Weisl shrugged. “Why not? There will be enough for both.”
Ned Weisl did not return to the cabin, so Rod had gone looking for him. He did not distrust the little man, but he was worried. He found Ned Weisl—dead. He had been shot in the back. Rod Morgan knew they believed him guilty of the murder, as well as of the killing of Ad Tolbert. No one accused him, although veiled references were made. Only today, on the trail, had he been directly accused. He had ridden through the bottleneck and down to the stage trail, intending to ask the driver to let him know when Lorna arrived, although she could scarcely have had his letter by now.
The five riders had been about to enter the bottleneck. Jeff Cordell was leading, and one of the men with him was Reuben Hart, who had the name of being a bad man with a gun. He was the man Morgan watched.
“Howdy,” he said.
“We’re hunting strays,” Cordell said. We thought we’d come in and look you over.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“We’re tellin’ you. We don’t need to ask.”
“Then you’ve gone as far as you go. No cattle have come in here but my own. I’ve fenced the neck, so nothing can come in or out unless they open the gate. Any time you want a look around, just come and ask me when I’m home.”
“We’re going in now,” Cordell said, “and if you’re smart you’ll stand aside.”
“Im not smart,” Rod Morgan said, waiting. Inside he was on edge, poised for trouble. “I’m the kind of man who would make you ride in over at least three dead bodies. You decide if what you’re doing is worth it.”
Cordell hesitated. He was no fool, and Rod Morgan had already proved a surprise to both Bob Carr and Ad Tolbert. Cordell was a poker player, and Rod Morgan looked like he was holding a pat hand. He believed he could tell when a man was bluffing, and he did not believe Morgan was. He was also aware that if anybody died it was almost sure to be him.
“Let me take him.” Reuben Hart shoved his horse to the fore. “I’ve never liked you, Morgan, and I believe you’re bluffing, and I believe you’re yellow!”
Reuben went for his gun as he spoke, and Reuben was a fast man. Cordell and the others were cowhands, not gunfighters. They could handle their guns, but were not in the class of Reuben or Dally Hart. Very quickly they realized they were not in the class of Rod Morgan, either, for he had drawn and fired so fast that his bullet hit Reuben even as that gunman’s pistol cleared leather. Reuben slid from the saddle and sprawled on the ground, and Rod Morgan was looking over his pistol at them.
Jeff Cordell noticed another thing. Morgan’s gray mustang stood rock still when Morgan fired, and he knew his own bronc would not do that. Jeff Cordell put both hands on the pommel of the saddle. For a man with a horse like that and a drawn pistol, killing the rest of them would be like shooting ducks in a barrel. The arrival of the stage saved their faces, and they loaded Hart into the saddle and headed for the home ranch.
Andy Shank expressed an opinion they were all beginning to share. “You know,” Shank said, when they had ridden a couple of miles, “I believe that gent intends to stay.” Nobody said anything but Andy was not easily squelched. “Anyway,” he added, “he seemed right serious about it.”
But Andy had never liked Reuben Hart, anyway. “He’ll stay,” Cordell’s tone was grim. “Reub was never the gunhand Dally is, and Dally will be riding to Buckskin Run.”
Back on the ranch, Rod Morgan stripped the saddle from the gray and turned it into the corral. Carrying the saddle into the log barn, he threw it over a rail. Alone in the barn, he stood for a moment in the shadowed stillness. He had killed a man. It was not something he liked to think about. There had been no need to look his place over for strays. It was fenced at the opening and there was nowhere else a steer could get into the canyon. Nor did the Block C have any cattle running in the area. It was purely a trouble-making venture. They knew it, and so did he.
His cabin was silent. He stood inside the door and looked around. He had built well. It had four rooms, plank floors, good, solid, squared-off logs, and windows with a view. Would Lorna like it? Would she like Buckskin Run? Or would she be afraid’ Standing in the open door he looked back toward the bottleneck, a good six hundred yards away. Green grass rolled under the slight wind, and the run, about fifty yards from the house, could be plainly heard. The high rock walls made twilight come early, but the canyon was beautiful in any light.
He closed the door and began preparing his supper. He knew what would come now, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it but run, and he would not, he could not do that. All he had was here. His hopes, his dreams, all the money he had been able to get together, all his hard work. The people he had talked to had told him about the Harts, watching his expression as they told him. Now that he had killed Reuben, there was no way he could avoid trouble with Dally. He hoped that would end it. And it surely would, for one or both of them.
The Block C had been against him from the start, and he had no idea why. Were they always so clannish against strangers? Were they offended by his refusing a job? His thoughts returned to his talk with Ned Weisl. He had liked the little man, but he had brought questions. Who had killed the three men from Nevada? What had become of their wagons? What had become of their gold? And what became of the killers themselves?
A few things he had learned. Several of the stories about him, other than those from the malicious tongue of Em Shipton, had come from the Block C, apparently from Henry Childs, a man he had never seen. He was also aware that Mark Brewer wanted him off Buckskin Run. Brewer had even gone so far as to offer him a nice little ranch some distance from the Run, and for a very reasonable price.
He fixed the barest of meals and then sat alone to eat it, thinking of Lorna. Where was she now? Had she received his 1etter’? Would she come? Dared he bring her into all this? How would she react to what happened today, for example? In the world from which she came, the killing of one man by another was a crime, and even when done in self-defense it was somehow considered reprehensible. Yet soon all that would be over, and there would be peace on Buckskin Run. Or so he hoped.
His thoughts returned to the stories. Was there gold buried here? If so, he hoped it would soon be found, so people would stop talking about it and looking for it.
When morning came again he saddled the gray and rode to the upper end of the canyon, where a dark pool of water invited the flow down from the higher mountains. He had noticed the graves there before this, but had had no time to examine them. Yet they were tangible evidence that something had happened here in Buckskin Run. Why had Weisl been murdered? Merely to cause trouble for him? That was ridiculous. Or was the peddler dangerously close to a secret no one wanted revealed? What fantastic idea had Weisl had, there at the end?
Rod Morgan wished, desperately, that he knew. That secret might lead to the solving of the mysteries, and an end to them. He stepped down from the gray and walked over to the three graves. Side by side, and, what he had not realized, each was marked with the name of the man who lay there. Somehow he had gotten the impression their names were unknown.
NAT TENEDOU—HARRY KIDD—JOHN COONEY
“Well? What do you make of it?” Startled, he looked toward the voice and saw a man seated on a rock beyond the pool, a long, lean man with a red mustache. To have reached that place unheard he must have moved like a ghost. Rod was sure he had not been there when he dismounted from his horse.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The man jerked a thumb back toward the cliffs. “Come down from up yonder. I always intended to have a good look at this place, but I heerd you wasn’t exactly welcoming strangers.” He indicated the graves. “Knowed that Kidd. Big man. Powerful. Don’t do a man no good to be strong when a bullet hits him, I reckon.”
“What are you doing here?” The man grinned slyly. “Same as you. Lookin’ for that there gold. I doubt she was ever taken out of this canyon. And those wagons? Three big wagons. I seen ‘em.”
/> “You seem to know a lot about this.”
“Son, them days there wasn’t much went on Josh Shipton didn’t know.”
“Josh Shipton? You’re Josh Shipton?”
“I should reckon. Never heard of another. What d’you know about Josh Shipton?”
“There’s a woman in town says she was married to you.”
He sprang up so suddenly he almost slipped into the pool. “Em? You mean Em’s here? Son, don’t you go tellin’ folks you seen me. Especially not her! That woman would be the death of a man! Nag, nag, nag! Mornin’ until night.” He spat, then squinted his eyes at Rod. “She married again? That’s a marryin’ woman, that one.”
“Not yet, but I hear she has Henry Childs in mind.”
“Childs? Reckon she’d think of him. She’s money-hungry, that woman is.” He chuckled suddenly. “Hee, hee! I reckon that would serve ol’ Henry right! It surely would!”
“Do you know him?”
Shipton’s expression changed. “Me? No, I don’t know him. Heard of him.” Then he added, “He ain t safe to know.”
“He’s just a rancher, isn’t he?”
Shipton shrugged. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Some folks get powerful unpleasant about those who ask questions.”
Nothing was to be done with Shipton present, yet Rod was sure that somewhere in the vicinity of the basin he would find a clue to the mystery of Buckskin Run. Those wagons had to have gone somewhere, and it would have taken an army of men or many teams to hoist the wagons up the cliffs. That possibility seemed out of the question. As for the run itself, those cascades could not be negotiated by a canoe, let alone three large wagons.
Mounting up, he waved a hand at Shipton and rode away. The man was a puzzle, but obviously knew more than he was letting on. Could he have been around at the time? It was possible. By the time he arrived at the cabin he was sure of one thing. However those wagons had escaped, they had not come down this way. The wagons, he decided, were still there, and so was the gold.
Riding up to his cabin he swung down. Only then did he see the big, bearded man seated on the bench in front of the house.
“This looks like my day for visitors. Did you come with Shipton?”
“Shipton? You don’t mean Josh is around? Now that does beat all! Wait until Em hears!”
“I promised I wouldn’t mention it.”
“Well, I surely won’t. Any man who got away from that woman deserves his freedom, believe you me.” The man stood up. “My name’s Jed Blue. I’m an old timer here. Doubt if you heard of me, because I’ve been away for a spell. Trapped fur in this country. I come in with Carson, the first time.”
“Had anything to eat?”
Blue glanced at the height of the sun. “Reckon it’s gettin’ on to time.” He followed Morgan inside. “You’ve made a lot of enemies, son.”
“I didn’t ask for them.”
“That was a neat gun job you did on Reuben Hart. Don’t know’s I ever saw it done better.”
“You saw that? Where were you? On the stage?”
“I was. There were some other folks on it, too, including Em Shipton and a gent named Brewer. They’d been to Santa Fe, seems like.” He glanced at Morgan. “There was a girl on that stage, too. Name of Lorna Day.”
“Lorna? Here? But how — ?”
“She said she’d come on without waiting for word from you. She had nothing back where she came from. My feelin’ was she thought she’d better make the trip whilst she still had the money.”
“But why didn’t she say something? She must have seen me!”
Jed Blue was slicing some beef from a cold roast. “You got to think of her, and how it must’ve seemed. Womenfolks are different than us, and she bein’ from the East, and all.
“Em Shipton, she’d been tellin’ her what a bad hombre you were and then she comes up when you’ve just killed a man.
“That killing seemed like proof of all they’d been saying about you. She’s down to Cordova now, and I figured I’d better break the news so you can plan on what to do.” He paused. “She may not welcome you with open arms.”
“It can’t be helped. I must see her!”
“You hold on. Just think about it a mite. In the first place, she’s a mighty fetchin’ young woman, and that Brewer may have some ideas of his own. He’s a fine-lookin’ man, and one who usually gets what he wants. You’d better set down and think this through before you go in there a foggin’.
“Also, you’ve got to remember there will be folks expecting you now. They know this girl has come out to see you. Em Shipton will tell ever’body in town. So they may just be waitin’ for you, son. You’ve got to think about it.” Blue was silent for a moment and then he asked, “This here Brewer, now. Does he wear a gun? D’ you know anything about him”
“I never saw him with a gun, but I’ve only seen him once or twice.”
“I was wondering. Reminds me somewhat of a man I knew one time, a long way back.”
They were eating in silence when Rod suddenly looked up. “You didn’t ride all the way out here just to tell me about Lorna.”
Jed Blue tipped back in his chair, his huge body dwarfing the table at which they sat. “Reckon I didn’t, son. I was sort of lookin’ over the lay of the land.”
“In other words, you’re gold hunting?”
Blue chuckled, plucking at his beard. “Right on the point, ain’t you? I like that. I like a man who comes right out with it. So if I find it, what then?”
“You keep half.”
Blue laughed. “You do speak out. What if I don’t aim to give you none of it?”
Rod Morgan rested both hands on the table. He was not smiling. “Friend, I’m grateful for telling me my girl friend was in Cordova, but half of whatever you find is enough. The gold is on my land, but if you find it you keep half. You try to leave with all of it, and you’ll have to shoot your way out.”
Blue chuckled. “Of course, you might not find it so easy as with Hart. I shuck a gun pretty good myself, and I’ve had a bit more experience.” He cut a slice of beef and placed it between two pieces of bread. “What you going to do with your half.”
“Buy cattle, stock this place, fix it up a mite, than hire a few hands.”
Blue nodded approvingly. “Canny. Makes sense. Easy money is soon gone without a sensible plan.” He looked up at Rod. “Don’t want a partner, do you? I’d like to work into a setup like this, and I’m a top hand, even though I don’t look it.”
“I’d have to think about it,” Rod said. He looked at the big man again, puzzled by something he could not define. There was more to this man than there seemed on the surface, but his impression was the man would be a square shooter. “It might be a good idea,” he said, “but I wouldn’t take any man in with me who didn’t realize what he was getting into.”
“Son,” Blue said, “don’t you pay that no mind. I’ve had wool in my teeth. I’m not one to hunt trouble, but I’ve stood alone many’s the time. When I’m pushed I can back my play. You an’ me together, we could show them a thing or two.”
Rod shoved back his chair. “I’m riding to town now. Want to come along?”
Jed Blue picked his teeth with a straw. He shoved back his own chair. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “I reckon I might as well get acquainted.”
As they passed through the bottleneck Blue gestured off toward the open country. “There’s a passel of mavericks in the canyons and draws east of here. A couple of good men could build a herd real fast.”
“That’s a good way to get a chance to make hair bridles. You start that and they’d have us in a rockwalled garden.”
“No,” Blue said seriously, “most of this stock is over a year old and unbranded. It’s for anybody. A few weeks of hard work and we could make a drive, sell out, and have some working capital.”
They rode in silence, Rod preoccupied with thoughts of Lorna. It had been two years since he had seen her, but now that she was near he was excit
ed, eager to see her, but worried, too. He knew now that he wanted her more than anything in life, realizing how much he had stifled thoughts of her so he could build for their future. Now that she had come west, her mind had been poisoned against him, and she had seen him kill a man without knowing anything of what came before.
Cordova lay flat and still under a baking sun. The mountains drew back disdainfully from the desert town, leaving it to fry in its own sweat and dust. A spring wagon was receiving a load of supplies in front of the general store, and a half-dozen horses stood three-legged at the hitching rail of the Gem Saloon.
Jed Blue glanced over at Rod. “More than likely she’ll be at Em Shipton’s. It’s about the only place a decent woman can stay. Want me to ride along?”
“Wait for me at the Gem, if you can stand their whiskey.”
Turning the gray toward Em Shipton’s, he felt all tight inside. He dismounted, stalling a little bit, afraid of what Lorna might say. All his hopes, all his dreams were bound up in her. He walked up the slatted board walk and entered the boarding house. Lorna was standing at the end of the table in what seemed to be serious conversation with Mark Brewer.
“Rod! Oh, Rod!”
Yet even as he moved toward her he saw her eyes change as they fell to his gun. He took her hands. “It has been a long time, too long.”
Suddenly she seemed uncertain, she half turned from him. “Mark? Have you met Rod Morgan”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Brewer’s voice was cool, but not unfriendly. “How are you, Morgan?”
Rod nodded. She had called him Mark. “Very well, thanks.” His tone sounded less cordial than he intended.
“I am surprised to see you in town,” Brewer commented. “You know, I suppose, that Dally Hart is gunning for you?”
“Is he?”
Lorna’s hands had gone cold in his. She withdrew them gently.
“But that isn’t unusual in Cordova, is it? Hasn’t someone been gunning for me ever since I settled in Buckskin Run? And I don’t mean the Harts or any of the small fry.”
“Just who do vou mean?”
“If I knew that I’d go call on him and ask some questions. Now would you mind leaving us alone? I’d like to talk to Lorna.”
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