Beyond the corral there was a slight slope, covered with aspen. Some small movement drew his eyes to that slope as Martin Hardcastle stepped from among the trees, holding a Winchester.
"You turned me off, Shattuck," he said hoarsely. "You made light of me. You held me as unfit to marry your niece."
Dan Shattuck looked into Hardcastle's eyes with a fine contempt "Of course, Hardcastle," he said quietly. "Of course. My niece has a mind of her own, and she will marry whoever she wishes, but certainly not you. You've run a saloon, you've trafficked in women. You're no fit man for any decent girl. You should have known better' than to ask."
"I'll have her," Hardcastle said, "one way or another. Without you, there ain't nobody to stand in my way, and you'll be dead."
Shattuck measured the time in his mind. How far could he draw a gun before the bullet struck him? He had never been a fast man with a gun . . . he would have to be now.
"You're mistaken." He watched, hoping the gun muzzle would dip or sway to give him an added chance. "My niece is in love with young Riley. If you weren't so blindly concerned with yourself you'd have seen that."
"Riley?" Hardcastle was astonished. "That kid? You're crazy!"
Shattuck shrugged ever so slightly, and managed to move his hand an inch closer to the gun butt. "She told me so herself," he lied, "and she's up there at the ranch with him now."
"She'll be killed! There's going to be a raid on the ranch!"
Shattuck said nothing, but inched his hand back a bit farther. His mouth was dry, but his eyes never wavered from Hardcastle.
"I'll have her," Hardcastle said again. "Strat will kill Riley, and I'll have her."
"You'll have to kill Ed Larsen and Sampson McCarty too," Shattuck said. "They'll not allow such a thing to happen."
"Like hell! I-"
Dan Shattuck made his try. His hand swept back, grasping the gun butt, but even as his fingers closed around the butt he felt the shock of the bullet, and fell with the whip of another one near his skull. He hit the ground and lay still, not quite unconscious.
Hardcastle walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle, glancing at the still figure that lay upon the ground, and at the dark stain of the blood.
"If you aren't dead yet," he said, "you soon will be."
He reined his horse around, holding the rifle ready, but there was no stirring of the muscles, no flicker of movement. He half lifted the rifle for another shot, but why? The man was dead.
He stared at the body, feeling the stirring of triumph. The damned old fool-to try to stand in the way of Martin Hardcastle! He heard the sound of the running horse, and turned in shocked surprise. Even before he saw the horse itself, he caught a glimpse of the Mexican sombrero.
Pico!
He had forgotten Pico.
He jacked a shell into the chamber and lifted the rifle, ready for a quick shot.
Pico swept into the open at a dead run. Hard-castle's rifle leaped up and he fired-a wide miss. He swung his horse, lifted the rifle again, and saw Pico charging at him.
He was no such rider as the vaquero, no such shot. He fired, but not quickly enough. The Mexican was riding right at him and suddenly, when not ten feet separated them, Pico's pistol began to blossom with crimson blasts of fire.
Hardcastle never even got another cartridge into the chamber, for the Mexican was too close. Holding his pistol low, Pico triggered the gun three times into Hardcastle's belly.
Martin Hardcastle felt the solid blows, trip-hammer blows in the belly, and he felt himself falling. He grabbed wildly at the pommel, but his horse was racing away, burned by one of the bullets. Hardcastle's shoulders hit the ground, his foot still caught in the stirrup.
The plunging horse raced through a patch of dead brush, Hardcastle's body bounding alongside. On through a patch of small rocks, over a stretch of lava. For a quarter of a mile Hardcastle's heavy body bounced and smashed against brush and rocks, and then his boot pulled off, releasing his foot. Even now he was still conscious, still aware.
The horse's hoofs clattered upon rocks, pounded upon earth, and then it was gone.
Martin Hardcastle lay torn and bleeding, his body raw and lacerated, and in his belly the holes of three bullets, one of which had gone on to nick his spine.
An hour later, unable to move, his body one vast ocean of pain, he saw the first buzzard in the sky. It swung in a wide, lazy circle.
And then there were two.
Chapter 16
Gaylord Riley looked around, taking stock. So much had happened in so short a time. There were the bodies of two men to be moved; undoubtedly others lay out in the brush.
The others emerged, and Cruz walked toward the house. Doc Beaman checked the bodies of the fallen men, then followed Cruz inside. Nobody said anything, nobody felt like talking. Tell Sackett, who was leaving, went to the corral to catch up his horse. Marie had gone. She had ridden off with McCarty. Colburn and Parrish went out to where Nick Valenti lay. "Knew him down on the Brazos, years ago," Parrish commented. "Never was any good. Spooner an' him, they've run together for years." They had begun to dig graves when they heard the sound of horses. Riley came out, easing his pistol in its holster.
It was Pico, and seated on another horse was Dan Shattuck. "The doctor is here? He is hurt . . . bad." They got Shattuck inside, and Doc Beaman got busy again. For a while it was touch and go; but Beaman was a good doctor, and Shattuck was a strong man. After a time the doctor came out with a satisfied look on his face. "He'll live," he said. Riley stood beside the corral while Sackett saddled his horse. "If you're this way again, stop by."
Sackett accepted his wages. "I might be," he said. "I'm a drifting man."
It was mid-morning before Ed Larsen rode into the ranch yard. He turned in his saddle, looking around. There was little to see. The bodies had been taken to their gravesides, the patches of blood covered with fresh sand.
Riley went out to meet him and, as carefully as possible, explained what had happened. Doc Beaman stood beside him, listening. At last he said, "That's the way it was, Ed. They were attacked and they defended themselves."
When Larsen had ridden on toward the corrals, Doc Beaman said, "That man in there . . . he died." Riley could only stare at him, for he had no words. Weaver dead . . . in a way he had expected it. That wound had gone too long without care. At least, he was out of it.
Sheriff Larsen glanced slowly around, then dismounted. "I could drink coffee," he said, and followed them into the house.
Holding a cup in his hands he glanced over at Colburn. "The last time I saw you I worked in, a store in Dodge. You rode for Pierce . . . came over the trail with him. You hadt the name of being a goot hand." He tasted his coffee, and glanced at Cruz with respect. "I chudge a man by his actions," he said.
When he was gone, Colburn looked after him, then smiled and said, "Riley, I never thought I'd really like a sheriff!"
Jim Colburn walked to the door with Riley. "All right, Lord," he said, at last, "we will stay . . . as long as we cause you no trouble."
"This will end it," Riley said.
"Then one last order from your old boss. Go see that girl, and don't waste time. Go now!"
Strat Spooner was, a careful man and he knew the penalty for molesting a woman in western country. But the time for thinking reasonably was past, for he was a man obsessed.
Moreover, with the country in a turmoil over the raid on the 5B, with the drifters leaving the country in all directions, it would be difficult if not impossible to say which one of so many had done what he planned to do at the Shattuck ranch.
He took his time, keeping to low country and utilizing every bit of cover, for he did not wish to be seen at all. Yet he made no effort to cover his tracks until he rode on the range that was claimed by Dan Shattuck. Once, from the shoulder of Horse Mountain, he saw Marie. She was riding with someone in a black coat, which could only mean Sampson McCarty or the doctor. And the chances were they would ride on toward town when she tur
ned off to follow the trail to the Lazy S.
He checked his guns again. There was little to worry about. At this time of year Shattuck usually had only two hands aside from Pico. They would be miles away, over on the Horsehead where Shattuck ran most of his cattle.
The old cook was sure to be there, but he would offer no opposition.
From a hilltop near the ranch, Strat Spooner sat and smoked, watching the place. He saw Marie arrive alone, saw the cook come to the door to throw out some water, but after an hour he had seen nobody else. At this time of day, if anyone was on the place they would surely be moving around. He got to his feet, brushing off his pants.
He would go down there like he was riding the grub line. Nobody in the West ever turned down a hungry man. Once inside, the rest would be easy, and he would know in a few minutes if anyone else was around.
He felt oddly excited, but nervous too. His mouth was dry and he kept wetting his lips. He turned several times to look all around, but he saw no one. He rode into the ranch yard at a walk, eyes alert for any movement.
He knew the favorite horses of both Dan Shattuck and Pico, and both were gone.
He tied his horse with a slip knot and went up to the kitchen door, which stood open. He thrust his head into the door. "How's for some coffee?"
He looked past the cook at the open door that led to the rest of the house. From inside he heard faint stirrings of sound.
Baldwin, who had cooked for Dan Shattuck ever since they left Baltimore together, was frightened. He knew Strat Spooner, and knew that, while any man might stop for a bite to eat, it was highly unlikely that Strat would stop, knowing how he was regarded on the Lazy S.
"Just in time," Baldwin said quietly. He filled a cup, and was surprised to see that his hand was trembling.
The old Negro was shrewd, and he realized that Spooner had not come here by accident. Moreover, he had arrived only a few minutes after Miss Marie had come in.
He placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table and a large slab of apple pie. He did not like Spooner, but the apple pie might put him in a pleasant mood, and might get him out of here. Mr. Shattuck and Pico had left hours ago . . . no telling when they would be back.
Strat Spooner sat down and picked up the coffee cup. His ears were alert to the slightest sound from the other part of the house, and he was sure only one person was there-at least, only one who moved about.
The kitchen was a spacious room; the adjoining room was the dining room where the crew ate, and Shattuck and his niece as well when they were not entertaining guests. Suddenly, he heard the sound of quick, light steps in the hall, and Marie came into the kitchen.
She stopped abruptly, chilled by fear. Strat Spooner, after what had happened upon the trail, would never dare come here unless certain she was alone.
"Howdy, ma'am," he said easily. "Glad to see you lookin' so well."
Fighting a desire to turn and run, she said "Ned, Uncle Dan will be back soon. You'd best prepare dinner for Pico too."
"That Riley feller had fighting friends," Spooner commented. "I never figured he was so much himself."
"Don't ever be foolish enough to try him," she replied coldly.
"Glad Shattuck and that Mexican ain't to home. That was the one thing had me puzzled."
Ned Baldwin regretted for the first time that he kept no gun in the kitchen. There never had been need for one, and he was not a man who liked guns, although he knew how to use one.
Marie turned as if to walk into the other part of the house, but Strat's voice stopped her. "Don't be in a hurry, Marie," he said. "I ain't through talking." "I have nothing to say to you," she replied.
"Set down," he said, indicating the seat opposite him. "Might as well join me."
Baldwin cleared his throat. "You finish your coffee, Spooner," he said, "and get out of here." A large butcher knife lay on the cutting board and he turned sharply toward it.
Without rising, Strat Spooner swung a backhand blow with the heavy white crockery cup and struck the old Negro on the temple. He dropped as if shot.
Marie ran to the old man, her face stricken. "You -you've killed him!"
"I doubt it." Spooner took out the makings and began to build a cigarette while he watched them. Then reaching out swiftly, he caught her arm and jerked her to her feet, and thrust her into the hall that led to the living room. Spurs jingling, he pushed her ahead of him, then threw her from him to a divan.
"No use to make any fuss," he said, drawing on his cigarette. "It ain't going to do you a mite of good." He flicked the ash from his cigarette and grinned insolently. "An' you'd better hope nobody comes. I'd only have to kill them."
"Pico will be coming!"
"That Mex don't worry me none." He crossed the room and took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard, and two glasses. He filled the glasses, put down the bottle, and handed a glass to her. "Here, have a drink. An' don't say I ain't generous."
"I don't drink."
Spooner was enjoying himself, but his eyes kept straying toward the windows. He was not going to hurry this, nor was he going to be surprised.
"Have one anyway."
"No!"
The amused smile left his lips. "You take it, and you drink! Otherwise I'll force it down you."
She took the glass, then deliberately she threw the whiskey at his eyes; but he had been expecting some such move and struck her hand. She would not have believed a big man could move so swiftly. He knocked the glass from her hand, then slapped her with his open palm.
The blow brought her to her knees, but almost instantly she was on her feet, her head ringing with the force of the blow. Quickly, she put the table between them. Picking up the bottle he took another drink; then, smiling, he reached over to the table and pushed it slowly toward the wall. There was no place to go, and there was no weapon in the room.
And then they both heard a walking horse outside.
Spooner swore and, drawing his gun, stepped quickly to the side of a window. Then he laughed. A riderless horse stood in the yard, and it was Dan Shattuck's horse.
Pico, in taking Shattuck to the Riley ranch, had caught the nearest horse, which happened to be Hardcastle's. Left alone, Shattuck's horse had returned home.
Spooner turned back to the room. "Honey, you'd better be nice to Strat. Your uncle ain't comin' home. That was his horse, and there's blood on the saddle."
Unmindful of Spooner, she ran to the window and caught back the curtain. One rein was hung around the pommel, the other dragged on the ground. There was blood on the saddle, and some across the side of the horse.
A floor board creaked and she dodged away just in time, for Spooner was almost upon her. Swiftly she moved away, turning a chair into his path. He stopped for another drink, took it while watching her with an amused smile, and came on. . . .
Gaylord Riley had also seen the riderless horse, and recognized it. He slowed up, wondering what to tell Marie about her uncle. His horse was walking in from the woods, and not on the main trail, and an instant before he entered the yard he saw Strat Spooner's horse.
He remembered the horse clearly from the attack that morning, and Kehoe had told him about the scene he had interrupted at the creek.
In an instant he was on the ground and was walking swiftly toward the kitchen door, his eyes shifting from window to window. The door was closed, but easing. it gently open, he saw the cook lying on the floor, his head bloody from a lacerated scalp.
From the living room he heard a man's low chuckle, and then a sudden scurry of movement. Tiptoeing to the door, he saw Spooner standing facing Marie, half turned toward him.
There was fear in Marie's eyes, the fear of a trapped animal. Seeing it, Riley felt something rise inside him, a feeling he had felt to that same degree since the night those men had killed his father.
"Hello, Strat," he said.
Marie gasped, and Strat's shoulders bunched as if he had been struck. The big gunman turned slowly, looking at Riley, then beyond him.
Riley was alone.
"Hello, kid." Spooner knew what he was going to do, and he was completely at ease. "Ready to die?" Taking a quick step, Spooner put himself behind Marie, with the girl directly in Riley's line of fire. But even as he stepped, she divined his purpose. As Spooner's hand swept down for his gun, she dropped to the floor.
Gaylord Riley felt a coldness within him, an utter stillness. He took a quick, light step to the left, putting Marie still more out of the line of fire, and as he moved, he palmed his gun and fired.
Spooner's bullet burned his neck. He felt the sharp lash of it as he fired. Hip high, his elbow at the hip, the muzzle of his gun ever so slightly turned inward toward the center of Spooner's body, he fired again. He felt a wicked blow on his leg and it started to buckle as he fired his third shot. The bullet struck Spooner's gun, glancing upward, ripping a wide gash in his throat under his chin and ear.
Strat Spooner backed up slowly, blinking his eyes, trying to steady his gun for a final shot. He was hurt, but he had no idea how badly. Eyes wild and terrible, he tried to steady his gun for a final shot.
Riley crumpled to the floor, felt the whip of a bullet by his face and, rolling back on his elbow, he triggered his gun as fast as he could draw back the hammer. The roar of the concussions filled the room, then the hammer clicked on an empty shell. Splinters stung Riley's cheek and his eardrums went dead with the crash of a bullet into the floor alongside him.
Hurling his gun, Riley dove for Spooner's legs and brought him down in a heap. Rolling over, he saw Spooner, his face and throat covered with blood, grabbing for his eyes with rigid fingers. Striking the hands aside, Riley struck the gunman in the face with his fist, but he seemed invulnerable.
He lunged at Riley, and Riley rolled away from him, then came up to his knees. His hand swept back and grabbed the neck of the bottle behind him. He swung the bottle, a wide-arm swing with all his force, and it smashed against Spooner's skull, shattering glass.
Spooner slumped over on his face, struggled to get his hands under himself, and then, staring at Riley with wide eyes, he said, "Brazos . . . I know you now. That two-by-four kid from the Brazos!"
Dark Canyon (1963) Page 12
