Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Page 11

  “How many will there be?” Nick Valentz asked.

  “Four—maybe five. One man is down sick, and likely the rest will be scattered.”

  “There’s Riley, Cruz, and Lewis. You forgettin’ them?”

  “There’s eighteen of us,” Spooner said. “As for Darby Lewis, he’ll cut an’ run. Anyway, he’s over in the basin, an’ there’s scarcely a chance he’ll show up.”

  “All right,” Valentz agreed, “but when do we go in?”

  “Right at daylight. You get in position, and when I shoot, you come a-foggin’ it.”

  Spooner and the others stayed there, and nobody talked for a while. They dismounted and huddled about, smoking and shielding the glow of their cigarettes in cupped palms. Nick Valentz and his men had swung down Ruin Canyon toward the basin, and it would take time for them to get into position.

  Spooner’s waiting place was almost a mile and a half from Kehoe’s place up on the Sweet Alice Hills. Once, Kehoe thought he heard a distant sound, but it was not repeated and it could have been a falling rock or some small animal scurrying around in the darkness.

  But Kehoe was restless. The knowledge that an attack might come and leave him marooned on top the mountain worried him, and after a time he decided to slip down closer to the trail.

  For a while there had been lights and movement down at the ranch, which was plainly in view, nearly five hundred feet lower down and due west. He went to his horse and mounted.

  MARIE APPEARED AT the door of the house. “Gaylord, can I get some fresh water?” she asked. “Doc wants to boil his instruments.”

  Cruz came out of the shadows and took the bucket, and walked away toward the spring.

  Marie stood beside Riley in the darkness. “How does he look?” Riley whispered.

  “Bad … very bad. Doc is really worried.”

  Neither spoke for a minute and then Marie said, “Gaylord, was this the reason you wouldn’t say anything the other night? Because these men were your friends?”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “Kehoe told me.”

  “Yes, they are my friends. I was one of them.”

  “But you quit.”

  “Yes … and they put up part of the money to give me my chance. You see how it is.”

  “Did you think it would make a difference to me? You know it wouldn’t.”

  The night was very still. The stars hung low. It was almost morning, although there was still no hint of gray in the sky. But here it became light very quickly, for they were high up.

  Gaylord Riley stared at the stars, aware of the girl by his side, but thinking rather of what this night meant to him, to them both. This was an out-and-out attack, and partly by the townspeople and ranchers, even if the bulk of the attackers would be the hired gunmen who had been holed up over near the Blues.

  Some of those who got hurt might be ranchers like Eustis or Bigelow, but once the battle opened nothing could be done about that. They would be shooting, and they would be shot at, perhaps killed.

  No matter what happened, he intended to stay, and to keep the others with him. Somewhere, sometime a man had to take a stand, and this was his stand. Besides, he now had something worth fighting for.

  At least, Dan Shattuck had refused to join them. That much was favorable.

  Cruz returned with the water, and Marie followed him into the house, leaving Riley alone.

  His fingers went to the fully loaded cartridge belt around his hips, then to the bandolier of cartridges across his chest. He walked toward the trail entrance, listening.

  There was no sound.

  DAN SHATTUCK RODE reluctantly westward with the note in his pocket. The handwriting was strange to him, for he had never had occasion to see anything written by Martin Hardcastle. The message was plain and right to the point, and the note unsigned.

  If you want evidence, ten head of your steers are penned up near the ruins at House Park Butte. They are fresh branded to 5B.

  There were several ways in which a Lazy S could be changed into a 5B, which was Gaylord Riley’s brand. Eager as he was to apprehend whoever had been rustling his cattle, Shattuck feared to discover that Riley was actually the one.

  So he had said nothing to anyone on receiving the note, which had been thrust under his door, but had saddled up and ridden away in the night. If he could come upon the cattle at House Park Butte he might find evidence that would convince him. And if such evidence was found, he would join the attackers.

  House Park Butte was a towering rock mass that almost divided the basin where Riley was reported to be running his cattle, and it was only a few miles north of the ranch on Dark Canyon Plateau.

  Shattuck had a good horse, and he rode swiftly. No longer a young man, he was wiry and strong, and had been born to the saddle. Furthermore, he knew the country over which he must ride. Skirting Salt Creek Mesa, he followed a dim trail toward the butte.

  MARTIN HARDCASTLE, WHO knew most things that went on, did not know that Chata, the Mexican boy, had a hero. Chata lived in abject fear of Hardcastle, and obeyed his every command, and in return Hardcastle saw that he was fed and occasionally gave him money; but all that meant nothing, compared to his idol.

  That idol was a man of his own people. He was a top hand, a skilled hand with a rope, a fine horseman, and an excellent shot. That idol was Pico, and, being so close, Chata could not resist the chance to look upon him once more.

  At the Lazy S bunkhouse Chata crept stealthily to the door. There he paused, fearful of going farther. From within came the sound of snores, and the door stood open, for the night was cool though far from cold. He edged nearer, wanting at least a glimpse of his hero, and perhaps a glimpse of the gun he carried.

  “Chata”—the voice was low but Chata jumped as if struck—“what are you doing here?”

  Pico was seated on the edge of his bunk, a pistol in his hand.

  “It was only to look,” Chata said, “to see the pistola.”

  “You’ve seen it. Now you’d better go. You might be shot, prowling around like that.”

  He spoke in a low tone and in Spanish. As he finished he suddenly realized the boy’s presence on the ranch could scarcely be accidental.

  “Chata, tell me, what are you doing out here? Why did you come?”

  Chata hesitated. It was a rule of Señor Hardcastle that one did not speak of the messages carried, or the errands done. Until now he had obeyed that rule, but now—this was Pico!

  “It was a message for Señor Shattuck.”

  What message? He did not know, only it had come from Señor Hardcastle … only he was not to say that.

  Had he given the message to Shattuck? No, he had pushed it under the door, and then had hidden when Shattuck came to look.

  What did the message say? Chata replied that he could not read English. Of course, he could read the brand—brands were the same in any language, he thought.

  What brand? The 5B. There were also some letters, large letters as in brands, but these were the beginnings of words. They were H—, P—, B—, and the words were not long words.

  Pico was thoroughly alarmed. He knew now the sound that had awakened him had been that of a horse. Chata’s pony, or a horse ridden by Dan Shattuck? All he really knew was that Dan Shattuck had gone off into the night, directed by an unsigned message, and undoubtedly riding into a trap.

  He dressed swiftly and went to the house. Dan Shattuck’s bed was empty, the office was empty. He had taken his gun belt and Winchester.

  As Pico slapped a saddle on a horse, he considered the names of places. Undoubtedly the 5B restricted the area somewhat, for only two things would have gotten Dan Shattuck into a saddle in the middle of the night. Rustling, or something to do with Marie.

  The 5B was Riley’s brand, and Riley had been accused of rustling, therefore Pico headed out for the 5B, riding fast. As he rode, he ran over in his mind all the place names he could think of that had some relation to the 5B area.

  Maveric
k Point … the Seven Sisters … Mormon Pasture … Salt Creek Mesa … Bridger Jack … Big Pocket … Deadman Point … Dark Canyon … Cathedral Butte … Butte—that B might stand for Butte.

  Gyp Canyon … the Basin … And then he had it: House Park Butte!

  Pico had never been known to spur a horse. He spurred one now.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE NIGHT WAS alive with movement. There was a stirring in the canyons, a whisper of sound upon the mesa that was not of wind or coyote passing. Even the wild animals held still, ears pricked to the strange sounds.

  Here a hoof touched stone, a saddle’s leather creaked, or a spur jingled. Somewhere wiry brush scraped on a leather chap, a restless horse pawed, and a man cleared his throat. They were small sounds, but different sounds, and every animal ear was alert, for none knew which was the quarry, none could be sure where the pursuit would end.

  The stars alone were still, and in the brooding darkness the rocks cast their deeper shadows.

  Within the ranch house on Dark Canyon the man called Weaver had regained consciousness and was resting easily, the bullet gone from his body.

  He looked up at Riley. “They shouldn’t have done it, Lord. They shouldn’t have brought me here.”

  “You belong here. This is your home.”

  In the dimly lit room Weaver’s features were drawn and pale, and Riley felt the cold hand of fear run along his spine. He, who had no family, knew these men were his family, these men from the Outlaw Trail, and he had taken them, for better or worse.

  “Rest easy, man,” he said quietly. “You’ve come home.”

  He turned then and stepped out into the darkness. Nobody spoke, no sound was made, yet he could feel the movement in the night. Canyons and deserts have their own small sounds, for even the lonely places are not still. They have their small movements, their restlessness, but tonight it was not the same. Nor was it merely that he was so keenly alert. He was not imagining things. He knew there was trouble out there, and that it momentarily drew nearer and nearer.

  His ears had grown selective with wilderness living, and he knew each sound that was different. His ears tuned out the usual noises, or ignored them. It was the strange sounds that he heard, or the lack of sound, which was in itself a warning. When the insects stopped their singing it was because something was near, something not known, not understood.

  He cradled his Winchester now in the hollow of his arm and looked toward the mountain where Kehoe was. No word from him—was that good or bad?

  DAN SHATTUCK WALKED his horse up to the ruins near House Park Butte, and found they were deserted. He scouted them carefully, peering at the ground, striving to see what tracks, if any, were visible. Morning was near, and it was already light enough to see that there were no tracks but those of cattle since the rains, and these were wandering, grazing cattle, not driven by anyone.

  He straightened up in the saddle, and suddenly he was afraid.

  He had been a damned fool to ride all the way over here without help. He should at least have called Pico and told him. Pico would have wanted him to have company, and would have insisted on coming himself. Right now Shattuck was wishing Pico were here.

  He looked around carefully. There was a corral, an old pole corral over near the spring just west of the butte. That might be where the stock was being held. He drew his Winchester from its scabbard, and worked his way cautiously through the junipers.

  As he moved slowly toward the almost hidden corral, other events were moving toward a climax. He heard, suddenly, the sound of horses, and drew up sharply. Swinging down, he caught his horse’s nose and held it tight against a whinny.

  In the vague light, five riders swept by. Nick Valentz he recognized. The others were strangers—one of them a drifter he had once seen around Hardcastle’s. When they had gone by, he went on.

  At that very moment, a few miles to the south, Strat Spooner glanced down at his watch. It was almost time. Nick should be getting into position now.

  A few miles to the westward of where Shattuck waited in the cedars to watch Valentz pass, Darby Lewis awakened to what was to be his last morning on earth.

  It was faintly gray in the east, but he woke suddenly, sharply, as though startled by some sound, yet there was no sound. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the stars. He had chosen to bed down in the basin rather than ride back to the ranch, but this morning he felt different about it. In the first place, he was through here for the time; and in the second place, he wanted some of that good coffee that Cruz always made.

  Besides, he was due for some time in town. He had stayed on this job long enough, and he wanted to see the girls and have a few drinks; maybe a hand or two of poker.

  He rolled out of bed, put on his hat and then his jeans. The more he thought of going to town, the more the idea pleased him. He dressed, rolled his bed, and strapped it behind the saddle. Mounting up, he started for the ranch. The trail he chose was a dim one up South Canyon. There would be quite a scramble when he reached the plateau, but he had used the short cut once before.

  He crossed the saddle and was topping out on the plateau when he saw the riders. They were crossing the open country ahead of him while his approach was still masked by junipers.

  He knew those riders, for he had on occasion rustled cattle with some of them. Nick Valentz he knew very well, and he had never liked him. The instant he saw them he guessed what was happening. The ranchers were attacking Riley, and Nick Valentz somehow was in on it.

  He knew a sneak attack when he saw one, and he knew this must be only a small part of the movement. At the ranch they were probably asleep, and so far as he knew, Riley and Cruz were alone there.

  He had his chance now. He was out of the fight. He was off to one side, and nobody was expecting him back right now. He could go back and hole up in one of the canyons north of the basin and wait until it was all over. After all, he had been planning to draw his time.

  He could get away all right. He could go back the way he’d come; he could cut and run down the length of Wild Cow Point, or he could let the riders pass and then back-trail the attackers into Rimrock.

  He did none of those things. For suddenly, and almost with relief, Darby Lewis knew the time had come to make a stand.

  It was a strange decision, for all his life he had been a drifter with the currents, letting them carry him where they would. Now he had his chance to get out and stay out, and suddenly he knew he was not going to do it.

  He drew his Winchester, lifted it, and squeezed off a shot. He had never shot a man in the back and did not wish to now. It might have been that which spoiled his aim, for he missed a shot that should have been a clean hit.

  Valentz turned sharply in his saddle, his face a mask of startled fear and fury. He lifted his rifle and Darby Lewis fired again, and that time he did not miss. The bullet caught Valentz in the chest and tore through him, tearing his heart open as it passed.

  Darby Lewis, knowing he must warn those at the ranch, raced for the shelter of some boulders, firing as he rode. All four of the riders had turned their guns on him, and he felt the smash of their bullets. There was no pain, just three solid blows, two almost simultaneous, the last an instant later. Darby felt himself falling, but managed to cling for an instant to the pommel before letting go. He hit the ground on his back and rolled over.

  With a shock he realized he had caught it good, but he levered a shell into his rifle and, as the first man charged into the rocks after him, Darby Lewis fired the rifle into his chest, even as the bullets smashed him back into the grass.

  Darby Lewis rolled to his side, felt the wetness of blood against his skin, and he stared at the dead man, blinking slowly. His lids seemed very heavy.

  He recognized the man as one of the gunmen he had seen around Hardcastle’s, and he chuckled. He had never counted himself a gunhand, just a cowboy working for wages, but here in a few seconds he had ticked off Nick Valentz and this one.

  Using
the butt of his rifle, he pulled himself along the ground by digging it into the earth. He got himself out into the sun, and said aloud, “I don’t want to die in the dark.”

  It was the last thing he ever said, and it would take the circling buzzards, hours later, to tell the survivors at the ranch that Darby Lewis had gone out shooting.

  At the sound of the shots, Strat Spooner swore viciously and slammed the spurs into the flanks of his horse. When they reached the ranch their horses were at a dead run, and they broke into the open, fanning out swiftly.

  Confident of their numbers, they had taken no time to scout the area. What they charged was not the half-built encampment to be found on most new ranches, but a solidly built log house, a bunkhouse of logs, and a stable with a nearly flat roof and a parapet around it, equipped with loopholes.

  Jim Colburn heard them coming. “There,” he said to Parrish. “You take them on the left, I’ll take the right.”

  The first man who came into the open ground was yelling like a Comanche, but the yells choked off, for Colburn’s bullet had smashed through his throat and chin.

  The man plunged forward, falling under the feet of the horses that followed. In the pile-up that lasted for seconds only, Parrish smashed a rider from the saddle, and then both men fired again.

  Riley, crouched on top of the stable, had not fired at all, knowing the longer he could keep his position concealed, the better.

  The surprise planned by Spooner had failed, and there would be no more charges. From now on the fight would be tougher, with moving and sniping, seeking out targets, and every shot a risk.

  Riley kept down and studied the terrain about him. Twice he saw moving men, but he held his fire. He chose three possible targets, drew a bead on the place where each was likely to appear, and made three dry runs, swinging his rifle to cover each of the three spots.

  A gun thundered and glass crashed at the house. Riley swore—it had been hell, packing that glass in here. Then came a volley, with all shots concentrated on the house.

  Suddenly the men below started to move. One of Riley’s selected targets was a man in a checked shirt, and as the man lifted from his crouching position among the trees to lunge forward, Riley shot him, instantly swinging to targets two and three. His shot at target two was wasted, for there was nothing there; at three, a man dove for shelter, yelping with surprise.