Silver Canyon

by Louis L'Amour

  And then there was a shot.

  It slapped sharply across our consciousness, and we reined wide, putting our mounts apart. We had heard no bullet, only the flat, hard report, not far away. And then another.

  “He ain’t shootin’ at us.”

  “Let’s get off the flat … quick!”

  The shots had come from the canyon, the trail led there, so we went over the edge into the depths, and swung, right, always right, down the switchback trail.

  If we were seen here we were dead, caught flat against the mountainside like paper ducks pinned to a wall.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AT THE bottom we swung our horses in a swirl of dust and leaped them for cover in a thick cluster of trees and brush. Even our horses felt the tension as they stood, heads up and alert.

  All was still. Some distance away a stone rattled. Sweat trickled behind my ear and I smelled the hot aroma of dust and sun-baked leaves. My palms grew sweaty and I dried them, but there was no further sound.

  Careful to let my saddle creak as little as possible, I swung down, Winchester in hand, and with a motion to Mulvaney to stay put, I moved away through the brush.

  From the edge of the trees I could see no more than thirty yards in one direction, no more than twenty in the other. Rock walls towered and the canyon sand lay still under the blazing sun. Close against the walls there was a thin strip of shadow.

  Somewhere near by water trickled, aggravating my thirst. My neck felt hot and sticky, my shirt clung to my shoulders. Shifting the rifle in my hands, I studied the rock wall with misgiving. I dried my hands on my jeans and, taking a chance, moved out from my cover, and into that six-inch band of shade against the wall. Easing along to a bend in the wall, I peered around the comer.

  Sixty yards away stood a saddled horse, head hanging. My eyes searched and saw nothing more, and then just visible beyond a white, water-worn boulder, I saw a boot and a leg as far as the knee.

  For a space of a minute I watched it. There was no movement, no sound. Cautiously, wary for a trick, I advanced, ready to fire. Only the occasional chuckle of water over rocks broke the stillness. And then I saw the dead man.

  That he was quite dead was beyond doubt. His skull was bloody and there was a bullet hole over one eye. He probably never knew what hit him. It served also as a warning. A man who could shoot like that was nobody to trifle with.

  There was a vague familiarity to him, and moving nearer, I saw his skull bore a swelling. This had been the rider with Slade whom I had slugged on the trail.

  The bullet had struck over the eye and ranged downward, which indicated he had been shot from ambush, perhaps from somewhere on the canyon wall. Lining up the probable position, I sighted a tuft of green on the wall that might be a ledge.

  At my low call, Mulvaney approached. He studied the man.

  “This wasn’t the man we followed.”

  “One of the Slade crowd,” I told him.

  We started on, but no longer were the tracks disguised. The man we followed was going more slowly now.

  Suddenly, there was a boot print, sharp and clear. Something turned over inside me.

  “Mulvaney, that’s the track of the man who shot Maclaren!”

  “But Morgan Park’s in jail,” he protested, studying the track. He knew that I had ridden by to see the track Canaval had mentioned.

  “He was���”

  My buckskin’s head came up, his nostrils dilated. Grabbing his nose, I stifled the whinny. Then I followed his gaze.

  Less than a hundred yards away a strange dun horse was picketed near a clump of bunchgrass.

  “You know,” I said thoughtfully, “whoever we followed may think he has killed whoever followed him. He may think he’s safe now.”

  We hid our horses in a box canyon and climbed the wall for a look around. From the top of the mesa we could see all the surrounding country. Under the southern edge of the wall opposite was a cluster of ancient ruins, beyond them deep canyons.

  I studied the terrain ahead, and suddenly saw a man emerge from a crack in the earth, carrying a heavy sack. He placed it on the ground and removed his coat, then with a pick and a bar he began working at a slab over the crack from which he had come.

  Mulvaney could see the man, but not what he was doing.

  Explaining as I watched, I saw him take the bar and pry hard at the slab. The rock slid, then came all the way, carrying with it a pile of debris. The dust rose, settled. The crack was invisible.

  After carefully looking to either side, the man concealed his tools, picked up his rifle and the sack, and started back toward us. Studying him as he walked, I could see he wore black jeans, very dusty now, and a small hat. His face was not visible, but he bore no resemblance to anyone I knew.

  He disappeared from sight, and for a long time we heard no sound.

  We had been concealed from sight, or so we believed, but now we climbed back down to the canyon floor. We were turning toward the box canyon where our horses were hidden when we heard two shots in quick succession.

  We stared at each other, puzzled. But there was no other sound as we uneasily worked our way back to the box canyon.

  Mulvaney saw it first, and he swore viciously. It was the first time I had ever heard him swear.

  My horse and his mule lay sprawled in pools of their own blood. Our canteens had been emptied and smashed with stones. We were thirty miles from the nearest ranch, and our way lay through some of the most rugged country on earth.

  “There’s water, but no way to carry it. Do you think he knew who we were?”

  “If he lives in this country he should know that buckskin of mine,” I said bitterly. “He was the best horse I ever owned.”

  It told me something else about our man, whoever he was. He was utterly ruthless. This man had not driven the horses off, he had shot them down. He was cautious, too. To have hunted us down might have exposed himself to danger.

  “Well have a look at the place he covered up. No use leaving without that.”

  It was almost dark before we had dug enough behind the slab of rock to get at the secret. Mulvaney cut into the rock with his pick. Ripping out a chunk he showed it to me, his eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Silver! The biggest strike I ever saw! Better than Silver Reef!”

  The ore glittered in his hand as he turned it. This was what had killed Rud Maclaren and the others.

  “It’s rich,” I said, “but I’d settle for the Two-Bar.”

  “But it’s a handsome sight!”

  “Pocket it then. We’ve a long walk.”

  “Tonight … while it’s cool.”

  The shadows grew long while we walked, and thick blackness came down to choke the canyons and cover the mountains. We walked on, with little talk, up Ruin Canyon and over a saddle of the Sweet Alice Hills and down to a spring on the far side.

  There we rested and drank, and I was remembering, and thinking ahead.

  The camp where I had seen Slade’s gang was not many miles away, it had water and shelter, and so far as they knew only Morgan Park knew about it. Outlaws are rarely energetic men, and I doubted that they had moved. Where outlaws were, there would be horses also.

  It had taken us five hours to walk ten miles, and it was well into the night. Most of our walking had been along the canyon’s bottom. Now we would be crossing Dark Canyon Platau … but no, this was the canyon they were in!

  Dark it was as we walked, doing no talking. There was water rustling over stones and the dampness in the canyon was good after the heat of the long day.

  We heard singing before we saw the light of the fire. The canyon walls caught and magnified the sound. A few yards further along, we spotted the fire, and the reflection of it on a face. Three men were there, and one sang as he cleaned his rifle.

  We were at the edge of the firelight before they saw us, and I had my Winchester on them, and Mulvaney his cannon-like four-shot pistol.

  Slade was no fool. He sat very
still, with his hands in sight. His face was pale, as well it might be, with a hanging waiting for him. “Who is it?”

  Our faces were shielded by the brims of our hats, and we stood partly concealed by the brush.

  “The name is Matt Brennan, and I’m not asking for trouble. We want two good horses. You can lend them or well take them.

  “Our horses,” I added, “were shot by the same man who killed your partner.”

  “Lott killed?”

  Slade studied me, absorbing that news. None of them seemed in the mood for trouble. Nevertheless I discouraged any such idea with my Winchester.

  “He met up with a man we were trailing. He caught a slug between the eyes.” I pushed my hand up and moved my hat back. “Then he shot both our horses.”

  “Damn a man who’ll kill a horse. Who was it?”

  “He leaves a track like Morgan Park, but Park’s in jail.”

  “Not now,” Slade said. “He broke jail within an hour after dark last night. Pulled an iron bar out of that old wall, stole a horse, and disappeared.”

  But the man we had seen had not been big enough for Park. Nevertheless, it was a thing to remember.

  “How about the horses?”

  “Take them. We’re clearing out.”

  “Are they spares?”

  “We’ve got a dozen extras. In our business it pays to keep fresh horses.” He grinned up at me and slowly leaned back on his elbow. “No hard feelin’s, Brennan?”

  “None … only be careful.”

  “With two guns on us? Sure … What kind of a cannon is that your partner’s got? A man could ride into that barrel with his hat on.”

  Mulvaney went after the horses, then returned with them. They were saddled and bridled. Slade’s mouth twisted when he saw the saddles. But he had nothing to say.

  “Any other news?”

  He smiled maliciously at me. “Yeah. Bodie Miller’s talking it big around town. Says you’re his meat.”

  “He’s a heavy eater, that boy. Hope he doesn’t tackle anything that’ll give him indigestion.”

  We mounted up. “The horses will be at the livery stable in town.”

  “Better not,” Slade said. “There’s a corral in the woods back of Armstrong’s. You might leave them there.”

  The horses were fresh and ready to run, and we let them go. It was good to be in the saddle again, but both of us were hanging heavy before many miles.

  We rode and we did not talk, for neither of us had words to say. The stars faded and the sky turned gray in the east, and then a pale yellow showed above the mountains behind us. The rosy color of dawn tipped the mountains before us, and we slowed our pace and cantered down the trail and watched the sun pick out the roofs ahead of us.

  Daylight saw us riding down the street at Hattan’s Point.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  WE FOUND a town that was silent and waiting. But the loft was full of hay and both of us needed sleep. And what was to come would wait.

  Two hours later, as if by signal, I awakened suddenly. Leaving Mulvaney to his needed rest, I splashed water on my face and headed for Mother O’Hara’s. The first person I saw when I came through the door was Moira. And the second was Key Chapin.

  “Sorry,” Chapin said. “We just heard the news.”

  My blank expression must have told him. I knew of no news, but I didn’t want to wait to hear it.

  “You’re losing the Two-Bar.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jake Booker filed a deed to the Two-Bar. He purchased all rights from a nephew of old man Ball’s. He had laid claim to the Boxed M, maintains it was never actually owned by Rud Maclaren, but belonged to his brother-in-law, now dead. Booker found a relative of the brother-in-law, and bought the property.”

  “It’s a steal.”

  “If he goes to court he can make it very rough.”

  He went on to explain that Booker was a shrewd lawyer, and despite my two witnesses, could go far toward establishing a solid claim.

  He went on to say that Booker had turned up the fact that a few years before, while suffering from a gunshot wound, Maclaren had deeded the ranch to his brother-in-law and it had apparently never been deeded back to himself.

  Moira’s face looked pale, and I could understand why. If Booker could make his claim hold good, then Moira, instead of being an independent young lady with a cattle ranch, would be broke and hunting a job. I knew that Maclaren had spent cash in developing the place and actually had little money on hand.

  “What’s more important right now,” Chapin added, ”Booker has a court order impounding all bank deposits, stopping all sales, and freezing everything as is until the case is settled.”

  I sat down. Swiftly, I ordered my thoughts. Booker would have paid out no money for claims he did not think he could substantiate in court. The man was shrewd.

  There was no attorney within miles capable of coping with Booker. What had begun as a range war had degenerated into a grand steal by a shyster lawyer. And neither of us would have the money to fight him.

  A thought occurred to me. “Has Canaval been told?”

  Chapin gestured impatiently. “There’s nothing he can do. He’s only a foreman.”

  Katie O’Hara brought me coffee and it tasted good.

  Sheriff Will Tharp had left town, accompanied by the recently arrived Colonel D’Arcy. They had gone to Morgan Park’s ranch, searching for him.

  “They should have gone to Dark Canyon,” I said.

  “Why there?” Chapin looked at me curiously. “What would take a man there?”

  “That’s where he’ll be.”

  When Katie O’Hara brought my breakfast I ate in silence. Morgan Park was free and would be wanting a shot at me. Bodie Miller was probably in town. Whatever was to be done would have to be done fast, and however good I might be with gun or fists, I had no experience with the intricacies of the law. I could not hope to meet Booker on his own ground.

  Moira did not look at me. She talked a little with Key Chapin, who had been her father’s friend.

  “Moira,” I said, “you better send a messenger to the ranch to tell Canaval what’s happened.”

  Still she did not look at me. “What can he do? It would only worry him.”

  “No matter���take my advice.”

  She tightened a little, resenting the suggestion. “Better still, have Fox and some of your boys bring him into town in a buckboard.”

  “But I don’t���”

  “Do what I say.” My abruptness seemed to shock her. She looked up, and our eyes met. Hers fell swiftly, but for an instant I thought.

  “Moira,” I said gently, “you want your ranch. It can be saved. Get Canaval in here and tell him what’s happened. Have witnesses, take a statement from him, and have it signed by the witnesses.”

  “What are you talking about? What statement?”

  “Do what I advise.”

  Finishing my coffee with a gulp, I picked up my hat and put it on the back of my head. Then I rolled a smoke. While I was doing it, my eyes were studying the street out side. There was no sign of Miller.

  But then I saw something else. A weary dun horse was tied to the side of the corral. It was barely visible between the buildings.

  “Who owns that horse?”

  Chapin came to the window to look. He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  Katie was picking up the dishes, and she glanced out the window. “Jake Booker rides it. He did this morning.”

  And Jake Booker had small feet.

  Mulvaney was crawling down from the loft when I got to him. He listened, then ran to the stable office and got a fresh horse.

  Key Chapin was in the door of the restaurant when I walked by.

  “Get Canaval in here. We’re having a showdown. Send for Jim Finder, too.”

  He studied me. “Matt, what do you know?”

  “Enough … I think. Enough to save the Boxed M and probably to find the m
an who killed Maclaren.”

  Without waiting, I went through the town, store by store, saloon by saloon. I was looking for Bodie Miller, but there was no sign of him, nor of his partner.

  At Mother O’Hara’s, Key Chapin and Moira were waiting. I sat down and without giving them a chance to talk, I outlined my plan in as few words as possible. Moira listened with surprise, I thought, but she shouldn’t have been surprised, for I had said much of this before. Chapin nodded from time to time.

  “It might work.” he agreed at last. “We can try.”

  “What about Tharp?”

  “He’ll stand with us. He’s a solid man, Matt.”

  “All right, then. Showdown in the morning.”

  The voice came from behind me. It was a voice I knew, low, confident, a little mocking.

  “Why, sure! Showdown in the morning, I’d like that, Brennan.”

  It was Bodie Miller.

  He was smiling when I looked at him, but his eyes did not join in the smile.

  This was Bodie, the man who wanted to kill me … Bodie the killer.

  The sun in the morning came up clear and hot. At daybreak the sky was without a cloud, and the distant mountains shimmered in a haze of their own making. The desert lost itself in heat waves, and a stillness lay upon both desert and town, a sort of poised awareness that seemed to walk on tiptoe as if the slightest sound might shatter it.”

  When I emerged on the street I was a man alone. The street was empty as a town of ghosts, silent except for the sound of my own boots on the board walk. Then, as if that sound had broken the spell, the bartender came from the saloon and began to sweep off the walk in front.

  He glanced at me, bobbed his head in recognition, then hastily completed his sweeping and ducked back inside.

  A man carrying two wooden buckets emerged from an alley and looked cautiously around. Assured there was no one in sight, he started across the street, glancing apprehensively first one way, then the other.

  Sitting down in one of the pants-polished chairs in front of the saloon, I looked at the far blue mountains. In a few minutes I might be dead.

  It was not a good morning to die���but what morning is? Yet in a short time two men, myself and another, would meet somewhere in this town and one of us, perhaps both of us, would die.