Cheyenne Pass

by Lauran Paine

  Ethan made no move to take the older man’s hand, nor did he follow out this line of talk. Instead, he said: “As soon as we’ve eaten, we’ll take the prisoner down to town. As for Thorne and the others …”

  “Ethan, forget Thorne and the others. They aren’t important now.”

  “What do you mean … not important? It was their intention to kill you, DeFore, and kill the rest of us right along with you if we interfered.”

  “Ethan, listen to me,” DeFore said, beginning to look exasperated at MacCallister’s chilly attitude. “Listen to me for a minute.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “Shake,” DeFore prodded, again extending his hand.

  “You go to the devil, Dick DeFore. You’ve always had some idea you were rough and tough and aloof. Well, go on being that way, for all I care.”

  “Dammit all, Ethan, I didn’t understand before. I swear to you I didn’t.”

  “Leave my daughter out of it.”

  “I’m not talking about your daughter, confound it. I’m talking about what you said up there by the chapel. About me living too much in the past and not in the present.” DeFore paused, squinted up his eyes, and extended his hand once again. “All I’m trying to say now is that I been wrong … that you did me a favor up there on the butte, and I appreciate it. Now will you shake?”

  Ethan was standing stiffly and unrelentingly hostile. He looked with a fierce coldness at DeFore. Beside him his son-in-law faintly sighed, bringing Ethan’s head around. John was looking straight at him, and there was the faintest hint of disillusionment in John’s gaze. Ethan saw this. He also understood it. So he reached out, grasped DeFore’s hand, pumped it once, hard, and dropped it. Then he turned away saying shortly: “All right, now let’s get on with what’s got to be done.”

  DeFore turned. To his riders he said: “Saddle us some fresh horses. We’ll hit the trail of this confounded two-gun man, and this time we’ll keep riding until we get him. But first we grub.”

  The cowboys left the house just as a tousle-headed, wizened, and crippled man poked a head through a partially opened doorway and said garrulously: “Come and get it! And if it ain’t enough, that’s just too danged bad, but at two in the consarned mornin’, it’s all you’re goin’ to get!”

  DeFore led the way to the house kitchen. The tousle-headed man was nowhere in evidence. “My cook,” explained DeFore, looking apologetic. “He’s one of the first riders I ever had and … well, he’s sort of independent sometimes.”

  They sat at the table, the four of them, and when Ethan poured coffee for their one-handed prisoner, Nolte said: “You fellows know somethin’? I think the whole blessed bunch of you are plumb crazy, fightin’ over that lousy road up there in the rocks.”

  DeFore flared at this, saying: “Who asked you what you thought, you lousy two-bit drifter? What do you mean, taking Thorne’s money to bushwhack me?”

  “Mister,” snapped back Nolte, “I never bushwhacked anyone in my life, not even a cranky old maverick like you. All I did was agree to come up here and help Thorne in what I thought was a legitimate fight. So did my pardner. But after listenin’ to all the talk that’s been goin’ on lately, I keep wonderin’ just what all this is really about.”

  Klinger calmly told the captive about DeFore’s insistence that travelers, especially stagecoach travelers, stop tracking over his land. John did not say why DeFore insisted on this, and the cowboy never asked.

  All he said was: “Shucks, and that’s what this battle is about?”

  “No,” said Ethan. “There’s more. Thorne’s trying to make a battle out of it so he’ll keep drawing gunfighter wages from the stage company.”

  “Well,” said the youthful cowboy in that same dryly disgusted tone of voice, “why don’t you simpletons fix it so’s there won’t be no cause for a fight?”

  DeFore reddened at both the insult and the condescending sound of the rider’s voice, but when he would have verbally lashed out, Ethan stopped him with an upraised hand.

  “How?” he asked the injured man.

  The cowboy took a long drink of coffee, set the cup aside, and said: “Mr. DeFore wants the stages to quit lettin’ their passengers out up in the pass while the horses are blown, is that it?”

  “It is,” snapped DeFore.

  “Then,” Nolte said, his eyes traveling to the others around the table, “downgrade a quarter mile below the top out, have a crew flatten out a place beside the road … a turnout … where drivers can turn off and stop to blow the horses. No one’s goin’ to get out of the coaches down there where there’s nothin’ but brush and rocks, and maybe rattlesnakes, too, so the horses get their rest, then the coaches push on up into the pass and keep right on goin’, because with rested teams, they’ll have no reason to stop.”

  When Carl Nolte stopped speaking, Ethan looked at John, then on over at DeFore. None of them said anything for a long while. This solution was so simple, should have been so obvious, and was so easy to achieve, that it had not up until now occurred to a single one of them.

  DeFore cleared his throat, picked up the platter of fried meat, and held it out to the cowboy. “Have some more steak,” he said. “Here, let me cut it for you, boy.”

  Ethan forked in more food and masticated thoughtfully. Eventually, he put aside his utensils and said: “It’s Thorne’s fault, damn him. He’s kept us all so on edge and keyed up we never had time to think of that. Dick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come down to town, and talk to that stage company fellow we’ve got locked up at the jailhouse.”

  “What for?”

  “Tell him how much you want to turn Cheyenne Pass into a dedicated roadway. He’s got the power to say yes. He told John and me he had a blank check for expenses up here.”

  DeFore finished cutting Nolte’s meat, sat back a moment, then said: “Hell, Ethan, I don’t want their lousy money. All I ever wanted was for folks to respect my rights.”

  “Then,” Klinger said, speaking up for the first time, “dedicate the damned road. Give it to the county. Give a strip the width of the road, Mr. DeFore, and keep everything on both sides. Post it. Put up ‘no trespassing’ signs. Have the stage line agree to construct the turnout and not to stop anywhere else in the pass.”

  DeFore listened to all this. So did Ethan. The two older men gazed steadily at one another for a moment after John had stopped speaking.

  DeFore gently inclined his head. “Done,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.” He furrowed his brow at Ethan. “You think the stage company will go along with that?”

  “If they don’t,” Ethan said, “I promise you one thing, Dick. They’ll sure wish they had before I’m through with ’em. And as for the trespassing, just leave that to John and me. After we’ve arrested one or two trespassers, I got a notion folks will wake up soon enough to understand they had better obey your signs.”

  The injured cowboy finished eating, pushed back his plate, looked around, wagging his head. “You fellows sure aren’t very bright,” he stated. “Havin’ a war over somethin’ as ridiculous as this crooked old dirt roadway.”

  Ethan put a skeptical gaze around. “No, we weren’t,” he said with deceptive mildness. “But on the other hand, young fellow, you don’t see any of us with busted arms, either, because we were gullible enough to let a gunfighter like Ray Thorne talk us into getting on the wrong side of the law.”

  Nolte looked over at Ethan with an expression which became gradually worried. “Didn’t think of it before,” he said quietly, as though testing the idea now, “but, by golly, I reckon I am an outlaw, ain’t I?”

  DeFore got up, kicked aside his chair, and said: “Ethan, how about it? The boy did us a favor.”

  Klinger stood up, too. So did the cowboy. The last man up from the table was MacCallister, and he didn’t immediately reply to
DeFore’s question. He borrowed John’s makings again, emptied what remained of the tobacco into a troughed paper, folded the thing carefully, wet it, and sealed it. He stuck the cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and as he lit up, he gazed with narrowed eyes over at the cowboy. “Too bad you’ve got a busted wing,” he stated.

  “What of that?” demanded the prisoner.

  “Well, if you were sound, I’d let you maybe work out of this mess by building that turnout yourself.”

  The youth snorted. “Deputy, I can work as well with one hand as most fellows can work with two. You give me one helper, two shovels and two picks, and I’ll build the doggoned turnout.”

  DeFore grinned. He was a hard man himself, and like all hard men, he liked toughness in others.

  “Go you one better,” he said, addressing both lawmen. “You two let me supervise the building of that turnout, and when it’s finished, I’ll put this young buck on as a permanent ranch rider.” DeFore didn’t wait for them to agree or disagree. He turned his tough smile upon the cowboy, saying: “Well, what about it? You’re a drifter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you need work?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you want a riding job on my ranch or don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I’d sure like that. I like this country, and, with some few exceptions, I like the folks in it.”

  “John,” said Ethan, “you’re the sheriff.”

  “To tell you the truth, Ethan,” Klinger said, “I never really figured on locking this one up … not after he explained how he happened to be riding with Thorne.”

  “Then that’s settled,” boomed big Richard DeFore. “Come on, let’s get our horses and head for Winchester. This boy needs a doctor to properly set that arm, and after that I figure you lawmen ought to be willing to do a little more riding … at least until we run down this two-gun tinhorn and settle his hash for him one way or another.”

  They exited the house, found their animals at the outside rack along with three of DeFore’s remaining men, and they all swung up simultaneously, whirled the horses, and struck out southward down through the gloomy canyons.

  DeFore’s riders went on ahead. The old cowman rode stirrup with Ethan MacCallister, and the last two in this cavalcade were John Klinger and the cowboy named Carl Nolte.

  There was a little speculation about where Thorne and his remaining men might be, but after Nolte told the others he knew only that they meant to camp in the hills to the west for the balance of the night, there wasn’t much need for more speculation on that subject.

  This did not, however, mean that the resolve of these men had lessened one bit. It hadn’t, but other things had arisen now to fill their thoughts solemnly as they passed downcountry toward a slumbering Winchester.

  When they were still a half mile out, off in the east, a pale brightness began to softly glow. Dawn was not very far off now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The lot of them left their horses at the livery barn. DeFore and his men walked down to the jailhouse to see Travis Browne, and Ethan, along with his son-in-law, took Carl Nolte over to Dr. Shirley’s home, banged loudly and relentlessly on the door until the sleepy-eyed physician opened it, and ushered them in.

  The doctor looked dubiously at Ethan, at John, then he wordlessly led the three men into his dispensary where he examined the broken, swelling wrist and disapprovingly shook his head.

  “Cowboy, I can’t do a thing for that arm until the swelling has subsided. Why didn’t you come to me the moment it happened?”

  Nolte made a crooked smile. “Sure meant to,” he drawled, “but things kept interferin’.”

  “Well, I’ll fix you up with a bowl and some ice water. You can soak the hand and wrist in that until some of the swelling goes down, then perhaps we can set the thing.”

  John nodded at Nolte and turned to leave. So did Ethan, but before leaving the dispensary, he said: “Carl, you’re on the right side now. Stay on it.

  The doctor turned away. Nolte looked around at Ethan and John. “You don’t have to wait,” he said. “I won’t run out. Go ahead, and look for Thorne.

  Outside again, Klinger and MacCallister started southward. There were two lighted windows on their side of the roadway. One was near the lower end of town at the jailhouse, the other was midway between, at Hank Weaver’s office.

  As they paced along in the cool dawn, John said: “Why the devil would get Hank up so early?”

  Instead of replying, Ethan swung over when they came abreast of the office door and pushed on inside.

  Weaver was behind his counter, busy with his clipboard and a sheaf of loose papers. He looked surprised to see the sheriff and deputy, and his eyelids twitched as he stared at the two.

  “Up kind of early, aren’t you?” asked John.

  “Got a southbound coach to send out this morning,” Weaver said, his eyes back on the papers he was shuffling.

  “How come?”

  “Them mine fellows you two walked out on yesterday … they’re bringing in the bullion.” Weaver looked up and shook his head at the lawmen. “That sure wasn’t very mannerly, what you fellows did yesterday when I brought those fellows down to talk to you.”

  “Well now, Hank,” Ethan began in a soothing tone, “we had something a heap more important on our minds then a social chat.” Ethan nodded at Hank before he turned and started back for the door. John followed him, and the pair were almost across the room when Weaver spoke again.

  “Yeah, I know, you were trying to stop old man DeFore from killing the company’s special guard.”

  With one hand on the latch, Ethan turned back, frowning. “Special guard?” he repeated.

  “Thorne. He told me last night how you fellows tried to keep DeFore from riding into town.”

  Klinger’s eyes widened at this misinformation. He kept staring over at Weaver. But Ethan was surprised for barely a second before an idea struck him suddenly.

  “Hank, when did you talk to Thorne?” the former sheriff asked.

  “When? Why, last night. I just told you that.”

  “What time last night?”

  Weaver made a face, thought a moment, then said: “About eleven o’clock, I’d say. Why?”

  “No, Hank, I think it must have been closer to midnight.”

  “All right. Maybe it was. I know I was just finishing up around here when he rode in. He had three fellows with him. The two went on over to the hotel, but Thorne stopped by here, and we got to talking. That’s when he told me you …”

  “Hank,” John snapped, breaking through that quiet run of Weaver’s words. “What else did you two talk about … maybe this bullion coach?”

  “Well, sure, I wanted him to guard it. To go along with his men as outriders, you see, because with just those two mine company men inside, that wasn’t much protection for seventy thousand dollars’ worth of gold.”

  “Seventy thousand dollars’ worth of gold,” whispered John, staring over at Weaver.

  Weaver bobbed his head up and down.

  John would have said more, but Ethan suddenly lay a hand upon his son-in-law’s arm to silence him. “Hank,” Ethan said, “what time is this bullion coach pulling out this morning?”

  “An hour from now. But if we keep standing around here talking, it’ll never get ready.”

  “Clem Whipple going to drive?”

  “Yes, and one of the mine guards will be up on the box with Clem while the other one is inside with the bullion.”

  “And Thorne will be on hand to outride. Is that right?”

  “Well, not exactly, Ethan. That’s what I wanted him to do, but he said it’d be better if him and his men met the coach south of town, maybe down by the pass, and escorted it from there. He said it’d be a dead giveaway if folks saw him and his riders esco
rting the coach from town.”

  “Oh, sure,” Ethan said. “Sure, Hank, it’d be a dead giveaway.” He paused long enough to cast an ironic look at John, then he added: “If Thorne is going to meet the coach at the southward pass, he’ll have left town by now, I reckon.”

  “Sure,” agreed Weaver. “He’d have to have left at least an hour back. Maybe two hours ago.”

  “Thanks,” Ethan said as he opened the door and passed through. As John turned to leave with Ethan, Weaver called out: “Any time, fellows. Any time at all.”

  Before John could say a word, Ethan turned around and said: “Go check the livery barn. Find out what time they left and how many men were with Thorne. I’ll be down at the jailhouse. Hurry, son.”

  John hurried back northward while Ethan went just as swiftly down where DeFore and his men were waiting in the jailhouse. As Ethan burst into the office, DeFore, over at the little woodstove swishing lukewarm coffee in a crockery mug, looked up and said: “Sure took you fellows a long time to rout one doctor out of bed.”

  MacCallister stepped over to the desk, perched upon the edge of it, and told DeFore and his crew: “Thorne rode back here last night after the fight up at Cheyenne Pass.”

  DeFore and his men stared at the former sheriff, saying nothing for a long while. Finally, DeFore set aside his crockery cup. “Here?” he said. “Is he still here now?”

  “No. There’s a bullion coach heading out of town within an hour. Thorne knows about it. He and his riders are going to meet that coach down at South Pass … as escorts for the stage company.”

  “What!” roared DeFore. “Are you being funny, Ethan?”

  “Yeah, I’m being funny … about as funny as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Now listen to me, you fellows. When John returns, you’re going to be deputized, then we’re going along behind that coach.”

  “Behind it,” growled DeFore. “Ethan, it’ll be sunup in another hour. Thorne, if he’s on ahead, will see us on the road, and we’ll never get close enough to …”

  “Dick, will you shut up and listen?” Ethan snapped. “No, he’s not going to see us, because we’re not going to stay on the road after we leave town. I know that country down there like I know the back of my hand. We’ll cut eastward and come out in the broken country down there. At all times we’ll keep the hills between us where Thorne figures to rob the coach.”