Although what Ben was saying made sense in a logical way, still it didn’t seem to ring true to Tanner who at the same time had to admit that he didn’t know Becky that well, Monique not at all. He rose from the chair.

  ‘Where should I put the money for tonight?’ John asked. Ben Canasta looked indifferent.

  ‘Kick it under my bed, John. I’ll put it in the safe in the morning.’

  ‘That’s not very secure,’ Tanner pointed out.

  ‘What is?’ Ben Canasta asked wearily. ‘Don’t you see, John, it just doesn’t matter anymore.’

  ‘All right,’ John Tanner agreed. He managed a joke which caused the old man’s lips to twitch with slight amusement. ‘But if it comes up missing again – don’t call me.’

  ‘Get yourself something to eat, John. Then find yourself a bed in the bunkhouse.’

  ‘I’m much more weary than hungry, sir,’ Tanner said, ‘and if you don’t mind, I’ll
just find myself a place in the barn to sleep.’

  ‘You still think you have enemies here?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Let’s just say that I don’t intend to find out.’

  Ben Canasta didn’t answer; he was already asleep. Tanner went out, closing the door softly behind him. He saw no one else awake in the house or out in the yard. He gathered up the reins to the black horse and to Becky’s little dun and led them toward the barn through the silky shadows the moon cast beneath the oak trees.

  It was a labor of the mind rather than of the body to see that the horses were taken care of before he crawled up the wooden ladder to the hayloft where he pulled together a pile of hay which he half-tumbled on to to take his long-awaited rest.

  The morning sun was a brilliant array of shafting sun rays in the old barn. There were a few men Tanner didn’t know stamping around below, preparing their horses for their day’s work, grumbling in the usual manner of men roused at an early hour to face grueling tasks. Tanner sat still, letting his head clear as the cowhands muttered and cursed, saddled their ponies and went out to encounter the new day.

  When they were gone, John started down the ladder, hunger gnawing at his stomach. Carefully, almost secretively, he made his way across the yard and then to the back of the house where he knew the kitchen door to be. There would be no hands inside – they were all fed in the bunkhouse – and so he went in, hearing the door creak on its brass hinges, and seated himself at the table, holding his head in his hands. Despite all the battering his body had taken over the last few days he did not feel bruised and sore, only tired, incredibly so. What was that called? The French he knew, had a word for it, but before he could find it, the inner door opened and, carrying a tray of dishes, Monique entered the kitchen.