As Pico slapped a saddle on a horse, he considered the names of places. Undoubtedly the 5B restricted the area somewhat, for only two things would have gotten Dan Shattuck into a saddle in the middle of the night. Rustling, or something to do with Marie.
The 5B was Riley's brand, and Riley had been accused of rustling, therefore Pico headed out for the 5B, riding fast. As he rode, he ran over in his mind all the place names he could think of that had some relation to the 5B area.
Maverick Point . . . the Seven Sisters . . . Mormon Pasture . . . Salt Creek Mesa . . . Bridger Jack . . . Big Pocket . . . Deadman Point . . . Dark Canyon . . . Cathedral Butte . . . Butte-that B might stand for Butte.
Gyp Canyon . . . the Basin . . . And then he had it: House Park Butte!
Pico had never been known to spur a horse. He spurred one now.
Chapter 14
The night was alive with movement. There was a stirring in the canyons, a whisper of sound upon the mesa that was not of wind or coyote passing. Even the wild animals held still, ears pricked to the strange sounds.
Here a hoof touched stone, a saddle's leather creaked, or a spur jingled. Somewhere wiry brush scraped on a leather chap, a restless horse pawed, and a man cleared his throat. They were small sounds, but different sounds, and every animal ear was alert, for none knew which was the quarry, none could be sure where the pursuit would end.
The stars alone were still, and in the brooding darkness the rocks cast their deeper shadows. Within the ranch house on Dark Canyon the man called Weaver had regained consciousness and was resting easily, the bullet gone from his body.
He looked up at Riley. "They shouldn't have done it, Lord. They shouldn't have brought me here." "You belong here. This is your home."
In the dimly lit room Weaver's features were drawn and pale, and Riley felt the cold hand of fear run along his spine. He, who had no family, knew these men were his family, these men from the outlaw trail, and he had taken them, for better or worse.
"Rest easy, man," he said quietly. "You've come home."
He turned then and stepped out into the darkness. Nobody spoke, no sound was made, yet he could feel the movement in the night. Canyons and deserts have their own small sounds, for even the lonely places are not still. They have their small movements, their restlessness, but tonight it was not the same. Nor was it merely that he was so keenly alert. He was not imagining things. He knew there was trouble out there, and that it momentarily drew nearer and nearer.
His ears had grown selective with wilderness living, and he knew each sound that was different. His ears tuned out the usual noises, or ignored them. It was the strange sounds that he heard, or the lack of sound, which was in itself a warning. When the insects stopped their singing it was because something was near, something not known, not understood.
He cradled his Winchester now in the hollow of his arm and looked toward the mountain where Kehoe was. No word from him-was that good or bad?
Dan Shattuck walked his horse up to the ruins near House Park Butte, and found they were deserted. He scouted them carefully, peering at the ground, striving to see what tracks, if any, were visible. Morning was near, and it was already light enough to see that there were no tracks but those of cattle since the rains, and these were wandering, grazing cattle, not driven by anyone.
He straightened up in the saddle, and suddenly he was afraid.
He had been a damned fool to ride all the way over here without help. He should at least have called Pico and told him. Pico would have wanted him to have company, and would have insisted on coming himself. Right now Shattuck was wishing Pico were here.
He looked around carefully. There was a corral, an old pole corral over near the spring just west of the butte. That might be where the stock was being held. He drew his Winchester from its scabbard, and worked his way cautiously through the junipers.
As he moved slowly toward the almost hidden corral, other events were moving toward a climax. He heard, suddenly, the sound of horses, and drew up sharply. Swinging down, he caught his horse's nose and held it tight against a whinny.
In the vague light, five riders swept by. Nick Valenti he recognized. The others were strangers-one of them a drifter he had once seen around Hard-castle's. When they had gone by, he went on.
At that very moment, a few miles to the south, Strat Spooner glanced down at his watch. It was almost time. Nick should be getting into position now.
A few miles to the westward of where Shattuck waited in the cedars to watch Valenti pass, Darby Lewis awakened to what was to be his last morning on earth.
It was faintly gray in the east, but he woke suddenly, sharply, as though startled by some sound, yet there was no sound. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the stars. He had chosen to bed down in the basin rather than ride back to the ranch, but this morning he felt different about it. In the first place, he was through here for the time; and in the second place, he wanted some of that good coffee that Cruz always made.
Besides, he was due for some time in town. He had stayed on this job long enough, and he wanted to see the girls and have a few drinks; maybe a hand or two of poker.
He rolled out of bed, put on his hat and then his jeans. The more he thought of going to town, the more the idea pleased him. He dressed, rolled his bed, and strapped it behind the saddle. Mounting up, he started for the ranch. The trail he chose was a dim one up South Canyon. There would be quite a scramble when he reached the plateau, but he had used the short cut once before.
He crossed the saddle and was topping out on the plateau when he saw the riders. They were crossing the open country ahead of him while his approach was still masked by junipers.
He knew those riders, for he had on occasion rustled cattle with some of them. Nick Valenti he knew very well, and he had never liked him. The instant he saw them he guessed what was happening. The ranchers were attacking Riley, and Nick Valenti somehow was in on it.
He knew a sneak attack when he saw one, and he knew this must be only a small part of the movement. At the ranch they were probably asleep, and so far as he knew, Riley and Cruz were alone there. He had his chance now. He was out of the fight. He was off to one side, and nobody was expecting him back right now. He could go back and hole up in one of the canyons north of the basin and wait until it was all over. After all, he had been planning to draw his time.
He could get away all right. He could go back the way he'd come; he could cut and run down the length of Wild Cow Point, or he could let the riders pass and then back-trail the attackers into Rimrock. He did none of those things. For suddenly, and almost with relief, Darby Lewis knew the time had come to make a stand.
It was a strange decision, for all his life he had been a drifter with the currents, letting them carry him where they would. Now he had his chance to get out and stay out, and suddenly he knew he was not going to do it.
He drew his Winchester, lifted it, and squeezed off a shot. He had never shot a man in the back and did not wish to now. It might have been that which spoiled his aim, for he missed a shot that should have been a clean hit.
Valenti turned sharply in his saddle, his face a mask of startled fear and fury. He lifted his rifle and Darby Lewis fired again, and that time he did not miss. The bullet caught Valenti in the chest and tore through him, tearing his heart open as it passed. Darby Lewis, knowing he must warn those at the ranch, raced for the shelter of some boulders, firing as he rode. All four of the riders had turned their guns on him, and he felt the smash of their bullets. There was no pain, just three solid blows, two almost simultaneous, the last an instant later. Darby felt himself falling, but managed to cling for an instant to the pommel before letting go. He hit the ground on his back and rolled over.
With a shock he realized he had caught it good, but he levered a shell into his rifle and, as the first man charged into the rocks after him, Darby Lewis fired the rifle into his chest, even as the bullets smashed him back into the grass.
&n
bsp; Darby Lewis rolled to his side, felt the wetness of blood against his skin, and he stared at the dead man, blinking slowly. His lids seemed very heavy. He recognized the man as one of the gunmen he had seen around Hardcastle's, and he chuckled. He had never counted himself a gunhand, just a cowboy working for wages, but here in a few seconds he had ticked off Nick Valenti and this one.
Using the butt of his rifle, he pulled himself along the ground by digging it into the earth. He got himself out into the sun, and said aloud, "I don't want to die in the dark."
It was the last thing he ever said, and it would take the circling buzzards, hours later, to tell the survivors at the ranch that Darby Lewis had gone out shooting.
At the sound of the shots, Strat Spooner swore viciously and slammed the spurs into the flanks of his horse. When they reached the ranch their horses were at a dead run, and they broke into the open, fanning out swiftly.
Confident of their numbers, they had taken no time to scout the area. What they charged was not the half-built encampment to be found on most new ranches, but a solidly built log house, a bunkhouse of logs, and a stable with a nearly flat roof and a parapet around it, equipped with loopholes.
Jim Colburn heard them coining. "There," he said to Parrish. "You take them on the left, I'll take the right."
The first man who came into the open ground was yelling like a Comanche, but the yells choked off, for Colburn's bullet had smashed through his throat and chin.
The man plunged forward, falling under the feet of the horses that followed. In the pile-up that lasted for seconds only, Parrish smashed a rider from the saddle, and then both men fired again.
Riley, crouched on top of the stable, had not fired at all, knowing the longer he could keep his position concealed, the better.
The surprise planned by Spooner had failed, and there would be no more charges. From now on the fight would be tougher, with moving and sniping, seeking out targets, and every shot a risk.
Riley kept down and studied the terrain about him. Twice he saw moving men, but he held his fire. He chose three possible targets, drew a bead on the LOUIS CAMOUR place where each was likely to appear, and made three dry runs, swinging his rifle to cover each of the three spots.
A gun thundered and glass crashed at the house. Riley swore-it had been hell, packing that glass in here. Then came a volley, with all shots concentrated on the house.
Suddenly the men below started to move. One of Riley's selected targets was a man in a checked shirt, and as the man lifted from his crouching position among the trees to lunge forward, Riley shot him, instantly swinging to targets two and three. His shot at target two was wasted, for there was nothing there; at three, a man dove for shelter, yelping with surprise.
They would be ready for him now, so he abandoned the roof, dropping through the trap door into the hay. As he landed in the hay, a man standing just inside the barn door whirled about to stare up at him in shocked surprise. Riley was off balance, but he fired from the hip, and the man dropped quickly, firing in return. Both men missed. Instantly, both fired again, and Riley hit the hay rolling over. When he rolled up to his knees to fire again, the man was gone. He had darted down the slope from the door, and outside a gun roared . . . then came a second shot.
Kehoe appeared suddenly in the doorway: "Got him," he said.
Outside there was sudden and complete silence. Among the attackers there were tough, gun-hardened men, veterans of cattle wars and outlawry, but there were saddle tramps, too, drifters who had joined up for fighting wages, and who now were getting more fighting than they had bargained for. A rushing, surprise attack on a few men taken unawares was one thing. To attack half a dozen entrenched men, battle-hardened and ready, was quite another.
Suddenly there was a sound of a retreating horse, in full flight-somebody had had enough. The contagion spread, and another man left, then another. This last one was Eustis.
Two bullets had seemed to come near him .. . actually they had been some distance off; but the sound of a ricochet can often be heard by several people in completely opposite directions and each will swear the bullet had passed close-a near miss. There are few more unpleasant sounds than a ricocheting bullet, and Eustis' pugnacity evaporated. All at once it came home to him that he himself might be killed-that hanging rustlers, no matter how guilty or otherwise, might prove to be dangerous work.
His ranch was some distance off and if he was going to make it in time for lunch, he would have to hurry. He made it in time, but he had no appetite.
There were a few sporadic, defiant shots, but the attack was over.
Gus Enloe, his calfskin vest still intact, led the shattered remnants back to Rimrock. Of those who had ventured the raid, seven were dead, and several more had wounds. Strat Spooner was not among them.
Strat was a man who used his gun for hire, and he had no intention of getting killed. He was the second man through the gap when the first rush took place, and when he had swept on through he turned once to look back. Two of his men were down, and he had no taste for that sort of shooting. Besides, he had other things on his mind. As he rode through he had noticed a saddled horse at the corral . . . it was Marie Shattuck's mare.
Sooner or later Marie would be going home.
Gaylord Riley walked slowly back across the ranch yard in the sunlight of the early morning. Off to the west the upper walls of the vast red canyons were bright with the risen sun; shadows still lay beyond the mountains to the east, and darkness held in the canyon depths. He stood for a moment in the ranch yard, looking off toward the east, where the riders had fled, circling the ranch, taking any way they could to escape.
Marie came out from the house. "Are you all right?"
"We were lucky," he said, "all of us."
"I am going back with Sampson McCarty," she said. "Doc will stay on a little longer."
"Thanks for bringing him."
They stood together, enjoying the warmth, their minds empty of thought, half numbed by the shock of events. They simply absorbed the warmth, the clear air, the faint smell of woodsmoke from the house fire.
"When this is all over," Riley said, "I'll be riding to call."
"Do that," she said.
In the sickroom Weaver lay alone, listening to the stillness. He could hear the faint murmur of voices, but there was no other sound. Cruz and Kehoe had gone from the room, but the faint, acrid smell of gunpowder remained. It was an old smell, a familiar smell.
He lay very quiet, completely comfortable, wanting nothing at all.
The wild, hard-riding days were over now, and the boys were settled. He had been right about the kid, right all along. Maybe when his own sins were totaled and his failures accounted, this would add up to something on his side of the ledger. Weaver rolled himself up on one elbow and looked out the window, the glass shattered by rifle shots.
The air was cool. It felt good and carried the smell of the pines. At this moment Weaver knew that he was going to die.
He had been feeling better. He had enjoyed the sound of the guns. He had lived to that sound, and he would die by it.
There was something yet to be done. He pulled over a piece of brown wrapping paper that lay on the table and wrote painfully:
Last Will and Tesimint of Ira Weaver. Everything to the kid, Gaylord Riley. Hang up your spurs Jim, Parry, and Kehoe. I'm lightin a shuck.
Ira Weaver He lay back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. He could hear the voices of the kid and his girl out there, a low murmur.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he said aloud, and he smiled as he said it. "I got my boots off!" Slightly amazed and quite pleased, he died.
Chapter 15
For a long time after Valenti and those who accompanied him had passed, Shattuck remained where he was. Uneasily, he had the feeling he should pull out and return to the ranch. There were things happening here in which he had wanted no part, and he had come this morning hoping more to have the note disproved than proved.
Mari
e was in love with Gaylord Riley-that he believed. If Riley was actually a rustler, he feared to know it for the truth for her sake. She had been his only family for many years, his only excuse for being.
He had been irritated by Riley's purchase of white-face cattle. He had faced that issue and admitted it, reluctantly, to himself. He had enjoyed a childish pride in being the only owner of white-face cattle, and it was that pride even more than fear of rustling that had been hurt.
He had not for a minute believed anyone could bring that herd of cattle down from Spanish Fork, but it seemed beyond doubt that Riley had done it. Which meant that he knew of some trail other than those usually traveled.
The Outlaw Trail, to be widely known in later years, was at this time no more than a rumor. The few who had ridden across the San Rafael Swell had spoken of lack of water-scarcely enough water for even a small party, let alone a herd of cattle. Nevertheless, the Mormons who had gone into the San Juan country had crossed that country somewhere. His knowledge of their trek was vague, but he knew it had been accomplished.
The fact remained that Riley had brought his cattle down across the country, and had become one of the largest ranchers in the area by that one trip. Which indicated he was a man of enterprise, perhaps a man of vision.
Dan Shattuck took a cigar from his vest pocket and clipped the tip, then put the cigar between his teeth. He knew he should ride out of here, and now.
It was at that moment that he heard the shooting that led to the death of Darby Lewis and two others. The shots were distant, but clear enough. He listened to them, started to turn his horse, and then hesitated. He must know. Marie must never marry a thief, a rustler. He rode forward toward the old corral. And it was empty.
The sun that was to rise upon battle at Riley's ranch, that was to shine upon death along Dark Canyon Plateau, had not yet risen. The morning was gray with the light that precedes the sun, but it was light enough to see that not only was the old corral empty, but that it showed no evidence of being used in many months.
Dark Canyon (1963) Page 11
