Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Read online

  IT WAS NOON on the following day when Reb Farrell rode down the street of Palo Seco. Doors began to open and people stepped out to look at the procession. Joe Banta, the cook, and Ike Goodrich, followed by the horse carrying the body of Red, and behind them all, his rifle across his saddle, was Reb Farrell.

  Nathan Embree stepped from the saloon and stopped. Laura was standing at the door of the post office, her face suddenly white.

  “Embree,” Reb’s voice rang loud in the street, “here’s your rustlers. You’ll find your cattle in Dark Canyon, all fat an’ sassy. This here, in case you don’t know him, is Joe Banta. My Dad tried to stop ’em, but they killed him. Then they figured I’d be more apt to get wise to ’em than a fathead like you, so they carried my Dad’s body out there and when I shot, they dropped the body an’ ran, figurin’ I’d think. I killed my own father, an’ you’d think I was a rustler. Isn’t that right, Banta?”

  The rustler shrugged. “You got me. Why should I lie? Sure, it’s right, just like I told you. Embree was no trouble for us. I made inquiries around. Folks all allowed that without you, Embree couldn’t catch a frog in a rain barrel!”

  Embree’s face was red. “I guess I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly, “but you’ll admit that I had reason…”

  Reb Farrell looked at him. “Reason to doubt a man who had worked hard for you for years? Reason to doubt an old man who had harmed nobody? Embree, I’m ridin’ out of this country, but I hope this teaches you a lesson. Next time don’t be so quick to judge.”

  Reb moved on, then drew up. Dave Barbot was standing on the walk.

  “Dave, you were the only one who gave me a kind word. Understand you’re in the market for some cows? Well, between Dad an’ me we had maybe four hundred head.”

  “I’d say a few more,” Dave said. “You aim to sell?”

  “To you the price is one thousand dollars and the care of my Dad’s grave so long as you live.”

  “A thousand?” Barbot was incredulous. “They are worth twice that!”

  “You heard my price. How about it?”

  “Sure,” Dave said. “I’d be a fool to pass it up.”

  “All right, then. Have the money when I come back from the jail.”

  Laura stood before the post office, her face white, her teeth touching her lip. Suddenly Reb felt sorry for her, yet he knew now that she had never loved him. He glanced at her and gravely tipped his hat.

  “Reb!” She put out a hand as if to hold him back.

  He drew up. “I’m ridin’ on, Laura. I’m not blamin’ you, nor anybody. I figure you never knew me real well or you’d never have been so quick to doubt. There’s a lot of country west of here I’ve never seen. That’s the way I’ll ride.”

  Barbot was waiting in front of the bank when Reb drew up. Reb told him about the horses in the corral at the lone cabin. “Pick ’em up, Dave. They are yours.”

  “Sure, I was goin’ to speak about that. You gave me a flat price an’ no time nor reason to argue. Well, I’m doin’ the same by you. Down in the livery barn corral there’s a horse you’ll know. My palouse stallion. You always fancied that horse. Well, he’s yours. Throw your saddle over him an’ take this one for a packhorse.”

  A door slammed up the street and Reb looked up. An old man stood on the edge of the porch, leaning against the awning post. It was Lon Melchor.

  “Me, all right. I ain’t so strong right now, son, but I aim to be. I’d have to ride a mite easy the first few days, because I lost a sight of blood, but if you’ll have me, son, I’ll trail along.”

  He waved a hand at the town. “Folks here don’t cotton to me. I want to see a new country.”

  Reb Farrell’s heart warmed to the old rustler. “Get up in your saddle, Lon. We’re headin’ west for the Blue River country, out Arizona way.”

  The old man crawled painfully into the saddle and faced around. His face was white and strained, but his lips smiled and there was even humor in his eyes. “Let’s go, son! The Blues it is!”

  The sun was high and the mountains in the west were far and purple. The air smelled fresh, and there was the tang of sagebrush in the air, and far off in his memory there was a smell of pines, which he soon would be smelling once more.

  The palouse stallion stepped out, tugging the bit.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  DIAMOND CANYON

  OFTEN WHEN I would get the urge to wander, I would take a backpack and go to Peach Springs and hike some of the branch canyons that open into the Grand Canyon. Many years ago when people wished to see the Grand Canyon before any other places had been set up, the best view was from the old Diamond Creek Hotel in Diamond Canyon. By the time I got into that part of the country, the hotel was ancient history and there was nothing left but the site. There were trails nearby that lead down to the river, others that lead up Diamond Canyon, or some up to Meriwitica Canyon.

  Not being much of a camp cook, I usually carried nuts, raisins, and a couple of small cans that could be opened easily. I did carry a small coffeepot and coffee. Several times I ate with the Indians who knew friends of mine from Kingman, Oakland, or Williams. I never wanted to bother with cooking.

  It was an easy, lazy time. I never had a set schedule to follow; no one was waiting for me or expected me. When I got tired of sleeping on the ground I would head for the highway, often hitching a ride with an Indian in his pickup. Then I would take a bus or a train ride back to Los Angeles and hole up for another long stretch of writing.

  Several times I slept in Indian ruins, old cliff dwellings long abandoned by the Anasazi and their neighbors. There were ghosts around of course. Once a bear came along down the path past a ruin in which I was camped. He could not see me but he caught my scent and sniffed around, hesitated and then went about his business. It was the right decision for both of us.

  THE BLACK ROCK COFFIN MAKERS

  THE FIVE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR FAKE

  Jim Gatlin had been up the creek and over the mountains, and more than once had been on both ends of a six-shooter. Lean and tall, with shoulders wide for his height and a face like saddle leather, he was, at the moment, doing a workmanlike job of demolishing the last of a thick steak and picking off isolated beans that had escaped his initial attack. He was a thousand miles from home and knew nobody in the town of Tucker.

  He glanced up as the door opened and saw a short, thick-bodied man. The man gave one startled look at Jim and ducked back out of sight. Gatlin blinked in surprise, then shrugged and filled his coffee cup from the pot standing on the restaurant table.

  Puzzled, he listened to the rapidly receding pound of a horse’s hoofs, then rolled a smoke, sitting back with a contented sigh. Two hundred and fifty-odd miles to the north was the herd he had drifted northwest from Texas. The money the cattle had brought was in the belt around his waist and his pants pockets. Nothing remained now but to return to Texas, bank the profit, and pick up a new herd.

  The outer door opened again, and a tall girl entered the restaurant. Turning right, she started for the door leading to the hotel. She stopped abruptly as though his presence had only then registered. She turned, and her eyes widened in alarm. Swiftly, she crossed the room to him. “Are you insane?” she whispered. “Sitting here like that when the town is full of Wing Cary’s hands? They know you’re coming and have been watching for you for days!”

  Gatlin looked up, smiling. “Ma’am, you’ve sure got the wrong man, although if a girl as pretty as you is worried about him, he sure is a lucky fellow. I’m a stranger here. I never saw the place until an hour ago!”

  She stepped back, puzzled, and then the door slammed open once more, and a man stepped into the room. He was as tall as Jim, but thinner, and his dark eyes were angry. “Get away from him, Lisa! I’m killin’ him—right now!”

  The man’s hand flashed for a gun, and Gatlin dove sidewise to the floor, drawing as he fell. A gun roared in the room; then Gatlin fired twice.

  The tall man caught himself, jerking his lef
t arm against his ribs, his face twisted as he gasped for breath. Then he wilted slowly to the floor, his gun sliding from his fingers.

  Gatlin got to his feet, staring at the stranger. He swung his eyes to the girl staring at him. “Who is that hombre?” he snapped. “What’s this all about? Who did he think I was?”

  “You—you’re not—you aren’t Jim Walker?” Her voice was high, amazed.

  “Walker?” He shook his head. “I’m sure as hell not. The name is Gatlin. I’m just driftin’ through.”

  There was a rush of feet in the street outside. She caught his hand. “Come! Come quickly! They won’t listen to you! They’ll kill you! All the Cary outfit are in town!”

  She ran beside him, dodging into the hotel, and then swiftly down a hall. As the front door burst open, they plunged out the back and into the alley behind the building. Unerringly, she led him to the left and then opened the back door of another building and drew him inside. Silently, she closed the door and stood close beside him, panting in the darkness.

  Shouts and curses rang from the building next door. A door banged, and men charged up and down outside. Jim was still holding his gun, but now he withdrew the empty shells and fed two into the cylinder to replace those fired. He slipped a sixth into the usually empty chamber. “What is this place?” he whispered. “Will they come here?”

  “It’s a law office,” she whispered. “I work here part-time, and I left the door open myself. They’ll not think of this place.” Stealthily, she lifted the bar and dropped it into place. “Better sit down. They’ll be searching the streets for some time.”

  He found the desk and seated himself on the corner, well out of line with the windows. He could see only the vaguest outline of her face. His first impression of moments before was strong enough for him to remember she was pretty. The gray eyes were wide and clear, her figure rounded yet slim. “What is this?” he repeated. “What was he gunnin’ for me for?”

  “It wasn’t you. He thought you were Jim Walker, of the XY. If you aren’t actually him, you look enough like him to be a brother, a twin brother.”

  “Where is he? What goes on here? Who was that hombre who tried to gun me down?”

  She paused, and seemed to be thinking, and he had the idea she was still uncertain whether to believe him or not. “The man you killed was Bill Trout. He was the badman of Paradise country and segundo on Wing Cary’s Flying C spread. Jim Walker called him a thief and a murderer in talking to Cary, and Trout threatened to shoot him on sight. Walker hasn’t been seen since, and that was four days ago, so everybody believed Walker had skipped the country. Nobody blamed him much.”

  “What’s it all about?” Gatlin inquired.

  “North of here, up beyond Black Rock, is Alder Creek country, with some rich bottom hay land lying in several corners of the mountains. This is dry country, but that Alder Creek area has springs and some small streams flowing down out of the hills. The streams flow into the desert and die there, so the water is good only for the man who controls the range.”

  “And that was Walker?”

  “No, up until three weeks ago, it was old Dave Butler. Then Dave was thrown from his horse and killed, and when they read his will, he had left the property to be sold at auction and the money to be paid to his nephew and niece back in New York. However, the joker was, he stipulated that Jim Walker was to get the ranch if he would bid ten thousand cash and forty thousand on his note, payable in six years.”

  “In other words, he wanted Walker to have the property?” Jim asked. “He got first chance at it?”

  “That’s right. And I was to get second chance. If Jim didn’t want to make the bid, I could have it for the same price. If neither of us wanted it, the ranch was to go on public auction, and that means that Cary and Horwick would get it. They have the money, and nobody around here could outbid them.”

  The street outside was growing quieter as the excitement of the chase died down. “I think,” Lisa continued, “that Uncle Dave wanted Jim to have the property because Jim did so much to develop it. Jim was foreman of the XY acting for Dave. Then, Uncle Dave knew my father and liked me, and he knew I loved the ranch, so he wanted me to have second chance, but I don’t have the money, and they all know it. Jim had some of it, and he could get the rest. I think that was the real trouble behind his trouble with Trout. I believe Wing deliberately set Trout to kill him, and Jim’s statements about Bill were a result of the pushing around Bill Trout had given him.”

  The pattern was not unfamiliar, and Gatlin could easily appreciate the situation. Water was gold in this country of sparse grass. To a cattleman, such a ranch as Lisa described could be second to none, with plenty of water and grass and good hay meadows. Suddenly, she caught his arm. Men were talking outside the door.

  “Looks like he got plumb away, Wing. Old Ben swears there was nobody in the room with him but that Lisa Cochrane, an’ she never threw that gun, but how Jim Walker ever beat Trout is more’n I can see. Why, Bill was the fastest man around here unless it’s you or me.”

  “That wasn’t Walker, Pete. It couldn’t have been!”

  “Ben swears it was, an’ Woody Hammer busted right through the door in front of him. Said it was Jim, all right.”

  Wing Cary’s voice was irritable. “I tell you, it couldn’t have been!” he flared. “Jim Walker never saw the day he dared face Trout with a gun,” he added. “I’ve seen Walker draw an’ he never was fast.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t,” Pete Chasin agreed dryly, “but Trout’s dead, ain’t he?”

  “Three days left,” Cary said. “Lisa Cochrane hasn’t the money, and it doesn’t look like Walker will even be bidding. Let it ride, Pete. I don’t think we need to worry about anything. Even if that was Walker, an’ I’d take an oath it wasn’t, he’s gone for good now. All we have to do is sit tight.”

  The two moved off, and Jim Gatlin, staring at the girl in the semidarkness, saw her lips were pressed tight. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and he could see around the small office. It was a simple room with a desk, chair, and filing cabinets. Well-filled bookcases lined the walls.

  He got to his feet. “I’ve got to get my gear out of that hotel,” he said, “and my horse.”

  “You’re leaving?” she asked.

  Jim glanced at her in surprise. “Why, sure! Why stay here in a fight that’s not my own? I’ve already killed one man, and if I stay, I’ll have to kill more or be killed myself. There’s nothing here for me.”

  “Did you notice something?” she asked suddenly. “Wing Cary seemed very sure that Jim Walker wasn’t coming back, that you weren’t he.”

  Gatlin frowned. He had noticed it, and it had him wondering. “He did sound mighty sure. Like he might know Walker wasn’t coming back.”

  They were silent in the dark office, yet each knew what the other was thinking. Jim Walker was dead. Pete Chasin had not known it. Neither, obviously, had Bill Trout.

  “What happens to you then?” Gatlin asked suddenly. “You lose the ranch?”

  She shrugged. “I never had it, and never really thought I would have it, only…well, if Jim had lived…I mean, if Jim got the ranch we’d have made out. We were very close, like brother and sister. Now I don’t know what I can do.”

  “You haven’t any people?”

  “None that I know of.” Her head came up suddenly. “Oh, it isn’t myself I’m thinking of; it’s all the old hands, the ranch itself. Uncle Dave hated Cary, and so do his men. Now he’ll get the ranch, and they’ll all be fired, and he’ll ruin the place! That’s what he’s wanted all along.”

  Gatlin shifted his feet. “Tough,” he said, “mighty tough.”

  He opened the door slightly. “Thanks,” he said, “for getting me out of there.” She didn’t reply, so after a moment, he stepped out of the door and drew it gently to behind him.

  There was no time to lose. He must be out of town by daylight and with miles behind him. There was no sense getting mixed up in some
body else’s fight, for all he’d get out of it would be a bellyful of lead. There was nothing he could do to help. He moved swiftly, and within a matter of minutes was in his hotel room. Apparently, searching for Jim Walker, they hadn’t considered his room in the hotel, so Gatlin got his duffel together, stuffed it into his saddlebags, and picked up his rifle. With utmost care, he eased down the back stairs and into the alley.

  The streets were once more dark and still. What had become of the Flying C hands, he didn’t know, but none were visible. Staying on back streets, he made his way carefully to the livery barn, but there his chance of cover grew less, for he must enter the wide door with a light glowing over it.

  After listening, he stepped out and, head down, walked through the door. Turning, he hurried to the stall where his powerful black waited. It was the work of only a few minutes to saddle up. He led the horse out of the stall and caught up the bridle. As his hand grasped the pommel, a voice stopped him.

  “Lightin’ out?”

  It was Pete Chasin’s voice. Slowly, he released his grip on the pommel and turned slightly. The man was hidden in a stall. “Why not?” Gatlin asked. “I’m not goin’ to be a shootin’ gallery for nobody. This ain’t my range, an’ I’m slopin’ out of here for Texas. I’m no trouble hunter.”

  He heard Chasin’s chuckle. “Don’t reckon you are. But it seems a shame not to make the most of your chance. What if I offered you five thousand to stay? Five thousand, in cash?”

  “Five thousand?” Gatlin blinked. That was half as much as he had in his belt, and the ten thousand he carried had taken much hard work and bargaining to get. Buying a herd, chancing the long drive.

  “What would I have to do?” he demanded.

  Chasin came out of the stall. “Be yourself,” he said, “just be yourself—but let folks think you’re Jim Walker. Then you buy a ranch here…I’ll give you the money, an’ then you hit the trail.”