Milo Talon (1981)

by L'amour, Louis - Talon-Chantry

  It took me an hour to arrive at the place where Pablo was holding the horses and it appeared to be a fresh camp. Two dogs ran out barking furiously as I approached, but there was no sign of the Mexican.

  Pulling up about a hundred feet away from the sheep-wagon he was using for a camp, I called out. There was no reply but my horse suddenly turned his head and, glancing to my left, I saw Pablo rising from a buffalo wallow.

  He walked toward me, a Winchester in the hollow of his arm. “Come on in, amigo” he said, smiling. “A man can’t be too careful.”

  When we were seated beside the wagon where his fire burned, I asked him, “Had any trouble?”

  “Not yet,” he said, “and you?”

  “No trouble … yet, but it’s coming.”

  “Here, too.”

  “I came out to have a look around. Did you get much rain out here?”

  “Very little. It passed off to the west of us. We had only a sprinkle.”

  “So there may be tracks?”

  He glanced at me. “I think. Maybe. What do you look for?”

  “The man who screamed in the night. If there’s a body I’d like to find it. If there’s not, I’d like to find where it happened. There might be something, some little thing-”

  “Of course.”

  “Pablo?” I hesitated, then went on. “Somewhere in these hills there is a man … he probably lives alone. I’d guess he has been here ten years, perhaps more than that. He might have a girl living there, like a daughter or friend.”

  Pablo squatted on his haunches and rolled a cigarette. “There are not many who have been here so long. This was very wild. Many Apaches, others. In all the mountains there are not more than six or seven men who have been here so long.”

  He reached into the fire for a twig to light his cigarette. “This man,” he asked, “would he be in trouble?”

  “Not from me. Not from the law. The others, if they have not found him, they will.”

  “These men … they had to do with he who screamed?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe there is such a man. I must think.”

  Drinking the last of my coffee, I got up. “You think. I’ll take a ride yonder. How far would you guess?”

  He shrugged. “It was a clear, cold night. Maybe a quarter of a mile … a half mile at the limit. I think closer.” He pointed. “I have moved my camp, but not far. It would be somewhere over there.”

  As I tightened the cinch, I looked across the saddle at the prairie, taking my time and scanning it with care. Nothing moved out there, simply nothing at all. I glanced southward but could not see the water-tank where the private car had stood. That was another place I must visit.

  “Adios, amigo,” I said. “I’ll come back by, if possible.”

  “Cuidado,” he said, “I think there’s something out there. Or somebody.”

  The horse I rode had a shambling trot that ate up distance. As we moved I kept a careful eye on the prairie. The very flatness of it had a way of making one careless, which was dangerous, as it was not as flat as it appeared. Here and there were long shallow places, and coming up to one of them I found the tracks of a horse.

  Measuring the length of the stride with my eyes, I could guess at the size of the horse, and I noticed he had been ridden toward Pablo’s horse camp; yet it was not Pablo’s horse unless he had ridden one of those he was holding.

  Backtracking the horse for a short distance, I found his tracks had come from the northeast. Standing in the stirrups, I looked off that way but could see nothing.

  Turning away from that trail, I began to cast about for the tracks of the running man. It was unlikely any would be left but it was possible.

  The air was growing cooler and the sky had clouded over. It was not yet noon, but by the look of things I should start seeking shelter. Rain was one thing, but any rider out on the plains worried about lightning. Riding a wet horse with a wet saddle and being the highest thing around was not a pleasant thought, but there was simply no place to hide.

  And then I saw it. Just the edge of a heel-print, and not a boot-heel, but a shoe.

  Excited, I leaned from the saddle, studying it. Only an inch or less of the outer side of the heel-print and part of the back-curve. The man had been headed north.

  Turning my horse I walked him along, searching the ground with my eyes. If I could find two tracks close together so I could estimate his stride the tracking would be easier.

  Nothing.

  Swinging to the west I rode diagonally out for fifty yards, studying the earth. Finding nothing, I swung back an equal distance to the east. Almost at once I picked up a bare inch or so of the curving heel-print. He was headed east now, perhaps a little northeast.

  The ground dipped sharply, falling away into what looked like an ancient riverbed winding away to the southeast. I drew up on the bank, scanning the sandy bottom for tracks. It was hard-packed and smooth, without a blemish. I walked my horse along the rim and was about to turn away west when I saw where the bank had been broken away.

  It was just crumpled sand, but below it were tracks. Somebody had run this way, somebody had gone charging down the too-steep bank and had fallen at the base. There was a dark stain on the sand.

  Putting the gelding over the edge, I half-slid him to the bottom and studied the sand.

  The man had been wounded. Perhaps some time before, possibly just before he fell.

  These were the first drops of blood I’d seen, however.

  The running man had fallen, got up, fell again, and then got up and turned up the dry riverbed, running and staggering.

  For several hundred yards I walked my horse along his trail. He had fallen many times, each time he got up and continued on. Suddenly there was a place where the bank was broken and several horses had come over the rim.

  The footsteps showed the pitiful story. The running man had turned so violently he had fallen, and then he tried to run.

  He had been roped and dragged, dragged up the river-bottom which, grew more rocky by the yard, and then the horses had all stopped; there was much movement, many horse-tracks, and a caved place near the bank where from under the sand an edge of a boot showed.

  When I moved that sand I knew what I would find.

  But not who.

  Chapter Nine.

  Taking a quick glance around, I began uncovering the body. Both the cool weather and the dry sand had helped to arrest decomposition. Finally, when I stood back and looked down at the face, I knew him.

  At least, I remembered him. He had come to Ma’s ranch with two other men, making inquiries about land. One of the men had called him Tut.

  Getting up on the bank, I caved the sand back over him again, and mounting, I rode on. Due to the looseness of the sand at that point there were no well-defined tracks.

  It looked to me from the way the sand was churned up that there had been at least three riders whose mounts had circled about in the narrow space, probably excited by the smell of blood. There were many hoof tracks, such as they were. I saw one apparent boot-track, probably when the rider got down to take his rope from the body.

  From the way the dead man’s hands had dug into the sand, I doubted he had been dead when the sand was caved over him. It appeared that he had been lying on his face and his hands had convulsively clawed into the firm sand beneath him. He had struggled, apparently getting one knee under him after many efforts, had rolled over and then passed out, smothered as more sand spilled down over him from the disturbed bank above him.

  Riding on up the old riverbed, I saw no more tracks beyond that of a deer. Climbing out of the arroyo, I swung back toward Pablo’s camp. As I rode I was puzzling over what I had learned, which was little enough.

  Somebody had followed and murdered the man I had found. He had been dragged, tortured, and left for dead. The dead man had once visited my home in Colorado, and he had been called Tut. There had been two men with him.

  Had their visit
been a coincidence? Or had their visit to our ranch been a preliminary to what was happening now?

  How long ago had their visit been? Checking back along memory’s trail, I came up with the idea that it must have been at least a year and probably a year and a half ago. Something about the three men had arrested my attention. Or was it some comment Ma had made?

  Portis had been right. The situation was dangerous. The Magoffins had been poisoned, Tut had been killed. Certainly, men who had already killed would not hesitate to do so again. My hunch was that I had better walk carefully and that Pablo had better move his horse camp. I told him so.

  It was noon by the time I got back to his horse camp. He listened, and when I advised moving, he agreed.

  “Today,” I said, “now. I’ll help you.”

  He hesitated. “The patron. My boss. He will come soon to look for me.”

  “He’ll find you. I just want him to find you alive. This is a bad outfit.”

  He shrugged. “I have seen many bad outfit, amigo. I do not want trouble, but if they come-?”

  “They didn’t give him much chance,” I said.

  “You say you know this man? The dead one?”

  “I saw him once. Three men came to our ranch looking for land to buy. A place to settle.”

  “For such a little thing you remember very well.”

  “It was Ma, I think. I believe there was something about them she did not like. And when Ma didn’t like a man, she didn’t waste much time on him.”

  Pablo smiled. “Your Ma is Em Talon? I have heard of her.”

  “If my Ma,” I said grimly, “found a grizzly bear on her place she’d order him off.

  And you know something? He’d go.”

  “Tut?” Pablo spoke the word thoughtfully, as if trying to remember. “It is a name?”

  “I’ve heard of folks named Tutt, but this here’s more than likely a nickname, short for something else like Tuttle-”

  I stopped short and Pablo looked around at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Humphrey Tuttle,” I said. “It was one of the names I got from Jefferson Henry. Humphrey Tuttle and Wade Hallett. They were tied to Newton Henry somehow.”

  “It is possible.”

  When we finished eating we bunched the horses, and with Pablo driving the wagon, we started them northwest, toward the hills. It might not keep him out of trouble but at least it was farther from what seemed to be the center of things, that water-tower and the town itself.

  “Near the mountains,” Pablo said, “there is a place. There are cotton woods and a good spring with a large pool. Next week I was to have been there.”

  Every step was taking us higher, but it was a long, scarcely noticeable climb, and when we camped we had a good fifteen miles behind us and we had the stock on good grass and near a small stream.

  Several times I’d checked our back trail. There was no reason why anyone should follow Pablo and his horses nor why they should connect me with them unless I’d been seen talking to him in town. Even that should not make a difference, for over-the-beer conversations usually went no further. Nonetheless, I was in no mood to take chances.

  “We do not have need to sit up,” Pablo said. “My dogs will do that for us and the horses will not stray from such good grass and water.

  “What of Indians?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. It has been a long time.”

  Nevertheless, I picketed my horse close by, and as I rested my head on my saddle, I tried to fix my thoughts on the situation.

  If Tut was Tuttle he had been prowling around these hills for a long time. Yet no longer than Jefferson Henry had been looking for his granddaughter. Obviously, they had some clue, yet why come to our ranch?

  “You know this country well?” I asked.

  Pablo’s head turned. “The mountains I know better than the plains.” He jerked his head toward the hills. “I was born back there, where there is a small valley. My father, he was a friend to all, but especially he liked the Utes. He traded with them, hunted with them, hid some of their women and children from the Kiowas.”

  He smiled. “It is why I do not fear the Indies. They know me, I know them.”

  “My home is in the north, at the edge of the mountains also.” I looked up at the stars, thinking. Does he think this girl is hidden in the mountains?

  Pablo sat up. “How is it at your place?”

  “There’s a valley, then a series of mountain meadows reached by trails, each higher than the last.”

  “Here, also. I think we have something, my friend.”

  “But the pictures, they were not of Colorado. I am sure they were California.”

  “Si? And why not? Maybe she was there and then has come here. Have you thought of that?”

  Of course. Newton had written in that letter that soon she would be old enough to travel by herself, which meant she was not intended to remain in California or wherever she had been when the letter was written.

  It was not yet daybreak but I was up building a fire when I heard approaching horses.

  “Pablo?”

  “I hear them. Do what you are doing, but be ready, amigo. I think this is trouble.”

  When they rode up to the camp I had the fire going and was putting some coffee on.

  There were three of them, and I remembered there seemed to have been three after Tut, too.

  They pulled up at the edge of the camp and I stood up slowly. All three had Winchesters in their scabbards, but they weren’t planning to use them, not right now. All three had their coats unbuttoned and moved back to make drawing easy.

  Perhaps I was foolish or overconfident, but I was not worried. I’d had to use a gun a few times, here and there.

  “You!” He was a big, red-faced man with a mustache and a narrow-brimmed hat, worn more often in the north. “Where’s the greaser?”

  “Who? You’re not very polite.”

  He swore. “You’ve got a bad lip there. Something like that can get you killed.”

  “I was about to suggest the same thing.”

  A short man in a mackinaw coat said, “He thinks he’s salty, Bolter. Shall we show him?”

  “Not yet.” He stared hard at me. “I asked where the greaser was?”

  From the darkness beyond the firelight there was the very audible click of a cocked rifle.

  “Now you know where he is,” I said, smiling. “And you, Shorty? Did you want to show me something? Just the two of us, maybe?”

  He was staring at me, but he was hesitating, too. “Any time, Shorty. I’ve fifty dollars that says I can part your mustache right under your nose.”

  “Go to Hell!”

  “You first, Shorty. You just choose your time.”

  Looking past him at Bolter, I said, “You seemed in a hurry when you rode up here.

  Were you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing, riding around the country?”

  “I’m minding my own affairs,” I replied. “What are you doing?”

  Bolter didn’t like it. He had expected to ride up here and frighten us, run us out of the country, perhaps. He knew nothing of me but he didn’t like what he was hearing, and he didn’t like the sound of that cocked rifle from out in the darkness. Right now he wanted to get out and get away, but he hated to back down.

  “Whose horses are those?” he demanded.

  “Shelby’s,” I said, which was the name of Pablo’s employer. “If there’s something you don’t like about them, take it up with him.”

  Now Shelby was running some ten thousand head of cattle and a lot of horses. He also had two dozen hands around, riding herd, breaking horses, or whatever, and among them were some salty lads, all of which Bolter probably knew.

  “You work for him, too?”

  “I work for myself.”

  He didn’t like what I said and he didn’t like me. He started to speak but I interrupted.

  “I don’t know what you had in m
ind when you rode up here, but you don’t act very friendly. My advice is to turn around and ride back where you came from. When you get there you can tell your boss they’ve raised the bets and if he’s smart he’ll throw in his hand.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You tell him. He’ll know.”

  The third man had sat silent, not talking, just watching me. “Let’s go, Sam,” he said, finally. “Can’t you see he means it?”

  Angrily, Bolter reined his horse around, giving me a wide-eyed, angry look. Shorty hesitated, not wanting to leave it, but I waited, watching him.

  “One thing more,” I said mildly, “you boys had better go easy calling my friend a greaser. He can take any one of you any day in the week and twice on Sunday.”

  They rode away, not looking back, and I watched them go. They had ridden up expecting to run a bluff, prepared to kill somebody if necessary. If I had been guessing I’d bet they were the ones who killed Tut.

  “Coffee’s boiling, Pablo,” I said.

  He came in from the dark, rifle in hand, glancing off in the way they had gone.

  When he had a cup in his hand he said, “It was you they wanted, not me.”

  “I know it. The trouble is, Pablo, I’m in a game where several people are holding cards but I don’t know who they are.”

  With breakfast behind my belt I mounted up and started for town. As I rode I asked myself questions. Whose side had Tut been on? Who killed him, and why? What had been in Nathan Albro’s safe that he wanted removed? Where was it now? What had the Magoffins found out?

  Nathan Albro had been involved in various financial operations. I knew he was active in both ranching and mining, perhaps in railroads. Jefferson Henry was busy in the same areas, so it was possible to assume that whatever Nancy had that they wanted could lie in those fields. Albro had been acting in the girl’s interest. Despite what he said I doubted if Henry was … or his son, either.

  One thing seemed obvious. Newton had hated his father, and the feeling seemed to have been mutual. Had Newton married against his father’s wishes?

  Suppose … just suppose that Newton-, knowing something his father wanted or needed, had deliberately tried to circumvent him? Suppose what Jefferson Henry had wanted was in that safe, and that Newton had married Stacy Albro to get it?