Law Of the Desert Born (Ss) (1984)

by L'amour, Louis

  Reed stood flat-footed, facing Sabre. He was furious, and Matt could feel the force of his rage. It was almost a physical thing pushing against him. Close beside him was Sikes. If Reed chose to go for a gun, Sikes could grab Matt’s left arm and jerk him off balance. Yet Matt was ready even for that, and again that black force was rising within him, that driving urge toward violence. He spoke again, and his voice was soft and almost purring. Make up your mind, Reed. If you want to die, you can right here. You make another remark to me and I’ll drive every word of it back down that fat throat of yours! Reach and I’ll kill you. If Sikes wants in on this, he’s welcome!”

  Tony Sikes spoke softly, too. I’m out of it, Sabre. I only fight my own battles. When I come after you, I’ll be alone.”

  Galusha Reed hesitated. For an instant, counting on Sikes, he had been tempted. Now he hesitated, then turned abruptly and left the room.

  Ignoring Sikes, Sabre downed his drink and crossed to Camp Gordon. He shook him. Come on, Camp. I’m put-tin’ you to bed.”

  Gordon did not move. Sabre stooped and slipped an arm around the big Englishman’s shoulders and, hoisting him to his feet, started for the door. At the door, he turned. be seeing you, Sikes!”

  Tony lifted his glass, his hat pushed back, Sure,” he said. And I’ll be alone.”

  It was not until after he had said it that he remembered Sid Trumbull and the plans made in the back room. His face darkened a little, and his liquor suddenly tasted bad. He put his glass down carefully on the bar and turned, walking through the back door.

  Prince McCarran was alone, idly riffling the cards and smoking. I won’t do it, Prince,” Sikes said. “You’ve got to leave that killing to me and me alone.”

  Matt Sabre, with Camp Gordon lashed to the saddle of a led horse, met Pepito in the darkness of the space between the buttes. Pepito spoke softly, and Sabre called back to him. As the Mexican rode out, he glanced once at Gordon, and then the three rode on together. It was late the following morning when they reached the Pivotrock. All was quiet-too quiet.

  Camp Gordon was sober and swearing, “Shanghaied!” His voice exploded with violence. “You’ve a nerve, Sabre. Turn me loose so I can start back. I’m having no part of this.”

  Gordon was tied to his horse so he would not fall off, but Matt only grinned. “Sure, I’ll turn you loose. But you. said you ought to get out of town awhile, and this was the best way. I’ve brought you here,” he said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling, “for your own good. It’s time you had some fresh, mountain air, some cold milk, some—”

  “Milk?” Gordon exploded. “Milk, you say? I’ll not touch the stuff? Turn me loose and give me a gun and I’ll have your hider “And leave this ranch for Reed to take? Reed and McCarran?”

  Gordon stared. At him from bloodshot eyes, eyes that were suddenly attentive. “Did you say McCarran? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I wish I knew. But I’ve a hunch he’s in up to his ears. I think he has strings on Reed.”

  Gordon considered that. “He may have.” He watched Sabre undoing the knots. “It’s a point I hadn’t considered. But why?”

  “You’ve known him longer than I have. Somebody had two men follow Curtin out of the country to kill him, and I don’t believe Reed did it. Does that make sense?”

  “No.” Gordon swung stiffly to the ground. He swayed a bit, clinging to the stirrup leather. He glanced sheepishly at Matt. “I guess I’m a mess.” A surprised look crossed his face. Say, I’m hungry! I haven’t been hungry in weeks.”

  With four hands besides himself, work went on swiftly. Yet Matt Sabre’s mind would not rest. The five thousand dollars was a problem, and also there was the grant. Night after night, he led Pepito to talk of the memories of his father and grandfather, and little by little, he began to know the men. An idea was shaping in his mind, but as yet there was little on which to build.

  In all this time, there was no sign of Reed. On two occasions, riders had been seen, apparently scouting. Cattle had been swept from the rim edge and pushed back, accounting for all or nearly all the strays he had seen on his ride to Yellowjacket.

  Matt was restless, sure that when trouble came, it would come with a rush. It was like Reed to do things that way. By now he was certainly aware that Camp Gordon and Pepito Fernandez had been added to the roster of hands at Pivotrock.

  -Spotted a few head over near Baker Butte,” Camp said one morning. How’d it be if I drifted that way and looked them over?”

  -We’ll go together,” Matt replied. I’ve been wanting to look around there, and there’s been no chance.” The morning was bright, and they rode swiftly, putting miles behind them, alert to all the sights and sounds of the high country above the rim. Careful as they were, they were no more than a hundred yards from the riders when they saw them. There were five men, and in the lead rode Sid Trumbull and a white-mustached stranger.

  There was no possibility of escaping unnoticed. They pushed on toward the advancing riders, who drew up and waited. Sid Trumbull’s face was sharp with triumph when he saw Sabre.

  -Here’s your man, marshal!” he said with satisfaction. The one with the black hat is Sabre.”

  “What’s this all about?” Matt asked quietly. He had already noticed the badge the man wore. But he noticed something else. The man looked to be a competent, upstanding officer.

  “You’re wanted in El Paso. I’m Rafe Collins, deputy United States marshal. We’re making an inquiry into the killing of Bill Curtin.”

  Camp’s lips tightened, and he looked sharply at Sabre. When Reed had brought out this fact in the saloon, Gordon had been dead drunk.

  “That was a fair shooting, marshal. Curtin picked the fight and drew on me.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” Trumbull was contemptuous. “Why, he hadn’t the courage of a mouse! He backed down from Sikes only a few days before. He wouldn’t draw on any man with two hands!”

  “He drew on me.” Matt Sabre realized he was fighting two battles here—one to keep from being arrested, the other to keep Gordon’s respect and assistance. “My idea is that he only backed out of a fight with Sikes because he had a job to do and knew Sikes would kill him.”

  “That’s a likely yarn!” Trumbull nodded to him. “There’s your man. It’s your job, marshal.”

  Collins was obviously irritated. That he entertained no great liking for Trumbull was obvious. Yet he had his duty to do. Before. he could speak, Sabre spoke again.

  “Marshal, I’ve reason to believe that some influence has been brought to bear to discredit me and to get me out of the country for a while. Can’t I give you my word that I’ll report to El Paso when things are straightened out? My word is good, and that there are many in El Paso who know that.”

  “Sorry.” Collins was regretful. “I’ve my duty and my orders.”

  “I understand that,” Sabre replied. “I also have my duty. It is to see that Jenny Curtin is protected from those who are trying to force her off her range. I intend to do exactly that.”

  -Your duty?” Collins eyed him coldly but curiously. “After killing her husband?”

  -That’s reason enough, sir!” Sabre replied flatly. The fight was not my choice. Curt-in pushed it, and he was excited, worried, and overwrought. Yet he asked me on his deathbed to deliver a package to his wife and to see that she was protected. That duty, sir”-his eyes met those of Collins–comes first.”

  -I’d like to respect that,” Collins admitted. You seem like a gentleman, sir, and it’s a quality that’s too rare. Unfortunately, I have my orders. However, it should not take long to straighten this out if it was a fair shooting.”

  -All these rats need,” Sabre replied, “is a few days!” He knew there was no use arguing. His horse was fast, and dense pines bordered the road. He needed a minute, and that badly.

  As if divining his thought, Camp Gordon suddenly pushed his gray between Matt and the marshal, and almost at once Matt lashed out with his toe and booted Tru
mbull’s horse in the ribs. The bronc went to bucking furiously. Whipping his horse around, Matt slapped the spurs to his ribs, and in two startled jumps he was off and deep into the pines, running like a startled deer. Behind him a shot rang out, and then another. Both cut the brush over his head, but the horse was running now, and he was mounted well. He had started into the trees at right angles but swung his horse immediately and headed back toward the Pivotrock. Corduroy Wash opened off to his left, and he turned the black and pushed rapidly into the mouth of the wash.

  Following it for almost a mile, he came out and paused briefly in the clump of trees that crowned a small ridge. He stared back.

  A string of riders stretched out on his back trail, but they were scattered out, hunting for tracks. A lone horseman sat not far from them, obviously watching. Matt grinned; that would be Gordon, and he was all right.

  Turning his horse, Matt followed a shelf of rock until it ran out, rode off it into thick sand, and then into the pines with their soft bed of needles that left almost no tracks.

  Cinch Hook Butte was off to his left, and nearer, on his right, Twenty-Nine-Mile Butte. Keeping his horse headed between them, but bearing steadily northwest, he headed for the broken country around Horsetank Wash. Descending into the canyon, he rode northwest, then circled back south and entered the even deeper Calfpen Canyon.

  Here, in a nest of boulders, he staked out his horse on a patch of grass. Rifle across his knees, he rested. After an hour, he worked his way to the ledge at the top of the canyon, but nowhere could he see any sign of pursuit. Nor could he hear the sound of hoofs.

  There was water in the bottom of Calfpen, not far from where he had left his horse. Food was something else again. He shucked a handful of chic seeds and ate a handful of them,, along with the nuts of a pinon.

  Obviously, the attempted arrest had been brought about by either the influence of Galusha Reed or Prince McCarran. In either case, he was now a fugitive. If they went on to the ranch, Rafe Collins would have a chance to talk to Jenny Curtin. Matt felt sick when he thought of the marshal telling her that it was he who had killed her husband. That she must find out sooner or later, he knew, but he wanted to tell her himself, in his own good time.

  Bushwhack Bait When dusk had fallen, he mounted the black and worked his way down Calfpen toward Fossil Springs. As he rode, he was considering his best course. Whether taken by Collins or not, he was not now at the ranch and they might choose this time to strike. With some reason, they might believe he had left the country. Indeed, there was every chance that Reed actually believed he had come there with some plan of his own to get the Curtin ranch.

  Finally, he bedded down for the night in a draw above Fossil Springs and slept soundly until daylight brought a sun that crept over the rocks and shone upon his eyes. He was up, made a light breakfast of coffee and jerked beef, and then saddled up.

  Wherever he went now, he could expect hostility. Doubt or downright suspicion would have developed as a result of Reed’s accusation in Yellowjacket, and the country would know the U. S. Marshal was looking for him.

  Debating his best course, Matt Sabre headed west through the mountains. By nightfall the following day, he was camped in the ominous shadow of Turret Butte where only a few years before, Major Randall had ascended the peak in darkness to surprise a camp of Apaches.

  Awakening at the break of dawn, Matt scouted the vicinity of Yellowjacket with care.

  There was some movement in town-more than usual at that hour. He observed a long line of saddled horses at the hitch rails. He puzzled over this, studying it narrow eyed from the crest of a ridge through his glasses. Marshal Collins could not yet have returned, hence this must be some other movement. That it was organized was obvious.

  He was still watching when a man wearing a faded red shirt left the back door of a building near the saloon, went to a horse carefully hidden in the rear, and mounted. At this distance, there was no way of seeing who he was. The man rode strangely. Studying him through the glasses-a relic of Sabre’s military years-Matt suddenly realized why the rider seemed strange. He was riding eastern fashion!

  This was no westerner, slouched and lazy in the saddle, nor yet sitting upright as a cavalryman might. This man rode forward on his horse, a poor practice for the hard miles of desert or mountain riding. Yet it was his surreptitious manner rather than his riding style that intrigued Matt. It required but a few minutes for Matt to see that the route the rider was taking away from town would bring him by near the base of the promontory where he watched.

  Reluctant as he was to give over watching the saddled horses, Sabre was sure this strange rider held some clue to his problems. Sliding back on his belly well into the brush, Matt got to his feet and descended the steep trail and took up his place among the boulders beside the trail.

  It was very hot there out of the breeze, yet he had waited only a minute until he heard the sound of the approaching horse. He cleared his gun from its holster and moved to the very edge of the road. Then the rider appeared. It was Keys.

  Matt’s gun stopped him. “Where you ridin’, Keys?” Matt asked quietly. “What’s this all about?”

  “I’m riding to intercept the marshal,” Keys said sincerely. “McCarran and Reed plan to send out a posse of their own men to hunt you; then, under cover of capturing you, they intend to take the Pivotrock and hold it.”

  Sabre nodded. That would be it, of course, and he should have guessed it before. “What about the marshal? They’ll run into him on the trail.”

  “No, they’re going to swing south of his trail. They know how he’s riding because Reed is guiding him.” “What’s your stake in this? Why ride all-the way out there to tell the marshal?”

  “It’s because of Jenny Curtin,” he said frankly. “She’s a fine girl, and Bill was a good boy. Both of them treated me fine, as their father did before them. It’s little enough to do, and I know too much about the plotting of that devil McCarran.”

  “Then it is McCarran. Where does Reed stand in this?”

  “He’s stupid!” Keys said contemptuously. “McCarran is using him, and he hasn’t the wit to see it. He believes they are partners, but Prince will get rid of him like he does anyone who gets in his way. He’ll be rid of Trumbull, too.”

  -And Sikes?”

  -Perhaps. Sikes is a good tool, to a point.”

  Matt Sabre shoved his hat back on his head. “Keys,” he said suddenly, “I want you to have a little faith in me. Believe me, I’m doing what I can to help Jenny Curtin. I did kill her husband, but he was a total stranger who was edgy and started a fight.

  “I’d no way of knowing who or what he was, and the gun of a stranger kills as easy as the gun of a known man. But he trusted me. He asked me to come here, to bring his wife five thousand and to help her.”

  “Five thousand?” Keys stared. “Where did he get that amount of money?”

  “I’d like to know,” Sabre admitted. Another idea occurred to him. “Keys, you know more about what’s going on in this town than anyone else. What do you know about the Sonoma Grant?”

  Keys hesitated, then said slowly: “Sabre, I know very little about that. I think the only one who has the true facts is Prince McCarran. I think he gathered all the available papers on both grants and is sure that no matter what his claim, the giant cannot be substantiated. Nobody knows but McCarran.”

  “Then I’ll go to McCarran,” Sabre replied harshly. “I’m going to straighten this out if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You go to McCarran and it will be the last thing you do. The man’s deadly. He’s smooth talking and treacherous. And then there’s Sikes.”

  “Yes, Sabre admitted. “There’s Sikes.”

  He studied the situation, then looked up. “Look, don’t you bother the marshal. Leave him to me. Every man he’s got with him is an enemy to Jenny Curtin, and they would never let you talk. You circle them and ride on to Pivotrock. You tell Camp Gordon what’s happening. Tell him of this o
utfit that’s saddled up. I’ll do my job here, and then I’ll start back.

  Long after Keys had departed, Sabre watched. Evidently, the posse was awaiting some word from Reed. Would McCarran ride with them? He was too careful. He would wait in Yellowjacket. He would be, as always, an innocent bystander… .

  Keys, riding up the trail some miles distant, drew up suddenly. He had forgotten to tell Sabre of Prince McCarran’s plan to have Sid Trumbull cut him down when he tangled with Sikes. For a long moment, Keys sat his horse, staring worriedly and scowling. To go back now would ,lose time; moreover, there was small chance that Sabre would be there. Matt Sabre would have to take his own chances.

  Regretfully, Keys pushed on into the rough country ahead… .

  Tony Sikes found McCarran seated in the back room at the saloon. McCarran glanced up quickly as he came in, and then nodded.

  “Glad to see you, Sikes. I want you close by. I think we’ll have visitors today or tomorrow.”

  -Visitors?” Sikes searched McCarran’s face.

  -A visitor, I should say. I think we’ll see Matt Sabre.” Tony Sikes considered that, turning it over in his mind. Yes, Prince was right. Sabre would not surrender. It would be like him to head for town, hunting Reed. Aside from three or four men, nobody knew of McCarran’s connection with the Pivotrock affair. Reed or Trumbull were fronting for him.

  Trumbull, Reed, Sikes, and Keys. Keys was a shrewd man. He might be a drunk and a piano player, but he had a head on his shoulders.

  Sikes’s mind leaped suddenly. Keys was not around. This was the first time in weeks that he had not encountered Keys in the bar.

  Keys was gone.

  Where would he go—to warn jenny Curtin of the posse? So what? He had nothing against Jenny Curtin. He was a man who fought for hire. Maybe he ‘was on the wrong side in this. Even as he thought of that, he remembered Matt Sabre. The man was sharp as a steel blade—trim, fast. Now that it had been recalled to his mind, he remembered all that he had heard of him as marshal of Mobeetie.