"One of the men left alive was Valadon, and that was a fortunate thing, because he had kept the account of the trip. After the big fight there was almost another one among themselves, for Trim Newhall, one of the men, wanted to kill that youngster, the one they called Muley. It was all the others could do to stop him."
"But why, Matt?"
"Because when the fight with the Indians started the kid dug out and hid ... he never helped one little bit."
"But he was just a boy!"
"In this country boys of that age usually do a man's work, and if they travel with men, they share alike in fighting or any other trouble. Valadon and Camp Foster managed to talk Newhall out of it, because they needed all the help they could get.
"With most of their stock gone, they had to abandon the wagons, so they loaded the gold on the mules and horses, and trailed them back into the rugged hills.
"They could not have gone far, for they were in a hurry.
The Indians might return at any moment, and they were too few to resist an attack. So they hid the gold, returned to their cache of supplies near the wagons, and then headed south.
"Trim Newhall, Camp Foster, a man named Ben Hollenbeck, and that kid . . . aside from Valadon they were the only ones left. . . .
Nobody ever called the kid by any name other than Muley.
"They had kept enough gold to pay their way, and to outfit and return for the rest of it, and as you can imagine, it was a-plenty. Twelve men gone of the original lot, and gold enough hidden away to make those who remained rich men. Only there was a joker in the deck for Muley. Before the others hid the gold they tied him up and left him behind; then after they'd hidden it, they returned for him. After all, he'd no share in it.
"Yet one among them had murdered at least two, and perhaps three of the others. Was he among those killed?
Or was he still one of those living?
"They rode together and they rode hard, and they switched horses from time to time. It was a brutal ride, but they got through to Santa Fe. They split up there, for no one of them trusted the others, but the following morning Valadon and Foster together went looking for Trim Newhall. They found him . . . with a knife thrust in the ribs.
"They had been planning an immediate return for the gold, but Valadon had had enough. He slipped away, got his gear together, and before sundown had ridden out of town, en route for Las Vegas and then for St. Louis. He never returned, and he heard nothing of the others after that."
"But surely they went back for the gold?"
"Maybe. Of course, no treasure-hunter wants to believe they got it, and in this case there is good reason for not believing it.
"Actually, but for Valadon's journal nobody would have known of the lost wagons, for so far as could be discovered the others were also killed." "All of them?"
He took his pipe from his pocket and tamped it full before replying. "All of them. All but Muley." "Did they ever discover who did it?"
"No."
"Matt, let's look for it! You know this country.
Maybe we could find it!"
"Honey, that stallion I'm chasing looks better to me than that gold, and in the long run, might be worth more. And don't you get started on that.
Too many have died looking for that gold." "Wasn't it buried near here?"
He listened into the night before replying. It was a way he had, and she did not hurry him. She also noticed that he watched the horses continually, observing their every reaction, for they might hear something approaching before he did.
"Gay Cooley hunted for that gold and never found it and he knew more about it than anyone. When Valadon died, the journal fell into the hands of his nephew, who came hunting it. Gay went with him."
"They couldn't find it?"
"They found a bunch of Piutes. A war party came down the Dirty Devil and crossed the Colorado at the Crossing of the Fathers. They wounded Valadon's nephew, scratched Gay a couple of times, and ran off their horses.
"It took Gay and that nephew a couple of months to get a decent meal, and by that time the nephew had had it. He simply took off for the East and left the journal with Gay. Aside from Gay, I'm the only man west of the Mississippi who ever saw that journal."
He rose and went down through the brush to listen.
She could never understand how he moved through the brush without a sound, but he did.
For some time he simply stood there alone, listening. As he listened, his mind reviewed their situation.
The posse from Freedom would not give up. He had seen their faces, and there were driving men in that lot. He had them to consider, as well as Neerland and whoever might be with him, and there was a good chance the two parties might find common cause. It was a big country, but not big enough if they really kept looking for him.
Deliberately, he had led them to Mormon Well, hoping their lust for gold would start them looking for it, but so far as the evidence indicated, the ruse had not worked.
He needed that stallion and some of the mares, and he had a feeling he could get them if time allowed. He needed time to locate their water holes, to find the best place to trap the herd. He needed thirty to forty days without interruption . . . and perhaps longer.
So what he needed was a delaying action, something to cause them to believe that he had left the country.
And he had an idea how it could be done.
UNTIL NOW HE had deliberately put aside all thought of the trading post at Tuba City. It was nearer than any other, much nearer even than the tiny settlement of Freedom, but to ride into Tuba City was enough to put the news of his presence on the grapevine. Within a short time after he arrived, the news would have reached the farthest corner of northeastern Arizona.
And that was exactly what he wanted now.
"We'll pack up," he told Kris, "and we'll ride out of the country, heading for Prescott."
At her inquiring glance he added, "At least, we will make it look that way. We'll point for Prescott, and lay a fair set of tracks southwest until we can swing around through the sand hills where we'll leave no trail."
"You want them to think we've gone?"
"All we can lose is time."
"Suppose they are at this Tuba City place?"
There was that, of course; and if they were there the showdown would come there and then. So be it.
There are tides in the affairs of men, tides of restlessness and awareness; there are thin threads of thought that reach out across the distance and, like the threads of a weaver, are drawn together tight. In his faraway ranch-house bed, Bill Chesney awoke suddenly, and lay there, hands clasped behind his head, staring up into the darkness.
Neerland was up there, but he'd be damned if he would leave the job to him. Tomorrow . . . Kimmel was fancy-free again, and he would get Neill.
He hesitated over the name. Neill had irritated him a little with his occasional flippant remarks, and then toward the end there had been his seeming unwillingness to go along. The hell with him. . . . Still, Neill was a solid man, a good man.
His thoughts veered off to the north again. Tuba City ... he would ride north to Tuba City, and if there was anyone in the Navajo country, it would be known there. Sooner or later the Key-Lock man would have to come out for supplies, and Tuba City was the closest place. What they should have done was ride back there and just wait.
Though it was dark, he rolled out of bed and got into his clothes. He stirred up the fire and lighted a candle. Then he got his Winchester down and began to oil it. The firelight flickered on his hard-drawn features as his hands worked knowingly over the weapon.
At this hour, far to the north, where the hills made a cove of rocks, a campfire flickered.
Oskar Neerland sat beside it, hunched in thought. He glanced over at the two men. Mitch was asleep, but the other one was still awake.
"We'll ride back to Tuba," Neerland said.
"We'll start at sunup."
"All right." The rider was a lean-faced young man w
ith bright blue eyes. "We catch them two," he said, "who gets the woman?"
Neerland turned his big head slowly around. His eyes leveled at the other man, cold and steady.
"I do," he said. "I get her, and when I'm through, you can have her if you like. After I'm through with her, only one thing matters. She never leaves us alive."
The younger man shrugged. "Suits me," he said.
He walked away from the fire and stood still, looking off into the darkness. That needle-rock off to the north, now . . .
He glanced back at Neerland, stirring the fire. He gave no thought to Neerland. The big man had motives of his own, and they were of no interest to him. He felt no loyalty, nor need for any.
He had his own plans and his own ideas.
Neerland stepped out into the darkness. "I'm turning in. Check the horses, will you, Muley?"
TUBA CITY WAS an adobe trading post and a couple of uninhabited hogans that had been built by nomad Navajos. The place was named for a Hopi chief who had been guide to the Mormon, Jacob Hamlin, when he explored the region.
Matt Keylock slipped the rawhide thong from the hammer of his six-shooter and freed the Winchester in its scabbard for easy use, if need be.
They approached the post from the sand hills to the north, circled to the west, and studied the situation with care. Only one tired, crow-bait of an Indian pony stood at the hitch rail. All was quiet.
It was early morning and a slow smoke lifted from the chimney of the trading post.
Inside, it was shadowed and cool. The adobe walls kept the coolness in and the heat of the sun out.
A tall lanky man with a cowlick of hair over his forehead sat on the counter plaiting a rawhide belt. In a chair beside the unused stove, sat a stocky, muscular man, feet propped up. He had a hard brown face marked by a deep line, like a scar, down each cheek.
"Ain't used to keepin' store," the tall man commented, "but it sure gives a man a chance to set.
The Navajos have mostly gone back inside to the high country with their sheep. I ain't seen an Indian in two weeks."
The stocky man tamped his pipe with a middle finger, and looked out the window. He always sat where he could see outside, for it kept him from the cramped feeling he got from being bottled up too tight.
He was unused to buildings except in their ruined state.
"You goin' back in, Gay?" The lanky man was glad of company, for he was the gregarious sort who liked to talk even when he had little to talk about.
"Uh-huh." Gay Cooley was watching the two riders he could see through the window. They had come from the north, but were now approaching from the west; obviously they had wanted to see what horses might be at the hitch rail before they came on in. One of the riders was a woman, riding sidesaddle. A woman in this country was an uncommon sight.
After a few minutes, Gay Cooley struck a match. When he had inhaled deeply, then exhaled, he commented, "Visitors, Skin. Better dust off your manners. There's a lady."
Startled, the tall man slid from the counter to stare out the window. "Well, I d'clare! A real, live lady."
The riders walked their horses to the rail and the man dismounted, offering some low-voiced comment to the woman, who remained in the saddle.
"Skittish," Gay commented.
"What's that? What did you say?"
"Nothing. Talking to myself. Just pay me no mind."
Matt Keylock pushed the door wide with the barrel of his Winchester, then stepped in. The movement allowed him to have the muzzle of the gun pointed into the store, at hip level, without it seeming in any way discourteous to those within.
Gay Cooley's eyes glinted at the gesture and he started to speak, then closed his lips on his pipe. Matt Keylock had looked at him as though he were a stranger.
"Place around here for a lady to freshen up? My wife's ridden a far piece."
"Sure as shootin'." Skin gestured toward a door behind the counter. "Boss lives back there, and he's got it fixed for his own woman. You go right to it."
Matt spoke over his shoulder, then walked on in. To have helped Kris down would mean to turn his back on the store and the men within, and that he was not prepared to do. He was not worried much about Gay Cooley, although he had not seen him for several years.
"We'll need supplies." Matt placed a carefully written list on the counter. "Nearest place west will be Prescott, won't it?"
"Uh-huh." Skin glanced at the door, then his eyes went wide as he saw Kris. Her beauty brought a change to the plain room.
"Goin' to Californy?" he asked.
"No . . . somewhere around Prescott. Maybe Skull Valley."
Kris went through the door behind the counter, and Skin started moving around, picking up items. Matt Keylock walked over to the stove.
"How's the trail west of here?" he asked Cooley.
The older man glanced up, mildly amused.
"Good enough . . . I've been that way a time or two."
Under his breath Gay said, "You the one shot that man down to Freedom?"
"Yes."
"Description sounded like you. The shootin' didn't."
"He was facing the bar, half-turned and drew.
My first shot got him back of the left shoulder, the second in the spine. He'd been standing left side toward the door, and he drew from his waistband and fired from under his left arm. It was a fair shooting."
"Never doubted it."
Skin was busy piling up packages, measuring.
"They've hired themselves a marshal. Stranger ... a big, cold-faced man."
"Neerland?"
Cooley glanced up sharply. "You know him?"
"We had words." Matt gestured toward the back room. "Over her."
There was a moment of silence, during which Skin continued his ambling about the store, searching for the various things. Unfamiliar as he was with the stock-for he had been asked to care for it only while the trader was over in Prescott on business-he was slow, but Matt was in no hurry, now that he had found Cooley.
"Three men back there," he said. "Do you know them?"
Gay Cooley hesitated, then replied, "No . . . don't think I do. One of them might be Neerland, as you call him."
"There will be others. I led that posse to Mormon Well."
"Heard so." Cooley lowered his feet to the floor. "Do "em no good. I've known where it was for years, and it never did me any good." He glanced up at Matt Keylock. "You huntin" the Lost Wagons yourself?"
"Me? Hell, no! Only kind of gold I want is on four hoofs ... a stallion."
"Seen him a time or two," Cooley said.
"That's a lot of horse, man."
"Anybody should ask you, I'm riding out for Prescott and Skull Valley. I'm going to locate over there."
"Good country."
Gay Cooley was not a man either to comment or to ask questions, but he was well aware that Keylock would not be going to Prescott. Keylock was about horses the way he was about that Lost Wagon treasure.
Kris came back into the room, and Cooley stared. God! he thought. What a woman!
Matt Keylock picked up his sacked supplies and carried them outside to his pack animals. As he packed up, he watched the trail. He would be uneasy until he got clear away and into the hills again.
Gay Cooley and Skin went to the door, watching him.
As he drew the last hitch tight, Kris came from the door and he helped her into the saddle.
"You get over around Skull Valley," he said, "you boys look me up. You'll be most welcome."
"Somebody comin'," Cooley remarked. "Two riders."
Kris spoke urgently. "Matt!"
"It's all right." They were only a couple of hundred yards off, coming in from the west, which could mean the south and, possibly, Freedom. They were riding easily, and seemed unworried about anything. Almost without movement, Matt shifted his position just enough to keep Kris out of the line of fire.
The men were coming on, trotting their horses now as they drew near. Keylock made a show of tigh
tening the cinch on his horse, keeping the animal between himself and them.
They rode up, glancing sharply at him. He knew them both, for he had seen them from the dry wash . . . they were from the posse that had trailed him after the shooting in Freedom.
Short turned his horse to the hitch rail and got down. He looked toward the door and saw Gay Cooley step aside. Something in Cooley's manner made Short turn his head sharp around. And in that instant, his instinct warned him-this was the man.
He stood flat-footed, feet slightly apart, looking over his shoulder. It was an awkward position from which to start a draw, for he must turn completely around in order to bring his gun to bear on the target.
And he could not see McAlpin, who was behind him and to his left.
Keylock's shift of position had both men under his gun. McAlpin, all unaware, had stopped to loosen his cinch, and Short was sweating.
"That's what I like," he said abruptly. "A man who's so damn' careful of his horse!"
"Now what's eatin' you?" McAlpin's tone showed his astonishment. "I-was Then his eyes registered on Matt Keylock and he was still, for the readiness in the man was obvious.
"You boys better unbuckle," Keylock suggested mildly. "This here's a mighty peaceful place, and we'd hate to get it all over with blood. You boys just let those belts fall."
He was holding the Winchester, and the range was perfect. At that distance, there was no chance at all of his missing, and they both knew it.
"Now, see here!" McAlpin began. "I-was "Shut up," Short said, "and drop your belt!"
Both gun belts fell, and then Keylock gestured to Skin. "You there, storekeeper, move in and snake those guns away from there, and don't get lined up between us. I might mistake your intentions."
When the gun belts were out of the way, Keylock came out from behind his horse. "Now you boys back up and sit down. I'm going to read you from the Book."
Briefly, concisely, he told them of the gun battle forced on him by Johnny Webb; and when he had finished, he added, "I don't blame you boys for hunting me the first time because you didn't know no better. Now you do."
the Key-Lock Man (1965) Page 7
