The Lawless West (21 page)

The place to look was where the Bar M and the Two Bar joined. And tomorrow I would do my looking, and would do it carefully.

On this ride Mulvaney joined me, and I welcomed the company as well as the Irishman’s shrewd brain. We rode east, toward the vast wilderness that lay there, east toward the country where I had followed Morgan Park toward his rendezvous with Jack Slade. East, toward the maze of cañons, desert, and lonely lands beyond the river.

“See any tracks up that way before?” Mulvaney asked suddenly.

“Some,” I admitted, “but I was following the fresh trail. We’ll have a look around.”

“Think it will be that silver you found out about in Booker’s office?”

“Could be. We’ll head for Dark Cañon Plateau and work north from there. I think that’s the country.”

“I’d feel better,” Mulvaney admitted after a pause, “if we knew what had become of that Slade outfit. They’ll be feelin’ none too kindly after the whippin’ you gave ’em.”

I agreed. Studying the narrowing point, I knew we would soon strike a trail that led back to the northwest, a trail that would take us into the depths of Fable Cañon. Nearing that trail, I suddenly saw something that looked like a horse track. A bit later we found the trail of a single horse, freshly shod and heading northeast—a trail no more than a few hours old.

“Could be one o’ the Slade outfit,” Mulvaney speculated dubiously. “Park’s in jail, an’ nobody else would come over here.”

We fell in behind, and I could see these tracks must have been made during the night. At one place a hoof had slipped and the earth had not yet dried out. Obviously, then, the horse had passed after the sun went down.

We rode with increasing care, and we were gaining. When the cañon branched, we found a water hole where the rider had filled his canteen and prepared a meal. “He’s no woodsman, Mulvaney. Much of the wood he used was not good burning wood and some of it green. Also, his fire was in a place where the slightest breeze would swirl smoke in his face.”

“He didn’t unsaddle,” Mulvaney said, “which means he was in a hurry.”

This was not one of Slade’s outlaws, for always on the dodge nobody knew better than they how to live in the wilds. Furthermore, they knew these cañons.
This might be a stranger drifting into the country looking for a hideout. But it was somewhere in this maze that we would find what it was that drew the interest of Morgan Park.

Scouting around, I suddenly looked up. “Mulvaney! He’s whipped us! There’s no trail out!”

“Sure ’n’ he didn’t take wings to get out of here,” Mulvaney growled. “We’ve gone blind, that’s what we’ve done.”

Returning to the spring, we let the horses drink while I did some serious thinking. The rock walls offered no route of escape. The trail had been plain to this point, and then vanished. No tracks. He had watered his horse, prepared a meal—and afterward left no tracks. “It’s uncanny,” I said. “It looks like we’ve a ghost on our hands.”

Mulvaney rubbed his grizzled jaw and chuckled. “Who would be better to cope with a ghost than a couple of Irishmen?”

“Make some coffee, you bog-trotter,” I told him. “Maybe then we’ll think better.”

“It’s a cinch he didn’t fly,” I said later, over coffee, “and not even a snake could get up these cliffs. So he rode in, and, if he left, he rode out.”

“But he left no tracks, Matt. He could have brushed them out, but we saw no signs of brushing. Where does that leave us?”

“Maybe”—the idea came suddenly—“he tied something on his feet?”

“Let’s look up the cañons. He’d be most careful right here, but if he is wearin’ somethin’ on his feet, the farther he goes, the more tired he’ll be…or his horse will be.”

“You take one cañon, and I’ll take the other. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

Walking, leading my buckskin, I scanned the ground. At no place was the sand hard-packed, and there were tracks of deer, lion, and an occasional bighorn. Then I found a place where wild horses had fed, and there something attracted me. Those horses had been frightened.

From quiet feeding they had taken off suddenly, and no bear or lion would frighten them so. They would leave, but not so swiftly. Only one thing could make mild horses fly so quickly—man.

The tracks were comparatively fresh, and instinct told me this was the right way. The wild horses had continued to run. Where their tracks covered the bottom of the cañon, and where the unknown rider must follow them, I should find a clue. And I did, almost at once.

Something foreign to the rock and manzanita caught my eye. Picking it free of a manzanita branch, I straightened up. It was sheep’s wool.

Swearing softly, I swung into the saddle and turned back. The rider had brought sheepskins with him, tied some over his horse’s hoofs and some over his own boots, and so left no defined tracks. Mulvaney was waiting for me. “Find anything?”

He listened with interest, and then nodded. “It was a good idea he had. Well, we’ll get him now.”

The trail led northeast and finally to a high, windswept plateau unbroken by anything but a few towering rocks or low-growing sagebrush. We sat our horses, squinting against the distance, looking over the plateau and then out over the vast maze of cañons, a red, corrugated distance of land almost untrod by men. “If he’s out there,” Mulvaney said, “we may never find him. You could lose an army in that.”

“We’ll find him. My hunch is that it won’t be far.” I nodded at the distance. “He had no pack horse, only a canteen to carry water, and, even if he’s uncommonly shrewd, he’s not experienced in the wilds.”

Mulvaney had been studying the country. “I prospected through here, boy.” He indicated a line of low hills to the east. “Those are the Sweet Alice Hills. There are ruins ahead of us, and away yonder is Beef Basin.”

“We’ll go slow. My guess is we’re not far behind him.”

As if in acknowledgement of my comment, a rifle shot rang out sharply in the clear air! We heard no bullet, but only the shot, and then another, closer, sharper!

“He’s not shootin’ at us,” Mulvaney said, staring with shielded eyes. “Where is he?”

“Let’s move!” I called. “I don’t like this spot!”

Recklessly we plunged down the steep trail into the cañon. Down, down, down. Racing around elbow turns of the switchback trail, eager only to get off the skyline and into shelter. If the unknown rider had not fired at us, whom had he fired at? Who was the rider? Why was he shooting?

Tired as my buckskin was, he seemed to grasp the need for getting under cover, and he rounded curves in that trail that made my hair stand on end. At the bottom we drew up in a thick cluster of trees and brush, listening. Even our horses felt the tension, for their ears were up, their eyes alert.

All was still. Some distance away a stone rattled. Sweat trickled behind my ear, and I smelled the hot aroma of dust and baked leaves. My palms grew sweaty and I dried them, but there was no sound. Careful to let my saddle creak as little as possible, I swung down, Winchester in hand. With a motion to wait, I moved away.

From the edge of the trees I could see no more than thirty yards in one direction, and no more than twenty in the other. Rock walls towered above and the cañon lay, hot and still, under the midday sun. From somewhere came the sound of trickling water, but there was no other sound or movement. My neck felt hot and sticky, my shirt clung to my shoulders.
Shifting the rifle in my hands, I studied the rock walls with misgiving. Drying my hands on my jeans, I took a chance and moved out of my cover, moving to a narrow, six-inch band of shade against the far wall. Easing myself to the bend of the rock, I peered around.

Sixty yards away stood a saddled horse, head hanging. My eyes searched and saw nothing, and then, just visible beyond a white, water-worn boulder, I saw a boot and part of a leg. Cautiously I advanced, wary for any trick, ready to shoot instantly. There was no sound but an occasional chuckle of water over rocks. Then suddenly I could see the dead man.

His skull was bloody, and he had been shot over the eye with a rifle and at fairly close range. He had probably never known what hit him. There was vague familiarity to him and his skull bore a swelling. This had been one of Slade’s men who I had slugged on the trail to Hattan’s Point.

The bullet had struck over the eye and ranged downward, which meant he had been shot from ambush, from a hiding place high on the cañon wall. Lining up the position, I located a tuft of green that might be a ledge.

Mulvaney was approaching me. “He wasn’t the man we followed,” he advised. “This one was comin’ from the other way.”

“He’s one of the Slade crowd. Dry-gulched.”

“Whoever he is,” Mulvaney assured me, “we can’t take chances. The fellow who killed this man shot for keeps.”

We started on, but no longer were the tracks disguised. The man we followed was going more slowly now. Suddenly I spotted a boot print. “Mulvaney,”
I whispered hoarsely. “That’s the track of the man who killed Rud Maclaren.”

“But Morgan Park is in the hoosegow,” Mulvaney protested.

“Unless he’s broken out. But I’d swear that was the track found near Maclaren’s body. The one Canaval found.”

My buckskin’s head came up and his nostrils dilated. Grabbing his nose, I stifled the neigh, then stared up the cañon. Less than 100 yards away a dun horse was picketed near a patch of bunchgrass. Hiding our horses in a box cañon, we scaled the wall for a look around. From the top of the badly fractured mesa we could see all the surrounding country. Under the southern edge of the mesa was a cluster of ancient ruins, beyond them some deep cañons. With my glasses shielded from sun reflection by my hat, I watched a man emerge from a crack in the earth, carrying a heavy sack. Placing it on the ground, he removed his coat and with a pick and bar began working at a slab of rock.

“What’s he doin’?” Mulvaney demanded, squinting his eyes.

“Pryin’ a slab of rock,” I told him, and, even as I spoke, the rock slid, rumbled with other débris, then settled in front of the crack. After a careful inspection the man concealed his tools, picked up his sack and rifle, and started back. Studying him, I could see he wore black jeans, very dusty now, and a small hat. His face was not visible. He bore no resemblance to anyone I had seen before.

He disappeared near the base of the mountain and for a long time we heard nothing.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“We’d best be mighty careful,” Mulvaney warned
uneasily. “That’s no man to be foolin’ with, I’m thinkin’.”

A shot shattered the clear, white radiance of the afternoon. One shot, and then another.

We stared at each other, amazed and puzzled. There was no other sound, no further shots. Then uneasily we began our descent of the mesa, sitting ducks if he was waiting for us. To the south and west the land shimmered with heat, looking like a vast and unbelievable city, long fallen to ruin. We slid into the cañon where we’d left the horses, and then the shots were explained.

Both horses were on the ground, sprawled in pools of their own blood. Our canteens had been emptied and smashed with stones. We were thirty miles from the nearest ranch, and the way lay through some of the most rugged country on earth.

“There’s water in the cañons,” Mulvaney said at last, “but no way to carry it. You think he knew who we were?”

“If he lives in this country, he knows that buckskin of mine,” I said bitterly. “He was the best horse I ever owned.”

To have hunted for us and found us, the unknown man would have had to take a chance on being killed himself, but by this means he left us small hope of getting out alive.

“We’ll have a look where he worked,” I said. “No use leaving without knowing about that.”

It took us all of an hour to get there, and night was near before we had dug enough behind the slab of rock to get at the secret. Mulvaney cut into the bank with his pick. Ripping out a chunk and grabbing it, he thrust it under my eyes, his own glowing with enthusiasm. “Silver,” he said hoarsely. “Look at it! If
the vein is like that for any distance, this is the biggest strike I ever saw! Richer than Silver Reef!”

The ore glittered in his hand. There was what had killed Rud Maclaren and all the others. “It’s rich,” I said, “but I’d settle for the Two Bar.”

Mulvaney agreed. “But still,” he said, “the silver is a handsome sight.”

“Pocket it, then,” I said dryly, “for it’s a long walk we have.”

“But a walk we can do!” He grinned at me. “Shall we start now?”

“Tonight,” I said, “when the walking will be cool.”

We let the shadows grow long around us while we walked and watched the thick blackness choke the cañons and deepen in the shadows of trees. We walked on steadily, with little talk, up Ruin Cañon and over a saddle of the Sweet Alice Hills, and down to the spring on the far side of the hills.

There we rested, and we drank several times. From the stars I could see that it had taken us better than two hours of walking to make less than five miles. But now the trail would be easier along Dark Cañon Plateau—and then I remembered Slade’s camp. What if they were back there again? Holed up in the same place?

It was a thought, and to go down the cañon toward them was actually none out of the way. Although the walking might be rougher at times, we would have the stream beside us, a thing to be considered. Mulvaney agreed and we descended into the cañon.

Dark it was there, and quiet except for the rustle of water over stones, and there was a cool dampness that was good to our throats and skins after the heat.
We walked on, taking our time, for we’d no records to break. And then we heard singing before we saw the reflection of the fire.

We walked on, moving more carefully, for the cañon walls caught and magnified every sound.

Three men were about the fire and one of them was Jack Slade. Two were talking while one man sang as he cleaned his rifle. We reached the edge of the firelight before they saw us, and I had my Winchester on them, and Mulvaney that cannon-like four-shot pistol of his. “Grab the sky, Slade!” I barked the order at him, and his hand dropped, then froze.

“Who is it?” he demanded hoarsely, straining his eyes at us. Our faces being shielded by the brims of our hats, he could not see enough of them. I stepped nearer so the firelight reached under my hat brim.

“It’s Matt Sabre,” I said, “and I’m not wanting to kill you or anybody. We want two horses. You can lend them to us, or we’ll take them. Our horses were shot by the same man that killed your partner.”

Slade jerked, his eyes showing incredulity. “Killed? Lott killed?”

“That’s right. Intentionally or otherwise he met up with the
hombre
we were following. He drilled your man right over the eyes. We followed on, and he found where we left our horses and shot them both to leave us afoot.”

“Damn a man that’ll kill a horse,” Slade said. “Who was he?”

“Don’t know,” I admitted. “Only he leaves a track like Morgan Park. At least, he’s got a small foot.”

“But Park’s in jail,” Mulvaney added.

“Not now he isn’t,” Slade said. “Morgan Park broke jail within an hour after darkness last night.
He pulled one of those iron bars right out of that old wall, stole a horse, and got away. He’s on the loose and after somebody’s scalp.”

Park free! But the man we had followed had not been as big as Park was. I did not tell them that. “How about the horses?” I asked.

“You can have them, Sabre,” Slade said grudgingly. “I’m clearing out. I’ve no stomach for this sort of thing.”

“Are they spares?”

Slade nodded. “We’ve a half dozen extras. In our business it pays to keep fresh horses.” He grinned. “No hard feelin’s, Sabre?”

“Not me,” I said. “Only don’t you boys get any wild ideas about jumpin’ me. My trigger finger is right jittery.”

Slade shrugged wryly. “With two guns on us? Not likely. I don’t know whether your partner can shoot or not but with a cannon that big he doesn’t need to. What kind of a gun is that, anyway?”

“She’s my own make,” Mulvaney said cheerfully, “but the slug kills just as dead.”

“Give this
hombre
an old stove pipe and he’d make a cannon,” I told them. “He’s a genius with tools.”

While Mulvaney got the horses, I stood over the camp. “Any other news in town?” I asked Slade.

“Plenty,” he admitted. “Some Army officer came into town claimin’ Park killed his brother. Seems a right salty gent. And”—his eyes flickered to mine—“Bodie Miller is talkin’ it big around town. He says you’re his meat.”

“He’s a heavy eater, that boy,” I said carelessly. “He may tackle something one of these days that will give him indigestion.”

Jack Slade shrugged and watched Mulvaney lead up the horses. As we mounted, I glanced back at him. “We’ll leave these horses at the corral of the livery stable in town, if you like.”

Slade’s eyes twinkled a little. “Better not. First time you get a chance take ’em to a corral you’ll find in the woods back of Armstrong’s. Towns don’t set well with me, nor me with them.”

The horses were fresh and ready to go, and we let them run. Daylight found us riding up the street of Hattan’s Point, a town that was silent and waiting. The loft was full of hay and both of us headed for it. Two hours later I was wide awake. Splashing water on my face, I headed for O’Hara’s. The first person I saw as we came through the door was Key Chapin. Olga Maclaren was with him.

Chapin looked up as we entered. “Sorry, Sabre,” he said. “I’ve just heard.”

“Heard what?” I was puzzled.

“That you’re losing the Two Bar.”

“Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

“You mean you haven’t heard? Jake Booker showed up the other day and filed a deed to the Two Bar. He purchased the rights to it from Ball’s nephew, the legitimate heir. He also has laid claim to the Bar M, maintaining that it was never actually owned by Rud Maclaren, but belonged to his brother-in-law, now dead. Booker has found some relative of the brother-in-law’s and bought his right to the property.”

“Well of all the…that’s too flimsy, Chapin. He can’t hope to get away with that! What’s on his mind?”

Chapin shrugged. “If he goes to court, he can make it tough. You have witnesses to the fact that
Ball gave you the ranch, but whether that will stand in court, I don’t know. Especially with a shrewd operator like Booker fighting it. As to Maclaren, it turns out he did leave the ranch to his brother-in-law during a time some years ago when he was suffering from a gunshot wound, and apparently never made another will. What’s important right now is that Jake is going to court to get both you and Olga off the ranches and he plans to freeze all sales, bank accounts, and other money or stock until the case is settled.”

“In other words, he doesn’t want us to have the money to fight him.”

Chapin shrugged. “I don’t know what his idea is, but I’ll tell you one thing. He stands in well with the judge, who is just about as crooked as he is, and they’ll use your reputation against you. Don’t think Booker hasn’t considered all the angles, and don’t think he doesn’t know how flimsy his case may be. He’ll bolster it every way possible, and he knows every trick in the book.”

I sat down. This had come so suddenly that it took the wind out of my sails. “Has this news gone to the Bar M yet? Has it got out to Canaval?”

Chapin shrugged. “Why should it? He was only the foreman. Olga has been told and you can imagine how she feels.”

My eyes went to hers, and she looked away. Katie O’Hara came in, and I gave her my order for breakfast and tried the coffee she had brought with her. It tasted good.

Sitting there, my mind began to work swiftly. There was still a chance, if I figured things right. Jake Booker was no fool. He had not paid out money
for those claims unless he believed he could make them stand in court. He knew about how much money I had, and knew that Olga Maclaren, with the ranch bank accounts frozen, would be broke. Neither of us could afford to hire an attorney, and so far as that went there was no attorney within miles able to cope with Booker. What had started as a range war had degenerated into a range steal by a shyster lawyer, and he had arguments that could not be answered with a gun.

“How was Canaval when you left?”

“Better,” Olga said, still refusing to meet my eyes.

“What about Morgan Park? I heard he escaped.”

“Tharp’s out after him now. That Colonel D’Arcy went with him and the posse. There had been a horse left for Park. Who was responsible for that, we don’t know, but it may have been one of his own men.”

“Where did Tharp go?”