A glance told him he knew nobody there, and he went to the bar, a tall young man in fringed shotgun chaps, boots with Mexican spurs, one tied-down gun, and a spare in his waistband under the edge of his coat. He wore a checkered black and white shirt, and a black hat. His coat was also black, but dusty now.
“Is there a good place around to eat?” he asked, after ordering a beer.
“Yonder,” the bartender pointed; “Scotty Wilson’s place. It’s likely he won’t be there himself, but the food’s good. Scotty always sets a good table…no matter whose beef it is.”
Val smiled. “Those might be fighting words in some places.”
“Not with Scotty. He’s the Justice of the Peace, and I guess he figures the easiest way to settle an argument over beef is for the court to take it. But he won’t charge the parties of the first part if they come in his restaurant to eat their beef.”
“Sounds like a man I’d like,” Val said. After a moment he asked, “What’s going on around town? Any excitement?”
“Here? Ain’t been a shooting in a week. Or a cutting.”
Val idled at the bar. He had not wanted the drink, but he did want the talk, and the western saloon was always a clearing house for trail information—about water holes, Indian troubles, rustlers, and range conditions generally.
A few men drifted in and ranged themselves along the bar. Val listened to the talk, aware of his own vague discontent. What was he doing here, anyway? Why didn’t he eat, go to bed early, and be ready for a hard ride the following day? But he did not move, and his soul-searching went on. What did he intend to do with his life? He could hang out a shingle in any of these western towns and gradually build a law practice. He was short of money, and desperately needed some means of income. The ranch had prospered, but the income had been put back into the place.
The thought of Thurston Pike and Henry Sonnenberg lurked in the recesses of his mind, and he felt guilty. He should hunt them down, and do what the law could not do…what everyone would expect him to do. But he had no taste for killing.
“Young feller?”
“Yes?” It had been a moment before he realized one of the men was speaking to him.
“Like to take a hand? We’re figurin’ on a little poker.”
He was about to refuse, then said, “All right, but I’m not staying in. I’ve got some miles to ride tomorrow.”
He was a fool, he knew. He hadn’t that much money in his pocket, and a man needed money to play well. Two hours later he checked out of the game, a winner by sixteen dollars.
A small, slender man left the game at the same time. “Had supper?” he asked. “I’m going over to Scotty’s for a bite.”
“All right.”
They walked across the street, talking idly. “Win much?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Neither did I. About twenty dollars.”
The steaks were good at Scotty’s. Val had not realized how hungry he was.
Suddenly the other man said, “I think we know each other.”
Val studied him. “Where?” he asked. “I’ve been west and I’ve been east.”
“So have I, but I can’t place you. My name is Cates, if that helps. Egan Cates.”
Val grinned at him. “You have a bullet scar on your arm, and another one somewhere about you. You got them from the Apaches one time, down Arizona way.”
“And you?”
“I was the kid who gave you my seat on the stage. I loaded rifles for you and the others. My name is Valentine Darrant.”
“Darrant? Have you been to Colorado lately?”
“No.”
“Better go up there. They’ve been looking for you up at Empire…and some of the country around. I think they have news for you.”
Val searched his face. “What does that mean?”
“I was a miner…remember? Now I’m a mining man. The major difference is that I don’t collect wages, I pay them.” He grinned. “Although it isn’t always as easy as it sounds.” He was serious again. “Seems you invested some money up there, some years back. You’d better go see what happened to it.”
Colorado…he had always liked Colorado. “I knew a pretty little girl up there once, when I was a kid,” he said, remembering. “She said she was an actress. Her name was Maude Kiskadden, and she was some relation to Jack Slade.”
Cates smiled. “I know the story. She was no blood relation. Her father had been married to Slade’s widow after Slade was hung by the Vigilantes…which never should have happened.”
Cates called for more coffee. “You say you’ve been east. Did you ever hear of Maude Adams?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Maude Adams, who is about the best-known actress in the country right now, was your little Maude Kiskadden. Her mother used the stage name of Annie Adams.”
They were still talking half an hour later when the door opened and Thurston Pike came in.
Val Darrant looked at Pike and then said to Cates, “Mr. Cates, we’ve known each other quite a spell, but do you remember my uncle?” He had purposely raised his voice a little.
“Your uncle? You mean Will Reilly? Of course I remember him.”
Thurston Pike looked across the room at them. He was a tall, thin man with rounded shoulders and a lantern jaw. He had a grizzled beard, and looked dirty and unkempt.
Val returned his look, a faint smile on his lips, and Pike lowered his eyes. He seemed uncertain what to do.
“He was murdered, you know. Shot down from the dark by three men who were afraid to meet him face to face.”
Val saw the slow red of anger creeping up Pike’s neck. He could think of him only as a killer for hire, undeserving of any consideration or pity.
Cates was unaware of the impending drama. “What happened to them?” he asked.
“One of them is dead,” Val replied, “and the others have not long to live.”
Egan Cates was looking at him now. “What is it, Val? What’s happening?”
“I don’t think anything is going to happen,” Val replied. “Thurston Pike wouldn’t think of shooting a man who is looking at him.”
Cates glanced around quickly and got up abruptly. He shifted his chair to one side and sat down again. All eyes were on Pike.
He stared at his plate, knife and fork clutched in his hands. Suddenly, with an oath, he put them down on the table, got up, and lurched to the door, knocking over a chair as he went.
“You might have warned me,” Cates said.
“I wasn’t expecting him, although I knew he was in Tascosa.”
“Well, if he’s like you say, you’d best be careful. He’ll try to kill you now.” Egan Cates ordered fresh coffee. “I’ll say this for you. You’ve got nerve. You had nerve even as a kid.”
“I had a good teacher,” Val said. “Nobody had more nerve than Will.”
“You said one of them was dead. Pike was another…who is the third?”
“Henry Sonnenberg.”
Cates let out a low whistle. “Leave him alone, Val. You can’t get him. Nothing can touch him.”
“Maybe.”
“Are you going to hunt Pike down now?”
Val thought about that a moment. “No, I’ll let him hunt me. He’ll do it, because he’s worried now. Will had a lot of friends, and some night they might decide to hang Pike.”
Cates put his hands on the table. “I have to be getting back to the hotel. Val, why don’t you forget this? I like the cut of your jib, and I wish you’d come in with me. I have some excellent properties that need developing, and I have access to the cash…come in with me. I think we’d make a team.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
When Val was alone he sat there considering what he had done, and when he finished his coffee he did not go out
the front door. He paid for his supper and went through the kitchen. The cook turned to protest, but Val waved, went on through the storeroom, and out the back door into an alley.
He circled around, moving warily, but he saw no sign of Pike. At the corner he studied the street, then returned to the alley and entered the Exchange Hotel from the back.
Once in his room, he put a chair under the doorknob and drew the curtain down. Then, with water poured into the wash bowl, he took a quick sponge bath. After that he was soon in bed and asleep.
He awoke about daybreak and lay still, listening to the town as it came alive. A rooster crowed, somewhere a door slammed, a pump creaked, water gushed into a bucket. Somebody walked by on the boardwalk, and he heard a low murmur of voices.
Presently he got up, and shaved in front of the flawed mirror, which gave his face a twisted look. After he had dressed he glanced around the room to be sure he was not leaving anything behind. He went out of the room, and moved quietly through the hotel corridor.
The sun was not yet up in the streets of Tascosa. He stepped outside, breathing the fresh morning air, his eyes in one quick glance sweeping the street, then the rooftops and the windows and doors. Such observation had been drilled into him by Will Reilly, and his brief examination now missed nothing.
Scotty Wilson’s restaurant was open, and he went in. Two sour-looking cowpunchers, still unshaven and red-eyed from the night before, drank coffee at the counter. They were obviously in no mood to talk. Taking the table at the back of the room, Val ordered breakfast.
He thought of the ride before him. It was unlikely that for some time to come he would have another meal he did not prepare himself. The route he was taking was somewhat roundabout, but water was scarce on the Staked Plains.
Actually, the Palo Duro Canyon offered the best route, but there he would be a sitting duck for anyone shooting from the bluffs. Out on the caprock he could see for miles and it would be impossible for anyone to come upon him without warning.
As he sat there, the door from the street suddenly opened and a tall, lean man with frosty eyes came in. He looked at Val, and crossed to his table. “Mind if I sit down?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Val said. “What can I do for you?”
“You could leave town.” The man smiled as he spoke. “Darrant, your name is?” He held out a hand. “I am Sheriff Willingham. There’s a rumor around that you had some words with Thursty Pike last night.”
“No, I can’t say I did. I was talking with Egan Cates, and Pike was in the room. He got up and left.”
“All right. Have it your way. No offense, my friend, but we’ve had too much shooting here already, and if you and Pike have something to settle, do it outside of town.”
“That’s agreeable to me, Sheriff. I haven’t spoken to Pike, and do not intend to if I can avoid it.”
“He’s a bad actor, son. He’ll give you no fair chance if he can manage it.”
Willingham studied him. “Are you planning on locating around here?”
“Not exactly, but I’m a third owner of a ranch southeast of here. Do you know the Bucklin outfit?”
“Yes—good people. I hunted buffalo with the Bucklin boys when they first came west.” He gave Val an amused glance. “You a single man?”
“Yes.”
Willingham chuckled. “You’ll have yourself a time. Pa Bucklin’s got two of the prettiest daughters you ever did see, and that Betsy…the one they call Western…she’s something to look at.”
“What about Boston?”
“A ringtailed terror. Beautiful and wild, and she can ride as good as any puncher on the caprock. She can shoot and she can rope. At the roundup we had a while back she beat every hand we had at roping and tying calves.”
“They aren’t married then?”
“No, and they won’t be if they stay around here. They scare the boys. Who wants to marry a girl who can do everything you can, and better?”
The wind was picking up when Val Darrant rode from Tascosa, south and a little east. The tumbleweeds rolled along with him, rolled toward a ranch he could call home. Thunder rumbled in the clouds, and when the first drops fell he dug out his slicker. It was going to be a wet ride.
CHAPTER 18
THERE WAS NO question of shelter. So far as Val was aware there was nothing nearer than his own ranch, which lay miles away. The country was flat as a billiard table, and it was only after he had ridden several hours in a driving rain that he saw the edge of an arroyo. It was the first break in the level of the caprock in all that distance, and he judged it to be a branch of the Palo Duro, long a hideout for the Comanches.
The rain rattled on his slicker and ran from the brim of his hat. Thunder rolled and lightning stabbed through the sky. His one consolation was that if Thurston Pike was riding in this weather he was doing no better than Val. He figured now that it might be best to ride to the Palo Duro and see if there was some kind of shelter in the canyon. He turned abruptly and headed that way. Riding out here on the caprock would make him a target for lightning.
The rain drew a steel curtain across the day. His horse slipped once in the mud, and then he reached the rim of the canyon, but saw no route by which he could descend. He followed along the rim, searching for a way.
Lightning flashed again, and the time between the flash and the roll of thunder was much shorter. Suddenly he saw where the rim was broken and a trail led down to the bottom of the canyon. It was a buffalo trail, and an easy ride.
He started down, but in a moment something struck him a wicked blow on the shoulder. In the moment when he started to turn, believing he had been hit from behind, he heard the report of a rifle and his horse leaped. Val lost his grip and toppled into the mud, while his horse, frightened and perhaps hurt, went racing away down the slope. He realized he ought to move, and lifted his head to look around. He lay on a steep part of the trail. Crawling off it, he found a place under the rim where he would be somewhat protected. He struggled to pull himself to his feet, managed it, and caught hold of a crack in the rock face and worked along it, hunting for a larger crack.
He had been shot, and whoever had shot him had been lying in wait. The chances were good that the unseen marksman, who might be Pike, or might be an Indian or an outlaw, was even now coming closer.
He clung to the rock face, his boots on the steep talus slope that fell away behind him. The rain still hammered against his slicker. He could hold himself up, but though he had been hit he did not believe he was seriously hurt.
His horse, as he saw when he turned his head and looked down, had reached the bottom of the canyon and was cropping grass near the stream, almost half a mile away. His rifle was in the scabbard on the saddle.
He listened, but heard no sound except the rain. Vaguely, he thought he smelled smoke, the smoke of a campfire.
He edged his way along the rock, knowing he had to get himself out of this spot. If the unknown marksman was within sight of him, he would certainly have fired again, but he must be working himself around to get in that final shot.
The rimrock along here was perhaps fifteen feet high, and was topped by a thin layer of soil and sparse grass. Below him the slope fell away steeply to the bottom, several hundred feet away.
The rimrock was split in many places, and suddenly he found a crack and eased himself into it. There was no overhang here, but there was a flat sheet of broken-off rock that lay canted across the split, and he backed under it, dried his hands on his shirt under the slicker, and drew his gun.
It was a long wait. Several times he thought he caught the smell of damp wood burning, but a fire in such a place was unlikely; and it was unlikely the killer, whoever he might be, would have a fire.
A slow hour passed, marked by Val’s watch. More than once he shifted the gun; at times he was on the verge of crawling out, but the memory of that ri
fle shot restrained him. There was no chance to check his wound. The shock had worn off, and now it hurt like blazes, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
He had almost decided to move out of his shelter when he heard footsteps. He tilted the gun and waited. He had never shot at anything he could not see, and he was not about to begin, but if that was Thurston Pike…
“Mister,” said a girl’s voice, “I can see your tracks and I know you’re in there. The geezer who shot you is gone. If you’ll let me help you, I will.”
“Step out where I can see you,” he said.
She hesitated a moment. “That voice is familiar, mister, and I think we know each other. I am stepping out.”
She came suddenly into full view, a tall girl in boots and a beaded and fringed buckskin skirt reaching to below her knees. She wore a slicker that was hanging open, giving her hand free access to the belt gun she wore. In her right hand she carried a Winchester. Her blouse was open at the neck and she wore over it, beneath the slicker, a man’s coat, cut down to fit her.
He saw that in a glance, but he saw much more. She was young and she was beautiful, with a wild, colorful beauty of dark hair, flashing eyes, bright red lips, and a figure that not even the rough clothes could conceal.
He eased out of his cramped position and stood up. “I thought so,” she said. “Val Darrant, isn’t it? I’m Boston Bucklin.”
“You couldn’t be anybody else,” he said. “I’ve heard it said that you were the wildest, most beautiful thing on the Plains. I believe it.”
She blushed, but stared back at him. “It won’t do, your making up to me. Besides, you’ve been shot.”
“Was that your fire I smelled?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t shoot at me?”
“If I’d shot at you, you’d be dead. No, it was a man on a big dapple-gray horse. When he saw me he rode off, mighty fast. He didn’t guess that I was alone.”
She looked at him as he came away from the crack, watching him move. “You can walk all right. My fire’s about two hundred yards down canyon. If you can get yourself to it, I’ll round up your horse.”
Reilly's Luck (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 17
