L'Amour, Louis - Novel 02

by Crossfire Trail

  “An Indian girl?” Ann looked at him questioningly.

  “Yes,” Barkow frowned as if the subject was distasteful to him. “You know how some of the cowhands are—always running after some squaw. They have stolen squaws, kept them for a while, then turned them loose or killed them. Caradec had a young squaw and Boyne tried to argue with him to let her go. They had words, and there’d have been a shooting then if one of Caradec’s other men hadn’t come up with a rifle, and Shute’s boys went away.”

  Ann was shocked. She had heard of such things happening, and was well aware of how much trouble they caused. That Rafe Caradec would be a man like that was hard to believe. Yet, what did she know of the man?

  He disturbed her more than she allowed herself to believe. Despite the fact that he seemed to be trying to work some scheme to get all or part of her ranch, and despite all she had heard of him at one time or another from Bruce, she couldn’t make herself believe that all she heard was true.

  That he appealed to her, she refused to admit. Yet when with him, she felt drawn to him. She liked his rugged masculinity, his looks, his voice, and was impressed with his sincerity. Yet the killing of Boyne and Bonaro was the talk of the town.

  The Bonaro phase of the incident she could understand from the previous episode in the store. But no one had any idea of why Boyne should be looking for Caradec. The solution now offered by Barkow was the only one. A fight over a squaw! Without understanding why, Ann felt vaguely resentful.

  For days a dozen of Shute’s riders hung around town. There was talk of lynching Caradec, but nothing came of it. Ann heard the talk, and asked Baker about it.

  The old storekeeper looked up, nodding.

  “There’s talk, but it’ll come to nothin’. None of these boys aim to ride out there to Crazy Woman and tackle that crowd. You know what Gill and Marsh are like. They’ll fight, and they can. Well, Caradec showed what he could do with a gun when he killed those two in the street. I don’t know whether you saw that other feller with Caradec or not. The one from Texas. Well, if he ain’t tougher than either Marsh or Gill, I’ll pay off! Notice how he wore his guns? Nope, nobody’ll go looking for them. If they got their hands on Caradec that would be somethin’ else.”

  Baker rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Unless they are powerful lucky, they won’t last long, anyway. That’s Injun country, and Red Cloud or Man Afraid of His Hoss won’t take kindly to white men livin’ there. They liked your pa, and he was friendly to ‘em.”

  As a result of his conversations with Barkow, Sheriff Pod Gomer had sent messages south by stage to Cheyenne and the telegraph. Rafe Caradec had come from San Francisco, and Bruce Barkow wanted to know who and what he was. More than that, he wanted to find out how he had been allowed to escape the Mary S. With that in mind he wrote to Bully Borger.

  Borger had agreed to take Charles Rodney to sea and let him die there, silencing the truth forever. Allowing Rafe Caradec to come ashore with his story was not keeping the terms of his bargain. If Caradec had actually been aboard the ship, and left it, there might be something in that to make him liable to the law.

  Barkow intended to leave no stone unturned. And in the meantime, he spread his stories around about Caradec’s reason for killing Boyne.

  Caradec went on with his haying. The nights were already growing more chill. At odd times when not haying or handling cattle, he and the boys built another room to the cabin, and banked the house against the wind. Fortunately, its position was sheltered. Wind would not bother them greatly where they were, but there would be snow and lots of it.

  Rafe rode out each day, and several times brought back deer or elk. The meat was jerked and stored away. Gill got the old wagon Rodney had brought from Missouri and made some repairs. It would be the easiest way to get supplies out from Painted Rock. He worked over it, and soon had it in excellent shape.

  On the last morning of the month, Rafe walked out to where Gill was hitching a team to the wagon.

  “Looks good,” he agreed. “You’ve done a job on it, Johnny.”

  Gill looked pleased. He nodded at the hubs of the wheels. “Notice ‘em? No squeak!”

  “Well, I’ll be hanged!” Rafe looked at the grease on the hubs. “Where’d you get the grease?”

  “Sort of a spring back over in the hills. I brung back a bucket of it.”

  Rafe Caradec looked up sharply. “Johnny, where’d yuh find that spring?”

  “Why”—Gill looked puzzled—“it’s just a sort of hole-like, back over next to that mound. You know, in that bad range. Ain’t much account down there, but I was down there once and found this here spring. This stuff works as well as the grease you buy.”

  “It should,” Rafe said dryly. “It’s the same stuff!”

  He caught up the black and threw a saddle on it. Within an hour he was riding down toward the barren knoll Gill had mentioned. What he found was not a spring, but a hole among some sparse rushes, dead and sick-looking. It was an oil seepage.

  Oil!

  This then, could be the reason why Barkow and Shute were so anxious to acquire title to this piece of land, so anxious that they would have a man shanghaied and killed. Caradec recalled that Bonneville had reported oil seepage on his trip through the state some forty years or so before, and there had been a well drilled in the previous decade.

  One of the largest markets for oil was the patent medicine business, for it was the main ingredient in so-called “British Oil.”

  The hole in which the oil was seeping in a thick stream might be shallow, but sounding with a six-foot stick found no bottom. Rafe doubted if it was much deeper. Still, there would be several barrels here, and he seemed to recall some talk of selling oil for twenty dollars the barrel.

  Swinging into the saddle, he turned the big black down the draw and rode rapidly toward the hills. This could be the reason, for certainly it was reason enough. The medicine business was only one possible market, for machinery of all kinds needed lubricants. There was every chance that the oil industry might really mean something in time.

  If the hole was emptied, how fast would it refill? And how constant was the supply? On one point he could soon find out.

  He swung the horse up out of the draw, forded the Crazy Woman, and cantered up the hill to the cabin. As he reined in and swung down at the door he noticed two strange horses.

  Tex Brisco stepped to the door, his face hard.

  “Watch it, Boss!” he said sharply.

  Pod Gomer’s thick-set body thrust into the doorway.

  “Caradec,” he said calmly, “you’re under arrest.”

  Rafe swung down, facing him. Two horses. Who had ridden the other one?

  “For what?” he demanded.

  His mind was racing. The mutiny? Had they found out about that?

  “For killin’. Shootin’ Bonaro.”

  “Bonaro?” Rafe laughed. “You mean for defendin’ myself? Bonaro had a rifle in that window. He was all set to shoot me!”

  Gomer nodded coolly. “That was most folks’ opinion, but it seems nobody saw him aim any gun at you. We’ve only got your say-so. When we got to askin’ around, it begun to look sort of funny like. It appears to a lot of folks that you just took that chance to shoot him and get away with it. Anyway, you’d be better off to stand trial.”

  “Don’t go, Boss,” Brisco said. “They don’t ever aim to have a trial.”

  “You’d better not resist,” Gomer replied calmly. “I’ve got twenty Shute riders down the valley. I made ‘em stay back. The minute any shootin’ starts, they’ll come a ninnin’, and you all know what that would mean.”

  Rafe knew. It would mean the death of all four of them and the end to any opposition to Barkow’s plans. Probably that was what the rancher hoped would happen.

  “Why, sure, Gomer.” Caradec said calmly. “I’ll go.”

  Tex started to protest, and Rafe saw Gill hurl his hat into the dust.

  “Give me your guns then,” Gomer said, “and mount
up.”

  “No.” Rafe’s voice was flat. “I keep my guns till I get to town. If that bunch of Shute’s starts anything, the first one I’ll kill will be you, Gomer!”

  Pod Gomer’s face turned sullen. “You ain’t goin’ to be bothered. I’m the law here. Let’s go!”

  “Gomer,” Tex Brisco said viciously, “if anything happens to him, I’ll kill you and Barkow both!”

  “That goes for me, too!” Gill said harshly.

  “And me!” Marsh put in. “I’ll get you if I have to drygulch you, Gomer.”

  “Well, all right!” Gomer said angrily. “It’s just a trial. I told ‘em I didn’t think much of it, but the judge issued the warrant.”

  He was scowling blackly. It was all right for them to issue warrants, but if they thought he was going to get killed for them, they were bloody well wrong!

  Pod Gomer jammed his hat down on his head. This was a far cry from the coal mines of Lancashire, but sometimes he wished he was back in England. There was a look in Brisco’s eyes he didn’t like.

  “No,” he told himself, “he’ll be turned loose before I take a chance. Let Barkow kill his own pigeons. I don’t want these Bar M hands gunnin’ for me!”

  The man who had ridden the other horse stepped out of the cabin, followed closely by Bo Marsh. There was no smile on the young cowhand’s face. The man was Bruce Barkow.

  For an instant, his eyes met Caradec’s. “This is just a formality,” Barkow said smoothly. “There’s been some talk around Painted Rock and a trial will clear the air a lot, and of course if you’re innocent, Caradec, you’ll be freed.”

  “You sure of that?” Rafe’s eyes smiled cynically. “Barkow, you hate me and you know it. If I ever leave that jail alive, it won’t be your fault.”

  Barkow shrugged. “Think what you want,” he said indifferently. “I believe in law and order. We’ve got a nice little community at Painted Rock and we want to keep it that way. Boyne had challenged you, and that was different. Bonaro had no part in the fight.”

  “No use arguin’ that here,” Gomer protested. “Court’s the place for that. Let’s go.”

  Tex Brisco lounged down the steps, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He stared at Gomer.

  “I don’t like you,” he said coolly. “I don’t like you a bit. I think you’re yellow as a coyote. I think you bob ever’ time this here Barkow says bob.”

  Gomer’s face whitened, and his eyes shifted.

  “You’ve got no call to start trouble!” he said. “I’m doin’ my duty.”

  “Let it ride,” Caradec told Tex. “There’s plenty of time.”

  “Yeah,” Tex drawled, his hard eyes on Gomer, “but just for luck I’m goin’ to mount and trail you into town, keepin’ to the hills. If that bunch of Shute riders gets fancy, I’m goin’ to get myself a sheriff, and”—his eyes shifted—“mebbe another hombre.”

  “Is that a threat?” Barkow said contemptuously. “Talk is cheap.”

  “Want to see how cheap?” Tex prodded. His eyes were ugly and he was itching for a fight. It showed in every line of him. “Want me to make it expensive?”

  Bruce Barkow was no fool. He had not seen Tex Brisco in action, yet there was something chill and deadly about the tall Texan. Barkow shrugged.

  “We came here to enforce the law. Is this resistance, Caradec?”

  “No,” Rafe said. “Let’s go.”

  The three men turned their horses and walked them down the trail toward Long Valley. Tex Brisco threw a saddle on his horse, and mounted. Glancing back, Pod Gomer saw the Texan turn his horse up a trail into the trees. He swore viciously.

  Caradec sat his horse easily. The trouble would not come now. He was quite sure the plan had been to get him away, then claim the Shute riders had taken him from the law. Yet he was as sure it would not come to that now. Pod Gomer would know that Brisco’s Winchester was within range. Also, Rafe was still wearing his guns.

  Rafe rode warily, lagging a trifle behind the sheriff. He glanced at Barkow, but the rancher’s face was expressionless. Ahead of them, in a tight bunch, waited the Shute riders.

  The first he recognized were the Blazers. There was another man, known as Joe Gorman, whom he also recognized. Red Blazer started forward abruptly.

  “He come, did he?” he shouted. “Now we’ll show him!”

  “Get back!” Gomer ordered sharply.

  “Huh?” Red glared at Gomer. “Who says I’ll get back! I’m stringin’ this hombre to the first tree we get to!”

  “You stay back!” Gomer ordered. “We’re takin’ this man in for trial!”

  Red Blazer laughed. “Come on, boys!” he yelled. “Let’s hang the skunk!”

  “I wouldn’t, Red,” Rafe Caradec said calmly. “You’ve overlooked somethin’. I’m wearin’ my guns. Are you faster than Trigger Boyne?”

  Blazer jerked his horse’s head around, his face pale but furious.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “What the devil is this? I thought—”

  “That you’d have an easy time of it?” Rafe shoved the black horse between Gomer and Barkow, pushing ahead of them. He rode right up to Blazer and let the big black shove into the other horse. “Well, get this Blazer! Any time you kill me, you’ll do it with a gun in your hand, savvy? You’re nothin’ but a lot of lynch-crazy coyotes! Try it, damn it! Try it now, and I’ll blow you out of that saddle so full of lead you’ll sink a foot into the ground!”

  Rafe’s eyes swept the crowd.

  “Think this is a joke? That goes for any of you! And as for Gomer, he knows, that if you hombres want any trouble he gets it too! There’s a man up in the hills with a Winchester, and if you don’t think he can empty saddles, start somethin’. That Winchester carries sixteen shots and I’ve seen him empty it and get that many rabbits! I’m packing two guns. I’m askin’ you now so if you want any of what I’ve got, start the ball rollin’. Mebbe you’d get me but I’m tellin’ you there’ll be more dead men around there than you can shake a stick at!”

  Joe German spoke quickly. “Watch it, boys! There is a hombre up on the mountain with a rifle! I seen him!”

  “What the blue blazes is this?” Red Blazer repeated.

  “The fun’s over,” Rafe replied shortly. “You might as well head for home and tell Dan Shute to kill his own wolves. I’m wearin’ my guns and I’m goin’ to keep ‘em. I’ll stand trial, but you know and I know that Bonaro got what he was askin’ for.” Caradec turned his eyes on Blazer. “As for you, stay out of my sight! You’re too blasted willin’ to throw your hemp over a man you think is helpless! I don’t like skunks and never did!”

  “You can’t call me a skunk!” Blazer bellowed.

  Rafe stared at him. “I just did,” he said calmly.

  Chapter VII

  FOR A full minute their eyes held. Rafe’s hand was on his thigh within inches of his gun. If it came to gun play now, he would be killed, but Blazer and Barkow would go down, too, and there would be others. He had not exaggerated when he spoke of Tex Brisco’s rifle shooting. The man was a wizard with the gun.

  Red Blazer was trapped. White to the lips, he stared at Rafe, and could see cold, certain death looking back at him. He could stand it no longer.

  “Why don’t some of you do somethin’?” he bellowed.

  Joe Gorman spat. “You done the talkin’, Red.”

  “The hell with it!”

  Blazer swung his horse around, touched spurs to the animal, and raced off at top speed.

  Bruce Barkow’s hand hovered close to his gun. A quick draw, a shot, and the man would be dead. Just like that. His lips tightened, and his elbow crooked. Gomer grabbed his wrist.

  “Don’t Bruce! Don’t! That hombre up there … Look!”

  Barkow’s head swung. Brisco was in plain sight, his rifle resting over the limb of a tree. At that distance, he could not miss. Yet he was beyond pistol range, and while some of the riders had rifles, they were out in the open without a bit of cover.

  Barkow jerked h
is arm away and turned his horse toward town. Rafe turned the black and rode beside him.

  He said nothing, but Barkow was seething at the big man’s obvious contempt.

  Rafe Caradec had outfaced the lot of them. He had made them look fools. Yet Barkow remembered as well as each of the riders remembered, that Rafe had fired but three shots in the street battle, that all the shots had scored, and two men had died.

  When the cavalcade reached the National, Rafe turned to Pod Gomer.

  “Get your court goin’,” he said calmly. “We’ll have this trial now.”

  “Listen here!” Gomer burst out, infuriated. “You can do things like that too often! We’ll have court when we get blamed good and ready!”

  “No,” Rafe said, “you’ll hold court this afternoon—now. You haven’t got any calendar to interfere. I have business to attend to that can’t wait, and I won’t. You’ll have your trial today, or I’ll leave and you can come and get me.”

  “Who are you tellin’ what to do?” Gomer said angrily. “I’ll have you know …”

  “Then you tell him, Barkow. Or does he take his orders from Shute? Call that judge of yours and let’s get this over.”

  Bruce Barkow’s lips tightened. He could see that Gene Baker and Ann Rodney were standing in the doorway of the store, listening.

  “All right,” Barkow said savagely. “Call him down here.”

  Not much later Judge Roy Gargan walked into the stage station and looked around. He was a tall, slightly stooped man with a lean, hangdog face and round eyes. He walked up to the table and sat down in the chair behind it. Bruce Barkow took a chair to one side where he could see the judge.

  Noting the move, Rafe Caradec sat down where both men were visible. Barkow, nettled, shifted his chair irritably. He glanced up and saw Ann Rodney come in, accompanied by Baker and Pat Higley. He scowled again. Why couldn’t they stay out of this?

  Slowly, the hangers-on around town filed in. Joe Benson came in and sat down close to Barkow. They exchanged looks. Benson’s questioning glance made Barkow furious. If they wanted so much done, why didn’t someone do something beside him?