Presently Purdy said: “Thar’s the cabin.”
“Smoke’s coming out of the chimney. Somebody’s there.”
“The kid Mick mebbe, but Ed’ll be along eff he ain’t thar now.” They came up the muddy path, and Purdy called: “How thar, Ed!”
When there was no answer, Purdy shouldered the door open, and stopped abruptly. Bruce, looking over his shoulder, felt his muscles tighten. Ed Cather-wood sat hunched forward at the table, head down, a knife driven hilt deep into his back.
“Stay where you are.”
It was the Catherwood kid. Clad in buckskins, the boy stood at the table, his face as gray as the wing of a goose. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
“No sense in thet talk, Mick,” Purdy snapped. He came on to the table. “When did you find him?”
“Ali ttle while ago,” the boy said tonelessly. His blue eyes fixed on Bruce with a strange hate-filled stare. “He’s been dead two, three hours.”
“Any clues?” Bruce asked as he moved out of the doorway to stand with his back to the wall.
“Maybe!” the boy cried. His hand came up in a swift rhythmical motion. Ak nife made an arc through the air, the blade shining brightly as it whipped through a golden slash of sunshine. There was the thud of steel in wood, and Bruce Shane was pinned to the wall.
Purdy made an open-palm swipe at the kid and missed because the boy stepped back, pistol palmed. “You daft?” Purdy raged.
“Not daft, Bill.” The kid threw a wad of paper on the table. “I found that in Dad’s hand.”
“You hurt, Shane?” Purdy asked, picking up the paper.
“He got mostly sleeve.” Bruce jerked the knife from the wall. “Let’s see it, Bill?”
Purdy flattened out the paper and passed it to Bruce. Printed in ink were the words: Bruce Shane. He lifted his eyes to the boy’s. “I didn’t kill your father, kid. If you’d use your head, you’d know I wouldn’t leave this.”
“Dad wrote it.” The boy motioned to the quill pen and bottle of ink on the table. “After you made wolf meat out of him.”
“He wouldn’t write anything,” Bruce said sharply, “with a knife in his back like that.”
“Wouldn’t take long to write two words,” the boy said stonily.
“Did your dad usually print or write out what he had to say?”
Mick Catherwood’s eyes flicked to Purdy and back to Bruce. He took his time to answer as if this was a thought that had never occurred to him. He was thin, almost skinny, with a tanned face that held a scattering of freckles and a dimple in a defiant chin. He was younger than Bruce had first thought, probably not more than fourteen, with features that were almost feminine.
“He never printed,” Mick said at last.
“Then why would he print this?”
“I don’t know.” Mick pointed to the knife. “Yours?”
“Never saw it before.” Bruce stepped to the dead man and stared at the knife. The initials BS were carved on the handle. He brought his gaze to the boy’s face. “Kid, I can’t tell you my reasons, but I’m the last man in Independence to want your father dead. I came here to talk to him.”
“You’re lying,” Mick snarled.
“Shane ain’t no coot to lie,” Purdy said sharply. “I been with him ’most all afternoon. He didn’t do it.”
Again the boy’s gaze came to the old mountain man’s face. He struggled with suspicion for a moment, but he knew Bill Purdy too well to doubt his word.
“All right.” Mick lowered his pistol. “If Shane didn’t do it, who did?”
“I shore cain’t guess,” Purdy said somberly. “Kin you, Shane?”
“It was likely someone who knew your father,” Bruce said. “If I’m reading the sign right, they were sitting here at the table talking something over.”
“Mebbe them guns . . .,” Purdy began.
“Probably about the wagon train,” Bruce cut in. “Then the killer got up and walked around.” He pointed to the cigar ashes on the floor. “Your dad smoke cigars?”
“He smoked a pipe.”
“The killer got behind him and gave him the blade when your dad was looking the other way, not thinking of anything like this. If you believe I did it, you can make so much trouble that I’ll have to get out of town.”
“Eff you don’t git your neck stretched first,” Purdy added.
“If you keep still about it, Mick,” Bruce went on, “I’ll have the killer and the reason for him murdering your dad. That’s a promise.”
Mick ran a buckskin sleeve across his eyes. “Dad didn’t have any enemies. Didn’t even cheat the Indians. Nobody had any reason to do this.”
“These are hard times,” Bruce said. “More things are going on than most of us realize. The reason might not have been anything personal.”
“You know what it is?”
“I think so. If you give me your word to keep still about this fake evidence against me, I’ll give you my word to get his killer.”
“His word’s good,” Purdy said.
Again it was faith in the old mountain man that settled the question. Mick nodded. “All right, Shane.”
“You better come with us,” Bruce said.
“I’m staying here,” Mick said flatly. “You find Glover, will you, Bill?”
“I’ll nab him fust thing,” Purdy promised.
When they were on the muddy trail back to town, Bruce said: “Don’t spill that about the guns to anybody, Bill. I figured you knew enough to keep your mouth shut.”
Purdy cursed. “It jest slipped out. Ain’t got a brain in my haid.” He gnawed off a chew of tobacco and tongued it into the side of his mouth. “What notion hev you got ’bout Ed?”
“I’d seen Catherwood, though I didn’t know him well. I never have seen Glover, but I’m remembering you said you weren’t sure how square he was.”
“I dunno nuthin’ ’gainst him,” Purdy said uneasily. “He ain’t been with Catherwood long. Came from New Yawk, I heerd.”
“But he’s a man who wouldn’t hesitate at making a big stake, even if it meant freighting guns and powder to the Comanches. Or to the bunch that’s talking about a republic in Santa Fé. Or Armijo if there was enough in it.”
Purdy spat into a mud hole. “My brain is shore dried up. You’re sayin’ Ed wouldn’t stand fer their train haulin’ the guns and callin’ ’em grub ’n’ sech.”
“Would he?”
“No, Ed wouldn’t. Thet don’t shine.”
“When you find Glover, tell him I want to ride with him.”
“I’ll tell him. And eff you git to Santy Fee, they’ll cut off your ears and nail ’em to the wall like they’ve done better coots’n you.”
III
Bruce had supper that night with Aunt Sukey Milder who ran the Good Grub Restaurant. He went back into the street and moved with the crowd for a time, speaking to men he knew. Most of them were trappers planning to return to the mountains. But some had hired out to guide wagon trains across the plains.
“Polk’s fixin’ to give us a war,” one said. “ ’Bout time, too. I wouldn’t mind shootin’ a few Britishers arter the way they cleaned beaver off the cricks.”
“The good days air behind us,” another said somberly. “You don’t see no buffler this side of the Little Arkansas. The greenhorns air comin’ in white tops faster’n you kin count, carryin’ plows to dig hell out of the dirt.”
He was standing, Bruce Shane thought, in the shadow of a disappearing past. They were a breed to themselves, these mountain men, clad in fringed buckskins stained by grease and sweat and blood till it shone like polished leather. Armed with Green River knives and Hawkins rifles. Sharp with the savvy that it took to survive on lake or river or in an untamed land. They were the mountain men watching their life being cut out from under them, but still they were Americans. If needed, they’d say, as Bill Purdy had said: “Wagh! Then I’m your ’coon.”
Bruce drifted along the street, in and out of saloons, wat
ching for Purdy and wondering if he had found Curt Glover. He looked, too, for Armadillo Dunn and Wade Flint, but he saw neither. He turned back to Aunt Sukey’s and the room she kept for him.
Perhaps he was not as cautious as was his habit, for his mind was seldom away from what he had learned in Washington and the task that had been assigned him. But no amount of caution could have stopped the ambusher’s bullet. It came from the darkness just before Bruce reached Aunt Sukey’s door, the crack of the rifle from across the street slapping into the town racket, the flash ribboning the night and fading.
The bullet swiped at Bruce’s side, gouging out a strip of lean meat along a rib. He dropped into the mud, drawing his gun as he went down. He fired three times, targeting the spot where the rifle had flamed. The man must have had a double-barreled piece, for he shot again, a wild bullet this time that ripped into the corner of Aunt Sukey’s house.
There was silence then except for the sounds of brawling that flowed along the street from the saloons. Bruce thought he had hit the man, but he had no way of knowing whether he had killed him. He waited, his side aching dully, blood a warm pool along his ribs.
The nature of the town this time of year was such that the shooting attracted no attention. It was merely another noise dropped into a pool of racket. Presently a bullwhacker came along the street, reeling under the numbing influence of the milky liquid sold for whiskey. He stumbled over something and fell into the mud. Slowly he regained his feet, cursing because dead men were all over town, and stumbled on.
Bruce crossed the street, gun still palmed, and found the ambusher. The man was dead. Bruce drew him into a finger of light that slanted across the mud from Aunt Sukey’s window and discovered that he was a renegade known along the frontier as Snake River Joe.
Retracing his steps, Bruce saw with striking clarity that somebody wanted him dead, but he didn’t know why. Only Bill Purdy knew the reason for his being in Independence, and Purdy wouldn’t talk. Not after the slip he’d made to Mick Catherwood. There could be, then, only one other answer. There had been a leak in Washington, and word of his mission had been passed halfway across the continent.
Aunt Sukey clucked and took on over his wound, washing and bandaging it, and ordered him to bed.
“I can’t make you out,” she said worriedly. “Got all the book larnin’ a man can have. Cavortin’ with politicians and sech, but here you air, takin’ off your fancy duds and wearin’ buckskins, and fixin’ to git your ha’r lifted.”
“Just crazy,” Bruce admitted.
He went into his room and came to a flat-footed stop. Somebody had broken a window and had gone through his things. Clothes were dumped into the middle of the floor. Linings had been ripped out. Bureau drawers had been flung into the corner. Even a pair of moccasins had been slashed to pieces. But Bruce grinned as he took off his hat and laid it on the bed. As long as he was conscious, he’d have his hat, and his enemies would not find what they sought.
Despite the throbbing burn in his side, Bruce slept well. He was having breakfast when Bill Purdy brought in a big man who was a stranger to Bruce.
“Shane, this hyar is Curt Glover.” Purdy motioned to the trader. “I sez Bruce Shane wants to ride to Santy Fee, and he figgers he’ll git his ha’r lifted eff he rides down the trail alone. Glover sez shore. We’ll give him a job to boot.”
Bruce shook Glover’s hand. The trader was a massive heavy-boned man with hazel eyes and a genial manner that seemed genuine.
“I’ve heard of you, Shane.” Glover sat down across the table. “Go ahead with your eating. I won’t take more’n a minute. I don’t mind saying I was happy to learn you wanted to go to Santa Fé. I’ve been over the trail, but always by Bent’s Fort. This time we’ll take the Cimarron Crossing.” He took off his beaver hat and rubbed his round baldhead. “I don’t like it. That damned Jornada del Muerto scares me to hell ’n’ back, but it saves me some miles, and I’m anxious to get back to Santa Fé.”
“I’ve never been over the Jornada,” Bruce said with regret. “I’d like to take the job, but I wouldn’t be much good.”
Glover showed his disappointment. “I’d counted on you, Shane. Heard a lot about you.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re a good hand with Injuns and that’s what counts. We’ll have fifty men with about twenty-five wagons. It ain’t so many if two or three hundred Pawnees go after our stock.”
“Or eff the Comanches take a likin’ to your ha’r,” Purdy added.
“Catherwood always handled that end of things,” Glover said. “He’d been in business in Santa Fé for years and always freighted his own stuff across. What happened to him is hell and nothing less. He was the backbone of the business. I’m not one to deny that.”
“What about the kid?” Bruce asked.
“Mick’ll go along.” Glover’s eyes fixed on Bruce as if he was wondering about something. Then, lowering his gaze, he reached for a cigar. “Mick has half the business, of course. And he’s damned sharp for a kid. He’ll hold up his end of things.”
“I’d like to go with you,” Bruce said. “Another rifle will come in handy.”
“I’ll want you to run the outfit. We’ll pay one hundred dollars a month.” His face clouded. “But how in hell will we get across the Jornada?”
“Bill knows the dry route like he does the path to his mouth. Why not take him along?”
“Sure,” Glover agreed without hesitation. “I’ll pay him the same.”
“I don’t want the job,” the mountain man blazed.
“Thar’s some thet cain’t tell fat cow from pore bull. They kin take the guidin’ jobs, but. . . .”
“This is different,” Bruce cut in. “We’d never make it across the Jornada without you.”
Suddenly Purdy remembered. Or he might have stated his objection as a matter of principle. He shrugged as if giving in. “All right, Glover. I was jest thinkin’ thet eff the Injuns do lift our ha’r, they’ll have a hell of a time with you ’n’ me.”
Glover laughed. “That’s right.” He stepped to the fireplace, and lighted his cigar. “Pay starts today, Shane. We’ll roll out in the morning.”
“The grass ain’t up,” Purdy objected.
“Up enough. We’ll take some feed along.” Glover scowled, the veneer of amiability momentarily rubbed from him. Then, as if remembering his rôle, he straightened and smiled, pulling hard on his cigar. “We’re using mules, Shane. Can’t afford to waste time waiting on the grass. We’ll hold over at Council Grove and see that everything is in good shape before we jump off.”
“It ain’t gonna be no pleasure jaunt,” Purdy warned. “I heerd Kearny has pulled out with three thousand Dragoons. He ain’t goin’ arter buffler.”
Glover wheeled on the mountain man, eyes green with sudden fury. “He doesn’t have that many men. You’re lying, Purdy.”
“Lyin’?” the old man squalled. “Great hell amighty, Glover. You ain’t big enough to make me lie. I’m jest tellin’ what I heerd.”
Glover paced around the table and came back to the fireplace, cigar ash breaking loose and falling to the floor. When he faced Bruce, he had regained his composure.
“If it’s true, it may be bad for us. Armijo will drive every Yankee out of Santa Fé or throw us into the calabozo.” Glover pounded a fist on the table until the dishes rattled. “They talk about destiny. About fighting England for Oregon. Hell, all we’ve got is a raggle-taggle army and a two-bit fleet. If Polk didn’t want to make a name for himself, we could tend to things out here ourselves.”
“Like setting up a republic in New Mexico?” Bruce asked.
Glover’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask that?”
“It’s what Texas did. There’s talk of the same thing happening in California.”
“Perhaps it’s the answer,” Glover said carefully as if it were a new thought. “Armijo is a poor thing for a governor. We’re tired of being overtaxed and misruled and kicked around by him.
It was a sore point with Catherwood, and I’ve wondered if it had anything to do with his murder.”
“Why do you think it might?” Bruce asked with sudden interest.
Again Glover paced around the table. “I’ll expect you to respect my confidence, Shane. Ed Cather-wood was engaged in a separatist movement. I’m opposed to it myself because, if it fails, it’ll be the end of Yankee trading in Santa Fé. Catherwood made no secret of his feelings, and he was a dangerous man to Armijo.” Glover paused, and added bitterly: “Armijo has a long arm with plenty of money he’s stolen from us traders to hire a hundred killings.”
“It’s possible,” Bruce murmured.
“I’ve got to dust along.” Glover reached for his hat. “We’re burying Ed this afternoon. The job of running the outfit is yours. I understand you and Purdy are friends so I don’t expect any disagreements between you after we cross the Arkansas.”
“I’ll take Bill’s word on the Jornada,” Bruce said. Purdy waited until the door closed behind Glover.
Then he came to the table, his grizzled face showing a pressing anger.
“Call me a liar, will he?” Purdy shook his fist at the door. “Shane, you want to know who’s runnin’ the outfit. I’ll tell you. It’s thet varmint who tried to pull you off o’ Dunn in Mogan’s Saloon.”
“Flint?”
“That’s him. Arter we pulled out o’ Catherwood’s cabin, I started huntin’ fer Glover. I seen him in Finneran’s saloon lappin’ up some blue ruin with Flint. He wasn’t real surprised when I told him ’bout Catherwood. Then I sez you wanted to go. He looks at Flint ’n’ Flint nods. That’s when Glover sez you kin guide. I tell you he’s crookeder’n a snake track.”
Bruce motioned toward the cigar ash. “He might have killed Catherwood himself.”
“Shore. I thought o’ thet. He’ll git shet o’ the kid, and hog it all. But what fer does he want us?”
“It’s one way to watch me. He can rub us out when he’s done with us. Or we might be hostages if the Dragoons give him trouble.” Bruce rose and, moving to the fireplace, filled his pipe. “Didn’t you say Glover wanted you to go with them before Catherwood was killed?” he asked slowly.
Sunset Trail Page 2
