Hack lifted his gun, then saw the sack lying in the road. “The Devil with it! Let him go!”
He tried to get to his feet, but one leg wouldn’t function right. He crawled to the sack, felt the rustle of bills and the chink of gold coins. He got a grip on the sack and whistled.
The buckskin trotted to him and stood patiently while he caught hold of a stirrup and pulled himself up, then climbed into the saddle. He started the horse to the nearest house, gripping the sack in his right hand.
He shouted and the door opened, then other doors began to open, lamps were lighted, and people emerged. One of them was Ann. He thrust the sack at her. “Tryin’ all the time. I was try—”
He felt himself falling, felt her hands catch him, then somebody else’s hands. “He’s passed out,” somebody was saying. “He’s—”
Something smelled like rain, rain and roses and coffee and other smells he could not place. Then he opened his eyes and he could hear the rain falling, and he stared out a curtained window at a pinon-clad hill beyond. Turning his head he saw his boots, wiped cleaner than they had been in months, and his gunbelt hanging near them, over the back of a chair. His clothes were folded neatly on the chair, and there was another chair, a rocking chair with a book lying face down on the seat.
The door opened and Ann Bailey came in. She was wearing an apron, and when her eyes met his, she smiled. “You’re actually awake! You’re not delirious!”
“What do you mean…delirious? Where am I? What’s happened?”
“You’re at home, on our ranch, and you were delirious. You talked,” she blushed faintly, “an awful lot. You killed all those men.”
“Not Rodd nor Hazel. Mathy killed Rodd by mistake. Hazel got away.”
“He didn’t get far. He fell off his horse about a mile down the road, and died before anyone found him.”
“You got your money?”
“Of course.” She looked down at him. “Half of this ranch is yours now.”
“I won’t take it. That isn’t right.”
“It is right. That was the deal, and we intend to stand by it. Anyway, Dad needs help. He’s needed somebody who can handle cattle. He can’t do it all himself. You get some rest now, and we can talk of that later.”
“What’s that I smell?”
“I’m making some doughnuts. Why?”
“All right. I’ll stay. I always did like doughnuts!”
HISTORICAL NOTE
THE CARLISLE-KING FIGHT
WHEN THE WILD towns of the Old West are listed it is always Abilene, Dodge City, Deadwood and Tombstone that are mentioned, and rarely Los Angeles.
Yet California in its early years was second only to Texas in the number of cattle roaming its thousands of hills, and the vaqueros who handled those cattle numbered among them some of the finest riders and ropers the country was to see.
The most noted gun battle of Los Angeles’s early years took place on July 6, 1865, when Bob Carlisle shot it out with the King brothers at the old Bella Union Hotel.
On the afternoon of the previous day Carlisle had words with Under-Sheriff A.J. King over the investigation of the murder of John Rains, Carlisle’s brother-in-law. The discussion ended with Carlisle using a Bowie knife on King, and during the argument he was supposed to have said that he could kill all the Kings.
Carlisle was a big, strikingly handsome man who had proved both his nerve and his skill with weapons on more than one occasion. As the son-in-law of Col. Isaac Williams and owner of the Chino Ranch of some 46,000 acres, he was a prominent citizen.
On the day following the difficulty between Carlisle and A.J. King, and just as the stage pulled up before the Bella Union, Frank and Houston King, brothers of A.J., were passing by and glimpsed Bob Carlisle through the open door.
Carlisle apparently saw them at the same time, and one of the Kings said, “There’s Carlisle now. Let’s go see if he means it.”
As the King brothers approached the door, firing began. Carlisle’s first bullet killed Frank King, but Houston King emptied his gun into Carlisle, putting four bullets within four inches of Carlisle’s navel. Carlisle went down, then started to get up, and Houston rushed him, breaking his now empty pistol over Carlisle’s head.
Pushing himself up against the wall, Carlisle gripped his six-shooter with both hands and shot Houston King through the body. Carried to a billiard table, Bob Carlisle died a short time later. Houston King survived the shooting and was tried for killing Carlisle, but acquitted.
Harris Newmark, a prominent citizen, came on the scene as the shooting ended, and has told the story in his memoirs, as has Frank King, former cowboy and writer who was the son of Houston King. There are several other accounts.
DOWN THE POGONIP TRAIL
IT WAS COLD, bitter, bitter cold, and the wind from off the mountains cut through even the warmest clothes. Jeff Kurland’s clothes were not warm, for the long, dry summer had brought only disaster, and the few cattle he had been able to sell paid only for his groceries, leaving no margin for clothes.
Now he seemed to be facing another winter without snow, and it was melting snow which watered the grasslands far below, the grasslands where his cattle grazed. He bowed his head into the wind and headed his horse for the timber. Broke as a drunken miner after ten days in town, he would have no chance now of marrying Jill Bates.
The scarf tied around his head under his hat kept slipping down, but it did help to keep his forehead and the back of his neck warm. Without it, his brow would be cold as chilled iron, riding in this wind.
The mustang broke into a canter for the last few yards to the trees. They would be shelter from the wind, at least.
Now if he could just catch Ross Stiber! Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. Then he could fix up the cabin, get married, and maybe buy a few head of cattle to increase his small herd.
Only a few hours ago Sheriff Tilson had told him Stiber was believed to be hiding out somewhere in the icy peaks and ridges that loomed above Kurland’s cabin. Tilson had warned him. The man was a killer.
If Tilson was smart, he would not go up into those peaks after Stiber. Jeff knew those peaks from harsh experience, and nothing could last a winter up there. All Tilson had to do was wait and watch. Stiber would have to come out.
The earth beneath his horse’s hoofs was iron-hard, the sky above a dull, forbidding gray. Where the small creeks flowed, the rocks were sheathed with ice. On the trail that wound through the spruce he was at least out of the wind, and it was a mere three miles to his cabin.
Home! Four walls and a dirt floor, but a good fireplace and plenty of fuel. If a man was handy with an axe there was plenty of wood just from dead-falls, but food was scarce. What he would do if there were a heavy snowfall he could only guess.
Even his visit to Jill had turned out badly. Not that she was anything but adorable, or lacked affection, but the house was so warm and pleasant that he shuddered to think of her comments if she were to see his own harsh cabin.
He felt shy in the Bates’s house. His clothes were shabby, and his big hands were blue with cold. He could hardly tear himself away from the fire for the warm meal, and when Kurt Saveth had started to banter him about his rugged life he had frozen up inside, unable to find words with which to reply. He was cold, resentful, and unhappy. It was no wonder Jill’s parents preferred Saveth to him.
The worst of it was it was Saveth, from whom he bought supplies. It went against the grain to ask his rival for credit. Kurt knew how little he bought, how badly off he must be, and how things must be up there on his ranch.
The mustang’s pace quickened. Cold as the barn might be, the horse was ready for it after the forty miles it had traveled this day. Jeff rode the gray into the yard and stepped down from the saddle. Leading the animal inside, he stripped off the gear, put a halter on him, and tied him to the manger. Then he forked down hay; at least he had plenty of that ! He got out a blanket and covered the horse, buckling it in place. It was a light blan
ket, but at least it was some help against the cold. Fortunately, the barn was snug and secure from the raw wind. When Jeff Kurland built, he built well.
His steps were loud on the hard ground as he crossed the frozen yard. Lifting the latch, he stepped inside and, dropping his sack of supplies, he started for the fireplace to light a fire.
He stopped short. Neatly piled atop the ashes was a small cone of twigs and shreds of bark.
“Don’t make no sudden moves.” The tone was harsh. “You just go ahead and light that fire. I was aimin’ to do just that when you came into sight.”
Without turning, Jeff struck a match and lighted the prepared fire. As it blazed up he added heavier sticks.
Of course, it would be Ross Stiber, and the man was a killer. Jeff half-turned his head. “All right to get up now? I’m not armed.”
“Get up an’ start fixin’ some grub. Hope you brought somethin’ with you. You surely ain’t fixed for winter.”
Jeff Kurland got up and glanced across the room at the man sitting on the bunk. He was a big, raw-boned man, unshaved, and with a heavy jaw. His bleak gray eyes were taking in Jeff Kurland, his worn clothes and thin face.
“I’m Stiber,” he said, “but it ain’t goin’ to do you one particle of good.”
He came up behind Jeff and ran a hand over his pockets. He sounded surprised when he stepped back. “No gun, huh? I already looked the cabin over, so where is it?”
“Ain’t got one.” Kurland was embarrassed.
“Don’t get any ideas about that there reeward. I’m wide awake all the time, and I can shoot the buttons off your coat.”
“I know that. I just haven’t got a gun.”
Kurland went to work preparing the meal. He was hungry after his long ride, and wanted to eat. He also wanted time to think his way out of the situation he was in. How much of a situation, he was not sure. The outlaw settled himself back against the wall, watching his every move. Stiber seemed to want to talk.
“You sure aren’t fixed well, friend. I looked your place over. Isn’t enough grub here to feed a rat. How could you expect to last out a storm, no more grub than you’ve got?” He glanced at the sack Jeff had brought in. “An’ you surely didn’t pack much, considerin’ you had a forty-mile ride.”
Jeff was irritated, but he made no comment. What business was it of Stiber’s to come nosing around, butting into his business? If he was going without now and again, it was his business and nobody else’s. He got coffee on and mixed biscuits.
“Shoulder of venison on the chair yonder,” Stiber suggested. “Better fix it. I killed me a deer night before last. Not much game around. Must be the drouth.” He glanced at Kurland. “Got your cattle, too, I’ll bet.”
He eased forward to the edge of the bunk again. “Hey? You got any smokin’ in that bag? I run out of it up yonder in the peaks. I might have stuck it out if it hadn’t been for that.”
Jeff reached into the sack and tossed Stiber a package of tobacco. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got another.”
Stiber caught the sack and lowered it between his knees and got out some papers. “Thanks, amigo. Don’t you just figure I’d have taken it, anyway? I could have. I probably would have, too. I wouldn’t take both of them, though. A man can do without his grub, but his smokin’? No way.
“Up yonder in the peaks I smoked dried leaves; ain’t done that since I was a youngster, shredded barl, just anything.” He lit up and smoked in silence for several minutes. Then he said, “Who’s the girl?”
Kurland’s head came up sharply. He was as big as Stiber, but the hard months had made him lean. His eyes were bleak and dangerous. Stiber noticed it, and there was a flicker of humor in his eyes.
“Where’s that picture? Did you take it?”
“What would I want with your picture? No, I didn’t take it, an’ I’m meanin’ no disrespect. She’s a right pretty girl, though.”
“She’s a fine girl and a decent girl.”
“Did I say she wasn’t?” Stiber protested. “Sure, she’s a fine girl. I know her.”
“You know her?” Jeff was startled.
“Jill Bates? I should smile, I know her. Don’t look at me that way. Was a time when I wasn’t no outlaw, havin’ to hide out in the hills. I knew her when she was a youngster. Nine, ten years ago. I was a young cowpuncher then, drifted into this country after shootin’ a man down at Santa Rita. That was my first shootin’ and I was some upset. I wasn’t fixin’ to kill anybody. Then I met a girl up here. Blonde, she was. Cute as a bug’s ear. Name of Clara Dawson.”
Jeff grinned. “You should see her now.”
“I don’t aim to. Rather remember her as she was. Comes to that, I don’t look so fine my own self. It was different then. About that time I was cuttin’ a wide swath among the women-folks.
“You should have seen me then! Had me a silver-mounted saddle and bridle. Had a fine black horse, best one I ever owned. Comanches got him. I was lucky to get away with my hair.”
“Come an’ get it,” Jeff put plates on the table. “You can put up that six-shooter, too. I don’t plan on bustin’ your skull until we’ve had something to eat.”
Stiber chuckled. “Don’t try it, boy. That’s a right pretty little girl, and I’d hate to put tears in her eyes. Pour me some of that coffee, will you? Been two weeks since I’ve drunk coffee.”
Stiber waited until the coffee was poured. He tucked the pistol in his waistband. “How come you haven’t got a gun? I seen the holster.”
Jeff flushed. “I borrowed money on it. From Kurt Saveth.”
“Tough.” Stiber was eating with obvious enjoyment. “You cook a mighty fine meal. You sure do.” He looked up. “You fixin’ to marry that Bates girl? If you are, you better go out and rob yourself a bank. You can’t bring the likes of her to a place like this.”
Jeff slammed down his fork. “Listen! You bust in here an’ take a meal at gunpoint an’ you can do it. I’d begrudge no man a meal! But you keep your nose out of my private business or I’ll bust it all over your face!”
Stiber chuckled, lifting a protesting hand. “No offense! I was just talkin’, that’s all. As for bustin’ my nose, even if I didn’t have a gun you couldn’t whip one side of me. Not that I’m aimin’ to give you the chance.
“You fix a good meal, friend, but you make a wrong move and it will be the last one you ever fix. I’ve got five thousand in blood money restin’ on my head, and that’s a lot of money to a man in your fix.”
Jeff ate in silence while the outlaw continued to talk. From time to time Jeff’s thoughts returned to the subject of that reward. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, and the man was wanted for a killing.
What was in Stiber’s mind now? He scarcely dared try to leave the country, yet it was impossible to live among the peaks in this weather. It would be worse before it got better. Of course, if he had a good hideout—?
It was then Jeff Kurland remembered the cave on Copper Mountain.
Could that be where Stiber was hiding? Sheriff Tilson had said that Stiber did not know this country, yet if Stiber had been around here ten years ago, something Tilson obviously did not know, he might know of the cave on Copper Mountain.
Where else could a man live in those mountains in such cold? But had Stiber ever come through a pogonip fog in this country? Did he know what it was like when the fog turned to ice and settled in a chill blanket over everything?
If a man was caught in a cave, he’d better have plenty of food and be prepared to wait it out, because escape would be impossible. And unless Jeff Kurland was mistaken, the weather was shaping up for something like that now. Within the past few minutes he seemed to feel warmer, and not only because the room was heating up.
The outlaw’s droning voice penetrated Jeff’s thoughts.
“That Jill Bates, she’s growed into a mighty handsome woman! Used to fetch her candy, I did, and maple sugar. That was when I was courtin’ Clara. Thought the world of that kid. Even let her ri
de my black horse one time.”
He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Got to be goin’. You split that grub in half, and leave me the sack. Ain’t likely you’ll have callers but I can’t chance it.”
“Listen,” Jeff protested, “that’s all the grub I’ve got! And I’ve no money!”
Ross Stiber chuckled. “You ain’t sold your saddle yet, and I’ll just bet that Kurt Saveth would like to buy it off you!”
“Sell my saddle? I’m not that broke! You know damned well that when a cowpuncher sells his saddle he’s through…finished!”
“Then maybe you ain’t quite finished. Why don’t you go slaughter one of Cal Harter’s Pole Angus steers? I hear theirs is the best beef you can find.”
When he was gone Jeff dropped into a chair, thoroughly discouraged. With the little grub he had brought in he might have made it. As it was, he didn’t have a chance.
Half the little food he had was gone, and he had no money nor any chance to get any. Nor would anybody be hiring hands in this kind of weather. They had let go what extra hands they had for the winter season, keeping on just a few trusted standbys. It looked like the end of everything. His chance to have his own ranch, his chance to marry Jill, all gone down the drain.
He had started his own outfit three years before, with three hundred head of cattle. It was a herd carefully built from strays or injured cattle. Here and there he bought a few head, mostly calves from cattle drives, where the calves were an impediment. He had driven his herd into these high green valleys and built his cabin.
In the months that followed he had labored to build a small dam for a reservoir against the hot, dry months. Grass grew well along the bottoms, and he had worked from daylight until dark mowing hay with a scythe and stacking it against the long winter ahead. He had built shelters of poles and brush, knowing the snow would bank against it and add to the warmth. Nobody had held cattle up this high, but he believed he could do it. A few years back he had come upon some wild cattle who had survived a winter in the high country.
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