Novel 1965 - The Key-Lock Man (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  If he was looking for the Lost Wagons he should have been searching for wheels, or for some remnant of the wagons themselves, for the bolts or the hubs of the wheels, which were of hardwood and virtually indestructible in this desert country. But it seemed obvious that he was looking for some landmark, some sign on the mountains themselves.

  And then Matt heard another sound, the faintest whisper of rough material against rock. It came from behind him. He turned swiftly, dropping to one knee, Winchester lifted for firing.

  A man stood just inside the rim of brush, hands lifted. It was Gay Cooley.

  Matt remained where he was, the rifle held steady. Gay came toward them, keeping his hands high. Behind him walked his horse, followed by a pack horse. When he was within twenty yards, Matt stopped him.

  “Lost something?”

  Gay grinned. “The Lost Wagons. You know me.”

  “I don’t take kindly to folks who come up behind me.”

  “Don’t blame you. But you’d better take to me, because I may be the only friend you’ve got.”

  “So?”

  “After you left, Bill Chesney showed up. Neill and Kimmel were with him. Short and McAlpin told them about you two, but Chesney wouldn’t buy the Skull Valley story.”

  “We tried.”

  “Neerland is already up here with two other men.”

  Matt gestured toward the man below them. “That one of them?”

  Gay Cooley stepped nearer, then leaned forward and peered. He swore softly. “Matt, that’s Muley. That’s the kid who was with the gold wagons.”

  Lost to his surroundings, Muley moved along the foot of the mesa near them. “Look at him!” Cooley whispered hoarsely. “He knows where he is! He’s found something!”

  It did look that way, for Muley was moving along more rapidly, his excitement obvious. If he had not found a sign or landmark, he certainly believed he had.

  At that moment there was a rattle of hoofs and a shout. “Muley! Damn it, man! Where you going?”

  The rider was a stocky, barrel-chested stranger, who must be the other man with Neerland.

  “You better high-tail it back. He’s sore as a galled mule, you traipsing off like that. What you huntin’?”

  “Scoutin’ tracks. Thought I seen something.”

  “All right, let’s go back.”

  The newcomer turned his mount and for an instant his back was full on Muley. The Winchester lifted slowly, then halted.

  Gay Cooley glanced over at Matt. “That gent will never come closer and not get killed,” he said. “Ol’ Muley was ready. You could see it in every line of him.”

  “That could be the man—The one who killed all those men,” Matt said.

  “Muley?” Gay Cooley’s tone was not as incredulous as it might have been. Evidently the thought had occurred to him too. “He was only a youngster.”

  “How old do you have to be?” Keelock inquired dryly. “I was fightin’ Indians when I was twelve.”

  The two riders turned and rode away, and Gay Cooley slowly relaxed. Matt could see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “You see what that means? Everybody’s been wrong. Everybody believed it was south of here, and everybody has looked to the south. You can just bet Muley saw something he recognized, and whatever it was told him he was close to the Lost Wagons.”

  He looked at Kris, then back at Matt Keelock. “I’m goin’ to be a rich man, you see that, don’t you?”

  “I see you aren’t alone. Those boys out there are huntin’ me, but if they get the smell of gold they’ll forget all about me. You find that gold now, Gay, and you’re chewin’ on grief.”

  Gay Cooley was not listening. “Matt, look at it this way. That Muley boy, they left him tied when they went off to hide that gold. So what could he recognize? Either the place where he was tied up, or something he saw before or after.” Cooley looked around, dazed with the shock of it. “Matt, I’d make a fancy bet that gold ain’t a mile from us right this minute…and maybe closer!”

  Matt was looking in the direction in which the two men had disappeared. If Muley was truly the boy who had been with the wagons, he would not want to leave the area, now that he was so close to the treasure. So what would he do? Would he lose himself and let them go on without him? Would he resort to murder again, as he seemed to have done before? In any case, Matt Keelock knew that the noose was slowly tightening about his own neck.

  There was no place to go from here. To the north lay the canyon of the San Juan, only a few miles away. Towering cliffs were all about, and all travel was channeled by them. To the east lay the valley of the weird monuments, but miles of open country were all around them.

  With a woman to think of, there was only one thing to do—stay where he was, make no tracks, and hope they would pass him by.

  “I’m goin’ down there,” Gay Cooley said, and he was on his feet, rifle in hand.

  But before he could take a step, Matt spoke up. “I can’t let you go, Cooley. You’ve got to stay with us.”

  In his hand, Matt Keelock held a six-shooter.

  Chapter 10

  SHOCKED, KRIS STARED at her husband. Gay Cooley, his Winchester in his hand, measured the chances and did not like them. He would have to swing that gun up and grasp the trigger, cock and fire. No, he did not like the chances at all.

  “What is this, Matt? You and me…I figured we were friends.”

  “We are. You never had a friend better than me, Cooley, but you’ve the gold fever on you. If you go down there now they’ll see you, or they’ll find your sign, and they’ll come hunting. When they do, they’ll find Kris and me. I can’t let you go down there, Gay.”

  Cooley relaxed. “Hell, man! You had me scared. I figured maybe you wanted that gold for yourself.” His eyes probed Matt’s. “You sure that ain’t in your mind?”

  “I’m after horses.”

  “All right, put that gun away. I’ll stand by until they pull out, or until one of them finds that gold. If they do, all bets are off.”

  “Why, that’s right enough, Cooley. You’ve hunted that gold long enough to lay claim to it, as far as I’m concerned. If it comes to that, you can go down there shootin’, and Kris and me will take our chances. Only let’s not buy anything until it’s offered us.”

  Gay Cooley sat down in the shade of a tree and placed his rifle beside him, butt on the ground. He was too experienced a man to leave room for misunderstanding.

  He looked at Keelock. “Matt, you surely forked that gun out of somewhere mighty fast. I didn’t know you could handle a Colt like that.”

  Keelock shrugged. “Gay, a man has it, or he hasn’t. I mean, you can practice, you can better yourself, but if a man has the right coordination…well, it’s a come-natural thing, I say.”

  “You could put notches on that gun.”

  “That’s a tin-horn’s trick, an’ well you know it.”

  Kris sat down, her legs trembling. She had been shocked and frightened. Now, despite the swift clearing of the air, she knew trouble was coming, and both men knew it also. Would there be trouble from Cooley? Would he resent what had happened?

  They waited while the hours went by. Bees buzzed under the trees…it seemed almost peaceful. From time to time the horses stamped, switched their tails at flies, or snorted a little. Nobody spoke, and the morning worked its way into afternoon.

  “Do you think they have gone, Matt?” Kris asked.

  “No.”

  “That Muley ain’t gone—not far, anyway.” Cooley spoke with assurance. “Not with all that gold waiting.”

  He leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the cliffs. Now, where could that gold be? Supposing there was little time, and that gold had to be taken where horses could go, and buried or hidden. Wild as the country was, and broken up as it was, there were only a few directions in which a man could travel.

  Now, if he knew how long they had been gone…Muley surely knew that. They would scarcely have gone to the
towering cliff opposite, the cliff of Piute Mesa. No, the gold must be behind them, or to the north or south. And he favored the Nakia Mesa, right behind them.

  Despite himself, studying the country for signs of movement, Matt Keelock was thinking in the same way. He was also thinking about Gay Cooley.

  Somewhere out there were Neerland, Muley, and that other rider. Somewhere out there, too, were Bill Chesney and those with him…there’d be five in that lot now, with Short and McAlpin joined up.

  Nobody spoke of food, though all of them were hungry. The smoke of a fire might bring down the very trouble they sought to avoid.

  Gay Cooley had recognized Muley. The thought came suddenly to Matt, and he scowled. Cooley noticed the scowl and glanced away, but Matt turned the idea over in his mind. How could Cooley have known Muley?

  He must have been one of the original group, or he had seen Muley in Santa Fe.

  And Matt Keelock, with enemies all about, realized that here in his own camp there might be another. Whatever happened, he must not forget about Gay Cooley.

  “Matt.…?”

  He turned and followed Kris’s pointing finger. The horses were there, the wild bunch led by the golden stallion.

  “Look, Gay.” All else was forgotten. “You can have your gold. That’s what I want.”

  The wild bunch were moving along a sunlit trail not fifty yards away. The wind was from them and toward the watchers, and the horses showed no awareness of the presence of men as they moved slowly but steadily along the valley floor. The stallion was magnificent, but scarcely more so than several of the mares.

  “By the Lord Harry,” Gay Cooley exclaimed reverently, “I don’t blame you!”

  Suddenly tense, he went on, “That there mare…the one with the three white stockings and the scar on the shoulder…now that one’s no youngster.”

  Matt Keelock shrugged. “She’s old, no doubt about it, but there’s plenty of young stuff in that bunch.”

  He was oblivious to everything but the horses; but Kris, watching Cooley, was struck by the man’s sudden interest. Cooley was not looking at the stallion at all, but at the old, scarred mare that followed him.

  “We’ll wait,” Matt said, “and let them get a lead on us. I want to trail along and see where they go.”

  BILL CHESNEY, RIDING north, drew rein when he saw the Indians. There were five of them, including a squaw and two children. Of the two men, the younger was known to Chesney as Cheap Jim from his habit of offering his services “cheap.” He was a first-class rider, and had often worked for Chesney. A hard man in so many ways, Chesney demanded hard work from anyone employed by him. On the other hand, his table provided the best food in the country, and his chuck wagon never lacked for extras.

  “Jim, you want a trackin’ job?” Chesney asked now.

  The Navajo shook his head. “I ride to Tuba City.” His black eyes went from one to another, then back to Chesney. “You hunt?”

  “A white man…might be a woman with him.”

  Jim hesitated. It was never the Indian way to offer information. On the other hand, this man was his friend, and not many white ranchers were eager to employ an Indian rider.

  “Back there,” he gestured toward Piute Mesa, “I see trail…five, six horses, two riders.”

  He explained they had been camped at the old ruin, and when starting south had seen the dust, and later had found no trail. Curious, they had scouted around, picking up the trail farther along and following it until it went down the cliff into the canyon.

  When the Navajos had gone on, Chesney expressed his triumph. “There it is, boys! We’ve got ’em now!”

  Neill looked at him, and started to speak, but hesitated. There was no need to make an issue of it now. Wait until they had met the Key-Lock man and faced him. A man could buy trouble by trying to cross bridges before reaching them, and many an issue disappeared before it actually became a matter of trouble.

  What he had started to ask was whether Chesney planned to hang the Key-Lock man right in front of his wife. He had desisted, but now the feeling of doom was on him again. He looked around uneasily. So far, the Key-Lock man had not chosen to make a fight of it, but there was a limit to any man’s patience.

  From the rim of the cliff, they saw far below them a moving dust cloud. Not large, but enough to indicate several horses.

  “What do you make of it, Neill?” Chesney asked.

  “Wild horses.” Neill had the best eyesight of the lot. “Quite a bunch of them, and they are taking it easy.”

  Bill Chesney’s common sense told him it was unlikely that a pursued man would ride further north. The San Juan River cut across the country and, so far as Chesney knew, there was no crossing for many miles. No Man’s Mesa split the country in half, but the man they sought should be right down there somewhere. He could not be far.

  He was just about to give the word to start down the trail when he saw them.

  Three riders and several pack animals. They came down off what appeared to be a bench and started north, following the wild horses, intentionally or by accident.

  “We’ve got ’em, boys!” Chesney fought back his excitement. “There they go!”

  “There’s three of them,” Neill objected. “If that’s the Key-Lock man and his wife, then who is the other one?”

  Nobody answered. Chesney had turned his horse down the trail. Now, by the Lord! Now! he was saying it over and over as he went down the trail.

  Short, remembering Keelock at Tuba City, felt a coldness inside him, and a tightness at the back of his neck. Keelock had told them what he would do if he found them on his trail again, and here they were, with him down there.

  “I’ve got to kill him. Short said the words softly to himself. I’ve got to get him before he gets me. To hell with hanging! I’m goin’ to shoot.

  He dropped back alongside McAlpin. “He meant what he said, Mac. That Key-Lock man surely meant what he said.”

  “What’ll we do?”

  “Kill him…shoot first and quick.”

  “Bill wants to hang him. He’s set on usin’ that rope.”

  “The hell with him!”

  “What’ll we do? What can we do?”

  “He’s got a woman with him. He’ll want to talk, to get her out of it. Well, we’ll let Chesney talk. We’ll shoot.”

  “Wonder where that Neerland is,” McAlpin said.

  Short had forgotten him, but it did not seem to matter now. “He’s out of it now. This is Keelock and us.”

  The five men went down the switch-back trail in the prime of the morning. The sun was upon them, warm and pleasant after the night’s chill. Neill rode third, right behind Kimmel, and he knew he was in trouble. It was all well and good to make a stand, to speak your piece and have it listened to; but now, perhaps within a few minutes, certainly within a few hours, he would have to make his stand in the face of armed men. And past friendships would not count now. With Chesney feeling the way he did, it might become a matter of shooting between them, and he shrank from that. And that was where his weakness lay, the weakness of a man who wants to stand for what is right and just. For Neill would hesitate to kill, while the fanatics never hesitated.

  But there were just men who had not hesitated. Who was that vigilante up Montana way? Beidler…he had killed, and rightly so, for there had been no other way. Yet had he ever been asked to shoot down a friend, or a man he respected?

  Neill glanced at Kimmel. Where would he stand? He was a tough man, a veteran of several shooting scrapes, and as many Indian fights. If anyone among them could restrain Chesney it would be Kimmel, for he had done it before. He would not hesitate to kill, but he did not seem to possess the hatred that Chesney did.

  A stone fell away and rattled long among the rocks below. They turned another bend of the switch-back and faced the way the three riders had traveled, but they were no longer visible.

  The low-voiced talk between McAlpin and Short had ceased. Neill felt his mouth becoming dry
, as it always did in tense moments. How far away were they, he wondered.

  One more switch-back and they touched bottom. Bill Chesney touched a spur to his horse and in a long lope he led off, riding northward, up the valley. On their left were the sheer cliffs of Piute Mesa; on their right, Nakia Canyon, and beyond it the ominous black bulk of No Man’s Mesa.

  “We’ve got him!” Chesney was hot with eagerness. “We’ve got him now!”

  Neill closed in beside Kimmel. “These cliffs run to the river?”

  “Almost.” Kimmel spoke loudly, over the sound of rushing hoofs. “Piute swings away to the west and closes in on the river. It’s a death trap thataway.”

  “How about No Man’s Mesa?”

  Kimmel pointed with the barrel of his Winchester. “She heads up about a mile this side of the river. There’s a trail around the end into Copper Canyon!”

  Chesney turned in his saddle. “Damn it, why can’t you shut up? He’ll hear that yelling all the way to the San Juan!”

  The level ground ended, narrowing down a good bit, and they slowed their horses to a walk and rode single file. The sun had grown hot and the dark shadows below the western wall of No Man’s called to them of coolness, but their eyes were ahead, restless with the nearing danger.

  Between the towering walls where they rode was a space of nearly three miles, but talus slopes at the base of the walls narrowed it down, and the cut made by Nakia Canyon narrowed the area which they must search.

  Neill felt the sweat trickling down his chest under his shirt. He wished again that Hardin was here, Hardin with his cool head and his sense of balance, his quiet words that always seemed to take the sharp edge off things. Neill was riding alone, and he knew it. No one in this lot was surely on his side, for Kimmel was only a doubtful chance. Nobody ever knew what he thought or believed.

  They were riding to kill a man, and with each step they drew nearer to their aim…to kill a man who might be innocent, a newly wed man who rode with his bride.