“Please don’t! You’re hurting me!” She rubbed her wrist as he released it. “Why, it was nothing at all!” She spoke carelessly. “I get so restless here, so I took a walk over by that old mill, it is so quiet and peaceful there, and I met a man. He was very polite.
“Actually, he was just watering his horse there at the millpond, and he asked me if I wasn’t living at Em Shipton’s. I told him I was, and he asked me to tell Henry Childs that Tarran Kopp was back.”
Mark Brewer got to his feet. “He said Kopp was back? What did he look like?”
“Oh, he was just a man. As tall as you, 1 think, but spare. He was riding a black horse.”
The horse Jed Blue had been riding was a blue roan. “This changes everything,” Brewer muttered, talking more to himself than her.
“Who is Tarran Kopp? What is he?”
“Oh, he was just an outlaw who was active out here fifteen or twenty years ago. It’s believed he was the one who robbed those wagons you’ve heard about.” He turned toward the door. “Look, if Henry Childs comes in, tell him what you just told me, will you? And tell him I need to see him.”
Before noon, Rod Morgan reached the basin. After lying among the rocks for about twenty minutes while studying the terrain to be sure he was unobserved, he went down to the edge of the pool and, putting his rifle down beside him, he began to cast with the heavy iron hook. He would cast the hook as far out as possible, let it sink to the bottom, and slowly drag it back to him. He worked steadily, tirelessly, taking occasional breaks to study the country around.
He was well into his third hour, without finding anything but broken branches or moss, when the hook snagged on something. Twice it slid off before it held, and then hand over hand he drew in his catch. A wagon tire! An iron wagon tire, showing evidence of having been subjected to heat. So then, they must have burned the wagons, thrown the metal parts into the pool, and… what about the gold?
He was squatting beside the wagon tire when he heard the sharp, ugly bark of a rifle. He hit the ground in a dive from his squat, grabbed his rifle, and rolled over behind a rock. He was lying, waiting for another shot, when he realized the bullet had come nowhere near him. Starting to lift his head he heard two more shots, quick, sharp, fired only a breath apart. Stones rattled, a larger one plopped into the basin, and then Rod caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s body falling. There was a terrific splash, and the body sank from sight. Peering up, he saw a shadowy outline, a man’s figure, atop the cliff peering down. Then the shadow disappeared and, jerking off his boots and gunbelt, Morgan went into the water.
Its icy chill wrenched a gasp from his throat, and then he saw the body, only it was not merely a body but a man, still struggling to live. Diving low, he slipped an arm around the man’s body and struck out for the surface. It was a struggle to get him to the surface and out upon the shore, and the man was bleeding badly. It was Josh Shipton, and one look at the wound in his side and Rod knew there was no chance.
Shipton’s lids fluttered. “B—Brew—Brewer dry-gul—dry-gulched me.” He waved a feeble arm. “Childs—gold—Childs.” He seemed to be trying to point toward the graves; or was it only one grave? Brewer had killed him, but what had he been trying to say? At what had he pointed? Or was it only a wild gesture from a dying man? Horse’s hoofs pounded on the sod, a racing horse. Rod wheeled, rifle ready. It was Jed Blue.
“You all right? I heard shots.” Then he saw Shipton. “Aha. So Brewer got him.”
“How did you know that?”
Blue explained what Lorna had told him, and what she overheard. He also added the bit about Mark Brewer’s shoulder holster. “What made Childs so afraid of Shipton?”
“They were afraid of what he knew. Shipton knew all three of the men buried there, and if he saw Henry Childs he would smell a rat, and rat is right.”
“What do you mean?” Shipton was trying to point at one of the graves. The grave of Harry Kidd.”
“Kidd? Childs? Are you telling me Kidd didn’t die? That there’s nobody in that grave?”
“Kidd murdered the other two, cached the gold, marked the graves so people would grow superstitious about them, then left the country. Coming back later, he started a ranch and helped spread the stories about the ghosts of Buckskin Run.”
“Smart,” Rod admitted.
“Except for one thing. He accused the wrong man of the murders. He spread the story around that the three had been killed and the gold stolen by Tarran Kopp.
“Kopp killed a few men here and there, but all in fair fights. He never murdered a man in his life, and that story made him mad. I know, because I am Tarran Kopp.”
From far down the canyon they heard a thunder of racing hoofs, a wild cry, and then a shot. Both men turned, rifles lifting. A small black horse was coming toward them on a dead run, and they could see a girl’s long hair streaming in the wind. Behind her, still some distance away, a tight group of racing horsemen.
“It s Lorna!” Rod said. “And the Block C riders!”
Dropping to one knee, he opened up with his Winchester. A rider threw up his arms and dropped from his horse, and the group split, scattering out across the small plain. The black horse swung in toward their position and was reined in. Lorna slid from the horse’s back into Rod’s arms. The black horse wheeled and raced off a few yards, tossing its head with excitement.
“Never figured on making a stand here,” Rod said. “Jed? Have you got enough ammunition?”
“Plenty. How about you?”
“The same… there’s one behind that spruce! He fired as he spoke and the man cried out, staggering into the open where a bullet from Jed put him down. Bullets spattered on the rocks around them, but their position in the small basin around the pool was excellent. A man could stand erect alongside the pool and still be under cover. A ring of boulders almost surrounded the pool, and a stream of them fanned out downslope from them where the attackers were.
Rod turned to Lorna. “Can you fire a rifle?”
“Just give me a chance! My father taught me to shoot when I was a little girl. Only, I—I never shot a man.”
“You won’t get much chance here. Those boys are pretty well snuckered down now, and they aren’t about to get themselves killed. Just fire a shot in that general direction once in awhile. “Jed, I’m going to circle around and try to get whoever is leading this bunch. My guess is it will be Brewer.”
“Or Childs. Don’t forget him.” Rod slid back to lower ground, wormed his way through some brush, and descended into a small wash. All of this was on land he claimed, and over which he had ridden many times. He knew every inch of it. There had been no more than eight or ten men in the original group, and at least two were out of action. Unless he was mistaken, the Block C boys had enough. Their loyalty was largely money loyalty, and nobody wants to die for a dollar, at least nobody in his right mind.
He moved swiftly and silently along the sandy bottom, his boots making no sound in the soft sand. He was rounding a boulder when he heard a voice. It was Mark Brewer.
“Think we’ve got ‘em, Henry?”
“Got ‘em’ Oh, sure! We’ll finish them off, send the boys home, and dig up that gold. It’s high time we dug it up. Something always kept me from going after it before. Price on gold has gone up, so we’ll have more money, Mark.”
“You mean,” Brewer’s voice was so low Rod could scarcely hear, “I’ll have more!”
Through an opening in the rocks, Rod could see them now. He saw the surprise and shock on Childs’s face turn to horror as Brewer drew a gun on him. “Very simple, Henry. I’ve been waiting for this chance. I’ll have it all for myself, and everybody will blame Morgan and Kopp for killing you.”
Childs’s hand went to his holster, but it was empty. “Don’t bother, Henry. I’m making it easy for you. I lifted your gun then waited until your rifle was empty. Now I’ll kill you, let the boys finish off Morgan and Kopp, and I get the gold.”
The two men faced each other
across ten feet of green grass, cut off from view of the Block C riders by trees and boulders and over fifty yards of distance. Childs’s small mouth tightened until it was scarcely visible.
He was sullen and wary. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ve had it coming. I murdered good men for that gold and never got’ a penny’s worth of it. Now you’ll murder me. Of course, we’re going out together.” His hand flashed in movement, and Mark Brewer’s .44 roared. Childs swayed like a tree in the wind but kept his feet. In the palm of his hand was a small derringer. He fired, and then again. Brewer’s gun was roaring, but his last bullets were kicking up sand at Childs’s feet. He went to his knees, then down to his face in the bloody sand.
Childs said, “I had a hideout gun, too, Mark. I was half expect—“ He put out a hand for support that was not there. Then he fell, sprawling on the grass. Rod hurried to him. His eves flared open. “You got a mighty pretty girl there, son,” he said. The two-barreled derringer slipped from his fingers and he was dead.
Rod stood for a moment, staring down at him. Without the stolen money the man had done well. He had built a ranch, fine herds of’cattle, earned the respect of his community, and all for nothing. The old murders had ridden him to his death. Rod walked around the bodies and through the trees. When he got where he could see the Block C riders he lifted his rifle.
“Drop your guns, boys! The war’s over! Childs and Brewer just killed each other.”
Jeff Cordell dropped his gun. “Damned if they didn’t have it coming.” He paused. “Mind if we look?”
“Come on, but don’t get any fancy notions. Too many men have died already.”
The Block C riders trooped over, and stood looking down at the derringer that had slipped from his fingers.
“Mark always said he never carried a gun except when he was out in the hills like this. He stooped and flipped back Brewer’s coat to reveal the shoulder holster.
“His kind always want an edge.” Cordell started to turn away.
“You can take them along, Jeff. Take ‘em back down to Cordova and tell them the truth.”
“Why not? All right, boys, let’s clean up the mess.”
When they were gone, Tarran Kopp came out of the trees. Lorna was with him.
“We could have buried ‘em where they fell,” Kopp said.
Rod shrugged. “Maybe, but I want no more ghosts in Buckskin Run.” He glanced around at Kopp. “What name are you using from now on? If we’re going to be partners I’d better know.”
“Jed Blue. Tarran Kopp’s a legend, He’s from the past; let him stay there.”
They walked away together to their horses. We’d better dig up that gold, once for all. We can buy cattle, fix up a place for you all, and I’ll take the old cabin.” He glanced slyly at Rod. “You know where it is?”
“Where you’d expect to find it. Buried in the grave of Harry Kidd.”
Together, they rode back down the trail to the cabin on Buckskin Run.
Jed Blue looked around at them, pointing at the cabin. “I never had no home before,” he said, “but that’s home. We’re a-comin’ home.”
McNELLY KNOWS A RANGER
He rode up to Miller’s Crossing just after sundown and stopped at the stage station. Stepping down from the saddle he stood for a moment, taking in the street, the storefronts, and the lighted saloons. Turning abruptly he crossed the boardwalk into a saloon. The bartender looked up, swallowed hard, and then turned quickly to polishing the back bar. The loafers at the tables glanced at each other, and one picked up a deck of cards and began riffling them nervously.
Bowdrie’s question warned them they had not been mistaken. “Where’ll I find Noah Whipple?”
The bartender’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “He—they—they shot him.”
“Killed?” Bowdrie’s eyes were cold. The bartender swallowed again and shifted his feet uncomfortably, staring in fascination at the man with the dimplelike scar under the cheekbone below his right eye. “It was Aaron Fobes done it, Mr. Bowdrie. He’s one o’ the Ballards.” Bowdrie stood silent, waiting.
“About two this afternoon. They come ridin’ in, five of them. Four got down an’ come in here. The other’n stayed by the horses. They looked to be a purty salty outfit. They’d been ridin’ hard by the look of the horses.
“They took a quick look around when they come in and paid no attention after. They seen everything with that first look. We all knew who they was, even without that holdup over at Benton where they killed the cashier. Everybody knows the Ballards are ridin’ again and there ain’t two gangs alike.
“The tall one I spotted right off. Had a blaze of white hair over his temple. That would be Clyde Ballard. He’s a known man in Texas, from the Rio Grande to the Cimarron.
“The tall gent with the towhead, that would be Cousin Northup, and the slim, dark-faced youngster was Tom Ballard. The other two was Aaron Fobes and Luther Doyle.”
“You seem to know them pretty well,” Bowdrie commented. “Tell me more.”
“Noah, he come in here three or four minutes before the Ballards got here. You maybe know about Noah. He was a good man, no trouble to anybody, but Noah was a talker. He hadn’t paid no attention when the Ballards came in, just a glance and he went on talkin’.
“ ‘Feller come through last night an’ said the Ballards was ridin’ again. Used to know that Fobes up in the Nation.’ We tried to catch his eye but there was no stoppin’ him. ‘That Fobes,’ he says, ‘never was no account. Poison mean, he was, even then.
“ ‘Time’s a-comin’ when they won’t let thieves like that ride around the country robbin’ decent people.’ Noah was just talkin’ like he always done but Fobes was right there to hear him. Fobes tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You talk too much, stranger,’ he said, speakin’ kind of low and mean.”
Chick Bowdrie listened, seeing the scene all too clearly, and the inevitable ending. That was Noah, all right, always talking, meaning no harm to anybody, a decent, hardworking man with a family. At least, there was Joanie. Thinking of her his face tightened and he felt empty and kind of sick inside. “Fobes, he said to Noah that maybe he’d like to stop the Ballards from ridin’ the country? Maybe he’d like to try stoppin’ them himself?.
“Well, you know Noah. He might have been a talker but he was no coward. ‘Maybe I would,’ Whipple says. ‘This country should be made safe for honest people.’
“Clyde Ballard put in then. ‘Forget it, Aaron. He didn’t know what he was sayin’. Let’s ride.’ Tom Ballard, he started for the door, Northup followin’. Noah Whipple thought it was all over, an’ he dropped his hand.
“He never should have done it, but Noah was a habity man. He was reachin’ for a chaw. He chawed tobacco, an’ especially when he was nervous or bothered by somethin’. He reached for his tobacco an’ Aaron shot him.
“It happened so quick nobody had time to move or speak. Clyde Ballard swore, and then they made a run for their horses and rode off. Noah was dead on the floor, drilled right through the heart, and him not wearin’ no gun.”
Chick was silent. He looked at the rye whiskey in his glass and thought of Joanie. Only a few months before he had ridden up to their ranch as close to death as a man is apt to get, with three bullet holes in him and having lost a great deal of blood, Joanie had helped him from his horse and she and Noah had gotten him inside, then nursed him back to health. When able to ride again he had started helping around the ranch. He had not yet become a Ranger and the Whipples needed help.
There was only Noah, his wife, and Joanie. They had two old cowhands but they were not much help with the rough stock. Ranching folks weren’t inclined to ask questions of those who drifted around the country. You took a man for what he was and gave him the benefit of the doubt as long as he did his share and shaped up right. Hard-faed young men wearing two tied-down guns weren’t seen around very much, even in that country. Names didn’t count for much and both Whipple and Joanie knew that any man wearing two g
uns was either a man who needed them or a plain damned fool. He never told them his name. To them he was simply Chick. Noah and his wife treated him like a son, and Joanie like a brother, most of the time.
It had taken him a while to regain his strength but as soon as he was able to get around he started helping, and he had always been a first-rate cowhand.
Bowdrie walked outside the saloon and stood there on the street. He knew what he had to do, and nobody had to ask his intentions. It was the kind of a country where if you worked with
a man and ate his bread, you bought some of his troubles, too. The townspeople remembered him as a young cowhand who had worked for Noah, and they also knew he had come into the country in a dying condition from bullet wounds. Why or how he obtained the wounds, nobody ever asked, although curiosity was a festering thing. He tightened his cinch, stepped back into the leather, and rode out of town.
Two days later Bowdrie rode back to Miller’s Crossing. Folks working around town saw him ride in and they noted the brightness of the new Winchester he was carrying. Bill Anniston, who ranched a small spread not far from the Whipples’, was standing on the steps of the stage station when Bowdrie rode up. He had ridden with Bill on a roundup when the two outfits were gathering cattle.
“Bill, I’d take it as a favor if you’d ride over to the Whipples’ an’ see if they’re all right.” Bowdrie paused, rubbing the neck of the hammerhead roan. “I joined up with McNelly. I’m ridin’ with the Rangers now.”
“You goin’ after the Ballards?”
“Time somebody did. McNelly said he’d send some men as soon as they finished what they were doin’, but I told him I didn’t figure I’d need no help.”
As he rode away Bowdrie heard someone say, “’I wonder why McNelly would take on a kid like that?”
Bill Anniston replied, “McNelly doesn’t make mistakes. He knew what he was doing. Believe me, I’ve ridden with that boy and he’s brush-wise and mountain-smart. He’s no flat country yearlin’!”
Bowdrie rode south into the rough country. The wicked-looking hammerhead roan was a good horse on a long trail, a better horse than the Ballards would have. The roan liked to travel and he had a taste for rough country, a hangover from his wild mustang days. The Ballards had not expected to be followed and their trail was plain enough. Once in a while they made a pass at hiding their trail, but nothing that would even slow Bowdrie’s pace. It was not new country to him although he had ridden it but once before. South and west were some hills known locally as the Highbinders, a rough, broken country loved by Comanches because there was not a trail approaching them that could not be watched and there was ample water if one knew where to look.
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