Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0) Read online

  Many were amused, but all recognized it had been a theft. In Laredo, Catlow shot an officer who attempted to arrest him and escaped below the border. It was apparent that Catlow had accepted the role of the outlaw.

  As for the train robbery, Ben Cowan was sure that had been done by the Sam Bass gang, but Catlow got the credit—at least in the minds of some.

  For three months Ben Cowan rode the lonely trails of New Mexico. He trailed outlaws, dodged Apaches, accepted meals at lonely sheep camps or ranches, and drifted on.

  He said he was hunting range and planning to settle, that he was intending to trail a herd from Texas, but would buy cattle in New Mexico to avoid the drive, if the price was right.

  This was a feeler—a lead to the Comancheros who might have stolen Texas cattle to sell. He was too wise to push that aspect, and devoted most of his time to scouting range. This he could do in all seriousness, for he really intended to find a ranch for himself.

  He scouted along the Pecos and the Rio Grande, talked to ranchers and soldiers, but made no inquiries about cattle. Here and there he did mention returning to Texas to buy cattle, and he talked with those who had made the drive to ask about water holes and grazing.

  They were long, grueling rides in the sun and the wind, but from them Ben Cowan rapidly picked up some knowledge of the New Mexico country, located two stolen herds, and reported to the main office.

  A reserved and self-contained man, Ben Cowan was warm-hearted and pleasant by nature, but he was also a hunter. A hunter—not a killer. Yet if need be he could kill, as he had demonstrated against the Tonkawa outlaws and others. Still, by instinct he was a hunter, a man who understood trailing, but even more, a man who understood the mind of the pursued.

  A lonely man, he had always envied Bijah his easy friendliness, the casual grace with which he made strangers into friends, and seemed never to offend anyone.

  Once, when only a boy, he had heard a man say to his father: “Yes, it is a beautiful country, but it must be made safe for honest people, for women and children. It must become a country to live in, not just a country to loot and leave. Too many,” the man had said, “come merely to get rich and get out. I want to stay. For that we need law, we need justice, and we need a place where homes can be built. Homes, I say, not just houses.”

  Somehow from that day on Ben was dedicated. He, too, wanted to see homes. He wanted friends to talk with in the evening, children for his children to play with. And for that there must be peace.

  Beyond a daily paper when one was available, he had read little. He was a grave, thoughtful man, but a keen sense of humor was hidden behind his quiet face. No doubt there were those who thought him dull. But he missed nothing, and at heart he was a sympathetic man, understanding even of the outlaws he pursued.

  He was happiest on a trail, and the more difficult the trail, the happier he became. He knew wild country, knew it in all the subtle changes of light and shadow, knew the ways of birds and the habits of men and animals. So much was common sense. Men who travel need water, fuel, grass for their horses, and food for themselves. All of these are restricting factors, limiting the areas of escape.

  Given a general knowledge of the country, a grasp of a man’s nature, and his needs, a trail could often be followed without even seeing anything upon the ground. And a man who knows wild country is never actually a stranger to any wild land.

  Land forms fall into patterns, as do the actions of men. The valley, hill, and ridge, the occurrence of springs and the flow of water—these follow patterns of their own. Many a guide or scout in Indian country had never seen the country over which they scouted—but they had lived in the wilds.

  Men who live always in cities rarely notice the sky…they do not know the stars or the cloud forms, they are skeptical of what a man can read in what is to themselves only a blank page. To Ben Cowan every yard of country he crossed could be read like a page of print. He knew what animals and insects were there, what each tiny trail in the sand might mean. He knew that certain birds never fly a great distance from water; that certain insects need water for their daily existence; and that some birds or animals can go days without any water at all except what they get from the plant growth about them.

  So Ben Cowan rode the lonely hills with a mind alive and alert, noticing everything, adding this thing to that…always aware.

  Tucson was baking in a hot July sun when he rode into town. There was little enough to see, but to a man who had not slept in a bed for more than a month and had not seen more than three buildings in a bunch in four times that long, it looked pretty good.

  Ben Cowan studied the town thoughtfully from under the brim of his white hat.

  Flat-roofed adobes and jacals made of mesquite poles and the long wands of the ocotillo plastered with adobe made up more than two-thirds of the town. Main Street was lined with pack trains just in from Sonora, and a long bull train was unloading freight on a side street.

  Ben left his roan at a livery stable and walked up the street to the Shoo-Fly Restaurant. It was a long, low-ceilinged room, rather narrow, with a scattering of tables covered with table cloths, red and white checkered. He dropped into a chair with a sigh and looked at the menu.

  BREAKFAST

  Fried venison and chili

  Bread and coffee with milk

  DINNER

  Roast venison and chili

  Chili frijoles

  Chili on tortillas

  Tea and coffee with milk

  SUPPER

  Chili, from 4 o’clock on

  Ben glanced hastily at the clock on the shelf: 3:45.

  “Roast venison,” he said, “and quick, before the time runs out.”

  The Mexican girl flashed him a quick smile. “I see,” she said.

  A moment later she was back. “No more,” she said regretfully. “All gone.”

  “You tell Mrs. Wallen”—the voice that spoke behind him was familiar—“that I said this man was a friend of mine—or was last time I saw him.”

  Bijah Catlow…

  Ben looked up. “Sit down, Bijah.” And then as Bijah dropped into his seat, Ben added, “You’re under arrest.”

  Bijah chuckled. “The .45 I’ve got trained on your belly under the table says I’m not. Anyway, you’d better eat up. I never like to shoot a man who’s hungry.”

  A slim brown arm came over Ben’s shoulder with a plate of roast venison and chili, frijoles, tortillas. In the other hand was a pot of coffee.

  Chapter 6

  BIJAH CATLOW LEANED his forearms on the table, and shoved his hat on the back of his head. He grinned widely at Ben.

  “Eat up, amigo, and listen to your Uncle Dudley. You’re wastin’ your time. You throw that badge out the window and come in with me…you’ll make more in a couple of weeks than you’ll make on that job in twenty years.”

  “Can’t do it, Bijah. And the word is out on you. You’re to be picked up where and when.”

  “Look.” Bijah leaned closer. “I need you. I need a man I can count on, Ben. This here thing I’ve got lined up is the biggest…well, nothin’ was ever any bigger. One job an’ we’ve got it made…all of us. But I need you, Ben.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be a damn’ fool, boy. I know what you make on that job, an’ I know you. You like the good things as much as I do. You come along with me, an’ after that you can go straight.

  “Hell, Ben, after this one I’m goin’ to take my end of it an’ light out. Goin’ to Oregon or somewheres like that an’ get myself a place.” He flushed suddenly, and looked embarrassed, for the first time that Ben could remember. “Maybe I’ll get married.”

  “Got somebody in mind?”

  Bijah looked at him quickly. “Why not? Look, Ben, I’m not the crazy damn’ fool you figure me for. I want to marry and have some kids my own self. That Parkman…if it hadn’t been for him I’d probably never have got myself mixed up.”

  “You stole his horses.”

  Bijah
shot him a quick look. “Yeah…that did it, didn’t it?”

  “And there was that officer.”

  “He would’ve killed me, Ben. He was figurin’ to take me in, dead meat. It was him or me.”

  “Maybe…but you were on the wrong side of the law. Odd, you gents never seem to realize that when you cross the law you set yourself up for anybody’s gun. And you can’t win, Bijah. You just can’t.”

  Ben gulped the scalding black coffee and then he said, “Bijah, give yourself up. Surrender right now, to me. I’ll take you in, and I’ll do everything I can to see that you get a fair shake. If you don’t, I’ve got to come after you.”

  Bijah stared gloomily out the window. “There’s this girl, Ben. I don’t figure she’d wait…or maybe there ain’t enough between us to make her want to wait.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Damn it, Ben, you nearly had me talked into it. I was forgettin’ what I’ve got lined up.” He called for coffee, and then he said, “Ben, how about it?”

  “What?”

  “You ride with me on this job?” He leaned closer. “Hell, Ben, it ain’t even in this country!”

  “I wouldn’t break anybody’s law, Bijah. You know that. Their law’s as good as ours. If I respect my own laws, I have to respect theirs.”

  “Aw, you’re crazy!” Bijah stared ruefully into his coffee. “I never figured you would, but damn it, Ben, I wish we was on the same side!”

  “I wish we were, too.”

  Bijah looked up, his eyes dancing with deviltry. “Somebody will have to kill you, Ben. I’m afraid I will.”

  “I hope you never try. You’re a good man, Bijah, but I’ll beat you.”

  “You hard-headed, hard-nosed ol’ wolf!” Bijah said. He was suddenly cheerful. “Did you come here after me?”

  “How could I? Nobody knew where you were. I’m sorry you’re here. Now I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Bijah chuckled. “That head of yours never could see more than one trail at a time. Damn you, Ben, I want you to meet my girl. She lives here in Tucson.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  Bijah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dug out the makings. “She don’t know about me, Ben. She thinks I’m a rancher.” He looked up quickly. “Well, after this deal I will be!”

  Ben was suddenly tired. He ate mechanically while Bijah sat across the table from him. Bijah was the last man he had wanted to see, yet if there was any way, any at all, he meant to take him in. Oddly enough, he knew Catlow expected it of him, and respected him for it.

  Nor was there any sense in trying to persuade Catlow. He had tried that, knowing before he began that he was wasting his time. The big Irishman was a stubborn man. Ben looked across the table at him, suddenly realizing he had always known that someday it would come to a showdown between them. They had always respected each other, but had always been on opposite sides of the fence.

  What was Catlow planning? It was out of the country, he had said, and that could scarcely mean anywhere but Mexico. And there was already enough strain between the two countries. But Catlow always got along well with the Mexicans—he liked them and they liked him.

  Whatever it was Catlow planned, Ben Cowan must stop him. And the simplest way was to get him into jail.

  “You said you had a gun under the table. I don’t believe it.”

  Catlow grinned. “Don’t make me prove it. It was in the top of my boot, and now it’s in my lap. Minute ago I had it up my sleeve, but always in my mitt. Yeah,” he added, “I’d never take a chance on you. You’re too damn’ good with a gun.”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it, Bijah. But you hand over the gun and I’ll take you in—do it now before you go so far there’s no turning back.”

  Catlow was suddenly serious again. “Not a chance, Ben. This deal I’ve got lined up—I’ll never have a chance like this again, and neither will you. The hell of it is…Ben, there isn’t a man in that outfit I can count on when the chips are down.

  “Oh, there’s a couple of them will stick. The Old Man, now. He’s one to ride the river with, but he hasn’t got the savvy I need. I need somebody who can adjust to a quick change, somebody who can take over if I’m not Johnny-on-the-spot. And you’re it.”

  The Mexican girl refilled their cups and Ben glanced around the room. It was almost empty, and nobody was within earshot—not the way they had been talking.

  Gloomily, he reflected there was no way to stop Bijah from going ahead with this deal, whatever it was. Only jail.

  And Bijah was too filled with savvy to be tricked into jail.

  Nor was it time for a gun battle. That was the last thing he wanted. In the first place, he liked Bijah, and had no desire to shoot him; and in the second place…It was like Hickok and Hardin…neither wanted a fight, because even if one beat the other he’d probably die in the process. Ben was sure that he was faster and a better shot than Bijah, though with mighty little margin. That would matter, but not much, because Bijah Catlow was game. You might get lead into him, but he’d kill you for it. He would go down shooting.

  Ben Cowan knew too much about guns to believe that old argument that a .45 always knocked a man down. Whoever said that knew very little about guns. If a man was killing mad and coming at you, a .45 wouldn’t stop him. You had to hit him right through the heart, the brain, or on a large bone to stop him…and there had been cases where even that wouldn’t do the job. He knew of dozens of cases where it had not stopped a man, and Bijah Catlow would not stop for it.

  Ben recalled a case where two men walked toward each other shooting—starting only thirty feet apart—and each scored four hits out of six shots while getting hit with .45-calibre slugs.

  Bijah leaned over the table again. “Look, Ben, while you’re in Tucson, why not declare a truce? Then you make your try any time I’m out of town.”

  “Sorry.”

  Bijah got up. “Have it your own way, then.” The derringer he held in his big hand was masked from the rest of the room by the size of his hand. “You just sit tight.”

  He stepped to the door, then disappeared through it, but Ben Cowan made no move to follow. The time was not now.

  It would come.

  MEN WHO ARE much alone, when meeting with other people either talk too much or become taciturn. Ben Cowan was of the latter sort. He had a genuine liking for people, finding qualities to appreciate in even the worst of them, but usually he was silent, an onlooker rather than a participant.

  People who saw Catlow for the first time knew him immediately for a tough, dangerous man. But with Ben, although people might take a second look at him, it was only the old-timers who sized him up as a man to leave alone. It is a fact that really dangerous men often do not look it.

  Strolling to the edge of the boardwalk, Ben looked down the busy street, letting all his senses take in the town. His eyes, his ears, his nose were alert, and something else…that subtle intuitive sense that allows certain men to perceive undercurrents, movements, and changes in atmosphere.

  Bijah Catlow had disappeared, but the Mexican half a block away who was too obviously ignoring Ben Cowan would probably be Catlow’s man.

  Ben Cowan took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He was in no hurry, being a man of deliberation, and he knew that taking Catlow would be quite a trick. And Bijah had obviously made friends in Tucson. Moreover, a substantial portion of the population were something less than law-abiding; and as for the rest, they believed every man should saddle his own broncs. If Cowan wanted Catlow, let him take him.

  Vigilante activity in California, and Ranger activity in Texas had contributed to the population of the Territory, but the population had always been a rugged lot, who fought Apaches as a matter of course.

  The town was an old one—not so old as Santa Fe, of course, but it had been founded shortly after 1768 on the site of an Indian village, or in its close vicinity. There were Spanish-speaking settlers on the spot as well as Indians when Anza passed by on his way to Cali
fornia.

  Ben Cowan had no plans. Catlow had mentioned a girl, but Ben shied from that aspect. Bijah had said he wanted him to meet her, and he was undoubtedly sincere, but Ben was uneasy around women, and he had known few except casual acquaintances around dance halls.

  His mother had died in childbirth and he had grown up on a ranch among men, nursed first by a Mexican woman, and after she left, he was free to wander about as he pleased. Moreover, he was going to put the cuffs on Bijah, and he wanted no weepy woman involved.

  Actually, he had little time to consider Bijah, for the man he had really come for was somewhere in the area. Ben had trailed him down the Salt River Canyon, through Apache country, and then had lost him somewhere to the north but headed in this direction.

  Word had reached him at Fort Apache that a deserter named Miller had ambushed the Army paymaster and escaped with more than nine thousand dollars. He had been heard to refer, sometime before, to a brother in Tucson.

  Ben Cowan had picked up the trail and followed his man into the town, where Miller had promptly dropped from sight.

  Miller first, Cowan decided, and then Catlow.

  Ben turned and strolled on down the street. Evening was coming on and the wagons were beginning to disappear from the street. A few men had already started to drift toward that part of town known as the Barrio Libre—the Free Quarter. Ben glanced that way, and then after a few minutes of thought, turned toward the Quartz Rock Saloon.

  The bartender looked up as he entered, noticing the badge but offering no comment.

  “Make it a beer,” Ben said, and then added, “A friend of mine in Silver City said I should drop in here.”

  The bartender drew the beer and placed it on the bar before Cowan.

  “His name was Sandoval,” Ben said.

  The bartender picked up the beer and wiped under it with his bar cloth. “What do you want to know?”

  “The name is Miller. He may have other names. He rode into town within the last forty-eight hours. He may have a brother here.”