Desert Death-Song Page 14

  “Who was with yuh?” Flood demanded.

  “Hombre name of Quindry. Another name of Cal Santon. I met up with ’em in Laramie.”

  Jed’s exclamation brought Flood’s head up. “You know ’em?” “Yeah.” Jed nodded grimly. “I killed Buck Santon, Cal’s brother. He was a crooked gambler!”

  “Then you was the hombre they was huntin’!” Clark said, astonished.

  “Where are they now?”

  “Headin’ west. Seever sent for ’em for some reason. Guess he figured they’d come in here and prove you was somebody different than yuh said yuh was. He didn’t guess you knowed ’em, though.”

  “Seever ordered the killing?”

  “Shore.”

  A few more questions, and the confession was completed. “All right,” Jed told him. “Sign it.”

  Pat Flood had the paper spread, and Clark scratched his name on it.

  “Now,” Jed said, “much as I hate to let a killer go, I gave my promise. Get on your horse. You’ve got thirty minutes’ start. Make the most of it.”

  “Do I get my gun!” Clark pleaded.

  “No. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Clark fairly threw himself at the nearest horse. Bent low he spurred the horse and they went out of the ranch yard on a dead run.

  Flood handed the confession to Jed. “Yuh goin’ to use it?” Jed hesitated. “Not right now. I’m going to put it in the safe in the house. Then if Carol ever needs it, she can use it. If I brought it out now it would also prove I’m not Michael Latch!”

  Flood nodded. “I knowed yuh wasn’t,” he said. “Old George told me a good deal about his nephew, and he never went to sea. But the other day I spotted yuh tyin’ a bowline on a bight, and yuh handled that line like a sailor. A few other things showed me yuh’d been around more’n Latch had.”

  “Does Carol know?”

  “Don’t reckon she does,” Flood said thoughtfully. “But she’s a mighty knowin’ young lady! Smart, that’s what she is!”

  If Cal Santon and Quindry were headed west, Seever must have telegraphed them. They would certainly ally themselves with Seever against Jed Asbury. As if there wasn’t trouble enough!

  CHAPTER SIX: For the Brand

  Costa and Jim Pardo rode into the yard and Costa trotted his horse over to Jed who was wearing the silver guns now.

  “The cattle, senor, are many!” Costa said. “More than we think for! We come to see if the Willow Springs crew can help us.” “They should be through,” Jed said. “Is Miss Carol still out there with you?”

  “No, senor,” Costa said. “She has gone to Noveno.”

  Jed turned abruptly toward his waiting horse. “Come on! We’re goin’ to town!”

  Seever would stop at nothing now, and if Santon and Quindry had arrived, Jed’s work would be cut out for him. Santon was a feudist. There was every chance he had been well on his way West, following Jed Asbury before Seever’s message had intercepted him. No doubt Seever had known how to reach the gambler, and he must be here now, and seen him, Jed Asbury, since Seever twice had called him “Jed.”

  Noveno lay basking in a warm, pleasant sun. In the distance the Sierras lifted their snow-crowned ramparts against the sky, the white of snow and the gray of rock merging into the deep green of the pines.

  A man who was loitering in front of the Gold Strike stepped through the doors as Jed and his companions rode into the street. Then Walt Seever appeared in the doorway, careless, nonchalant.

  Seever was smiling. “Huntin’ somethin’?” he asked. His small eyes glinted with cruel amusement. “Figgered yuh’d be in before long. We just sort of detained that girl so’s yuh’d come in. We can turn her loose now. We got what we want—you and yore salty friends in town!”

  Jed swung down without replying. His eyes swept the street and the windows. This was a trap, and they had walked right into it.

  “There’s a gent in front of the express office, Boss,” Pardo said softly.

  “Thanks.”

  Jed was watching Seever. The trouble would start with him. He moved away from his horse. There was no time to see what Costa and Pardo were doing, but he knew they would be where it was best for them to be.

  Thinking of Pardo’s long, leathery face and cold eyes, he smiled a little. Costa would take care of himself, but Jim Pardo would do more. That old ladino was battle-wise and tough.

  “Well, Seever,” Jed said. “I’m glad you saved me the trouble of hunting you up.”

  Seever was standing on the board walk, a big man with a stubble of black beard on his granite-hard, wide-jawed face.

  “Figgered this would save us both trouble,” he drawled. “Folks hereabouts don’t take to outsiders, Jed, especially when the outsider tries to run a blazer on us. The folks around here would a mite sooner have a tough ranny like me runnin’ that spread than an outsider. Shuck yore guns, get on yore horses, and ride out of town, and we’ll let yuh go.”

  “Don’t do that, Boss!” Pardo interrupted. “He’ll kill yuh as soon as yore guns drop!”

  “I know. That’s the kind of a rat he is. Cal Santon’s in town, too, and he can’t forget I killed that card-shark brother of his … No, Seever, the ranch goes to Miss Carol. If we shoot it out, you may get me, but I promise you—you’ll die first!”

  Seever’s voice dropped to a hoarse snarl. “I’ll kill—”

  “Look out!” Pardo yelled.

  Jed sprang back as the rifle roared from the window over the livery barn, yet even as he moved his hands swept down for the silver guns. They came up, spouting flame and spraying death.

  Seever, struck in the chest, staggered back, his own gunfire pounding the dust at his feet, the horses near him leaping and snorting, wild-eyed with fear.

  Oblivious to the bellowing gunfire behind and around him, Jed centered his attention on Walt Seever who was bending slowly at the knees, his face still twisted with hatred. When he finally crumpled on the board walk, Jed Asbury, feeling cold inside, hating the sight of this thing he had done, waited, watching and ready.

  Slowly the gun dribbled from Seever’s fingers and the man rolled over, his arm and head hanging over the edge of the walk. Blood gathered on the parched gray boards, and discolored the dust.

  Jed turned then and took in the whole scene in one swift glance. Costa was down on one knee, blood staining the left sleeve of his shirt. He held his six-gun in his right hand and the barrel rested on his right knee. He was ready and waiting. His face showed no sign of pain.

  A man sprawled over the window sill above the livery barn, and another lay in the street some forty feet away. Even at that distance Jed recognized Quindry. The man sprawled over the sill had the sandy hair that reminded Jed of Santon.

  Pardo was holstering his gun. There was no sign of Strykes or Gin Feeley.

  “You all right, Boss?” Pardo asked.

  “Uh-huh. How about you?”

  “I’m all right.” Pardo looked at Costa. “Got one, Tony?”

  “Si, in the shoulder, but not bad.” He was trying to staunch the flow of blood with a handkerchief.

  Heads were beginning to appear in windows and doors, but nobody showed any desire to get outside.

  A door slammed open down the street, and the next minute Carol was hurrying toward them, her eyes frightened.

  “Are you hurt?” she cried to Jed. “Did you get shot?”

  He slid an arm around her as she came up to him, and it was so natural that neither of them noticed.

  “Better get that shoulder fixed, Costa,” he said.

  He glanced down at Carol. “Where did they have you?” “Strykes and Feeley had me in a house across the street. They were to hold me until you got worried and came to town. They thought you would come alone. When Feeley saw you weren’t alone, he wanted Strykes to leave. Feeley looked out of the door and then Pat Flood saw him.”

  “Flood? How did he get here?”

  “He followed you. And when he saw Feeley, he slipp
ed around behind the house and got the drop on Feeley and Strykes through the window. I took their guns and he came in. He was just going to tie them up and help you when the shooting began.”

  “Carol,” Jed said suddenly, “I’ve got a confession to make.” “You have?” she stared at him with wide eyes in which amusement seemed to lurk.

  “Yes. I—I’m not Mike Latch!”

  “Oh? Is that all? Why, I’ve known that all the time!”

  “What?” He stared at her. “You knew?”

  “Of course. You see, I was Michael Latch’s wife!”

  “His what?”

  “Yes. Before I married him I was Carol Arden James. He was the only one who ever called me Arden. I was coming west with him but was ill, so I stayed inside the wagon and Clark never saw me at all. When we got far out on the trail, he convinced Michael there was a wagon train going by way of Santa Fe that would get us to the coast sooner, and that if we could catch them, we could make it out here sooner. Of course it was all a lie to get us away from the wagon train, but Michael listened. The train we were with was going only as far as Laramie.

  “After we got out on the trail, Clark left us and said he would ride on ahead and locate the wagon train, then return to guide us to it. When Randy Kenner and Michael decided to camp in the morning, I was much better and went over the hill to a small pool to bathe. When I was dressing, I heard shooting, and believing it was Indians, crept to the top of the hill.

  “It was all over. Clark had ridden up with two men and Michael, who had been expecting nothing, was dead. It was terrible! Randy was not dead yet when I got to the top of the hill, and I saw one of the men kick a pistol from his hand and shoot him again. There was nothing I could do, and I knew if I showed myself, they would kill me, too, so I lay there in the grass and waited.”

  “But what happened to you? How did you get out here?” “There was nothing I could do at the wagon, so I started over the prairie toward the other wagon train. It was almost twenty miles away, but it was all I could do. When I’d only gone a few miles I saw old Nellie, Mike’s saddle mare. She must have become frightened and broke loose. Anyway, she knew me and when I called she came right up, so I rode her to the other wagon train.

  “From Laramie I came on by stage.”

  He looked at her uneasily.

  “Then you knew all the time I was faking!”

  “Yes, but when you stopped Walt that first night, I whispered to Costa not to tell.”

  “He knew all the time, too?”

  “Yes.” She was smiling at him. “I’d showed him my marriage license, which I’d been carrying in the pocket of my dress.”

  “Why didn’t you tell?” he protested. “Here I was having a battle with my conscience, trying to decide what was right, and all the time I knew I had to explain sooner or later.”

  “You were doing so much better with the ranch than Michael ever could have, and Costa liked it that way. Michael and I grew up together and were more like brother and sister than husband and wife, but when he heard from his Uncle George, we were married. We thought Uncle George would be pleased—and we liked each other.”

  Suddenly it dawned on Jed that they were standing in the middle of the street and that he had his arm around Carol. He withdrew it hastily and they started toward the horses.

  “Why didn’t you just claim the estate as Mike’s wife?” he asked.

  “Costa was afraid Seever would kill me. We hadn’t decided what to do when you solved everything for the time being.” “What about these guns?”

  “My father made them. He was a gunsmith, and he made guns for Uncle George, too. These were a present to Mike when we started West.”

  His eyes avoided hers.

  “Carol,” he said. “I’ll get my gear an’ move on. The ranch is yours now, and I’d better head out.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” she murmured.

  He thought his ears were deceiving him. “You— what?”

  “Don’t go, Jed. Stay with us. I couldn’t manage the ranch alone, and Costa has been happy since you’ve been there. We need you, Jed. I—I need you.”

  “Well,” he said hesitantly, “there’s those cattle to be sold, and there’s a quarter section near Willow Springs that could be irrigated.”

  Pardo, watching, glanced at Flood. “I think he’s goin’ to stay, Pat.”

  “Shore,” Flood said knowingly, “ships and women. They all like a handy man around the place!”

  Carol caught Jed’s sleeve. “Then you’ll stay?”

  He smiled. “What could Costa do without me?”

  BIG MEDICINE

  Old Billy Dunbar was down flat on his face in a dry wash swearing into his beard. The best gold-bearing gravel he had found in a year, and then the Apaches would have to show up!

  It was like them, the mean, ornery critters. He hugged the ground for dear life and hoped they would not see him, tucked away as he was between some stones where an eddy of the water that once ran through the wash had dug a trench between the stones.

  There were nine of them. Not many, but enough to take his scalp if they found him, and it would be just as bad if they saw his burros or any of the prospect holes he had been sinking.

  He was sweating like a stuck hog bleeds, lying there with his beard in the sand, and the old Sharps .50 ready beside him. He wouldn’t have much of a chance if they found him, slithery fighters like they were, but if that old Sharps threw down on them he’d take at least one along to the Happy Hunting Ground with him.

  He could hear them now, moving along the desert above the wash. Where in tarnation were they going? He wouldn’t be safe as long as they were in the country, and this was country where not many white men came. Those few who did come were just as miserable to run into as the Apaches.

  There were nine of them, the leader a lean-muscled man with a hawk nose. All of them slim and brown without much meat on them the way Apaches were, and wearing nothing but breech clouts and headbands.

  He lay perfectly still. Old Billy was too knowing in Indian ways to start moving until he was sure they were gone. He laid right there for almost a half hour after he had last heard them, and then came out of it cautious as a bear reaching for a honey tree.

  When he got on his feet, he hightailed it for the edge of the wash and took a look. The Apaches had vanished. He turned and went down the wash, taking his time and keeping the old Sharps handy. It was a mile to his burros and to the place where his prospect holes were. Luckily, he had them back in a draw where there wasn’t much chance of them being found.

  Billy Dunbar pulled his old gray felt hat down a little tighter and hurried on. Jennie and Julie were waiting for him, standing head to tail so they could brush flies off each other’s noses.

  When he got to them he gathered up his tools and took them back up the draw to the rocks at the end. His canteens were full, and he had plenty of grub and ammunition. He was lucky that he hadn’t shot that rabbit when he saw it. The Apaches would have heard the bellow of the Old Sharps and come for him, sure. He was going to have to be careful.

  If they would just kill a man it wouldn’t be so bad, but these Apaches liked to stake a man out on an ant hill and let the hot sun and ants do for him, or maybe the buzzards—if they got there soon enough.

  This wash looked good, too. Not only because water had run there, but because it was actually cutting into the edge of an old river bed. If he could sink a couple of holes down to bedrock, he’d bet there’d be gold and gold aplenty.

  When he awakened in the morning he took a careful look around his hiding place. One thing, the way he was located, if they caught him in camp they couldn’t get at him to do much. The hollow was perhaps sixty feet across, but over half of it was covered by shelving rock from above, and the cliff ran straight up from there for an easy fifty feet. There was water in a spring and enough grass to last the burros for quite some time.

  After a careful scouting around, he made a fire of dead mesquite wh
ich made almost no smoke, and fixed some coffee. When he had eaten, Dunbar gathered up his pan, his pick, shovel and rifle and moved out. He was loaded more than he liked, but it couldn’t be helped.

  The place he had selected to work was the inside of the little desert stream. The stream took a bend and left a gravel bank on the inside of the elbow. That gravel looked good. Putting his Sharps down within easy reach, Old Billy got busy.

  Before sundown he had moved a lot of dirt, and tried several pans, loading them up and going over to the stream. Holding the pan under the water, he began to stir the gravel, breaking up the lumps of clay and stirring until every piece was wet. Then he picked out the larger stones and pebbles and threw them to one side. He put his hands on opposite sides of the pan and began to oscillate vigorously under water, moving the pan in a circular motion so the contents were shaken from side to side.

  With a quick glance around to make sure there were no Apaches in sight, he tipped the pan slightly, to an angle of about 30 degrees so the lighter sands, already buoyed up by the water, could slip out over the side.

  He struck the pan several good blows to help settle the gold, if any, and then dipped for more water and continued the process. He worked steadily at the pan, with occasional glances around until all the refuse had washed over the side but the heavier particles. Then with a little clean water, he washed the black sand and gold into another pan which he took from the brush where it had been concealed the day before.

  For some time he worked steadily, then as the light was getting bad, he gathered up his tools, and concealing the empty pan, carried the other with him back up the wash to his hideout.

  He took his Sharps and crept out of the hideout and up the wall of the canyon. The desert was still and empty on every side.

  “Too empty, durn it!” he grumbled. “Them Injuns’ll be back. Yuh can’t fool an Apache!”

  Rolling out of his blankets at sunup, he prepared a quick breakfast and then went over his takings of the day with a magnet. This black sand was mostly particles of magnetite, ilmenite, and black magnetic iron oxide. What he couldn’t draw off, he next eliminated by using a blow box.