Novel 1962 - High Lonesome (v5.0) Page 3

  Chavez did business with the wild bunch. Any outlaw could stop off here, buy supplies, pick up information, and never worry about anything being said. It was a safe place—as safe as any man living beyond the law can find; but Honey Chavez was no fool, and he had been careful not to cross Sheriff Pete Runyon.

  “It’s your business…but have you thought about this?” His big round eyes searched Considine’s face. “There will be much trouble.”

  Irritation showed in Considine’s face. “Are you riding in? Or do I go myself?”

  “It is time for me to go. They will expect me to come about now, for there are supplies I must get.” He hitched up his sagging pants. “I will see what I can find out.”

  He walked to the flea-bitten roan at the hitch rail. Sure, he reflected, Considine can pull this holdup and ride on, but I have to stay here, and Runyon will come looking for me.

  Runyon would close him up, drive him out. At the very least. Honey Chavez swung into the saddle and rode away…a very thoughtful man.

  Considine went into the store and the others followed. Picking up a newspaper, he dropped into Honey’s chair.

  Where was it a man made the switch? Had it really been back there in Obaro when Mary chose Runyon instead of him? Or had he actually made the switch even before that?

  Coming here was a fool thing, but they needed money and the money they needed was in Obaro. With a few sacks of gold they could run for the border; and with the Apaches out, there was small chance of pursuit. That was one of the things on which he was counting. Obaro was an exposed town, and the good family men who lived there would not want to run off into the desert and leave their wives, children, and property unprotected.

  There must be no killing. He would like to rob the bank of Obaro to get the money and to taunt them, but he wanted no killing. Aside from the fact that he hated no one there, there was a practical side. Take their money and they might come after you; but kill a friend of theirs and they would follow you through hell.

  It had come to his attention that men with money in the bank rarely rode in posses. Or maybe his viewpoint was sour.

  Nobody knew better how tough Obaro could be. As such towns went, it was an old town…fourteen years old, to be exact. And it might even last another ten.

  In the first year of the settlement’s existence the Apaches had raided it nine times, and the second year fourteen times. They had driven off stock, burned out-lying buildings, and in the first few years of the town’s existence had killed twenty-six men and a woman within three miles of the town.

  Considine knew how eagerly the town awaited an attempt at bank robbery. Unless there was an Indian attack—which was considered a normal part of the day-to-day life—the only excitement they had was a robbery attempt, and Considine himself had helped to handle one such.

  He grinned at the thought of outwitting Runyon and carrying off the robbery. Runyon was the only man who had ever whipped him in a stand-up and knock-down fight, and until the last minute it had been close. Both of them had been knocked down half a dozen times, both were bloody, and then Runyon had caught him with that right-hand punch.

  Pete Runyon was somewhat heavier, but a fast man for his weight, and he knew how to scrap. They had fought before that, with honors about even, but that last fight had not been for fun or over a minor grudge. They had, in effect, been fighting over Mary. And Runyon had whipped him.

  Considine knew what he really wanted was to fight Runyon again, but there would be no time for that. They would have to plan this one with infinite care.

  Once they had the money they could make a run for the border, but this time there would be no boozing in the cantinas. At least, not for him. He would buy a small ranch and hire some Basques to work for him, for they were good, steady men and hard workers, and they would make money for him.

  The store smelled of drygoods, of calico and gingham, of new leather and gun oil, of tobacco and spices. There was a rack of new Winchesters, a couple of second-hand Spencers, a case containing some new six-shooters, and the usual odds and ends of gear and supplies to be found around any frontier trading post.

  Dutch cut off a piece of cheese with his jack-knife and walked over to where Considine was seated. He hitched himself up on a barrel. “It should be rich,” Dutch said, “but this is a tough one.”

  Dutch had thought about this before. Months ago he had come into Obaro and stopped there briefly. No one knew him there, and he had loafed about town listening to the gossip. He had even gone into the bank to change some money, and had glanced at the safe. It was not too tough. It could be done.

  There was still much talk in the town about the great fight between Runyon and Considine, and there were many who thought that if it happened again, Runyon would not be so lucky.

  Of the four of them, only Considine would be known in town, so if necessary the others could ride in and be located about town before anything was suspected. That depended on whether they wanted to take the bank in broad daylight or in darkness.

  Considine got up. “You boys talk it over, then I’ll lay it out for you.”

  He went outside and stood at the end of the porch looking down the trail.

  It was very hot. A dust devil danced in the distance, the sky was wide and empty, the bunch-grass barrens stretched away to the mountains. Far down the trail among the dancing heat waves he saw two riders, unbelievably tall in the mirage made by the shimmering heat.

  That would be Dave Spanyer and his girl. What had he called her? Lennie…

  When she had looked at him there had been something very wise, very knowing in her glance, but it was that unconscious awareness such girls sometimes have, old as the world, old as time.

  But this was no time to be thinking of a girl, especially when her father was a tough old coot like Dave Spanyer. They said he had been a gunman for the big cattle outfits, and had killed eleven men. That might be an exaggeration, for many such stories were exaggerated, but he was no man to fool around with.

  Considine went to the pool and dipped up a bucket of water, and then went back among the trees and stripped off his clothes and bathed, dipping another bucket to complete the job. He discarded his old shirt, and went back to the store for another.

  Dave Spanyer and Lennie were riding into the yard as he crossed to the store, and he saw the girl look at his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, and then at his eyes.

  He went into the store and selected a dark red shirt with pearl buttons from the stock, and slipped it on. When he came out again, Spanyer was taking the horses to the corral.

  Spanyer came up on the porch with Lennie, who carefully kept her eyes averted from Considine. She was, he admitted again, quite a girl. And the fact that her blouse was a bit too small for her did nothing to conceal the fact.

  “Where’s Honey?” Spanyer demanded.

  “Gone to Obaro.”

  They went inside, and after a moment Considine followed. The Kiowa was balancing a knife in the palm of his hand, and as they entered he suddenly caught it by the tip and flipped it into the calendar across the room. It stuck there, and quivered.

  It was June, 1881.

  Chapter 4

  *

  IT WAS STILL and hot. Outside a road runner appeared and darted along the road, slowed, flipping its tail up and down, then ran off a little farther. A mockingbird sang in a cottonwood tree back of the store.

  A buckboard went by on the trail, flanked by two riders, but it did not stop, making fast time along the road to Obaro.

  “Never figured you to have a family, Dave,” Dutch said, glancing at Lennie; “and she’s no youngster, either.”

  “She’s been to school in Texas,” Spanyer replied proudly. “More than you and me can say.”

  “You should find a place and roost, Dave. This is no time to be traveling—not with a girl along.”

  “We’ll make it.” Then irritably, he added, “I figured on going into Obaro, but now I dasn’t…they might figure I was ri
ding with you boys and I’d be on the run again.”

  “Sorry.”

  Considine went outside again, and Lennie watched him go, nettled that he had made no attempt to talk to her. She was very curious about him…he was so quiet, and sort of stern.

  Spanyer looked after him. “Is he as good as they say?”

  Dutch nodded. “Better…he’s as good as any of them ever were, Dave, and you know I’ve seen them all—Courtright, Allison, Hardin, Hickok, Stoudenmire, Pink Higgins, all of them.”

  “Then why doesn’t he ride into Obaro and shoot it out with Runyon?”

  “He could beat Runyon with guns and they both know it, but he wants to whip him with his hands because that’s the way they’ve always fought.”

  “He’s crazy…plumb crazy.”

  “They used to ride together. They were saddle partners.”

  Spanyer shrugged. “Hell, man, that’s different.”

  Considine stood alone near the corral. What was the matter with him? He could not recall feeling this way before, and it irritated him. There was a nameless restlessness on him, something for which he could not account.

  Was it because he was so close to Obaro? Was it because Mary was not far away? Or was there something else in him which he did not know?

  Recent rains promised water in the tinajas, the natural tanks in the rocks along the trail they would follow into Mexico. Honey Chavez would arrange for the horses to be waiting for them in the box canyon, and they could make the switch there and have a good running start. Long ago he had scouted that country in company with a Papago who knew the desert wells and the tinajas, and Considine had mapped those places in his mind.

  Due south of the box canyon there were tinajas that should contain just enough water for their horses and themselves, and their visit would empty them; from there on a posse pursuing them would be waterless. But every mile would be alive with danger, for the Indians would be on the move.

  However, leaving the chance of Indians out of it, the plan for the getaway was as close to fool-proof as any such plan could be.

  He went over it again, considering every aspect. It was simple, and that was what he liked best of all. There was nothing that could go wrong. Chavez would have the horses there—he would personally see that he did—and if the escape from town was clean, the rest should work like a charm.

  The problem of the town remained. Unless they could draw all the people away from the main street there would be small chance, for armed strangers riding into Obaro would arouse immediate suspicion. But he had an idea how he would manage that.

  Honey Chavez should be back soon, and knowing Honey, Considine was sure he would have all the information they needed, for Chavez had long since proved himself an expert at this sort of thing.

  Considine’s thoughts reverted to Mary. She had chosen wisely, even though he had hated her at the time. Pete had settled down. He was sheriff, but he was running a few cattle, too, and was becoming a man of some importance in Obaro and the surrounding country.

  Mary was a tall, pale girl. She was blonde, she was intelligent, and she was lovely, yet somehow he had difficulty in remembering just what she looked like. He told himself that was nonsense, but the fact remained that his recollection of her was no longer distinct. Had he really been in love with her? Or was it merely that his pride was hurt that she jilted him for his friend?

  Folks said time was a healer, but time was also a thief. It robbed a man of years, and robbed him of memories.

  This would be his last ride in the night, his last run for the border. He was going to have that Mexican ranch; the others could do as they wished.

  The wind skittered dried leaves along the ground, and he looked up quickly. There was a faint coolness on the wind…back in the hills there was a rumble of thunder.

  Honey Chavez rode in an hour later when the sun had dropped below the horizon. Considine walked out to meet him, and took the heavy sack from his hands. Honey swung down and turned his back to the horse.

  “Apaches killed two men and burned a place over east.” He glanced toward the store. “Who’s that inside?”

  “Dave Spanyer and his daughter.”

  “Spanyer?” Chavez looked at him quickly. “Is he with you?”

  “He’s quit. He’s headed for California with his daughter.”

  “This here is no time to travel with a female.”

  “Well,” Considine said sharply, “what about it?”

  “The mine has a pay roll at the bank—thirty thousand. There will be twice that much, all told.”

  Thunder rolled, and a gust of wind whipped dust into a cloud. There was a brief spatter of rain, and both men started for the barn with the Chavez horse.

  “To go into town we’ll need four horses that nobody knows. We’ll leave our own in the box canyon, and when we get to them we’ll turn yours loose.”

  “Sounds all right.” Chavez stripped the saddle from his horse and placed it astride a sawhorse in an empty stall. “I saw Runyon. He looks fit.”

  Leave it to Pete. He knew Considine would be coming back some day and knew they would settle it with their fists, so he was ready. Pete had always been ready, when it came to that. Considine remembered the time his own horse lost its footing on a narrow mountain trail and started over the edge. Pete Runyon’s rope had come out of nowhere and dropped over his shoulders just as he was going past the edge. It had been a quick bit of business.

  Runyon had saved his life on other occasions, too, and Considine had done as much for him. It was nothing they ever talked about, except in joking, for it was all in the day’s work, and was accepted as such.

  He could hear the soft laughter of Lennie Spanyer inside the store. She was talking to somebody—Hardy, probably. For a moment he felt a flash of jealousy, and it surprised him. He had not thought that seriously of any girl since Mary…not to say there had been no other girls. There had been a good many, most of them below the border, but he had been careful not to grow too concerned.

  Rain came suddenly, and it came hard. The two men ran for the store and stopped on the porch, listening to the roar of the rain on the roof. It was a regular old-time gully-washer. This might complicate things a little if the rain lasted long enough to leave water along the trails.

  From the dry earth there arose that strange odor he knew so well, that peculiar smell of long-parched earth when first touched by rain.

  On the porch the two stood together, and after a minute Chavez said, “The stuff is there, all right, no question about it. When I went to the bank they were counting the gold into sacks.”

  “Hear anything else?”

  “I was curious…so I started talk about the fight between you and Runyon. That started an argument…everybody takes sides on that fight.”

  “Did you mention my name?”

  “No…I don’t think so.”

  *

  I MIGHT HAVE been any cow-country general store at that hour, with rain on the roof and the Kiowa sitting at a table under a coal-oil lamp idly shuffling a pack of cards in his big brown hands. Dutch and Spanyer sat at one side on the counter, swapping stories of the old days.

  Hardy cornered Chavez as the two men entered and went off in a corner, arguing with him.

  They might have been any group of cowhands waiting for the rain to pass, but tomorrow there would be quick, fateful movements, a thunder of hoofs, perhaps the thunder of guns. Tomorrow they would be riding into Obaro, the town that was the nemesis of outlaws.

  Considine watched, fascinated at the flowing, smooth movements of the Kiowa’s brown hands. The man was a marvel with cards.…The old scar on the half-breed’s face stood sharply clear under the lamp.

  Spanyer turned to Chavez. “Owe you for supper.”

  “That’s all right. You’re a friend of Dutch. You forget it.”

  He took a package from the counter and handed it to Lennie.

  “What the devil is that?” Spanyer demanded.

  Chavez shr
ugged his fat shoulders. “A present from Hardy here.”

  Spanyer’s lips thinned down, and he ripped open the package, exposing several folds of cloth Lennie had admired earlier. Abruptly he thrust the package back at Chavez, then he turned on Hardy.

  “When my girl needs clothes, I’ll buy them. Your kind will throw a brand on anything you can. Stay away from her, you hear me?”

  “Take it easy…old man.” Hardy’s tone was careless, and he underlined the “old man” with faint contempt.

  Spanyer’s face stiffened. “Why, you dirty pup!”

  Hardy’s hand dropped for his gun, but Dutch was too quick. He grabbed Hardy, then stepped between them, stopping the half-drawn gun.

  Hardy wrenched at the hand, trying to tear free, but aware that Spanyer’s gun had come smoothly into position.

  “He’s too fast for you, Hardy,” Dutch said. “Lay off!”

  Hardy was suddenly very still. Over Dutch’s shoulder he looked into the slate-gray, icy eyes of the old man and saw no mercy there. Something within him seemed to shrink back. He was afraid of no man, but he knew death when he saw it. Only Dutch’s intervention had saved him. He had never seen a gun drawn so fast before—except by Considine.

  “He didn’t mean any harm!” Lennie protested. “He was just trying to be nice.”

  “Get over there to your room!” Spanyer gestured toward the building across the plaza.

  Lennie’s face flushed, but she turned obediently. She walked out of the door, and Spanyer holstered his gun. His eyes went around their faces, coolly measuring them, and then he followed his daughter.

  Hardy stood silent for several seconds, and his anger evaporated—his anger and his surprise.

  “Thanks,” he said suddenly. “Thanks, Dutch.”

  “Forget it,” Dutch said, then he added in a mild tone, “That’s a tough old man, so don’t think you’ve lost your grip. I’d never try him with a gun, I know that.”

  The Kiowa shuffled the cards, the flutter of the deck the only sound in the stillness of the store. Dutch picked up his blankets and started across the plaza, and after a minute Hardy followed.