The Sacket Brand (1965) s-12 Page 12
Chapter fifteen.
They called it Wild Rye, and when opportunity offered, it lived up to the name.
Ogletree, who owned what passed for a general store and saloon, had first seen the spot when he was a packer with General Crook in the expedition of 1872-73. He returned, put up a crude one-roomed, low-ceilinged log cabin, and went into business with seventy dollars' worth of stock.
Passers-by were few. Occasional Mormons from the settlement at Pine came down looking for drifted cattle or stolen horses, and once in a while there were prospectors or outlaws.
Always, of course, there were Indians.
Ogletree was a tough man and a patient one, and he got along well with the Apaches. Usually they traded him fresh meat or skins, but from time to time there was a nugget. He had come into the Tonto prepared to live out his days there. But in less than two years he was setting out to find the source of the Apache gold, for he had learned there was a hidden valley somewhere in the Four Peaks region, only a few miles from his cabin, so one morning he rode away with a pack horse and following a hunch. Several weeks later the horse returned minus the pack and without Ogletree, nor was anything seen of them again.
But at the present time he was finishing his first year in the Tonto, and when the Lazy A riders came into the country Wild Rye had a population of five, including a squaw. From time to time some of the men hunting Tell Sackett stopped by for tobacco, remaining for a drink, and there had been talk.
Ogletree was a bald, stoop-shouldered man, usually seen in undershirt, suspenders, and pants, and carrying a rifle. He was standing in the doorway smoking his pipe when he saw the two riders come up the creek. Both were tall, lean, and young. Each carried a rifle, each wore a gun. Their clothes were shabby, their hair uncut.
When they had dismounted they walked up to his store, still carrying their rifles. They appraised him out of cold gray-green eyes and told him they wanted to eat.
"Drink?" he suggested.
"Eat," the taller one replied. And then he added, "I'm Flagan Sackett. This here's Galloway."
Ogletree led the way back into the low room, which was a step down from the level of the ground outside. As he dished up stew for them, he asked, "You any kin to Tell Sackett?"
"I reckon."
"They're huntin' him."
The two men made no response to this, and they ate without comment. When they had finished, Flagan laid two quarters on the counter.
"You tell those fellers they can stop huntin'.
We come up to he'p him."
"There's been shootin' over on the East Fork ... northwest of here, maybe fourteen, fifteen mile."
"Come on, Galloway. That's where we're goin'."
Only a few minutes had passed when Van Allen rode up to the store, accompanied by Sonora Macon and Rafe Romero, and two others whom Ogletree did not know. The storekeeper had seen Allen only once before, shortly after he himself arrived in Tonto. He would not have known him as the same man.
Vancouter Allen was forty years old, a big, strongly built man with thick arms and hands, good-looking in a hard, rough way. There was a tightness around his mouth and eyes that Ogletree had noticed before and had not liked, but now the lines there were sharply defined. Allen's cheeks were gaunt, his eyes hollow.
He carried himself with that impatient arrogance toward others that is often possessed by men who have succeeded by their own efforts, and too easily. A ruthless man, Allen had carried all before him, and had come to believe himself right in whatever he did, simply because he had always been successful. Yet he showed now that he was a frightened man. His own arrogance and an innate brutality had trapped him in the ugliest of situations, and he had been driven wild by fear of discovery. Through a crazy obsession, he found himself faced with ruin, and almost certain death.
He had been striding, hard-heeled, down the boardwalk in Globe when he saw Ange Sackett. He stopped so suddenly he almost staggered, but he recovered himself and walked on slowly. She was sitting quietly on the seat of a covered wagon that was loaded heavily with supplies. At the end of the walk he had turned to watch, and had seen Tell Sackett come out and mount the seat.
He had no idea who they were, and cared less. To him they were "movers," and so to be despised, but Ange was a beautiful girl, and the instant he saw her he wanted her. He had seen no such woman in years, nor any young white woman at all since leaving Texas, almost three months before. He was determined to have her, and never once suspected that he might be unsuccessful. The idea that a mover's woman would refuse him, a rich cattleman, was simply not to be considered.
So he had followed. He had said nothing to anyone, least of all to Swandle. He did make some casual comments about the movers, and so learned they were headed for the Mogollons, where he himself was going.
After leaving his outfit to prospect for the best grass and water, so he said, he followed the trail of the wagon. He saw Tell ride away, and was close enough to hear that he planned to scout around, and that he would be gone for several hours.
He had approached the wagon and had introduced himself, somewhat ostentatiously, as the owner of the Lazy A. When Ange seemed unimpressed, he had mentioned the number of cattle he had, and suggested that as they were neighbors they had better get along together. There was nothing subtle about his approach, and Ange was no fool. She had simply replied that it was a big country and there was small chance they would be neighbors. When he stepped from the saddle and came over to the wagon seat, she had ordered him off.
Vancouter Allen simply didn't believe she meant it. She was playing him along, he was sure, but he was not the sort of man to stand for that. He grabbed her and she slapped him, hard, across the mouth. The mules, startled, surged ahead a few steps and, caught off balance, Ange and Allen fell to the ground together.
Breaking free, Ange scrambled to her feet and ran. He caught up with her within a few steps and took hold of her. This time she had turned and raked him across the face with her nails. Something seemed to burst inside him, and when next he realized what he was doing, Ange Sackett lay on the ground, her clothing ripped and torn, her throat crushed, the skin broken under his powerful hands.
As suddenly as that, she was dead.
He got to his feet, bathed in cold sweat and horror.
There was no remorse in him. There was only fear. He had murdered a white woman ... murdered the wife of a man who would soon be returning.
It had happened before, but then it was a squaw, and nobody cared about a squaw, at least nobody who was able to do anything about it. Of course, that time he had gotten away from there fast and nobody had ever connected it with him. Once or twice he had imagined that Swandle might have been suspicious, but he had said nothing. Whatever he might have suspected, Swandle kept to himself.
But this was different. This was a white woman.
Panic clutched at his throat. He forced himself to stand still, forced himself not to run. His hands would be coming soon, and they must find neither him nor the wagon.
The solution occurred to him suddenly. Several days before, a rifle bullet had struck near him as he stood near the chuck wagon. It was probably a spent bullet from some hunter higher up in the woods, but now he could use that incident to his advantage. He mounted his horse, after hastily concealing the body, and raced to meet his oncoming riders. Rushing up to them, he told them he had been fired on, and described Sackett and the horse he rode.
"Find him and kill him!" he ordered. "I want him dead, do you hear? Dead!"
Only he was not dead, and he had lived to tell his story in Globe. And not long after that most of the old Lazy A crowd left Allen's outfit.
He had told the gunmen he hired that the rumors were all a pack of lies, but he knew safety lay only in the death of the girl's husband. He did not know the man's name and cared less. To Allen he was still simply a "mover" andof no consequence, one of the little men squatting on land that belonged by the right of rifle possession to the big outfits.
Moreover, it was enough to take her to San Francisco and set her up in style.
Now, Allen was thinking, the end of the trail was near. His men had Sackett in a pocket from which he simply could not escape, and Vancouter Allen's fear had turned into a frightful, unreasoning hatred. He wanted to be in at the death.
In front of the store he dismounted stiffly, and walked over to the entrance. He paused there to look around once more. There was little enough to see.
Wild Rye at the time consisted of Ogletree's store, one smaller log cabin, a dugout, and across Rye Creek, two Indian wickiups. There was a pole corral with a water trough, and some distance off a shed where Ogletree made his whiskey.
Inside the store things didn't look much better. There was a counter with a row of shelves behind it, a table, three chairs and a box, and an unmade bed. On the shelves were several empty bottles, a half-dozen gallon cans, some boxes of shells, and assorted odds and ends of cheap gimcracks of the sort that might interest an Indian. There was also a short-legged bench on which stood a barrel with a spigot. At one side of the room was a fireplace.
"What have you got to eat?" Allen demanded.
Ogletree continued washing the dishes left by the two Sacketts for a full minute before he replied. "Stew."
"Any good?" Allen asked. "I mean, is it fit to eat."
"Those two fellers who just left didn't complain. They ate it right up."
"Some of my men?"
Ogletree turned and looked at Allen with ill-concealed relish. "They said they was huntin' your men. Their name was Sackett."
Allen's head came around sharply. Sonora Macon, just inside the door, had also heard.
"Young? [ they young fellers?"
"One maybe eighteen or so ... the other a year or so older. I'm just guessing, of course.
But they're young."
"The same two that killed Dodie, Ryland, and Collins," Macon said. "Let's go get them, boss."
"Wait," Allen said. "They'll keep.
I'm hungry."
"They won't run," Ogletree commented, "not them two."
"Nobody asked you," Allen said shortly.
"All right, let's have that stew."
He had finished eating and had lighted a cigar when Dancer rode up. Dancer had quit. He had quit the Lazy A and was glad of it, but he could not wait to tell the news he had. He strode into the saloon and ordered a cup of coffee.
He turned to look at Vancouter Allen.
"You got you a new partner," he said.
"What's that?"
Dancer shrugged. "First thing he done was fire all those boys you hired. I mean all that were back at the camp. Said he wouldn't pay a dime of fighting wages to anyone."
He had their attention, every bit of it.
"What are you talking about?" Allen demanded, his voice rising.
"Swandle sold out. He got his price and he sold out. By this time he's halfway to Prescott."
"I don't believe it," Allen said contemptuously. "He wouldn't have the guts to sell, and who would he find to buy?"
"Man came to him." Dancer wanted to prolong it, but couldn't wait to see what Allen's expression would be. "Man name of Parmalee Sackett."
Allen sat very still. He could hear his heart pounding with heavy beats. His big hands rested on the table before him and his confused brain tried to absorb the information.
Swandle had sold out ... sold out. He had a new partner. A partner named Parmalee Sackett. And Sackett had fired his men.
"Are you making this up? By the Lord Harry, Dancer, if you--"
"I ain't makin' it up," Dancer said innocently. "It was right after Also Zabrisky got killed."
Allen stared down at the bowl of stew. It had smelled wonderful, but suddenly his appetite was gone. He no longer wanted to ask questions, he feared the answers too much. Of course, Also had been killed by a Sackett. This time it was no use to wait, and Dancer knew it. He leaned his elbow on the bar and looked at his drink.
"ationolan Sackett done it. You know ... that Nevada, California outlaw. He's one of them, too, it seems. He's headed this way with that there Parmalee Sackett, and Lando Sackett, and a feller they call the Tinker.
"They're comin' from all over the country, Allen, an' if you'll take my advice you'll hit the saddle and light a shuck out of here. I don't think you'd get away, but you can try. Those feudin', fightin' mountain boys, they surely stick together."
"Shut up!"
Nobody said anything. Ogletree took a bottle from under the counter and filled Dancer's glass, waving away the cowboy's protest.
"On the house," he said.
Vancouter Allen shoved his chair back, got to his feet, and walked out of the door. The gunmen followed him. Outside, Sonora Macon spoke quietly. "Boss? About that partner, now?
Can he really stop our wages?"
"I'm paying you!" Allen said sharply. "I don't need him. I've got the money right here!"
He slapped his belt.
Macon exchanged a glance with Romero, who shrugged. "Sure," Macon said. "All right, boss."
Inside the store somebody suddenly began to sing "The Hunters of Kentucky." Ogletree chimed in on the chorus.
Allen, his features ugly with anger, rode away to the north, up Rye Creek.
There was nothing to worry about, he told himself.
Tell Sackett was no more than fourteen or fifteen miles away, treed up against the mesa where he could not escape.
They would be there by nightfall.
Chapter sixteen.
So here at last was I, William Tell Sackett, and a far piece I'd come from the Cumberlands, a far piece ... to die with my back to the wall in the Mogollons.
It left me with no good thought to know I had come so far and done so little with my life. I'd fought for my country in the War Between the States, to save the Union, and I would do it again. I'd fought the redskins, too, and driven cattle north from Texas to Montana, and helped to open up some of the most lovely land under heaven.
At the end, it all came to nothing. Ange murdered, and my death nearing me at the hands of the same man, and no son to leave behind.
Most of all, I hated to leave Allen alive, he who had killed my lovely girl.
There's some, I'm told, who frown upon revenge, and perhaps it is better so, but I was a mountain boy, reared in a feudal land, living my life through by the feudal code, and our law was the Mosaic law of an eye for an eye.
They were waiting now, waiting for somebody to come before they moved in for the kill. That somebody had to be Van Allen. He wanted to be here, to be sure I was actually dead. He wanted to look into my dead eyes and know that he was safe. There would be talk, of course, but nobody would push such talk very far in the face of the guns Allen could command.
Especially when the only man who could give Allen the lie was dead and buried.
They were waiting for him, then, and that meant that somehow I must stay alive until he got here.
I must stay alive and save a bullet for him.
Somehow, even in being destroyed, I must destroy him.
I looked about, seeking out a hole into which I might crawl, anywhere to hide. There was no place to run, nor had I the strength for it. It was root hog or die right here. But the place offered me little.
The cliff reared up red and steep behind me, and along the lower reaches it was scattered over with scrub cedar. It was broken, eroded rock, with much stuff fallen from above. The canyons opening to right and left were steep, places where a man might crawl if he could find the cover for it.
> Where I was, lay a sort of trough that ran for several yards. Larger slabs of fallen rock had landed out a few feet from the base, and cedar or yucca had grown up among the slabs, so that I could not be seen, even if I moved.
There's seldom a corner so tough a man might not find a way out, if he has the nerve and the strength to try. Nerve enough I had, but I was played out, worn to a frazzle by the exhaustion of weeks of running, piled onto the wounds I'd had.
When I looked down at myself, showing through my torn shirt the way I was, it was a shocking sight. I was a strong-muscled man, but lean.
Only now every rib showed. I was ga'nted up like a share-cropper's mule, just a rack of bones and hide.
For a time I lay there watching them. Though I thought they must know where I was, they were avoiding this place, searching out the rocks down below just to make sure I hadn't fooled them, and it was that that gave me the idea.
My strength was slight enough, and going up, if I found a way, would give me nothing but the chance to die on higher ground. So what if, after they'd searched well over the lower ground, I slipped down there and let them move on up, to search up here?
If I could get below, then I'd have them, or some of them, against the hill where they figured to have me. And when Van Allen came, he would be down there, close to me.
Lying quiet, I studied the terrain below, and saw a way it might be done.
There was a sight of Injun in me, though it came of learning and thinking, and not of blood. I'd run the hills with the Cherokees as a boy, them as were called the Overhill Cherokees because they lived west of the mountains. So I laid Injun eyes on the land below me, and saw a slight chance in the way I might go. It was the only chance I had.
They'd not be expecting me to come toward them now.
They would watch the likely places, and the one I'd chosen wasn't that ... it offered little enough place for a man to hide. But the thing I knew was that the best place to hide was in the mind of the searcher, for all men have blind spots in the mind.
They rarely see what they do not expect to see, and their minds hold a blindness to what seems unreasonable. Nobody but an Apache would think to choose the way I'd chosen. And if any Apaches were down there, they would not be expecting Apache thinking of a white man.