I shoved my hat back on my head and grinned at him. “Thanks, mister, but that sure wouldn’t be neighborly of me, would it? Folks wait for me shouldn’t miss their appointment. I reckon I’ll go see what they have to say.”
“They’ll say it with lead.” He glowered at me, but I could see he was friendly.
“Then I guess I can speak their language,” I said. “Was a time I was a pretty fluent conversationalist in that language. Maybe I still am.”
“They’ll be in the Ventana Saloon,” he said, “and a couple across the street. There’ll be at least four.”
When I stepped out on the boardwalk about twenty hombres stepped off it. I mean that street got as empty as a panhandler’s pocket, so I started for the Ventana, watching mighty careful and keeping close to the buildings along the right-hand side of the street. That store across the street where two of them might be was easy to watch.
An hombre showed in the window of the store and I waited. Then Chet Bayless stepped out of the saloon. Red Corram came from the store. And Jerito Juarez suddenly walked into the center of the street. Another hombre stood in an alleyway and they had me fairly boxed. “Come in at last, huh?” Bayless chuckled. “Now we see who’s nestin’ on this range!”
“Hello, Jerito,” I called, “nobody hung you yet? I been expecting it.”
“Not unteel I keel you!” Jerito stopped and spread his slim legs wide.
Mister, I never seen anything look as mean and ornery as that hombre did then! He had a thin face with long narrow black eyes and high cheekbones. It wasn’t the rest of that outfit I was watching, it was him. That boy was double-eyed dynamite, all charged with hate for me and my kind.
“You never seen the day,” I said, “when you could tear down my meathouse, Jerito.” Right then I felt cocky. There was a devil in me, all right, a devil I was plumb scared of. That was why I ducked and kept out of sight, because when trouble came to me I could feel that old lust to kill getting up in my throat and no smart man wants to give rein to that sort of thing. Me, I rode herd on it, mostly, but right now it was in me and it was surging high. Right then if somebody had told me for certain sure that I was due to die in that street, I couldn’t have left it.
My pulse was pounding and my breath coming short and I stood there shaking and all filled with wicked eagerness, just longing for them to open the ball.
And then Betty Lucas stepped into the street.
She must have timed it. She must have figured she could stop that killing right there. She didn’t know Chet Bayless, Corram, and those others. They would fire on a woman. And most Mexicans wouldn’t, but she didn’t know Jerito Juarez. He would have shot through his mother to kill me, I do believe.
Easylike, and gay, she walked out there in that dusty street, swinging a sunbonnet on her arm, just as easy as you’d ever see. Somebody yelled at her and somebody swore, but she kept coming, right up to me.
“Let’s go, Rye,” she said gently. “You’ll be killed. Come with me.”
Lord knows, I wanted to look at her, but my eyes never wavered. “Get out of the street, Betty. I made my play. I got to back it up. You go along now.”
“They won’t shoot if you’re with me,” she said, “and you must come, now!” There was awful anxiety in her eyes, and I knew what it must have taken for her to come out into that street after me. And my eyes must have flickered because I saw Jerito’s hand flash.
Me? I never moved so fast in my life! I tripped up Betty and sprawled her in the dust at my feet and almost as she hit dust my right-hand gun was making war talk across her body, lying there so slim and lovely, angry and scared.
Jerito’s gun and mine blasted fire at the same second, me losing time with getting Betty down. Something ripped at my sleeve and then I stepped over her and had both guns going, and from somewhere another gun started and Jerito was standing there with blood running down his face and it all twisted with a kind of wild horror above the flame-stabbing .44 that pounded death at me.
Bayless I took out with my left-hand gun, turning him with a bullet through his right elbow, a bullet that was making a different man of him, although I didn’t know it then.
He never again was able to flash a fast gun!
Jerito suddenly broke and lunged toward me. He was blood all over the side of his head and face and shoulder, but he was still alive and in a killing mood. He came closer and we both let go at point-blank range, but I was maybe a split second faster and that bullet hit bone.
When a bullet hits bone a man goes down, and he went down and hard. He rolled over and stared up at me.
“You fast! You…diablo!” His face twisted and he died right there, and when I looked up, Tap Henry was standing alongside the Ventana Saloon with a smoking gun in his hand, and that was a Christian town.
That’s what I mean. We made believers out of them that day in the dusty street on a warm, still afternoon. Tap and me, we made them see what it meant to tackle us and the town followed the ranchers and they followed Jim Lucas when he came down to shake hands and call it a truce.
Betty was alongside me, her face dusty, but not so pale anymore, and Tap walked over, holstering his gun. He held out his hand, and I shook it. We’d been riding partners for months, but from that day on we were friends.
“You and me, kid,” he said, “we can whip the world! Or we can make it plumb peaceful! I reckon our troubles are over.”
“No hard feelings?” One of my arms was around Betty.
“Not one!” He grinned at me. “You was always head man with her. And us? Well, I never knowed a man I’d rather ride the river with!”
* * *
THERE’S MORE CATTLE on the Pelado now, and the great bald dome of the mountain stands above the long green fields where the cattle graze, and where the horses’ coats grow shining and beautiful, and there are two houses there now, and Tap has one of them with a girl from El Paso, and I have the other with Betty.
We came when the country was young and wild, and it took men to curry the roughness out of it, and we knew the smell of gunsmoke, the buffalo-chip fires, and the long swell of the prairie out there where the cattle rolled north to feed a nation on short-grass beef.
We helped to shape that land, hard and beautiful as it was, and the sons we reared, Tap and me, they ride where we rode, and when the day comes, they can carry their guns, too, to fight for what we fought for, the long, beautiful smell of the wind with the grass under it, and the purple skies with the slow smoke of home fires burning.
All that took a lot of building, took blood, lead, death and cattle, but we built it, and there she stands, boys. How does she look now?
WEST OF THE PILOT RANGE
* * *
WARD MCQUEEN LET the strawberry roan amble placidly down the hillside toward the spring in the cottonwoods. He pulled his battered gray sombrero lower over his eyes and squinted at the meadow.
There were close to three hundred head of white-faced cattle grazing there and a rider on a gray horse was staring up toward him. The man carried a rifle across his saddle, and as McQueen continued to head down the hillside, the rider turned his horse and started quickly forward.
He was a powerfully built man with a thick neck and a shock of untrimmed red hair. His hard, little, blue eyes stared at McQueen.
“Who are yuh?” the redhead demanded. “Where yuh goin’?”
McQueen brought the roan to a stop. The redhead’s voice angered him and he was about to make a sharp reply when he noticed a movement in the willows along the stream and caught the gleam of a rifle. “I’m just ridin’ through,” he replied quietly. “Why?”
“Which way yuh come from?” The redhead was suspicious. “Lots of rustlers around here.”
McQueen chuckled. “Well, I ain’t one,” he said cheerfully. “I been ridin’ down Arizona way. Thought I’d change my luck by comin’ north.”
“Saddle tramp, eh?” Red grinned a little himself, revealing broken yellow teeth. “Huntin’ a job?”
“Might be.” McQueen looked at the cattle. “Yore spread around here?”
“No. We’re drivin’ ’em west. The boss bought ’em down Wyomin’ way. We could use a hand. Forty a month and grub, bonus when we git there.”
“Sounds good,” McQueen admitted. “How far yuh drivin’?”
“ ’Bout a hundred miles further.” Red hesitated a little. “Come talk to the boss. We got a couple of riders, but we’ll need another, all right.”
They started down the hill toward the cottonwoods and willows. Ward McQueen glanced thoughtfully at the cattle. They were in good shape. It was unusual to see cattle in such good shape after so long a drive. And the last seventy-five miles of it across one of the worst deserts in the West. Of course, they might have been here several days, and green grass, rest, and water helped a lot.
* * *
A TALL MAN in black stepped from the willows as they approached. There was no sign of a rifle, yet Ward was certain it was the same man. Rustlers or Indians would have a hard time closing in on this bunch, he thought.
“Boss,” Red said, “this here’s a saddle tramp from down Arizony way. Huntin’ him a job. I figgered he might be a good hand to have along. This next forty miles or so is Injun country.”
The man stared at McQueen through close-set, black eyes, and one hand lifted to the carefully trimmed mustache.
“My name is Hoyt,” he said sharply. “Iver Hoyt. I do need another hand. Where yuh from?”
“Texas,” McQueen drawled. “Been ridin’ in south of Santa Fe and over Arizona way.” He took out the makin’s and started to build a cigarette.
Hoyt was a sharp-looking man with a hard, ratlike face. He wore a gun under his Prince Albert coat.
“All right, Red, put him to work.” Hoyt looked up at Red. “Work him on the same basis as the others, understand?”
“Sure,” Red said, grinning. “Oh, sure. The same way.”
Hoyt turned and strode away through the trees toward a faint column of smoke that arose from beyond the willows.
Red turned. “My name’s Red Naify,” he said. “What do I call you?”
“I’m Ward McQueen. They call me Ward. How’s it for grub?”
“Sure thing.” Red turned his horse through the willows. McQueen followed, frowning thoughtfully.
Something about the setup didn’t please him. It was another of those hunches of his. He always tried to disregard them, but somehow it just wouldn’t work.
There was no danger about the cattle drifting. They had just crossed a desert, if Red’s story was true, and there was no grass within miles as green and lush as this in the meadow. And water was scarce. So why had Naify been out there with the cattle close to grub call? And why had Iver Hoyt been down in the trees with a rifle?
It was on the edge of Indian country, he knew. There had been rumors of raids by a band of Piute warriors from the Thousand Spring Valley, north of here. He shrugged. What the devil? He was probably being unduly suspicious about the outfit.
Two riders were sitting over the fire and they looked up when he approached. One was a squat man with a bald head. The other a slim, pleasant-looking youngster who looked up, grinning, when they rode near.
“This is ‘Baldy’ Jackson,” Naify said. “He’s cook and nightrider usually. The kid is Bud Fox. Baldy an’ Bud, this is Ward McQueen.”
Baldy’s head came up with a jerk and he almost dropped the frying pan. Naify looked at him in surprise and so did Bud. Baldy looked around slowly, his eyes slanting at Ward, without expression.
“Howdy,” he said, and turned back to his cooking.
Bud Fox brought up an armful of wood and began poking sticks into the fire. He glanced at Baldy curiously, but the cook did not look up again.
When they had finished eating, Hoyt saddled a fresh horse and mounted up. Red Naify got up and sauntered slowly over to the edge of camp, out of hearing distance. The two talked seriously while Bud Fox lay with his head on his saddle, dozing. Baldy picked idly at his teeth, staring into the fire. Once or twice the older man looked up, glancing toward the two standing at the edge of the willows.
He picked up a heavier stick and placed it on the fire.
“You from Lincoln?” he asked, low-voiced. “I knowed of a McQueen, right salty. He rid for John Chisum.”
“Could be,” McQueen admitted softly. “Where you from?”
Baldy looked up out of wise eyes. “Animas. Rid with ‘Curly Bill’ some, but I ain’t no rustler no more. I left the owlhoot.”
Red Naify was walking back. He looked at Ward thoughtfully.
“Yuh tired?” he asked suddenly. “I been workin’ these boys pretty regular. How’s about you night-herdin’?”
“Uh-huh.” McQueen got up and stretched. “I didn’t come far today. No use a man ridin’ the legs off his hoss when he ain’t got to get noplace particular.”
Naify chuckled. “That’s right.”
* * *
WARD MCQUEEN SADDLED up and rode out toward the herd. He was very thoughtful. There seemed not a thing wrong, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that something was very wrong. He shook his head. Baldy Jackson might or might not be off the owlhoot, but there was someone around whom Baldy didn’t trust.
Idly, he let the roan circle the herd, bringing a few straying steers closer to the main herd. There was plenty of grass. It was a nice, comfortable spot to hole up for a few days.
Suddenly, an hour later, as the sun was just out of sight, he had an idea. He picked one of the steers away from the herd and, riding in, roped it. In a matter of seconds the young steer was tied. With a bit of stick he dug into the dirt on one hoof. A few minutes of examination, and he got up and turned the steer loose. It struggled erect and hiked back to the herd.
Ward McQueen mounted again, his face thoughtful. That critter had never crossed the alkali desert! There was no caked alkali dust on the hoof, none of it in the hair on the animal’s leg. Wherever the cattle had come from, it hadn’t been across the vast, salt plain where animals sank to their knees in the ashy waste. They had traveled in fairly good country, which meant they had come down from the north.
There was three hundred head of prime beef here, and it had been moved through pretty good country.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning and he had started back toward the camp when he saw the lean height of young Bud Fox walking toward him. He spotted him in the moonlight and reined in, waiting.
“How’s it go?” Bud asked cheerfully. “I woke up and thought maybe yuh’d like some coffee?” He held up a cup and held another for himself.
McQueen swung down and ground-hitched the roan.
“Tastes mighty good!” he said, after a pull at the coffee. He glanced up at Bud. “How long you and Baldy been with this herd?”
“Not long,” Bud said. “We joined ’em here, too. We was ridin’ down from the Blue Mountains, up Oregon way. Hoyt and Naify was already here. Said they’d been here a couple of days. Had two punchers when they come, they told us, but the punchers quit and headed for Montana.”
“Yuh ever punch cows in Montana?” McQueen asked.
“Nope. Not me.”
McQueen watched Bud walk back to camp and then forked the roan and started off, walking the horse. The stories of Baldy and Bud sounded straight enough. Baldy was admittedly from New Mexico and Arizona. Bud Fox said he had never ridden in Montana, and he looked like a southern rider. On the other hand, Red Naify, the foreman, who said he had driven in from Wyoming, rode a big horse and carried a thick, hemp lariat. Both were more typical of Montana cowhands.
It was almost daylight when McQueen heard the shot.
He had rounded the herd and was nearing the willows when the sudden spang of a rifle stabbed the stillness.
The one shot, then silence.
Touching spurs to the roan, he whipped it through the willows to the camp. Red Naify was standing, pistol in hand, at the edge of the firelight, staring into the darkness.
/> Both Baldy and Bud were sitting up in their blankets, and Baldy had his rifle in his hand.
“Where’d that shot come from?” McQueen demanded.
“Up on the mountain. It was some distance off,” Naify said.
“Sounded close by to me,” Bud retorted. “I’da sworn it was right close up in them trees.”
“It was up on the mountain,” Naify growled. He looked around at McQueen. “Them cows all right?”
“Sure thing. I’ll go back.”
“Wait.” Fox rolled out of his blankets. “I’ll go out. You been out all night.”
“We’re movin’ in a couple of hours,” Red Naify said. “You two will do the drivin’. Let him go back.”
Ward McQueen turned the roan and rode back to the herd. It was not yet daylight. He could see the campfire flickering through the trees.
* * *
THE HERD WAS quiet. Some of the cattle had started up at the shot, but the stillness had quieted them again. Most of them were bedded down. With a quick glance toward the fire, McQueen turned the roan toward the mountain.
Skirting some clumps of piñon and juniper, he rode into the trees. It was gray, and the ground could be seen, but not well. He knew what he was looking for. If there had been a man, there must have been a horse. Perhaps the shot had been a miss. In any event, there had been no sound of movement in the stillness that followed. The roan’s ears were keen, and he had given no indication of hearing anything.
He was riding through a clump of manzanita when he heard a horse stamp. He caught his own horse’s nose, then ground-hitched it, and walked through the trees.
It was a fine-looking black horse, all of sixteen hands high, with a silver-mounted saddle. A Winchester ’73 was in the scabbard, and the saddlebags were hand-tooled leather.
Collection 1995 - Valley Of The Sun (v5.0) Page 3