“You see, there’s a valley back of the house that is well watered and every year my uncle got two good cuttings of hay off that piece, and a good deal of grazing after the hay was cut. He also has an orchard and a good-sized garden plot. However, that is only a part of it, for there are some five hundred acres that could be developed into good hay land by putting in a dam on Placer Creek.”
“No wonder he wants to get you off,” he said dryly. “You could get rich with that amount of hay, and this land.” He looked up suddenly. “You haven’t even asked who I am.”
“Well, I thought you’d tell me if you wanted to. We don’t ask many questions around here. Especially,” she added, “from men who come out of the Dead Hills.”
“I know.” He said nothing for a minute, staring out the window. “Better call me Rock,” he said. “It’s a good name around here.”
She laughed. “There’s plenty of it, certainly!”
The way he looked at her made her wonder if she’d missed something. “You’ve no friends to help you?” he said.
“There’s one man. His name is Tom Andrews, and he used to ride for my uncle, and he knew my father. I’ve written to him and he’s on his way.”
Rock nodded, then he said quietly, “You’d better stop waitin’ for him.” He drew a wallet from his pocket. “Did you ever see this before?”
She took it in her fingers, and her lips trembled. She had seen it, many times. “Where … where did you get this?”
“I found him back in the hills. He’d been wounded, and was in mighty bad shape. I tried to help him, and got shot for my pains. They killed both our horses.”
“Who was it?” Leosa asked quickly.
“That”—his eyes were suddenly hard—“is what I’d like to know!” He got to his feet. “About that dam now. How much money would it take?”
“Whiting, he’s my lawyer, he said it could be done for a couple of thousand dollars for wages if one used native rock and earth. He said a better dam could be built later, if necessary.”
“That makes sense. I’ll look the spot over.” He touched the guns on his hips. “I’ll need these. Is it all right?”
“Of course! Do you … does that mean you intend to stay?”
He smiled. “If you’d like me to. I think you need me right now, and I’ve some resting up to do. I want to get the lay of the land around here.”
She nodded. “Please stay on. I don’t know what I’d have done today without you. See this through with me and I’ll give you a share in the place.”
“Now, that there’s an interesting idea.”
“Good!” Leosa said quickly. “Fifty percent. It won’t be worth anything if I lose.”
“I’ll settle for that.” His eyes were thoughtful. “This Rorick got any property around other than his spread?”
“Yes, he owns the Longhorn Hotel and Saloon, and I hear he has an interest in another saloon. There are,” she added, “nine saloons in Joe Billy. Nine saloons, four stores, one hotel, one church, and a few other businesses, including a livery stable.”
She watched him as he walked toward the empty bunkhouse. Her brow furrowed a little. Was she wrong in accepting the help of a total stranger? In taking as a partner a man she had known but a couple of hours? Who did not even volunteer his full name?
On the other hand, had she a choice? He had at least come to her aid in an hour of need. He had brought Andrews’s wallet to her and he seemed ready to accept the task Andrews had been unable to attempt.
Leosa opened the wallet thoughtfully. There was money in it, almost a hundred dollars, and a few pipers. One of them was a scrawled signature on a piece of torn envelope.
Last Will: All my belongings to Leosa Barron, friend and daughter of a friend.
Tom Andrews
The signature was merely a scrawl, and her eyes filled with tears at the thought of Tom, his last thoughts for her, a girl he had known only as a skinny child with freckles and braids. And from him had come this stranger. With a shock of something that was half excitement and half fear, she remembered the sheer brutality of his attack on Wilson, the flashing speed with which the gun had leaped to his hand. Who was he? What was he?
IN THE BUNKHOUSE there was an empty bed with folded blankets, and several with no bedding beyond mattresses. Obviously, this was the bunk awaiting Tom Andrews. Rock sat down and studied the room. It was strongly built, as everything seemed to be on this ranch. No effort had been spared to make it strong or comfortable.
He walked to the door and stared toward town. Joe Billy … his town!
There would be trouble when they knew, and plenty of it. They did not know him now, yet already he had met Rorick and faced him down. His advantage had been surprise, and next time they would be prepared for him. How soon, he wondered, would they realize who he was and why he had come back? All hell would break loose then and Van Rorick would be the one who led it.
In a way, Leosa’s fight was his fight. His thoughts went back to the tall, rather shy girl, who had accepted him so readily. He pulled off his shirt and hunted the cabin for shaving gear. He found an old razor, and after a healthy stropping, he shaved. It was dark when he had finished cleaning up, and he walked outside.
Whiting, that was the name of the lawyer that Leosa had mentioned. He would go to him. He walked outside and roped and saddled a horse, then he mounted and rode to the door. “Ridin’ to Joe Billy,” he said quietly. “You better stay in an’ keep a rifle handy.”
She watched him ride away, liking the set of his shoulders and the way he rode. Queerly disturbed, she returned inside, pausing to look into the fire. It was strange, having this man here, yet somehow he did not seem strange, and she felt oddly happy…. Security, that was it. What else could it be?
RANCE WHITING HAD an office over the squat gray bank building. Rock glanced at the tall man who rose to greet him, and instantly liked him. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose. His eyes were gray, and friendly. An open volume of Horace sat on the nearby table.
Rock glanced at the title, then at the lawyer. “‘We are dust and shadow,’” he quoted.
Whiting was surprised, and he measured the rider again. The cold green eyes, the shock of dark curly hair, the bronzed features, blunt and strong, the wool shirt under which muscles bulged. “You know Horace?” he asked.
Rock laughed. “Only that. Read it once, an’ liked it. I used to read a good deal. Hombre left a flock of books behind an’ I was snowed in for the winter. Mostly Shakespeare an’ Plato.”
“You were looking for an attorney?”
Rock drew several papers from a homemade buckskin wallet, a large wallet he took from the inside of his shirt. It was bloodstained. Without further comment, he handed it to Whiting.
The lawyer opened the papers curiously, then started and glanced up at Rock, then back at the papers. His face was curiously white. He skimmed over the others swiftly, then sat back in his chair, looking up at the man before him. “You know what these will mean, if you produce them? If you even hint they exist?”
Rock nodded.
“It means they’ll kill you.”
“They can try.”
“Who sent you to me?” Whiting was measuring Rock with quick, curious eyes.
“Leosa Barron. I made a deal to help her out for a while.”
“Then you’re already in trouble! You can’t stay there, you know, they’ll run you off.”
“You mean Rorick and Wilson? They had a pass at runnin’ her off today. They didn’t get far.”
“You stopped them? Alone?”
He shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m going to build that dam for her.”
“You are biting off a chunk.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do you want me to call you, young man?”
“My name is Rock.”
“Yes … yes, I see. Who have you told? Anyone besides Miss Barron?”
“I only told her the last name. Figu
red it was enough for now.” Whiting lifted the papers, then got to his feet. “When do you want to use these?”
Rock shrugged. “I came to ask your advice, but my idea would be now, down in the Longhorn.”
“Now?” Whiting’s exclamation faded into a smile. “Yes, it would be amusing. Can you shoot, friend? This is going to blow the top off the town. It might even blow our tops off.”
Rock nodded. “It might. Let’s do it this way. You put these in a safe place. Then you make out bills to all the folks who owe me money. Make them out particularly to Van Rorick. Then you go down to the Longhorn, and I’ll drift in, too. Spring it on him and let’s see what happens.”
“Not tell them who you are?”
“Not right now. I’m not duckin’ a fight, but what I want is to get the picture of things. Also, I’d like to have a showdown with Rorick on Leosa Barron. Because before he gets through, I’m goin’ to give him so much trouble he’ll forget her.”
THE LONGHORN WAS ABLAZE with light when Rock pushed through the door and walked to the bar. Rorick was there, and he was seated at a table with Lute Wilson, whose face was puffed and swollen out of shape, and another man. Rorick looked up, and Rock felt the shock of his eyes, of the hatred in them.
The bartender served him without comment, and Rock scanned the room. He had never seen it before, but he knew it from the countless tales he had heard. He was barely tasting his drink when the door opened again and Rance Whiting walked in. Without seeming to notice Rock, he went to the bar and ordered a drink, then he glanced around at Rorick. “Van,” he said, “I’ve news for you. News, and a bill.”
“A bill?” Rorick was puzzled but wary. “What do I owe you for?”
“Not me. A client. The owner of this property, in fact. You owe him rent for four years on the Longhorn, and on the Placer Saloon, down the street. The total, according to my figures, comes to nine thousand three hundred and seventy dollars.”
Rorick’s face was ashen, then blood turned it crimson and he started to his feet. “What’s this you’re givin’ me?” he demanded. “I bought this place from Jody Thompson!”
“That was unfortunate,” Whiting replied calmly. “You should have investigated his title. He owned neither the buildings nor the land on which they stand. Actually, he was a squatter here, and had no legal rights. This is not, as he supposed, government land. It belongs to my client, and has been in his family for forty years!”
Van Rorick was livid; also, he was frightened. He had built up his influence locally partly on wealth, but mostly on strength. He had little cash, certainly nowhere in the neighborhood of nine thousand dollars. If he were compelled to pay up, he could do so only by selling off all his stock; furthermore, he could be dispossessed here.
His eyes searched Whiting’s face. “This is some trick,” he protested. “You and that girl have rigged this on me. You won’t get away with it!”
Rance shrugged. Glancing toward the far wall of the saloon, he caught the eye of an old man, bearded and gray, who sat there. “Mawson,” he asked, “how did this town get its name?”
“Joe Billy?” Mawson got to his feet, enjoying the limelight. “Why, she was named for the son of the man that located the first claims hereabouts. He inherited this chunk of land, something like forty thousand acres, from his father, who got it through marriage to a Valdez gal.”
Rorick walked to the bar. He was trapped, but he was thinking swiftly. He should be able to make a deal with Whiting. Certainly, the man had no money. He owed a bar bill, and he owed for supplies down the street. There was sure to be a way to swing it.
Yet even deeper within him, there was a feverish desperation, anger at Whiting for bringing this up, in public, and anger at it coming now when it might frustrate all his plans. His eyes were calm, but inwardly he was seething. There had to be a way … and maybe Lute could handle it. Lute, or—his mind returned to the slim and silent man who waited at the table with Wilson—or him.
“Your unsupported statement means nothing,” Rorick said, fighting for calmness. “You have some papers? Deeds?”
“I have everything that’s necessary,” Whiting replied. “When the time comes I’ll produce them. Not until then. I intend”—he smiled at Rorick—“to protect my client’s interests so they will not disappear until we meet, if must be, in court. That,” he added, “would be in Santa Fe.”
Van Rorick winced. He dared not show himself in Santa Fe. Did Whiting realize that? But here …? Anything might happen.
“We can make a deal, Rance,” he said quietly. “I can’t pay that money now, and I’m sure you don’t want to hurry me. I can pay a part of it, and make a deal for the rest.”
Whiting shook his head. “No, the saloon is doing business,” he said. “Some of that profit can go to my client as well as to you. All he wants from you is the arrears in rent.”
He paused, his eyes studying Rorick. “That, or you leave the country.”
“What!” Rorick’s lips thinned down. “So that’s it? I’ll see you in hell first! And whoever your client is!”
“You have five days. No more.” Whiting finished his drink and placed the glass on the bar.
After Whiting had gone, Van Rorick stood at the bar for a few minutes, and for the first time recalled that the stranger from Leosa Barron’s ranch was in the room, and that he had entered just before Whiting! Was there a tie-up there? No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he was sure such was the case. That this had come up when the stranger arrived was too much for a coincidence.
Whiting, and this man. Who was he, then? Rorick was thinking swiftly. Somehow, he must get rid of both. After all, hadn’t he managed to rid himself of Tom Andrews? With Whiting out of it and whatever papers he had in his possession, he would be even more secure.
Thanks to his carefully planted rumors, Leosa Barron was disliked by all the women of the town, and suspected by most of the men. The presence of Rock on her ranch would make those suspicions seem fact. Moreover, his mysterious arrival would help … but whatever was done must be done carefully to avert all suspicion from himself. And there was a way … with them gone, he could always claim Whiting had tried to defraud him.
ROCK LEFT THE SALOON and, without returning to see Whiting, headed for the ranch. He had anticipated trouble, and knew that Rorick would not take this lying down. The man’s sudden quiet disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
At daybreak Rock was riding, and by noon he had made a careful survey of the site chosen for the dam. It was a good spot, no doubt about it, and looking at the massive stone walls above, he had an idea how it could be done.
He said nothing to Leosa, but after a quick lunch, took some giant powder from a cache near the house and returned to the mountain. By nightfall he had his first set of holes in, and had them charged.
Leosa, a new warmth in her eyes, reported no sign of Wilson or Rorick. A passing neighbor, one of the few who condescended to speak, had told her there was a rumor that Art Beal and Milt Blue, the outlaws, were in the vicinity, that Blue had been seen riding near Joe Billy.
Leosa said this last with averted eyes. She was remembering that flashing draw, and the fact that Rock had come out of the Dead Hills. Milt Blue was a known killer, and a deadly man with a gun. She had never seen him nor heard a description, but she was afraid now. Afraid for Rock. Was he … could he be Milt Blue?
Yet if the rumors meant anything to him, he said nothing. “Art Beal hasn’t been around much,” he commented. “Disappeared a while back. Blue killed another man down to El Paso, only a month ago.”
The following day, Rock returned and put in his second round of holes. When he had them charged, he studied the situation below. If the rock broke right, he would have a fairly good dam across the canyon. Then another charge, to help things along, and in no time the creek itself would finish the dam by piling up silt, brush, and weeds to fill up the holes and gaps in the rocks.
Rock carefully lighted his fuses, then desce
nded the rock face to the bottom of the draw. The fuses were long, for he had wanted to get both shots off approximately together. The climb to the opposite side took him little time, and in a matter of a minute he had spit those fuses and then slid rapidly down the steep declivity to the bottom. He turned and started up the draw, then glanced back.
Light glinted high on the rock, and instinctively, he hurled himself to the right. A rifle spoke, its distant bark swallowed by the huge, all-engulfing roar as the first set of powder-charged holes let go. It was an enormous sound, magnified and echoed again and again by the walls of the canyon, but Rock did not hear it. He was going over headfirst into the rocks. He landed facedown, slid a short distance, then his body ceased to slide and he lay sprawled out and unconscious among the greasewood and boulders at one side of the draw.
Beyond him rocks fell, then ceased to fall, and dust rose slowly, in a great cloud. When it stopped rising, there was a wall across the canyon, low in the middle, but high enough. The mountain stream, trickling down its normal bed, found the way blocked, it turned right, searching for a way under or through, but discovered no way to accommodate the swelling strength of water behind it. Spreading left, it found no way out, and so began to back up in a slowly widening and deepening pool.
IT WAS DARK WHEN the lapping water reached the nest of rocks where the fallen man lay. Cold fingers encircled his outflung hand, crept up his arm with exploring tentacles, and flattened out, creeping along his side and toward his face.
A coyote, prowling nearby and sniffing blood, paused to stare at the man’s dark body. Curious, he came near, stepping daintily to keep his feet from the water. When the man moved, drawing back a hand, the coyote drew back and trotted swiftly off.
It was the cold touch of the water that roused Joe Billy Rock. Water against his face and water along his ribs. For an instant he lay still, and then the meaning of the creeping coldness came to him with a rush, and he jerked back and lunged to his feet. The startled reaction that brought him up also brought a rush of pain to his head. His fingers lifted and explored. The bullet had caused chips of rock to pepper his face and arm, but there was at least one other cut caused by his fall, and his whole body was stiff and numb.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Page 13
