Novel 1978 - The Proving Trail (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Chuckling, I clasped my hands behind my head. They would have to find shelter, and I just hoped they did not also find my horse. But they had seemed unaware of any caves or cliff houses further up the canyon and had evidently missed them.

  For a long time I slept, and when I awakened it was cold and dark. It was raining softly now, and thunder was a muted sound, far off. Listening, I heard nothing but the rain. I thought of my horse and of the trail I must follow to reach it. To wait until daylight would mean I would be exposed and helpless on the canyon wall, yet if I could make it by night I might successfully slip away.

  I lay still for a while, reluctant to break my comfort, for despite the hard rocks upon which I lay, I had rested well. Yet the longer I lay still, the more urgent became the need to move. Carefully, I reviewed the steps I had taken in mounting the cliff. Dare I attempt it by night? In the rain and the dark?

  Finally I sat up and looked around. It was very dark, for the sky was still heavy with rainclouds and no star could be seen. My father had told me the spirits of the dead were believed by the Indians to still linger in these cliff dwellings, and I did not doubt it. Lying alone in one of a night, where nothing else lived, subtle stirrings could be heard, and sometimes mumbling and distant chanting or the sound of flutes. So it was said and so it was believed. I heard stirrings enough, but the earth itself makes sounds and the wind finds holes to whistle through.

  Maybe…who was I to argue the point? In any event, if the spirits lingered here, they were no enemies of mine, or should not be, for I wished them no harm, nor their dwelling. This had been a shrewd place in which to build, where attack by night was virtually impossible.

  Gathering my few things about me, I slung my rifle over my shoulders to have my hands free. Then I crept back over the narrow ledge, bending far over because of the low-hanging rock above me. At one point I knew to step carefully, for a deep crack cut through the ledge to the back wall, a drop of several hundred feet if one made a false step.

  Inching along in the darkness, I found that despite the darkness my eyes could pick out places for my feet, and eventually I found the two notched poles down which I must descend.

  For a few moments I crouched there at the top of the first. Below me gaped the blackness of the canyon depths, above me loomed the cliff. I listened, but heard nothing. That pole worried me. It simply stood there, unfastened to anything. The slightest overbalance and it would fall, and I would go with it.

  However, it did stand in a sort of notch that concealed it from observation and helped to hold it in place. At last I got a good grip on a corner of rock and turned slowly around and felt with my toe for the first notch.

  My toe missed it, and desperately I felt it sliding down the pole. Then it caught on another step. Gingerly I lifted the other foot and took a long step downward. The pole wavered under me, and I leaned toward the rock to hold it still. Then I took another careful step downward…how many steps had there been?

  It started to rain again, a hard, pelting rain. Step by step I worked my way down to the rock ledge on which the pole stood. Now a little to one side, and the other pole. It was the longer of the two…I thought.

  Working my way along the ledge, I found the second pole and descended it warily. When my feet were once more on solid ground, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Now to my horse…if he was still there…and someone was not waiting there, lying in wait for me.

  Now the heavy rain was in my favor. Not only did it mask the sounds of my movements, but nobody would be abroad in such a rain.

  I hoped.

  Chapter 9

  *

  THERE WAS NO sound but the rain on the rocks, on the brim of my hat and my shoulders. The ruin cloaked by trees where I had left my horse lay hidden in the deepest shadow. Warily, I paused before descending over the mound of fallen rock and earth.

  Here the rain was muted by the cavern and the trees. I listened, holding my Winchester ready in my two hands to use as a club or to fire.

  Nothing stirred. I took a tentative step forward, waited a bit, then another step. All was still. Another step, moving a little to the right, closer to the edge where the walking was better. My boot toe kicked a rock and it fell, bounding off a rock, then falling into the kiva.

  Instantly I dropped to a crouch, rifle ready to fire. Had there been anyone waiting, the sound of the pebble falling should have drawn a gunshot.

  Waiting…listening…how much time did I have? I must be out of the branch canyon and well down the main canyon before first light.

  Suddenly something stirred. A footfall? I straightened up and took a step forward. Then my horse nickered softly. Moving closer, I felt his nose at my shoulder. “Hello, boy.” I spoke quietly. “Have you missed me?”

  Feeling about in the darkness, I found my saddle, blanket, and bridle where they had been left. The roan welcomed the bit, and smoothing the hair on his back, I shook out the blanket to free it of any grains of sand. Then I saddled up. Taking each step with care, I led the horse to the edge of the trail. Once there I waited, listening. Then I removed my slicker from the blanket roll back of the saddle and donned it.

  The rain fell steadily. There would be a danger of flash floods once I got out of this branch canyon. Around me the rocks glistened with wet. Leading the roan, I felt my way cautiously down the slope to the canyon floor. Here there was a strip of sand, already running with water.

  With a palm I swept the saddle free of water and mounted. Warily, rifle in hand, I walked him down the canyon, keeping him to the sand, where his hoofs made almost no sound.

  This must be the one they had called Lion Canyon…probably with reason, and probably why the roan was eager to leave.

  At the mouth of the canyon I hesitated. If I remembered correctly, this larger canyon was about five miles longer. At the end it joined the still larger canyon of the Mancos River. The trail, if I recalled correctly, held to the east side of the river and back from the bank, which was where I wished it to be.

  Once well past the entrance to Lion Canyon, I moved the roan into a canter. Five miles in the darkness and rain? Perhaps a half hour if lucky, three-quarters of an hour if I was not. I doubted if there was danger of a flood here, but once in Mancos Canyon the chances were increased tenfold, for there were many canyons that fed into it, particularly those from the high mesa north of the river.

  By daybreak they would find no tracks. All would be washed away by the rain. The Mancos might be too deep for them to ford, and that might hold them up…if I could get across it myself.

  It was somewhat lighter in Mancos Canyon, because it was wider. I rode to the edge of the river and drew up. The dark waters rushed by, at least three times as wide and probably three times as deep as normally. An instant I hesitated, then I urged the roan forward. Snorting a little, wary of the water, he walked, hesitated, then plunged in. A moment of deep wading and then he was swimming. The current was strong. We swept downstream, struggling toward the far bank.

  Then suddenly he was scrambling for a footing, and then we were out of the water and weaving a way through the rain-heavy willows. Turning, I glanced back.

  There was only the dark, rushing water, still rising, and the wide jaws of the canyon, black against the night. The trail was further east and north. Emerging from the willows, the roan found his way to the trail, and I turned him northwest. Above us to the northwest and mostly north was the vast bulk of Mesa Verde, split with a myriad of canyons. When my father had brought me through here long ago, he told me of whispers from among the Indians of strange castles built in the cliff walls, ruined castles or dwellings of a people who vanished long before.

  Riding along through the rain, I kept thinking of Teresa. Do no harm to stop by and make a little talk on the way east. Seemed to me they’d waste time hunting me back there in the canyons. Me leaving no tracks in the rain, they’d study on it no doubt and search careful before they pulled out.

  So far I’d seen nobody, which pr
obably meant nobody had seen me, not in the dark and the rain. I’d have to hole up and rest some, come morning, for the roan was a good horse and needed to be treated kindly. It was nigh to breaking day when the canyon forked. One line went due north and the other took off toward the east, which was my direction.

  When we reached the main trail east, I just taken off to the north of it, rode up the slope for a ways, and found myself a place among the aspen. There was a hollow screened by aspen from the main trail. There I picketed the roan, and taking my gear back under the trees, I made a hurried shelter from some fallen aspen and brush in a space well covered by the aspen branches. Wet though the ground was, I put down my slicker and rolled up in my blanket to hope for the best.

  It was nigh on to noon when I opened my eyes. For a moment I just lay still to listen, but heard nothing. After a bit I rolled my gear, saddled up, and lit out.

  At Starvation Creek I drank, watered the roan, then cut down for the main trail. I taken a look back to the west, but nobody was in sight, although I couldn’t see far. There were no tracks on the trail since the rain, so I taken out down the road.

  Maybe I was a fool to go back, yet I wished to see Teresa. Why, I did not know. No doubt it was loneliness, for now I had begun to feel my father’s absence more than I could tell. We had been much together, often not talking, yet together nonetheless, and he was all I had as I was all he had. At least, at the end.

  Always the nagging thought…who had he been? Who was I? Kearney McRaven? The name did not sound right, although how a name should sound I did not know.

  But who had my father been? And who was Felix Yant? Why had he killed my father, for I was now sure it had been him, and why did he seek to kill me?

  Who were the women who came to visit when I was young? And where were they now? What part had they in all this?

  The questions nagged at me, irritated me. Why had I been such a fool not to listen when I had the chance?

  Nobody paid much mind when I rode into town. It was a late hour and, it being largely a mining town, folks had gone to sleep. Folks who handle drill steel and a single or double jack all day, or swing a muck stick, they don’t have much use for late hours. This time of year things were slow, waiting for the grass to show and the warm weather to come.

  I stabled my horse and fetched my gear over to the ho-tel, and I just dumped her there at the foot of the stairs and went into the restaurant.

  First thing I saw was her. She was across the room taking an order from a customer and she just stared at me, then went to the kitchen. Me, I dropped into a chair.

  She brought food to those men at the other table and then crossed to me with the coffeepot and a cup. She filled the cup, her hand shaking so she spilled some in the saucer.

  “You…you’re back!”

  She seemed surprised, and I couldn’t make out whether she was pleased or not, but I guessed she was. “Seems as though,” I said. “That’s my horse yonder in the stable, and these are my pants, so this must be me.”

  “I thought…I mean I was afraid you were…dead.”

  “Time or two,” I said, “I was cold enough to be. You got a nice slice of cow meat? Or cougar, for that matter.”

  Holding up the coffee, I said, “Been drinkin’ my own make. Doesn’t taste near as good as this.”

  “You’d better leave,” she warned. “He’s…he’s here.”

  He. That would be Yant. “Here?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “He’s been here. He said you’d be back…if you lived.”

  She looked up and I saw her face turn kind of pale and there he was, tall, neat, and well set out like a gentleman should be. He looked at me for a moment from those cold, cruel eyes, and I had no idea what he was thinking. Nor could I guess whether he was glad to see me or sorry. No doubt he expected me to be dead.

  Teresa, she hurried off and he set down. Didn’t even wait to ask my leave. He turned a chair around and set straddle of it. “You had a long ride for nothing,” he commented.

  “Maybe. I figure a man learns by travel, and I seen some country.”

  He looked at me sharply, irritated. “You saw some country. If your father was your teacher, he did a damned poor—”

  “Mr. Yant,” I interrupted him, “you leave my pa out of this. You say one more bad thing about him an’ I’ll blow your guts out.”

  He just stared at me. “You?” he said contemptuously. “Don’t talk like a fool, boy. I was using guns before you were born.”

  “Maybe,” I replied coolly, “but I’ll be using them after you’re dead.”

  We just looked at each other, and I was almighty glad my coat was open and I had one gun shoved out in my waistband. He saw that, too. If there was an edge, I had it.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy. You aren’t dry behind the ears yet.”

  “That may be true,” I said, “but this gun’s full-growed…grown.”

  He stared at me, but I stared right back. Boylike, I had no intention of being stared down by him. After a moment he shrugged. “You’ll never live to be old enough. You’re too cocky. You’re too sure of yourself.”

  “Maybe I’ve got reason. Did you ever think of that? My pa was good with a gun, almighty good. The man who murdered him knew that, I think, and was too yellow to stand up to him so he shot him in the back. If the man who did that should come around, he ought to know that pa always said I could draw faster and shoot straighter than anybody he ever saw.”

  Teresa returned with another cup and coffee for Yant. She put both of them down and a moment later was back with food.

  “Would you like—?” She was looking at Yant. “I mean, do you want to eat?”

  “Yes, my dear,” he said. “I believe I will join our young friend here.”

  Whatever was on Yant’s mind was not shooting. Not at the moment, at least. In fact, I got the idea he was even relieved to see me. As he had no liking for me, I got to wondering why that was.

  “Your father must have been quite a man,” he commented. “You two traveled a lot, I take it?”

  “We did.”

  “Were you always alone? No friends along the way?”

  “Here and there,” I said, “here and there.”

  “You should have gone to school,” he commented. “Surely you stayed some places long enough?”

  He sipped his coffee and seemed irritated when I made no reply. He was a most impatient man. “I mean, he could have left you with friends if he just had to move on. That way you could have gone to school.”

  “He liked having me with him.” As I spoke, the idea came to me that he was fishing. He wanted to find out if we had good friends. He had the same idea I had, that pa might have left something somewhere.

  Maybe, just maybe I could give him a false lead. “Oh, we had friends here and there,” I said casually, “but pa didn’t get close to many people. Of course, there was Jim Gillette. He and pa were close. There was some sort of a fandango down in Mexico…getting somebody out of jail down there and back across the border. Pa had some good friends in Mexico, and he helped somehow.”

  “Gillette? Wasn’t he an officer?”

  “Texas Ranger. He had some position in El Paso, too, I think. We stayed in El Paso some little time. Pa was working there, for the stage company, I think it was.”

  We ate in silence, and then I added the kicker. “Wasn’t many people pa trusted, but Gillette was one of them.”

  Not to belabor the point, I moved on. “Pa met him on the buffalo plains first, I think. Or in Amarillo. Pa said when he first saw that town, it was built of buffalo hides. You know, they get stiff as iron, and folks had built houses and even stores from them.”

  Teresa kept watching us, but now I was wary of her, too. After all, she had been here and Felix Yant had also, and he was a smooth-talking man. Certainly he had more to offer than a no-account drifter like me. Or so it might seem to both her ma and her. And no doubt they’d begun to wonder why he was hanging about, this time of year
. They would surely think it was Teresa rather than anything to do with me.

  She’d been my reason for coming back here, but all of a sudden I felt uneasy about her. And right then I begun to be a mighty lonesome boy. It just seemed there was nobody in the world I could get close to. She’d been in my thinking ever since we met, but now I wasn’t so sure. Since pa had been killed, I’d been alone, and I didn’t favor it much.

  She came over to see if our coffee was hot and she taken up the pot to go for more. “You’re not too busy,” Yant said. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute or two? I am sure Kearney would appreciate your company as much as I would.”

  “Well, I—” She hesitated, sort of, looking at me.

  “Sure,” I said, “sit down.”

  Maybe I didn’t sound too happy, because she looked at me funny-like, but she said, “I’ll get some fresh coffee.”

  When she was gone, Yant looked at me, smiling a little. “A pretty one,” he said. “I hope you do not mind her joining us?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  I was restless to get away. I wanted to be alone, to clean up, and to think of what I must do. To find him here was the last thing I expected. Who then had pursued me westward? Who had fired those inquiring shots into the cliff dwelling? Had he simply sat here while men he hired followed me? I had been a fool, and he had outwitted me at every turn.

  What would happen when I started for Georgetown?

  He would follow, of course. Somehow he had deduced that if my father had left me anything of his past, it must be at some place further east. Did he believe my hints about Jim Gillette? The man was no made-up figure but one well known there, and even he had recognized the name.

  Teresa returned with a fresh pot of coffee, yet she had no sooner seated herself than Yant arose, surprising me, and her, too, I believe.

  “There,” he said, “I shall leave you two together. No doubt you will have much to talk about. Your trip west, I imagine, was quite fascinating…and so sudden. You must tell Teresa about your experiences.”