Angered, he turned to face the grins of the men seated along the walk. One of them, Bob Carr, a long, rangy rider from Henry Childs’s Block C, had a smudge of white near his shirt pocket, and another smudge near his right-hand pants pocket, the sort of smear that might have come from a man’s knife if he had cut a flour-sack open, then shoved the knife back in his pocket.
Rod had stepped up on the walk. “How’d you get that white smudge on your pocket?”
The rider looked quickly down, then, his face flushing, he looked up. “How do you think?” he said.
Rod hit him. He threw his fist from where it was, at his belt, threw it short and hard into the long rider’s solar plexus.
Bob Carr had not expected to be hit. The blow was sudden, explosive, and knocked out every bit of wind he had.
“Get him, Bob!” somebody shouted, but as Bob opened his mouth to gasp for air, Rod Morgan broke his jaw with a right.
Rod Morgan turned, and mounted his horse. From the saddle he looked back. “I didn’t come looking for trouble, and I am not asking for it. I’m a quiet man, minding my own affairs.”
Yet when he rode out of town he knew he had opened a feud with the Block C. It was trouble he did not want, and for which he had no time, but whether he liked it or not he had a fight on his hands.
When he returned to his cabin a few days later, after checking some cattle in the upper canyon, there was a notice nailed to his door to get out and stay out. Then his cabin was set afire and much of his gear burned.
Ad Tolbert picked a fight with him and got soundly whipped, but a few days later Tolbert was murdered in Buckskin Run. Rod Morgan took to packing a gun wherever he went.
As is the case with any person who lives alone, or is different, stories were circulated about him, and he became suspect to many people who did not know him and had never so much as seen him. Behind it there seemed to be some malignant influence, but he had no idea who or what was directing it.
Two things happened at once. A letter came from Aloma Day, and Ned Weisl came into the canyon. He had hesitated to suggest that Loma come west with the situation unsettled as it was, yet from her letter he understood what her situation must be. He had written, explaining what he could and inviting her to come.
Weisl was a strange little man. Strange, yet also charming and interesting. From the first he and Rod hit it off well, and so he told Rod about the gold.
“Three men came west together,” Weisl explained. “Somewhere out in Nevada they struck it rich. The story was they had a hundred and twenty thousand in gold when they started back. They built a special wagon with a false bottom in it, where they hid the gold. Then, with three wagons in all, they headed east.
“They got as far as Buckskin Run, and there, according to the story, Tarran Kopp and his gang hit them. The three men were killed, and that was the end of it, only there was another story. With gold there nearly always is.
“One of Kopp’s gang was a friend of mine years later, and when asked about it he claimed they had killed nobody in Buckskin Run, nor had they stolen any gold. At the time it all took place they were in Mexico, and he showed me an old newspaper story to prove it.”
“So what became of the gold? And who did kill the people in Buckskin Run?”
“Nobody knows who killed them or how. Nobody knows what became of the gold, either. A hundred and twenty thousand in gold isn’t the easiest thing to carry around in a country where people are inclined to be curious. According to the prices at the time, that would be right around three hundred pounds of gold. There are people who were right interested in that gold who claim it never left Buckskin Run!
“There’s others who declare nobody went into the canyon from the lower end, and nobody knows who buried the three who died there. Markers were set over the graves, and on each one those words ‘No visible mark of death on these bodies.’ ”
“What do you think?”
“That,” Weisl said, smiling with puckish humor, “is another question. I’ve an idea, but it’s a fantastic one. You hold the land now. Will you let me look around? I will give you one-third of whatever I find.”
“Make it half?”
Weisl shrugged. “Why not? There will be enough for both.”
Ned Weisl did not return to the cabin, so Rod had gone looking for him. He did not distrust the little man, but he was worried.
He found Ned Weisl—dead. He had been shot in the back.
Rod Morgan knew they believed him guilty of the murder, as well as of the killing of Ad Tolbert. No one accused him, although veiled references were made. Only today, on the trail, had he been directly accused.
He had ridden through the bottleneck and down to the stage trail, intending to ask the driver to let him know when Loma arrived, although she could scarcely have had his letter by now.
The five riders had been about to enter the bottleneck. Jeff Cordell was leading, and one of the men with him was Reuben Hart, who had the name of being a bad man with a gun. He was the man Morgan watched.
“Howdy,” he said.
“We’re hunting strays,” Cordell said. “We thought we’d come in and look you over.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“We’re tellin’ you. We don’t need to ask.”
“Then you’ve gone as far as you go. No cattle have come in here but my own. I’ve fenced the neck, so nothing can come in or out unless they open the gate. Any time you want a look around, just come and ask me when I’m home.”
“We’re going in now,” Cordell said, “and if you’re smart you’ll stand aside.”
“I’m not smart,” Rod Morgan said, waiting. Inside he was on edge, poised for trouble. “I’m the kind of man who would make you ride in over at least three dead bodies. You decide if what you’re doing is worth it.”
Cordell hesitated. He was no fool, and Rod Morgan had already proved a surprise to both Bob Carr and Ad Tolbert. Cordell was a poker player, and Rod Morgan looked like he was holding a pat hand. He believed he could tell when a man was bluffing, and he did not believe Morgan was. He was also aware that if anybody died it was almost sure to be him.
“Let me take him.” Reuben Hart shoved his horse to the fore. “I’ve never liked you, Morgan, and I believe you’re bluffing, and I believe you’re yellow!”
Reuben went for his gun as he spoke, and Reuben was a fast man.
Cordell and the others were cowhands, not gunfighters. They could handle their guns, but were not in the class of Reuben or Dally Hart.
Very quickly they realized they were not in the class of Rod Morgan, either, for he had drawn and fired so fast that his bullet hit Reuben even as that gunman’s pistol cleared leather.
Reuben slid from the saddle and sprawled on the ground, and Rod Morgan was looking over his pistol at them.
Jeff Cordell noticed another thing. Morgan’s gray mustang stood rock still when Morgan fired, and he knew his own bronc would not do that. Jeff Cordell put both hands on the pommel of the saddle. For a man with a horse like that and a drawn pistol, killing the rest of them would be like shooting ducks in a barrel.
The arrival of the stage saved their faces, and they loaded Hart into the saddle and headed for the home ranch.
Andy Shank expressed an opinion they were all beginning to share. “You know,” Shank said, when they had ridden a couple of miles, “I believe that gent intends to stay.”
Nobody said anything but Andy was not easily squelched. “Anyway,” he added, “he seemed right serious about it.”
But Andy had never liked Reuben Hart, anyway.
“He’ll stay,” Cordell’s tone was grim. “Reub was never the gun-hand Dally is, and Dally will be riding to Buckskin Run.”
Back on the ranch, Rod Morgan stripped the saddle from the gray and turned it into the corral. Carrying the saddle into the log barn, he threw it over a rail. Alone in the barn, he stood for a moment in the shadowed stillness.
He had killed a man.
&nbs
p; It was not something he liked to think about. There had been no need to look his place over for strays. It was fenced at the opening and there was nowhere else a steer could get into the canyon. Nor did the Block C have any cattle running in the area. It was purely a trouble-making venture. They knew it, and so did he.
His cabin was silent. He stood inside the door and looked around. He had built well. It had four rooms, plank floors, good, solid, squared-off logs, and windows with a view.
Would Loma like it? Would she like Buckskin Run? Or would she be afraid?
Standing in the open door he looked back toward the bottleneck, a good six hundred yards away. Green grass rolled under the slight wind, and the run, about fifty yards from the house, could be plainly heard. The high rock walls made twilight come early, but the canyon was beautiful in any light.
He closed the door and began preparing his supper. He knew what would come now, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it but run, and he would not, he could not do that. All he had was here. His hopes, his dreams, all the money he had been able to get together, all his hard work.
The people he had talked to had told him about the Harts, watching his expression as they told him. Now that he had killed Reuben, there was no way he could avoid trouble with Dally. He hoped that would end it. And it surely would, for one or both of them.
The Block C had been against him from the start, and he had no idea why. Were they always so clannish against strangers? Were they offended by his refusing a job?
His thoughts returned to his talk with Ned Weisl. He had liked the little man, but he had brought questions. Who had killed the three men from Nevada? What had become of their wagons? What had become of their gold? And what became of the killers themselves?
A few things he had learned. Several of the stories about him, other than those from the malicious tongue of Em Shipton, had come from the Block C, apparently from Henry Childs, a man he had never seen. He was also aware that Mark Brewer wanted him off Buckskin Run. Brewer had even gone so far as to offer him a nice little ranch some distance from the Run, and for a very reasonable price.
He fixed the barest of meals and then sat alone to eat it, thinking of Loma. Where was she now? Had she received his letter? Would she come? Dared he bring her into all this? How would she react to what happened today, for example? In the world from which she came, the killing of one man by another was a crime, and even when done in self-defense it was somehow considered reprehensible. Yet soon all that would be over, and there would be peace on Buckskin Run. Or so he hoped.
His thoughts returned to the stories. Was there gold buried here? If so, he hoped it would soon be found, so people would stop talking about it and looking for it.
When morning came again he saddled the gray and rode to the upper end of the canyon, where a dark pool of water invited the flow down from the higher mountains. He had noticed the graves there before this, but had had no time to examine them. Yet they were tangible evidence that something had happened here in Buckskin Run.
Why had Weisl been murdered? Merely to cause trouble for him? That was ridiculous. Or was the peddler dangerously close to a secret no one wanted revealed?
What fantastic idea had Weisl had, there at the end? Rod Morgan wished, desperately, that he knew. That secret might lead to the solving of the mysteries, and an end to them.
He stepped down from the gray and walked over to the three graves. Side by side, and, what he had not realized, each was marked with the name of the man who lay there. Somehow he had gotten the impression their names were unknown.
NAT TENEDOU—HARRY KIDD—JOHN COONEY
“Well? What do you make of it?”
Startled, he looked toward the voice and saw a man seated on a rock beyond the pool, a long, lean man with a red mustache. To have reached that place unheard he must have moved like a ghost. Rod was sure he had not been there when he dismounted from his horse.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
The man jerked a thumb back toward the cliffs. “Come down from up yonder. I always intended to have a good look at this place, but I heerd you wasn’t exactly welcoming strangers.”
He indicated the graves. “Knowed that Kidd. Big man. Powerful. Don’t do a man no good to be strong when a bullet hits him, I reckon.”
“What are you doing here?”
The man grinned slyly. “Same as you. Lookin’ for that there gold. I doubt she was ever taken out of this canyon. And those wagons? Three big wagons. I seen ’em.”
“You seem to know a lot about this.”
“Son, them days there wasn’t much went on Josh Shipton didn’t know.”
“Josh Shipton? You’re Josh Shipton?”
“I should reckon. Never heard of another. What d’you know about Josh Shipton?”
“There’s a woman in town says she was married to you.”
He sprang up so suddenly he almost slipped into the pool. “Em? You mean Em’s here? Son, don’t you go tellin’ folks you seen me. Especially not her! That woman would be the death of a man! Nag, nag, nag! Mornin’ until night.” He spat, then squinted his eyes at Rod. “She married again? That’s a marryin’ woman, that one.”
“Not yet, but I hear she has Henry Childs in mind.”
“Childs? Reckon she’d think of him. She’s money-hungry, that woman is.” He chuckled suddenly. “Hee, hee! I reckon that would serve ol’ Henry right! It surely would!”
“Do you know him?”
Shipton’s expression changed. “Me? No, I don’t know him. Heard of him.” Then he added, “He ain’t safe to know.”
“He’s just a rancher, isn’t he?”
Shipton shrugged. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Some folks get powerful unpleasant about those who ask questions.”
Nothing was to be done with Shipton present, yet Rod was sure that somewhere in the vicinity of the basin he would find a clue to the mystery of Buckskin Run. Those wagons had to have gone somewhere, and it would have taken an army of men or many teams to hoist the wagons up the cliffs. That possibility seemed out of the question.
As for the run itself, those cascades could not be negotiated by a canoe, let alone three large wagons.
Mounting up, he waved a hand at Shipton and rode away. The man was a puzzle, but obviously knew more than he was letting on. Could he have been around at the time? It was possible.
By the time he arrived at the cabin he was sure of one thing. However those wagons had escaped, they had not come down this way. The wagons, he decided, were still there, and so was the gold.
Riding up to his cabin he swung down. Only then did he see the big, bearded man seated on the bench in front of the house.
“This looks like my day for visitors. Did you come with Shipton?”
“Shipton? You don’t mean Josh is around? Now that does beat all! Wait until Em hears!”
“I promised I wouldn’t mention it.”
“Well, I surely won’t. Any man who got away from that woman deserves his freedom, believe you me.”
The man stood up. “My name’s Jed Blue. I’m an old-timer here. Doubt if you heard of me, because I’ve been away for a spell. Trapped fur in this country. I come in with Carson, the first time.”
“Had anything to eat?”
Blue glanced at the height of the sun. “Reckon it’s gettin’ on to time.” He followed Morgan inside. “You’ve made a lot of enemies, son.”
“I didn’t ask for them.”
“That was a neat gun job you did on Reuben Hart. Don’t know’s I ever saw it done better.”
“You saw that? Where were you? On the stage?”
“I was. There were some other folks on it, too, including Em Shipton and a gent named Brewer. They’d been to Santa Fe, seems like.” He glanced at Morgan. “There was a girl on that stage, too. Name of Loma Day.”
“Loma? Here? But how—?”
“She said she’d come on without waiting for word from you. She had nothing back where she came
from. My feelin’ was she thought she’d better make the trip whilst she still had the money.”
“But why didn’t she say something? She must have seen me!”
Jed Blue was slicing some beef from a cold roast. “You got to think of her, and how it must’ve seemed. Women-folk are different than us, and she bein’ from the East, and all.
“Em Shipton, she’d been tellin’ her what a bad hombre you were and then she comes up when you’ve just killed a man.
“That killing seemed like proof of all they’d been saying about you. She’s down to Cordova now, and I figured I’d better break the news so you can plan on what to do.”
He paused. “She may not welcome you with open arms.”
“It can’t be helped. I must see her!”
“You hold on. Just think about it a mite. In the first place, she’s a mighty fetchin’ young woman, and that Brewer may have some ideas of his own. He’s a fine-lookin’ man, and one who usually gets what he wants. You’d better set down and think this through before you go in there a foggin’.
“Also, you’ve got to remember there will be folks expecting you now. They know this girl has come out to see you. Em Shipton will tell ever’body in town. So they may just be waitin’ for you, son. You’ve got to think about it.”
Blue was silent for a moment and then he asked, “This here Brewer, now. Does he wear a gun? D’ you know anything about him?”
“I never saw him with a gun, but I’ve only seen him once or twice.”
“I was wondering. Reminds me somewhat of a man I knew one time, a long way back.”
They were eating in silence when Rod suddenly looked up. “You didn’t ride all the way out here just to tell me about Loma.”
Jed Blue tipped back in his chair, his huge body dwarfing the table at which they sat. “Reckon I didn’t, son. I was sort of lookin’ over the lay of the land.”
“In other words, you’re gold hunting?”
Blue chuckled, plucking at his beard. “Right on the point, ain’t you? I like that. I like a man who comes right out with it. So if I find it, what then?”
“You keep half.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 Page 12
