Collection 1995 - Valley Of The Sun (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Foster got clumsily from the saddle and commenced to struggle with his hand. One of the men got down to help him. Old Man Karr chewed angrily at his mustache, half resenting the exploded fears of the mountain. Dyer hesitated, then looked down at Matt. “Guess we been a passel o’ fools, stranger,” he said. “The drinks are on us.”

  Dyer looked down at Foster. “But I reckon it’s a good thing we brought along a rope.”

  Foster paled under his deep tan. “Give me a break, Dyer!” he pleaded. “I’ll pay off! I got records! Sure, I done it, an’ I was a fool, but it was an awful temptation. I was broke when I started, an’ then—”

  “We’ll have an accounting,” Wente said stiffly, “then we’ll decide. If you can take care of our losses, we might make a deal.”

  Together, Matt and Sue watched them walk away. “If you didn’t want fifteen or twenty children,” she suggested tentatively, “I know a girl who might be interested.”

  Matt grinned. “How about six?”

  “I guess that’s not too many.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist. “Then consider your proposal accepted.”

  Sunlight bathed the rim of Black Mesa with a sudden halo. A wide-eyed range cow lowed softly to her calf, unaware of mystery. The calf stumbled to its feet, brushing a white, curved fragment, fragile as a leaf.

  It was the weathered lip of an ancient baked clay jar.

  GILA CROSSING

  * * *

  I

  THERE WAS AN old wooden trough in front of the livery barn in Gila Crossing and at one end of the trough a rusty pump. When Jim Sartain rode up the dusty street, four men, unshaven and tired, stood in a knot by the pump, their faces somber with dejection.

  Two of the men were tall, but in striking contrast otherwise. Ad Loring was a Pennsylvania man, white-haired but with a face rough-hewn and strong. It was a thoughtful face, but resolute as well. The man beside him was equally tall but much heavier, sullen and black-browed, with surly, contemptuous eyes. His jaw was a chunk of granite above the muscular column of his neck. Roy Strider was the kind of man he looked, domineering and quick to use his muscular strength.

  Peabody and McNabb were equally contrasting. McNabb, as dry and dour as his name suggested, with narrow gray eyes and the expression of a man hard-driven but far from beaten. Peabody carried a shotgun in the hollow of his arm. He was short, and inclined to stoutness. Like the others, he turned to look at the man on the dusty roan when he dismounted and walked to the pump. The roan moved to the trough and sank his muzzle gratefully into the cool water.

  Sartain was conscious of their stares, yet he gave no sign. Taking down the gourd dipper, he shook out the few remaining drops and began to pump the protesting handle.

  The men studied his dusty gray shirt as if to read his mission from the breadth of his powerful shoulders. Their eyes fell to the walnut-butted guns, long-hung and tied down, to the polished boots now dust-covered, and the Mexican-type spurs. Jim Sartain drank deep of the cold water, a few drops falling down his chin and shirtfront. He emptied two dippers before he stopped drinking.

  Even as he drank, his mind was cataloging these men, their dress, their manner, and their weapons. He was also studying the fat man who sat in the huge chair against the wall of the barn, a man unshaven and untidy, with a huge face, flabby lips, and the big eyes of a hungry hound.

  This fat man heaved himself from his chair. “Put up your hoss, stranger? I’m the liveryman.” His shirt bulged open in front and the rawhide thong that served as a belt held his stomach in and his pants up. “Name of George Noll.” He added, “Folks around here know me.”

  “Put him in a stall and give him a bait of grain,” Sartain said. “I like him well fed. And be careful, he’s touchy.”

  Noll chuckled flatly. “Them hammerheads are all ornery.” His eyes, sad, curious, rolled to Sartain. “Goin’ fer? Or are you here?”

  “I’m here.” Sartain’s dark eyes were as unreadable as his face. “Seems to have been some fire around. All the range for miles is burned off.” The men beside him would have suffered from that fire. They would be from the wagons behind the firebreak in the creek bottom. “Noticed a firebreak back yonder. Somebody did some fast work to get that done in time.”

  “That was Loring here,” Noll offered. “Had most of it done before the fire. He figured it was coming.”

  Sartain glanced at Loring. “You were warned? Or was it an accident?”

  But it was Strider who spoke. “Accident!” The dark-browed man spat the word. Then he stared at Sartain, his eyes sullen with suspicion. “You ask a lot of questions for a stranger.”

  * * *

  SARTAIN TURNED HIS black eyes to Strider and looked at him steadily while the seconds passed, a look that brought dark blood to Strider’s face and a hard set to the brutal jaw. “That’s right,” Sartain said at last. “When I want to know something I figure that’s the way to find it out.” His eyes swung back to Loring, ignoring Strider.

  “We assume we were burned out by the big ranchers,” Loring replied carefully. “We’ve been warned to leave, but we shall continue to stay. We are not men to be driven from our homes, and the land is open to settlement.

  “Three ranchers control approximately a hundred miles of range. Stephen Bayne, Holston Walker, and Colonel Avery Quarterman. We deliberately chose a location that would interfere as little as possible, moving into the mountainous foothills of Black Mesa, north of the Middle Fork. Despite that, there was trouble.”

  “With the men you named?”

  “Who else? Bayne accused Peabody of butchering a B Bar steer, and at Peabody’s denial there would have been shooting except that McNabb and I were both there. Then a few days ago Peabody and I rode to Oren McNabb’s place, the brother to this gentleman, and found him dead. He had been shot down while unarmed. His stock had been run off, his buildings burned.”

  “Then there was a rumpus here at the Crossin’,” Peabody said. “Loring, Strider, an’ me, we jumped Colonel Quarterman on the street. He was mighty stiff, said he knew of no murder and we could get out or take the consequences. Strider here, he came right out an’ accused him of murder, then called him out.”

  “He didn’t fight?”

  “He’s yeller!” Strider sneered. “Yeller as saffron! With no riders at his back he’d never raise a hand to no man!”

  “Sometimes,” Sartain replied dryly, “it needs more courage to avoid a fight. If this Quarterman is the one I’ve heard of, he has proved his courage more than once. He’s a salty old Injun fighter.”

  “So he kills a lone rancher who’s unarmed?” Again Strider sneered. The big man’s dislike for Jim Sartain was evident.

  “Had you thought somebody else might have done it? Did you find him there? Or any evidence of him or his riders?”

  “Who else would have done it? Or could have done it?”

  “You might have.”

  “Me?” Strider jerked as if struck and his face went pale, then ugly with fury.

  “Hold your hand, Roy.” George Noll was speaking from the barn door, and there was unexpected authority in his tone, casual as it sounded. “Draw on this hombre an’ you’ll die. He’s the Ranger, Jim Sartain.”

  II

  Strider’s big hand was spread above his gun butt and it froze there, then slowly eased to his side. “Sorry,” he said resentfully. “I didn’t know you was no Ranger.”

  It was not respect for the law that stopped Strider. Nor was it fear; blustering he might be, but not afraid.

  “I was saying that you might have done it,” Sartain repeated, “or Loring, or myself. You have no more evidence against the ranchers than they would have against us.”

  “That’s what I’ve said, Roy,” Loring interposed. “We can’t go off half-cocked when it will lead to bloodshed. The odds are all against us, anyway. Before we move we must be sure.”

  “This Ranger won’t help us any!” Peabody declared. “Who sent for you…Quarterman?”
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  “That’s right, and that should prove something to you. If he were guilty he wouldn’t call in a Ranger, he’d wipe you out himself, and they must muster a hundred riders between them. He thinks there is something else behind this.”

  “He does, does he?” Strider sneered. “All he called you for was to get it done legal.”

  Noll walked up on the other side of the trough. “Hotel up the street. Clean beds, too, an’ down thisaway a mite Amy Booth has her eatin’ house. Best grub west o’ the Pecos. Reckon I’ll see you there.”

  Sartain nodded, then turned back to Loring. “You men take it easy. I’ll look into this.”

  “An’ we starve while you do?” McNabb spoke for the first time, bitterness edging his voice. “Man, those wagons you saw belong to us! Those women an’ kids are ours! We’re nigh out of grub an’ our stock’s been run off! How can we wait? What can we do? You talk about takin’ it easy! Them ain’t your womenfolks!”

  “Will it help if you crowd those cowhands into a gunfight an’ get killed? How would your families leave the country then? Who would care for them? Be patient, man!”

  They were silent, acknowledgment of the truth of what he had said obvious on their faces. Grim, lonely, frightened men. Not frightened of trouble for themselves, for they had known thirst, dust storms, and flash floods, they had fought Indians and hunger. They were frightened of an uncertain future and what would become of their families. “We’ll sit tight,” Loring said. “I never heard of you giving a man a raw deal yet!”

  * * *

  AT THAT MOMENT the three ranchers awaited him at the Longhorn Hotel up the street, and Sartain knew their appearance now would have led to shooting. Furthermore, their riders would be in town tonight, so the situation was like a powder keg.

  The quiet authority he remembered in Noll’s voice made him wonder, it was so unexpected. The man seemed to have judgment and might provide the essential balance wheel the community needed.

  Quarterman was a tall man of nearly sixty with a white mustache and goatee. He stood up when Sartain entered, an immaculate man in a black broadcloth coat and white hat. His blue eyes twinkled as he held out his hand. Beside him was a tall girl with dark eyes and hair, her figure lovely. She looked at him, then again. “How are you, Colonel? I’m Sartain.”

  “Recognized you, sir, from stories I’ve heard. Mr. Sartain, my daughter, Carol.” He turned slightly toward a big young man with red hair and a rugged face. “This is Steve Bayne, and the other gentleman”—he indicated a short, powerful man with a broad-jawed face and keen blue eyes—“is Holston Walker, of the Running W.”

  Jim Sartain acknowledged the introductions, aware of the possessive air adopted by Bayne toward Carol, and to his wry amusement, he found himself resenting it.

  It was Walker who interested him most. Holy Walker was a successful rancher, but stories of his skill with his deadly six-guns were told wherever cowhands congregated, and also of his almost fabulous treatment of his hands.

  As their hands gripped, Sartain thought he had never felt such power latent in any man as in the leonine Walker. His rusty hair showed no hint of gray, and his face was smooth, the skin taut over the powerful bones of his face.

  “There’s been a lot of range burned off,” Sartain commented. “Who did that?”

  “The nesters,” Bayne said irritably. “Who else would do it?”

  “They claim some of you did it,” Sartain suggested mildly. “Maybe you’re both wrong.”

  Bayne stared at him. “Who did you come here to act for?” he demanded. “Those infernal nesters or us?”

  “For neither of you,” Sartain replied. “I’m to see justice done, to find who is breaking the law and see they are punished, whoever they may be. The law,” he added, “is not an instrument to protect any certain group against another.”

  Bayne turned on Quarterman. “I told you it wouldn’t do any good to send for Rangers, Colonel! We could handle this better our own way! Let me turn John Pole loose on them! He’ll have them out of here, and mighty fast!”

  “Let me hear of you starting anything like that,” Sartain said coolly, “and you’ll be thrown in jail.”

  Bayne turned on him impatiently. “You fatheaded fool! Who do you think you are? I’ve fifty riders at my call, and a dozen of them better men than you! We don’t need any overrated, blown-up Ranger braggarts to do our fighting!”

  Sartain smiled. It was a rare smile and had a warm, friendly quality. He glanced at Quarterman, and then his daughter. “Evidently opinions are divided,” he said dryly. He turned back to Bayne. “I’m not here to resent your opinions of the Texas Rangers”—there was no smile in his eyes now—“I’m here to settle your trouble, and I will settle it. However,” he added, “if you have any more riders of the quality of John Pole, it’s no wonder you’ve got trouble. He’s a known killer, and a suspected rustler. He’s been a troublemaker everywhere he’s gone. It might go far toward solving the situation if he were fired and packed out of the country.”

  Bayne snorted his contempt. “Riders like Pole helped build my ranch,” he said. “I want men in my outfit who can handle guns, and as for his being a killer, at least he hasn’t been hiding behind the skirts of the law!”

  “Here, here, Steve!” Quarterman interrupted. “That’s no way to talk! Sartain is here at my request, and we aren’t getting any results this way!”

  “By the way, Colonel”—Sartain turned toward Quarterman—“I want to get about six head of beef to feed those people in the creek bottom. We can’t let them starve.”

  Stephen Bayne had started to walk away, now he whirled and charged back, eyes bulging. “What?” he roared. “You ask us to feed those lousy beggars? Why, you—”

  Jim Sartain’s face was suddenly hard and cold. “You’ve said enough, Bayne! I’ll let you get away with it because I’m here on business! You finish that statement and I’ll slap all your teeth down your throat!”

  Devilish eagerness sprang into Bayne’s face. “Stinkin’ coward, was what I was goin’ to call you,” he said deliberately.

  III

  Sartain’s hands were chest-high in front of him as he was rubbing the fingers of his right hand against the palm of his left. Now, at Bayne’s words, his left leaped like a striking rattler and his hard knuckles smashed Bayne’s lips back into his teeth. The blow stopped Bayne in his tracks momentarily, and that was all Sartain wanted. He moved in fast with all his bottled-up anger exploding in smashing punches.

  A left and right to the wind that jerked Bayne’s mouth wide as he gasped for his lost wind, and then a cracking right to the jaw that felled him to his knees, his face contorted with fury and pain.

  Sartain was cool. He glanced quickly at Quarterman, who was obviously astonished, and at Holy Walker, who smiled faintly. “You move fast, friend,” he said quietly.

  Then his eyes went to Carol, who was staring down at Steve Bayne, a peculiar expression on her face, then she looked up at Jim Sartain. “I’m sorry, Miss Quarterman,” he said. “He asked for it. I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

  “You accept your opportunities quickly, though, don’t you?” she asked coldly. “No wonder you’ve killed men.”

  “Nobody would have been surprised had I drawn. Men have been killed for less,” he replied. He turned back to Quarterman. “I want to renew my request, Colonel. I appreciate the situation, but your fight is not with women and children, and these are good, honest people. How about it?”

  Quarterman hesitated, gnawing his mustache, resenting the position he was in. Behind Sartain, Walker spoke. “I reckon I can spare a few head, but those are proud folks. Will they take them?”

  Sartain turned. “Thanks, Walker. An’ let’s go see, shall we?”

  “May I come along?”

  Sartain turned on Carol, surprised and pleased. “Glad to have you, ma’am. We sure are!”

  * * *

  FIRES BLAZED CHEERFULLY among the huddle of wagons. There were ten families the
re, and seventeen children in all. As the three rode toward the fires a man stepped from the shadows with a shotgun. It was Peabody.

  “What you want?” he demanded suspiciously, glancing from Sartain to Holy Walker. Then he detected Carol Quarterman and he jerked his hat off in confusion. “Pardon me, ma’am.” His eyes went back to the men. “What is this, Ranger? What you want?”

  “A talk with you, Loring, and McNabb. Right here will do.”

  “I reckon not.” McNabb stepped from the shadows near a wagon with a Spencer over his arm. “Anything to be said will be said to all of us, right in the circle!”

  * * *

  DISMOUNTING, THEY FOLLOWED McNabb into the firelight. Loring got to his feet, and beside him, Strider. A buxom woman with a face crimson from the fire turned and looked up at them, and a young woman holding a very young baby moved closer, her eyes grave and frightened.

  Surprisingly, Walker took the initiative. “You folks know who I am, but I don’t think we’ve been very neighborly. Now I know what it means to lose an outfit because I lost mine a couple of times. If I can help any, I’d be right glad to.”

  McNabb’s voice was brittle. “We ain’t askin’ nor takin’ any help from you! We ain’t on charity!”

  Strider thrust forward. “This here’s a trick!” he exploded. “I don’t like the look of it! Why should you give us anythin’? So’s you can find the hides in our camp later, after you kill us? Look mighty bad for us, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t be a fool, man!” Walker replied impatiently. “We didn’t want you people here, but you’ve come an’ stayed. You never bothered me, but you did take water we needed. That’s not the question now. You’ve been burned out, an’ we’re neighbors.”

  “So you want to help?” Strider sneered. “Well, we don’t need your help!”

  “Walker volunteered, Strider,” Sartain interposed. “I told Quarterman the situation and Walker offered to help.”