For a long while Case stood utterly still. He looked around for other horses, saw none, and concluded that this was the horse he’d heard call to the animals he’d become separated from in the wild night. He traced out a way to get down into the arroyo without making noise. His intentness sparked from some hidden inner reservoir, a fresh lift of energy.
Leaving his carbine behind upon the little hill, Case began working his way silently down with endless patience. He could not afford to miss his lariat cast at this horse. As far as he knew, it was the only Albright mount still within tracking distance.
It took him the better part of an hour to get into the arroyo without making a sound. Another quarter hour to get within fifty feet of the drowsing horse and build his loop. There would be no time for the usual steadying whirls that gave a thrown lariat its momentum. He knew that as soon as he spun that rope, the range-wise horse would identify that faintly hissing sound and bolt.
Case carefully flipped his rope to one side and slightly behind him. He had to use the wild-horse cast, which was simply to have the loop upon the ground, open and ready, then, when the moment arrived to throw, to make one high-dropping overhand cast. This type of cast was never guaranteed and it entirely lacked momentum, but it at least gave the roper one chance where otherwise he’d have none.
The horse switched his tail at flies and smacked his lips. He looked up slightly, stamped once, then again, and flung his head. That was when Case staked everything on his overhand throw. The horse, sighting movement dead ahead, flung up its head. Case’s wild-horse loop fell smoothly and drew up snug. Horse and cowboy stood motionless, watching one another. Then the animal succumbed to that familiar tug, and walked up to the man who had captured him.
Case recognized this animal as a beast Bass Templeton often rode. He was large, raw-boned, and tiger-striped along his lower legs. He was what Southwesterners and Mexicans called a grulla, meaning that he was a blue horse, or the color of bluish earth. It was the color of the cranes that inhabited Texas’s lowland marshes. Grulla horses were noted for rugged durability and great stamina.
Case fashioned a war bridle from his lariat’s turks-head end, fitted this to the grulla’s head and under his upper lip, then sprang upon his bare back. The horse proved sensible, which was not usual among cowboy-broke range horses who were never ridden bareback. He responded willingly to Case’s heels and climbed up out of the arroyo.
Upon the plain again, Case retrieved his carbine and set a course for camp. He was still over a mile out when he sighted Bass Templeton riding toward their base. Bass was bareback, too. He had found two horses — riding one and leading the other. Case recognized the one that was being led as the animal Will Johns had been riding when he’d been killed. He knew, from that sighting, that it was no accident that Bass led this horse and rode the other animal.
They came together a half mile out. Bass regarded the grulla and nodded, but he did not speak. They entered camp like this, side-by-side, but silent. Atlanta was working at the cook fire. She’d knotted her hair at the back of her neck with a little green ribbon, and she had on fresh clothing. She stood up to smile as Case and Bass Templeton rode in.
“Uncle Ben isn’t back yet, and I’m afraid you won’t like my cooking,” she said by way of relieved greeting. Then she shrugged, adding: “But I’m afraid you’ll have to endure it.”
Case made a lariat corral, turned their three horses into it, and went along where Bass stood close to Atlanta, looking glum and bone-weary. Atlanta smiled at Case, her eyes following him as he walked, and lingering upon him once he stopped.
Bass saw this. His only reaction was to hunch by the fire and reach for a tin cup with coffee in it.
“You two might as well stay here,” he muttered. “I’ll go see what’s keeping Ben.”
Atlanta, seeing Case put a considering gaze upon the squatting man, let her smile diminish. She felt something come between these two big men. Something she was no part of at all.
Case studied Atlanta for moment. “We’ll both go,” he said finally.
Bass did not look up, but he growled: “What’s the sense of that? We’re both plumb wore to a frazzle. One of us might as well rest up.”
Case nodded and took the cup Atlanta was holding out to him without looking at her. He sipped the coffee and spoke over the cup’s dented lip. We’ll both go,” he reiterated firmly. He quickly drained off the coffee and handed Atlanta the cup, saying: “Which way did your uncle go?”
“Toward the south...along the creek.” Atlanta looked first at Case, then Bass. She raised her gaze and looked up and down along the creek. “He’ll come walking out of there any minute now,” she said with a confidence she did not feel. “Why don’t you both rest until he returns?”
Bass rose, slapped dust from his trousers without looking at either of them, then shuffled away toward the horses.
Atlanta, watching him do this, said softly to Case: “He’s angry.”
“Bitter would come closer,” Case opined. “In his boots...I’d feel the same way. He’s lost you and a couple of old friends, all in a matter of a couple of days. Any sign of Ferd?”
“Nothing. Did you see any...?” Atlanta began.
Shaking his head, Case started forward. He hadn’t covered a hundred feet when Atlanta called to him: “Uncle Ben’s coming...there through the thicket.”
Case twisted to look back. Bass had heard Atlanta call out, and he stopped what he was doing to squint southward.
Ben Albright stepped clear of the last underbrush, halted to make a quick examination of the onward camp, then walked forward with his head up and his arms swinging. By the time he got to the wrecked wagon, Case and Bass were already waiting there as Atlanta got another cup of hot coffee.
“Well,” Ben stated flatly, “he got out about a mile downstream. I found his tracks where he caught hold of a hanging willow and pulled himself up onto the sand.” Ben paused to accept the cup Atlanta offered, drank, then said: “But someone got to him before I did. I tracked him clear of the brush out onto the plain. It looks as though he came upon some riders out there....” Ben became quiet. After several seconds, he looked up at Bass and Case Hyle. He raised and lowered his shoulders with strong meaning.
“How many riders did he meet?” asked Case.
“Hard to say from the way the ground had been churned up, but I’d guess maybe six.”
Bass scowled and scratched his side with his thumb. “Six,” he muttered. “Then if it was that same four Ruben said he saw when Will was killed, they picked up reinforcements to stampede the cattle.”
Again, Ben lifted and dropped his shoulders, nodding his head. He finished the coffee, put a gauging eye upon the midmorning sun, then shifted it over to the three horses that had been put in the corral. “Good work,” he commented, referring to the mounts. “I guess we’d better sleep a little, then hit the trail. We’ll search for Ferd at the same time.”
Neither Case nor Bass asked what direction Ben proposed they ride in. They knew.
Atlanta, standing in the meager shade provided by the upturned wagon, had said nothing throughout this conversation. Her attention had been riveted to the south. Now, pointing, she spoke in a husky tone: “There are horsemen approaching from the south, Uncle Ben.” She continued to look in that direction as the men shifted and turned warily.
Case moved first, after studying the riders. He ran for his carbine, and on the way scooped up Templeton’s saddle gun, too. He trotted back, called out to Bass, and, when Templeton turned, threw him his weapon.
Ben stood stockstill, trying to assess those oncoming men. They rode bunched up and slow-paced. He knew they were settlers, which was obvious from their attire, their horses, as well as the way they sat their saddles. They made no attempt at concealment. In fact, they appeared to be making an issue of staying well clear of the creek-side growth so they would be seen.
Without taking his eyes off the riders, Ben instructed the others: “Atlanta, you go around on the other side of the wagon with Bass. Case, you get up front of the wagon and cover me from there. Don’t shoot unless I tell you to, but keep a close watch.”
Bass had to pluck at Atlanta’s sleeve before her rigid fascination was broken. Then she went with him to the wagon’s far side. Case Hyle stepped away, took a position amid the wagon wreckage, and knelt, resting his carbine upon the splintered brake handle before cocking the weapon. He bent low to catch those oncoming men over his sights and bring the foremost of them down the barrel to him. It was then that he saw something that made him stiffen and raise his head swiftly for a better look. One of the settlers was riding double. And the man behind his saddle looked to be Ruben Adams. Case’s sharp eyes saw that Ruben seemed little the worse for his ordeal, although he looked wet and bedraggled.
Case called to Ben: “They’ve got Ruben.”
“I know. I can see,” came back in answer to this.
“That’s why they’re so bold. He’s a hostage,” Bass opined.
“No,” said Ben, “I think not. Take another look at that burly man in front. I’m pretty sure that’s the town marshal from Lansing’s Ferry. Conrad Beal.”
Case moved into a better position and remained there until the riders were within a hundred yards. They halted. He could verify that it was the marshal just as the lawman raised his arm, palm forward, and called out to Ben.
“Town Marshal Beal, Mister Albright! I got one of your men here with me.”
“Come along,” said Ben. “But first tell me who those men with you are.”
“Posse!” Beal called out as he motioned the men forward. The town marshal rode up first, drew rein, and sat his saddle, looking at the wreckage and the two shiny gun barrels aimed directly at him. He mumbled a profane word and got down heavily from his saddle. “Your man told us about the stampede,” he said to Ben. “I thought he was stretchin’ things a mite. Now I see he wasn’t.”
Ruben struggled down to the ground and then hobbled up to Albright. “Did everyone else make it, too, Mister Ben?” he asked.
“We’re still waiting on Ferd, but the rest of us made it, Ruben,” Albright replied. “And we’re mighty glad to see you did.”
“Miss Atlanta...?”
“I’m fine, Ruben,” came from Albright’s niece who was standing up behind the wagon. She smiled at him and his face beamed when he saw her.
“What were these settlers doing when you came onto them?” Ben asked.
“Ridin’ up this way, Mister Ben. I told ’em all about the stampede.”
Marshal Beal fisted his hands and pushed them deep into his trouser pockets. He stood wide-legged, gazing at Ben Albright but saying nothing. Behind him, his five posse men made no move to dismount. They were keeping close watch upon those two covering gun barrels.
Finally, Beal said: “We come in peace, Mister Albright. I’d feel a sight better if you’d tell them fellows to point those guns in some other direction.”
Ben’s expression was unrelenting. “I’ll tell them nothing,” he said. “Ruben told you what happened before dawn this morning. You can see for yourself he didn’t exaggerate. Marshal Beal, for all I know those men with you had a hand in this.”
Beal remained rooted, his hands still sunk deep in his pockets and his solemn and steady gaze upon Ben Albright. After an interval of standing like this, he nodded his head. “All right. I guess we can’t blame you,” he growled. “My men been in the saddle a long time though. They’d appreciate gettin’ down.”
“Bass...Case...hold off,” Ben called out, then he nodded at Beal, and the marshal gave a gruff order. His five riders swung down, being careful to keep their hands well away from their weapons. They stood next to their horses in the scalding sun smash, only their eyes moving.
Beal finally strolled over into the shade of the wagon. He leaned there, still looking grave, still with both hands in his pockets. “Mister Albright,” he said, looking down at his boots, “I got to tell you something. He paused, then stated: “Patrick Connelly is dead.”
“And who,” demanded Ben, “is Patrick Connelly?”
“He was the son of Charles Connelly. Charles is the mayor of Lansing’s Ferry. Mister Albright, Patrick was shot to death while out ridin’ his horse some ten miles north of our town.” Marshal Beal looked up into Ben’s eyes. “You’ll recollect Charles,” he said. “He was that fellow with the beard who told you Texas drovers weren’t welcome at Lansing’s Ferry. He was the fellow you argued with about buyin’ provisions and gettin’ your wagon ferried over the Trinchera.”
Ben’s hard look remained upon Beal for a long moment of absolute silence. “I know all that. But are you saying...?” He paused before continuing. “Are you saying that in some way I’m responsible for the killing of Patrick Connelly?”
Beal’s gaze dropped down again. He seemed both uncomfortable and uncertain. “Mister Albright,” he muttered in a voice that carried no farther than to the Texans at the wagon, “it was young Pat who fought one of your cowboys back at the crossin’. Late yesterday mornin’ young Pat was found shot through the head. His horse had been shot through the head, too.”
Ben, his stare brightening and hardening against Marshal Beal, said: “Just a minute, Marshal Beal. Let me get this straight. I think what you’re trying to tell me is that Patrick Connelly’s father...and some other settlers...figured my rider, young Will Johns, slipped back and drygulched Charles Connelly’s son, because they had a little scuffle.”
Beal inclined his head, but said nothing.
Now Ben’s face darkened with fierce color. “So, Charles Connelly rode up here and ambushed my rider. Is that it? And when he decided that wasn’t enough to even the score, he caused the stampede.”
Marshal Beal still said nothing.
Ben said: “Case, Bass...step out here.” When both men were standing clear of the wagon, Ben glared at them. “You heard that?” he asked.
“We heard,” stated Bass Templeton.
Case Hyle nodded.
“Maybe they killed Ferd, too,” Bass pointed out.
“Where is Charles Connelly?” Ben demanded of Marshal Beal.
“I didn’t see him after he rode in this morning and told me about young Pat.”
“You didn’t lock him up?”
Beal looked up. “I didn’t know the full of it then,” he said. “I only knew his boy’d been shot. He told me that...he and the men who were with him who had found young Pat and told Charley.”
“And,” said Ben, “those men were three in number. Is that right, Marshal?”
“Yes,” the lawman answered. “That’s right, Mister Albright.”
Chapter Twelve
For a long time, there was neither sound nor movement among the men around that wrecked wagon. Sunlight steadily brightened, turning bitterly yellow and scalding. The sky began to fade, to turn brassily pale and sere. On both sides of the Texan camp leery longhorns stepped along to the creek for water.
Atlanta, lingering on the wagon’s far side, heard all that was said. She sat down back there, feeling weak, feeling futile. Ruben came around to her there and stood gazing downward. Then he sat down at her side and said: “Easy now, Miss Atlanta. You just rest easy here. Your uncle’ll get this thing straightened out. You just see if he don’t, ma’am.”
The girl settled her anguished eyes upon old Ruben. “How does anyone make a mistaken killing come out right?” she asked.
Ruben fidgeted. He looked far out across the plains, then back to her up-tilted face again. He made a vacant smile and shrugged. He had no answer to this.
Ben Albright, on the other side of the wagon with Marshal Conrad Beal, his posse men from Lansing’s Ferry, Case Hyle, and Bass Templeton, made a stony recapitulation, saying: “Connelly found his boy
shot to death and thought my rider, Will Johns, had left my drive, gone back, and ambushed his son. And because he thought this, Connelly and three friends stalked us, caught young Will out in the open, and shot him from behind. Is that essentially what it amounts to, Marshal Beal?”
“Near as I can figure,” Beal confirmed, “that’s about what it amounts to, Mister Albright.”
“Do you know Connelly did this? Do you know he shot my rider and caused this stampede that happened before dawn this morning?”
“No,” stated Beal, “I don’t know it. But I think that’s what has happened.” Beal looked at Ben from troubled eyes. “That’s why I brought a posse with me and come out here this mornin’ instead of later in the day, after I’d had time to ask around Lansing’s Ferry about what happened. I wanted to be here in case there was more trouble.” Beal looked around. “I was too late,” he said in conclusion, and resumed his melancholy stance.
Ben and Bass Templeton exchanged a long and significant gaze. Feeling like he’d been reasonable long enough, Ben stood up and said: “Marshal, my rider didn’t leave this drive for one minute, let alone long enough to ride near twenty miles, shoot a man, and ride back the same twenty miles. Every one of us here knows that to be a fact because Will Johns was never out of our sight.”
“Yeah. I figured that, too, Mister Albright,” Beal responded to Ben, although he was looking at Bass. “You see, as we rode up here this mornin’, we did some spreadin’ out as we tracked. We found the prints of those men ridin’ south you told me about yesterday. We also found fresher tracks of four men who come together about twelve miles back, then rode up along the creek in the dark and afterward crossed over west of your herd...and caused that stampede.” Beal paused. “We even found your tracks, being that they were from shod horses, comin’ south into town, Mister Albright...but we found no other tracks of shod horses, at all. That’s why I don’t believe your rider went back and bushwhacked Pat Connelly.”
Reckoning at Lansing's Ferry Page 9
