Radigan (1958) (2 page)

Drawing back inside the barn he squatted on his heels and lighted a cigarette. If a man were to hide on that slope there were a dozen possible places, but none of them would conceal a horse.

So the sniper's horse would be hidden down in the trees on the lower hill, and somewhere east of the ranch. There was no cover directly east of the ranch yard, but around the corner of the hill there were scattered clumps of trees and brush, and then lower down, thick forest. The rifleman had hidden his horse somewhere down the slope and then had crawled up in the talus where he could cover the ranch yard.

Within the hour it would be completely dark.

After dark there would be no reason for anyone to wait up on that slope for there would be nothing to see. Therefore the hidden man would return to his horse and ride off somewhere to give up or await a better chance the following day.

Not even a mouse trusts himself to one hole only, and Radigan was no mouse. In the side of the barn that formed one wall of the corral there was another door made of sawed logs that was perfectly fitted and left for emergencies. He had never used that door since it had been built, but now he did.

Easing himself out that door, which was invisible from any place the watcher could be, he went down the slope behind the barn and into the trees.

On the run, he began to circle the ranch area to get where a horse might be concealed.

Pausing for breath in a clump of trees he told himself he was a fool-the half-breed had probably gone off somewhere.

But where? His horse was in the barn, it was raining, there was no reason of which he could think for Child to leave the house . . . and where had that strange rider disappeared to?

A watcher on that slope, if he wished to kill from ambush, must have his horse close in case something went wrong, which left four possible places of concealment. One was a wash where the runoff from the slope had cut a deep gash in the earth, another was a nest of boulders, the third a patch of brush, and the fourth a notch in the rocky face a hundred feet down from the bench on which the ranch stood. That notch could give easy access to the talus slope, and a horse waiting below it would provide a fast escape.

Rain fell steadily, and slight wind stirred the leaves, whip ping cold rain down his neck. He held his rifle muzzle down beneath his slicker, from which he had slipped an arm to hold the Winchester, as he worked his way to a new vantage point.

It was almost dark and at any moment the man might be returning to his horse. Every step Radigan took was now a danger, and he made no move without checking the terrain before it.

Far up the slope, a stone rattled.

Darting across a small open space he reached the nest of boulders, but there was no horse, no tracks. There was little time, and as the crack in the rock seemed the most likely place, he tried it next.

Rain whispered on the leaves, the world was gray and black now, shaded by rain and the coming of night.

He paused in the shadow of a boulder, his feet on the sand of a gradual slope. He worked his way through the trees, and the ground was soggy beneath his boots. Raindrops felt his cheeks with blind, questing fingers ... the black trunks of the trees were like iron bars against the gray of gathering pools.

Alert, nostrils distended, every sense reaching into the night, testing the air for what it held, he waited, and there was no sound.
Walking on, he rounded the corner of a rocky promontory and saw the horse.

Standing head down, partly sheltered by the overhang, it waited.

He had been right, then.

He stood close beside a sentinel pine, holding his body to merge with the blackness of the trunk. It was dark now.

Rain talked to the leaves. No bird moved-birds and rabbits were wise enough to take shelter when it rained. The horse stood disconsolate in the rain, and the rocks were black and wet.

It was cold . . . he relaxed his grip on the gun action and shifted his hold. The crack in the rock merged its blackness with the surrounding dark so he could scarcely distinguish the opening, but the horse shifted its feet and the saddle glistened wetly.

A boot scraped on stone, a pebble cascaded among the rocks. Delicately, Radigan tilted the Winchester barrel up to meet his left hand. He held the gun at hip level, ready to lift it for a quick shot.

There was a moment of silence, then a boot crunched on sand. A dark figure moved the shadows in the mouth of rock, and in the moment before the man reached the horse, Radigan said, "You looking for somebody?"

The man twisted and the flat stab of fire thrust toward him from the darkness and the rain, crossing the heavier sound of his Winchester, firing almost of its own volition, an instant late. He felt the shock of the bullet as it hit the tree beside him and spattered his face with tiny fragments of bark.

He fired a second time, realizing as he did so that the other man was fast, and a dead shot. Without warning more than his words the man had wheeled and fired . .

. he saw the man's body crumpling to the sand and the horse shy back, snorting. Tom Radigan moved a bit more behind the tree and waited.

He was not about to run up to a man shot down, or seemingly shot down.
He waited without movement, listening to the slow whisper of falling rain: there was no other sound.

The horse New through his nostrils, not liking the smell of gunsmoke. A wind stirred the corner of Radigan's slicker.

The shot was a dart of red flame and a smashing concussion. A finger tugged at the slicker and Radigan fired, levered the Winchester and fired again into the dark bulk of the body.

Silence again, and rain. It was dark, but his eyes were accustomed and he could make out the body against the gray sand.

He waited, feeling sure the man was dead ... this time he was dead.

Who had he killed? What was the man doing here, far from any other ranch or town?

How had he even known about this place? In the four years since Radigan came to the bench above the Vache there had been no more than a half-dozen visitors.

The man had come to kill, or else he would not have fired so suddenly at a strange voice speaking from the darkness. And he had been a man skilled in the use of arms, arriving by a route he must have known or to which he must have been well guided.

The minutes dragged, and Radigan waited. Many times the first man to move was the first to die, and he had learned patience. After awhile there was a short, convulsive sigh and a boot toe scraping in the sand. The man was dead.

Radigan moved to another tree, his rifle held ready for another shot.

Near the white palm of an outflung hand Radigan saw the wet shine of a pistol barrel.

He came from behind the tree and walked toward the body. The tied horse, not liking the mingled smell of powder smoke and blood, backed off, snorting softly. "Easy, boy. Easy now."

The horse quieted, reassured by the calm voice. Radigan had a way with animals-they trusted him. Even the bad ones seemed to buck under him merely to uphold their reputations, but with no heart in it.

Radigan prodded the body with his toe, rifle held for a shot, and when there was no move he turned the body so the face lay white under the dripping sky.

Squatting near the body, Radigan felt for a pulse and found none.
Spreading his slicker, he struck a match under its shelter, and looked at the dead face, mouth slightly open, eyes wide to the rain.

Young-not more than twenty-one or -two. A narrow face with a large mouth and thin lips, a forehead too high. The holster was slung low and tied fast.

Lifting the body, Radigan draped him over his saddle, then retrieved the rifle and pistol and leading the horse he walked back to the barn.

As he entered the yard the door opened and John Child stepped out with a lantern.

Child took the dead man's head in his grip and turned the face to the light. "Know him?"

"No ... do you?"

"No, I don't. Something familiar there, though."

Radigan noticed a small patch of bandage on Child's skull and indicated it with his eyes. "He hit you?"

"Burned me. I had your coat on." He looked at Radigan across the darkness. "What's the matter, Tom? What's wrong?" "Damned if I know." He explained about the tracks that came over the hills far from any trail, indicating the man had come with purpose in mind, using a way that would avoid the chance of being seen. "Somebody hunting me, John. Or you."

Child considered that. "You," he said finally. "My enemies are dead." He looked at the body. "Bury him in the morning?" "No. I'm a curious man, John. A wanting-to-know sort of man. I'm going to leave him tied across that saddle and turn the horse loose."

There was a moment of silence while the rain fell, and then Child muttered, "Damn!"

There was wonder and satisfaction in his tone. "I'd not have thought of that."

"Maybe, just maybe it'll work. The horse might be borrowed or rented, but it might be his own. In any case, that horse is likely to go home. Or maybe to where it was fed and stabled last. "

"You'll do," Child said. "You'd have made a fine Indian, Tom."

He studied the body, noting the three bullet holes. "He was a tough man."

"And fast," Radigan said. "He was fast and he was good. He was awful good. Two shots in the dark, one hit the tree I stood against, the other nicked my raincoat. This was a man knew his business, John. He was a man hired for the job, I'm guessing."

"Who?"

That was the question, of course.
From time to time a wandering man made enemies, but none that mattered and none who would come this far off their trail to hunt him down.
It made no kind of sense, just none at all.

He swore suddenly. "John, we're a couple of children. Give me that lantern."

He held the light up to the, brand. It was a Half-Circle T-no brand he had ever heard of. Then he pulled the dead man's coat loose and searched the pockets, but there was only a little money, no wallet, no letters. Yet the man had come from somewhere and behind his coming there was a reason.

"Tom." Child waited a moment while the time ran and the rain, fell. His voice was very serious. "Tom, you be careful. Whoever wants you took no chances on leaving evidence. He's clean. No identification. They took no chances of him being caught or killed."

"They didn't think about the horse."

"No, but the horse is strange around here. That's no brand we know."

"No, but this horse was fed somewhere, watered somewhere. This here is a grain-kept horse, and I'm gambling this man has been around a day or two, studying the lay of the land, and his horse might go back to where he was fed."

"In the morning?"

"Now. We'll let him start now, and in the morning I'll trail him down." Radigan indicated the sky. "Look-the rain is breaking. The tracks will still be there."

Leading the horse to the trail south he slapped him hard across the rump, and stood while the horse jumped away and then trotted off down the trail, the dark bulk of the dead man in the saddle. They watched him and listened until they could no longer hear the slowing clop-clop of the horse's hoofs. Without words they turned and went into the house and Tom Radigan suddenly realized he was tired, dead tired.

"Coffee's on. It'll be stronger than hell." "What else?"

"Beans, beef . .. what d'you expect?"

Child put down the lantern and lighted a coal-oil lamp. Radigan hung his hat and slicker on wooden pegs driven into the wall and glanced toward the fire. He had been thinking about that fire for a long time.

The room was long with a huge fireplace on one side, and a beamed, low ceiling that cleared Tom Radigan's head by no more than a few inches. It was a frontier room, but somehow more pleasant.

There had been a lot of years when he had thought of 'a place like this. It lacked a woman's touch, but it was strongly built and comfortable, built to last as Radigan had planned it during the long nights on night herd. It had a view down the valley, and was built for strength and a good defense, for there was always a chance of needing that in a strong new country where men did not readily settle into the ways of law. But there were windows with wide, deep sills, windows that would someday carry plants . . . geraniums, maybe.

And there was an inside pump, good for defense, of course, but good also for a woman.

It would save her steps and time. It was a rare thing in this country to have an inside pump.

"Got myself a couple of cats," Radigan commented. "Lose any stock?"

"Over a time, maybe four or five head. These lions were latecomers, I figure. But no lion ever had any sense. Got them both in the same trap, just reset it. Caught them in the same place on successive nights. Never do that to a wolf."

John Child was a square-shouldered man, dark and strong boned, a man who looked as if he were hewn from oak. The Indian in him was strong, but the white man in him had made him painstaking in his work. He dished up the food, steaming from the fire, and then poured coffee. "You set up to the table, Tom. You're about done in."

Radigan rolled up his sleeves revealing the white skin of powerful forearms, the brown of his hands resembling gloves by comparison. He bathed carefully, working up a good lather with the homemade soap. He washed his face, digging his soapy finger into his ears, then dampened a towel and went behind his ears and finally combed out his stiff brown-red hair. And all the while he was thinking, backtracking himself across the days to find some clue to the unknown dead man and the why of his coming to the ranch on the Vache.