by Paul Lederer
Internally Tanner sighed, though he continued to show Dalton his wolfish expression. That was it – if Dalton was telling the truth, Tanner had wasted three days and nights in Knox, taking a brutal beating for his trouble while Morgan Pride and Charlie Cox had ridden a lot of miles away on the long desert.
Worse, Ted Everly and his men had had a lot of time to reach Knox as well and were probably even now in town, waiting for Tanner to emerge. They would have checked the stables and seen that his gray horse was still here.
John hated to admit it, but Marshal McGraw was right – it was time to leave the town of Knox.
‘Can I put my hands down, Tanner? I told you everything you wanted to know.’
‘Go ahead,’ John said with resignation. ‘There’s just one more little thing – I want your cut of the money you stole from Ben Canasta.’
‘But that will leave me….’ Wes Dalton sputtered. Tanner had no pity to spare.
‘It will leave you no worse off than you were before. No worse off than Ben Canasta is now. You boys should have stayed around to get your pay. It would have been only another few days.’
‘We knew you were coming back,’ Dalton said dismally. ‘Morgan saw the letter you wrote to Ben Canasta.’
‘You could have had a comfortable life on the C-bar-C,’ Tanner told him. ‘Now you have nothing. Well, it’s your own greedy fault! I’ll take that money now.’
FOUR
John Tanner trailed out of Knox at mid-morning as the color had faded from the eastern sky and the silver sun began to heat the long desert before him. The main street of the tiny town was nearly deserted, still he kept his eyes open for familiar faces. From what Wes Dalton had told him – if he was to be believed – Charlie Cox and Morgan Pride were either in Las Palmas or Ruidoso. There was no choice but to look there as well, although both had had time to reach those towns, rest and purchase whatever supplies they needed and head farther toward the horizon. John Tanner had decided upon Las Palmas first simply because it was nearer. His ribs were already bothering him after only a few minutes in the saddle.
He saw no one he recognized as he left Knox behind him.
But there had been that one moment when he had glimpsed a small figure at the curtained window of the hat shop, looking out at him as he passed. That had caused John a small pang of regret, but what was a man to do? He had his obligations to attend to.
He turned the gray southward, away from the direct glare of the sun and plodded on through the long day toward Las Palmas. Every step of the horse jolted his ribcage and after a while his battered skull developed a throbbing headache. He would have abandoned the gray and taken a coach to Las Palmas, except the stable man had advised him that there was no connection between Knox and Las Palmas these days. It was doubtful that he would have been more comfortable on a jolting stage-coach anyway.
Far away he could still see the forested hills that rose above C-bar-C land, but on his route the land was flat red-sand desert once more. By noon his horse was wearing down and the high sun felt hot enough to raise blisters on his back. Still he saw no shade.
He had ridden this way many years ago, but time had erased his memory of the land. It seemed to Tanner that he and Joe Block had nooned through the heat of the day near a rill. But Joe had been the older, more experienced man, and Tanner had followed him without taking real notice of the trail they followed. He only recalled the silver-bright stream and a clutter of willow brush along its banks. He wished now that he had been more attentive.
John wanted to swing down from the saddle and rest even if he had to use his horse for shade. The trouble was he was not so certain that he could climb back aboard once he got down, and such an experiment would surely do nothing to aid his horse which was also suffering in the heat.
They ambled on, the horse’s hoofs whispering in the dry sand, occasionally chinking when the animal happened to strike a steel shoe against a rock. John tried not to doze, did, and awoke in the saddle, scolding himself bitterly. The last thing he need to do was fall from the saddle with his horse possibly continuing on without him.
It was not until mid-afternoon that Tanner saw the gray horse lift its head and snuffle loudly. It had sensed something. Tanner looked ahead and then slowly his desert-blinded eyes were able to pick out a long low line of gray-green a half a mile or so ahead. That could be the stream, almost certainly was. Vegetation did not flourish in this country without some source of water, not even willows which had the ability to go dormant through dry spells. He urged the weary horse onward, knowing that it could be hopeful imagining. The roots of the willows might have found an underwater source, but would there be any surface water along the course of the rill?
With incredible relief, Tanner found the edge of the water-cut channel and looking down, saw the mirror sheen of a pond in the sunlight. The stream was not flowing, but that was unimportant. There was enough water in the small pond to serve his needs. He started the now-eager horse down the sandy bank, searching for a path through the densely growing willows.
After two false starts, he managed to work his way to where the pond lay. Looking to his left he could see that the rill was indeed still running, if you could count that pencil-thin trickle of water moving along the bottom of the gully a stream. No matter – the pond was there. Approaching it, Tanner startled a three-point mule deer which bounded away into the security of the thicket, leaving the pond to Tanner and his horse.
He rode his gray to the very edge of the pond and let it lower its head into the water. Tanner was still reluctant to swing down, afraid of not being able to remount. With its thirst assuaged, knowing the source of water now, the gray would be less likely to wander off, leaving Tanner alone on the desert. He sat waiting patiently while the horse drank its fill before slowly, with infinite care he swung out of leather. The motion sent waves of pain flaring across his ribs. By the time he got both feet on the ground he had to lean against the horse.
He thought grimly that he could still be resting in Candice Moore’s big pink bed – but where would that leave Becky Canasta? Another day or two farther along the lost trail. And Ben Canasta? It would put him a day or two closer to a desperate death.
Tanner staggered to the pond and dropped to hands and knees, drinking deeply like an animal. When he managed to rise again, his head was throbbing, his breath short, his legs trembling. He was riding himself to death. There were some willows tall enough to offer shade from the heat of day and, gathering up the gray’s reins, he started that way across the white river sand toward the copse.
John decided that the horse had to be unsaddled and after unfastening the cinches he eyed the saddle which seemed immovable in his present condition. He gripped its cantle and pommel and tried to swing it to the ground, but he collapsed to one knee in the sand. It was just too much for him. Well, he reflected, that morning he had not even been able to put on his own shirt – what had he expected? The stable man had saddled for him back in Knox; John Tanner had started out under the happy illusion that his strength would soon return even though the long desert trail was bound to contribute to further debilitation. Mind over matter had not worked. He had been a plain fool to start out feeling as he did.
Stubbornly he rose and gripped the saddle again. A voice called out from behind him:
‘Hold it, partner.’
Tanner turned, expecting to find a man pointing a gun at him.
‘Who…?’ John wanted to know, for he did not recognize the young blue-eyed man with the cheerful smile who approached him from out of the copse.
‘Name’s Chad Garret,’ the man said. Just hold on there for a second. I’ve been watching you. Want me to unsaddle for you?’
‘If you could….’ Tanner said, feeling grateful, mistrustful, and ashamed of his condition all at once.
‘Sure thing,’ the tall, younger man said, coming toward the horse. ‘I’ve been banged up a few times myself. Are you shot?’
‘No – it’s my ribs,’ Tanne
r said as Chad Garret swung the saddle easily to the ground, swept the blanket from the gray’s back and tossed it on top of the saddle.
‘Better come over to the trees and rest awhile,’ Chad said, ‘it looks like you’ve had a long ride. I’ve got some coffee boiled; it won’t take but a minute to heat it up again.’
As Tanner sagged to the sandy ground beneath the willows, he watched silently as Chad Garret restarted a tiny fire he had built. Finally he asked Garret:
‘What are you doing way out here?’
‘Me?’ Garret said with a quick laugh. He stood, dusting his hands on his faded jeans. He tilted his hat back from his forehead and told Tanner. ‘I’m just sort of roaming the desert, you might say. I’m not moving far or fast – I travel a few hours at dawn, wait the heat of the day out and travel on a few miles about sundown. No destination in mind.’
‘I see,’ Tanner said, liking the smiling young man. Now Chad Garret brought Tanner a cup of dark, warm coffee and handed it to him.
‘My coffee’s close to tar,’ Garret said, seating himself on an Indian blanket he had spread out on the sand. ‘Sorry, it’s the best I have to offer.’
‘It’s all right,’ Tanner said, sipping it gratefully, although Chad Garret was close to right in his description of the brew. Tanner picked a few coffee grounds which had not dropped to the bottom of the pot from his tongue and inquired. ‘Have you seen anybody else out here.’
‘Not for two days,’ Garret said. ‘Then it was a party of Indians. I let them go their way, they let me go mine. They didn’t look hostile, but you never can tell.’
‘No,’ Tanner agreed. You never can judge anyone by looks alone. Chad Garret, for example – he gave the impression of being a man who might be on the run from something. That did not matter at the moment. It was not John Tanner’s business, and the young, smiling man had helped him out.
‘Where are you heading?’ Garret asked. A tarantula had passed his blanket and he was idly tormenting the wooly insect with a twig.
‘Las Palmas. I was hoping to make it sometime tomorrow. You don’t happen to know how far off it is, do you?’
‘No, not really. I’ve heard of the place, but I’ve never seen it,’ Garret answered, letting the tarantula continue on its way, tossing the twig into the dying fire. He stretched out on his back, his hat shading his eyes from the sunlight falling through tangle of willow brush overhead. ‘If you want some advice, though, I’d recommend that you do what I do – travel in the cool of morning and close to sundown. Get what rest you can in between. You might think you’re losing a lot of time that way, but it beats having your horse die on you out on the flats – or losing your own life. Besides, partner, I don’t think you’re in any kind of shape for a long ride.’
All of that was true enough. John Tanner was eager to reach trail’s end, to find Becky, but he would be of little use to her if he ended up only as buzzard feed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep through the heat of the lonesome day.
When he awoke again it was to something nudging his shoulder. He reached automatically for his Colt, but saw that it was only Chad Garret hovering over him, a grin on his face. There was already some color in the western skies as the sun sank lower.
‘Time to get going,’ Garret said. He did not attempt to help Tanner up, having no idea what might cause John more pain.
Corkscrewing to his feet, John found that he felt better than he had expected, certainly better than he had that morning. He still had a headache, but it was of the dull sort. His ribs ached but were not filled with fiery pain. The water and the rest had done him some good. Chad Garret had led his pinto pony out of concealment and had saddled it. Now he prepared Tanner’s gray for riding.
‘I was thinking,’ Garret said as Tanner approached, ‘I might just as well ride along with you – if you have no objections.’
‘None,’ Tanner said after a brief hesitation. After all, he still did not know this man, but it was obvious that he could use a saddle partner. It was a minor humiliation – Tanner had always thought of himself as a man able to take care of himself. Yet how much help had he needed lately? Too much. A man in Knox to saddle his horse, a man out here to saddle it again…. A woman to feed him, bathe him, dress him.
He refused to think any more about Candice Moore. She had gone back to her old way of life by now, and he to his. Carefully he swung aboard his horse, surprised and pleased to find that it was much easier on this night. Maybe he was healing fast, if not as quickly as he might have hoped.
Mounted now, the two men crossed the sandy creekbed and emerged on to the long desert once again. The cheerful Chad Garret was singing as they rode:
Farewell, señorita
I now must be going….
The miles passed easily as the purple light of dusk darkened the land and the stars blinked on one by one above the long desert. The horses, watered and well-rested, moved easily beneath them. John Tanner found himself in a better mood than he had for a long while. In the far distance Tanner saw, or thought he did, the flickering of lights, which in that direction could only be from the town of Las Palmas.
‘Looks like we could make it there in an hour or so,’ Chad said, looking in the direction of the lights, ‘if you’re feeling up to it.’
‘I’d like to try,’ Tanner answered. ‘The horses need rest and with luck we could find us a place to sleep where there are no scorpions. Maybe even a hotel with real beds. I believe that would help my ribs.’
‘I guess it would,’ Chad Garret agreed. ‘But there’s one thing I haven’t admitted to, John: I haven’t a nickel in my jeans.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ John offered. He had Wes Dalton’s share of the stolen money in his saddle-bags. Ben Canasta certainly wouldn’t begrudge him spending a few dollars on a decent meal and a hotel room.
‘You never did tell me how you happened to find yourself out here, in this condition,’ Chad Garret said as they rode steadily toward Las Palmas.
John did so now, telling most of what had occurred down his backtrail. Chad listened thoughtfully. ‘So you’re hoping to find the girl in Las Palmas.’
‘Becky and probably Morgan Pride – he must be the one she rode off with, the man who planned this all.’
‘I hope it works out for you – and for the old man,’ Chad said. ‘I had a grandfather who owned a ranch up in Colorado. He kept getting weaker from simple age. As he got sicker, the men around him, people he trusted, starting culling beef from his herd, figuring the old man would never rise again to ride out on the range and check his cattle.’
‘What happened?’
‘He got well, tracked down two of the rustlers and shot them dead,’ Chad said without smiling.
John nodded thoughtfully. Ahead now they could see the shapes of the town’s structures. He was not even definitely sure that this was Las Palmas, but it was the only town of any size in the area. As they approached they spotted a cluster of five palm trees standing on the edge of a streambed, presumably the trees from which the village had taken its name.
‘This must be it,’ Chad commented.
‘Seems like it.’
‘What do you mean to do first?’
‘Much as I’d like to start hunting right now, it’s late and I think we need rest and food first. Morning’s soon enough.’ Assuming that Morgan Pride was even in town – the kidnapper had three days lead on John. And what about Becky? Where would she be? Held captive, or was she a willing accomplice as Monique had asserted, spending her days in a hotel, dining well? There was no guessing. John Tanner didn’t want to believe that the girl had betrayed her father. There was only one way to find out the truth – that meant finding Becky, listening to her story.
The main street of Las Palmas was rutted and here and there sprouted weeds and stands of creosote. The face of one building was brightly illuminated – a saloon, no doubt – but the rest of the town was dark, sleeping in this desert night. They found a stable with no trouble and an indiff
erent balding man in overalls led their horses in.
Chad said: ‘Can you unsaddle the gray for us. I’ll take care of my own pony.’
Sliding to the ground with less pain that he had had that morning, but with more stiffness, Tanner watched as Chad Garret unsaddled his pinto pony, swinging the saddle with ease on to a stall partition. The seemingly uncaring stablehand unsaddled the gray and slipped its bit, hanging the bridle on a nail in the wall. Tanner fished a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket.
‘Make sure they get a bait of oats each, won’t you?’ he said, slipping the coin on to the callused palm of the stableman. ‘They’ve had a hard ride.’
The morose stablehand only nodded mutely. Tanner wanted to question the man about Becky, but he doubted he would get much out of him. Maybe in the morning.
They both trusted their saddles to the man in the stable and walked across the rutted road toward the false-fronted building which advertised itself with a sign dangling from its awning: ‘Hotel.’
Opening the door to the narrow lobby, they could smell steak searing somewhere in an adjacent dining hall. ‘Better and better,’ Chad Garret said. ‘That is … if you’re springing for dinner as well.’
‘I am; let’s make sure they have a room first.’
‘I’m starting to be awful glad that I ran into you out there,’ Chad said with a wide grin. ‘Food’s a little hard to come by on the desert. I went two days eating only rattlesnake meat.’
‘We’ll get you fed,’ John Tanner said, realizing that he was equally lucky to have come across Chad Garret. Without Chad’s help he might not have even made it to Las Palmas.
With a room key in their hands, they were passed on through to the diner. The ceiling was low; it was still warm inside. A few travelers and a couple of rough-dressed cowhands from some local ranch sat scattered across the room which had individual tables covered with red-checked cloths and not your usual plank on barrels.
