Looking over at the old man, he began to think of that. Why wait for it? He could shoot the old man right now and take over. Still, it would be better to marry the girl first, but he was not ready for that. Not yet. He wanted to move in on that Spanish woman at the Fandango, first.
There was that bodyguard of hers to be taken care of. He did not like the big, dark man who wore two guns and always sat near her door, faithful as a watchdog. Yet it would pay to be careful. Webb Case had been a fairly handy man with a gun, and he had tried to push this Brigo into a gunfight, planning to kill him. From all accounts, it had taken mightily little of a push, but Webb’s plans backfired and he took a couple of slugs and got planted out on Boot Hill.
He began to think of that bank at the Crossing. Four … no, five men. Geslin and Starr, of course, among them. Geslin was a lean, wiry man with a pale, hatchet face and white eyes. There was no doubt that he ranked among the fastest gunmen of them all, with Wes Hardin, Clay Allison, Bill Hickok, or Kilkenny.
The bank would keep the boys happy, for however much Poke Markham was satisfied with the ranch, his boys were not. Poke made money, but most of the men at Blue Hill ranch were not punchers. They were wanted, one place or another, and when they’d tired of cooling their heels, they’d leave. Frank Mailer wanted to take advantage of the situation before that happened. The bank should go for eight or nine thousand, and they could make a nice split of that. Four men and himself. That would be enough. Nobody would tackle a gang made up of Geslin, Starr, and himself, let alone the other two he would pick.
Thoughtfully, Frank Mailer considered Geslin. How would he stack up with Geslin? Or Starr? He considered it a moment, then shrugged. It would never happen. They were his men, and they had accepted him as boss. He knew how to handle them, and he knew there was a rivalry between Starr and Geslin. If necessary, he could play them off against one another. As for Poke, he intended to kill Markham himself when the time came.
He heaved himself out of his chair and stretched, enjoying the feeling of his powerful muscles. He would ride into town and have a talk with that Howard woman at the Fandango. He thought again of Jaime Brigo, and the thought bothered him. There was something about the big, silent man that disturbed him. He did not think of Lona. The girl was here when he wanted her, and he did want her, but only casually. His desire for Nita Howard was a sharp, burning thing.
The Fandango was easily the most impressive place in Salt Creek, and finer than anything in Bloomington. In fact, finer than anything this side of Santa Fe. Nita Howard watched the crowd, well pleased. Her hazel eyes with tiny flecks of darker color were large and her lashes were long. Her skin was the color of old ivory, her hair a deep, beautiful black, gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Although her lips were full, slightly sensual, there was a certain wistful, elusive charm about them, and a quick, fleeting humor that made her doubly beautiful. She was a tall woman, somewhere just beyond thirty, but her body was strong, and graceful.
Standing in the door, she said, without looking down at the man in the tipped-back chair, “Any message, Jaime?”
The Yaqui gunman glanced up. “No, señorita, there is none. He has been seen this day near Monument Rock. You have seen the map.”
Nita Howard relaxed. “Yes, I know. As long as he is well, we had best leave him alone.”
“He is loyal. A long time ago Markham, he befriended the señor when he was wounded and in danger. The señor does not forget. So he comes here. And you come here; so this means I do, too.” Brigo shrugged. “We are all loyal to one another, but for now you must trust that our friend knows what he is doing.”
The door opened suddenly and Frank Mailer stepped into the room; behind him were Kane Geslin and Sam Starr with another man known as Socorro. Mailer’s eyes brightened with satisfaction when he saw Nita and he turned abruptly and walked toward her.
How huge he was! Could anything ever stop this man if he became angered? Nita watched him come, her mind coolly accepting the danger but not disturbed by it. Her father had died long ago and left her the doubtful legacy of a tough saloon on the Rio Grande border. She had directed its fortunes herself, with Brigo at her side, he who loved her like his own sister, and all because of her father’s friendship to him.
Mailer stopped before her, his hard eyes surveying Nita with appreciation. “You’re all woman, Nita!” he said. “All woman! Just the kind I’ve been lookin’ for!”
She did not smile. “It is said around town that you are to marry Lona Markham.”
Mailer was irritated; there was no reason to think of Lona now and he disliked the subject being brought up. “Come on!” he said impatiently. “I’ll buy a drink!”
“Good!” she said smoothly. Lifting her eyes, she glanced over at the bartender. “Cain”—the big bartender glanced up sharply—“the gentleman is buying a drink.” Her eyes turned to Mailer. “You meant you were buying for the house, did you not?”
Crimson started to go up Mailer’s neck. He had meant nothing of the kind, yet he’d been neatly trapped and he had the feeling that he would appear cheap if he backed out. “Sure,” he said grudgingly, “for the house! Now come on.” He reached for her arm. “You drink with me.”
“Sorry, I do not drink. Cain will serve you.” She turned and stepped through the door, closing it behind her.
Frank Mailer’s eyes grew ugly. He lunged toward the door at the end of the bar.
“Señor.” Brigo was on his feet. “The señorita is ver’tired tonight. You understand?”
Mailer glared at Brigo, but the Yaqui’s flat dark face was expressionless. Mailer turned on his heel and walked to the bar in baffled fury.
The big bartender finished pouring the drinks, then looked over at Mailer. “That’ll be thirty bucks,” he said flatly.
His jaws set, Mailer paid for the drinks. Geslin was in a game with several others. One of them was a red-haired puncher, stocky and tough-looking. Mailer dropped into an empty chair and bought chips.
At the end of the third hand the redheaded puncher looked up at him. “Mailer, don’t you ramrod that Blue Hill spread? I’m huntin’ for work.”
Frank Mailer’s eyes slanted to the redhead. He was a tough, capable-looking man with hard, steady eyes. He packed his gun low. “You been anywhere I might’ve heard about?”
“I rode for Pierce an’ for Goodnight.”
“Then I can use you, all right.” With the riding he planned to do with Geslin and the others, he would need a few good hands. Also, unless his guess was altogether wrong, this man had ridden the owl hoot himself. “Texas man, hey?”
“Big Bend.”
“Know Wes Hardin?” Mailer asked. “I hear he’s fast.”
“Plenty, an’ with both hands. Maybe as fast as Kilkenny.”
“Kilkenny?” Geslin turned his white eyes toward the redhead. “You say he’s faster than Hardin? Did you ever see Hardin?”
“Uh-huh.” Rusty Gates picked up his cards. “I seen Kilkenny, too.”
All eyes were on him now. Men who had seen Kilkenny to know him were few and far between. The strange drifting gunfighter had a habit of appearing under various names and nobody ever really knew who he was until suddenly there was a blaze of guns and then he was riding out of town. “What’s he like?” Mailer asked.
“Fast.”
“I mean, what’s he look like?”
“Tall, black hair, green eyes that look right through you when he’s riled up. Quiet feller, friendly enough mostly.”
“Is it true what they say? That he’s killed forty or fifty men?”
Gates shrugged. “Doubt it. A friend of his told me it was no more than eighteen. An’ he might have been exaggeratin’.”
Hours later, when the game had broken up, Rusty Gates crossed to the bar for one last drink. The others had started back to the ranch and he was to come out the following day. He accepted his drink, and Cain grinned at him and shoved his money back. “I got the job,” Gates said.
&nb
sp; “Good!” Cain nodded emphatically. “I’ll tell the boss.”
Bright sunlight lay across the Blue Hill when Lona left the house the following morning. Frank Mailer had gone out early, and her father was fussing over some accounts in his office. Yet the night had neither lessened her curiosity nor changed her mood, and she started for the corral to catch up a horse, believing the hands were all gone.
The ranch lay between two peaks with its back to the low bench where Lona had seen the Black Rider on the previous night. These peaks lifted five hundred feet or so above the ranch house, and it was from one of them that the ranch had taken its name. The ranch house faced northwest, and off to the right, also running toward the northwest, lay the Old Mormon Trail to Utah. Beyond the trail the cliffs lifted high, and at one point a crown of rock reached out to need no more than a half mile to join the twin peaks at Blue Hill.
She had reached the corral when she heard a boot scuff stones and turned to face a strange, redheaded puncher who grinned at her in a friendly fashion. “Can I help, ma’am? I’m Rusty Gates, a new hand.”
“Oh, would you? I was going to saddle my horse. The black mare.”
Gates nodded. “I been studyin’ that mare, ma’am. She’s sure all horse.”
He shook out a loop and caught the black. As the rope settled, the mare stood still, and when she saw Lona she even walked toward the gate. Rusty led the horse outside and glanced at Lona. She was very young, very pretty, and had a trim, neat figure, auburn hair, and gray eyes. She caught his glance and he grinned. “Your hair’s ’most as red as mine, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon that makes us partners.”
There was something so friendly in his manner that she warmed to him instantly. On impulse, she confided in him. “Rusty,” she said, “don’t you tell a soul what I’m going to tell you, but I’m going to see the Black Rider!”
Rusty gave her a sidelong, cautious glance. “To see him? How do you figure to do that?”
“I’m going to ride out and look along the ridges for him, then if I see him, I’ll leave it up to Zusa to do the rest. She’ll run him down if anything can.”
Gates was silent. After a while he asked, “You ever see the Rider?”
“I saw him last night, right back on the bench in the rain. I waved to him, and he waved back! Isn’t it exciting?”
She expected him to disapprove or to caution her, but strangely, he did not. He merely nodded, then said, “Ma’am, if I wanted to see that Black Rider, you know what I’d do? I’d head across the valley for Monument Rock, an’ then if I saw him, I wouldn’t take after him none at all. I’d just sit still an’ wait.”
“Wait?” Lona’s eyes widened doubtfully. “You mean he might come up to me?”
Rusty chuckled. “Ma’am, they do say that the Rider’s a ghost, but flesh and blood or ghost, if anything that is male or was male saw you settin’ a horse waitin’ for him, he’d sure come a-runnin’!”
She laughed. “Rusty, you’re just like all the cowhands! Full of the old blarney!”
“Sure I am. But, ma’am”—his voice dropped a note lower and the look in his eyes was not a teasing look—“you do what I say an’ see if it don’t work. But,” he added, “don’t you ever tell anybody on this ranch I suggested it. Don’t you tell.”
“Thanks, Rusty. I won’t.” She turned to go and he caught her bridle rein.
“Ma’am,” he said, “before you go … who’s your best friend on this ranch? I mean, ma’am, somebody who really loves you.”
Surprised, she looked down at him, but he was in dead earnest. The question brought her up short, too, for it made her wonder. Who were her friends? Did she have any?
Frank? She shuddered slightly. Her father? For a long time she hesitated. He had never been close to her, never since she returned from school. He had been strict and stern, had given her what she wanted, but allowed her little freedom. She realized suddenly that her father was almost a stranger to her.
“I … I guess I haven’t many friends, Rusty,” she said, in a small voice. “I guess … Dave, the cook, and Gordon.”
Gates relaxed his grip. “Well, ma’am,” he said, his voice thick, “I reckon you can count on another friend now. You can count on me. If ever you need a friend, I’d admire to have you call on me.” He turned away, then stopped and turned, glancing up out of his bright blue eyes. “Maybe you’ve got more friends than you realize, ma’am.”
Lona turned the mare up the trail to the bench, and drawing up, she looked carefully around. There were no tracks!
A curious little thrill of fear went through her. Was it possible the stories were true? Had it been a ghost who waved at her? The rain could have wiped them out, of course, and there was much rock. She rode on, cutting diagonally across toward the Old Mormon Trail, which would make for easier riding until she had to leave the trail and ride across the rough grass country toward the high cliffs at Monument Rock.
North and east of her, the cliffs made a solid barrier that seemed to cut off the world from this valley, cliffs from four hundred to nine hundred feet high, a dark barrier of dull red now, with the sun just showing above them. Yet that barrier was not as solid as it appeared, for there were a score of places where a horseman might find a way through, and there were, almost due east of the ranch, three canyons that branched like three spread fingers from a given point. The only one she knew was Salt Creek Wash, and only the first half mile of that. Her father had never liked her to ride up into those rugged mountains alone.
It was early spring, yet the air was warm and vibrant, clear as only desert air can be. The black mare felt good, and wanted to go, but Lona held her in, scanning the country ahead and around her, hoping to see the Black Rider.
She had been wrong to come in the morning, especially when it was clear, for he was never seen but at dusk or in the rain. Was there method in that? So that he would be impossible to follow for long? Dust arose from her horse’s hoofs and she rode on until the cliffs began to rise above her and the sun was not yet high enough to show above their serrated rim. She reined in and looked up at their high battlement crest, then let her eye travel along it, but she saw no horseman, nothing but the rock itself.
What she had expected, she did not know. If she had expected her presence to bring the Black Rider suddenly springing from the solid rock, she was mistaken. It was still here, and lonely. She had stopped with Zusa headed north, so she started on, walking her along the low slope that ended in the cliffs.
Ahead of her she knew the cliffs took a bend eastward and through the gap flowed the occasional waters of Salt Creek, but there was, she knew, another wash beside Monument Rock, so she followed along and entered a narrow opening that had rock walls lifting six hundred feet and more on either side of her. It was shadowy and cool and so still as to be almost unbelievable. She rode on, the canyon echoing to her horse’s hoofs.
She drew up in a sort of amphitheater, the dark piñons clustering against the wall, and climbing it wherever a faint ledge gave precarious root hold. It was still here, and she drew up, her eyes wide and every sense alert. Even Zusa was on edge, for the mare’s sensitive nostrils expanded and her eyes were wide and curious.
No sound disturbed the still afternoon. From the stillness she might have been sitting in a mighty cathedral, yet there was no cathedral so splendid or so tall as this, no man-made temple as grand or magnificent. And then Zusa’s muscles twitched, and turning her head, Lona Markham looked straight into the eyes of the Black Rider!
He was about fifty yards away, his horse standing on a tiny knoll, outlined sharply against the green of the piñons behind him. The horse was a buckskin, a long-legged, magnificent animal, and the rider was tall, broad in the shoulder, and clothed in black trousers, a dark gray shirt, and a black Mexican-style jacket.
For an instant she might have turned and fled, so frightened was she, so startled by the horseman’s unexpected appearance, but she sat her mare, her eyes wide and expectant, and then the bucksk
in started to walk down the knoll toward her.
Under the low flat brim of his black hat, the Rider’s face was scarcely visible, and as he drew near she noticed that he wore two guns, tied down. He drew up suddenly and, to her relief, lifted a gloved hand and brushed his hat back.
She saw first that he was handsome, with a strong, rugged face, brown from wind and sun, and green eyes that had the look of the desert at their corners. “You are Lona?” he asked.
His voice was strong, clear, friendly. “Yes,” she said, “how did you know my name?”
“I have known it for a long time,” he said. “Why did you come here today?”
“Why, I …” She hesitated. “I was curious!” she said. “Just plain curious.”
He chuckled, and she liked the sound. There was droll humor in his eyes. “Don’t blame you! From what I hear, a lot of folks are curious. How about Frank Mailer an’ Poke Markham? Are they curious?”
“A little. I think Father is more curious than Frank.”
At her use of the word father, he looked at her again. “You call him Father?” he asked.
“Why, of course! He is my father. What else would I call him?”
“I could think of a number of things,” he said grimly. “Want to talk awhile?” he suggested suddenly. “No use you coming clear out here to see the strange rider and not getting to talk with him.”
She hesitated, but he swung down, and so she dismounted. He took the bridle of her horse and ground-hitched them both on a patch of grass in the lee of a cliff where subirrigation kept the grass green. Then he took off his hat and walked toward her. He had dark curly hair and a quizzical humor in his eyes.
The Kilkenny Series Bundle Page 52
