Mike Bastian halted on the rocky ledge at the end of the trail and looked out across the gorge. In the pale moonlight he could see two slim threads trailing across the canyon high above the tumbling water. Just two ropes, and one of them four feet above the other.
“You mean,” he said, “that Ben Curry crossed on that?”
“He did. I have seen him cross that bridge a dozen times, at least.”
“Have you crossed it?”
The Navajo shrugged. “Why should I? The other side is the same as this, is it not? There is nothing over there that I want.”
Mike looked at the slender strands, and then he took hold of the upper rope and tentatively put a foot on the lower one. Slowly, carefully, he eased out above the raging waters. One slip and he would be gone, for no man could hope to live in those angry flood waters. He slid his foot along, then the other, advancing his handholds as he moved. Little by little, he worked his way across the canyon.
He was trembling when he got his feet in the rocky cavern on the opposite side, and so relieved to be safely across that he scarcely was aware of the old Indian who sat there awaiting him.
The Navajo got up, and without a word started down the trail. He quickly led Mike to a cabin built in the opening of a dry, branch canyon, and tethered before the door of the cabin was a large bay stallion.
Waving at the Indian, Mike swung into the saddle and the bay turned, taking to the trail as if eager to be off.
Would Perrin travel at night? Mike doubted it, but it was possible, so he kept moving himself. The trail led steadily upward, winding finally out of the canyon to the plateau.
The bay stallion seemed to know the trail; it was probable that Curry had used this horse himself. It was a splendid animal, big and very fast. Letting the horse have his head, Mike felt the animal gather his legs under him. Then he broke into a long swinging lope that literally ate up the space. How long the horse could hold the speed he did not know, but it was a good start.
It was at least a ten-hour ride to the Ragan V-Bar ranch.
The country was rugged and wild. Several times startled deer broke and ran before him, and there were many rabbits. Dawn was breaking faintly in the east now, and shortly after daybreak he stopped near a pool of melted snow water and made coffee. Then he remounted the rested stallion and raced on.
Drusilla Ragan brushed her hair thoughtfully, and then pinned it up. Outside, she could hear her mother moving about, and the Mexican girls who helped around the house whenever they were visiting. Julie was up, she knew, and had been for hours. She was outside talking to that blond cowhand from New Mexico, the one Voyle Ragan had hired to break horses.
Suddenly she heard Julie’s footsteps, and then the door opened.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” Julie asked. “I’m famished!”
“I’ll be along in a minute.” Then as Julie turned to go. “What did you think of him, Julie? That cowboy who got the buckboard for us? Wasn’t he the handsomest thing?”
“Oh, you mean that Mike Bastian?” Julie said. “I was wondering why you were mooning around in here. Usually you’re the first one up. Yes, I expect he is good looking. But did you see the way he looked when you mentioned Uncle Voyle? He acted so strange!”
“I wonder if Uncle Voyle knows anything about him? Let’s ask!”
“You ask,” Julie replied, laughing. “He’s your problem!”
Voyle Ragan was a tall man, but lean and without Ben Curry’s weight. He was already seated at the table when they came in, and Dru was no sooner in her seat than she put her question. Voyle’s face became a mask.
“Mike Bastian?” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Where’d you meet him?”
The girls explained, and he nodded.
“In Weaver?” Voyle Ragan knew about the gold train, and his eyes narrowed. “I think I know who he is, but I never saw him that I heard of. You probably won’t see him again, because most of those riders from up in the Strip stay there most of the time. They are a wild bunch.”
“On the way down here,” Julie said, “the man who drove was telling us that outlaws live up there.”
“Could be. It’s wild enough.” Voyle Ragan lifted his head, listening. For a moment he had believed he heard horses. But it was too soon for Ben to be coming. If anyone else came, he would have to get rid of them, and quickly.
He heard it again, and then saw the cavalcade of horsemen riding into the yard. Voyle came to his feet abruptly.
“Stay here!” he snapped.
His immediate thought was of a posse, and then he saw Kerb Perrin. He had seen Perrin many times, although Perrin had never met him. Slowly, he moved up to the door, uncertain of his course. These were Ben’s men, but Ben had always told him that none of them was aware that he owned this ranch or that Voyle was his brother.
“Howdy!” Voyle said. “What can I do for you?”
Kerb Perrin swung down from his horse. Monson, Ducrow, and Kiefer were getting down.
“You can make as little trouble as you know how,” Perrin said, his eyes gleaming. “All you got to do is stay out of the way. Where’s the girls? We want them, and we want your cattle.”
“What is this?” Voyle demanded. He wasn’t wearing a gun; it was hanging from a clothes-tree in the next room. “You men can’t get away with anything here!”
Perrin’s face was ugly as he strode toward the door. “That’s what you think!” he sneered.
The tall old man blocked his way, and Perrin shoved him aside. Perrin had seen the startled faces of the girls inside and knew the men behind him were spreading out.
Ragan swung suddenly and his fist struck Perrin in the mouth. The gunman staggered, his face went white with fury.
A Mexican started from the corral toward the house and Ducrow wheeled, firing from the hip. The man cried out and sprawled over on the hardpacked earth, moaning out his agony.
Perrin had drawn back slowly, his face ugly with rage, a slow trickling of blood from his lips. “For that, I’ll kill you!” he snarled at Ragan.
“Not yet, Perrin!”
The voice had a cold ring of challenge, and Kerb Perrin went numb with shock. He turned slowly, to see Mike Bastian standing at the corner of the corral.
Kerb Perrin was profoundly shocked. He had left Bastian a prisoner at Toadstool Canyon. Since he was free now, it could mean that Ben Curry was back in the saddle. It could mean a lot of things. An idea came to kill Mike Bastian, and kill him now!
“You men have made fools of yourselves!” Bastian’s voice was harsh. He stood there in his gray buckskins, his feet a little apart, his black hair rippled by the wind. “Ben Curry’s not through! And this place is under his protection. He sent me to stop you, and stop you I shall! Now, any of you who don’t want to fight Ben Curry, get out while the getting is good!”
“Stay where you are!” Perrin snapped. “I’ll settle with you, Bastian, right now!”
His hand darted down in the sweeping, lightning-fast draw for which he was noted. His lips curled in sneering contempt. Yet, as his gun lifted, he saw flame blossom from a gun in Bastian’s hand and a hard object slugged him. Perplexed and disturbed, he took a step backward. Whatever had hit him had knocked his gun out of line. He turned it toward Bastian again. The gun in Mike’s hand blasted a second time, and a third.
Perrin could not seem to get his own gun leveled. His mind wouldn’t function right, and he felt a strangeness in the stomach. His legs— Suddenly he was on his knees. He tried to get up and saw a dark pool forming near his knees. He must have slipped, he must have— That was blood.
It was his blood!
From far off he heard shouts, then a scream, then the pound of horses’ hoofs. Then the thunder of those hoofs seemed to sweep through his brain and he was lying face down in the dirt. And then he knew: Mike Bastian had shot him three times. Mike Bastian had killed him!
He started to scream a protest—and then he just laid there on his face, his cheek against the bloody
ground, his mouth half open.
Kerb Perrin was dead.
In that instant that Perrin had reached for his gun, Ducrow suddenly cut and ran toward the corner of the house. Kiefer, seeing his leader gunned down then, made a wild grab for his own weapon. The old man in the doorway killed him with a hastily caught-up rifle.
The others broke for their horses. Mike rushed after them and got off one more shot as they raced out of the yard. It was then he heard the scream, and whirled.
Ducrow had acted with suddenness. He had come to the ranch for women, and women he intended to have. Even as Bastian was killing Perrin, he had rushed for the house. Darting around the corner where two saddle horses were waiting, he was just in time to see Juliana, horrified at the killing, run back into her bedroom. The bedroom window opened beside Ducrow, and the outlaw reached through and grabbed her.
Julie went numb with horror. Ducrow threw her across Perrin’s saddle, and with a piggin string, which he always carried from his days as a cowhand, he jerked her ankles together under the horse’s belly.
Instantly, he was astride the other horse. Julie screamed, then. Wheeling, he struck her across the mouth with a backhand blow. He caught up the bridle of her horse, drove in spurs to his own mount, and they went out of the ranch yard at a dead run.
Mike hesitated only an instant when he heard Julie scream, then ran for the corner of the house. By the time he rounded the corner, gun in hand, the two horses were streaking into the piñons. In the dust, he could only catch a glimpse of the riders. He turned and walked back.
That had been a woman’s scream, but Dru was in the doorway and he had seen her. Only then did he recall Julie. He sprinted for the doorway.
“Where’s Julie?” he shouted to Drusilla. “Look through the house!”
He glanced around quickly. Kerb Perrin, mouth agape, lay dead on the hard earth of the ranch yard. Kiefer lay near the body of the Mexican Ducrow had killed. The whole raid had been a matter of no more than two or three minutes.
Voyle Ragan dashed from the house. “Julie’s gone!” he yelled hoarsely. “I’ll get a horse!”
Bastian caught his arm. His own dark face was tense and his eyes wide.
“You’ll stay here!” he said harshly. “Take care of the women and the ranch. I’ll go after Julie.”
Dru ran from the house. “She’s gone, Mike, she’s gone! They have her!”
Mike walked rapidly to his horse, thumbing shells into his gun. Dru Ragan started to mount another horse.
“You go back to the house!” he ordered.
Dru’s chin can up. In that moment she reminded him of Ben Curry.
“She’s my sister!” Dru cried. “When we find her, she may need a woman’s care!”
“All right,” Mike said, “but you’ll have to do some riding!”
He wheeled the big bay around. The horse Dru had mounted was one of Ben Curry’s beautiful horses, bred not only for speed but for staying power.
Mike’s mind leaped ahead. Would Ducrow get back with the rest of them? Would he join Monson and Clatt? If he did, it was going to be a problem. Ducrow was a handy man with a six-gun, but the three of them, or more if they were all together, would be nothing less than suicide.
He held the bay horse’s pace down. He had taken a swift glance at the hoofmarks of the horses he was trailing, and knew them both.
Would Drew head back for Toadstool Canyon? Bastian considered that as he rode, and decided he would not. Ducrow did not know that Julie was Ben Curry’s daughter. But from what Mike had said, Ducrow had cause to believe that Ben was back in the saddle again. And men who went off on rebel raids were not lightly handled by Curry.
Besides, he would want, if possible, to keep the girl for himself.
Mike had been taught by Roundy that there was more to trailing a man than following his tracks, for you trailed him down the devious paths of mind as well. He tried to put himself in Ducrow’s place.
The man could not have much food, yet on his many outlaw forays he must have learned the country and would know where there was water. Also, there were many ranch hangouts of the outlaws that Ducrow would know. He would probably go to one of them. Remembering the maps that Ben Curry had shown him and made him study, Mike knew the locations of all those places.
The trail turned suddenly off through the chaparral, and Mike turned to follow. Drusilla had said nothing since they started. Once he had glanced at her. Even now, with her face dusty and tear-streaked, she was lovely. Her eyes were fastened on the trail, and he noted with a little thrill of satisfaction that she had brought her rifle along.
Dru certainly was her father’s daughter, and the fit companion for any man.
Bastian turned his attention to the trail. Despite the small lead he had, Ducrow had vanished. That taught Mike something of the nature of the man he was tracing; his years of outlawry had taught him how to disappear when need be. The method was simple. Turning off into the thicker desert growth, he had ridden down into a sandy wash.
Here, due to the deep sand and the tracks of horses and cattle, it was a problem and it took Mike several minutes to decide whether Ducrow had gone up or down the wash. Then he caught a hoofprint, and they were off, winding up the sandy wash. Yet Mike knew they would not be in that sand for long. Ducrow would wish to save his horses’ strength.
True enough, the trail soon turned out. From then on, it was a nightmare. Ducrow ran off in a straitway, then turned at right angles, weaving about in the sandy desert. Several times he had stopped to brush out portions of his trail, but Roundy had not spent years of training in vain and Mike Bastian hung to the trail like a bloodhound.
Dru, riding behind him, saw him get off and walk, saw him pick up sign where she could see nothing.
Hours passed and the day slowly drew toward an end. Dru, her face pale, realized night would come before they found her sister. She was about to speak, when Mike looked up at her.
“You wanted to come,” he said, “so you’ll have to take the consequences. I’m not stopping because of the darkness.”
“How can you trail them?”
“I can’t,” he shrugged. “But I think I know where they are going. We’ll take a chance.”
Darkness closed around them. Mike’s shirt stuck to his body with sweat, and a chill wind of the higher plateaus blew down through the trees. He rode on, his face grim and his body weary with long hours in the saddle. The big bay kept on, seemingly unhurt by the long hours of riding. Time and again he patted the big horse, and Dru could hear him talking to it in a low voice. Suddenly at the edge of a clearing, he reined in.
“Dru,” he said, “there’s a ranch ahead. It’s an outlaw hangout. There may be one or more men there. Ducrow may be there. I am going up to find out.”
“I’ll come too,” the girl said impulsively.
“You’ll stay here!” His voice was flat. “When I whistle, then you come. Bring my horse along.”
He swung down and, slipping off his boots, pulled on his moccasins. Then he went forward into the darkness. Alone, she watched him vanish toward the dark bulk of the buildings. Suddenly a light came on—too soon for him to have arrived.
Mike weaved his way through sage and mesquite to the corral, and worked his way along the bars. Horses were there but it was too dark to make them out. One of them stood near, and he put his hand through the bars, touching the horse’s flank. It was damp with sweat.
His face tightened.
The horse stepped away, snorting. As if waiting for just that sound, a light went on in the house: a lamp had been lighted. By that time Mike was at the side of the house, flattened against the wall peering in.
He saw a heavy, square-faced man with a pistol in his hand. The man put the gun under a towel on the table, then began pacing around the room, waiting. Mike smiled grimly, walked around the house and stepped up on the porch. In his moccasins, he made no sound. He opened the door suddenly and stepped into the room.
VIII
> Obviously the man had been waiting for the sound of boots, of horses, or the jingle of spurs. Even a knock. Mike Bastian’s sudden appearance startled him, and he straightened up from the table, his hand near the towel that covered the gun.
Bastian closed the door behind him. The man stared at the black-haired young man who faced him, stared with puckered brow. This man didn’t lool like a sheriff to him. Not those tied down guns, or that gray buckskin stained with travel, and no hat.
“You’re Walt Sutton,” Mike snapped. “Get your hands off that table before I blow you wide open! Get ’em off!”
He jammed the muzzle of the gun into Sutton’s stomach with such force that it doubled the man up.
Then he swept the towel from the gun.
“You fool!” he said sharply. “If you’d tried that, I’d have killed you!”
Sutton staggered back, his face gray. He had never even seen Mike’s hand move.
“Who are you?” he gasped, struggling to get his wind back.
“I’m Mike Bastian, Ben Curry’s foster son. He owns this ranch. He set you up here, gave you stock to get started with, now you double-cross him! Where’s Ducrow?”
Sutton swallowed. “I ain’t seen him!” he protested.
“You’re a liar, Sutton! His horses are out in that corral. I could pistol-whip you, but I’m not going to. You’re going to tell me where he is, and now, or I’m going to start shooting!”
Walt Sutton was unhappy. He knew Ducrow as one of Ben Curry’s men who had come here before for fresh horses. He had never seen this man who called himself Mike Bastian, yet so far as he knew, no one but Curry himself had ever known the true facts about his ranch. If this man was lying, how could he know?
“Listen, mister,” he protested, “I don’t want no trouble—least of all with old Ben. He did set me up here. Sure, I seen Ducrow, but he told me the law was after him.”
“Do I look like the law?” Mike snapped. “He’s kidnapped the daughter of a friend of Curry’s, niece of Voyle Ragan. I’ve got to find him.”
Mistakes Can Kill You Page 14
