the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  The gray was beaten and weary now. Mike turned the horse toward a break in the plateau and rode down it, giving the animal its head. They came out upon a narrow trail that hung above a vast gorge, its bottom lost in the darkness of gathering dusk. The gray stumbled on, seeming to know its day was almost done.

  Dozing in the saddle, almost two hours later Mike Bastian felt the horse come to a halt. He jerked his head up and opened his eyes. He could feel the dampness of a deep canyon and could hear the thundering roar of the mighty river as it charged through the rock-walled slit. In front of him was a square of light.

  "Halloo, the house!" he called.

  He swung down as the door opened.

  "Mike Bastian!" he said, moving toward the house with long, swinging strides. "For Ben Curry!"

  The man backed into the house. He was an ancient Navajo, but his eyes were keen and sharp.

  "I want a horse," Mike said.

  "You can't cross the river tonight." The Navajo spoke English well. "It is impossible!"

  "There'll be a moon later," Mike answered. "When it comes up, I'm going across."

  The Indian looked at him and then shrugged.

  "Then eat," he said. "You'll need it."

  "There are horses?"

  "Horses?" The Navajo chuckled. "The best a man ever saw! Do you suppose Ben Curry would have horses here that were not the best? But they are on the other side of the stream, and safe enough. My brother is with them."

  Mike slumped into a seat. "Take care of my horse, will you? I've most killed him."

  When the Indian was gone, Mike slumped over on the table, burying his head in his arms. In a moment he was asleep, dreaming wild dreams of a mad race over a strange misty-blue land with great crimson islands, riding a splendid black horse and carrying a girl in his arms. He awakened with a start. The old Indian was sitting by the fireplace, and he looked up.

  "You'd better eat," he said. "The moon is rising."

  They went out together, walking down the path to the water's edge. As the moon shone down into the canyon, Mike stared at the tumbling stream in consternation. Nothing living could swim in that water! It would be impossible.

  "How do you cross?" he demanded. "No horse could swim that! And a boat wouldn't get fifty feet before it would be dashed to pieces!"

  The Indian chuckled. "That isn't the way we cross it. You are right in saying no boat could cross here, for there is no landing over there, and the canyon is so narrow that the water piles up back of the narrows and comes down with a great rush."

  Mike looked at him again. "You talk like an educated man," he said. "I don't understand."

  The Navajo shrugged. "I was for ten years with a missionary, and after I traveled with him as an interpreter he took me back to the States, where I stayed with him for two years. Then I lived in Sante Fe."

  He was leading the way up a steep path that skirted the cliff but was wide enough to walk comfortably. Opposite them, the rock wall of the canyon lifted and the waters of the tumbling river roared down through the narrow chasm.

  "Ben Curry does things well, as you shall see," the guide said. "It took him two years of effort to get this bridge built."

  Mike stared. "Across there?"

  "Yes. A bridge for a man with courage. It is a rope bridge, made fast to iron rings sunk in the rock."

  Mike Bastian walked on the rocky ledge at the edge of the trail and looked out across the gorge. In the pale moonlight he could see two slim threads trailing across the canyon high above the tumbling water. Just two ropes, and one of them four feet above the other.

  "You mean," he said, "that Ben Curry crossed on that?"

  "He did. I have seen him cross that bridge a dozen times, at least."

  "Have you crossed it?"

  The Navajo shrugged. "Why should I? The other side is the same as this, is it not? There is nothing over there that I want."

  Mike looked at the slender strands, and then he took hold of the upper rope and tentatively put a foot on the lower one. Slowly, carefully, he eased out above the raging waters. One slip and he would be gone, for no man could hope to live in those angry flood waters. He slid his foot along, then the other, advancing his handholds as he moved. Little by little, he worked his way across the canyon.

  He was trembling when he got his feet in the rocky cavern on the opposite side and so relieved to be safely across that he scarcely was aware of the old Indian who sat there awaiting him.

  The Navajo got up and without a word started down the trail. He quickly led Mike to a cabin built in the opening of a dry branch canyon, and tethered before the door of the cabin was a huge bay stallion.

  Waving at the Indian, Mike swung into the saddle, and the bay turned, taking to the trail as if eager to be off.

  Would Perrin travel at night? Mike doubted it, but it was possible, so he kept moving himself. The trail led steadily upward, winding finally out of the canyon to the plateau.

  The bay stallion seemed to know the trail; it was probable that Curry had used this horse himself. It was a splendid animal, big and very fast. Letting the horse have his head, Mike felt the animal gather'his legs under him. Then he broke into a long, swinging lope that literally ate up the space. How long the horse could hold the speed he did not know, but it was a good start.

  It was at least a ten-hour ride to the Ragan V Bar ranch.

  The country was rugged and wild. Several times, startled deer broke and ran before him, and there were many rabbits. Dawn was breaking faintly in the east now, and shortly after daybreak he stopped near a pool of melted snow water and made coffee. Then he remounted the rested stallion and raced on.

  Drusilla Ragan brushed her hair thoughtfully and then pinned it up. Outside, she could hear her mother moving about and the Mexican girls who helped around the house whenever they were visiting. Julie was up, she knew, and had been up for hours. She was outside talking to that blond cowhand from New Mexico, the one Voyle Ragan had hired to break horses.

  Suddenly she heard Julie's footsteps, and then the door opened.

  "Aren't you ready yet?" Julie asked. "I'm famished."

  "I'll be along in a minute." Then as Julie turned to go: "What did you think of him, Julie-that cowboy who got the buckboard for us? Wasn't he the handsomest thing?"

  "Oh, you mean that Mike Bastian?" Julie said. "I was wondering why you were mooning around in here. Usually you're the first one up. Yes, I expect he is good-looking. But did you see the way he looked when you mentioned Uncle Voyle? He acted so strange!"

  "I wonder if Uncle Voyle knows anything about him? Let's ask!"

  "You ask," Julie replied, laughing. "He'sjyowr problem!"

  Voyle Ragan was a tall man, but lean and without Ben Curry's weight. He was already seated at the table when they came in, and Dru was no sooner in her seat than she put her question. Voyle's face became a mask.

  "Mike Bastian?" he said thoughtfully. "I don't know. Where'd you meet him?"

  The girls explained, and he nodded.

  "In Weaver?" Voyle Ragan knew about the gold train, and his eyes narrowed. "I think I know who he is, but I never saw him that I heard of. You probably won't see him again, because most of those riders from up in the strip stay there most of the time. They are a wild bunch."

  "On the way down here," Julie said, "the man who drove was telling us that outlaws live up there."

  "Could be. It's wild enough." Voyle Ragan lifted his head, listening. For a moment he had believed he heard horses. But it was too soon for Ben to be coming. If anyone else came, he would have to get rid of them, and quickly.

  He heard the sound again, and then he saw the cavalcade of horsemen riding into the yard. Voyle came to his feet abruptly.

  "Stay here!" he snapped.

  His immediate thought was of a posse, and then he saw Kerb Perrin. He had seen Perrin many times, although Perrin had never met him. Slowly, he moved up to the door, uncertain of his course. These were Ben's men, but Ben had always told him that none o
f them was aware that he owned this ranch or that Voyle was his brother.

  "Howdy!" Voyle said. "What can I do for you?"

  Kerb Perrin swung down from his horse. Behind him Monson, Ducrow and Kiefer were getting down.

  "You can make as little trouble as you know how," Perrin said, his eyes gleaming. "All you got to do is stay out of the way. Where's the girls? We want them, and we want your cattle."

  "What is this?" Voyle demanded. He wasn't wearing a gun; it was hanging from a clothes tree in the next room. "You men can't get away with anything here!"

  Perrin's face was ugly as he strode toward the door. "That's what you think!" he sneered.

  The tall old man blocked his way, and Perrin shoved him aside. Perrin had seen the startled faces of the girls inside and knew the men behind him were spreading out.

  Ragan swung suddenly, and his fist struck Perrin in the mouth. The gunman staggered, and his face went white with fury.

  A Mexican started from the corral toward the house, and Ducrow wheeled, firing from the hip. The man cried out and sprawled over on the hard-packed earth, moaning out his agony.

  Perrin had drawn back slowly, his face ugly with rage, a slow trickling of blood from his lips. "For that, I'll kill you!" he snarled at Ragan.

  "Not yet, Perrin!"

  The voice had a cold ring of challenge, and Kerb Perrin went numb with shock. He turned slowly, to see Mike Bastian standing at the corner of the corral.

  Chapter VIII

  Kerb Perrin was profoundly shocked. He had left Bastian a prisoner at Toadstool Canyon. Since he was free now, it could mean that Ben Curry was back in the saddle. It could mean a lot of things. An idea came with startling clarity to him. He had to kill Mike Bastian, and kill him now!

  "You men have made fools of yourselves!" Bastian's voice was harsh. He stood there in his gray buckskins, his feet a little apart, his black hair rippled by the wind. "Ben Curry's not through! And this place is under his protection. He sent me to stop you, and stop you I shall! Now, any of you who don't want to fight Ben Curry, get out while the getting is good!"

  "Stay where you are!" Perrin snapped. "I'll settle with you, Bastian- Right now!"

  His hand darted down in the sweeping, lightning-fast draw for which he was noted. His lips curled in sneering contempt. Yet, as his gun lifted, he saw flame blossom from a gun in Bastian's hand, and a hard object slugged him.

  Perplexed and disturbed, he took a step backward. Whatever had hit him had knocked his gun out of line. He turned it toward Bastian again. The gun in Mike's hand blasted a second time, and a third.

  Perrin could not seem to get his own gun leveled. His mind wouldn't function right, and he felt a strangeness in his stomach. His legs- Suddenly he was on his knees. He tried to get up and saw a dark pool forming near his knees. He must have slipped, he must have- That was blood.

  It was his blood!

  From far off he heard shouts, then a scream, then the pound of horses' hoofs. Then the thunder of those hoofs seemed to sweep through his brain and he was lying face down in the dirt. And then he knew: Mike Bastian had beaten him to the draw. Mike Bastian had shot him three times. Mike Bastian had killed him!

  He started to scream a protest-and then he just lay there on his face, his cheek against the bloody ground, his mouth half open.

  Kerb Perrin was dead.

  In the instant that Perrin had reached for his gun, Ducrow had suddenly cut and ran toward the corner of the house. Kiefer, seeing his leader gunned down, then made a wild grab for his own weapon. The old man in the doorway killed him with a hastily caught-up rifle.

  The others broke for their horses. Mike rushed after them and got off one more shot as they raced out of the yard. It was then he heard the scream, and whirled.

  Ducrow had acted with suddenness. He had come to the ranch for women, and women he intended to have. Even as Bastian was killing Perrin, he rushed for the house. Darting around the corner where two saddle horses were waiting, he was just in time to see Juliana, horrified at the killing, run back into her bedroom. The bedroom window opened beside Ducrow, and the outlaw reached through and grabbed her.

  Julie went numb with horror. Ducrow threw her across Perrin's saddle, and with a piggin string, which he always carried from his days as a cowhand, he jerked her ankles together under the horse's belly.

  Instantly, he was astride the other horse. Julie screamed then. Wheeling, he struck her across the mouth with a backhand blow. He caught up the bridle of her horse and drove in spurs to his own mount, and they went out of the ranch yard at a dead run.

  Mike hesitated only an instant when he heard Julie scream and then ran for the corner of the house. By the time he rounded the corner, gun in hand, the two horses were streaking into the pinons. In the dust, he could only catch a glimpse of the riders. He turned and walked back.

  That had been a woman's scream, but Dru was in the doorway and he had seen her. Only then did he recall Julie. He sprinted for the doorway.

  "Where's Julie?" he shouted to Drusilla. "Look through the house!"

  He glanced around quickly. Kerb Perrin, mouth agape, lay dead on the hard earth of the ranch yard. Kiefer lay near the body of the Mexican Ducrow had killed. The whole raid had been a matter of no more than two or three minutes.

  Voyle Ragan dashed from the house. "Julie's gone!" he yelled hoarsely. "I'll get a horse!"

  Bastian caught his arm. His own dark face was tense and his eyes wide.

  "You'll stay here!" he said harshly. "Take care of the women and the ranch. I'll go after Julie."

  Dru ran from the house. "She's gone, Mike, she's gone! They have her!"

  Mike walked rapidly to his horse, thumbing shells into his gun. Dru Ragan started to mount another horse.

  "You go back to the house!" he ordered.

  Dru's chin came up. In that moment she reminded him of Ben Curry.

  "She's my sister!" Dru cried. "When we find her, she may need a woman's care!"

  "All right," Mike said, 'but you'll have to do some riding!"

  He wheeled the big bay around. The horse Dru had mounted was one of Ben Curry's beautiful horses, bred not only for speed but for staying power.

  Mike's mind leaped ahead. Would Ducrow get back with the rest of them? Would he join Monson and Clatt? If he did, it was going to be a problem. Ducrow was a handy man with a six-gun, and tackling the three of them, or more if they were all together, would be nothing less than suicide.

  He held the bay horse's pace down. He had taken a swift glance at the hoofmarks of the horses he was trailing and knew them both.

  Would Ducrow head back for Toadstool Canyon? Bastian considered that as he rode, and decided he would not. Ducrow did not know that Julie was Ben Curry's daughter. But from what Mike had said, Ducrow had cause to believe that Ben was back in the saddle again. And men who went off on rebel raids were not lightly handled by Curry. Besides, he would want, if possible, to keep the girl for himself.

  Mike had been taught by Roundy that there was more to trailing a man than following his tracks, for you trailed him down the devious paths of the mind as well. He tried to put himself in Ducrow's place.

  The man could not have much food, yet on his many outlaw forays he must have learned the country and would know where there was water. Also, there were many ranch hangouts of the outlaws that Ducrow would know. He would probably go to one of them. Remembering the maps that Ben Curry had shown him and made him study, Mike knew the locations of all those places.

  The trail turned suddenly off through the chaparral, and Mike turned to follow. Drusilla had said nothing since they started. Once he glanced at her. Even now, with her face dusty and tear streaked, she was lovely. Her eyes were fastened on the trail, and he noted with a little thrill of satisfaction that she had brought her rifle along.

  Dru certainly was her father's daughter, and a fit companion for any man.

  Bastian turned his attention to the trail. Despite the small lead he had, Ducrow had van
ished. That taught Mike something of the nature of the man he was tracing; his years of outlawry had taught him how to disappear when need be. The method was simple. Turning off into the thicker desert growth, he had ridden down into a sandy wash.

  Here, because of the deep sand and the tracks of horses and cattle, tracking was a problem and it took Mike several minutes to decide whether Ducrow had gone up or down the wash. Then he caught a hoofprint and they were off, winding up the sandy wash. Yet Mike knew they would not be in that sand for long. Ducrow would wish to save his horses' strength.

  True enough, the trail soon turned out. From then on, it was a nightmare. Ducrow ran off in a straightaway and then turned at right angles, weaving about in the sandy desert. Several times he had stopped to brush out portions of his trail, but Roundy had not spent years training Mike Bastian in vain. He hung to the trail like a bloodhound.

  Dru, riding behind him, saw him get off and walk, saw him pick up sign where she could see nothing.

  Hours passed, and the day slowly drew toward an end. Dru, her face pale, realized night would come before they found her sister. She was about to speak, when Mike looked at her.

  "You wanted to come," he said, "so you'll have to take the consequences. I'm not stopping because of darkness."

  "How can you trail them?"

  "I can't," he shrugged. "But I think I know where they are going. We'll take a chance."

  Darkness closed around them. Mike's shirt stuck to his body with sweat, and a chill wind off the higher plateaus blew down through the trees. He rode on, his face grim and his body weary with long hours in the saddle. The big bay kept on, seemingly unhurt by the long hours of riding. Time and again he patted the big horse, and Dru could hear him talking to it in a low voice. Suddenly at the edge of a clearing, he reined in.

  "Dru," he said, "there's a ranch ahead. It's an outlaw hangout. There may be one or more men there. Ducrow may be there. I am going up to find out."