by Ray Hogan
The rancher hesitated briefly, shrugged, and then began to form stacks of double-eagles. When he had set out the necessary number of gold coins, he leaned back, folded his arms. A slyness covered his features. “There’s five hundred dollars. I expect you know I could have you jugged for a hold-up.”
Dade smile tightly. “Maybe, but you’ve got the steers and a bill of sale … and one of your hired hands is a witness to what’s happening. He knows you agreed to a deal with the Rakers, too.” Pogue said nothing, only watched as Dade gathered up the coins, dropped them into a leather poke, and thrust it inside his shirt. He centered his attention on the rancher. “Reckon you know you’re getting more’n your money’s worth in this. The steers are worth half again what you’ve paid for them, but the Rakers ain’t bellyaching about it. You and the rest of the big ranchers around here’ve got them by the short hair and they’re having to do the best they can.”
“No fault of mine.”
“Nobody’s saying it is and I guess it’s only human nature for some folks to take advantage of others when they get the chance. Now, am I going to have trouble riding out of here?”
Bern Pogue glanced at Joe, pursed his lips.
“You can make it hard or you can make it easy,” Lockett continued. “Whichever, you’d best know here and now I’ll still wind up leaving and you’ll be doing some burying.”
The rancher shrugged. “Ain’t nobody going to bother you,” he said.
The hard set to Dade Lockett’s jaw relented slightly. “I’m a mite tired so I’m obliged to you for that much,” he said, and turned for the door.
XII
It could only have been John Grosinger who’d put pressure on Pogue to back out on his arrangement with the Rakers, Lockett thought as he mounted the chestnut and pointed east out of the yard. By queering the deal he hoped to ring down the curtain on the final, desperate effort of Roxie and Clint to keep their ranch alive. He doubted Bern Pogue would have ever thought of going back on his given word to purchase the steers himself; he was getting a bargain at $10 a head, and from the overall look of his spread, he was too good a businessman to pass up such a bargain. But there had to be some reason why he would knuckle under to Grosinger—a heavy obligation, perhaps, or a long-standing favor finally called in. Dade grinned. Bern would have a fine time explaining why he had completed the purchase of the beef after being told not to—but that was his worry.
Lockett glanced toward the sun. Shortly past noon and a good half-day’s ride lay ahead of him before he reached the valley and the Raker place. He’d be lucky if he could make it by dark—and that possibility was dimmed by the fact he would soon have to stop, eat, and rest the chestnut. He rode on, holding the big horse to a steady if not fast gait. An hour or so later he halted in a small coulée where a cluster of cottonwoods grew in the sink of a dry spring. Loosening the gelding’s gear, Dade picketed him on a patch of grass, and then, building a fire, brewed himself a lard tin of coffee. Bolstering the strong, black liquid with more of the lunch Roxie had prepared, he ate and took it easy for a reasonable length of time.
He would have preferred to press on without any break in the journey, but to halt was necessary for the sake of the chestnut. It was far wiser to sacrifice a few minutes than push him beyond his limit and break him down; a man on foot in this vast, treacherous country was quickly in serious trouble. Finally satisfied the gelding was again ready to travel, Lockett soaked a rag with water from his canteen and squeezed it dry into the horse’s mouth to ease his thirst. That should relieve the animal for a while—at least until they reached a stream or live spring. Then, tightening the saddle girth, Dade mounted and rode on.
Late in the afternoon after a hot, sweaty crossing of a broad flat, he came to a fair-size creek flowing through the short hills from a mountain range to the west. He allowed the gelding to slake his thirst while he refilled the canteen, going about it hurriedly, reluctant to lose any more time than necessary. But as he hunched over the quietly moving water, he caught a blurred reflection of himself, recalled the effect of his appearance on Bern Pogue and others at the Box-B Ranch. Rising, he stripped off his clothing and stepped into the stream, gave himself a thorough scrubbing, employing, however, considerable gentleness when it came to his head. The track left along the side of it by the outlaw’s bullet had swelled, felt raw, and smarted sharply at contact with the cold water, as did the welt across his arm. Neither was serious in his estimation; he’d been hurt much worse many times before in his life, but he could expect Roxie to insist upon applying some of the antiseptic she’d used on Clint, as well as doing a proper bandaging of the wounds once he was back at the ranch.
He was still thinking of the girl when, a time later, he was again in the saddle and riding steadily eastward. She would be happy when he handed over the bag of gold coins to her, for in them she would see the solution to their problems—at least the immediate ones. Her eyes would sparkle in that bright, happy way of hers and a smile would part her lips to show twin rows of even, white teeth. He kept remembering how she had looked at him when he had returned—how the relief and hope and happiness he’d seen there had all blended to make him feel as if for once, and perhaps the first time in his life, he was doing something worthwhile for someone. It pleased him that she was happy, that he was part of making her so. And he realized that a change had been brought about in him although he wasn’t sure just what it was, but there was a lightness, a sort of freedom stemming possibly from a recognition that matters that once seemed important no longer were, while things that had meant nothing had assumed an opposite aspect.
He’d stay with the Rakers for a few more days, see them safely settled again, and then ride on to Tucson. When his affair with Pete Dillard was straightened out, he’d return. With Clint laid up and Renzo Clark too old to be of much use, Roxie would need a man around the place. He’d talk it all out with her when he got there, explain to her why he had to finish what he had started out to do. She’d understand, he was certain, and he hoped she’d welcome his plan to return.
Well out in the valley now, Lockett paused to breathe the tiring chestnut, let his glance sweep the country behind him. Several times he had taken the precaution of checking closely his back trail; the raiders, frustrated in their attempt to steal the herd, could now be hoping to ambush him, take the gold, assuming they were aware that a cash deal with Pogue had been made. He fell to wondering about the would-be rustlers; if it had been Grosinger who warned Bern Pogue not to buy the Raker cattle, was it logical to think it was his men who had attempted to rustle them? It was possible, he supposed. The rancher could have simply been playing it safe, trying to make doubly sure no deal would be made by having the stock hijacked before it could be delivered. Too, the masked riders could have been acting on their own, endeavoring to pick up a few extra dollars on the side. Regardless, it was John Grosinger he held responsible for the whole affair—for both the attempted rustling and Pogue’s try at backing out on the purchase—and one day he’d call the rancher to account for it.
His continuing glances about revealed no raiders. A small bunch of cattle, only dark colored blots in the far distance, grazed near a grove of trees to the south. Overhead in the clean sky an eagle dipped and soared on broad wings as he rode the air currents, while a solitary quail called forlornly from a slope covered with false sage. Other than those ordinary items he was alone in a warm and silent world. Dade looked ahead, feeling a strange sort of anxiety come to life within him. He could recognize no familiar landmarks that would indicate he was drawing near that part of the country where the Raker Ranch lay. He was still too far south and maybe a bit west, he reckoned, but then he could not be positive. He had passed this way only once and that was with the cattle he was driving to Pogue’s. At the time he’d taken only casual note of his surroundings, being far too busy keeping the steers bunched and moving. But he should be drawing near. He had been traveling steadily, with only one
stop of any length since leaving the Box-B, and the sun was now dropping lower in the west. Again he felt a strong urgency to hurry, and, reaching down, he patted the big gelding on the neck and spurred him lightly. The horse responded with a longer stride.
Once more Lockett swept the country with his eyes in a search for riders, the possible source of the uneasiness that now filled him. And again he saw no one. The miles slipped by with the chestnut slowing as time and weariness took their toll of his strength, but the horse did not give up, gamely responding to Dade’s every demand. Finally, with the sun not far above the mass of clouds piled upon the western horizon, Lockett rode off the crest of the last hill and looked down into the neck of the valley where the Raker place lay. Alarm rose instantly within him. Where once had been the ranch house and its scatter of sheds, there was now only blackened remains. The night riders had struck again, this time burning everything to the ground. Unmindful of the fagged chestnut’s condition, Lockett dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and rushed down the slope.
XIII
Dade Lockett raced into the yard, pulled the gelding to a sliding halt, and leaped from the saddle. Clint lay stretched out on a pallet of quilts, his eyes closed as if sleeping. Roxie, now clad in a coarse shirt and an old pair of her brother’s pants, was hunched beside him. Seemingly she was far off and wholly detached from the devastation that surrounded her. A dozen strides to her left was a blanket-covered figure. As Lockett hurried to her, the girl rose, turned to him. She stared at him in a sort of shocked wonderment, her eyes deeply remote, and then as if his appearance triggered a release to her locked-in emotions, she suddenly threw her arms about him and began to sob brokenly.
He held her close, soothing her as best he could while his gaze drifted about the confusion that had been the Raker Ranch. All but two of the horses had been shot, along with the Jersey cow. Chickens lay here and there, victims of target shooters, only a few escaping into the weeds where they soon would become prey for coyotes, hawks, and other animals. The yard was littered with clothing, boxes of personal belongings, several trunks of family possessions. All appeared to have been tossed from the house with little thought as to damage or care, but the fact that such had been removed from the building before the torch was applied indicated at least a small measure of consideration for Roxie and her brother.
Dade felt the girl stir, pull away from him. She had ceased weeping, and, brushing at her eyes, she looked out over the valley. “That’s the last time I’ll ever cry,” she said in a low voice.
He looked at her closely, aware of the firmness in her tone. “I’m hoping you won’t ever have to again,” he said. “You all right?”
She nodded, again brushed at her eyes. “Renzo’s dead. Clint’s bad hurt.”
“Shot?”
“No, one of them clubbed him with a rifle. I had a hard time bringing him to. I think he’s sleeping now.”
With the first moments of alarm and fear behind him, anger began to glow within Dade Lockett. He glanced at Clint and shook his head. “Ought to get him to a doctor. When did the raiders hit?”
“This morning, early,” Roxie replied. She had regained her composure fully and now was in complete command of herself. “It wasn’t even light yet…and we weren’t watching. We … Renzo and I … had been up until after midnight and I guess we were tired … and careless.” The girl paused, peered closely at him. “You’ve been hurt!” she exclaimed. “Was there trouble …?”
“Didn’t amount to much,” he said, pushing her hand away. Reaching into his shirt, he obtained the pouch of gold coins, passed it to her. “Money for the steers. You get a look at any of the raiders?”
Roxie cupped the money in her hands. “No, like before, they wore masks … sacks … over their heads.” Her fingers tightened about the gold. “Now I’ve something to fight with.”
Dade smiled. With Renzo dead, her brother in bad shape, the buildings of the ranch in ashes, and the yard livestock slaughtered, she was not giving up. This was a different Roxanne than the one he’d met earlier.
“I’ve still got the land and a herd,” she continued. “With this money I can start rebuilding … put up a small house of some kind, just enough to get by. And I’m through selling stock to Pogue or anybody else at a bottom price. Next year I’ll make my own drive.”
“You’ve still got Grosinger to deal with,” Lockett broke in quietly. “His bunch’ll be back.”
“I know they will but this time I’ll … we’ll … be ready for them. I know we said that before but now I mean it. This is my land … my property. Nobody is going to take it away from me.”
Lockett was looking about at the scatter of household goods. “They move all this stuff out before they set the place on fire, or was that you and Renzo?”
“It was them,” she replied. “Why?”
“Saw they left two horses alive, and by them saving your belongings for you it means they’re expecting you to pack up and move on fast. I had an idea that was what they had in mind.”
“Well, I’m not doing it. They’ll be back, I know, and I’ll still be here.”
“Could be I can change their thinking a little on that,” Lockett said. “I figure it’s about time I had another talk with Grosinger, sort of set him straight on a couple of things.”
“You mean you’re going to see him … warn him?”
“Only way I know to back him off. You think he might have been with that bunch this morning?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, it all happened so early. They were breaking down the front door before we even knew they were here. Then Renzo grabbed one of the rifles and tried to stop them, but one of them shot him. That’s when Clint got hurt. He started in shooting. Hit one of them, I think, but two of them started beating him with their rifles. I drove one of them off, and then when I looked again, Clint was being dragged out into the yard. He was senseless and bleeding. I don’t remember much after that. I was busy trying to help Clint, keep him from losing so much blood and bring him to. All that time they were throwing our things out into the yard and setting fire to the sheds, and then to the house. They started it burning last of all. Dade, it’ll be too dangerous for you to go see Grosinger. You’d never leave his place alive. I won’t let …”
“Sometimes it’s the best way to handle a jasper like him … show plenty of brass and have a gun in your hand all the time you’re talking. I’m pretty sure it was his bunch that laid this bullet track across my skull and nicked me in the arm yesterday. I don’t like much getting shot at. I aim to tell him.”
“You were attacked?”
“Rode right into an ambush. Figured them for Pogue’s cowhands, turned out they weren’t. They got the herd away from me but I got it back. Something else we can chalk up to Grosinger’s credit, too. Pogue wanted to back out of the deal he’d made with you when I got there.”
Roxie frowned. “Why?”
“Grosinger’d got to him, I reckon. Told him not to buy your stock. We did a bit of yammering and he saw it my way. Grosinger’s doing everything he can to bust you, drive you out.”
“But he’s failed,” the girl said. “That’s going to make a difference in what he thinks. Your making Pogue go ahead with the deal and our staying here regardless of all he’s done is proof that we won’t quit.”
“I expect it is,” Lockett said, “but I figure it’ll take a little more than that.”
“You’re paying a visit to him, is that it?”
“It is,” Lockett said, turning and moving off into the scatter of boxes, trunks, and other articles. “And this time we’re going to play it safe. You figure your friend Cushman would put you and Clint up for a few days?”
“I expect so.”
“I’d like it to be that way until I get done what I’m thinking I ought to do.” Reaching down, he righted one of the trunks, began to collect its spilled contents. “I
t’d be a good idea to get all this stuff together, stack it over there in the brush somewhere.”
“You think Grosinger’s men will come back tonight?” Roxie asked, crossing to where he was and adding her efforts to his.
“More’n likely,” Dade said, picking up a tintype photograph that had slipped from its place between the pages of a leather bound Bible. “If they find the place clean, it’ll sort of make them ease off and …” Lockett’s voice trailed off. His eyes were fixed on the tintype, on the likenesses of a man and woman portrayed there while a deep frown corrugated his brow.
Roxie, aware of the break in his words, glanced up, smiled. “That’s a picture of my folks. It was made not long before my mother died.”
A coldness had spread through Dade Lockett, tightening his body, bringing a grimness to his lips. There was no mistaking the man in the tintype—that faintly derisive grin, the solid line of thick, overhanging brows, the squared-off chin—it was Pete Dillard. The truth was instantly apparent. Dillard and Charley Raker were one and the same.
XIV
Stunned, angered, Lockett stared fixedly at the picture. Dillard, the partner who had deserted him, left him to die, cheated him, and who he’d vowed to find and kill, was the father of Roxie and Clint. A wryness pulled at his mouth. Dillard’s kids—and here he was risking his neck for them. What the hell kind of a turnabout was that—fighting to save the son and daughter and the ranch of the sneaking, crooked bastard who’d dealt him a hand from the bottom of the deck? He even had it in mind to call out the biggest rancher in the valley and swap lead with him if need be for their sake. And the Dillard Ranch? Hell, it actually was half his. Pete, or Charley Raker as it seemed his real name was, had blown into that part of the country and bought up the place about three years ago, so Renzo Clark had said. That was not long after the stagecoach robbery and just about the time Lockett was on his way to the pen. It added up one way; Raker had fled West after the hold-up, probably with Tucson as his goal. En route he had come upon this ranch, the Fedderman place, found it for sale and to his liking, and bought it. Bought it—using his half of the money they had taken in the robbery and for which Lockett had paid with two years of his life. Dade swore silently, bitterly. Maybe the money wasn’t really his just because he’d spent time inside the walls for taking it, but, by God, he had as much claim to it as Charley Raker.
