“What’s she doing in a godforsaken place like that?”
“That, amigo, is anybody’s guess. I have no idea, and I don’t think anybody else does. She’s not a woman you put the question to.”
“What’s her connection with Polti?”
“None, I’d say, except that it’s a convenient station for him. I’ve been there a time or two, and far as I could see, she never even recognized the fact that he was there.”
IT WAS DAYLIGHT when Lance started south, leaving Rusty Gates at the stable staring thoughtfully after him. He rode a trail that roughly followed the Neuces, then swung away toward the west, keeping to thick brush and working his way through it.
From trail to trail he switched, keeping his direction generally south by west, judging by the sun. In the thick brush he saw no one, then came out on the bunch grass levels beyond and rode at a somewhat more rapid gait.
The buckskin was eager to go, and by sundown they had covered more than half the distance to Apple Canyon. Lance slowed his pace then, and at every chance checked his back trail. There was no sign that he had been followed, yet he took no chances. And at a suddenly offered dim trail north, he turned abruptly north, rode a short distance and waited, listening. For some time he listened, but heard no hoofbeats nor other sounds of travel. If anyone was following, it would be dark before they could reach this place, so he walked his horse north, watching for a break in the brush. He found it, rode into open, grass-covered country scattered with prickly pears—some of it towering as high as a man—and rode on, quartering off to the west again and just a bit south.
When the moon came up he found a small creek, rode to a spot under some low-growing trees of a variety strange to him, and there he watered the buckskin, let him have a roll, and then picketed him on the grass. He bedded down there, and slept.
Twice he saw rattlers, but swung wide around them, and once he startled a coyote drinking at a small pool. He saw no man or woman anywhere. Then the brush dwindled away and he rode through more or less open country, riding with watchful eyes over some rough, broken land with the Rio Grande off to the south—far out of sight—but ever present.
In this country it was an omnipresent reality, for it offered escape from the law for both Anglo and Mexican bandits—men who were prepared to commit almost any crime with such a refuge only a fast ride away to the south.
Lance’s thoughts returned to Bert Polti, in an effort to seek some answer to the man’s actions, yet he could find nothing in his memory that might supply a reason. That the man was dangerous, Lance knew. That he was prepared to kill and would kill, Lance also knew. Yet why Polti’s sudden decision to attack him?
Did he somehow represent a danger to Polti? Or to some of the Polti interests? Did Polti know who and what he was? Or surmise something of the kind without knowing? Had Lance somehow been connected to Mort Davis?
The impending sense of danger would not leave him, and he found himself riding more and more slowly despite the impatience of the buckskin, who loved a trail and wanted to go, to get on with the journey.
There were many arroyos now, low cliffs and dry streambeds. There were occasional thickets, open prairies, and patches of prickly pear or mesquite.
The place worried him, as did the events since his arrival at Botalla. There was more here than the smile on Steve Lord’s face, and the sullen anger of the lovely but pampered Tana. There was death here, and the smell of gunpowder. Not the death of bold men facing each other over drawn guns, but the death of the dry-gulchers, the men who lay in wait to ambush and kill.
Was this merely another range war, or was there something else?
Well Lance knew what the threat of barbed wire on the range could do. Cattle ran free now. They were separated and divided at roundups. But there were men here who had no cattle, yet did a bit of branding quietly and, hopefully, without being seen. With fencing, that would end. With fencing, the big cattlemen who could afford to buy wire would fence vast acreages, squeezing out all others. And their fences would be patrolled, as Steele had promised, with men carrying rifles.
It was public land, but who was prepared to enforce it against the big cattlemen?
The small outfits, starved for range, saw their livelihoods threatened, for few small ranches were paying propositions. These outfits were angry, and many would fight back. Yet what might happen was apparent in what had already happened to Joe Wilkins.
The small men had no money to hire gunmen. Many of them had no money for wire. Squeezed off the big range, they would have to graze their cattle on less and less land. And, what was worse, most of them would be closed off from water, and without water, land was of no value.
Fences had been cut. Men rode the range armed and ready, and many a small rancher, although alone and unaided, was still a man to be feared. His gun spoke as loud as that of the big rancher, and often he was a former soldier, Indian fighter, or buffalo hunter—a man to whom battle was no stranger.
It was a time when men shot first and asked questions later. It was a time when Sam Bass and his outlaw gang rode the trails, John Wesley Hardin was running up his list of killings, and when King Fisher, in this very area, had a gang said to number more than five hundred men on both sides of the border. King Fisher, it was said, had chaps made of tiger skin and a sombrero loaded with a silver band, with silver-plated, pearl-handled six-shooters.
There were several hundred known outlaws operating in Texas, and another five hundred known outlaws in New Mexico, not too far to the west. All these men rode with guns. It was the accepted way of settling disputes, recognized as such in the eastern states and in Europe as well.
From the crest of a ridge, Lance looked over what was called Lost Creek Valley and saw the silvery strands of barbed wire stretching away as far as the eye could reach. Yet the Lost Creek country needed less wire than most, for the sheer cliffs along the canyons protected much of it, and there was water. From his vantage point above the valley, Lance could see why they all wanted Lost Creek. The water supply was more than sufficient, and the grass was good. It was prime grazing in any man’s country, a piece of land to be desired and defended.
“I don’t know, Buck,” he said to his horse. “I don’t know about this wire business. It does give the nester a chance to raise a crop, and it gives the rancher a chance to improve the breed. And anybody can see that the longhorn is on the way out.
“You an’ me, Buck, I think we’re on the way out, too. We’re free, and we can go where we want, but we don’t like fences very much. Maybe we’d better ride north for Dakota. Wyoming. Or even Canada or the Argentine.”
It was late evening when the sure-footed mustang turned down a narrow trail among the brush and boulders. This was no honest man’s trail, but Lance knew the nature of the man he rode to see—a man who would never be less than honest, but who would fight to the last for what was rightfully his.
The trail dipped into a hollow several hundred yards across, and when he was halfway across the hollow, Lance saw what he wanted. Dismounting, he led his horse to shelter behind a boulder. Sitting against a rock, he watched the declining sun fall slowly westward, watched the shadows creep up the walls and the sunset splash the cliffs with crimson.…
He must have fallen asleep, for when he awakened the stars were out and Lance judged several hours to have passed.
It was very still, and for a moment he did not move, sitting quietly, listening to the night. It was then that he saw the gleam of starlight on a pistol barrel. It was aimed at him from across a rock. But even as he moved, the pistol’s muzzle flowered with sudden flame. He heard the thunder of the shot; he heard the bullet strike. And in almost the same instant, he was struck a vicious blow from behind and fell forward on his face in the grass. As consciousness faded he seemed to feel something long and sticky on his cheek.…
A long time later he felt a throbbing pain in his skull, as if a thousand tiny men were pounding with red-hot hammers at its shell, pounding and poundin
g and pounding without cease.
He opened his eyes to a star shining through a crevice in the rock across the hollow, and then he saw something long and dark lying on the ground. Something … like the body of a man.
Painfully, Lance rolled over and got his hands under him. Yet it was several minutes before he mustered the strength to rise, to push himself up from the ground. He found that he had difficulty in bringing his eyes into focus, and he sat with his head leaning on his arms, crossed upon his knees, for what seemed a long, long time.
At last he lowered a hand to the rock at his side. Then another. With difficulty, his head swimming, Lance pulled himself to his feet. Once on his feet, with the flat face of the rock for support, he dropped his hands to feel for his guns. They were still there.
Apparently the body had then been left for dead. Gingerly, Lance’s fingers went to the man’s skull. His hair was matted with blood.
Feeling around on the ground, Lance found the man’s hat and let it hang from his neck by the rawhide chin strap, for his head was too sore and too swollen to permit his wearing it. Feeling his way around the boulder, Lance found Buck waiting patiently. The yellow horse pricked his ears and whinnied softly.
“Sorry, boy,” Lance whispered, “you should’ve been in a stable by now, with plenty of oats.”
When he led the horse from behind the boulder, Lance again saw the dark shape on the ground. He saw more than that, for just beyond was a standing horse.
Gun in hand, for he knew not what awaited him, Lance went over to the body.
By the feeble light of the stars he could yet see the man’s features, and it was the face of no one he knew. Then he saw the white of a bit of paper clutched in the dead man’s hand. He freed it … An envelope.
Squatting, his head pounding with slow, heavy throbs, Lance struck a match. It was a worn envelope. It must have been carried in a man’s pocket. On it was scratched in a painful scrawl:
I was dry-gulched.
Mort needs help bad.
He koodn’t kum.
It was written on the back of a letter addressed to SAM CARTER, LOST CREEK RANCH.
Thrusting the letter into his pocket, Lance mounted and rode down the trail toward the ranch. He was close now, judging by the description he had, yet obviously Mort’s enemies had staked out along the trails to get anyone who might try to come in or out.
He turned from the trail when he saw an opportunity, and let the buckskin scramble up a steep bank to the top. This was open country, but away from the trail. He had been sent a map to indicate his direction and the ranch location. A few added comments from Rusty Gates had helped immeasurably.
Lance was still several miles away when he saw the glow of fire on the horizon, the blaze of burning ranch buildings.
He was too late. A house was burning, and perhaps Mort Davis was already dead.
Suddenly a man ran from the shadows. “Is that you, Joe?” he called.
Lance drew up sharply, waiting. The man came closer. “Joe? What’s the matter?”
The voice was that of one of the men with whom he had fought in the Spur. They recognized each other in the same instant that something fell in the burning house, and the flames leaped up.
With a startled gasp the man lifted his gun, but Lance held his Winchester on him. And without shifting the rifle, Lance squeezed off his shot.
The gun bellowed in the night, and the man pitched forward, clutching his stomach.
“That’s one less, Mort. One less.”
He touched a spur to the buckskin, and rode on, toward the dying fire.
CHAPTER 5
LANCE WALKED HIS horse toward the dying fire, his rifle in his hand. Had they killed Mort? Had his ride of more than a thousand miles been for nothing?
In that time, so much could have happened. Lance had so little real understanding of the problem. The wire, he felt, had only been the match that had lighted the fuse, for the trouble must have been long in developing. Neither Lord nor Steele were men to settle for second best, and to the cattleman in Texas his way of life was the only way.
Years before the Texas ranchers had settled here, gathering vast acres when the value of land was nothing—or existed only in the minds of visionaries. They were empire builders, sure of their own rightness, their own place in the march of progress. And their empires were of grass and beef—but the possession of these was nothing without water.
Nesters were men who came in and plowed up the grass they needed, who settled on water holes or springs they had come to regard as their own. And a small rancher was to them a species of thief, a man who, having no cattle or very few, increased their small herds with a vagabond branding iron. At the same time, the big ranchers were rarely scrupulous about what cattle they branded.
Often the small rancher did not even own a bull. He let his cows roam the free range, profiting from the bulls owned by the big ranchers … So there was at least a basis for much of the big ranchers’ argument.
Wire was to change all that. It was to fence in range, to deny water holes to those who did not possess them, and deny free access to range bulls. The cattlemen who could afford to would now buy better bulls and improve the breed.
Lance knew something of the story of Lost Canyon. The canyon had been avoided by most of the big ranchers because of its proximity to Mexico, and because it had been for some years a hideout for cattle and horse thieves. The year-round springs were a lure, but the few times cattle had been left there they had disappeared. Yet both Lord and Steele considered that the canyon belonged to them … They had just not taken final possession. And when one of them tried, they would settle it between them.
Mort Davis had moved in, settled on the land, and brought in his cattle from Mexico. He was a tough man who would stand for no nonsense. Both Lord and Steele were irritated. Each had tried in his own way to push Davis off, but Mort Davis had been pushed before and stood his ground. Only when Steele and Lord began to fence across his opening—and to import gunmen—had Davis sent for help. And only, Lance knew, when Mort’s own hands had been driven off … or killed, like Joe Wilkins, who occasionally worked for Davis.
Lance rode slowly toward the fire, keeping to the deepest shadows along the edge of the brush. Suddenly, from near the flames, he heard the bark of Mort’s old Sharps .50, and the several shots fired in reply.
Lance glimpsed movement near a tumbled adobe wall. Quickly touching the buckskin with his spurs, Lance charged and leaped the wall, firing into the group as he went over, racing on a dead run for the flaming house.
A man loomed up before him, pistol cocked to fire. It never did. Reins in his left hand, Lance fired the Winchester like a pistol at almost point-blank range.
The man’s eyes widened in the horror of death, and he toppled back as Lance’s horse went by, bullets whistling about.
Mort was crouching in the shadows near a bulky corral post, and Lance leaped from his horse, sending the animal dashing into the doubtful shelter of a small barn.
Turning as he lit, Lance began firing as fast as he could work the lever on his rifle. He saw men break and run for their horses, and he nailed one of them. He saw another stagger. Dropping the Winchester, he came up with both guns, firing them alternately.
Then the firing ceased, and sudden quiet descended. Lance began to thumb cartridges into his guns, one at a time. Holstering them, he picked up his Winchester and reloaded.
Mort Davis got up slowly, stiffly. “You sure take your time, Lance,” he said, grinning. “Why couldn’t you have been here when the fight started?”
“What? And deprive you of all the fun? You old wolf, you don’t need help. You just want somebody to talk to. That’s what comes of living alone, Mort Davis.”
The dark-bearded man clapped Lance on the shoulder. “Lance, I’d nobody else to turn to. When I heard the Brockmans were comin’ in, well … I’m all right with a Sharps, Lance, but I’m no match for their kind.”
“They’re good … ve
ry good,” Lance agreed seriously. “Are you sure they’re here?”
“No … just heard it.”
“Who were those fellows?”
“You got me. Could have been some of Steele’s men, or Lord’s.” He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Let’s have a look.”
A gangling sixteen-year-old strolled down from the rocks. He carried a duplicate of his father’s Sharps.
Three men had been left behind, and with the man Lance had killed farther out, it came to a total of four. It had been a costly attack, but they should have known better than to tackle Mort Davis.
“Don’t look like anybody I know,” Mort commented. “Course, they been hiring new hands.”
“Pa,” the boy said, “I seen this one in Botalla, trailin’ with Bert Polti.”
Lance studied the man’s face. It was not one of the men he had previously seen.
“Mort,” Lance said slowly, “if the Brockmans are in it, who are they riding with?”
The older man shrugged. “I don’t know. Abel used to work for Steele, one time, but he took to hangin’ around Tana, and the old man let him go. Abel Brockman didn’t like it much, either.”
“It doesn’t look right,” Lance said. “Everybody is talking about Steele and Lord, and even they are talking fight talk, but so far the only fighting I’ve seen seems to come from Polti’s men. They jumped me in town, and without any reason that I know of.”
“You watch them Brockmans,” Mort warned. “They work as a team and they’ve got it worked out to a science. I mean, they always corner you so’s you can only get one at a time under your gun.
“They’re tough and they’re mean, and they hunt trouble. At one time or another they’ve been into ever’ fuss there’s been that I know about. They like the extry pay, but it ain’t that so much as that they just like trouble.”
Lance glanced around. “They didn’t leave much, did they? Is there any place you can hole up for awhile?”
The Kilkenny Series Bundle Page 19
