Dusty Barron had only the vaguest idea of what he was heading into. It was thirty-eight miles across the basin, and he was heading down the basin. According to popular rumor, there was no water for over eighty miles in that direction. And he had started with his canteen only half full.
For the first hour he had taken his course from a star. Then he had sighted a peak ahead and to his left and used that for a marker. Gradually he had worked his way toward the western side of the basin.
Somewhere over the western side was Gallo Gap, a green meadow high in the peaks off a rocky and rarely used pass. There would be water there if he could make it, yet he knew of the gap only from a story told him by a prospector he had met one day in the hills near his home.
Daybreak found him a solitary black speck in a vast wilderness of white. The sun stabbed at him with lances of fire and then, rising higher, bathed the great alkali basin in white radiance and blasting furnace heat. Dusty narrowed his eyes against the glare. It was at least twelve miles to the mountains.
He still had four miles to go through the puffing alkali dust when he saw the tracks. At first he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. A wagon—here!
While he allowed the steel-dust to take a blow, he dismounted and examined the tracks. It had been a heavy wagon pulled by four mules or horses. In the fine dust he could not find an outlined track to tell one from the other.
The tracks had come out of the white distance to the east and had turned north exactly on the route he was following. Gallo Gap, from the prospector’s story, lay considerably north of him and a bit to the west.
Had the driver of the wagon known of the gap? Or had he merely turned on impulse to seek a route through the mountains. Glancing in first one, and then the other direction, Dusty could see no reason why the driver should have chosen either direction. Jarilla lay southwest, but from here there was no indication of it and no trail.
Mounting again, he rode on, and, when he came to the edge of the low hills fronting the mountains, he detected the wagon trail running along through the scattered rocks, parched bunch grass, and greasewood. It was still heading north. Yet when he studied the terrain before him, he could see nothing but dancing heat waves and an occasional dust devil.
The problem of the wagon occupied his mind to forgetfulness of his own troubles. It had come across the alkali basin from the east. That argued it must have come from the direction of Manzano unless the wagon had turned into the trail somewhere farther north on the road to Conejos.
Nothing about it made sense. This was Apache country and no place for wagon travel. A man on a fast horse, yes, but even then it was foolhardy to travel alone. Yet the driver of the wagon had the courage of recklessness to come across the dead white expanse of the basin, a trip that, to say the least, was miserable.
Darkness was coming again, but he rode on. The wagon interested him, and with no other goal in mind now that he had escaped the Hickmans, he was curious to see who the driver was and to learn what he had in mind. Obviously the man was a stranger to this country.
It was then, in the fading light, that he saw the mule. The steel-dust snorted and shied sharply, but Dusty kneed it closer for a better look. It had been a big mule and a fine animal, but it was dead now. It bore evidence of that brutal crossing of the basin, and here, on the far side, the animal had finally dropped dead of heat and exhaustion.
Only then did he see the trunk. It was sitting between two rocks, partly concealed. He walked to it and looked it over. Cumbersome and heavy, it had evidently been dumped from the wagon to lighten the load.
He tried to open it, but could not. It was locked tight. Beside it were a couple of chairs and a bed.
“Sheddin’ his load,” Dusty muttered thoughtfully. “He’d better find some water for those other mules, or they’ll die, too.”
Then he noticed the name on the trunk: d.c. lowe, st. louis, mo.
“You’re a long way from home,” Dusty remarked. He swung a leg over the saddle and rode on. He had gone almost five miles before he saw the fire.
At first, it might have been a star, but as he drew nearer, he could see it was too low down, although higher than he was. The trail had been turning gradually deeper into the hills and had begun to climb a little. He rode on, using the light for a beacon.
When he was still some distance off, he dismounted and tied the stallion to a clump of greasewood and walked forward on foot.
The three mules were hitched to the back of the wagon, all tied loosely and lying down. A girl was bending over a fire, and a small boy, probably no more than nine years old, was gathering sticks of dried mesquite for fuel. There was no one else in sight.
Marveling, he returned to his horse and started back. When he was still a little distance away, he began to sing. His throat was dry and it was a poor job, but he didn’t want to frighten them. When he walked his horse into the firelight, the boy was staring up at him, wide-eyed, and the girl had an old Frontier Model Colt.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” he said, swinging down, “I’m just a passin’ stranger an’ don’t mean any harm.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Name of Dusty Barron, ma’am. I’ve been followin’ your trail.”
“Why?” Her voice was sharp and a little frightened. She could have been no more than seventeen or eighteen.
“Mostly because I was headed thisaway an’ was wonderin’ what anybody was doin’ down here with a wagon, or where you might be headed.”
“Doesn’t this lead us anywhere?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” Dusty replied, “if you’re lookin’ for a settlement, there ain’t none thisaway in less’n a hundred miles. There’s a sort of town then, place they call Pie Town.”
“But where did you come from?” Her eyes were wide and dark. If she was fixed up, he reflected, she would be right pretty.
“Place they call Jarilla,” he said, “but I reckon this was a better way if you’re travelin’ alone. Jarilla’s a Hickman town, an’ they sure are a noaccount lot.”
“My father died,” she told him, putting the gun in a holster hung to the wagon bed, “back there. Billy an’ I buried him.”
“You come across the basin alone?” He was incredulous.
“Yes. Father died in the mountains on the other side. That was three days ago.”
Dusty removed his hat and began to strip the saddle and bridle from the stallion while the girl bent over her cooking. He found a hunk of bacon in his saddle pockets. “Got plenty of bacon?” he asked. “I ’most generally pack a mite along.”
She looked up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She was flushed from the fire. “We haven’t had any bacon for a week.” She looked away quickly, and her chin quivered a little and then became stubborn. “Nor much of anything else, but you’re welcome to join us.”
He seated himself on the ground and leaned back on his saddle while she dished up the food. It wasn’t much. A few dry beans and some corn-bread. “You got some relatives out here somewhere?”
“No.” She handed him a plate, but he was too thirsty to eat more than a few mouthfuls. “Father had a place out here. His lungs were bad and they told him the dry air would he good for him. My mother died when Billy was born, so there was nothing to keep us back in Missouri. We just headed West.”
“You say your father had a place? Where is it?”
“I’m not sure. Father loaned some man some money, or, rather, he provided him with money with which to buy stock. The man was to come West and settle on a place, stock it, and then send for Dad.”
Dusty ate slowly, thinking that over. “Got anything to show for it?”
“Yes, Father had an agreement that was drawn up and notarized. It’s in a leather wallet. He gave the man five thousand dollars. It was all we had.”
When they had eaten, the girl and boy went to sleep in the wagon box while Dusty stretched out on the ground nearby. What a mess! he told himself. Those kids comin’
away out here, all by themselves now, an’ the chances are that money was blowed in over a faro layout long ago!
In the morning, Dusty hitched up the mules for them. “You foller me,” he advised, and turned the stallion up the trail to the north.
It was almost noon before he saw the thumb like butte that marked the entrance to Gallo Gap. He turned toward it, riding ahead to scout the best trail, and at times dismounting to roll rocks aside so the wagon could get through.
Surmounting the crest of a low hill, he looked suddenly into Gallo Gap. His red-rimmed eyes stared greedily at the green grass and trees. The stallion smelled water and wanted to keep going, so waving the wagon on, he rode down into the gap.
Probably there were no more than 200 acres here, but it was waist deep in rich green grass, and the towering yellow pines were tall and very old. It was like riding from desolation into a beautiful park. He found the spring by the sound of running water, crystal clear and beautiful, the water rippling over the rocks to fall into a clear pond at least an acre in extent. Nearby, space had been cleared for a cabin, and then abandoned.
Dusty turned in the saddle as his horse stood knee deep in the water. The wagon pulled up. “This is a little bit of heaven!” he said, grinning at the girl. “Say, what’s your name, anyway?”
“Ruth Grant,” she said shyly.
All the weariness seemed to have fled from her face at the sight of the water and trees. She smiled gaily, and a few minutes later, as he walked toward the trees with a rifle in the crook of his elbow, he heard laughter and then her voice, singing. He stopped suddenly, watching some deer feeding a short distance off, and listening to her voice. It made a lump of loneliness rise in his throat.
That night, after they had eaten steaks from a fat buck he’d killed, their first good meal in days, he looked across the fire at her. “Ruth,” he said, “I think I’ll locate me a home right here. I’ve been lookin’ for a place of my own. I reckon what we better do is for you-all to stay here with me until you get rested up. I’ll build a cabin, and those mules of yours can get some meat on their bones again. Then I’ll ride on down to Pie Town and locate this hombre your father had dealin’s with an’ see how things look.”
That was the way they left it, but in the days that followed Dusty Barron had never been happier. He felled trees on the mountainside and built a cabin, and in working around he found ways of doing things he had never tried before. Ruth was full of suggestions about the house, sensible, knowing things that helped a lot. He worked the mules a little, using only one at a time and taking them turn-about.
He hunted a good deal for food. Nearby he found a salt lick and shot an occasional antelope, and several times, using a shotgun from the wagon, he killed blue grouse. In a grove of trees he found some ripe black cherries similar to those growing wild in the Guadalupe Mountains of West Texas. There was also some Mexican plum.
When the cabin was up and there was plenty of meat on hand, he got his gear in shape. Then he carefully oiled and cleaned his guns.
Ruth noticed them, and her face paled a little. “You believe there will be trouble?” she asked quickly. “I don’t want you to. . .”
“Forget it,” he interrupted. “I’ve got troubles of my own.” He explained about the killing of Dan Hickman and the long-standing feud between the families.
He left at daybreak. In his pocket he carried the leather wallet containing the agreement Roger Grant had made with Dick Lowe. It was a good day’s ride from Gallo Gap to Aimless Creek, where Dusty camped the first night. The following day he rode on into Pie Town. From his talks with Ruth he knew something of Lowe and enough of the probable location of the ranch, if there was one.
A cowhand with sandy hair and crossed eyes was seated on the top rail of the corral. Dusty reined in and leaned his forearm on the saddle horn and dug for the makings. After he had rolled a smoke, he passed it on to the cross-eyed rider.
“Know anything about an’ hombre name of Dick Lowe?” he asked.
“Reckon so.” They shared a match and, looking at each other through the smoke, decided they were men of a kind. “He’s up there in the Spur Saloon now.”
Dusty made no move. After a few drags on the cigarette, he glanced at the fire end. “What kind of hombre is he?”
“Salty.” The cowhand puffed for a moment on his cigarette. “Salty an’ mean. Plumb poison with a shootin’ iron, an’, when you ride for him, he pays you what he wants to when you quit. If you don’t think you got a square deal, you can always tell him so, but when you do, you better reach.”
“Like that, huh?”
“Like that.” He smoked quietly for a few minutes. “Four hombres haven’t liked what he paid ’em. He buried all four of ’em in his own personal boothill, off to the north of the ranch house.”
“Sounds bad. Do all his own work or does he have help?”
“He’s got help. Cat McQuill an’ Bugle Nose Bender. Only nobody calls him Bugle Nose to his face.”
“What about the ranch? Nice place?”
“Best around here. He come in here with money, had near five thousand dollars. He bought plenty of cattle an’ stocked his range well.” The cross-eyed cowhand looked at him, squinting through the smoke. “My name’s Blue Riddle. I rode for him once.”
“I take it you didn’t argue none,” Barron said, grinning.
“My maw never raised no foolish children,” Riddle replied wryly. “They had me in a cross fire. Been Lowe alone, I’d maybe’ve took a chance, but as it was, they would have cut me down quick. So I come away, but I’m stickin’ around, just waiting. I told him I aimed to have my money, an’ he just laughed.”
Dusty dropped his hand back and loosened his left-hand gun. Then he swung his leg back over the saddle and thrust his toe in the stirrup. “Well,” he said, “I got papers here that say I speak for a gal that owns half his layout. I’m goin’ up an’ lay claim to it for her.”
Riddle looked up cynically. “Why not shoot yourself and save the trouble? They’ll gun you down.” Then he sized Barron up again. “What did you say your name was?”
Dusty grinned. “I didn’t say, but its Dusty Barron.”
Blue Riddle slid off the corral rail. “One of the Barrons from Castle Rock?” He grinned again. “This I gotta see!”
Dusty was looking for a big man, but Dick Lowe, who he spotted at once on entering the saloon, was only a bit larger than himself, and he was the only small man among the Barrons.
Lowe turned to look at him as he entered. The man’s features were sharp, and his quick eyes glanced from Dusty Barron to Riddle, and then back again. Dusty walked to the bar, and Riddle loitered near the door.
The man standing beside Lowe at the bar must be Cat McQuill. The reason for the nickname was obvious, for there was something feline about the man’s facial appearance.
“Lowe?” Dusty inquired.
“That’s right.” Lowe turned toward him slowly. “Something you want?”
“Yeah.” Dusty leaned nonchalantly on the bar and ordered a drink. “I’m representin’ your partner.”
Dick Lowe’s face blanched, and then turned hard as stone. His eyes glinted. However, he managed a smile with his thin lips. “Partner? I have no partner.”
Dusty leaned on the bar watching his drink poured. He took his time.
Lowe watched him, slowly growing more and more angry. “Well,” he said sharply, “if you’ve got something to say, say it!”
Dusty looked around, simulating surprise. “Why, I was just givin’ you time to remember, Lowe. You can’t tell me you can draw up an agreement with a man, have it properly notarized, and then take five thousand dollars of his money to stock a ranch, and not remember it!”
Dusty was pointedly speaking loudly, and the fact angered Lowe. “You have such an agreement?” Lowe demanded.
“Sure I got it.”
“Where’s the party this supposed agreement belongs to? Why doesn’t he speak for himself?”
“He’s dead. He was a lunger an’ died on his way West.”
Lowe’s relief was evident. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that this is all too obvious an attempt to get some money out of me. It won’t work.”
“It’s nothing of the kind. Grant’s dead, but he left a daughter and a son. I aim to see they get what belongs to ’em, Mister Lowe. I hope we can do it right peaceable.”
Lowe’s face tightened, but he forced a smile. He was aware he had enemies in Pie Town and did not relish their overhearing this conversation. He was also aware that it was pretty generally known that he had come into Pie Town with $5,000 in cash and bought cattle when everyone on the range was impoverished.
“I reckon this’ll be easy settled,” he said. “You bring the agreement to the ranch, an’, if it’s all legal, I reckon we can make a deal.”
“Sure,” Dusty agreed. “See you tomorrow.”
On the plank steps of the hotel he waited until Riddle caught up with him. “You ain’t actually goin’ out there, are you?” Blue demanded. “That’s just askin’ for trouble!”
“I’m goin’ out,” Dusty agreed. “I want a look at the ranch myself. If I can ride out there, I can get an idea what kind of stock he’s got and what shape the ranch is in. I’ve got a hunch, if we make a cash settlement, Lowe isn’t goin’ to give us much more chance to look around if he can help it. Besides, I’ve talked in front o’ the folks here in town, and rough as some of them may be, they ain’t goin’ to see no orphans get gypped. No Western crowd would stand for that unless it’s some outlaws like Lowe and his two pals.”
Riddle walked slowly away, shaking his head with doubt. Dusty watched him go, and then went on inside.
He was throwing a saddle on the steel-dust next morning when he heard a low groan. Gun in hand he walked around the corner of the corral. Beyond a pile of poles he saw Blue Riddle pulling himself off the ground. “What happened?” Dusty demanded.
“Bender an’ McQuill. They gave me my walkin’ papers. Said I’d been in town too long, which didn’t bother Lowe none till I took up with you. They gave me till daybreak to pull my freight.” He staggered erect, holding a hand to his head. “Then Bender bent a gun over my noggin.”
Collection 2008 - Big Medicine (v5.0) Page 3