Collection 1995 - Valley Of The Sun (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Working away from the horse, McQueen started toward the edge of the woods. He was still well under cover when he saw the dark outline of the body. He glanced around, listened, then moved closer. He knelt in the gray dimness of dawn. The man was dead.

  He was a young man, dressed in neat, expensive black. He wore one gun and it was in its holster. Gently, McQueen rolled the man on his back. He had been handsome as well as young, with a refined, sensitive face. Not, somehow, a Western face.

  Slipping his hand inside the man’s coat, McQueen withdrew a flat wallet. On it, in neat gold lettering, was the name Dan Kermitt. Inside, there was a sheaf of bills and other papers.

  Suddenly McQueen heard a light footstep. Quickly, he slid the wallet into his shirt and stood up. Red Naify was standing on the edge of the woods.

  “Looks like somebody got who he was shootin’ at,” McQueen drawled quietly. “Know him?”

  Naify walked forward on cat feet. He looked down, then he shrugged.

  “Never saw him afore!” He looked up, his piglike eyes gleaming. It was light enough now for McQueen to see their change of expression. “Did you kill him?”

  “Me?” For an instant McQueen was startled. “No. I never saw this hombre before.”

  “Yuh could’ve,” Red said, insinuatingly. “There wasn’t nobody to see.”

  “So could you,” McQueen said quietly. “So could you!”

  “I got an alibi.” Red grinned suddenly. “What the devil? I don’t care who killed him. Injuns, probably. Find anythin’ on him?”

  “Never looked,” McQueen replied carefully. How much had Red seen?

  Naify stooped over the body and fanned it with swift, skillful fingers. In the right-hand pocket he found a small wallet containing a few bills and some gold coin. Ward McQueen stared at it thoughtfully, and when Naify straightened, he asked a question.

  “Anythin’ to tell who he was?”

  “Not a thing. I’ll jest keep this until somebody calls for it.” He pocketed the money. “Yuh want to bury him?”

  “Yeah. I’ll bury him.” McQueen stared down at the body. This was no place to bury a nice young man like this. But then, the West did strange things to people, bringing a strange grave to many a man.

  “Hey.” Red paused. “He should have a hoss. I better have a look around.”

  “Leave it to me,” McQueen said quietly. “You got the money. I already found the hoss.”

  Red Naify hesitated, and for an instant his face was harsh and cruel. McQueen watched him, waiting. It was coming, sooner or later, and it could be now as well as later.

  Naify shrugged, and started to turn away, then looked back. “Was it—the hoss, I mean—a big black?”

  “Yeah,” McQueen told him, unsmiling. “So yuh did know him?”

  Naify’s face darkened. “No. Only I seen somebody follerin’ us that was ridin’ a big black. Could’ve been him.” He strode off toward camp.

  Carrying the young man to a wash in the steep bank, he placed the body on the bottom, then caved dirt over it.

  “Not much of a grave, friend,” he said softly, “but I’ll come back an’ do her proper.” He turned and as he walked away he added quietly, “And when I do, amigo, yuh can rest easy.”

  * * *

  STANDING IN THE brush near the black horse, he took out the flat leather wallet and opened it. He thrust his hand inside, then gulped in amazement. He was staring down at a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills!

  Swiftly, he counted. Twenty-five of them, all new and crisp. There were two letters and a few odds and ends of no importance. He opened one letter, in feminine handwriting. It was short and to the point.

  We have gone ahead to Fort Mallock. Come there with the money, as Kim has located a good ranch. I don’t know what we’d have done without Iver, however, as ever since Father was killed, he has advised and helped me. The cattle are coming west with two of the most trustworthy hands, Chuck and Stan Jones.

  Ruth

  Replacing the wallet in his shirt, Ward McQueen swung into the saddle. He rode the black horse back to where his own horse waited, then leading his horse, he rode back to the camp.

  Red Naify looked up at him, and then glanced at the horse, envy and greed shining in his eyes. Baldy looked up, too, and his eyes narrowed a little, but he said nothing. Bud Fox was already bunching the herd to start them moving.

  Naify mounted up and joined him while McQueen ate. Twice he glanced up from his food to Baldy.

  “Say,” he said finally, “where was Red when yuh first looked up after that shot?”

  “Red?” Baldy looked up, and put his big red hands on his hips. “Red wasn’t in sight. Then I looked around, and he was standin’ there. He could’ve been there all the time, but I don’t think he was.”

  McQueen nodded up the hillside. “There was a dead man up there. He’d been lookin’ us over from the cover of the trees. Right nice-lookin’ gent. No rustler.”

  “Yuh think somebody’s pullin’ a steal?” Baldy asked shrewdly, stowing away the camp gear in the chuck wagon.

  “Don’t you?” Ward said quietly.

  “Uh-huh. So what happens?” Baldy asked.

  “My guess would be they don’t intend to let us have no part of the profits. To us, the deal is supposed to be on the level. We don’t know that it ain’t,” he added. “Actually, we don’t know a thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Baldy crawled up on the wagon, and McQueen tossed his now empty coffee cup into the back of the chuck wagon. “So we keep our eyes peeled, huh?”

  “And a six-shooter handy,” McQueen agreed grimly.

  He tied the black horse to the wagon, then swung aboard the roan as the chuck wagon rumbled out after the cattle. McQueen started the roan after the herd at a canter, scowling thoughtfully.

  The letter had referred to two trusted hands, Chuck and Stan Jones. Trusted men didn’t ride away and leave a herd. Not to go back to Montana or anywhere. What had happened to them, then? Where were they?

  The trail wound slowly up toward the pass in the Toana range. The cattle moved slowly, reluctant to leave the green meadows bordering Pilot Creek. There was little time for thinking as two old steers had no intention of leaving the creek and made break after break trying to get away.

  Late in the afternoon, Bud Fox rode up beside McQueen. He lighted a smoke, then glanced across the herd at Naify.

  “Nice hoss yuh got back there,” he commented casually. “Hombre what owned him’s dead, I s’pose?”

  “Uh-huh. I buried him. A darned good rifle shot killed him.”

  Bud rode quietly. “Yuh know,” he said softly, “I been wonderin’ a mite. When Baldy and me come up the trail, we got us a glimpse of somethin’. Way north of where we was, but on the Montana trail. We seen us some buzzards circlin’—like maybe a dead critter was lyin’ there.”

  “Or dead men.” Ward McQueen’s voice was grim. “Men who might object to what was goin’ to be done with these cows.”

  “Uh-huh,” Fox agreed, “like that. Or maybe riders the boss didn’t have no intention of payin’. On a long drive, yuh know, ain’t nobody goin’ to be surprised if a cowpoke never comes back. He could’ve gone on to Californy, or maybe south of the Colorado country. Or he could’ve just started driftin’.”

  * * *

  THE HERD MOVED steadily westward, camping one night at Flower Lake, a grass-covered and spring-fed swamp, then moving on up the steep slopes of the Pequops through a scattered forest of mountain mahogany, juniper, and piñon. Ward McQueen, his battered gray hat pulled low over his gray eyes, his lean-jawed face ever more quiet, ever more watchful.

  Red Naify held to the point, rarely leaving it even for a few minutes. The blocky, hard-faced foreman rode cautiously, and once, when they sighted several horsemen, he let the herd veer southward, away from them.

  On the west side of the Pequops the herd ambled slowly across a sage-covered valley toward the distant violet and purple of mountains, and finally, almost in the shado
w of the Humboldt Range, the herd was circled for a night stop on the edge of Snow Water Lake.

  Naify rode back. “Bed ’em down here,” he said. “We’ll spend the night and let ’em feed some more. No use losin’ too much beef on this move.”

  “Where’s Mallock?” McQueen asked suddenly.

  Naify turned his head and looked squarely at him. “Don’t worry about it. We ain’t goin’ near Mallock!”

  Thoughtfully, Ward watched Red ride away. Red Naify knew nothing of the letter in McQueen’s pocket. In that simple statement he had given himself away. The girl was waiting at Fort Mallock for the cattle. Iver Hoyt was probably with her. He was the trusted adviser, and he was stealing her herd!

  In McQueen’s pocket, given him by a friend before he ever started for this country, was a map. It showed Mallock, the fort built only a short time before, to be not far beyond the Humboldt Mountains. He made a sudden decision.

  Wheeling his horse, he rode to the chuck wagon, where Baldy had unhitched the team. The cattle were drinking, and Bud Fox was sitting his horse nearby, rolling a smoke.

  “Listen,” he said, reining in the roan beside the wagon. “I’m ridin’ out of here. I got me an idea. You two better keep plenty close watch. I figger this is where she happens!”

  Fox nodded. “Red said he’d be back sometime tomorrow or the day after. That we was to sit tight. Where yuh goin’?”

  “Fort Mallock. I’m ridin’ the black.”

  It was dark when the black horse cantered down the dusty street of the little community that had grown up around the fort. Ward McQueen rode up to the hitching rail and swung down. He hitched his belt and loosened his guns. He had just stepped up on the walk when a wiry, broad-shouldered man stepped out from the batwing doors.

  For an instant the man stood stock-still, his eyes on the black horse, then his eyes shifted to McQueen.

  “Yore hoss, podner?” he queried gently.

  McQueen felt something inside him tighten. There was something in the faint suggestion of that voice that warned him. This man was dangerous.

  “I’m ridin’ him,” he replied quietly.

  “Where’d yuh get him?” the stranger asked, stepping away from in front of the door.

  “Before I answer that,” McQueen said quietly, “s’pose yuh tell me why yuh ask and who yuh are.”

  The young man stared back at him, and McQueen decided there was something in the black eyes and brown, young face that he liked.

  “My name,” the young man said evenly, “is Kim Sartain. And the man who owned that hoss, and that saddle, was a friend of mine!”

  “So yuh’re Kim,” McQueen said softly. “Yuh know an hombre name of Iver Hoyt?”

  Sartain’s face darkened and his eyes grew cautious. “Yeah, I know him. A friend of yores?”

  “No.” McQueen looked at him thoughtfully. “Yuh know where Ruth Kermitt is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then take me to her. I’ll talk there.”

  Leading the black horse, Ward McQueen followed Kim. The young man walked alongside him, his left side toward McQueen, who grinned to himself at this precaution.

  “Yuh don’t take no chances, Sartain,” he said. “But I think we’re on the same side.”

  Kim’s hard face did not relent. “I’ll know that when yuh tell me where yuh got that hoss.”

  * * *

  MCQUEEN TIED THE horse to a hitching rail, followed Sartain into a small hotel, and into a back parlor, a small, comfortably furnished room. There was a girl sitting on the divan, and she rose quickly when they came in.

  McQueen halted, his face suddenly blank. He had expected anything but the tall, lovely girl who faced him. Probably twenty years old, she was erect, poised, and lovely, her black hair gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, her blue eyes wide.

  Kim spoke, his voice flat. “This hombre hones to talk with yuh, ma’am. He rode into town on Dan’s hoss.”

  “Ma’am,” McQueen said quietly, “I’m afraid I’m bringin’ bad news.”

  “It’s Dan! Something’s happened to Dan!” Ruth Kermitt came toward him quickly. “What is it? Please tell me now!”

  McQueen’s face flushed, then paled a little. “He’s—he’s been killed, ma’am. Shot!”

  Her face turned deathly white, and she fell back a step, her eyes still wide. Swiftly, Kim crossed to her side.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Better hold yoreself together. We got to get this hombre’s yarn. He may need killin’ hisself.” He spoke this last in a low, dangerous tone.

  Briefly, with no details, McQueen explained, saying nothing about the herd except to mention the names of the men riding with it.

  Kim stared at him. “A herd of three hundred white-faces? And with Red Naify? Who’re those others yuh mentioned?”

  “Baldy Jackson and Bud Fox. Good men. Naify told us the other riders rode off and left ’em.”

  “Like the devil they did!” Kim snapped. “Somebody’s lyin’, ma’am!”

  “We’d better get Iver,” Ruth said hesitantly. “He always knows what to do.”

  Ward McQueen shook his head. “If yuh mean Iver Hoyt, ma’am, I wouldn’t get him. He’s a crook, tryin’ to rustle them cattle hisself.”

  Ruth stiffened and her eyes flashed.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying!” she said, sharply. “He’s been a very good friend! My only friend, aside from Kim here. And he wasn’t found riding Dan’s horse!”

  “I reckon not,” McQueen replied grimly, “but he—”

  The door opened suddenly to interrupt him, and Iver Hoyt stepped in, two men crowding in behind him.

  “Ruth!” he said, “Dan’s horse is outside!” His eyes found Ward McQueen and his lips tightened. “Ruth, who is this man?”

  “Don’t yuh remember me?” McQueen said gently. “That Texas rider yuh hired back at Pilot Creek. The one yuh told Red Naify to work on the same basis as the others.”

  “Yuh’re crazy!” Hoyt snapped. “I never saw yuh before in my life. As for Red Naify, the man’s an outlaw! A rustler!”

  “If I never saw yuh before,” McQueen said quietly, “how do I know yore gun butt’s got the head of a longhorn steer on it? How do I know yuh ride a bay hoss with three white stockin’s?”

  Kim stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “I’ve noticed that steer’s head, Hoyt. And he sure enough has yore hoss spotted.”

  “He’s a liar!” Hoyt snarled, his hands poised. “I never saw him before!”

  “I’ll take care of that liar business in due time,” McQueen said softly. “In the meantime, tell us what happened to Chuck and Stan Jones!”

  Ruth looked up quickly, staring at Hoyt. Iver Hoyt’s face tightened.

  “They went back to Montana!” he snapped.

  “They were coming on here, Iver,” Ruth Kermitt said quietly. “You know they’d promised to work for me. They wouldn’t break a promise. Neither of them would.”

  Hoyt stiffened and his eyes turned hard. “So? You don’t believe me either? We’ll discuss this in the mornin’!” He turned abruptly and walked from the room, followed by the two men with him.

  “Ma’am, I think I better get back to them cattle,” Ward McQueen suggested suddenly. “Hoyt’ll try to steal ’em, and soon. In fact, I think he’ll try it sooner now than he’d planned.”

  “I’ll go back with yuh,” Kim said. “I think yuh’re smokin’ some skunks out of this tree, podner!”

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST daylight when they rode down the slope of the mountain near Secret Pass and cut across the plain toward Snow Water. They were still almost a half mile away when a volley of shots rang out.

  McQueen touched spurs to the black and whipped it around some tall sage and started on a dead run for the camp. Then, ahead, there was another shot. Then another and another.

  He sighted the wagon and slowed down. Kim Sartain was behind him, and suddenly McQueen glimpsed the moonlight on Baldy’s head. At the
same instant he saw the gleam of a lifted rifle.

  “Hold it!” he yelled. “It’s me!”

  He swung down. “What happened?”

  Baldy grinned. “After yuh left, we got to thinkin’, so when it come dark we rolled up some sacks and left them on the ground near the fire. Then we moved back in the sagebrush. A few minutes ago some rannies come up and let go with a volley into those dummies. A half minute later I see one of ’em move closer for a look, and I let him have it.”

  Suddenly a voice called out of the darkness. “Hey, Baldy!” It was Red Naify calling. “Put down yore guns. It’s all right. They run off when they saw me and the boss comin’.”

  McQueen fell back into the deep shadows under the wagon.

  “Get out of sight, Kim,” he whispered. “They didn’t see us come in. Call ’em in, Baldy, but be careful.”

  At that moment there was a soft voice from the shadows in the direction Ward and Sartain had come.

  “I’m going to wait here. I want to see this, too.”

  It was Ruth Kermitt! She had followed them out from town. Well, maybe it was the best way, McQueen thought.

  “Come on in,” Baldy said, “but come slow.”

  Red Naify, his blocky, powerful body looking even bigger in the dancing firelight, came first. After him, only a step behind but to the right, was Iver Hoyt.

  “Glad yuh boys ain’t turned in yet,” Red said. “We’re goin’ to move these cows.”

  “Tonight?” Baldy objected. “Where to?”

  “Up in the Humboldts,” Hoyt said. “I know the place.” He looked around. “Who was shootin’?”

  “That’s what we wondered.” Bud Fox had his thumbs in his gun belt. His eyes shifted from Naify to Hoyt. “Lucky they didn’t get us.”

  Ward, crouching under the wagon, could see what was coming. Naify had casually moved two steps farther to the left. Baldy and Bud were going to be caught in a cross fire. He stepped from under the wagon and straightened, hearing Kim move out also.

  One step took him into the firelight. “Fall back, you two,” he said quietly. “I’m takin’ over!”