L'Amour, Louis - Novel 02

by Crossfire Trail

  “We should be about there, Rafe,” he said, digging in his pocket for the makings. “Tell me about that business again, will you?”

  Rafe nodded. “Rodney’s brand was one he bought from an hombre named Shafter Mason. It was the Bar M. He had two thousand acres in Long Valley that he bought from Red Cloud, paid him good for it, and he was runnin’ cattle on that, and some four thousand acres outside the valley. His cabin was built in the entrance to Crazy Woman Canyon.

  “He borrowed money, and mortgaged the land, to a man named Bruce Barkow. Barkow’s a big cattleman down here, tied in with three or four others. He has several gunmen workin’ for him, and Rodney never trusted him, but he was the only man around who could loan him the money he needed.”

  “What’s your plan?” Brisco asked, his eyes following the cattle.

  “Tex, I haven’t got one. I couldn’t plan until I saw the lay of the land. The first thing will be to find Mrs. Rodney and her daughter, and from them, learn what the situation is. Then we can go to work. In the meantime, I aim to sell these cattle and hunt up Red Cloud.”

  “That’ll be tough,” Tex suggested. “There’s been some Injun trouble, and he’s a Sioux. Mostly, they’re on the prod right now.”

  “I can’t help it, Tex,” Rafe said. “I’ve got to see him, tell him I have the deed, and explain so’s he’ll understand. He might turn out to be a good friend, and he would certainly make a bad enemy.”

  “There may be some question about these cattle,” Tex suggested dryly.

  “What of it?” Rafe shrugged. “They are all strays, and we culled them out of canyons where no white man has been in years, and slapped our own brand on ‘em. We’ve driven them two hundred miles, so nobody here has any claim on them. Whoever started cattle where we found these left the country a long time ago. You remember what that old trapper told us?”

  “Yeah,” Tex agreed, “our claim’s good enough.” He glanced again at the brand, then looked curiously at Rafe. “Man, why didn’t you tell me your old man owned the C Bar? When you said to put the C Bar on these cattle you could have knocked me down with an ax! Uncle Joe used to tell me all about the C Bar outfit! The old man had a son who was a ringtailed terror as a kid. Slick with a gun … Say!” Tex Brisco stared at Rafe. “You wouldn’t be the same one, would you?”

  “I’m afraid I am,” Rafe said. “For a kid I was too slick with a gun. Had a run-in with some old enemies of Dad’s, and when it was over, I hightailed for Mexico.”

  “Heard about it.”

  Tex turned his sorrel out in a tight circle to cut a steer back into the herd, and they moved on.

  Rafe Caradec rode warily, with an eye on the country. This was all Indian country and the Sioux and Cheyennes had been hunting trouble ever since Custer had ridden into the Black Hills, which was the heart of the Indian country, and almost sacred to the Plains tribes. This was the near end of Long Valley where Rodney’s range had begun, and it could be no more than a few miles to Crazy Woman Canyon and his cabin.

  Rafe touched a spur to the dun and cantered toward the head of the drive. There were three hundred head of cattle in this bunch, and when the old trapper had told him about them, curiosity had impelled him to have a look. In the green bottom of several adjoining canyons these cattle, remnants of a herd brought into the country several years before, had looked fat and fine.

  It had been brutal, bitter work, but he and Tex had rounded up and branded the cattle, then hired two drifting cowhands to help them with the drive.

  He passed the man riding point and headed for the strip of trees where Crazy Woman Creek curved out of the canyon and turned in a long sweeping semicircle out to the middle of the valley, then down its center, irrigating some of the finest grass land he had ever seen. Much of it, he noted, was subirrigated from the mountains that lifted on both sides of the valley.

  The air was fresh and cool after the long, hot drive over the mountains and desert. The heavy fragrance of the pines and the smell of the long grass shimmering with dew lifted to his nostrils. He moved the dun down to the stream and sat in his saddle while the horse dipped its muzzle into the clear, cold water of the Crazy Woman.

  When the gelding lifted his head, Rafe waded him across the stream and climbed the opposite bank, then turned upstream toward the canyon.

  The bench beside the stream, backed by its stand of lodgepole pines looked just as Rodney had described it. Yet as the cabin came into sight, Rafe’s lips tightened with apprehension, for there was no sign of life. The dun, feeling his anxiety, broke into a canter.

  One glance sufficed. The cabin was empty, and evidently had been so for a long time.

  Rafe was standing in the door when Tex rode up Brisco glanced around, then at Rafe.

  “Well,” he said, “looks like we’ve had a long ride for nothin’.”

  The other two hands rode up—Johnny Gill and “Bo” Marsh, both Texans. With restless saddles, they had finished a drive in the Wyoming country, then headed west and had ridden clear to Salt Lake. On their return they had run into Rafe and Tex, and hired on to work the herd east to Long Valley.

  Gill, a short, leather-faced man of thirty, stared around.

  “I know this place,” he said. “Used to be the Rodney ranch. Feller name of Dan Shute took over. Rancher.”

  “Shute, eh?” Tex glanced at Caradec. “Not Barkow?”

  Gill shook his head. “Barkow made out to be helpin’ Rodney’s womenfolks, but he didn’t do much good. Personally, I never figgered he cut no great swath a tryin’. Anyway, this here Dan Shute is a bad hombre.”

  “Well,” Rafe said casually, “mebbe we’ll find out how bad. I aim to settle right here.”

  Gill looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re buyin’ yourself a piece of trouble, mister,” he said. “But I never cottoned to Dan Shute, myself. You got any rightful claim to this range? This is where you was headed, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Rafe said, “and I have a claim.”

  “Well, Bo,” Gill said, hooking a leg over the saddle-horn, “want to drift on, or do we stay and see how this gent stacks up with Dan Shute?”

  Marsh grinned. He had a reckless, infectious grin. “Shore, Johnny,” he said. “I’m for stayin’ on. Shute’s got a big redheaded hand ridin’ for him that I never liked, no ways.”

  “Thanks, boys,” Rafe said. “Looks like I’ve got an outfit. Keep the cattle in pretty close the next few days. I’m ridin’ in to Painted Rock.”

  “That town belongs to Barkow,” Gill advised. “Might pay you to kind of check up on Barkow and Shute. Some of the boys talkin’ around the chuckwagon sort of figgered there was more to that than met the eye. That Bruce Barkow is a right important gent around here, but when you read his sign, it don’t always add up.”

  “Mebbe,” Rafe suggested, “you’d better come along. Let Tex and Marsh worry with the cattle.”

  Rafe Caradec turned the dun toward Painted Rock. His liking for the little cattleman Rodney had been very real, and he had come to know and respect the man while aboard the Mary S. In the weeks that had followed the flight from the ship, he had been considering the problem of Rodney’s ranch so much that it had become much his own problem.

  Now, Rodney’s worst fears seemed to have been realized. The family had evidently been run off their ranch, and Dan Shute had taken possession. Whether there was any connection between Shute and Barkow remained to be seen, but Caradec knew that chuckwagon gossip can often come close to the truth, and that cowhands often see men more clearly than people who see them only on their good behavior or when in town.

  As he rode through the country toward Painted Rock, he studied it curiously, and listened to Johnny Gill’s comments. The little Texan had punched cattle in here two seasons, and knew the area better than most.

  Painted Rock was the usual cowtown. A double row of weather-beaten, false-fronted buildings, most of which had never been painted, and a few scattered dwellings, some of logs, most of stone. Ther
e was a two-story hotel, and a stone building, squat and solid, whose sign identified it as the Painted Rock Bank.

  Two buckboards and a spring wagon stood on the street, and a dozen saddle horses stood three-footed at hitching rails. A sign ahead of them told them that here was the National Saloon.

  Gill swung his horse in toward the hitching rail and dropped to the ground. He glanced across his saddle at Caradec,

  “The big hombre lookin’ us over is the redhead Bo didn’t like,” he said in a low voice.

  Rafe did not look around until he had tied his own horse with a slipknot. Then he hitched his guns into place on his hips. He was wearing two walnut-stocked pistols, purchased in Frisco. He wore jeans, star boots, and a buckskin jacket.

  Stepping up on the boardwalk, Rafe glanced at the frank curiosity.

  “Howdy, Gill?” he said. “Long time no see.”

  “Is that bad?” Gill said, and shoved through the doors into the dim, cool interior of the National.

  At the bar, Rafe glanced around. Two men stood nearby drinking. Several others were scattered around at tables.

  “Red-eye,” Gill said, then in a lower tone, “Bruce Barkow is the big man with the black mustache, wearin’ black and playin’ poker. The Mexican-lookin’ hombre across from him is Dan Shute’s gun-slingin’ segundo, Gee Bonaro.”

  Rafe nodded, and lifted his glass. Suddenly, he grinned.

  “To Charles Rodney!” he said clearly. Barkow jerked sharply and looked up, his face a shade paler. Bonaro turned his head slowly, like a lizard watching a fly. Gill and Rafe both tossed off their drinks, and ignored the stares.

  “Man,” Gill said, his eyes dancing, “You don’t waste no time, do you?”

  Rafe Caradec turned. “By the way, Barkow,” he said, “where can I find Mrs. Rodney and her daughter?”

  Bruce Barkow put down his cards. “If you’ve got any business,” he said smoothly, “I’ll handle it for ‘em!”

  “Thanks,” Rafe said. “My business is personal, and with them.”

  “Then,” Barkow said, his eyes hardening, “you’ll have trouble! Mrs. Rodney is dead. Died three months ago.” Rafe’s lips tightened. “And her daughter?”

  “Ann Rodney,” Barkow said carefully, “is here in town. She is to be my wife soon. If you’ve got any business …”

  “I’ll transact it with her!” Rafe said sharply. Turning abruptly, he walked out the door, Gill following. The little cowhand grinned, his leathery face folding into wrinkles that belied his thirty-odd years.

  “Like I say, Boss,” he chuckled, “you shore throw the hooks into ‘em!” He nodded toward a building across the street. “Let’s try the Emporium. Rodney used to trade there, and Gene Baker who runs it was a friend of his.”

  The Emporium smelled of leather, dry goods, and all the varied and exciting smells of the general store. Rafe rounded a bale of jeans and walked back to the long counter backed by shelves holding everything from pepper to rifle shells.

  “Where can I find Ann Rodney?” he asked. The white-haired proprietor gave him a quick glance, then nodded to his right.. Rafe turned and found himself looking into the large, soft dark eyes of a slender, yet beautifully shaped girl in a print dress. Her lips were delicately lovely, her dark hair was gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She was so lovely that it left him a little breathless.

  She smiled and her eyes were questioning. “I’m Ann Rodney,” she said. “What is it you want?”

  “My name is Rafe Caradec,” he said gently. “Your father sent me.”

  Her face went white to the lips and she stepped back suddenly, dropping one hand to the counter as though for support.

  “You come—from my father? Why, I…”

  Bruce Barkow, who had apparently followed them from the saloon, stepped in front of Rafe, his face flushed with anger.

  “You’ve scared her to death!” he snapped. “What do you mean, comin’ in here with such a story? Charles Rodney has been dead for almost a year!”

  Rafe’s eyes measured Barkow, his thoughts racing. “He has? How did he die?”

  “He was killed,” Barkow said, “for the money he was carryin’, it looked like.” Barkow’s eyes turned. “Did you kill him?”

  Rafe was suddenly aware that Johnny Gill was staring at him, his brows drawn together, puzzled and wondering. Gill, he realized, knew him but slightly, and might easily become suspicious of his motives.

  Gene Baker also was studying him coldly, his eyes alive with suspicion. Ann Rodney stared at him, as if stunned by what he had said, and somehow uncertain.

  “No,” Rafe said coolly. “I didn’t kill him, but I’d be plumb interested to know what made yuh believe he was dead.”

  “Believe he was dead?” Barkow laughed harshly. “I was with him when he died! We found him beside the trail, shot through the body by bandits. I brought back his belongings to Miss Rodney.”

  “Miss Rodney,” Rafe began, “if I could talk to you a few minutes …”

  “No!” she whispered. “I don’t want to talk to you! What can you be thinking of? Coming to me with such a story? What is it you want from me?”

  “Somehow,” Rafe said quietly, “you’ve got hold of some false information. Your father has been dead for no more than two months.”

  “Get out of here!” Barkow ordered, his hands on his gun. “Get out, I say! I don’t know what scheme you’ve cooked up, but it won’t work! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this town while the goin’ is good!”

  Ann Rodney turned sharply around and ran from the store, heading for the storekeeper’s living quarters.

  “You’d better get out, mister,” Gene Baker said harshly. “We know how Rodney died. You can’t work no underhanded schemes on that young lady. Her pa died, and he talked before he died. Three men heard him.”

  Rafe Caradec turned and walked outside, standing on the boardwalk, frowning at the skyline. He was aware that Gill had moved up beside him.

  “Boss,” Gill said, “I ain’t no lily, but neither am I takin’ part in no deal to skin a young lady out of what is hers by rights. You’d better throw a leg over your saddle and get!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Gill,” Rafe advised, “and before you make any change in your plans, suppose you talk to Tex about this? He was with me, an’ he knows all about Rodney’s death as well as I do. If they brought any belongings off his back here, there’s somethin’ more to this than we believed.”

  Gill kicked his boot-toe against a loose board. “Tex was with you? Durn it, man! What of that yarn of theirs? It don’t make sense!”

  “That’s right,” Caradec replied, “and before it will we’ve got to do some diggin’. Johnny,” he added, “suppose I told you that Barkow back there held a mortgage on the Rodney ranch, and Rodney went to Frisco, got the money, and paid it in Frisco—then never got home?”

  Gill stared at Rafe, his mouth tightening. “Then nobody here would know he ever paid that mortgage but Barkow? The man he paid it to?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’d say this Barkow was a sneakin’ polecat!” Gill said harshly. “Let’s brace him!”

  “Not yet, Johnny. Not yet!”

  He had anticipated no such trouble, yet if he explained the circumstances of Rodney’s death, and was compelled to prove them, he would be arrested for mutiny on the high seas—a hanging offense!

  Not only his own life depended on silence, but the lives of Brisco, Penn, and Mullaney.

  Yet there must be a way out. There had to be.

  Chapter III

  As RAFE CARADEC stood there in the bright sunlight he began to understand a let of things, and wonder about them. If some of the possessions of Charles Rodney had been returned to Painted Rock, it implied that those who returned them knew something of the shanghaiing of Rodney. How else could they have come by his belongings?

  Bully Borger had shanghaied his own crew with the connivance of Hongkong Bohl. Had the ma
n been marked for him? Certainly, it would not be the first time somebody had got rid of a man in such a manner. If that was the true story, it would account for some of Borger’s animosity when he had beaten Rodney.

  No doubt they had all been part of a plan to make sure that Charles Rodney never returned to San Francisco alive, nor to Painted Rock. Yet believing such a thing and proving it were two vastly different things. Also, it presented a problem of motive. Land was not scarce in the West, and much of it could be had for the taking. Why then, people would ask, would Barkow go to such efforts to get one piece of land?

  Rafe had Barkow’s signature on the receipt, but that could be claimed to be a forgery. First, a motive beyond the mere value of two thousand acres of land and the money paid on the debt must be established. That might be all, and certainly men had been killed for less, but Bruce Barkow was no fool, nor was he a man who played for small stakes.

  Rafe Caradec lighted a cigarette and stared down the street. He must face another fact. Barkow was warned. Whatever he was gambling for, including the girl, was in danger now, and would remain in peril as long as Rafe Caradec remained alive or in the country. That fact stood out cold and clear. Barkow knew by now that he must kill Rafe Caradec.

  Rafe understood the situation perfectly. His life had been lived among men who played ruthlessly for the highest stakes. It was no shock to him that men would stoop to killing, or a dozen killings, if they could gain a desired end. From now on he must ride, always aware, and always ready.

  Sending Gill to find and buy two packhorses, Rafe turned on his heel and went into the store. Barkow was gone, and Ann Rodney was still out of sight.

  Baker looked up and his eyes held no welcome.

  “If you’ve got any business here,” he said, “state it and get out. Charles Rodney was a friend of mine.”

  “He needed some smarter friends,” Rafe replied shortly. “I came here to buy supplies, but if you want to, start askin’ yourself some questions. Who profits by Rodney’s death? What evidence have you got besides a few of his belongin’s that might have been stolen, that he was killed a year ago? How reliable were the three men who were with him? If he went to San Francisco for the money, what were Barkow and the others doin’ on the trail?”