Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Page 3

  Most of all, he wanted to think about what he had read about the attempted robbery at Pagosa Springs, for if the information was true, two of the members of the Colburn gang were wounded, perhaps seriously. If so, they would need food, a hideout, and maybe medicine.

  He sat alone and ate alone, conscious that at a nearby table sat Marie Shattuck, with Pico.

  He was sitting where he could watch the door, for he was expecting the sheriff. From the local items he had gathered that Sheriff Larsen ate his supper in the restaurant once or twice each week, and dropped in more often for coffee. Sooner or later they must meet, and Riley preferred it to be now.

  Pico glanced at Marie. “New hombre,” he said slyly.

  “Pico! Will you stop trying to marry me off?”

  “Your uncle, he is a busy man, and he knows much of cattle, nothing of women. Your mother and your aunt are dead. Who is to look after you if not Pico?”

  Suddenly the door opened and Martin Hardcastle came in. Riley, attuned to such things, saw the look he gave Marie, and saw Pico’s stiffening; then he saw the Mexican slowly relax, but as a big cat relaxes while watching a snake—quiet, but poised and alert.

  Hardcastle glanced at Riley, then walked on to an empty table and sat down, facing Marie. He was within Riley’s line of vision, and Riley felt himself stir irritably at the way the big man stared at the girl. She seemed utterly unaware of it, yet Riley was not at all sure of that.

  McCarty, who usually ate alone in his own bachelor’s shack, decided on this night to invest the price of a meal in the possibilities of news. With a sixth sense given to good newsmen and law officers, he sensed trouble, though without any idea of where it would develop, or how. An ordinarily quiet man who talked little, he was friendly and knew everyone.

  He paused as he reached Riley’s table. “Had an idea that might help you. If Shattuck won’t sell any of his Herefords, why don’t you try the country north of here? I hear some of the folks coming through on the Overland Trail still have cattle to sell.”

  “Sit down,” Riley said.

  McCarty sat, leaning his forearms on the table. “Sometimes movers run short of cash and grub, and they’d sell out if you were there with an offer.”

  “I may try that.”

  The door opened again and a man entered and paused, blinking slowly from small blue eyes almost hidden between high cheekbones and bushy brows. The bone structure of the man’s face was massive; his hair was blond, mixed with gray.

  He was not a tall man, but broad and thick, and he moved with deceptive slowness. On the vest underneath his coat Riley could see the gleam of a badge, and he held himself very still. This was Sheriff Ed Larsen.

  Larsen’s eyes swept the room, nodding here and there. Finally his eyes came to rest on Riley, but only for the briefest instant. They passed over him to McCarty.

  “H’lo, Mac,” he spoke in a low, deep voice. “You smelling trouble again?”

  McCarty shrugged. “You know I am,” he said. “And you can laugh if you want. It will come.”

  “I won’t laugh. It’s headed dis way.”

  “Trouble?”

  “The Colburn gang.”

  CHAPTER 4

  SHERIFF ED LARSEN turned his slow blue eyes to Riley. “Do you know the Colburn gang?”

  “I’m from Texas.”

  “He’s a newcomer, Ed. He’s ranching over west of here, and wants to buy some Herefords. I was telling him he might find some among movers along the Overland Trail.”

  “I t’ink so. Mebbe. Dey are goot cows, dose Hereford.” He accepted the coffee the waitress brought to the table and poured a heavy dollop of honey into it. “Rough country west. You t’ink dey do well dere?”

  “There’s some meadows where I can cut hay for winter feeding, and there’s plenty of forage on those high plateaus. And I’m in no hurry. I want to get some good breeding stock and build a good herd.”

  “Sheep,” Larsen said, “dere is money in sheep. More dan in cows, I t’ink.”

  “I don’t know anything about sheep.”

  Larsen studied Riley thoughtfully. Then he said, “You must know dis country here. It is rough to the west. I t’ink not many know dat country.”

  “Once—when I was sixteen—I rode through this country. We camped two days at the spring where I’ve located. I never forgot it.”

  “Ah? What spring is dat?”

  There was no way of avoiding it, so he said, “On a bench of the Sweet Alice Hills—head of Fable Canyon.”

  Larsen was surprised. The names obviously meant nothing to McCarty, but the old Swede shook his head and muttered, “Dat is wild. I t’ink nobody goes dere. And it is high … very high oop.”

  “I like the view.”

  Larsen nodded. “Yah, I t’ink so. It is a goot view.”

  Riley was uneasy. The old man was no fool, and if he knew the Sweet Alice Hills he had been over the country more than Riley would have thought, to look at the slow-moving man.

  Riley’s eyes kept straying to Marie Shattuck, at the table nearby. She was a pretty girl, and there was something about her he liked that had nothing to do with beauty. Twice their eyes met, and Pico had noticed it.

  “What, Pico?” Marie teased. “No urging? No seal of approval?”

  The Mexican shrugged. “This one I do not know, chiquita, but I would believe he has done much riding. He is no fool, this one.”

  Riley’s mind returned to the Colburn gang. If they had been shot up and some of them wounded they would be desperately in need of help. Moreover, they would need a place to hole up for a while. And the canyons near the ranch offered plenty of places to hide out, and fifty ways in and out of the country—it was one reason he had fastened upon the Sweet Alice Hills.

  Larsen droned on, talking of cattle, prices, and forage conditions. Suddenly he glanced sharply at Riley. “You buy some flower seed today, yah? At the store?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goot. It is goot to have flower. I haff roses. You come by some day, I show you. I t’ink a man who plants tree and flower, he come to stay.” Larsen got slowly to his feet, and thrust out his hand. “Some flower do well in dis country, some do not. We haff to give dem the chance.”

  As he walked away, Riley wondered if there was more in that last comment than met the ear? Was Larsen giving him a subtle hint? A hint that he was to have his chance here? Or was that his imagination working overtime?

  Of one thing he was sure: the farther he could stay away from Larsen, the better.

  The following morning he bought three pack horses, all mares. He was packing them with the last of his purchased supplies when he saw a tall, gray-haired man ride into the street. His bay horse wore a Running S brand. This had to be Dan Shattuck.

  Gaylord Riley walked into the street to stop him, and Shattuck drew up. “I’m in the market for some whiteface cattle,” Riley said, “and I understand you have some.”

  Shattuck nodded. “I have some, but none for sale.” His cool blue eyes surveyed Riley. “You’re new around here. At present mine are the only whiteface cattle around, so if you do acquire some I would suggest you run them far from mine. We would not want to have any trouble.”

  Riley felt anger rise within him, but he said simply, “I shall buy whiteface cattle, and I shall run them on the range I have chosen, and if we have any trouble you may be sure I’ll know how to handle it.”

  Abruptly, he turned and strode back to the mares he was packing. Cruz glanced at his face, then at the horseman in the street, who had not moved. “Do not make an enemy of him, amigo,” Cruz said quietly. “He is a good man, but a strong-minded one.”

  “To hell with him!”

  Martin Hardcastle emerged from his saloon. He nodded to Cruz, then spoke to Riley. “When you get through with that, come in and have a drink.”

  It was warm and pleasant in the street. Riley ignored Shattuck until the cattleman rode on down, to draw up before the Bon-Ton Saloon, where he dismounted. He stood ther
e on the walk, talking with Doc Beaman, and then they went into the Bon-Ton together.

  When he had finished the packing, Riley indicated the saloon. “Let’s go in and see what he has to offer.”

  Cruz did not like Hardcastle, so he shook his head. “There is a cantina,” he said, “and a girl to whom I must say good-bye. If the señor will permit—?”

  “Of course.”

  Hardcastle placed a bottle on the bar when Riley came in. “Help yourself,” he said. “This is on me. Glad to welcome a newcomer into the country.”

  Spooner was nowhere about, but another man, a square, untidy man, lounged alone at a rear table. Nick Valentz stared at Riley, then looked away. Now where had he seen him before?

  Hardcastle poured drinks. “Shattuck’s a difficult man,” he said. “Big-headed, too.”

  Riley lifted his glass. “Here’s how!” he said, and downed the drink. Hardcastle had something on his mind, and Riley intended to learn what it was.

  “I know where you can get some whiteface cattle,” Hardcastle said. “Not many, but enough to start a herd.”

  Riley was surprised. “Herefords?”

  “Yes. You’d have to drive them down from Moab—there’s only about thirty head.”

  “Bull among them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  Martin Hardcastle took a cigar from his vest pocket and clipped the end with strong white teeth, then studied the cigar for a moment while he framed his answer. He put the cigar betwen his teeth and struck a match. Looking past the cigar as he lifted the match, he said, “Five dollars a head if you run them on the mesa between Indian and Cottonwood creeks.”

  Gaylord Riley always liked to know what was going on in a community, so he said, “Whose range is that?”

  “Open range.”

  The offer smelled of trouble—all kinds of trouble. The price was far too cheap.

  “Too far from my place,” he said. “How much otherwise?”

  “That’s a good offer, and it’s a good range.”

  “The offer is too good. Whose toes do you want stepped on?”

  Hardcastle hesitated. This man was no fool, but how far would he go to get some whiteface cattle? He decided against showing his hand. “Forget it. You can have the cattle for twenty dollars a head. I had an idea I’d show Shattuck a thing or two. He figures he’s the only man around here who can have any Herefords.”

  “My range is farther out,” Riley said mildly. “But at twenty per head, I’ll buy.”

  Hardcastle shrugged. “Okay … it was a fool idea, anyway.” He put his cigar down and picked up a pen. “Darby Lewis works for you, and he knows where these cattle are. You send him for them. No need to go yourself unless you’re of a mind to.”

  That suited Riley, for he wished to get back to the ranch at the head of Fable Canyon as soon as possible.

  “You send Darby, and I’ll have a hand of mine ride with him to your range.”

  “All right.” Riley placed his glass on the bar. He looked right into Hardcastle’s eyes. “Just one thing, Mr. Hardcastle. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Across the street Mr. Burrage will tell you I’m good for the money, but when those cattle arrive, I want a bill of sale, and I want clear brands, d’ you hear?”

  Martin Hardcastle did not like to be questioned. Irritation stirred within him, but he stifled it. “Of course. This is a legitimate deal.”

  “And no cattle that ever—at any time—belonged to Shattuck.”

  “Shattuck never saw these cattle.”

  “Fine—fine and dandy. You’ve made yourself a deal.”

  As he walked through the door, Hardcastle stared after him. So have you, he said in his mind. So have you, you young fool.

  FROM THE MOMENT of Gaylord Riley’s arrival in town and his expression of interest in whiteface cattle, Hardcastle had seen in him a tool for the destruction of Dan Shattuck.

  Martin Hardcastle was, up to a point, a reasonable man. Like many a man who has enjoyed consistent success, he had come to believe anything he decided on was right, and to be infuriated by anyone or anything that tried to stand in his way. And Martin Hardcastle’s success had never suffered frustration until that day when he approached Dan Shattuck.

  It was not so much the refusal, but Shattuck’s shocked astonishment at his suggestion, that angered Hardcastle. He had believed his association with the women in the house by the river was unknown, and over the months of his staring at Marie he had convinced himself there was nothing impossible in his plan. After all, he was a rich man—quite as rich as Shattuck, when it came to that, and between the two of them they could control everything around.

  As he watched Marie coming and going about the town, he fancied she was not unaware of him, and when he combed his hair before the mirror he told himself he was a handsome man—so why not Marie? And after all, who else was there?

  From the days when he had been a shoulder-striker in the streets of New York for Tom Poole, Martin Hardcastle had climbed the ladder of success steadily. It did not matter to him that several of the rungs had been the bodies of men who got in the way, or that his two hard fists and a hard skull had helped his success quite as much as what was inside his skull.

  From a repeat voter and hired slugger, he had gone on to become a watchman at a gambling house, a gambler, master of a bawdy house, and finally, owner of his own gambling joint.

  Aware that any further success would interfere with more powerful interests in New York, he was preparing to leave when the unfortunate death of a man he had rolled made leaving imperative. He had gone to Pittsburgh, to St. Louis, to New Orleans, and then he had followed the railroads west, operating a “house” at the end-of-the-line towns.

  The sudden birth of Rimrock had offered opportunity and he had moved in, opened his own saloon, and then bought another. He had prospered immediately, the saloons crowded, the house on the river doing a land-office business. He bought the livery stable, and opened a store close by. He had been doing a little business buying and selling stock, and kept a corral behind the livery stable where there were weekly auctions of stock. He also operated a butcher shop that sold meat locally.

  He had left the ranch of Dan Shattuck that day trembling with cold fury, a fury that turned into hatred. Never for an instant had his resolve weakened. He intended to have Marie.

  Of course, she was unaware of his meeting with Shattuck, and he was sure Shattuck would not speak of it. Regardless of that, he intended at the first opportunity to speak to her himself.

  But he was no fool. He was quite sure that Dan Shattuck had meant what he said when he threatened to have him horsewhipped if he tried to speak to Marie.

  He had made up his mind. He would have Marie, but before he had her he would destroy Dan Shattuck, and nowhere would he show his hand. The instrument for Shattuck’s destruction would be this young rancher and his whiteface cattle.

  When Riley had gone, Valentz came from his table to the bar. “I’ve seen that gent some place before this—can’t figure where.”

  “When you remember,” Hardcastle said, “you come to me—and don’t you tell anybody but me.”

  Valentz was surprised, for he had not gathered that Riley was important. He accepted a drink, and leaned on the bar, trying to think back. From the instant he had glimpsed Riley he had known his face. He had changed, no doubt; a fellow that young might change a lot in a few years. Maybe if he started thinking of him as younger … maybe that would do it.

  But even as Hardcastle made his plans to have Marie, other plans were being made. They were being shaped right outside his own door. And the man doing the shaping was Strat Spooner.

  CHAPTER 5

  GAYLORD RILEY, FOLLOWED by Cruz and three pack horses, arrived at the ranch site late in the afternoon.

  The ride had been long and hard, but for the last few miles he had hurried the pace, eager to be on the ground and in camp before darkness. Moreover, he wanted time to look around,
to see if anyone had been there during his absence.

  He no longer—in fact, he had never—thought of himself as an outlaw, yet his friends were outlaws and they were in dire trouble, and now, if ever, they would need him.

  Nothing at the ranch site had changed. He rode out on the bench with Cruz and looked around; the usual deer tracks were there, and among them, over some of them, the tracks of a stalking lion.

  As they drew up, the low wall of the aspen and pine-clad Sweet Alice Hills was behind them, cutting them off from the view to the east. Westward the land was afire … the pinks and reds of the fantastic rock formations to the west and north were weirdly lit by the dull red fire of the setting sun, while the dark fingers of canyon that clawed toward the Colorado were simply black streaks through the crimson.

  Cruz looked at the scene with astonishment, then crossed himself. “It is a devil’s land,” he whispered. “I had heard of it, but—not—never like this!”

  “We’re eight thousand feet up,” Riley said quietly, “and it is here I have begun to build, here I shall live.

  “Right down there in front of us is Fable Canyon, and we’ll hold our stock there through the worst of the winter. The rest of the time we’ll graze them on the plateaus or over in the basin to the north. There’s thousands of acres of good grazing over there, but we can’t run too many head. This country won’t stand overgrazing. I’ve seen it done, and seen thistles come in, and sage … the cattle won’t eat them.”

  He pointed to their left front. “That’s Dark Canyon Plateau—stretches away for miles. On our right front is Wild Cow Point. To the north, with those canyons feeding into it, is the basin. There are springs over there, but we’ll put a couple of small dams in to hold back some of the run-off.

  “If we hold the numbers down, with whiteface cattle we can make out. They will build on more beef to the head than longhorns. Taking them all around, the Hereford or whiteface is the best animal for this country. They make out better where they have to rustle for grub, and they stand the weather.”

  Jim Colburn knew of this place, and could find his way here if he was in any condition to do so, and he would use his head about making himself known.