Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Page 2

  “Or you stand up a stage out on the road. Nobody is supposed to be around. And then comes an army patrol returning from a scout … or maybe there’s two or three gun-happy men aboard.

  “The thing you can’t figure, kid, is the unexpected, and it always happens. Well, we’ve been lucky, but Jim is scared now, and so am I.”

  “What’s all this talk lead to?”

  “You, Riley. Get out of this business.”

  Weaver reached around and picked up his saddlebags. He dug out his poke and tossed it to Riley. “There’s a thousand there. Take it, with what you’ve got, and buy some cows.”

  “You’re tryin’ to get rid of me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Weaver rubbed his cigarette in the sand until it was carefully put out. “You ain’t cut out for it, kid. You don’t like to kill, and that’s the way it should be. You’ve been shooting to scare, and that’s the best way. Rob a bank, and nobody gives you too much of an argument but the law; but you kill a man, and that man has friends, and they’ll chase you to hell. But some day we’ll get in a bind and you’ll have to kill.”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  “You’ve killed men, kid, but you were in the right. You kill riding with us, and it’s different. It is different in the eyes of the law and of people, and you’ll see it different yourself.”

  “What will Jim say?”

  “He likes you … like you’re his son. We’ll all be pleased, Riley. We sure will.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  “You ain’t taking it. Some day I’ll be too stove up to ride, and then I’ll come to you and you can fix me up in a shack on your place and let me eat some honest beef.”

  They walked back to the fire. The way the others looked up, Riley knew they had been waiting for the results of the talk.

  Colburn tossed a heavy poke to Riley. “Three thousand there, kid. We’re all buying in. You start yourself an outfit.”

  Gaylord Riley looked down at the poke, and then after a moment he looked up. “This here’s fine … mighty fine. Always wished a place of my own, like Pa wanted.”

  “One thing, Riley,” Colburn advised. “Wherever you settle, you file government claim to your water. You file government claim to all the water you can get. You can take it from me that a range is only as big as its water supply, and when a steer walks too far to water he walks off beef.”

  Riley picked up the poke. “All right, then.”

  When he had saddled up, he stepped into the saddle and looked around at them. “You boys take care,” he said, “and you remember—there’s always a place with me, no matter where I am.”

  They listened to the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats until they died away and the dust settled and lay still. In the stream the water chuckled and rippled over the rocks and among the roots.

  Jim Colburn looked around with sudden distaste. “Come on, let’s light a shuck,” he said.

  “I’ll miss that kid,” Kehoe commented.

  “Only four of us again.”

  Parrish said nothing, but he turned twice to look back.

  CHAPTER 3

  WHEN GAYLORD RILEY was only sixteen he had camped for two nights near a spring at the head of Fable Canyon. They had been still, cold nights in the fall, with stars hanging so low it seemed a man might knock them down with a stick.

  Never had he forgotten those magnificent distances, the mountains and canyons, the tremendous reach of unpeopled land, and now he had returned, as he had known he would.

  To some the immensity, the solitude, the vastness of sky and landscape would have been appalling, frightening; but to Gaylord Riley, whose nature was attuned to all this, it offered something to the spirit.

  Near the head of Fable Canyon, on a bench at the foot of the Sweet Alice Hills, he began the house that would be home. On every side the land fell away, offering an unimpaired view to the north, west, and south. Fifteen miles away as the crow would fly lay the Colorado River, to the north a vast basin of several thousand acres where he planned to run cattle. On the south lay a jumble of canyons, cliffs, and pinnacles that stretched away for a vast distance, to end finally in the Painted Desert.

  Long ago this had been an inhabited land, but it was so no longer. Cliff dwellings remained, ruins now, and there were the remains of ancient irrigation. Why the original inhabitants had moved on, no man could guess, but no others had come to fill the gap they left behind, although of late there were stories that the Navajo were beginning to drift into the southern part of the area.

  From the moment Gaylord Riley rode away from the outlaw camp he had been thinking of this place. It was not an area anyone else would be likely to think of. There were better grazing lands available, but they were not better for him.

  The grazing here was good. There was timber for building, there was an unlimited view, which he liked, good water, and no near neighbors. Moreover, there was a maze of canyons in any direction, so when his friends came to visit they would not need to worry about getting away.

  The nearest town was Rimrock, unpeeled and raw, something over twenty miles to the northeast. The town was scarcely a year old, a dusty avenue shaded by cottonwoods and lined by false-fronted stores. It was a one-doctor, no-lawyer, five-saloon town, with two good water-troughs, a deep well, and excellent homemade whiskey.

  Nearby were eight prosperous ranches and a pair of lean mining prospects. Local society consisted of the doctor, the banker, the eight ranchers, the preacher, and the newspaper publisher.

  It was a town where the leading saloon, as well as one of the smaller ones, was owned by Martin Hardcastle. He was a very large man with a polished, hard-boned face, slicked-down hair, and a handlebar mustache. Among the regulars at the Hardcastle saloons were Strat Spooner and Nick Valentz.

  There were two powers in the town of Rimrock, and in the country around. Martin Hardcastle and Dan Shattuck had been speaking acquaintances, and had often talked together several minutes at a time, either during casual meetings on the street or in Hardcastle’s saloon. They did so no longer.

  Outwardly there was between them the same reserved amiability as before, but no longer did Shattuck drop into Hardcastle’s for his evening drink, or to meet friends. Bit by bit he had withdrawn his trade, transferring it to a saloon across the street. Those who had been inclined to meet Dan Shattuck at Hardcastle’s had drifted to the other saloon.

  The business was not important to Hardcastle, but Shattuck’s attitude was. Hardcastle was sure that Shattuck had not mentioned the reason for his change to any of the others, for their attitudes toward Hardcastle remained the same. Nevertheless, a line had been drawn, sharply and definitely.

  Not that the line had not existed before—it had. The trouble was that Martin Hardcastle had overstepped it.

  That Sunday afternoon had been warm and bright, and Marie—Shattuck’s niece—had been visiting Peg over at Oliver’s Boxed O. Dan Shattuck had been working over his ranch books in the room he called his “office.” Pico had been braiding a horsehair bridle on a bench in front of the bunkhouse.

  Martin Hardcastle had driven into the yard in a spanking new buckboard with a black body and red wheels. He wore a black broadcloth suit and a starched white shirt. Across the front of his vest was a heavy gold chain supporting an elk’s tooth.

  Pico watched him get down from the buckboard, and he would not have denied his curiosity.

  Dan Shattuck answered the door himself. He was a tall, fine-featured man with a shock of graying hair. He was puzzled, and had no idea of what to expect.

  Hardcastle was forty-five years old and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, very little of it fat. He carried himself well, and at times he could be suave and adroit. He was not so now, made abrupt by the very strangeness of what he was about to do.

  Seated, he put his big hands on his knees. “Dan,” he said abruptly, “I’m a wealthy man. I’m healthy, and I’ve never been married, but I’ve decided it’s time.”

  Shat
tuck had never known Hardcastle except as proprietor of a place where he bought drinks from time to time, or in the meetings natural to two men in a small town. He was even more puzzled when Hardcastle said, “I decided to come to you first.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Dan. You see, it’s Marie I’m thinkin’ of.”

  Had Hardcastle reached over and slapped him across the face, Shattuck would have been less surprised—and much less angry.

  Hardcastle ran a saloon, and to men of Dan Shattuck’s stamp and to many others that placed him beyond the pale. A less-known fact was that Hardcastle was also the proprietor of a business operated by three girls in a house by the river. This fact was known to Shattuck, although Hardcastle believed his tracks were well covered.

  Dan Shattuck got to his feet abruptly. “You can stop thinking,” he said coldly. “When my niece marries it will not be to a saloonkeeper who also trafficks in women. Now get out of here, and if you ever venture to speak to my niece I’ll have you publicly horsewhipped and run out of town.”

  Hardcastle’s face had turned red, then white. He started to speak as he reared to his feet. His hands shook, his eyes bulged. Abruptly, he turned and strode from the room, almost stumbling as he went down the steps. He got into his buckboard, whipped it around, and raced toward the road.

  Pico put aside his bridle and walked to the house, where Dan Shattuck sat, whitefaced and furious. Briefly, he explained to Pico.

  “If he so much as makes a move toward her,” Pico said, “I shall kill him.”

  It was only two weeks later that Gaylord Riley rode into Rimrock for the first time. Had Hardcastle been less absorbed in planning a limitation to Dan Shattuck’s future he might have paid more attention to the stranger who rode past his saloon and dismounted at the bank.

  Strat Spooner did notice. He also noticed the double set of heavy saddlebags Riley took from his horse and carried into the bank.

  Amos Burrage looked up from his battered desk at the dusty cowhand.

  “I want to make a deposit,” Riley said.

  Burrage indicated the cashier. “See him,” he said.

  “I’ll see you.” Riley lifted his saddlebags to the desktop. “I want to deposit that, and I want to buy cattle.”

  Burrage glanced into the saddlebags. There were dozens of small sacks, carefully wrapped. He opened several of them. He saw gold in chunks, in dust, in coins … tightly rolled greenbacks.

  “That’s a lot of money, boy. How’d you come by it?”

  Gaylord Riley did not reply, and Burrage felt distinctly uncomfortable under his hard, steady gaze. It irritated him that this young man—he could be scarcely more than twenty—could make him feel as he did.

  “The Boxed O has longhorns they might sell,” he suggested.

  “I want Shorthorns or whiteface stock,” Riley said.

  “The only man around here with whiteface cattle is Dan Shattuck, and he won’t sell—he went to too much trouble to get them here in the first place. He thinks they will do well here, but nobody else does.”

  “I do.”

  “You’ll bring in your own, then. Shattuck won’t sell. In fact, the Lazy S is in the market for more than they have.”

  Riley indicated the money. “I’ll be drawing against that. Take care of it.”

  He walked out to the street, a rangy young man in shotgun chaps, a faded maroon shirt, and a black hat. He paused on the street and gave it his sharp attention while appearing to be beating the dust from his clothes.

  With that brief study he located every place in town. He saw Strat Spooner loafing in front of the place called Hardcastle’s, saw the buckboard coming down the street driven by a girl, saw the Mexican vaquero who rode beside her.

  Riley crossed the street toward the Emporium. He had categorized Spooner in that one brief glance. The man loafing in front of the saloon was probably a hired gunhand or an outlaw. Gaylord Riley had reason to know the type.

  Moreover, at a time when any employed cowhand would be hard at work, this man sat at his ease. He wore brand-new boots that must have cost twice what a cowhand could afford. As Riley crossed the street he was conscious of the man’s attention, and knew the reason for it.

  Valentz came from the saloon and asked, “Who’s he?”

  Riley, as he stepped up on the boardwalk in front of the store, heard the question.

  The sun lay warm upon the dust of the street, warm upon the buildings, the freshness of their lumber already fading under the sun and wind. Gaylord Riley paused on the walk and looked around again. After all, this would be his town. Here he would come to market, and here he would get his mail—if any.

  He frowned, wondering if he could buy a newspaper anywhere in town. And then he saw the sign: The Rimrock Scout, All the News, Plenty of Opinions.

  Riley strolled down the street and opened the door. The hand press and the fonts of type—these were things of which he knew nothing. The weather-beaten man who walked up to the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth, smiled.

  “How are you, son? Huntin’ news, or providin’ it?”

  Riley chuckled. “Figured you might sell me a paper and let me browse through some back issues. Seems to me that’s the best way to learn about a community.”

  The newspaperman thrust out a hand. “Glad to know you’re going to be one of us. I’m Sampson McCarty, editor, publisher, and printer. You’re the first newcomer who has had sense enough to come in here and find out about the country. You help yourself.”

  He waved toward a stack of newspapers on a shelf. “That’s all there is—thirty-six weeks, thirty-six issues. Take all the time you like, come as often as you like.”

  “I’m Gaylord Riley. I’m ranching over west.”

  “That’s rough, wild country,” McCarty commented. “Not many even ride into that wilderness.”

  “Suits me. I’ll be runnin’ cows, not visitin’.”

  Riley took a handful of newspapers and sat down at a table. He sat where he could look out of the window, his back partly toward McCarty. The newspaper idea was one he had picked up from Jim Colburn. Colburn had discovered that you could get a good idea about how rich a bank was by studying the papers … and a good idea about how dangerous the law might be.

  McCarty saw at once that there was nothing haphazard about Riley’s way of going over a newspaper. The first thing he did was run down the column of box advertisements to check the business and professional ads, making several notes as he went along. Next he scanned the column of local items each issue contained.

  McCarty, from his position in setting type, could see over Riley’s shoulder, and as he knew every item it was easy to ascertain the reader’s interests.

  The news story referring to the arrival of Shattuck’s Herefords held Riley’s attention; but when he came upon the story of Spooner’s killing of Bill Banner, he paused to read the item with care. The next story at which he stopped was that of the holdup at Pagosa Springs—or rather, the attempted holdup. Two bandits had been wounded, and one of the outlaws was said to have been a member of the Colburn gang.

  He read on, skimming the local items, and at last he pushed back in his chair and was rising when the door opened and Marie Shattuck entered with Pico.

  McCarty wiped his hands and came up to the counter again. “How do you do, Marie. Howdy, Pico.”

  The printer turned and gestured toward Riley. “Miss Shattuck, Pico, meet Gaylord Riley. He’s ranching over west. Newcomer.”

  Riley straightened up, suddenly aware that he was flushing. “Shattuck? Of the Running S?”

  “You know of us?”

  “Only that you’re running Herefords, and I’d like to buy some.”

  Pico’s mahogany face was inscrutable, and he looked at Riley with care. This man had been up the creek and over the mountain—he was no average man.

  “Uncle Dan wouldn’t dream of selling, Mr. Riley. He had too much trouble getting them in the first place. But you might talk to him.”


  When they had paid for their paper and gone, Riley turned to McCarty. “I saw an item there in the paper about a gun battle. Somebody named Spooner. That wouldn’t be him sitting down in front of the saloon, would it?”

  “It would. And he’s a man to leave alone. If you had read back a little further you’d see that two, three months before that one he had another fight … killed that man, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  McCarty watched him as he left the office and turned down the street; and McCarty, who had operated newspapers or worked as a printer in many western towns, was puzzled.

  There were many varieties of men in the West, but this one had none of the diffidence of the average cowhand. Young as he was, he carried himself with a quiet assurance, yet with a watchfulness that reminded McCarty of Earp, Courtright, or Hickok. But he was not one of these, and no other that he had ever heard of.

  Rimrock was a town without secrets, and before nightfall McCarty heard the story of the deposit of ten thousand dollars in the local bank. He heard also that Riley had hired two cowhands, both of them known to McCarty.

  Cruz was a Mexican, lean, hard-riding, and capable. Darby Lewis was a loafer much of the time, though when he worked he was a top hand on any outfit, but he worked as little as possible.

  The restaurant at Rimrock was the town’s one attempt at the ways of the city. Instead of merely the usual boarding-house tables, they had a dozen tables that would seat four people each. The boarding-house tables they had as well, and few of the citizens patronized anything else.

  Martin Hardcastle ate at one of the smaller tables, and so did Amos Burrage, but there were few others who did except Shattuck and his niece. Gaylord Riley chose a table by himself because he did not wish to be questioned or led into talk. He wanted time to think, to plan, and to sort out what he had learned that day.