I’d like to have said goodbye to Matty. Where was she? She was the one I’d have expected to come out, but there’d been no sign of her.
Mornin’ would have been the proper time to ride out on a trip like this but I just wanted to get shut of the place and get out on the trail where my thoughts could work. Most of my serious thinkin’, if you could call it that, was done in the saddle. Out ridin’ alone gave a man a chance to sort out his thoughts when he was not bothered by other folks bein’ around or other things to watch and consider.
“We’re goin’ back,” I said to the roan, “an’ I hope we’re not ridin’ into trouble, but I’ve gear over yonder that I want, and things I’ll need, so we’ll just go fetch them.”
That night, ten miles west of the ranch, I camped behind a small grove of trees near a stream. Off to the northeast were the Rampart Hills, and westward the range called the Sleeping Ute lay along the skyline, looking like a huge Indian lying on his back, his arms folded across his chest. Mesa Verde, where there were said to be ancient rock-built cities hidden in the canyons, lay just a mite further west.
Before day broke I was in the saddle, pushing on toward the west.
The first thing I saw were fresh tracks, made the night before. Four riders, heading west at a trot. They were traveling after I camped so they must have bedded down somewhere up ahead and not too far off. Swinging off the trail, I kept to low ground, but near Mud Creek their tracks veered off to the north. Looked to me they were going to camp in that same cave I’d camped when ridin’ east, the one some folks called the Cowboy Hotel, on account so many stopped there.
Now those four riders might be strangers on their own business but I was taking no chances. It could just be Lew Paine or some of the Burrows outfit.
Three days later, with it coming up to darkness, I skirted the town where I’d left my stock. Waiting outside until most folks would be at supper, I rode through the back streets up to the livery stable.
Now I knew I was riding a known horse, and one folks would be sure to comment on if they saw it, so I tied him to the corral back of the stable and walked through from the back end. It had big wide-open doors at each end so I could see right through to the street.
The hostler was sitting in a chair by the front opening and he saw me coming right off but just kept to his chair and waited.
He was an old-timer with gray hair and a handlebar mustache and he looked like he’d been up the creek and over the mountain.
“You still holdin’ my horses?”
He tipped back in his chair and gave me a quizzical look out of blue eyes that had seen a lot of country. “Yep, kep’ ‘em in good shape. Figured you’d be back.”
“I left some duffle, too. Stowed in the tack room.”
“It’s there. I seen it, left it alone, and said nothing.”
Going into the tack room, I picked up my gear and carried it out, then saddled up my own horse and the packhorse as well. When I had the pack in place I led the horses out back and tied them with the roan. I now had two saddled horses, two rifles, and ammunition enough to fight a war. Also, in the gear loaded on the packhorse was my pick, shovel, and ax.
“Better keep a lookout, there’s some boys in town look like they were huntin’ somebody.”
“Some of the Burrows outfit?”
“Two of them rode in.” He looked up at me from under those thick brows.
“There’s three more in town, and there were two other fellers with them who rode in. I’d say they knew you were comin’.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“I’d call it even for twenty dollars. I grained your horses a couple of times. Figured when you needed them you’d need them bad.”
“Thanks. I’ll need them tonight.”
“You ridin’ out now?”
“No.” I paused a minute. “I never finished that drink I ordered over yonder in the saloon. I reckon I’ll go over an’ get it.”
“They’ll be there.”
“I know it, but I’d rather get it over with than have them hangin’ on my trail.”
“Well, it’s your funeral. I never cottoned to Houston Burrows. When you shot him you done the town a favor, but you pay some mind to a stocky-built man, about forty-odd, about five foot nine. His name is Dave Swain and he runs with the Burrows outfit. He’s an eastern man who come west an’ dug in. He’s mean as all get-out, so don’t you take him light.”
“Is there a side door or back door?”
“Both. Better you should take the side door. She lets you in right at the end of the bar.”
“I remember it now. All right. If I don’t come back you can keep my outfit.”
“I’d rather see you come back. I never liked any of that outfit. Ever’ once in a while I feel like gettin’ down my old Sharps an’ givin’ them what for, but I’m gettin’ old, I reckon, an’ they ain’t bothered me except by secondhand.”
He paused. “You want some backup?”
“No, thanks. This is one I’ve got to do for myself and somebody else, also.”
So I slipped the thong off my six-shooter and went across the street and into the side door.
There were eight or ten men at the bar, a card table goin’, and several standers-around. I walked up to the end of the bar but they were busy talking and paid me no mind. The bartender saw me and turned a couple of shades of gray, gray, and grayer. He came down the bar and started to speak. “I came back to finish my drink,” I said. “Put it on the bar.”
“They’ll kill you!” His voice was hoarse. “For God’s sake, man, get -!”
They turned around. I’d already picked out Dave Swain. I remembered him from the lynchin’ party, soon as ever I saw him. Bob Burrows was there, and Andy, too. I’d picked up their names from listenin’ around.
“Howdy,” I said. “Seems like we’ve met before.”
Well, they didn’t know what to say. They’d wanted to kill me and some of them had made a try at it, but here I was, right in their home camp, but it was one thing when you shoot at somebody from ambush and something else when you face him at point-blank range, and some of them had seen me kill Houston Burrows, who was their ring-tailed terror.
“You must be crazy!” Bob Burrows said.
“I come by to pick up some horses. You boys seemed to be goin’ out of your way to hunt me so I figured I’d save you time an’ trouble.”
Nobody moved. One man sort of licked his upper lip, another sort of turned his face away, not looking at me. Swain was at a table, to one side.
The bartender put my drink on the bar and I put down a two-bit piece. “Keep it,” the bartender said, “an’ drink up. An’ please, mister, don’t shoot nobody in here! I just mopped the floor!”
This was a bunch I didn’t like, and whilst I wanted no trouble I didn’t want to spend my days watching my back trail for a bunch of dry-gulchers. If it had to happen, this was as good a place as any.
Swain was lookin’ at me, a hard, amused look in his eyes. He was a dangerous man. The rest of them were a bunch of loudmouthed four-flushers.
I took half my drink and put the glass down. My attention was on them all, pointing a direct challenge at none of them. When you meet a man’s eyes he often thinks it’s a challenge, and I didn’t want a shooting if it could be avoided.
At the same time, I wanted them to know I was ready, so maybe they’d back off and leave me alone. Nobody said anything so I finished my drink, leaving my two bits on the bar. I didn’t want something for nothing.
“Some of you,” I said, “were here when Houston Burrows picked his fight. All I wanted was a drink, a meal, and to ride on. He wanted to show how mean he was. If you want to know, he wasn’t even medium fast. He couldn’t even walk the trails with men like Langford Peel, Bill Tilghman, Dave Masters, or Luke Short.”
“Who are you, mister?”
The man who asked it was sitting at a table near Swain. He was an older man, wearing a beat-up suit and a derby hat.
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br /> “They call me Passin’ Through,” I said, “because that’s what I’m usually doin’, especially now.” I straightened up from the bar. “I came back to pick up my outfit. I don’t have no quarrel with you boys, an’ I had none with Houston Burrows. He just swung too wide a loop.”
“He was a damned good man!” Bob Burrows spoke angrily, defensively.
“In Dodge or Deadwood they’d have had him sweepin’ the floors,” I said. “You boys ride your trail an’ I’ll ride mine, but the fun’s over. If I find anybody ridin’ up behind me it’s open season.”
For the first time I saw a tall, lean man sittin’ back against the wall. I’d never seen him before but right off I knew who he was and I felt my scalp crawl. The door was only three steps behind me, so when I’d stepped back from the bar it was down to two steps. I took another step backward, then went sidewise through the door, not forgetting there might be somebody waiting outside. There wasn’t.
The street was empty and still. There were only nine or ten buildings along the street and a scattering of houses and shacks behind them. Lights showed through the canvas of a couple of tents. Nothing moved, anywhere. Waiting for just a minute and listening for the slightest sound, say of somebody going out a back door, I crossed to the livery stable.
The hostler was at the door. “Didn’t hear any shootin’.”
“They didn’t make an issue of it. I had my drink, now I’m putting this country behind me. Thanks, friend. It’s been a pleasure.”
“If you come by again, stop in. Enjoy havin’ a drink with you.” He paused. “You see anybody in there you knew?”
Only four buildings along the street were lighted, but nothing moved in front of the windows. A cool wind, very soft, brought the smell of pines from the mountains. It was a good country, a wonderful country, too good to let the likes of them spoil it. But they were just would-be toughs, they’d swing their shoulders around, glower a little, and create a few problems, but before long they’d all be pushin’ up daisies out on Boot Hill and nobody would even remember them.
“Yeah,” I said, “I saw one man I hadn’t seen around before.”
“Figured you’d see him. Rode in a couple of days ago. He’s just been sort of lookin’ around.”
“He with them?”
“Knows ‘em. Or does now. They ain’t got that kind of money an’ wouldn’t spend it for killin’ if they had it.” The old hostler paused. “His kind come high. Either somebody has money to spend or he owes somebody a favor.” He looked up at me. “That could be it.”
Mounting the Appaloosa to give the roan a rest, I led the other two down the alleys and back streets, past some ramshackle barns and sheds as well as a pretty little house with a white picket fence and a light in the window and down into a sandy wash that ran alongside the trail.
A mile out of town I rode up on the trail and drew rein to listen. Sitting there in the cool night I looked back at a town that had never welcomed me, but looked at it with regret. Folks were living there, folks I would never know, each finding happiness or hoping for it, and each in his or her own way. I liked seeing the lights in the windows. Only a few years back there weren’t any lights or windows to shine from or folks to light them. A lot of people had come from a lot of places, but to each one his home was the end of a trail that started somewhere afar off.
I’d ride back to the ranch, say my goodbyes, and maybe even accept that supper Mrs. Hollyrood had offered to fix for me. Then I would reach for the high-up hills and let them worry about their problems without me. Looked like I was getting involved, and I didn’t want that, yet it was irritating because of all the loose ends.
Who rightly owned the ranch? Had Phillips actually written a second will that left his “beloved niece” out of it? Without explanation? It didn’t make sense. And who had hired Pan Beacham, and for what?
Who in all that crowd could afford him? Pan was a sure-thing killer for hire, known as such but never caught in the act, never arrested. An even thousand dollars was his reputed price, and that was a lot of money.
Had somebody hired Pan Beacham to kill me?
Chapter Thirteen
He had sat back there watching, saying nothing, making no move, just watching, and he had been watching me. Beacham was like that. By the time he made his move he knew what he was going to do and how, but I knew he liked to have a line on those he was to kill. He wanted to know them, to understand them, to know what he might expect.
Chances were that I knew more of Beacham than he knew of me. That “Passin’ Through” business wouldn’t mean anything to him. He would be trying to sort me out, if he didn’t already know, to decide who I was and why. If it was me he was gunning for. And if it was, who hired him? Who would want me dead that much?
There were people who would like to see my lying dead but most of them were cheapskates. If they couldn’t do it themselves they’d never dream of paying anybody to do it for them.
Somebody either had money to spend or Beacham owed somebody a favor.
Amongst some trees on a low knoll back from the trail I made a late, cold camp. If by some chance Pan Beacham was followin’ me, I wasn’t goin’ to send up a smoke to bring him to me. Picketing my horses on the grass inside the cluster of trees, I bedded down in the shadows and slept, trusting my horses would warn me.
An hour before daylight I came down from the trees and headed east.
For a man wary of trouble I’d picked up a lot of people who were huntin’ my hide, and when I rode out that morning I had a nasty feelin’. Trouble was riding my way and I’d best get set for it. I shucked my rifle and checked the loads, though I didn’t need to. I held that rifle in my hands.
Did they know I had three horses? I doubted it. Beacham might, for he’d be checking around, making sure of things. Suddenly I left the trail and rode up into the trees. For a few minutes I sat my horse, studying the country around. Keeping under cover was not going to be easy, and those hunting me might know the country better than I.
My fingers rubbed the stubble on my jaw. Before I saw any womenfolk I was going to have to shave. Nothing moved back along the trail, nor in the country around. So why was I jumpy? And I was. I wiped my hands on my shirtfront and squinted, looking over the sunlit land before me.
Riding out of the trees, I kept to low ground, skirting the base of a tree-clad ridge. Suddenly, I pulled up, listening. I’d heard a horse running, or was I imagining it?
My eyes swept the country again. There was no dust, but there wouldn’t be in this grass-covered country. The valley was wide, broken by occasional low ridges and knolls, mostly fringed with trees. There were a couple of small streams. Wary of open country, I headed back into the trees, working my way toward higher country.
Abruptly, I turned at right angles to the route I’d been following and dipped deeper into the trees, seeking open areas in the woods or game trails.
Slowly I worked my way through the trees, across open glades abloom with wildflowers, into the shadowed forest again, pausing now and again to listen. There was just no way I could travel with three horses in this kind of country and not leave a trail, and I had to ride wary for more reason than them who followed, for I did not know the country and did not want to be trapped in a cul-de-sac somewhere.
Swinging wide to avoid a patch of thistles, I glimpsed an opening in the forest and looked down where I’d been traveling. As I looked, four riders came into sight, one of them riding a horse Lew Paine rode. It was probably him.
They pulled up, looking along the mountain ahead of me. One of them pointed toward something and they started toward it.
Not hesitating, I started down the side of the hill toward them. By the time I reached the edge of the woods they were gone, so I crossed their trail and headed south and away from them.
By noontime I was butting up against the west side of a towering mesa split with canyons, all pointing their fingers at me as if beckoning. As I wasn’t hunting a fight, I headed that way and
stumbled on a trail, it was a dim trail, not traveled much, but I was in no position to be choosy.
It was slow going, and the worst of it was if anybody looked back that way they might glimpse me from time to time. In my favor was the fact that they’d never expect me to be going where I was.
The trail switched back and forth a couple of times, working its way up the steep side. Not knowing this country well, I could just guess that I was climbing the north rim of Mesa Verde, but it might be another mesa further west.
Standing among the cedars atop the ridge, I studied my back trail. There was no sign of movement, and if my luck held they would be looking for me off to the east where I should have been. From where I stood I could see for miles.
Far off to the northwest were the Aba jo Mountains and beyond them the La Sals, where I’d been not long since. The air was clear, with no smoke, and only a few high clouds. Off to the south I could see the high pinnacle of Shiprock, down New Mexico way. Again I looked back the way I had come and saw no movement, so went back into the cedar near the fallen rocks of a ruined building, and made my camp. This time I was far enough away and back in the cedars so I built a fire.
There was some graze for the stock, so I picketed the horses. The long-ago Indians who built this place had also put a wall across a natural run-off spot and trapped water from the recent rains. There was enough for me and for the horses and maybe a bit more.
Whilst I was building my fire a coyote came for water. Unused to people, he was also unafraid and came to within fifty feet of my camp.
He drank, looked over at me, then watching me from the corners of his eyes he drank again, looked at me with his head up and one paw raised, then trotted away, figuring I was of no account. Getting bacon out of my pack, I fried myself a bait and made frying-pan bread. It was getting on to sundown, and even if they found my trail again they’d probably not try that trail in the dark, not knowing where I’d be.
Setting by my small fire, drinking the coffee I’d been wanting, I speculated about the women at the ranch.
Passin' Through (1985) Page 10
