the Proving Trail (1979)

by L'amour, Louis

  For a few moments I crouched there at the top o f the first. Below me gaped the blackness of the canyo n depths, above me loomed the cliff. I listened, but hear d nothing. That pole worried me. It simply stood there , unfastened to anything. The slightest overbalance an d 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 i n place. At last I got a good grip on a corner of roc k and turned slowly around and felt with my toe for th e first notch.

  My toe missed it, and desperately I felt it slidin g 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 towar d the rock to hold it still. Then I took another carefu l step downward . . . how many steps had there been?

  It started to rain again, a hard, pelting rain. Step b y step I worked my way down to the rock ledge on whic h the pole stood. Now a little to one side, and the othe r pole. It was the longer of the two . . . I thought.

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

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

  Now the heavy rain was in my favor. Not only did i t mask the sounds of my movements, but nobody woul d be abroad in such a rain.

  I hoped.

  Chapter IX

  There was no sound in the canyon, no sound but th e rain on the rocks, on the brim of my hat and m y shoulders. The ruin cloaked by trees where I had lef t my horse lay hidden in the deepest shadow. Warily, I p aused before descending over the mound of falle n rock and earth.

  Here the rain was muted' by the cavern and th e trees. I listened, holding my Winchester ready in m y 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. Anothe r step, moving a little to the right, closer to the edg e where the walking was better. My boot toe kicked a rock and it fell, bounding off a rock, then falling int o the kiva.

  Instantly I dropped to a crouch, rifle ready to fire.

  Had there been anyone waiting, the sound of the pebbl e 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 th e main canyon before first light.

  Suddenly something stirred. A footfall? I straightene d up and took a step forward. Then my horse tuckere d 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 roa n 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 le d the horse to the edge of the trail. Once there I waited , listening. Then I removed my slicker from the blanke t roll back of the saddle and donned it.

  The rain fell steadily. There would be a danger o f flash floods once I got out of this branch canyon.

  Around me the rocks glistened with wet. Leading th e roan, I felt my way cautiously down the slope to th e canyon floor. Here there was a strip of sand, alread y running with water.

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

  This must be the one they had called Lion Canyo n . . . probably with reason, and probably why the roa n was eager to leave.

  At the mouth of the canyon I hesitated. If I remembered correctly, this larger canyon was about five mile s longer. At the end it joined the still larger canyon o f the Mancos River. The trail, if I recalled correctly, hel d 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 m oved the roan into a canter. Five miles in the darkness and rain? Perhaps a half hour if lucky, three--q uarters of an hour if I was not. I doubted if ther e was danger of a flood here, but once in Mancos Canyo n the chances were increased tenfold, for there wer e many canyons that fed into it, particularly those fro m the high mesa north of the river.

  By daybreak they would find no tracks. All woul d be washed away by the rain. The Mancos might be to o deep for them to ford, and that might hold them up . i f 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 an d drew up. The dark waters rushed by. at least three time s 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 an d then he was swimming. The current was strong. We swept downstream, struggling toward the far bank.

  Then suddenly he was scrambling for a footing, an d then we were out of the water and weaving a wa y through the rain-heavy willows. Turning, I glance d back.

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

  Riding along through the rain, I kept thinking o f Teresa. Do no harm to stop by and make a little tal k on the way east. Seemed to me they'd waste time hunting me back there in the canyons. Me leaving no track s in the rain, they'd study on it no doubt and searc h careful before they pulled out.

  So far I'd seen nobody, which probably meant nobody had seen me, not in the dark and the rain. I'd have to hole up and rest some, come morning, for th e 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 towar d the east, which was my direction.

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

  It was nigh on to noon when I opened my eyes. Fo r 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, the n cut down for the main trail. I taken a look back to th e west, but nobody was in sight, although I couldn't se e far. There were no tracks on the trail since the rain, s o I taken out down the road.

  Maybe I was a fool to go back, yet I wished to se e Teresa. Why, I did not know. No doubt it was loneliness, for now I had begun to feel my father's absenc e more than I could tell. We had been much together , often not talking, yet together nonetheless, and he wa s 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 no t sound right, although how a name should sound I di d not know.

  But who had my father been? And who was Feli x Yant? Why had he killed my father, for I was no w sure it had been him, and why did he seek to kill me?

  Who were the women who came to visit when I w as young? And where were they now? What part ha d they in all this?

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

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

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

  First thing I saw was her. She was across the roo m taking an order from a customer and she just stare d at me, then went to the kitchen. Me, I dropped int o a chair.

  She brought food to those men at the other tabl e and then crossed to me with the coffeepot and a cup.

  She filled the cup, her hand shaking so she spilled som e in the saucer.

  "You . . . you're back!"

  She seemed surprised, and I couldn't make ou t whether she was pleased or not, but I guessed she was.

  "Seems as though," I said. "That's my horse yonder i n the stable, and these are my pants, so this must be me."

  "I thought . . . I mean I was afraid you were . . . d ead."

  "Time or two," I said, "I was cold enough to be.

  You got a nice slice of cow meat? Or cougar, for tha t matter."

  Holding up the coffee, I said, "Been drinkin' my ow n 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 believ e it.

  "He's been here. He said you'd be back . . . if yo u lived."

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

  Teresa, she hurried off and he set down. Didn't eve n wait to ask my leave. He turned a chair around an d set straddle of it. "You had a long ride for nothing," h e commented.

  "Maybe. I figure a man learns by travel, and I see n some country."

  He looked at me sharply, irritated. "You saw som e country. If your father was your teacher, he did a damned poor-"

  "Mr. Yant," I interrupted him, "you leave my pa ou t of this. You say one more bad thing about him an' I'l l blow your guts out."

  He just stared at me. "You?" he said contemptuously. "Don't talk like a fool, boy. I was using gun s before you were born."

  "Maybe," I replied coolly, "but I'll be using the m after you're dead."

  We just looked at each other, and I was almight y glad my coat was open and I had one gun shoved out i n 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 th e ears yet."

  "That may be true," I said, "but this gun's full--g rowed . 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 b e old enough. You're too cocky. You're too sure o f yourself."

  "Maybe I've got reason. Did you ever think o f that? My pa was good with a gun, almighty good. Th e man who murdered him knew that, I think, and wa s too yellow to stand up to him so he shot him in th e back. If the man who did that should come around , he ought to know that pa always said I could dra w faster and shoot straighter than anybody he eve r saw."

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

  "Would you like-?" She was looking at Yant. "I m ean, do you want to eat?"

  "Yes, my dear," he said. "I believe I will join ou r young friend here."

  Whatever was on Yant's mind was not shooting.

  Not at the moment, at least. In fact, I got the idea h was even relieved to see me. As he had no liking fo r 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 m ade no reply. He was a most impatient man. "I mean , he could have left you with friends if he just had t o move on. That way you could have gone to school."

  "He liked having me with him." As I spoke, the ide a came to me that he was fishing. He wanted to find ou t 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. Ther e was some sort of a fandango down in Mexico . . . getting somebody out of jail down there and back acros s the border. Pa had some good friends in Mexico, an d 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 i t was."

  We ate in silence, and then I added the kicker.

  "Wasn't many people pa trusted, but Gillette was on e of them."

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

  Teresa kept watching us, but now I was wary o f her, too. After all, she had been here and Felix Yan t had also, and he was a smooth-talking man. Certainl y he had more to offer than a no-account drifter lik e me. Or so it might seem to both her ma and her. An d no doubt they'd begun to wonder why he was hangin g about, this time of year. They would surely think i t was Teresa rather than anything to do with me.

  She'd been my reason for coming back here, but al l of a sudden I felt uneasy about her. And right the n I begun to be a mighty lonesome boy. It just seeme d there was nobody in the world I could get close to.

  She'd been in my thinking ever since we met, but no w I wasn't so sure. Since pa had been killed, I'd bee n alone, and I didn't favor it much.

  She came over to see if our coffee was hot and sh e taken up the pot to go for more. "You're not to o busy," Yant said. "Why don't you sit down for a minute or two? I am sure Kearney would appreciat e 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 looke d at me funny-like, but she said, "I'll get some fres h coffee."

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

  "Not at all," I said.

  I was restless to get away. I wanted to be alone, t o clean up, and to think of what I must do. To find hi m here was the last thing I expected. Who then had pursued me westward? Who had fired those inquiring shot s into the cliff dwelling? Had he simply sat here whil e men he hired followed me? I had been a fool, and h e 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 hi s past, it must be at some place further east. Did h e believe my hints about Jim Gillette? The man was n o made-up figure but one well known there, and eve n he had recognized the name.

  Teresa returned with a fresh pot of coffee, yet sh e 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 tri p west, I imagine, was quite fascinating . . . and so sudden. You must tell Teresa about your experiences."

  With that he was gone, and we sat there staring a t each other. She was displeased, I thought, by his sudde n leave-taking, but she tried to continue.

  "What did happen out west?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "Nothing much. Rain, cold, and a lon g ride. Somebody followed me from here, I think, an d shot at me."

  She stared at me. "Shot at you? Why?"

  "I think it was those same two men, the two wh o came in here that day, just before I left."

  "Who are you, Kearney?" she asked suddenly. "I m ean really. You're never told me anything about yourself."

  "I didn't figure you were interested."

  "Oh, but I am! You told me about your father being killed. I'm sorry. That must have been awful fo r you. Did you send his body back home?"

  Well, I just looked at her. "We hadn't a home," I s aid. "Home was wherever we hung our hats. He wa s buried in the town where he fell . like I'll be, n o doubt."

  "Fe-I mean Mr. Yant, he has a plantation back i n Carolina. A beautiful place, he said, with a lovely ol d house and acres and acres of trees and planted land , right along a river."

  "Good for him."

  "He said he thought your father must have com e from a good home, too. Before the trouble."

  "What trouble?"

  "Why . . . I don't know. I just thought . I mea n he said that most men who came west like that ha d come because they were in some kind of trouble."

  "Is that why you folks came west?" I asked bluntly.

  She flushed. "It is not! And you've no right to suggest-"

  "You just did it to me," I said.

  She stared at me, half-angry. "Well, you told m e yourself you and your pa wandered all over, never stopping anyplace at all. And then he did get shot. Somebody killed him, and they must have had a reason."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  We were alone in the room now, as the others ha d gone. I was angry and defensive.