Treasure Mountain s-17 Read online

  We Sacketts have fought Indians, camped with them, hunted with them, told stories with them, slept in their tipis and wickiups, and fought with them again. Sometimes all was friendly, depending on the tribe and how they felt at the moment. Pa had lived with Indians, too, and favored their way of life, and, of course, back there in the high-up hills of Tennessee and North Carolina, we'd had many a friend among the Cherokee, Shawnee, or Chickasaws.

  They had their way of life and we had ours, and when the white man moved in he did just what the Indians had done before him. He took what land he needed.

  There were mighty few Indians for the size of the country, and we crowded them like they crowded others.

  Life had been that way from the beginning of time, and I could see no end to it.

  Over there in Europe the Celts crowded the Picts, and the Saxons crowded the Celts, and then the Normans moved in and took over the country, and it was the same story all across the world.

  Five days later we rode into Animas City which they were building into quite a town. Must have been twenty or twenty-five buildings there, most of them dwellings of one sort or another.

  We rode up to Schwenk and Will's saloon, which was also a store. By the look of it, this place had just been opened, but business wasn't suffering. There were half a dozen men at the bar and this was just after midday.

  The Tinker and Judas took the horses down to the river for water, Nell went with them, and Orrin and me decided to listen to what was being said and try to find out what we could.

  A couple of men nodded as we came in, and one of them spoke. The rest just glanced around and paid us no mind. Nobody was talking very much. There was some talk of a railroad coming in, but it looked to me like that was nothing that was going to happen very soon.

  The bartender came down our way and we both ordered rye. He glanced at us real sharp, then again. "Travelin' through?"

  "Maybe."

  "Pretty country," Orrin commented, "right pretty country. Much going on around?"

  "Mining. Cattle. You a cattleman?"

  "Lawyer," Orrin said. "But I've worked with cattle. Much ranching around here?"

  "West of here, and south. Some good outfits. There's a new bunch over on the La Plata. Name of Sackett."

  "Heard of them," Orrin said.

  "There's other Sacketts around here. One of the first men in this country was Seth Sackett. He came in with the Baker outfit."

  "Good folks, no doubt," I said.

  "The best," said the bartender. He was a shrewd, competent-looking man. "You boys could do worse than to settle here yourselves."

  "Maybe we'll ride over and see those Sacketts. The ones over on the La Plata."

  "If you go," the bartender advised, "better go friendly. They're good boys but they don't take kindly to folks pushing them.

  "They've got them a ranch over just beyond that new town--Shalako, or some such name. They've brought in some cattle, but from all I hear they're still sort of camping out. Haven't started to build, yet."

  We drank our rye, then ordered coffee. We could see the Tinker had come back and was loafing near the corral, honing the blade of that Tinker-made knife of his.

  Perhaps the finest knife ever made.

  "You been around here long?" Orrin asked.

  "We just opened up. Nobody's been here very long, some folks came in in '73, but the town didn't sort of begin to settle up until '76. If you ride around much, keep your eyes open and a gun handy. The Utes haven't decided what to do about us yet."

  One of the other men--a short, barrel-chested man with a broad, friendly face--was looking at me. Suddenly he said, "Speaking of Sacketts, there was one come into this country some years back. Had him a claim up on the Vallecitos. He was hell-on-wheels with a pistol."

  "You don't say?" I said, innocently. "Well, I figure if you leave those folks alone they'll leave you alone.

  "There's something else, though," I added. "If any of you know anybody who was around here about twenty years back, I'd like to talk to him ... or them."

  "Ask Ragan or Galloway Sackett. They're new in the country but they've got an old Indian working for them who has been in this country since those mountains were holes in the ground--goes by the name of Powder-Face."

  We finished our coffee and drifted outside. It was a warm, pleasant morning with a blue sky overhead and a scattering of white clouds here and there, a real picture-book sky, typical of that country.

  "I've got an uneasy feelin'," I told Orrin.

  He nodded. "Reason I wanted to get out of there. No use mixing innocent people in our troubles."

  "That one man knew me, or figured he did."

  We stood there looking up and down the street. Animas City wasn't much of a town, but it was growing, and it looked like there would be business enough with the mining, ranching, and all.

  The Tinker strolled over and joined us. "Man just rode in," he said. "Tied his horse over yonder by the drugstore."

  The Newman, Chestnut, and Stevens Drugstore was right along the street. We walked out and went down to the blacksmith shop run by the Naegelin Brothers, and we glanced across at the horse.

  The brand was visible from there, and it was 888.

  "Charley McCaire's brand," I said. "What do you make of that?"

  Orrin shrugged. "Let's ride out."

  We walked back to the Tinker and then the three of us went to where Nell and Judas Priest were setting on the bank by the river. We all mounted up and rode out. As we glanced back we saw a man come out of the drugstore and look after us.

  A short time later we stopped near the Twin Buttes and waited, studying our back trail, but nobody showed so we rode on, walking our horses as it was mostly uphill, although the grade was not too steep.

  The town of Shalako lay on a flat bench with a looming backdrop of the La Plata Mountains behind it. On past the town a trail went on up La Plata Canyon, following the La Plata River. There were very few buildings in the town--one of them was a saloon.

  The man behind the bar was a big Swede. He sized me up as I came through the door. Orrin and the others were following me.

  He grinned and came around the bar. "Tell! Tell Sackett! Well, I'll be damned!

  The boys said you'd be coming up sooner or later, but this is great! Have a drink on the house!"

  "We'd rather eat," I said. "We've just come in from Animas City." I drew back a chair and sat down.

  "Orrin, this here is Swede Berglund, a good man anywhere you find him."

  They shook hands, and then he greeted Judas, Nell, and the Tinker and went to the kitchen to stir up the grub. I wiped the sweat from my hatband and squinted out the open door. Across the street was a supply outfit--general store, miners' supplies, and whatever, and next to that was a livery stable.

  When I looked across the street again two men were getting down in front of the store. They looked like they'd come a far piece, and one of them stayed beside the horses while the other went into the store.

  The flank of one horse was turned toward me and I could read the brand.

  Three Eights ...

  "Orrin," I said, "looks like we've got comp'ny."

  Chapter XIX

  "Could be chance," he said, glancing out the window. "I doubt if Charley McCaire's mad enough to follow us here."

  "Suppose he tied up with Baston an' them?"

  He shrugged. "Unlikely, but it could be."

  There was no use asking for trouble. We'd had a mite of difficulty with McCaire back yonder in New Mexico, and he was truly a hard, stubborn man. Of course, this was good cattle country, with water aplenty and grass. A desert or dry-plains country rancher will ride a far piece for range country like there was hereabouts.

  Berglund was putting some bowls of stew on the table, and slabs of bread made from stone-ground wheat. "Eat up, the coffee's gettin' hot."

  "That peak yonder," I said, indicating a smooth-domed mountain that seemed to be covered with green growth right over the top, "w
hat peak is that?"

  "Baldy," Berglund said. "That's Parrott Peak on the other side of the canyon."

  "That's La Plata Canyon?"

  "Sure is. The river comes right down from the top. That's rough country up yonder, rough and beautiful."

  "Heard about it," I said. "The river heads up in a big glacial basin?"

  "What they call a cirque. Yeah, that's right. She picks up some other little streams on the way down. I've only been part way up. Lots of elk and deer up there, and bear, too.

  "Last time I was up there I stopped to pick wild strawberries and saw a grizzly doing the same thing. I just backed off and left him alone. He was a good hundred yards off, but that wasn't far enough for me. It's wonderful how cramped a country can get when it's you and a grizzly in the same neighborhood."

  Pa had taken off from Treasure Mountain and come down. Chances were he came this far, for he knew the La Plata country as well as that west of here. He might have stopped in the Animas Valley, but, knowing him, I doubted it.

  "Orrin, tomorrow you ought to scout around for a place, something ma would like to pass her days in, where we could raise up some cattle."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm going to find old Powder-Face and make talk with him. If pa came into this country you can bet those Indians knew about it."

  The stew was good, and, as I ate, my mind went a-wandering into those far-up hills, seeking out the way pa might have taken. The minds of men are not so different, and the mountains do not allow for much changing of direction.

  If a body takes out to follow a made trail down over the hills, he'd best hold to that trail, for there are not too many ways to go. Most of the trouble a man finds in the mountains is when he tries shortcuts or leaves a known way.

  Trails are usually made by game or by Indians, then used by latecomers, but the trails are there because somebody has found--through trial and error--the best way to get somewhere. If you see an easier looking way in the mountains, don't take it. You may walk two or three miles and find yourself standing on the edge of a cliff with no way down.

  When a body sets out to find another man's trail, he has to sort of ease his way into that man's thoughts and try to reason out what he might have done.

  Now pa was a man knew wild country. We had to look at it two ways. He had gold or he didn't, and first off I was going to figure it the hard way: he had him some gold, and he had the problem of getting it out of there.

  First off, he'd head for some place he knew, and that was here. He would have extra horses, no need to worry about that, but he would have heavy packs, and folks can be almighty curious. And a man has to sleep.

  He'd be tired, and he'd want to get out of this country and back home.

  Had he been followed? The chances were he had. Baston and Swan had left Pettigrew for dead ... but had they left Treasure Mountain right after that, or weeks later? We had little information on that score and what little we had came from Pettigrew himself.

  Somebody had followed and killed Pierre Bontemps, and most likely that same somebody had followed pa, waiting for a chance. That somebody knew, or thought he knew, where all the gold was, and he didn't want anybody around to dig it up before he had a chance.

  Suddenly, I got up. "Orrin, I got a sight of travelin' to do, and I want to do it without having to watch my back trail too much. I just think I'll walk yonder to the store and buy something. If any of those riders are wishful of talking to me they can have at it."

  "Want company?" Orrin asked.

  "No, sir. I surely don't. If the two of us went they might think we were hunting. I'll just mosey over and give them a chance."

  I strolled out and walked across the street. I opened the door and stepped into the store. You could find its like in almost any western town. Bales of jeans, barrels of flour, a coffee grinder and the smell of fresh-ground coffee, prunes, dried apples, apricots, a barrel of crackers, and rows of canned goods.

  Behind the counter there was a rack of rifles and shotguns; there were boots, hats, saddles, bridles, spurs, bandanas, vests, gloves, and just about all a man could want. It was my kind of store. In Saint Louis or New Orleans I could walk into a store full of things I just didn't want, but this was no city, and there wasn't a thing here a man wouldn't have use for.

  Except maybe those two cowhands standing up by the counter. So I walked along up there, paying them no mind, and they turned to look.

  There were things I truly needed, so I shuffled through the jeans, finding a pair long enough for a man six foot three and lean in the hips and waist. I stacked those jeans and a few things I needed whilst those gents dickered over some buying of their own. They were trying to decide about a .44 Smith and Wesson.

  "But will it shoot straight?" one of them asked. "I used a Colt some, but this here gun--"

  Reaching over I took it from his hand, picked up a box of shells, and thumbed some into the chambers, sayin' meanwhile, very pleasantlike, "May I settle the question for you gents? If you'll come to the door--"

  One of them had started to get mad, but, by the time he was makin' up his mind, I already had two shells in the gun and he sort of decided against arguing.

  Nonetheless, they didn't like it. I just turned and ambled off to the door, and they traipsed after me, the storekeeper following along.

  When I rode into town I'd noticed somebody had left a board standing against a rock, kind of leaning there. Maybe somebody had figured on putting up a sign and then got called away, but the board, which was about three by two, still sat there. I'd also noticed there was a knot in the board, of slightly darker color.

  I hefted that Smith and Wesson in my mitt, knowing they'd always made a straight-shooting gun and knowing that I could rely on it to do what I asked.

  That board was a good seventy yards off and the knot was not visible.

  "Now you take that board yonder? See the knothole in it?"

  "I don't see no knothole," the short one said, kind of irritated-like.

  Well, I let 'er drive, right from where I held it. "Now you just go look," I said. "If that's not a hole, what is it?"

  "Fact is--" I let her bang a couple more times, so fast it sounded like one shot, "you go look and you'll find three holes, yonder. If you don't find one hole atop with two on each side below it, you come back and I'll buy the drinks."

  Then I turned around and went back into the store. The storekeeper went behind the counter and picked up some field glasses. "Saves walking," he said, grinning. He was a young man with a nice smile. He walked outside again.

  I was shoving some shells into those empty cylinders. I do hate an empty gun.

  Seems almost everybody who gets shot accidentally gets it with an empty gun.

  When I pull the trigger on a gun it's no accident, and I never pulled one whilst foolin' around.

  That storekeeper came back. "My name's Johnny Kyme," he said, "and you surely put those bullets where you said. Was there really a knot there?"

  "Uh-huh. There surely was, but you'll not find it now, unless the edges."

  "You must have good eyesight."

  The two gents were coming back inside, growling a little and looking sour but more respectful.

  "No," I said seriously, keeping a very straight face, "I shot it from memory.

  That's the way I do. I make a mental note of where the first shirt button above a man's belt is. Then I always know where to put the bullet."

  "That's shootin'," the short man grumbled. "I figure we should buy the drinks."

  "Thanks, gentlemen," I said, "but the day is young. One of these days, if we all live long enough, I'll belly up to the bar and collect that drink--and buy one."

  I paid Kyme for the gun and the other things and turned to go. When I reached the door, I turned and said, "When you boys see Charley McCaire, tell him Tell Sackett sends his regards."

  I went across the street for more coffee. Later on, Johnny Kyme told me what was said. That short one said, "Tell Sackett?
Hell, that's the man--"

  "I never saw him before," Kyme told them, "but he's got two cousins here that can shoot just about as good, maybe better. They just wound up a little go-around with Curly Dunn's outfit."

  "Dunn? I remember them. What happened?" they asked.

  Kyme said, "Oh, the few that were left dragged their tails out of here, they seemed to have the notion there were easier places to bulldoze."

  When they left, Kyme said they looked mighty sober like they had aplenty to think about. I was never much for showin' off, but if a bullet through a board can prevent a shootout, why not do it? I hold nothing against any man unless he comes at me, and I usually put that down to ignorance.

  Now these here Three Eight hands would never have that excuse. If they came they'd know what was waiting for them. Orrin was lounging in the door when I walked back, "Did you read them from the book?" he asked.

  "Nope," I said, "I just showed 'em the pictures."

  Chapter XX

  That night, a couple of hundred yards from town, we bedded down about a dozen feet back from the La Plata, unrolling our blankets on the green grass near some cottonwoods. We were cut off from sight of the town by a wall of cottonwood, aspen, and pine trees. We picketed our horses on the grass and settled down to sleep. Nell had gone to stay with the family who had been caring for her pa. He was feeling better now and figuring on a place of his own.

  The four of us were asleep, eased to our comfort by the rustling leaves and the water running a few yards off. I don't know what it was made me wake up, but suddenlike in the middle of the night I was wide awake.

  Our fire was down to red coals glowing, and beside it sat a man.

  It took me a minute to adjust my mind to it, but sure enough, there he sat, cross-legged by the fire and still as death. My fingers took hold of the butt of my gun, but he seemed peaceful enough so I just lay and watched him for a moment.

  It was an Indian, and he was old. His hair hung in two braids, and even at a distance I could see it was part gray. Indians have their ways and we have ours, but a guest at my fire is always welcome to coffee, so I threw back the covers, shoved my feet into the moccasins I keep handy for nightwork or for the woods, and went over to the fire.