A board creaked and Reb looked up. The cook was facing him across a double-barreled shotgun. “Drop it or I’ll cut you in two!”
Reb Farrell’s gun was level and he did not hesitate. “You fire,” he said, “and I’ll kill you. You’ll get me, but I’ll take you with me. Now go ahead and shoot, because I’ll not miss at this range!”
“Go ahead!” Ike shouted. “Shoot, you greasy fool!”
The cook stared, gulped, and his eyes shifted. He didn’t like the situation even a little. That Reb would not surrender in the face of the scattergun was something of which he had never dreamed. Now it was quite obvious that while he would kill Reb, the bullet from the pistol would unquestionably kill him. And he was not ready to die. Moreover, Reb Farrell’s very heedlessness in attacking four men when alone was enough to prove that he just didn’t care. The cook hesitated.
“Shoot,” Reb said, “or drop it! I’m tired of waiting.”
The cook’s eyes wavered to the man on the ground. “Yeah”-he sneered-“a lot you care what happens to me.” His eyes swung back to Reb and the six-gun was unwavering. “Never was much of a poker player. I reckon you got me. I’d rather be alive an’ in jail than dead on the ground.” He bent over and placed the shotgun carefully on the ground and took a step back. “Hope you’ll recall that when the trial comes.”
Quickly, Reb gathered up the loose weapons, including the rifle he had given his father, found inside the cabin. He tied the hands of Ike and the cook, then bandaged Banta’s wounds. The redhead was dead.
It was noon on the following day when Reb Farrell rode down the street of Palo Seco.
Doors began to open and people stepped out to look at the procession. Joe Banta, the cook, and Ike Goodrich followed by the horse carrying the body of Red, and behind them all, his rifle across his saddle, was Reb Farrell.
Nathan Embree stepped from the saloon and stopped. Laura was standing at the door of the post office, her face suddenly white.
“Embree.” Reb’s voice rang loud in the street. “Here’s your rustlers. You’ll find your cattle in Dark Canyon. This here, in case you don’t know him, is Joe Banta.
They carried my dad’s body out here as a warning, but when we shot they dropped the body an’ ran.”
Embree’s face was red. “I guess I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly, “but you’ll admit that I had reasons….”
Reb Farrell looked at him. “Reason to doubt a man who had worked hard for you, for years? Reason to suspect an old man who had harmed nobody? Embree, I’m ridin’ out of this country, but I’ll be back for the trial.
And the hanging.” He shot a cool look at Banta. “Nathan, I hope this teaches you a lesson. Next time don’t be so quick to judge.”
Laura stood beside her father, her face white, her teeth touching her lip. Suddenly Reb felt sorry for her.
“Reb!” She put up a hand as if to hold him back.
He drew up. “I’m not blamin’ you, nor anybody. I figure you never knew me real well or you’d not have been so quick to doubt. Next time I’ll think twice before I figure someone’s my gal.”
Reb moved on; Dave Barbot was standing on the walk. “Dave, you were the only one who gave me a kind word. Understand you’re in the market for some cows? Well, between Dad an’ me we had maybe four hundred head.”
“I’d say a few more,” Dave said. “You aim to sell?”
“To you, and the price is one thousand dollars and the care of my dad’s grave so long as you live.”
“A thousand, Reb?” Barbot was incredulous. “They’re worth twice that!”
“That’s my price. How about it?”
“Sure,” Dave said, “I’d be a fool to pass it up.”
Reb told him about the horses in the corral at the lone cabin. “Pick ‘em up, Dave.
They are yours.”
“We’ll trade, Reb. Down in the livery-barn corral there’s a horse you’ll know. My ‘paloose stallion. You always fancied that horse. Well, he’s yours. Throw your saddle over him an’ take this one for a packhorse. This deal you’re giving me isn’t fair to you, so let me throw this in.”
“All right, then. Have the money when I come back from the jail.”
On his way back down the street, Reb saw an old man standing on the edge of the porch, leaning against the awning post. It was Lon Melchor.
“Well, all right. I ain’t so strong right now, son, but I aim to be. I’d have to ride a mite easy the first few days, because this side pains me some, but if you’ll have me, I’ll trail along.”
He waved a hand at the town. “Folks here don’t cotton to me and I want to see some new country.”
Reb Farrell’s heart warmed to the old rustler. “Get up in your saddle, Lon. We’re headin’ up to Denver to see us some of these electric lights and telephones and such.”
The old man crawled painfully into the saddle and faced around. His face was strained, but his lips smiled and there was even humor in his eyes. “Let’s go! Denver it is!”
The sun was high and the mountains in the distance were a far purple. The air was fresh and there was the ‘paloose stepping out, tugging the bit.
*
STRAWHOUSE TRAIL
He looked through his field glasses into the eyes of a dying man. A trembling hand lifted, the fingers stirred, and the dying lips attempted to form words, trying desperately to tell him something across the void, to deliver a final message.
Chick Bowdrie stared, struggling to interpret the words, but even as he stared he saw the lips cease their movements and the man was no longer alive.
Lowering his glasses, Chick studied the wide sweep of the country. Without the glasses he could see only the standing horse that had first attracted his attention. The canyon between them was deep, but the dead man lay not more than one hundred yards away.
Mounting his hammer-headed roan, Chick Bowdrie swung to the trail again and started down the steep path into the canyon. By this route the man must have come. Had he been dying then? Or had he been shot as he reached the other side? There had been a dark blotch on the man’s side that must be blood.
Twenty minutes later he stood beside the dead man. No tracks but the man’s own. Falling from his horse, the fellow had tried to rise, had finally made it, struggled a few steps, and then fallen, to rise no more.
Chick knelt beside the dead man. About fifty-five, one hundred and thirty pounds, and very light-skinned for a Western man, which he obviously was. He had been shot low down on the left side.
No … that was where the bullet had come out. The bullet had entered in the man’s back near the spine.
Nothing in the pockets, no letters, no identification of any kind … and only a little money.
The jeans and shirt were new. The boots also. Only the gun belts, holster, and gun were worn. They showed much use, and much knowing care. The trigger was tied back … the man had been a slip-shot.
The dead man’s hands were white and smooth. Not the hands of a cowhand, yet neither was the man a gambler. Getting to his feet, Chick walked to the horse. A steel-dust and a fine animal, selected by a man who knew horseflesh. The saddle was of the “center-fire”
California style, of handworked leather and with some fine leather work on the tapaderos.
The rope was an easy eighty feet long, and new.
No food, which indicated the man expected to reach his goal before night. He had been shot not more than two hours before dusk, which implied his destination could not be far off. Surely not more than fifteen miles or so.
A new Winchester rifle with a hundred rounds of ammunition. An equal amount for a pistol, and then, curiously enough, a box of .32-caliber pistol ammunition. Returning it all to the saddlebags and a pack under the slicker, Bowdrie slung the body over the dead man’s saddle, then mounted his own horse.
Four miles from where the body had been found, the tracks of a shod horse turned into the trail. Chick swung down and studied them. The shoes were not new and wer
e curiously worn on the outside. Stepping back into the leather, Chick rode on.
Valverde came to life when Chick rode down the street. A man got up from a chair in front of the livery stable, another put down his hammer in the blacksmith shop.
A girl came from the general store. As one person, they began to move toward the front of the Border Saloon, where Chick Bowdrie had stopped.
“Deputy sheriff here? Or marshal?”
A bulky man with a star came from the saloon. “I’m Houdon, I’m the marshal.”
“Found him on the trail.” Bowdrie explained as the marshal examined the body, yet as he talked Chick’s eyes strayed to the faces of the crowd. They revealed nothing.
Behind him, there was a click of heels on the boardwalk, a faint perfume, then a gentle breathing at his shoulder.
The girl who had come from the store looked past him at the body. There was a quick intake of breath and she turned at once and walked away. Because she had seen a body?
Or because she knew the man?
After answering questions, Bowdrie walked into the saloon. The bartender shoved the bottle to him and commented, “Eastern man?”
“California,” Bowdrie replied. “Notice his rig?”
The bartender shrugged, making no reply. Chick downed his drink, filled his glass again, and waited, listening to the discussion in the bar.
There was, he learned, no trouble in the vicinity, and jobs were scarce. Occasionally he helped the conversation along with a comment or a question. Most local cowhands worked years for the same outfit, and most of them were Mexicans. The Bar W had let two hands go, but that was an exception. The Bar W was in old Robber’s Roost country, over against the Chisos Mountains.
“That trail I was followin’,” he commented idly, “wasn’t used much.”
“It’s the old Strawhouse Trail. Smugglers used it, a long time back. Only the old-timers know it.”
But the dead man had been riding it. Was he an old-timer returning? Chick threw down his cigarette and crossed to the restaurant.
Pedro opened one eye and looked at Bowdrie. A fat, jolly Mexican woman came from the kitchen. She jerked her head at the man. “He is the sleepy one! Good for nothing!”
Pedro opened the eye again. “Juana have nice restaurant, six leetle ones. Good for nothing! Hah! What can we get you, senor?”
“How about arroz con polio?”
Chick Bowdrie dropped to a bench beside the table, considering the situation. A man had bought an outfit, then loaded for bear, he had come to the border, a man who knew the old trails and who probably had been here long before. From his age, however, the sort of man who would not lightly return to the saddle.
He was eating when the girl came in and stopped near his table. She hesitated, then abruptly, she sat down. She put her hands on the table before her and he glanced at them, carefully kept hands, yet Western hands.
“That man … did he say anything? I mean, was he still living when you found him?”
She was very lovely, tall, with blond hair bleached by the sunlight.
“He was alive when I first saw him through my field glasses, but by the time I had crossed the canyon, he was dead.” He tasted his coffee. It was cowpuncher coffee, black and strong. “Did you know him?”
“No.” The suit she wore was not new. Excellent material and beautifully tailored, but growing shabby now. “I… I thought he might be coming to see me. I’m Rose Murray.”
The RM. He knew the ranch; from what he had heard earlier, he had ridden over part of it on his way into town. He waited for her to continue, and after a minute she said, “I’d never seen him. He … he knew where something was, something that belongs to my family. He was coming to get it for us.”
Gradually, she told him the story. Her ranch had steadily lost money after the death of her father. Rustlers, drought, and the usual cattle losses had depleted her stock.
With only a few hands left and badly in debt, a letter came from out of nowhere.
Long ago an outlaw band had roamed the area and they had raided the hacienda, stealing several sacks of gold coins, a dozen gold candlesticks, a gold altar service from the chapel, and a set of heavy table silver by a master craftsman. Owing to the weight of the treasure and the close pursuit, the thieves had been compelled to bury the loot. Taking only what gold coins they could safely carry, they had scattered.
Two of the six had been slain in a gun battle with the posse and another had been shot down on a dark El Paso street a few weeks later. The writer of the letter, who had not given his name, had gone west. He had fallen in love, married, and gone straight.
Hearing of the collapse of the once great fortune and the dire straits of the girl, his conscience troubled him. His own wife had died and he was once more alone. Some word had come to him from Texas that worried him, so he had written the girl that he was coming to her.
“He mentioned no children?”
“There was a son.”
When Rose had gone, Chick crossed to the stable for his horse. The hostler walked back with him. “Ain’t you that Castroville Ranger? Name of Bowdrie?”
Bowdrie nodded, waiting.
The old man nodded widely. “Figured so. Gent comes in askin’ who your hoss belonged to. Seemed mighty interested. I told him I didn’t know.”
“What did this fellow look like?”
“Oldish feller, shabby kind of. Thin hair, gray eyes. No color to him but his guns.
They seen plenty of use.”
The hostler pointed out the inquirer’s horse. Chick looked it over thoughtfully.
Dusty and tired. He put a hand on the horse. “So, boy,” he said gently, “so …”
The horse was too tired to resent his hand as he picked up the hoof. Holding it an instant to let the horse get used to it, he turned it up and examined the shoe. It was badly worn on the outside. So were the others.
Bowdrie straightened. “Thanks. Do you a favor some time.”
At daylight he was out of town and riding for the border. Crossing the river, he pulled up at the house of an old Mexican he knew in Boquillas.
Miguel watched Bowdrie as he came up the walk from the gate where he had tied his horse. He started to rise, but Chick put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up, my friend. I have come to talk to the one who remembers all.”
“You flatter an old man, senor. What is it you wish to know?”
When he explained the old man nodded. “Si, I have not forgotten, but it was long ago.” He leaned forward. “It was the Chilton gang, amigo. There were six, I was among those who fought the two who were killed. Before one died he told us one of the others was Bill Radcliff.”
“The Chilton gang …”
Bowdrie remembered them from the files of the Rangers. Dan Chilton, Bill Radcliff, and Andy Short had been the core of the group. Robbing payrolls had been their game, at ranches, mines, and the railroad. “One was killed in El Paso,” he said.
“Radcliff.” Miguel lighted a fresh cigarette. “The killer was never known. Some thought John Selman. He was marshal then. I do not think so.”
“Chilton?”
Miguel shrugged. “Who knows? He was the best of them. Wild, but a good man. My brother knew him. Short was the worst. A killer.”
They talked into the hot afternoon about the border and bad men and Indians and wars. It was only with great reluctance that Bowdrie got up to leave.
“Vaya con Dios.”
“Adios, amigo. Till next time …”
Bowdrie rode toward Glen Springs Draw. He thought again of Andy Short… it could have been the name the dead man had been saying, shaping the name with his lips as he died.
Sunlight flashed on a distant hillside, and instantly Chick Bowdrie reined the roan over and slapped spurs to his ribs. The horse jumped just as the bullet whiffed past Bowdrie’s head, but the roan was startled and the second bullet missed by yards.
Only the sunlight on a rifle barrel had saved his life.
&
nbsp; The shot had come from the slopes of Talley Mountain, and Chick kept the roan running, dodging from arroyo to arroyo and swinging back toward the mountain whence the bullet had come. Suddenly he eased to a canter, then a walk.
Dust in his nostrils, a settling of dust in the road, and the tracks of a horse … with shoes worn on the outside!
Making no attempt to follow, he turned his horse into the trail that led to the Bar W and the RM. Both outfits had headquarters beyond the ridge, and the trail swung suddenly left into a narrow cut. Hesitating only briefly, Bowdrie started into the opening. The sheer walls offered no place for a sniper, and the low rocks within the cut gave no shelter. He rode slowly, however, his six-gun in hand, and suddenly drew up, aware of a clicking. The sound stopped, and he started on. It began again.
Suddenly he smiled ruefully. His horse’s hooves were scraping against the eroded stones that lined the base of each wall….
Shortly before sundown he walked the roan into the yard of the Bar W. The old adobe house, the pole corrals, the sagging roof of the barn gave no evidence of life. Then a rusty hinge creaked and Bowdrie saw a man step from the barn.
He saw Bowdrie in the same instant, and for a moment he hesitated, as if half-inclined to drop the bucket he was carrying and grab for a gun.
Unshaven, big and rough, his shirt was dirty and he had a narrow-eyed look like a surly hound.
There were, Bowdrie noted, six mules in the corral, and several fine horses… he took out the makings. “Howdy”- his voice matter-of-fact-“takin’ on any hands?”
“No.” He jerked his head. “Go try the RM.”
Bowdrie continued working with his smoke, taking his time. “Old place,” he commented, “could stand some work. Figured there might be a job.”
“You figured wrong.”
“Don’t rush me, amigo. I’m interested in old places. Why, I’d bet this one was here in the days o’ the Chilton gang-”
The name brought no reaction. “Never heard of ‘em.”
“Some years back. Nobody ever did find all that loot.”
The big man was interested now. He walked toward Chick. “What loot?”
Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) Page 8
