“Certainly not.” Keys smiled and walked to the door and out of the room.
Reed stared after him. “I don’t like that fellow, Prince. I wouldn’t trust him.”
“Him? He’s interested in nothing but that piano and enough liquor to keep himself mildly embalmed. Don’t worry about him.”
FUGITIVE
Matt Sabre turned away from the Yellowjacket after a brief survey of the saloon. Obviously, something was doing elsewhere for none of the men were present in the big room. He hesitated, considering the significance of that, and then turned down a dark alleyway and walked briskly along until he came to an old rail fence.
Following this past rustling cottonwoods and down a rutted road, he turned past a barn and cut across another road toward a ’dobe where the windows glowed with a faint light.
The door opened to his knock, and a dark, Indianlike face showed briefly. In rapid Spanish, he asked for Pepito. After a moment’s hesitation, the door widened, and he was invited inside.
The room was large, and at one side, a small fire burned in the blackened fireplace. An oilcloth-covered table with a coal oil light stood in the middle of the room, and on a bed at one side, a man snored peacefully.
A couple of dark-eyed children ceased their playing to look up at him. The woman called out, and a blanket pushed aside, and a slender, dark-faced youth entered the room, pulling his belt tight.
“Pepito Fernandez? I am Matt Sabre.”
“I have heard of you, señor.”
Briefly, he explained why he had come, and Pepito listened, then shook his head. “I do not know, señor. The grant was long ago, and we are no longer rich. My father”—he shrugged—“he liked the spending of money when he was young.”
He hesitated, considering that. Then he said carelessly, “I, too, like the spending of money. What else is it for? But no, señor, I do not think there are papers. My father, he told me much of the grant, and I am sure the Sonomas had no strong claim.”
“If you remember anything, will you let us know?” Sabre asked. Then a thought occurred to him. “You’re a vaquero? Do you want a job?”
“A job?” Pepito studied him thoughtfully. “At the Señora Curtin’s ranch?”
“Yes. As you know, there may be much trouble. I am working there, and tonight I shall take one other man back with me. If you would like the job, it is yours.”
Pepito shrugged. “Why not? Señor Curtin, the old one, he gave me my first horse. He gave me a rifle, too. He was a good one, and the son, also.”
“Better meet me outside of town where the trail goes between the buttes. You know the place?”
“Sí, señor. I will be there.”
Keys was idly playing the piano when Matt Sabre opened the door and stepped into the room. His quick eyes placed Keys, Hobbs at the bar, Camp Gordon fast asleep with his head on a table, and a half-dozen other men. Yet as he walked to the bar, a rear door opened, and Tony Sikes stepped into the room.
Sabre had never before seen the man, yet he knew him from Judson’s apt and careful description. Sikes was not as tall as Sabre, yet more slender. He had the wiry, stringy build that is made for speed and quick, smooth-flowing fingers. His muscles were relaxed and easy, but knowing such men, Matt recognized danger when he saw it. Sikes had seen him at once, and he moved to the bar nearby.
All eyes were on the two of them, for the story of Matt’s whipping of Trumbull and his defiance of Reed had swept the country. Yet Sikes merely smiled and Matt glanced at him. “Have a drink?”
Tony Sikes nodded. “I don’t mind if I do.” Then he added, his voice low, and his dark, yellowish eyes on Matt’s with a faintly sardonic, faintly amused look, “I never mind drinking with a man I’m going to kill.”
Sabre shrugged. “Neither do I.” He found himself liking Sikes’s direct approach. “Although perhaps I have the advantage. I choose my own time to drink and to kill. You wait for orders.”
Tony Sikes felt in his vest pocket for cigarette papers and began to roll a smoke. “You will wait for me, compadre. I know you’re the type.”
They drank, and as they drank, the door opened, and Galusha Reed stepped out. His face darkened angrily when he saw the two standing at the bar together, but he was passing without speaking when a thought struck him. He stopped and turned.
“I wonder,” he said loudly enough for all in the room to hear, “what Jenny Curtin will say when she finds out her new hand is the man who killed her husband?”
Every head came up, and Sabre’s face whitened. Whereas the faces had been friendly or noncomittal, now they were sharp-eyed and attentive. Moreover, he knew that Jenny was well liked, as Curtin had been. Now they would be his enemies.
“I wonder just why you came here, Sabre? After killing the girl’s husband, why would you come to her ranch? Was it to profit from your murder? To steal what little she has left? Or is it for the girl herself?”
Matt struggled to keep his temper. After a minute, he said casually, “Reed, it was you ordered her off her ranch. I’m here for one reason, and one alone. To see that she keeps her ranch and that no yellow-bellied thievin’ lot of coyotes ride over and take it away from her!”
Reed stood flat-footed, facing Sabre. He was furious, and Matt could feel the force of his rage. It was almost a physical thing pushing against him. Close beside him was Sikes. If Reed chose to go for a gun, Sikes could grab Matt’s left arm and jerk him off balance. Yet Matt was ready even for that, and again that black force was rising within him, that driving urge toward violence.
He spoke again, and his voice was soft and almost purring. “Make up your mind, Reed. If you want to die, you can right here. You make another remark to me and I’ll drive every word of it back down that fat throat of yours! Reach and I’ll kill you. If Sikes wants in on this, he’s welcome!”
Tony Sikes spoke softly, too. “I’m out of it, Sabre. I only fight my own battles. When I come after you, I’ll be alone.”
Galusha Reed hesitated. For an instant, counting on Sikes, he had been tempted. Now he hesitated, then turned abruptly and left the room.
Ignoring Sikes, Sabre downed his drink and crossed to Camp Gordon. He shook him. “Come on, Camp. I’m puttin’ you to bed.”
Gordon did not move. Sabre stooped and slipped an arm around the big Englishman’s shoulders and, hoisting him to his feet, started for the door. At the door, he turned. “I’ll be seeing you, Sikes!”
Tony lifted his glass, his hat pushed back, “Sure,” he said. “And I’ll be alone.”
It was not until after he had said it that he remembered Sid Trumbull and the plans made in the back room. His face darkened a little, and his liquor suddenly tasted bad. He put his glass down carefully on the bar and turned, walking through the back door.
Prince McCarran was alone, idly riffling the cards and smoking. “I won’t do it, Prince,” Sikes said. “You’ve got to leave that killing to me and me alone.”
Matt Sabre, with Camp Gordon lashed to the saddle of a led horse, met Pepito in the darkness of the space between the buttes. Pepito spoke softly, and Sabre called back to him. As the Mexican rode out, he glanced once at Gordon, and then the three rode on together. It was late the following morning when they reached the Pivotrock. All was quiet—too quiet.
Camp Gordon was sober and swearing, “Shanghaied!” His voice exploded with violence. “You’ve a nerve, Sabre. Turn me loose so I can start back. I’m having no part of this.”
Gordon was tied to his horse so he would not fall off, but Matt only grinned. “Sure, I’ll turn you loose. But you said you ought to get out of town awhile, and this was the best way. I’ve brought you here,” he said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling, “for your own good. It’s time you had some fresh, mountain air, some cold milk, some—”
“Milk?” Gordon exploded. “Milk, you say? I’ll not touch the stuff! Turn me loose and give me a gun and I’ll have your hide!”
“And leave this ranch for Reed to take? Reed and McC
arran?”
Gordon stared at him from bloodshot eyes, eyes that were suddenly attentive. “Did you say McCarran? What’s he got to do with this?”
“I wish I knew. But I’ve a hunch he’s in up to his ears. I think he has strings on Reed.”
Gordon considered that. “He may have.” He watched Sabre undoing the knots. “It’s a point I hadn’t considered. But why?”
“You’ve known him longer than I have. Somebody had two men follow Curtin out of the country to kill him, and I don’t believe Reed did it. Does that make sense?”
“No.” Gordon swung stiffly to the ground. He swayed a bit, clinging to the stirrup leather. He glanced sheepishly at Matt. “I guess I’m a mess.” A surprised look crossed his face. “Say, I’m hungry! I haven’t been hungry in weeks.”
With four hands besides himself, work went on swiftly. Yet Matt Sabre’s mind would not rest. The five thousand dollars was a problem, and also there was the grant. Night after night, he led Pepito to talk of the memories of his father and grandfather, and little by little, he began to know the men. An idea was shaping in his mind, but as yet there was little on which to build.
In all this time, there was no sign of Reed. On two occasions, riders had been seen, apparently scouting. Cattle had been swept from the rim edge and pushed back, accounting for all or nearly all the strays he had seen on his ride to Yellowjacket.
Matt was restless, sure that when trouble came, it would come with a rush. It was like Reed to do things that way. By now he was certainly aware that Camp Gordon and Pepito Fernandez had been added to the roster of hands at Pivotrock.
“Spotted a few head over near Baker Butte,” Camp said one morning. “How’d it be if I drifted that way and looked them over?”
“We’ll go together,” Matt replied. “I’ve been wanting to look around there, and there’s been no chance.”
The morning was bright, and they rode swiftly, putting miles behind them, alert to all the sights and sounds of the high country above the rim. Careful as they were, they were no more than a hundred yards from the riders when they saw them. There were five men, and in the lead rode Sid Trumbull and a white-mustached stranger.
There was no possibility of escaping unnoticed. They pushed on toward the advancing riders, who drew up and waited. Sid Trumbull’s face was sharp with triumph when he saw Sabre.
“Here’s your man, marshal!” he said with satisfaction. “The one with the black hat is Sabre.”
“What’s this all about?” Matt asked quietly. He had already noticed the badge the man wore. But he noticed something else. The man looked to be a competent, upstanding officer.
“You’re wanted in El Paso. I’m Rafe Collins, deputy United States marshal. We’re making an inquiry into the killing of Bill Curtin.”
Camp’s lips tightened, and he looked sharply at Sabre. When Reed had brought out this fact in the saloon, Gordon had been dead drunk.
“That was a fair shooting, marshal. Curtin picked the fight and drew on me.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Trumbull was contemptuous. “Why, he hadn’t the courage of a mouse! He backed down from Sikes only a few days before. He wouldn’t draw on any man with two hands!”
“He drew on me.” Matt Sabre realized he was fighting two battles here—one to keep from being arrested, the other to keep Gordon’s respect and assistance. “My idea is that he only backed out of a fight with Sikes because he had a job to do and knew Sikes would kill him.”
“That’s a likely yarn!” Trumbull nodded to him. “There’s your man. It’s your job, marshal.”
Collins was obviously irritated. That he entertained no great liking for Trumbull was obvious. Yet he had his duty to do. Before he could speak, Sabre spoke.
“Marshal, I’ve reason to believe that some influence has been brought to bear to discredit me and to get me out of the country for a while. Can’t I give you my word that I’ll report to El Paso when things are straightened out? My word is good, and that there are many in El Paso who know that.”
“Sorry.” Collins was regretful. “I’ve my duty and my orders.”
“I understand that,” Sabre replied. “I also have my duty. It is to see that Jenny Curtin is protected from those who are trying to force her off her range. I intend to do exactly that.”
“Your duty?” Collins eyed him coldly but curiously. “After killing her husband?”
“That’s reason enough, sir!” Sabre replied flatly. “The fight was not my choice. Curtin pushed it, and he was excited, worried, and over-wrought. Yet he asked me on his deathbed to deliver a package to his wife and to see that she was protected. That duty, sir”—his eyes met those of Collins—“comes first.”
“I’d like to respect that,” Collins admitted. “You seem like a gentleman, sir, and it’s a quality that’s too rare. Unfortunately, I have my orders. However, it should not take long to straighten this out if it was a fair shooting.”
“All these rats need,” Sabre replied, “is a few days!” He knew there was no use arguing. His horse was fast, and dense pines bordered the road. He needed a minute, and that badly.
As if divining his thought, Camp Gordon suddenly pushed his gray between Matt and the marshal, and almost at once Matt lashed out with his toe and booted Trumbull’s horse in the ribs. The bronc went to bucking furiously. Whipping his horse around, Matt slapped the spurs to his ribs, and in two startled jumps he was off and deep into the pines, running like a startled deer.
Behind him a shot rang out, and then another. Both cut the brush over his head, but the horse was running now, and he was mounted well. He had started into the trees at right angles but swung his horse immediately and headed back toward the Pivotrock. Corduroy Wash opened off to his left, and he turned the black and pushed rapidly into the mouth of the wash.
Following it for almost a mile, he came out and paused briefly in the clump of trees that crowned a small ridge. He stared back.
A string of riders stretched out on his back trail, but they were scattered out, hunting for tracks. A lone horseman sat not far from them, obviously watching. Matt grinned; that would be Gordon, and he was all right.
Turning his horse, Matt followed a shelf of rock until it ran out, rode off it into thick sand, and then into the pines with their soft bed of needles that left almost no tracks.
Cinch Hook Butte was off to his left, and nearer, on his right, Twenty-Nine-Mile Butte. Keeping his horse headed between them, but bearing steadily northwest, he headed for the broken country around Horsetank Wash. Descending into the canyon, he rode northwest, then circled back south and entered the even deeper Calfpen Canyon.
Here, in a nest of boulders, he staked out his horse on a patch of grass. Rifle across his knees, he rested. After an hour, he worked his way to the ledge at the top of the canyon, but nowhere could he see any sign of pursuit. Nor could he hear the sound of hoofs.
There was water in the bottom of Calfpen, not far from where he had left his horse. Food was something else again. He shucked a handful of chia seeds and ate a handful of them, along with the nuts of a piñon.
Obviously, the attempted arrest had been brought about by the influence of either Galusha Reed or Prince McCarran. In either case, he was now a fugitive. If they went on to the ranch, Rafe Collins would have a chance to talk to Jenny Curtin. Matt felt sick when he thought of the marshal telling her that it was he who had killed her husband. That she must find out sooner or later, he knew, but he wanted to tell her himself, in his own good time.
BUSHWHACK BAIT
When dusk had fallen, he mounted the black and worked his way down Calfpen toward Fossil Springs. As he rode, he was considering his best course. Whether taken by Collins or not, he was not now at the ranch and they might choose this time to strike. With some reason, they might believe he had left the country. Indeed, there was every chance that Reed actually believed he had come there with some plan of his own to get the Curtin ranch.
Finally, he bedded down
for the night in a draw above Fossil Springs and slept soundly until daylight brought a sun that crept over the rocks and shone upon his eyes. He was up, made a light breakfast of coffee and jerked beef, and then saddled up.
Wherever he went now, he could expect hostility. Doubt or downright suspicion would have developed as a result of Reed’s accusation in Yellowjacket, and the country would know the U.S. marshal was looking for him.
Debating his best course, Matt Sabre headed west through the mountains. By nightfall the following day, he was camped in the ominous shadow of Turret Butte where only a few years before, Major Randall had ascended the peak in darkness to surprise a camp of Apaches.
Awakening at the break of dawn, Matt scouted the vicinity of Yellowjacket with care.
There was some movement in town—more than usual at that hour. He observed a long line of saddled horses at the hitch rails. He puzzled over this, studying it narrow-eyed from the crest of a ridge through his glasses. Marshal Collins could not yet have returned, hence this must be some other movement. That it was organized was obvious.
He was still watching when a man wearing a faded red shirt left the back door of a building near the saloon, went to a horse carefully hidden in the rear, and mounted. At this distance, there was no way of seeing who he was. The man rode strangely. Studying him through the glasses—a relic of Sabre’s military years—Matt suddenly realized why the rider seemed strange. He was riding eastern fashion!
This was no westerner, slouched and lazy in the saddle, nor yet sitting upright as a cavalryman might. This man rode forward on his horse, a poor practice for the hard miles of desert or mountain riding. Yet it was his surreptitious manner rather than his riding style that intrigued Matt. It required but a few minutes for Matt to see that the route the rider was taking away from town would bring him by near the base of the promontory where he watched.
Reluctant as he was to give over watching the saddled horses, Sabre was sure this strange rider held some clue to his problems. Sliding back on his belly well into the brush, Matt got to his feet and descended the steep trail and took up his place among the boulders beside the trail.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 44
