It was at least two miles across the bottom to the other ridge and it was very hot now, and close to noon.
Before crossing the gap, he studied it with care, but there was no sign of either man. He crossed as quickly as he could, then climbed the far ridge and, taking a chance, mounted the crest. As far as the eye could reach, there was no living thing.
Irritated, he rode down the far side, scouting for tracks. He found none. The two men, and both on foot, had lost him completely. How long since he had lost Hibbs?
He checked the sun and his memory. It must have been almost an hour, as best he could figure. Turning back, he rode toward town. He had gone no more than two hundred yards when he drew up sharply.
Before him on the trail lay the sprawled figure of a man, half-covered with the rocky debris of a landslide. Blaine dropped from his horse. It was Hibbs, and he was quite dead. Climbing the hillside, Blaine found scuff marks in the dirt where someone, almost certainly Pickard, had sat, bracing himself while he forced a large boulder from its socket of earth with his heels.
Pickard must have known Hibbs would follow, or had seen him, and had pushed down these boulders, probably coming by later to make sure there was no doubt. Yet al-j] lowing for the time it took Hibbs to get to this point on foot, it could have been no more than twenty to thirty minutes ago that he had been killed!
If he rode swiftly now, he might overtake Pickard before he could get back to Squaw Creek!
Yet his ride was in vain. All was quiet when he rode into town and stabled his horse.
Pickard was quietly shaving Tom Church and had the job half-done. He glanced up at Blaine and nodded. “Hot day for riding, I guess,” he said conversationally. “You can have it. I’d rather stay in my barbershop.”
Baffled and irritated, Utah did not trust himself to speak. There was no way the man could have gotten back here that fast. It must be someone else whom he had seen, it must-He stopped. Suppose Pickard had a horse waiting for him out there on the ridge somewhere? And had raced back, changed shirts quickly, and returned to his work as he did each day? But where was the horse? And where had he been concealed?
Utah Elaine dropped in at the saloon for a drink and the first man he saw was Red Williams. The latter grinned, “Howdy, Marshal! No hard feelin’s?”
Elaine chuckled. “Why should there be? What are you doin’ in town in the middle of the week?”
“Come in after some horses. The boss keeps a half-dozen head of good saddle stock down at his creek barn in case any of the boys need a change of horse.”
“Creek barn? Where’s that?”
“Just outside of town a ways. We got two outfits, one west of town, an’ the other seventeen miles northeast. We switch horses at the creek barn every now and again.
It’s a line shack right out of town.”
“You taking all the horses?”
“Nope. Just four head. We’re mighty short of saddle stock right now, the boys haven’t rounded up the bunch off the west range yet. Funny thing,” he said, “durned kids been ridin’ ‘em, I guess. One of Tom’s best horses is stove up.”
Utah Elaine turned his glass in his fingers. “Red, you want to do me a favor?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Take all those horses with you and keep ‘em away from that line shack for a week.
If the boss says anything, I’ll explain it.”
Red shrugged. “Sure, I’ll do it.” He looked curiously at Utah. “Wish you’d let me in on it, though.””
“Later. But don’t even whisper it to anybody, you hear? And don’t let anybody see you if you can help it. I’ve got a feelin’ we’re goin’ to make a murderin’ skunk mighty unhappy!”
The death of Hibbs was amazing to Squaw Creek only because the hotel clerk had been out of town. The curiosity of the loafers at the barbershop was aroused and they speculated at random on what he had been doing in that dusty wash when he was usually at work on the hotel books.
Blaine listened thoughtfully. Then he got up and settled his hat on his head. Inside the barbershop, Pickard was stropping a razor. “I figure he was hunting the loot from those robberies,” he said, “and he had some idea where it was … only he was too late.”
“Too late?” Childress looked up. “You mean somebody found it?” The razor stropping had stopped abruptly.
“Uh-huh,” Utah said, weighting his words carefully. “That’s just what I mean….
Well”-he stepped down off the walk-“be seem’ you.”
He walked away, feeling their stares on his back. It was rather obvious bait, but would Pickard really have the choice not to bite on it? Could he coolly ignore the possibility that all he had planned so carefully for … killed for, might be gone?
Pickard stared out the window after Blaine. What did he mean by that? He was sure that nobody could find the money. It was still there where he’d hidden it, it had to be. … He returned to his stropping of the razor, but his mind was not on his work. He scowled. How had Blaine found Hibbs’s body so soon? He must have been out in the hills … he might even have followed Hibbs.
Yet that could not be, for if he had, he would have been close by when Hibbs was killed … or had he been close by? Suppose Blaine was less interested in finding the killer than in finding the loot… and keeping it for himself?
Worried now, Pickard grew irritable and restless. If Elaine found that loot, then all his time here was wasted. Pickard would be chained to this barber chair! He would have killed and robbed and risked his life, for nothing!
Yet suppose it was only a trap? That might be Blaine’s idea, but it would not work.
He knew how … he glanced at the building’s shadow. Two hours yet to sundown.
Alone in his shop, Pickard worked swiftly. There was no time to lose. Trap or not, he must know whether his loot had been found, and if it was a trap … well, they’d find out that their quiet town barber had teeth. He thrust a pistol into his waistband and picked up a shotgun.
When it was dark he slipped from the back of the shop and ducked quickly into the bed of the stream. Hurrying along it, he came out near the TO line shack and crossed quickly to the stable. Quickly, he struck a match and picked up the lantern … and then he stopped. The horses were gone!
Pickard froze where he was and the match burned down to his fingers before he dropped it. He had seen Red Williams in town, but he had no idea … now there was no other way. He must go on foot.
Suppose somebody came for him while he was gone? He would have to chance that. The shop was closed and he had left everything locked tight. He started down the draw, moving swiftly. At night and without a horse, it seemed much farther than the three miles he had to go, yet despite his hurry, he took his time when reaching the area where the loot was concealed. He waited, listened, then went forward.
Quickly, he moved a rock and reached into the cavity beneath. Instantly, his heart gave a bound. The loot was there! Elaine had been talking through his hat! It was safe! He struck a match, shielding it with his cupped hands. All there … should he take it with him now, or should he wait and pick it up, as he had planned, after leaving town?
Much of it was gold, but there was a good bit of paper money, too. It would be a load, almost a hundred pounds of it, but he could get it back. No, he changed his mind swiftly. He would take one sack of gold, just in case. He could always come back after the rest.
Taking the sack out, he carefully replaced the stone, then lit a match and had a careful look around to make sure the stone was in place and no damp earth was showing.
As the match went out his eyes caught a flicker of white on the ground and he guardedly struck another. He stooped … merely some whitish-gray mud or damp earth. He dropped the match and, picking up his bag, started back.
Pickard hurried, desperately worried for fear of discovery, and his breath was coming hoarsely when he reached the back door of his shop. He opened the door, stepped in, and turning, he struck a match and lighted th
e lamp. Just as he replaced the chimney a shock of fear went through him … he had left the door locked! Pickard turned sharply, half-crouched like an animal at bay, a sickness turning him faint with shock. Facing him from chairs ranged around the room were Tom Church, Childress, Hunt, and Red Williams!
Clutched in his hand was the sack of stolen gold, and then Utah Blaine spoke. “Drop your guns, Pickard! You are under arrest!”
His years of planning, working, scheming, his murders and robberies, the hot, stifling nights when he waited, when he struck with the knife or club, or tossed the noose over a neck, and strangled … all gone! All for nothing! All because…!
Like a cat he wheeled and plunged for the door. The move was so swift that Elaine swung, not daring to shoot toward the other men, knelt, and thrust out his foot.
Pickard tripped and sprawled through the door onto the step. Springing to his feet, his hands lacerated from the silvery-gray wood, he grabbed for his gun.
“Hold it!” Elaine yelled.
Pickard’s gun swung up … and he felt his finger close, and then somebody smashed him a blow in the chest. He staggered, trying to bring his gun to bear, and another blow hit him, half turning him around.
What… what th-! His eyes blurred and the gun would not seem to come up and then something struck him on the back of the head and he was on the ground and he was staring up at the stars and then the stars faded and he realized … nothing more.
Tom Church stared at the fallen man, white-faced. “Dead center, Utah,” he said quietly, “but you had to do it.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s only part of the stolen money,” Childress said. “You reckon he spent the rest of it?”
Utah Elaine indicated the dead man’s boots, their soles stained with a muddy whitish substance. “I figure it’s cached. He left the rest of it, but those white boots will lead us right to it.”
“What is that stuff?” Church asked. “Never saw any clay like that around here.”
“It’s white paint,” Elaine replied, “I spilled plenty of it inside the door of the TO barn and corral. I knew he’d come there, and that white paint would leave his marks to trail him by.”
Hunt and Williams carefully picked up the body and carried it off down the street.
Elaine stood in the alley while Tom Church locked up Pickard’s shop. After a moment Childress swore softly. “What’s worryin’ me now,” he said, “is what are we goin’ to do for a barber!”
*
BATTLE AT BURNT CAMP
The Cactus Kid had crossed the Terlingua and was bearing right toward Black Ridge, when he saw the girl.
She was young and she was made up and she was pretty as a bay pony with three white stockings. She was standing beside the dim trail with her hands on her hips and her nose red from the sun.
The Kid drew up. “Howdy,” he said gravely, “goin’ far?”
“Without a horse?” Her eyes flashed. “Where could anybody go in this country without a horse? Where, I ask you?”
“Well,” the Kid said seriously, “it depends on what you’re lookin’ for an’ how far you need to go. Would you mind tellin’ a feller what you’re doin’ out here afoot?”
“That’s none of your business!” she flared. “Are you going to give me a ride, or not?”
The Kid looked at her sadly. “Ma’am, for one who’s askin’ favors you sure aren’t very polite. Where were you raised, anyway?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why, you-!” She stopped, flashing a sudden smile. “I’m sorry.
It wasn’t your fault at all. Please, would you give me a ride?”
“Get up behind,” he said. “I’d sure not want to leave a lady out here in the desert with nobody to fuss at but rattlers. It wouldn’t be civilized!”
Putting her foot in his stirrup, she swung up behind him, and then before he could even speak she shucked one of his guns from its holster and shoved the muzzle into his spine. “Get off,” she said coldly. “Get off, an’ see how it feels to be afoot!”
“Now, look-!” The Kid started to protest, but the gun peeled hide from his spine and he heard the hammer click back as she cocked it. “Get off!” she ordered. “One yelp out of you and I’ll shoot your ears off!”
Carefully, the Kid swung down, and without a word she slapped spurs to his horse and started off. His lips parted in a smile, the Cactus Kid let her go, then suddenly he pinned his lips over his teeth and whistled shrilly. The horse stopped so sharply that the girl had no chance. She went right off over his head and fell hard. The horse trotted back toward him.
The Kid came up on the run, and before she could retrieve his gun, he grabbed it up. Then he caught her by the hands and twisted them behind her. With a piggin string from his belt he tied her wrists despite her struggles. He got to his feet and wiped the dust from his face and stared down at her. “There, now. That should hold you.
Now, what’s the idea?”
She glared furiously. “I’ll kill you for this! I’ll kill you!”
“No reason to get so wrought up.” The Cactus Kid coolly began to build a smoke. “What’s all the fuss? No need to steal my horse an’ set me afoot just because you’re mad at somebody. Tell me where you want to go an’ I’ll take you there.”
“Untie my hands!” she demanded.
“Not a chance. You might try to steal my horse again.”
“That was a nasty, vile trick!” she declared. “I skinned my nose!”
“That,” he said, studying her nose critically, “won’t do it any harm. I figure maybe it’s a mite too long anyway.”
She glared at him. “Let me up!” she demanded. “Turn my hands loose!”
“It’s up to you. Be good and you get a ride to wherever you’re goin’. Keep on fussin’ an’ I’ll leave you right here to cook.”
She stopped, still angry, but aware that he meant what he said. “All right,” she said, “but you just wait!”
This time he took her on the saddle in front of him and that made it necessary for his arm to be around her waist, which was, he realized appreciatively, a small, firm, and very nice waist. Her reddish hair came against his cheek and her body pressed closely to him. This, too, he found agreeable.
She said nothing, but sat quietly. Finally, he asked, “Where do you want to go? Where’s home?”
“I want to go to Burnt Camp, in the Solitario.”
Now, the Cactus Kid, whose birth certificate might have said he was Nesselrode Clay, knew but little of the Big Bend of Texas. What he did know was that Burnt Camp in the Solitario was no place for a beautiful girl of eighteen or so. In fact, it was to just that place that the Kid himself was going, but for no friendly purpose. “That’s no place for a girl,” he said. “I’ll take you to another place.”
“You’ll take me there, and when they find me with my hands tied, it will be a sad time for you! Just wait until I tell Kit Branch about this!”
“He your sweetheart?” The Kid wanted to know.
“Branch?” she scoffed. “He’d like to be, but he’s not! I’m Kirby Brock!”
“Bully Brock’s daughter?” The Kid was aghast. “Don’t tell me that old blister sired a sweet little filly like you!”
“He’s my uncle! And he’s not an old blister! Although I’ll tell him you said that and he’ll wipe the floor with you, that’s what he’ll do!”
The Cactus Kid chuckled. He felt good this morning. He wore his tailored gray trousers, a bright red shirt, and a black handkerchief tight about his throat. His hat was black with a snake-hide band, and his boots hand-tooled. The Kid was five feet nine and weighed exactly one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. He consulted a large railroad watch that he kept in the pocket of his pants; it was ten forty-five in the morning.
Black Ridge was north of them now and they cut the trail leading to the Black Tinaja.
Although the Cactus Kid had never visited the wild and lonely region called the Solitario, he knew well the route that led to it. Leavi
ng the tinaja, they would turn due west and hit the canyon of the Left-hand Shutup, which would take them right into the region.
As they rode he puzzled over the situation. What had Kirby Brock been doing out in the desert without a horse? And how could such a girl be the niece of Bully Brock?
For years now Bully had ranched in the wild region around the canyon west of Burnt Camp. It was an area frequented by smugglers from over the border and by rustlers.
And that was why he was coming here now. He was looking for some men.
Several days before, in San Antonio, he had left the Variety Theatre one night, and had seen a man behind him. Later he had seen the same man, and knew he was being followed. And then there had been three men.
He had turned the corner near his hotel when they closed in on him, one coming toward him, one crossing the street, and the third had come from nowhere to grab his arms.
He had been slugged, robbed, and left lying in the street.
After he recovered he devoted two days to making inquiries, only to discover finally that the men had left town. The three were known as Farbeson, Breeden, and Jewell.
They were known thieves and rustlers, and they ran with IG Branch.
At Del Rio, he heard about Branch and that he could be found in the Solitario, but that a man would be some kind of a fool to try to go in after him. The Cactus Kid was that kind of a fool. They had slugged him, which was bad enough, but they had taken seven hundred dollars from him. It was more money than he had ever had all at one time.
“How’s it happen you’re afoot?” he asked suddenly.
“My horse threw me,” she replied sullenly.
At the Black Tinaja they stopped, watered the horse, and drank. The dun was feeling the double burden, so the Kid put him on some grass and sat down in the shade. He glanced at Kirby and smiled. “Might as well sit down,” he said. “We’ll have to let that horse rest a mite.”
She was looking at the ground nearby. Glancing over curiously, he saw she was intently studying some tracks. Suddenly she looked around at him. “Let me use that gun. I can get some horses for us.” She spoke in a near whisper and appeared to tense.
Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) Page 2