Rain pattered on his slicker as he rode into the yard and up to the old stone house. There was a stable, smokehouse, and rock corrals, all built from the talus of the mesa.
Leaving his horse in the stable where it was warm and dry, Matt spilled a bit of grain from a sack behind the saddle into a feed box. "You'll make out on that," he said. "See you in the mornin'.".
Rifle under his slicker, he walked to the house. The backdoor lock was rusted, and he braced his foot against the jamb and ripped the lock loose. Once inside, there was a msty smell, but the house floors were solid and the place was in good shape. Opening a window for air, he spread his soogan on the floor and was soon asleep.
It was still raining when he awakened, but washing off the dusty pots and pans, he prepared a hasty breakfast, then saddled up and rode toward the mesa. As he skirted the talus slope he heard water trickling, but when he reached the place where it should have been, there was none. Dismounting, he climbed the slope.
At once he found the stream of runoff. Following it, he found a place where the little stream doubled back and poured into a dark hole at the base of the tower. Listening, he could hear it falling with a roar that seemed to indicate a big, stone-enclosed space. He walked thoughtfully back to his horse.
"Well, what did you find?".
Startled at the voice, Matt looked around. to see a girl in a rain-darkened gray hat and slicker. Moreover, she had amazingly blue eyes and lovely black hair.
She laughed at his surprise. "I haunt the place," she said, "haven't you heard?".
"They said there were ghosts, but if I'd known they looked like you I'd have been here twice as fast.".
She smiled at him. "Oh, I'm not an official gho/! In fact, nobody is even supposed to know I come here, although I suspect a few people do know.".
"They've been trying to make the place as unattractive as possible," he said, grinning. "So if they did know, they said nothing.".
"I'm Susan Reid. My father has a cabin about five miles from here. He's gathering information on the Indians--theirthe customs, religious beliefs, and folklore.".
"And this morning?".
"We saw somebody moving, and Dad's always. hoping somebody will climb it so he can get any artifacts there may be up there.".
"Any what?".
"Artifacts. Pieces of old pottery,. stone tools, or weapons. Anything the Indians might have used.".
Together, they rode toward the ranch, talking of the country andof rain. In a few minutes Matt Calou learned more about old Indian pottery than he had imagined anybody could know.
At the crossroads before the Rafter H, they drew up. The rain had ceased, and the sun was struggling to get through. "Matt," she said seriously, "you've started something, so don't underrate the superstition around here. The people who settled here are mostly people from the eastern mountains and they have grown up on such stories. Moreover, some strange things have happened here, and they have some reason for their beliefs. When they talk of running you out, they are serious.".
"Then"--he chuckled--?I reckon they'll have to learn the hard way, because I intend to stay right where I am.".
When she had gone he went to work. He fixed the lock on the back door, built a door for the stable, and repaired the water trough. He was dead tired when he turned.
At daybreak he was in the saddle checking the boundaries of his land. There was wild land to the north, but he could check on that later. Loco weed had practically taken over some sections of his land, but he knew that animals will rarely touch it if there is ample forage of other grasses and brush. Several of the loco-weed varieties were habit-forming. Scarcity of good forage around water holes or salt grounds was another reason. Most of the poisonous species were early growing and if stock was turned on the range before the grass was sufficiently matured, the cattle would often turn to loco weed.
It was early spring now, but grass was showing in quantity. There was loco weed, but it seemed restricted to a few areas. He had learned in Texas that overgrazing causes the inroad of the weed, but when land is ungrazed the grasses and other growths tend to push the loco back. That had happened here.
The following days found him working dawn until dark. He found some old wire and fenced off the worst sections of weed. Then he borrowed a team from Susan's father and hitched it to a heavy drag made of logs laden with heavy slabs of rock. This drag ripped the weed out by the roots, and once it was loose he raked it into piles for burning.
During all of this time he had seen nobody around. Yet one morning he saddled up, determined to do no work that day. His time was short, as the week they had given him was almost up, and if trouble was coming it might start the following day. He rode north but was turned back by a wall of chaparral growing ten to fifteen feet high, as dense a tangle as he had ever seen in the brush country on the Nueces.
For two miles he skirted the jungle of prickly pear, cat claw, mesquite, and greasewood until he was almost directly behind Black Mesa.
Looking up, he was aware that he was seeing the mesa from an unusual angle. The area was a jumble of upthrust ledges and huge rock slabs and practically impenetrable, yet from where he sat he could see a sort of shadow along the wall of the mesa. Working his way closer, he could see that it was actually an undercut along the face of the cliff. It was visible only because the torrential rains had left the rock damp in the shadow of the cliff. It might be that it had never been seen under these circumstances and from this angle before.
Forcing his horse through a particularly dense mass of brush, he worked a precarious way through the boulders until he was within a few feet of the wall, and near it, of a gigantic earth crack. In the bottom of this crack was a trickle of water, but it was running toward the mesa!.
Leaving his horse, he descended to the bottom of the crack. At the point where he had left his horse it was all of thirty feet wide, but at the bottom, a man could touch both walls with outstretched arms.
All was deathly still. Only the faint trickle of the water and the crunch of gravel under his boots broke the stillness. Yet he was aware of a distant and subdued roar that seemed to issue from the base of Black Mesa itself!.
He came suddenly to a halt. Before him was a vast black hole! Into th trickled the stream he had been following, and far below he could hear the sound of the water falling into a pool. Recalling the small hole on the opposite side, he realized that under Black Mesa lay a huge underground pool or lake. By all reason the water should have been flowing away from the Mesa, but due to the cracks and convulsions of the earth, the water flowed downward into some subterranean basin of volcanic formation.
But if it did not escape? Then there would be a vast reservoir of water, constantly supplied and wholly untapped!.
When he emerged, he looked again at the shadow on the wall, revealing a wind- and rain-hollowed undercut that slanted up the side of the mesa. And while he looked he had an idea.
The following day he rode north again, seeking a way through the chaparral. Beyond the belt of brush Sue had told him the green petered out into desert. Although she had not seen it herself, she also told him that only one ranch lay that way, actually to the northwest of Black Mesa, and that was the Pitchfork.
Suddenly he came upon the tracks of two horses. They were shod horses, walking west, and side by side. The tracks ended abruptly as they had begun, at an uptilted slab of sandstone, but seeing scratches on the sandstone, he rode up himself. It was quite a scramble, but the ledge broke sharply off and a crack, bottomed with blown sand, showed horse tracks.
When he reached the bottom he was in a small meadow and the belt of chaparral was behind him except for scattered clumps. The riders had worked here-- he puzzled out the tracks--rounding up a few head of cattle and starting them northwest up the edge of the watery meadow.
Realization flooded over Matt Calou like a cold shower. Wheeling his horse, he started back up the meadow and had gone only a short distance when he came upon a Slash D steer! That was the bra
nd of Dyer, the saloon keeper. Farther along he found another Slash D and three KR'S.
Grinning with satisfaction, he retracted his steps and rode back to his own ranch.
Sue was in the kitchen and a frying pan was sizzling with bacon and eggs when he returned.
"Eggs!" He grinned at her. "Those are the first eggs I've seen in months!".
"We keep a few chickens," she replied, "and I thought I'd surprise you." She dished up a plate of the eggs and bacon, then poured coffee. "You'd better get ready to leave, young man. Foster, of the Pitchfork, is coming over here with his crowd and the crowd from Wagonstop. They say they'll run you out of the country!".
Calou chuckled. "Let 'em come! I'm ready for 'em now!".
"You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," she said, studying him curiously. "What's happened?".
"Wait an' see!" he teased. "Just wait!".
"You've been working," she said. "What are you. going to do with that pasture you dragged?".
"Plant it to crop. After a few years of that I'll let it go back to grass. That will take care of the loco weed.".
"Crops take water.".
"We'll have lots of water! Plenty of it!.
Enough for the crops, all the stock, an' baths every night for ourselves and the kids.".
She was startled. "Ourselves?".
"My wife and myself.".
"You didn't tell me you had a wife!" She. stared at him.
"I haven't one, but I sure aim to get one now. I've got one in mind. One that will be the mother of fifteen or twenty kids.".
"Fifteen or twenty? You're crazy!".
"I like big families. I'm the youngest of. twelve boys. Anyway, I got a theory about. raisin' 'em. It's like this--".
"It will have to wait," Sue put her hand on his arm. "Here they are.".
Matt Calou got to his feet. He was, she realized suddenly, wearing a tied-down gun. His rifle was beside the front door and standing alongside it was a shotgun.
Outside she could see the tall, lean figure of Foster of the Pitchfork and beside him were Russell, Knauf, and a half dozen others. Then, coming up behind them, she saw Old Man Karr, Dyer, and Wente. With them were a dozen riders.
Matt stepped into the door. "Howdy, folks! Glad to have visitors! I was afraid my neighbors thought I had hydrophobia!".
There were no answering smiles. "We've come to give you a start out of the country, Calouffwas Foster said. "We want nobody livin' here!".
Calou smiled, but his eyes were cold as they measured the tall man on the bay horse. "Thoughtful of you, Foster, but I'm stayin', an' if you try to run me off, you'll have some empty saddles, one of which will be a big bay.
"Fact is, I like this place. Once I get a well down, I'll make an easier livin' than you do, Foster.".
Something in his tone stiffened Foster and he looked sharply at Matt Calou. Russell moved up beside him and Knauf faded to the left, for a flanking shot.
For a moment there was silence, and Matt Calou laughed, his voice harsh. "Didn't like the sound of that, did you, Foster? I don't reckon your neck feels good inside of hemp, does it? I wonder just what did kill Art Horan, Foster? Was it you? Or did he just get suddenly curious an' come back to find out what happened to all the lost cattle?".
Dyer stared from Calou to Foster, obviously puzzled. "This I don't get," he said.
"What's all this talk?".
"Tell him, Foster. You know what I mean.".
Foster was trapped. He glanced to right and. left, then back to the author of his sudden misery. This was what he had feared if Matt Calou or anyone lived on the Rafter H. His fingers spread on his thigh.
Sue spoke suddenly from a window to the right of the door. "Knauf," she said, "I know why you moved, an' I've got a double-barreled shotgun that will blow you out of your saddle if you lay a hand on your gun!".
"What's goin' on here?" Old Man Karr demanded irritably. "What's he talkin' about, Foss?".
"If he won't tell you"--Matt Calou suddenly stepped out of the door--?I will. While you folks have been tellin' yourselves ghost stories about Black Mesa, Foster has been bleedin' the range of your cattle.".
"You lie!" Foster roared. "You lie like--!" He grabbed for his gun and Matt Calou fired twice. The first shot knocked the gun from Foster's suddenly bloody hand, and the second notched his ear. It was a bullet that would have killed Foster had he not flinched from the hand wound.
Russell's face was pale as death and he gripped the pommel hard with both hands.
Dyer's face was stern. "All right, Calou! You clear this up an' fast or there'll be a necktie party right here, gun or no gun.".
"Your cattle," Matt explained coolly, "hunted water an' found it where nobody knew there was any. Then Foster found your cattle. Ever since then he's been sweepin' that draw ever' few days, takin' up all the cattle he found there, regardless of brand. You lost cattle, but you saw no marks of rustlin', no tracks, no reason to suspect anybody.
An' you were all too busy blamin' Black Mesa for all your troubles. Your cattle drifted that way an' never came back, an' Foster was gettin' rich. All he had to do was ride down that draw back of Black Mesa, just beyond the chaparral.
"As for Black Mesa, the reason you thought you saw something movin' up there was because you did see something. The cows that they originally had on the Rafter H are up there, I imagine.".
"That ain't possible!" Old Man Karr objected. "Not even a man could climb that tower!".
"There's a crack on the other side, an undercut that makes a fairly easy trail up. Cattle have been grazin' up there for years, an' there's several square miles of good graze up there.".
Foster got clumsily from the saddle and commenced to struggle with his hand. One of the men got down to help him. Old Man Karr chewed angrily at his mustache, half resenting the exploded fears of the mountain. Dyer hesitated, then looked down at Matt. "Guess we been a passel o' fools, stranger," he said. "The drinks are on us.".
Dyer looked down at Foster. "But I reckon it's a good thing we brought along a rope.".
Foster paled under his deep tan. "Give me. a break, Dyerffwas he pleaded. "I'll pay. off! I got records! Sure, I done it,. an' I was a fool, but it was an awful. temptation. I was broke when I started, an'. then--".
"We'll have an accounting," Wente said stiffly, "then we'll decide. If you can take care of our losses, we might make a deal.".
Together, Matt and Sue watched them walk away. "If you didn't want fifteen or twenty children," she suggested tentatively, "I know a girl who might be interested.".
Matt grinned. "How about six?".
"I guess that's not too many.".
He slipped his arm around her waist. "Then. consider your proposal accepted.".
Sunlight bathed the rim of Black Mesa with a sudden halo. A wide-eyed range cow lowed softly to her calf, unaware of mystery. The calf stumbled to its feet, brushing a white, curved fragment, fragile as a leaf.
It was the weathered lip of an ancient baked clay jar.
*.
Gila Crossing.
.
Chapter I.
There was an old wooden trough in front of the livery barn in Gila Crossing and at one end of the trough a rusty pump. When Jim Sartain rode up the dusty street, four men, unshaven and tired, stood in a knot by the pump, their faces somber with dejection.
Two of the men were tall, but in striking contrast otherwise. Ad Loring was a Pennsylvania man, white-haired but with a face rough-hewn and strong. It was a thoughtful face, but resolute as well. The man beside him was equally tall but much heavier, sullen and black-browed, with surly, contemptuous eyes. His jaw was a chunk of granite above the muscular column of his neck. Roy Strider was the kind of man he looked, domineering and quick to use his muscular strength.
Peabody and Mcationabb were equally contrasting. Mcationabb, as dry and dour as his name suggested, with narrow gray eyes and the expression of a man hard-driven but far from beaten. Peabody carried a shotgun in the hollow of h
is arm. He was short, and inclined to stoutness. Like the others, he turned to look at the man on the dusty roan when he dismounted and walked to the pump. The roan moved to the trough and sank his muzzle gratefully into the cool water.
Sartain was conscious of their stares, yet he gave no sign. Taking down the gourd dipper, he shook out the few remaining drops and began to pump the protesting handle.
The men studied his dusty gray shirt as if to read his mission from the breadth of his powerful shoulders. Their eyes fell to the walnut-butted guns, long-hung and tied down, to the polished boots now dust-covered, and the Mexican-type spurs. Jim Sartain drank deep of the cold water, a few drops falling down his chin and shirt-front. He emptied two dippers before he stopped drinking.
Even as he drank, his mind was cataloging these men, their dress, their manner, and their weapons. He was also studying the fat man who sat in the huge chair against the wall of the barn, a man unshaven and untidy, with a huge face, flabby lips, and the big eyes of a hungry hound.
This fat man heaved himself from his chair. "Put up your hoss, stranger? I'm the liveryman." His shirt bulged open in front and the rawhide thong that served as a belt held his stomach in and his pants up. "Name of George Noll." He added, "Folks around here know me.".
"Put him in a stall and give him a bait of grain," Sartain said. "I like him well fed. And be careful, he's touchy.".
Noll chuckled flatly. "Them hammerheads are all ornery." His eyes, sad, curious, rolled to Sartain. "Goin' fer? Or are you here?".
"I'm here." Sartain's dark eyes were as unreadable as his face. "Seems to have been some fire around. All the range for miles is burned off." The men beside him would have suffered from that fire. They would be from the wagons behind the firebreak in the creek bottom. "Noticed a firebreak back yonder. Somebody did some fast work to get that done in time.".
"That was Loring here," Noll offered. "Had most of it done before the fire. He figured it was coming.".
Sartain glanced at Loring. "You were warned?.
Or was it an accident?".
But it was Strider who spoke. .
Valley Of the Sun (Ss) (1995) Page 7
