the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  "It is marriage I want, Mort, but not to you. Never to you. For a little while I was as bad as the others, and I believed in you. Then I saw the kind of men you had around you, how you'd deliberately led us here to use us for your own ends. No, Mort. I'm not marrying you and I'm not going away with you." She made no attempt to veil the contempt in her voice. "If you're afraid, you'd better get started. I'm going for my father."

  Suddenly, he was calm, dangerously calm. "So? It's that Rock Bannon, is it? I never thought you'd take that ignorant cowhand seriously. Or," he sneered, "is it your way of getting Bishop's Valley?"

  "Get out!" she said. "Get out now! Dad and Pagones will be here in a moment, and when I tell them what you've said, they'll kill you."

  "Kill me? Those two?" He laughed. Then his face stiffened. "All right, I'll get out, but you're coming with me!"

  He moved so swiftly she had no chance to defend herself. He stepped toward her suddenly and she saw his fist start. The shock of the blow was scarcely greater than the shock of the fact that he had struck her. Dimly, she realized he had thrown her into the saddle and was lashing her there. She thought she struggled, but she lived those moments only in a half world of consciousness, a half world soon pounded into oblivion by the drum of racing horses. . . .

  It was Satterfield who finally got Crockett from the fields. The Bishop riders were already in sight when Tom raced into his house, caught up his rifle, and called for Sharon. She was gone, and he noted that her black mare was gone. She was away, that was the main thing. With Jim, he ran out into the field, where he was joined by Pagones, his wife and daughter, and Dud Kitchen.

  The others were coming. It was a flight, and there was no time to prepare or take anything but what lay at hand. Cap Mulholland, his face sullen, went with them, his wife beside him. The Olsens and Greene joined them, and in a compact group they turned away toward the timber along the hillside.

  Lamport did not go. He had no idea that Mort Harper was gone. John Kies was in his store, awaiting the uncertain turn of events. Kies had worked with Mort before, and he trusted the younger man's skill and judgment.

  It was over. It was finished. Lamport stared cynically at the long buildings of the town. Probably it was just as well, for he would do better in the goldfields. Steady day-to-day work had never appealed to him. Pike Purcell had been an honest but misguided man. Lamport was neither. From the first he had sensed the crooked grain in the timber of Mort Harper, but he didn't care.

  Lamport felt that he was self-sufficient. He would stay in as long as the profits looked good, and he would get out when the luck turned against them. He had seen the brilliant conception of theft that had flowered in the brain of Mort Harper. He saw what owning that valley could mean.

  It was over now. He had lived and worked with Purcell, but he had no regret for the man. Long ago he had sensed that Harper would kill him someday. Of all the settlers, Lamport was the only one who had read Harper aright, perhaps because they were of the same feeling.

  Yet there was a difference. Lamport's hate was a tangible, deadly thing. Harper could hate and he could fight, but Harper was completely involved with himself. He could plot, wait, and strike like a rattler. Lamport had courage with his hate, and that was why he was not running now. He was waiting, waiting in the full knowledge of what he faced.

  His hate for Rock Bannon had begun when Bannon rode so much with Sharon. It had persisted, developing from something much deeper than any rivalry over a woman. It developed from the rivalry of two strong men, of two fighting men, each of whom recognizes in the other a worthy and dangerous foe.

  Lamport had always understood Harper. Of all those that had surrounded him, Lamport was the only one Mort Harper had feared. Pete Zapata he had always believed he could kill. Lamport was the one man with whom he avoided trouble. He even avoided conversation with him when possible. He knew Lamport was dangerous, and he knew he would face him down if it came to that.

  He was a big man, as tall as Rock Bannon, and twenty pounds heavier. When he walked, his head thrust forward somewhat and he stared at the world from pale blue eyes beneath projecting shelves of beetling brows. In his great shoulders there was a massive, slumbering power. Lamport's strength had long since made him contemptuous of other men, and his natural skill with a gun had added to that contempt. He was a man as brutal as his heavy jaw, as fierce as the light in his pale eyes.

  Surly and sullen, he made friends with no one. In the biting envy and cantankerousness of Pike Purcell he had found companionship if no more. Lamport was not a loyal man. Purcell's death meant nothing to him. He waited for Rock Bannon now, filled with hatred for the victor in the fight, the man who would win.

  Thinking back now, Lamport could see that Rock had always held the winning hand. He had known about Bishop, was akin to him, had known what awaited here. Also, from the start his assay of Harper's character had been correct.

  From the beginning, Lamport had accepted the partnership with Purcell, rode with the wagon train because it was a way west, and threw in with Harper for profit. In it all, he respected but one man, the man he was now waiting to kill.

  When he heard the horses coming, he poured another drink in the deserted bar. Somewhere around, there were three or four more men. The rest had vanished like snow in a desert sun. Hitching his guns into place, he walked to the door and out on the plank porch.

  John Kies's white face stared at him from an open window of the store.

  "Where's Mort?" Kies said. "That's them coming now."

  Lamport chuckled and spat into the dust. He scratched the stubble on his heavy jaw and grinned sardonically at Kies.

  "He's around, I reckon, or maybe he blowed out. The rest of 'em have."

  Stark fear came into the storekeeper's face. "No! No, they can't have!" he protested. "They'll have an ambush! They'll-"

  "You're crazy!" Lamport sneered. "This show is busted. You should know that. That's Bannon comin' now, and when that crowd of his gets through, there won't be one stick on another in this town."

  "But the settlers!" Kies wailed. "They'll stop him."

  Lamport grinned at him. "The settlers have took to the hills. They are gone! Me, I'm waitin' to kill Rock Bannon. Then if I can fight off his boys, I'm goin'."

  They came up the street, walking their horses. Rock was in the lead, his rifle across his saddle bows. To his right was Bat Chavez, battle hungry as always. To his left was Red, riding loosely on a paint pony. Behind them, in a mounted skirmishing line, came a dozen hard-bitten Indian- fighting plainsmen, riders for the first big cow spread north of Texas.

  A rifle shot rang out suddenly from a cabin in the back of the store, then another. A horse staggered and went down, and Bat Chavez wheeled his horse and with four riders, raced toward the cabin. The man who waited there lost his head suddenly and bolted.

  A lean blond rider in a Mexican jacket swept down on him, rope twirling. It shot out, and the horse went racing by, and the burly teamster's body was a bounding thing, leaping and tumbling through the cactus after the racing horse. Chavez swung at once, and turned back toward the saloon. The riders fanned out and started going through the town. Where they went, there were gunshots, then smoke.

  Rock Bannon saw Lamport standing on the porch. "Don't shoot!" he commanded. He walked the steel dust within twenty feet. Lamport stood on the edge of the porch, wearing two guns, his dark, dirty red wool shirt open at the neck to display a massive, hairy chest.

  "Howdy, Rock!" Lamport said. He spat into the dust. "Come to take your lickin'?"

  "To give you yours," Rock said coolly. "How do you want it?"

  "Why, I reckon we're both gun handy, Rock," Lamport said, "so I expect it'll be guns. I'd have preferred hand muckin' you, but that would scarcely give you an even break."

  "You reckon not?" Rock slid from the stallion. "Well, Lamport, I always figure to give a man what he wants. If you think you can take me with your hands, shed those guns and get started. You've bought yourself
a fight."

  Incredulous, Lamport stared at him. "You mean it?" he said, his eyes brightening.

  "Stack your duds and grease your skids, coyote!" Rock said. "It's knuckle and skull now, and free fighting if you like it!"

  "Free, he says!" A light of unholy joy gleamed in Lamport's eyes. "Free it is!"

  "Watch yourself, Boss!" Red said, low voiced. "That hombre looks like blazin' brimstone on wheels!"

  "Then we'll take off his wheels and kick the brimstone out!" Rock said. He hung his guns over the saddle horn as Bat Chavez rode around the corner.

  Lamport faced him in the dust before the saloon, a huge grizzly of a man with big iron- knuckled hands and a skin that looked like a stretched rawhide.

  "Come and get it!" he sneered, and rushed.

  As he rushed, he swung a powerful right. Rock Bannon met him halfway and lashed out with his own right. His punch was faster, and it caught the big man flush, but Lamport took it on the mouth, spat blood, and rushed in, swinging with both fists. Suddenly he caught Bannon and hurled him into the dust with such force that a cloud of dust arose. Rock rolled over like a cat, gasping for breath, and just rolled from under Lamport's driving boots as the big man tried to leap on him to stamp his life out.

  Rock scrambled to his feet and lunged as he picked his hands out of the dust, butting Lamport in the chest. The big renegade jerked up a stiff thumb, trying for Rock's eye, but Bannon rolled his head away and swung a left to the wind and then a driving right that ripped Lamport's ear, starting a shower of blood.

  Lamport now charged again and caught Bannon with two long swings on the head. His skull roaring with pain and dizziness, Rock braced himself and started to swing in a blind fury, both hands going with every ounce of power he could muster.

  Lamport met him, and spraddle-legged, the two started to slug. Lamport was the bigger, and his punches packed terrific power, but were a trifle slower. It was nip and tuck, dog eat dog, and the two battled until the breath gasped in their lungs and whistled through their teeth. Lamport ducked his battered face and started to walk in, stemming the tide of Bannon's blows by sheer physical power.

  Rock shifted his attack with lightning speed. He missed a right, and following it in with the weight of his body, he slid his arm around Lamport's thick neck. Grabbing the wrist with his left hand, he jerked up his feet and sat down hard, trying to break Lamport's neck.

  But the big renegade knew all the tricks, and as Rock's feet flew up, Lamport hurled his weight forward and to the left, falling with his body half across Bannon. It broke the hold, and they rolled free. Rock came to his feet, and Lamport, catlike in his speed, lashed out with a wicked kick for his head.

  Rock rolled away from it and hurled himself at Lamport's one standing leg in a flying tackle. The big man went down, and as they scrambled up, Rock hit him with a left and right, splitting his right cheek in a bone-deep gash and pulping his lips.

  Lamport was bloody and battered now, yet he kept coming, his breath wheezing. Rock Bannon stabbed a left into his face, set himself, and whipped a right uppercut to the body. Lamport gasped. Bannon circled and then smashed him in the body with another right and then another and another. Lamport's jaw was hanging open now, his face battered and bleeding from a dozen cuts and abrasions. Rock walked in, measured him, and then crossed a right to his chin. He followed it up with two thudding, bone-crushing blows. Lamport reeled, tried to steady himself, and then measured his length in the dust.

  Rock Bannon weaved on his feet and then walked to the watering trough and ducked his head into it. He came up spluttering and then splashed water over his face and body, stripping away the remnants of his torn shirt.

  "We got 'em all, Boss," Red said. "You want we should go after the settlers?"

  "No, and leave their homes alone. Where's Kies?"

  "The storekeeper? Inside, I guess."

  Rock strapped on his guns and strode up the steps of the store with Red and Chavez at his heels. Kies was waiting behind the counter, his face white.

  "Kies," Rock said. "Have you got the bills for the goods you sold the settlers?"

  "The bills?" Kies's frightened eyes showed doubt and then dismay. "Why, yes."

  "Get 'em out."

  Fumblingly, Kies dug out the bills. Quickly, Bannon scanned through them. Then he took a match and set fire to the stack as they lay on the counter.

  Kies sprang for them. "What are you doing?" he screamed.

  "You're payin' the price of hookin' up with a crooked bunch," Bannon said grimly, as Chavez held the angry storekeeper. "You got a horse?"

  "Yes, I have a-horse, but I-"

  "Red," Bannon turned. "Give this man some shells, a rifle, a canteen, and two days' grub, skimpy rations. Then put him on a horse and start him on his way. If he tries to load that rifle or if he doesn't ride right out of the country, hang him."

  "But the Indians!" Kies protested. "And my store!"

  "You haven't got a store," Bannon told him harshly. "You'll have to look out for the Indians yourself."

  "Boss," Chavez touched him on the shoulder. "Hombre here wants to talk."

  Rock Bannon wheeled. Tom Crockett, Pagones, and Dud Kitchen were standing there.

  "Bannon," Crockett said, "Harper took my girl. Kitchen saw him tying her to a horse."

  Rock's face went white and then stiffened. "I reckon he was the one she wanted," he said. "She had Zapata waitin' for me, and she led that raid to the ranch."

  "No, she didn't do that, Rock," Pagones said. "The raid wasn't even organized when she left. As for Zapata-"

  "He forced himself on us," Crockett protested. "And she was tied to the saddle. She didn't want to go with Harper. She was in love with you."

  "That's right, Rock," Pagones assured him. "Mary's known that for weeks."

  "All right," Rock said. He jerked a shirt from a stack on the counter and began getting into it. "I'll find 'em."

  "Who goes along with you?" Bat asked eagerly.

  "Nobody," Bannon said. "This is my job."

  Chapter X

  The steel-dust stallion liked the feel of the trail. He always knew when he was going someplace that was beyond the place where distance lost itself against the horizon. He knew it now, knew in the sound of Rock Bannon's voice and the easy way he sat in the saddle.

  Rock rode through the poplars where the wagon train had spent its last night on the trail, and as he passed, he glanced down at the ruts, already grown with grass. It seemed such a long time ago, yet it was scarcely more than days since the wagons had waited here. He had observed them from the mountains, looking back for the last time as he rode away from the train.

  He turned the stallion up the long, grassy canyon where Freeman had been killed. The trail Mort Harper had left was plain enough. So far, he had been running; later, he would try to cover it. Yet Bannon was already looking ahead, planning, trying to foresee what plan, if any, could be in the man's mind.

  The Day's River region was one of the most rugged in all America. No man knew it well; few knew it even passingly well. Unless a man chose carefully of the trails that offered, he would run into a blind canyon or end in a jump off or at some blind tangle of boulders.

  There were trails through. The Indians had used them. Other Indians, ages before, had left picture writing on the canyon walls, some of them in places almost impossible to reach. No man knew the history of this region.

  There were places here with a history stranger than any written-an old weapon washed from the sands of a creek, a strange date on a canyon wall. There was one place miles from here where the date 1642 was carved on a canyon wall among other dates and names, and no man has yet accounted for that date or said who put it there or how he came to be in the country.

  From Grass Canyon the trail of the two horses led into a narrow draw with very steep sides overgrown with birch, balsam, and cottonwood. His rifle ready, although anticipating no trouble at this stage, Rock pushed on.

  The draw now opened on a vast r
egion of jagged mountain ridges, gorges, cliffs, and mesas. The stallion followed the trail along the edge of a meadow watered by a brawling mountain stream. Some teal flew from the pool of water backed up by a beaver dam, and Rock heard the sharp, warning slap of the beaver's tail on the water.

  The trail dipped now down a narrow passage between great rock formations that towered heavenward. On one side was an enormous mass of rock like veined marble, and on the other a rock of brightest orange fading to rust red, shot through with streaks of purple.

  Boulders scattered the space between the walls, and at times passage became difficult. At one place great slabs of granite had sloughed off from high above and come crashing down upon the rocks below. Far ahead he could see the trail leaving the lowlands and climbing, threadlike, across the precipitous wall of the mountain.

  Studying the trail and the speed of the horses he was following, Rock could see that Mort was trying' for distance, and fast. Rock knew, too, that unless Harper was far ahead, he would, if watching his back trail, soon know he was followed. From the incredible heights ahead, the whole series of canyons and gorges would be plainly visible except when shoulders of rock or boulders intervened.

  The trail up the face of the cliff had been hewn by nature from the solid rock itself, cutting across the face of an almost vertical cliff and emerging at times in bare rock ledges or dipping around some corner of rock into a cool, shadowed gorge.

  "He's headin' for Big Track," Rock told himself suddenly. "He sure is. He's headin' for Big Track Hollow."

  He knew the place, and certainly, if Harper was following a known or planned route, he could choose no better. Big Track Hollow was a basin over six thousand feet above sea level where there was a wealth of grass, plenty of water, and sheltering woods.

  It would be the best place in this region to hole up for any length of time. Long ago, somebody had built a cabin there, and there were caves in the basin walls. It took its name from gigantic dinosaur tracks that appeared in the rock all along one side.