Monument Rock (Ss) (1998)

by L'amour, Louis

  The man’s sudden quiet disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

  At daybreak Rock was riding, and by noon he had made a careful survey of the site chosen for the dam. It was a good spot, no doubt about it, and looking at the massive stone walls above, he had an idea how it could be done.

  He said nothing to Leosa, but after a quick lunch, took some giant powder from a cache near the house and returned to the mountain. By nightfall he had his first set of holes in, and had them charged.

  Leosa, a new warmth in her eyes, reported no sign of Wilson or Rorick. A passing neighbor, one of the few who condescended to speak, had told her there was a rumor that Art Beal and Milt Blue, the outlaws, were in the vicinity, that Blue had been seen riding near Joe Billy.

  Leosa said this last with averted eyes. She was remembering that flashing draw, and the fact that Rock had come out of the Dead Hills. Milt Blue was a known killer, and a deadly man with a gun. She had never seen him nor heard a description, but she was afraid now. Afraid for Rock. Was he … could he be Milt Blue?

  Yet if the rumors meant anything to him, he said nothing. “Art Beal hasn’t been around much,” he commented. “Disappeared a while back. Blue killed another man down to El Paso, only a month ago.”

  The following day, Rock returned and put in his second round of holes. When he had them charged, he studied the situation below. If the rock broke right, he would have a fairly good dam across the canyon. Then another charge, to help things along, and in no time the creek itself would finish the dam by piling up silt, brush and weeds to fill up the holes and gaps in the rocks.

  Rock carefully lighted his fuses, then descended the rock face to the bottom of the draw. The fuses were long, for he had wanted to get both shots off approximately together. The climb to the opposite side took him little time, and in a matter of a minute he had spit those fuses and then slid rapidly down the steep declivity to the bottom. He turned and started up the draw, then glanced back.

  Light glinted high on the rock, and instinctively, he hurled himself to the right.

  A rifle spoke, its distant bark swallowed by the huge, all-engulfing roar as the first set of powder-charged holes let go. It was an enormous sound, magnified and echoed again and again by the walls of the canyon, but Rock did not hear it. He was going over headfirst into the rocks. He landed facedown, slid a short distance, then his body ceased to slide and he lay sprawled out and unconscious among the greasewood and boulders at one side of the draw.

  Beyond him rocks fell, then ceased to fall, and dust rose slowly, in a great cloud.

  When it stopped rising, there was a wall across the canyon, low in the middle, but high enough. The mountain stream, trickling down its normal bed, found the way blocked, it turned right, searching for a way under or through, but discovered no way to accommodate the swelling strength of water behind it. Spreading left, it found no way out, and so began to back up in a slowly widening and deepening pool.

  It was dark when the lapping water reached the nest of rocks where the fallen man lay. Cold fingers encircled his outflung hand, crept up his arm with exploring tentacles, and flattened out, creeping along his side and toward his face.

  A coyote, prowling nearby and sniffing blood, paused to stare at the man’s dark body.

  Curious, he came near, stepping daintily to keep his feet from the water. When the man moved, drawing back a hand, the coyote drew back and trotted swiftly off.

  It was the cold touch of the water that roused Joe Billy Rock. Water against his face and water along his ribs. For an instant he lay still, and then the meaning of the creeping coldness came to him with a rush, and he jerked back and lunged to his feet. The startled reaction that brought him up also brought a rush of pain to his head. His fingers lifted and explored. The bullet had caused chips of rock to pepper his face and arm, but there was at least one other cut caused by his fall, and his whole body was stiff and numb.

  He staggered, splashing, toward higher ground. There he looked back, and saw that almost an acre of water had already gathered behind his crude dam. A little work would make it more effective.

  Memory returned, and he realized he had been shot at. Shot at the instant before the explosion by someone perched on the very rocks he was blasting! Whoever that unknown marksman had been, he was dead now. Survival, where he had been perched, was out of the question.

  A half hour of staggering and falling brought him to his horse, which looked up quickly at the sight of him, tossing his head at the smell of blood. It was no more than fifteen minutes of riding to the house. All was dark and still.

  Carefully, Rock considered this. Had Leosa been at home, she would certainly have a light. Moreover, she would be awaiting supper. The time he roughly estimated to be nine or past, but she knew he was working and would have heard the explosion.

  Had she gone out looking for him? Stealthily, he rode nearer, then dismounted. Ten minutes of careful searching proved the house, barn, and the whole ranch was empty.

  The stove was cold, no dishes on the table. No evidence that a meal had been prepared.

  Squinting against the stinging pain in his cheek and forehead, he tried to assemble his thoughts. Somehow they must have gotten her out of here; believing him dead. Van Rorick had acted to seize the ranch.

  The gray he was riding had a liking for the trail and he let him take it. He ran like a scared rabbit until the town lights were plain, then Rock slowed him to a canter and then a walk. He swung down from the horse near the livery barn, loosened his guns in his holsters, and started up the street. Voices made him draw back into the shadows. Between two buildings he waited while two men drew near.

  “Hear about that gal out to the old Barron place? One said she was Barren’s niece?

  She skipped out with that tough-lookin’ hand who’s been hanging around there. Somebody said they was seen on the road to Cimarron, ridin’ out of the country.”

  “Good riddance, I’d say. I hear she carried on plenty!”

  Rock stared after them. Rorick was shrewd. His story was already going the rounds, and it was a plausible yarn. But what had happened to Leosa?

  He started up the street, moving more cautiously now. First, he must see Whiting.

  The lawyer would know what to do, and would start a search here. Then he would head for Rorick’s own ranch.

  It was possible that Rorick had killed the girl at once, or that Lute Wilson had.

  But the man on the rock before the explosion was probably Lute. Rorick was too smart to take such chances himself. It had been only bad luck that got Lute, however, for the man could not have known of the loaded holes and spitted fuses.

  Rock climbed the stairs, then pushed open the lawyer’s door. Ranee Whiting’s office was dark and still. Fumbling in his pocket, he got a match and lighted it. Whiting was sprawled on the floor, his shirt bloody, his face white as death.

  Dropping to his knees, Rock found the lawyer had been stabbed twice, once in the back, once in the chest. The room was in wild disorder.

  Working swiftly, Rock got water and bathed the wounds, then bandaged them. The lawyer was still alive, and the first thing was to get the bleeding stopped. When he had him resting easily on the bed, Rock turned to the door. He was opening it when he heard the lawyer’s hoarse cry.

  Instantly, he turned back. “The papers,” Whiting whispered, “they …” His voice trailed feebly away. He had fainted.

  Leaving the light burning, Rock ran down the outside stairs to the street, glanced once at the saloon, and then ran up the street to old Doc Spencer’s home. In a few minutes he had the old man started toward Whiting’s office.

  Joe Rock stared at the Longhorn. This was his town. He owned the whole townsite by inheritance, and he intended to keep it, especially that part usurped by Van Rorick.

  He walked swiftly to the saloon and, from a position near the window, studied the interior. Rorick was there but he didn’t appear happy. The same slight-figured man who had been with him be
fore was with him now. Lute was not, which was all the assurance Rock needed that the man was dead. It was undoubtedly his failure to return that worried Rorick.

  Circling swiftly, he came to the rear door, but reached it only to hear the front door open and close. When he looked in, Rorick and his friend had gone.

  From the street came a sound of horses’ hooves and then two men rode down the street and out of town. Hurrying to his own horse, Rock swung into the saddle and, kicking his feet into the stirrups, started in pursuit.

  Rorick set a fast pace. Rock let his mind leap ahead, trying to get the drift of the other man’s thinking. Wilson had not returned, and that could mean he had failed.

  It could also mean Wilson and Rock had killed each other. Rorick swung toward the Barren homestead, and drew up, staring toward it. Rock was no more than a hundred yards away and could see the men outlined against the sky.

  Seeing the house dark, they evidently decided that Rock had not returned there. They pushed on. When they reached the now dry creek, Rock heard a startled exclamation, and then the riders turned toward the dam. He saw them ride up to it and look around, heard a low-voiced conversation of which he could guess the sense but understand no word. Then they mounted and rode on.

  The course they followed now led deeper and deeper into the rocky canyons to the north. This was lonely country, and was not, Rock was aware, toward Rorick’s ranch. Suddenly the two men rode down into a hollow and disappeared.

  Rock drew up, straining his eyes into the night, holding his breath for any sound.

  There was none. He walked his horse a short way, and was about to go farther when his eyes caught a vague suggestion of light. Turning, he worked his way through some willows and saw among some boulders the darker blotch of a cabin from which gleamed two lighted windows!

  Swinging down, Rock stole toward the house, ghostlike in the night. She had to be here! His heart pounding, his mouth dry, all the fear he had been feeling all evening now tight and cold within him. What if something had happened to her? What if she had been killed?

  A door opened and a man stepped out. He was a stranger. “I’ll put the horses up,” he said over his shoulder, “an’ grub’s ready.”

  The fellow carried a lantern and he walked toward a rock barn that stood close under a cliff. Joe Rock followed, and moved in behind him. The man placed the lantern on the ground and reached for a bridle.

  In that instant Rock’s forearm went across his throat and jammed a knee into the startled man’s back, jerking him off balance. Then Rock turned him loose, but before he could get breath to yell a warning, Rock slugged him in the wind. He doubled up, and Rock struck him again. Then he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. He was trembling with fury. “Is that girl in there? Is she safe?”

  The fellow gasped and choked. “She … she’s all right! Don’t kill me! For Lord’s sake, man!”

  “Who’s in there?” Rock demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  “Just them two. Seal ‘n Milt Blue.”

  Joe Rock froze. Then he said carefully, “Who did you say? Art Beal and Milt Blue?

  The outlaws?”

  “They ain’t sky pilots,” the man said, growling.

  “You mean Beal is the hombre known in town as Rorick?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” The man was talking freely now. “He said there’d be no trouble. I ain’t no outlaw! I just needed a few dollars.”

  Roughly, Rock bound and gagged the man. He was aware now of his real danger, and of Leosa’s danger. If Rorick was Art Beal, that accounted for some of the six years he had been away from Joe Billy, and also let Rock know just what sort of a man Rorick was. Yet for all of that, the real risk lay in facing Milt Blue, the gunslinger.

  He left the man bound on the dirt floor of the barn, loosened his guns in their holsters, and started for the house. He carried the lantern with him, wanting them to believe he was their helper. As he neared the door he shifted the lantern to his left hand and drew his gun. Then he opened the door and stepped in.

  Only Leosa was looking toward the door, and her eyes widened. Her expression must have warned them, for as one man they turned, and Blue went for his gun. Instantly, as though it had been rehearsed, Leosa threw her body against Rorick, knocking him off balance.

  Rock had his feet spread and his gun ready. “Drop it, Blue!” he yelled.

  The gunman grabbed iron. His gun leaped free with amazing speed, and as the muzzle cleared the holster Rock shot him in the stomach. He was slammed back by the force of the bullet, but fought doggedly and bitterly to get his gun up. Despite the fierce struggle against the wall, where Leosa fought desperately with Rorick, Rock took his time. He fired again. Blue’s eyes glazed and the gun slid from his hand.

  Rock turned and instantly Leosa let go and stepped back. Van Rorick stared across the room. “You think you’ve won!” he cried. “Well, you haven’t! I got the papers!

  I burned them! Burned every last one of them! You’ve lost everything! And I sold my claim on her place, so you’ll lose that, too! And now I’m going to kill you, gun or no gun.”

  His right hand had dangled behind him, and now it swung up, clutching a gun. Rock’s pistol leaped in his hand, and the room thundered with a shot. Rorick’s face twisted and he stepped back, shocked with realization. Awareness of death hit him, and his eyes widened, then his mouth dropped open and he crumpled to the floor.

  Rock caught Leosa in his arms and hurried her to the door.

  Doc Spencer met them when they reached the top of the office stairs. “He’s in bad shape, but he’ll pull through,” he told them. “Few minutes ago he was conscious, an’ he said to tell you the papers are stuck behind his volume of Horace. Those he left for Rorick to find were fakes he fixed up. He figured on somethin’ like this.”

  They walked back down the steps to the silent street. Almost unconsciously, they were holding hands.

  “Rock,” Leosa asked gently, “what will you do now? You own the town? I heard you did.”

  “I’m goin’ to give all these folks who shape up right deeds to their property. It ain’t worth so much, anyway. The Longhorn I’ll sell.”.

  “What about you?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Me? … why, I was thinkin’ of ranchin’ an’ watchin’ hay crops grow out on the Barren place … with my wife.”

  *

  MONUMENT ROCK

  Chapter I

  Lona was afraid of him. She was afraid of Frank Mailer, the man whom she was to marry.

  She realized that it was not size alone that made her afraid of him, but something else, something she saw in his blue, slightly glassy eyes, and the harshness of his thin-lipped mouth.

  He was big, the biggest man she had ever seen, and she knew his contempt for smaller men, men of lesser strength and lesser will. He was five inches over six feet and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Whenever he stood near her, the sheer mass of him frightened her and the way he looked at her made her uneasy.

  Her father looked up at him as he came in. “Did you get that north herd moved before the rain set in?”

  “Yeah.” Mailer did not look up, helping himself to two huge slabs of beef, a mound of mashed potatoes, and liberal helpings of everything else. He commenced his supper by slapping butter on a thick slice of homemade bread and taking an enormous bite, then holding the rest of it in his left hand, he began to shovel food into his mouth with his right.

  Between bites he looked up at Poke Markham. “I saw the Black Rider.”

  “On our range?”

  “Uh-huh. Just like they were sayin’ in town, he was ridin’ the high country, alone.

  Over toward Chimney Rock.”

  “Did you get close to him? See what he looks like?”

  “Not a chance. Just caught a glimpse of him over against the rocks, and then he was gone, like a shadow. That horse of his is fast.” Mailer looked up and Lona was puzzled by the slyness in his eyes as he looked at her father. �
�You know what the Mexican boys say? That he’s the ghost of a murdered man?”

  The comment angered Markham. “That’s foolishness! He’s real enough, all right! What I want to know is who he is and what he thinks he’s doin’.”

  “Maybe the Mex boys are right. You ever see any tracks? I never did, an’ nobody else that I ever heard of. Nobody ever sees him unless it is almost dark or rainin’, an’ then never more than a glimpse.”

  “He’s real enough!” Markham glared from under his shaggy brows, his craggy face set in angry lines. “Some outlaw on the dodge, that’s who he is, hangin’ out in the high peaks so he won’t be seen. Who’s he ever bothered?”

  Mailer shrugged. “That’s the point. He ain’t bothered anybody yet, but maybe he wants one certain man.” Mailer looked up at Poke, in his malicious way. “Maybe he’s the ghost of a murdered man, like they say, an’ maybe he’s tryin’ to lure his murderer back into the hills.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Markham repeated irritably. “You’ll have Lona scared out of her wits, ridin’ all over like she does.”

  Frank Mailer looked at her, his eyes meeting hers, then running down over her breast.

  He always made her uncomfortable. How had she ever agreed to marry him? She knew that when he drank he became fiercely belligerent. Nobody wanted to cross him when he was drinking. Only one man ever had tried to stop him when he was like that. Bert Hayek had tried it, and Bert had died for his pains.

  His fighting had wrecked several of the saloons in town. All, in fact, except for the Fandango. Was it true, what they said? That Frank was interested in that Spanish woman who ran the place? Nita Howard was her name. Lona Markham had seen her once, a tall young woman with a voluptuous figure and beautiful eyes. She had thought her one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Lena’s intended was often seen visiting with a beautiful woman who ran a saloon and gambling hall and Lona found she didn’t care … not at all.’

  When supper was over Lona left hurriedly. More and more she was avoiding Frank. She did not like to have him near her, did not want to talk to him. He frightened her, but he puzzled her, too. For more and more he seemed to be exerting authority here on the Blue Hill ranch, and more and more her father was fading into the background. People said that Poke Markham was afraid of no man, but of late she’d begun to wonder, for several times he had allowed Mailer to overrule him.