by Matt Braun
A second slug kicked dirt at his feet as he dropped to one knee. The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder and he centered the sights on the thicket. Working the slide-action, he chambered a round and fired. Then, with no more than a pulsebeat between shots, he pumped five quick rounds into the dense undergrowth. The last report still rang in his ears when a man stumbled out of the thicket and wobbled drunkenly along the riverbank. Starbuck took careful aim and squeezed off a shot. The man’s head exploded in a gory mist of brains and bone matter. He went down as though struck by a thunderbolt.
Starbuck waited several moments, scanning the treeline. At last, satisfied the man was alone, he rose and walked down the slope. Off to one side, screened by the undergrowth, he saw a horse tied to a tree. The rifle cocked and ready, he drifted closer, approaching slowly. On the riverbank, he stopped, watchful a moment longer. He spotted a Winchester carbine on the ground behind the thicket, and grunted softly to himself. Then his gaze shifted to the body.
The man lay head down in the shallows. He was dressed in grungy range clothes and smelled of death. One of the fifty-caliber slugs had drilled him clean through, just below the breastbone. The back of his shirt, where the slug had exited, was soaked with blood. His features were no longer recognizable. The last shot had blown out his skull directly above the browline.
Starbuck searched the dead man and found no identification. Then, for a long time, he stood staring down at the body. He felt no emotion, neither anger nor remorse. He was, instead, in a state of quandary. He thought it possible that the man was a robber. One of a murderous breed who would bushwhack any stranger unfortunate enough to happen along. Yet he was no great believer in coincidence. And being jumped by two unknown men within the space of a week qualified on all counts. Which led him to the worst of all conclusions.
He’d been set up—and ambushed.
The thought jolted him into bleak awareness. Still, however deeply felt, it was tempered by uncertainty. Aside from the lawyer William Dexter, no one knew his actual destination. Nat Boswell, who was familiar with undercover work, might very well have seen through his disguise as a reporter. All the more so in light of the detailed questions he’d asked about Hole-in-the-Wall. But that presupposed a motive on the part of one or both of the men. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t think of a reason why either Dexter or Boswell would have him ambushed. One thing, nonetheless, was absolutely clear. The ambush today, added to the gunfight in Cheyenne, still beggared coincidence. There was a smell about it of something planned. Or worse, something arranged.
He decided to sleep light, and watch his backtrail.
Starbuck rode into Houk’s ranch late the following day. The washed blue of the plains sky grew smoky along about dusk, and lamps were already lighted in the main house. He’d timed his arrival perfectly, for there was an unwritten law on cattle spreads. A stranger was always asked to spend the night.
Ed Houk was a bony man, with shrunken skin and knobby joints. His features were seared by years of wind and sun, and his eyes were lusterless as stones. Somewhere in his early thirties, he looked older, and gave the impression of a man burned out by hard times and hard work. His outfit consisted of three hired hands and a herd of some five hundred longhorns. Whether he was a widower or simply unmarried was unclear. He volunteered little information about himself.
By the same token, he exhibited no curiosity about Starbuck. He accepted the name he was given—Arapahoe Smith—and asked no questions of a personal nature. After supper in the cook shack, he invited Starbuck up to the main house for a drink. The accommodations were sparse, and the whiskey he served was genuine popskull. Seated in cowhide chairs they sipped quietly, their talk general. Starbuck rolled himself a smoke and Houk methodically filled his pipe. After tamping down the tobacco, he struck a match and sucked the pipe to life. Then he leaned back in his chair and studied Starbuck with a look of deliberation.
“You’re about to burst your britches, so go ahead and ask.”
Starbuck gave him an odd smile. “Ask what?”
“About Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“What gave you that idea?”
Houk took the pipe from his mouth. “There’s men on the scout driftin’ through here all the time.”
“Who said I’m on the scout?”
“Nobody,” Houk said solemnly. “Course, it don’t make no nevermind to me one way or the other. I tend to my own knittin’.”
Starbuck paused, looked him straight in the eye. “Suppose I was on the run?”
“Then you’ve got questions,” Houk replied. “Everybody does, the first time they come to Hole-in-the-Wall. I just try to steer ’em in the right direction.”
“Why so hospitable?”
Houk briefly explained. A code prevailed between himself and the men who haunted Hole-in-the-Wall. He watched the front door, and never gave the time of day to anyone with the look of a lawman. In return, the outlaws allowed him to live in peace and never raided his stock. The arrangement worked to the benefit of everyone involved.
“You must have a trusting nature.” Starbuck casually flicked an ash off his cigarette. “How do you know I’m not a lawman?”
“Well—” Houk hesitated, took a couple of puffs on his pipe. “First off, I ain’t that bad a judge of character. You got the look about you, and I ought to know it by now. Then, there’s your horse.”
“What about him?”
“Boys on the dodge don’t ride nothin’ but the best. I never seen one yet that was a cheapskate when it come to horses. So I pegged you the minute I saw that bay gelding.”
“By jingo!” Starbuck grinned, flashing his dead tooth. “Guess you got my number.”
“I generally size a feller up pretty quick.”
“No argument there!” Starbuck frowned, suddenly thoughtful. “A minute ago you said something about a front door?”
“Yeah?”
“I always heard there was only one door into Hole-in-the-Wall.”
Houk chuckled, puffing a cloud of smoke. “You’re talking about Buffalo Creek Canyon?” When Starbuck nodded, he went on. “That’s whiffiedust the boys spread around for lawmen. Works like a charm, too! Everybody in the whole goldang country thinks it’s gospel truth.”
“You mean there’s more than one entrance?”
“Four altogether.” Houk ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s Buffalo Creek. Then there’s an old Sioux trail over the Big Horns. Then there’s Hole-in-the-Wall and Little Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“Jeezus!” Starbuck was genuinely astounded. “I thought Buffalo Creek—the canyon—was Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“Everybody does.” Houk chortled slyly. “That’s ’cause outsiders think the Big Horns are the ‘Wall.’ Ain’t so, and never was.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Lemme draw you a map. Otherwise, I’m liable to confuse you more’n you already are.”
Houk got a stub pencil and a scrap piece of paper. He began sketching with quick, bold strokes. As the map took shape, it revealed there was more to Hole-in-the-Wall than commonly thought. The hidden valley was some thirty miles in length, north to south, and roughly two miles in width. On the west, it was bounded by the Big Horns. On the east, it was bounded by towering sandstone cliffs, labeled the Red Wall. Some thirty-five miles in length, the Red Wall merged with the Big Horns in the north and the foothills in the south. The true Hole-in-the-Wall was a gap through which the Middle Fork of the Powder River flowed westward into the valley. The Little Hole-in-the-Wall was simply an ancient game trail leading eastward over the sandstone cliffs. The old Sioux trail, westward through the mountains, was nearly impassable. Buffalo Creek Canyon, the southern entrance to the valley, was by far the easiest approach. Houk penciled a number of Xs where the mouth of the canyon opened onto the valley.
“These here”—he tapped the Xs—“are the boys’ cabins. Course, them are the ones that headquarter here regular. There’s lots more that comes and goes as the mood suits
’em. They generally pitch camp somewheres, or hole up in a cave. All sorts of caves over here on the slope of the Big Horns.”
Starbuck pondered the map a moment. “What’s on the other side of the Red Wall?”
“Powder River country,” Houk commented. “Whole slew of big cattle outfits over that way.”
“Have they got an ‘arrangement’ with the boys?”
“Nope!” Houk laughed and slapped his knee. “They’re fair game, all year round!”
“So they don’t know about all these ways in and out of the valley?”
“Besides me, there’s only one other outfit that knows.”
“Oh?” Starbuck inquired evenly. “Who’s that?”
“Now I’m gonna throw you for a real loop!”
Houk pointed with his pencil. He traced the path of Buffalo Creek, which flowed the length of the valley. His pencil stopped where the creek intersected the Middle Fork of the Powder. He made an X southwest of the juncture.
“That there’s the Bar C spread.”
“A ranch!” Starbuck stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you saying there’s an outfit in the valley itself?”
“Shore am!” Houk cackled. “Started up last summer, and they’ve turned it into a real nice operation. Foreman’s a prince of a feller—name’s Hank Devoe.”
“I take it they do have an arrangement with the boys?”
“Live and let live,” Houk said philosophically. “When you stop and think about it, the Bar C’s way ahead of the game. Ain’t nobody gonna come into that valley and try rustlin’ their beeves!”
“Or yours either,” Starbuck said, stringing him along. “Not while you’re the boys’ watchdog on the front door.”
“I reckon one good turn deserves another.”
Starbuck took him a step further. “Now that you mention it—you said you’d steer me in the right direction.”
“Try my best,” Houk said affably. “What’ve you got in mind?”
“You know a fellow by the name of Mike Cassidy?”
Houk slowly knocked the dottle from his pipe. “What if I do?”
“He’s a friend of a friend,” Starbuck lied heartily. “I was told to look him up when I got here.”
“Who by … just exactly?”
“Somebody he’d know”—Starbuck paused for emphasis—“down at Robbers Roost.”
“Tell you what—” Houk stopped, head cocked to one side. “Have a talk with Hank Devoe. If Cassidy’s in the valley, Hank’ll know where he’s at.”
Starbuck agreed, and let it drop there. With no great effort, he turned the conversation back to the valley. One question led to another, and before long he and the rancher were hunched over the map. The outcome was all he’d hoped for, and more.
Ed Houk told him all there was to know about Hole-in-the-Wall.
Chapter Seven
Oncoming summer touched the high country. At midday the canyon walls shimmered and the sun at its zenith seemed fixed forever in a cloudless sky. No wind stirred and the only sound was the rushing murmur of Buffalo Creek.
Starbuck halted the gelding in a patch of shade. He looped the reins around the saddlehorn and took the makings from his pocket. He creased a rolling paper, spilled tobacco from the sack, and slowly built himself a smoke. Striking a match on his thumbnail, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. His gaze scanned the rocky gorge, which was narrow and winding, hemmed in by steep walls on either side. He understood now why lawmen never ventured into Hole-in-the-Wall. The canyon approach was some ten miles long, and every switchback along the snaky creek was a natural ambush site. A man soon began waiting for the crack of a rifle shot.
Some hours earlier, Starbuck had ridden out .from Houk’s ranch. The cattleman sent him off full of flapjacks and good cheer, with the map tucked in his shirt pocket. A few miles northeast the rangeland petered out into a succession of hogback ridges. The terrain rose sharply thereafter, the Big Horns majestic in the early-morning sunlight. Then, suddenly, Buffalo Creek made an abrupt bend into the canyon. The plains wind dropped off into an eerie stillness; there was a sense of being entombed within the foreboding gorge. Nothing moved, and the gelding’s hoofbeats echoed off the canyon walls with a ghostly clatter. Around every turn it was as though something waited, and the long ride had a telling effect. On edge and on guard, a man’s nerves were soon strung wire-tight.
Gathering the reins, Starbuck nudged the bay in the ribs and rode on. He deliberately turned his mind from the canyon to the gossipy revelations of Ed Houk. Last night, with a load of rotgut under his belt, the rancher had grown talkative. Hole-in-the-Wall, according to Hank, was home to cattle rustlers and horse thieves, as well as a collection of robbers and stone-cold killers. At any given time, their number varied, for their activities took them far and wide. Still, even a conservative estimate ranged upward of fifty or more. Under one name or another, the majority were fugitives from justice, with a price on their heads. And most were determined never to be taken alive.
Contrary to popular opinion, the outlaws were not organized. Some operated in small gangs, or teamed up for a particular job. But for the most part, Hole-in-the-Wall was populated by men with a philosophy all their own. Far too independent to conform—especially to the outside world’s laws and strictures—they saw no reason to impose codes on themselves within the mountain stronghold. No man was his brother’s keeper, and their general attitude was a rough form of individualism that pivoted around devil take the hindmost. By choice, their lives were beset with danger, and the eternal threat of a hangman’s noose. Yet, while they lived, they enjoyed a form of freedom as addictive as opium. All they needed to earn a livelihood was a fast horse and a little savvy about cows. Or a quick gun and no great conscience.
Understandably enough, Houk in no way considered himself slightly windward of the law. He saw himself and the owners of the Bar C spread as neutrals in somebody else’s war. Their cattle outfits were on the fringe of civilization, and the law of might makes right prevailed. Forced to fend for themselves, they had formed an attitude toward the outlaws that was part trade-off and part accommodation. No one asked questions—or condemned the inhabitants of Hole-in-the-Wall—and no harm resulted. Whether they approved of the outlaws was beside the point, germane to nothing in the isolation of the High Plains. With no personal reason to be against the lawless element, they simply took a stand of live and let live. The badmen came and went as they pleased, and the ranchers studiously minded their own business. The trade-off was a mix of pragmatism and common sense. No one lost and everyone profited—each in his own way.
Shortly after the noon hour, Starbuck emerged from the canyon. Before him lay the valley of Hole-in-the-Wall. Some thirty miles long and two miles in breadth, the valley was split by a latticework of streams that fed into the Middle Fork of the Powder River. The streams were bordered by trees, and the valley floor resembled an emerald sea of graze. Cradled beneath high northern peaks, it was sheltered from blustery winds, and the forested mountainsides provided abundant game even in the coldest months. There was water, plenty of wood, and ample forage for livestock. To a cattleman—or an outlaw—it lacked for nothing.
The Red Wall, directly across the valley, rose in a sheer thousand-foot palisade of rock. The windswept battlement stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, one great mass of vermilion-hued sandstone. To the west, the slope of the Big Horns climbed steadily skyward. Farther north, the mountains converged with the Red Wall, and ultimately vanished in cloud-covered pinnacles. The green of the valley stood out in sharp contrast between the sandstone wall and the blue-hazed mountains. There was a smell of crystal-clear air and sweet grass. And an almost oppressive sense of serenity.
The outlaw cabins were located where Buffalo Creek entered the valley and made a leisurely bend to the north. Spread out along the slope of the mountains, the cabins were constructed of logs and appeared large enough for no more than two or three men. Starbuck counted eight buildings altogethe
r, each with its own log corral. There were no men in sight, and he assumed the noonday heat had driven them indoors. The corrals, however, gave testament to a comment made by Ed Houk last night. Outlaws valued their horses above all other possessions; a reliable mount often spelled the difference between life and death. Whether bought or stolen, the animals were selected with meticulous care. Speed and stamina were the qualities sought, and men who rode the owlhoot considered top-notch horseflesh an investment in their trade. The horses in the corrals merely underscored the point. There wasn’t a crowbait in the lot.
Starbuck held the bay to a walk. His inspection of the cabins was casual, and he swung wide of the slope. Across the valley he spotted Little Hole-in-the-Wall, the old game trail, leading over the escarpment to Powder River country. From what Houk had told him, rustlers occasionally used the trail to spirit stolen livestock over the wall and into the valley. The primary entrance from the east, however, was some miles farther north. There, within the gap carved out by the Middle Fork of the Powder, was the true Hole-in-the-Wall. Horses and cattle were routinely driven through the gap from ranches in eastern Wyoming.
Once in the valley, there was little problem in hiding stolen livestock. The mountain slopes to the west were laced with hidden gullies and box canyons which made perfect holding pens. The outlaws also constructed cleverly concealed pole corrals in stands of trees along the streams. Farther up the slope, where timber was more abundant, dead trees were used to build an enclosure that resembled a blowdown. In each instance, the corrals were camouflaged and designed to fit in with the natural surroundings. The purpose, so far as Starbuck could determine, was to protect the livestock from fellow thieves. No one attempted to recover stolen stock from Hole-in-the-Wall.
Nor were the outlaws in imminent danger. The valley afforded them several natural hideouts, all of which were virtually invisible to an outsider. On the slope to the west, canyons and gullies concealed men with even greater ease than rustled livestock. Along the base of the Red Wall there were numerous caverns, with subterranean passages leading from one to the other. Anyone familiar with the layout could hide for days, perhaps months, with no fear of discovery. Yet that, too, was a matter of small likelihood. No one was foolhardy enough to chase outlaws into the valley. Hole-in-the-Wall was a world unto itself, at once mysterious and deadly. And forever inviolate.
