Wanted: Dead or Alive

by Ray Hogan

  Ashburn rode off abruptly, hunched forward on his horse, a man turned weary by the years.

  Sally and Ben continued on, making a wide circuit of the land, traveling along the edge of the wild, brushy area Ashburn had mentioned. Cattle were never permitted to graze in that section, Sally told him. Too many were lost in the brakes and it was always a temptation to rustlers. When he had taken his look, they swung back to the south for the ranch. The afternoon sun was warm and they rode slowly, easily. After a time the girl spoke.

  “You’ve seen it all, or most of it,” she said. “Do you still think it’s so fine?”

  “The best,” he answered. “A man can be proud of a spread like this.”

  “It can also be a prison,” Sally said quietly. “It has held my father here for thirty years. And I guess it will keep him until he dies.”

  “Not much reason to leave it,” Jordan said. A rider silhouetting the horizon claimed his attention momentarily. “Or do you think there is?” he finished.

  The girl shrugged, her face turned from him as she looked toward the smoky hills far to the east. “Sometimes I think so. Sometimes I wish I could go away, leave and never see this ranch again. I guess if I had been born a son instead of a daughter, it would be different.” She hesitated, added: “Do you plan ever to return to Mexico?”

  The rider had disappeared. Ben was silent for several moments. “Maybe. I don’t know. My parents are buried there and the land, for what it is worth, is still mine. The way I feel now I want no more part of the Barranca Negra.”

  “I’ve never seen my father like this before,” Sally said quietly. “I think he’s found the son he’s always wanted at last. He’ll want you to stay here.”

  Jordan glanced at her. “And you?”

  She moved her slim shoulders. Her face, profiled to him, was delicately molded, soft-looking. “I would like it, too,” she replied in complete honesty.

  “I was told last night to keep my eyes off you.”

  “That Oran Bishop!” she cried angrily. “That sounds like him. He has no right …”

  “I don’t intend to pay any attention to him,” Ben said, and checked his words suddenly. The lone horseman had appeared again. He was still too distant to recognize but there was no doubt now in Ben Jordan’s mind that he was deliberately maintaining his position and pace to coincide with theirs. It was as though he were keeping a close watch over them. It could mean nothing, or it could mean a great deal. Jordan decided there was no point in taking any chances.

  “I think we’d better be getting back to the ranch,” he said, touching his horse with spurs.

  Sally looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  He grinned at her. “Be suppertime,” he said as they broke into a gallop.

  It was full dark when they reached the lip of the swale and started down the long, gentle slope to the ranch. Lamplight glowed in the windows of the houses, warm and friendly. There had been no more sign of the mysterious, distant rider and the thought of that had faded from his mind. Ben was thinking of how fine a line a man could make on a spread such as the Lazy A—with a wife like Sally—and wondered if he dared hope. It was possible, he decided, but before he could do anything, he still had his promise to Woodward to fulfill. That could easily be discharged now.

  “How far is it to Langford?” he asked.

  She glanced at him curiously. “Langford? About a day’s ride northeast. Why?”

  “Some business there I’ve got to attend to.”

  “That’s fine!” Sally exclaimed, pleased. “I’ve been meaning to make the trip myself. There are some things I need to buy. We can go together. When?”

  “Soon as I can get the crew to working at what I want done.”

  “Let’s make it this week,” she said as they rode into the yard. “I would have gone today, but changed my mind.”

  Jordan reached out, caught the pinto’s bridle, and halted him. Sally looked at him questioningly.

  “Thanks for that,” Ben said.

  She smiled at him. “I enjoyed it, too,” she said, and dropped from her saddle. She started across the yard but paused. “Come on up to the house when you’re ready. I’ll have Mattie set out supper for you.”

  “Sure thing,” Jordan replied, and turned the horses over to the hostler.

  He swung toward his cabin, whistling softly under his breath. As he rounded the feed barn, he pulled up sharply. A dark figure emerged from the rear window of his quarters, leaped to the ground, and raced for the deeper shadows alongside.

  “You!” Ben shouted, breaking into a run. “Stop … or I’ll shoot!”

  But when he reached the corner of the structure, the intruder had disappeared into the night. Jordan’s face hardened. He had been right. The rider he had seen in the hills had not been there by accident but for a reason. Someone had wanted close tabs kept on him—someone who was interested in something inside the cabin. Sudden fear lifted within Ben Jordan as realization came to him. He spun, ran swiftly to the door.

  XI

  Even in the darkness Jordan could see the place was a shambles. Drawers had been pulled open, the bed stripped, furniture overturned; every conceivable nook that might conceal anything had been investigated. Ben glanced at the small rug he had pulled across the loose floor board. It appeared undisturbed. Closing the door, and still in the dark, he dropped to his knees. Brushing the carpet aside, he lifted the plank. Relief flowed through him as his groping fingers felt the worn, smooth surface of leather, sought and touched the packets of currency, and toyed with the gold coins. If it had been the money the intruder was looking for, he had failed to find it.

  Jordan gave that consideration. It had to be the money, or, at least, the saddlebags, for he had brought nothing else with him when he rode into Ashburn’s. And who would be so interested in what he was carrying in the leather pouches? He replaced the floor board carefully and pulled the carpet and chair back into place. The saddlebags were the only thing anyone could be after; it was hardly possible that any of Ashburn’s hired hands knew he was in possession of a small fortune. That added up to one answer. The trespasser was searching for something he did not know the exact nature of—an article he felt would have bearing on Jordan’s presence. That brought Ben’s thoughts to a dead stop on Oran Bishop. He had been the only man to take note of the saddlebags, to remark on the jealous care that Jordan accorded them. It would be Bishop then, possibly curious as to what made the pouches so valuable, and hopeful they would contain something with which he could discredit Ben in the eyes of Tom Ashburn. The rider in the hills, watching to be certain Jordan did not return unexpectedly early, could have been Oran’s friend, Ross Colby. It was all an outside guess—but it made sense.

  Suddenly angered, Ben left his cabin and walked the short distance to the bunkhouse. He pushed open the door and entered. Several of the cowpunchers had already crawled into their bunks. Cruz Rodriguez and three others sat at a table playing poker for matches. They glanced up as Jordan halted before them. The Mexican smiled, sobered quickly when he saw Ben’s face.

  “¿Qué pasa, amigo?”

  “Who just came in here … during the last five minutes?” The riders looked at each other. Rodriguez said: “Nobody. Who do you look for?”

  Jordan shook his head. “Not sure.” He moved deeper into the room, made a slow tour of the bunks. Bishop and Colby were among those absent. That would mean they were part of the crew night hawking the cattle. He halted near the door. “Any of you seen Oran, or Ross Colby since you rode in?”

  “They come to the herd at dark,” Rodriguez said. “We leave to eat. They stay. I have not seen them since.”

  That had little meaning. The two men could have slipped away unnoticed. One of the cowpunchers started to rise.

  “You want them, Mister Jordan? Be right pleased to go get them for you.”

  Ben said: �
�No, let it go. I’ll see them in the morning. Good night.”

  He left the bunkhouse but halted when he reached the yard. All was quiet and for a time he stood there, his shoulders squared against the night sky while he lost himself in thought. One thing came through to him, quick and clear: he must get Walt Woodward’s money off his hands. It was dangerous to have it around any longer.

  He wheeled, headed for the main house where a lamp still burned in the kitchen. He would tell Ashburn he needed to make a trip into Langford that next morning. He would get it done at once. But Tom Ashburn had already gone to bed, as had Sally. Jordan ate his meal of cold, sliced beef, warmed-over biscuits, and coffee in solitude, deciding he would talk to the rancher first thing that following morning. And it was probably best that he not take Sally with him. He was only assuming the intruder who had searched his quarters had been Oran Bishop. There could be another, someone who had learned he had the money, somebody besides Bart Crawford and his outlaw friends who were out to get the $20,000 he had sworn to deliver to Olivia Woodward. There could be danger.

  He finished his supper and walked back into the yard. Far from sleep, he strolled on to the barn, looked in briefly at the sorrel contentedly crunching his ration of grain in one of the stalls, and then, keeping to the shadows, circled the yard to its opposite side where he could stand in the brushy windbreak planted years ago by Ashburn. There, unseen, he could watch his cabin. The intruder might pay a return visit, Ben reasoned, if he thought no one was around.

  The night was cool and quiet. Off to the east a coyote barked and fell silent. An owl swished across the yard on motionless wings, and then came to a halt somewhere beyond the cook’s vegetable garden. Inside the bunkhouse someone laughed and Cruz Rodriguez said something in quick Spanish. The light in the kitchen winked out as Mattie, the cook, wound up her chores and went off to bed.

  A faint breeze began to stir, drifting in from the west, fresh with the scent of grass and juniper, almost sharp with a breath of winter. Jordan glanced to the sky, a vast, black arch studded with low hanging, glittering stars. A cold sky, he thought, and snow could not be too far off. It would come sooner than Tom Ashburn had predicted. He must get the crew busy and prepare for the days when the weather would turn bad and neither man nor beast would find it possible to move about.

  Tomorrow. He would start the crew gathering the herds that next morning, get them moving north to fresh grass. His thoughts halted. He would not be there. He must make the trip into Langford and rid himself of the responsibility that lay so heavily on his shoulders. It would take two days, even more if he had trouble locating Olivia Woodward. He could arrive there and find her out of town, or possibly moved away. Yet if he were to fulfill his new obligations to Tom Ashburn, he could not afford to waste even one day.

  He stepped from the windbreak of tamarisk, and crossed to the bunkhouse. The card game had broken up and now Cruz Rodriguez squatted on his heels, back pressed against the wall of the building as he smoked a final cigarette. He looked up and grinned, as Jordan approached.

  “You find sleep comes hard, señor,” he said, stating it as a fact rather than a question. “Perhaps it is because the Barranca Negra teaches a man always to keep one eye open for death.”

  “Down there, if a man is not careful, it comes too soon,” Jordan agreed.

  “But there are other things that trouble you, no?”

  Ben nodded. “Got to make a trip to Langford. I’ll be gone a couple of days, maybe more. I want all the stock moved onto the north range. I’d like to have the crew get at it in the morning. I want you to pass the word along.”

  Rodriguez stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. He placed it between his lips, inhaled, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Up here, amigo,” he said quietly, “one such as I … a Mexican … does not give an order.”

  Ben stirred impatiently. “It’s my order, not yours. I’m only asking you to repeat it since I won’t be here myself.”

  Rodriguez flipped the cigarette into the yard. “It shall be as you wish. I will repeat the order.”

  “If anybody balks, tell them they’ll answer to me when I get back. The main thing is I want the stock grazing up there before bad weather hits so the rest of the range gets a chance to shape up for winter.”

  Rodriguez said: “I understand, señor. This journey you must take to Langford … it is important?”

  “Has to be done,” Jordan replied. “No way out of it.”

  “The patrón … Ashburn, he knows of this?”

  “I figure on telling him in the morning.”

  The Mexican was silent for a long time. Then: “And you will return, amigo? He is a fine man and he thinks much of you. I would not like to see him sad.”

  “I’ll be back, Cruz. Depend on it.”

  “It is enough,” Rodriguez said, thrusting out his hand. “Adiós. Buena suerte.”

  “Adiós, and thanks,” Ben said, enclosing the man’s fingers in his own. He turned then, walked to his quarters.

  Not bothering to remove his clothing, Jordan stretched out on the bed, his pistol placed nearby for instant use should the intruder return again. Sleep came quickly to him now that the decision to deliver Woodward’s money had been made.

  He awoke at the first gray streaks of dawn. Washing himself from the bowl and pitcher on the dresser, he made himself ready to travel. That done, he paused in the center of the room to formulate a plan. He would first have his breakfast and tell Tom Ashburn of his need to go to Langford. Then he would return to his quarters, take the saddlebags from their place of concealment, get the sorrel, and leave. It could be done with a minimum of wasted motion and time—unless he had trouble with Sally. But there was a possibility she would not be there for the early meal. She had been tired; she could sleep late.

  He stepped to the door, pulled it open—and came to a quick stop. Four riders were pulling into the hitch rack in front of Ashburn’s house, four grim, dusty men. He knew them all—Crawford, Aaron, Gates, and Arlie Davis.

  XII

  Ben Jordan withdrew into the room quickly and closed the door. The outlaws again. He had thought they were off his trail, and that he had lost them for good. How could they have tracked him to Ashburn’s? In those tight, frustrating moments, he searched his mind for an answer. Tuck—one of Slaughter’s men. They had been talking. He had mentioned that he was headed north to take a job on the Lazy A. Crawford must have questioned all of the trail herd crew. Jordan swore angrily. This changed everything. Of course, he could talk to Tom Ashburn, and call upon him for help. And the Lazy A hands would likely stand by him in a showdown. But as it had been with Slaughter, Jordan was reluctant to involve others in his own trouble; a man skinned his own cats and looked for no one else to give him a hand.

  He wheeled to the cache where he had hidden the money. There was only one thing he could do now—leave, get off the Lazy A before the outlaws saw him. Throwing the saddlebags over his shoulder, he let himself out the rear window, hurried across the open ground to the barn. The hostler was nowhere in sight and Ben threw his gear onto the sorrel in quick, practiced motions. Mounting, he rode through the wide doorway, dropped back behind the bulky structure, and circled the ranch, keeping the tamarisk windbreak between the buildings and him. When he reached the end of the dense, feathery growth, he halted. The ranch, clearly visible, lay below him. Crawford who had come off the black, stood now, one foot on the porch of Ashburn’s house while he talked to the rancher. Near the door Ben could see both Sally and her mother. Three of the hired hands, one of them Oran Bishop, were coming around the side from the dining hall, apparently curious as to the purpose of the four strangers. They would not be long discovering that he had fled, Ben realized, and immediately pulled off below the crest of the rise, and struck northward at a good lope. It would be wise to put as much distance as possible between him and the Lazy A within the next half hour.

&
nbsp; He pressed the gelding hard for the first ten miles, and then, topping out a high ridge, he looked back. There were no riders in sight. A sigh of relief slipped from his lips. If luck were with him, there would be doubt as to where he was; they might think he was somewhere on the range with the herd, since no one had seen his departure. If it worked that way, the outlaws would lose several hours—ample time for him to reach the town of Langford and rid himself of the money.

  He saw the settlement, three dozen or so graying shacks and buildings, huddled in the center of a brushy swale, shortly after noon. The gelding had made surprisingly good time, eating up the miles with his tireless, long legs and easy stride. Pleased that the journey had been much shorter than he had anticipated, Jordan rode on the crest of the hill where he had paused, and then started down the final two-mile stretch of lane that led into the town. If all went well, he should be able to turn back for Ashburn’s place before dark, that very day.

  He reached the bottom of the slope, the halfway point, passed one or two run-down shacks, once homes of squatters but now deserted, and loped on. He would go first to the general store; storekeepers always knew where everyone lived and could tell him where to locate Olivia Woodward. Unexpectedly the sorrel checked his run and slid to a halt. The big red horse reared, startled by the sudden appearance of three riders who burst from the depths of the dense brush that lined the road.

  Ben Jordan’s hand dropped instinctively to the pistol at his hip, and fell slowly away as he looked into the muzzles of the guns held by the trio. One, a husky, dark man, with a somewhat better appearance than the others, pushed out ahead.

  “Forget you’ve got that hogleg,” he said, moving in close. He studied Jordan for several moments. Then: “Where’d you get that horse?”