Showdown Page 4

  “Then you had them coming from the fort?” she asked. “You were far-sighted.”

  He laughed, glancing at her quickly. “Well, I thought these things would sell in the mining camps out in California, but this is much, much better.”

  In spite of herself, Sharon was disturbed. All day as she went about her work, the thought kept recurring that those supplies offered a clue to something, yet she could find nothing on which to fasten her suspicions. Why should their arrival disturb her so much? Was it unusual that the man should start several wagonloads of supplies to California?

  Pagones stopped by the spring to get a drink. He smiled at her, pushing back his hat from a sweating brow.

  “Lots of work, ma’am. Your pa’s sure getting in his plowin’ in a hurry. He’ll have his seed in before the rest of us have started.”

  “Pag, how do the supplies reach the gold fields in California?” Sharon said suddenly.

  He looked up over his second dipper of water. “Why, by sea, of course. Much cheaper that way. Why do you ask? Something botherin’ you?”

  “Not exactly. Only ever since those wagons came in this morning, I’ve been wondering about them. Morton said he had started them for California, but thought they would sell better here. Why would he send them to California to sell when they can get supplies by sea?”

  “Might mean a little ready money,” Pagones suggested. He hung the dipper on a shrub. “Now that you mention it, it does seem kind of strange.”

  *

  The expected trouble from Hardy Bishop did not materialize as she expected. No other riders came near, although several times she noticed men, far out in the valley. All of Morton Harper’s promises seemed to be coming true. He had said Bishop would not bother them.

  Yet all was not going too smoothly. The last wagons had brought a load of liquor, and several of the men hung around the saloon most of the time. Purcell was there every evening, although by day he worked on his place. Pete Zapata was always there when not off on one of his lonely rides, and the teamsters who had brought the wagons to Kies’s store had remained, loitering about, doing nothing at all, but always armed. One of them had become the bartender.

  During all this time, her work had kept Sharon close to the house and there had been no time for riding. Time and again she found herself going to the door and looking down toward the cluster of buildings that was fast becoming a thriving little village. And just as often she looked back up the trail they had followed when first coming into Poplar Cañon.

  Not even to herself would she admit what she was looking for. She refused to admit that she longed to see the steel-dust stallion and its somber, lonely rider. She had overheard him say he would not leave, yet where was he?

  The sound of a horse’s hoofs in the trail outside brought her to the cabin door. It was Mary Pagones, daughter of George Pagones, who had long since proved himself one of the most stable men in the wagon train.

  “Come on, Sharon … let’s ride! I’m beginning to feel cramped with staying down here all the time.”

  Sharon needed no urging, and in a few minutes they were riding out of the settlement toward the upper reaches of the cañon.

  “Have you seen that Pete Zapata staring at the women the way he does?” Mary asked. “He fairly gives me the creeps.”

  “Somebody said he was a gunman,” Sharon ventured.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Mary was an attractive girl, always gay and full of laughter. The freckles over her nose were an added attraction rather than otherwise. “Dud Kitchen doesn’t like him at all. Says he can’t see why Harper keeps him around.”

  As they rode out of Poplar Cañon, an idea suddenly occurred to Sharon, and without voicing it she turned her mare toward their old encampment, but as they burst through the last line of trees, disappointment flooded over her. There was no sign of Rock Bannon.

  They had gone almost a mile farther, when suddenly Mary reined in sharply.

  “Why, look at that!” She pointed. “Wagon tracks coming out of that canon. Who in the world would ever take a wagon in there?”

  Sharon looked at them and then at the cañon. It was narrow-mouthed, the only entrance into a wild, rugged region of crags and ravines, heavily forested and forbidding. Riding closer, she looked down. The wagon tracks were coming from the cañon, not going into it. She studied the mountains thoughtfully. Then, wheeling her horse, with Mary following, she rode out on their own trail. All the tracks she had observed were old.

  She looked at Mary, and Mary returned the glance, a puzzled frown gathering around her eyes. “What’s the matter?” Mary asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Sharon said. “There are no tracks here since we came over the trail, but there are tracks coming out of that cañon.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “You mean those wagons of Harper’s? Then they must have come over a different trail.”

  That wasn’t what Sharon was thinking, but she just shook her head. “Don’t say anything about it,” she said.

  They rode on. That wall of mountains would not offer a trail through, and, if it did, where would it go? If it joined the Overland Trail to the north, it would still be almost twice as far as by the trail they had come, and through one of the most rugged sections she had ever seen. Suddenly she knew. Those wagons had been here before. They had been back there, in some remote cañon, waiting.

  Waiting for what? For a town to begin? But that was absurd. No one had known the town would begin until a decision had been made by the members of the train to stay. No one, unless it had been Morton Harper.

  Chapter Four

  On, through hills of immeasurable beauty, the two girls rode. Great, rocky escarpments that towered to the skies and mighty crags, breasting their saw-toothed edges against the wind. Long, steep hillsides clad with alder and birch or rising to great, dark-feathered crests of lodgepole pine mingled here and there with an occasional fir.

  Along the lower hillsides and along the mountain draws were quaking aspen, mountain mahogany, and hawthorn. They had come to the edge of a grove of poplar when they saw the horseman. They both saw him at once, and something in his surreptitious manner brought them to a halt. They both recognized him at the same instant.

  “Sharon,” Mary said, “it’s that Zapata!”

  “Ssh! He’ll hear us.” Sharon held her breath. Suddenly she was frightened at the idea of being found out here, even with Mary along, by Zapata. But Zapata seemed to have no eyes for them or even their direction. He was riding by very slowly, not over fifty yards away, carrying his rifle in his hands and watching something in the valley below that was beyond their vision.

  Yet, even as they watched, he slid suddenly from the saddle and crouched upon some rocks on the rim. Then he lifted his rifle and fired.

  “What’s he shooting at?” Mary asked in a whisper.

  “I don’t know. A deer, probably. Let’s get home.” Turning their horses, they rode back through the trees and hit the trail back to the settlement.

  *

  All the next day Sharon thought about that wagon trail out of the mountains. Several times she started to speak to her father, but he was preoccupied, lost in plans for his new home, and thinking of nothing but. Later in the day she saw Dud Kitchen riding over. He reined in and slid from the saddle.

  “Howdy, Sharon! Sure glad to see you all! We been talkin’ some, Mary and I, about us gettin’ up a sort of party. Seems like Jim Satterfield plays a fiddle, and we thought we might have a dance, sort of. Liven things up a mite.”

  “That’s a good idea, Dud,” Sharon agreed. She looked up at him suddenly. “Dud, did Mary tell you anything about that wagon trail we saw?”

  His blue eyes sharpened and he ran his fingers back through his corn-colored hair. “Yeah,” he said, “she did.”

  “Dud, it looks to me like those wagons were out here before we were, just waiting. It begins to look like somebody planned to have us stop here.”

  “You mea
n Mort? But what would he do that for? What could he gain? And even if he did, you’ve got to admit it’s a good place.”

  “Yes, it is, but just the same I don’t like it.”

  Her father was walking toward them with George Pagones and Cap Mulholland.

  “What’s this you young folks figurin’ to do?” Cap said, grinning. “Hear we’re havin’ us a party.”

  Her answer was drowned by a sudden rattle of horses’ hoofs, and she saw three men swing down the cañon trail. When they saw the group before the house, they reined in. One of them was Red Lunney, the man who had called on them the first day. Another was—her breath caught—Rock Bannon!

  “Howdy!” Red said. He looked down at the men, and then recognized Cap. “Seen anything of a young feller, ’bout twenty or so, ridin’ a bay pony?”

  “Why, no,” Cap said. “Can’t say as I have. What’s the trouble?”

  “He’s Wes Freeman, who rides for us. He was huntin’ strays over this way yesterday and he never came back. We figured maybe he was hurt somehow.”

  “No, we haven’t seen him,” Crockett said.

  Dud Kitchen was grinning at Rock. “Shucks, man! We figured you had left the country. What you doin’?”

  Bannon grinned. “I’m riding for Hardy Bishop,” he said. “Went over there right after I left you folks.”

  “What made you think your man might have come over here?” Pagones asked. “Was he ridin’ thisaway?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Red said, “he was ridin’ back northeast of here. Pretty rough country, except for one cañon that’s got some good grass in it.”

  The third man was short, thick-set, and tough. “Hurry up, Red,” he said. “Why beat around the brush. Tell ’em.”

  “All right,” Red said. “I’ll just do that, Bat.” He looked down at the little group before the house. “Fact of the matter is, Wes’s horse come in about sundown yesterday, come in with blood on the saddle. We back-trailed the horse and we found Wes. We found him in the open valley we spoke of. He was dead. He’d been shot through the back and knocked off his horse. Then whoever shot him had followed him up and killed him with a hunting knife.”

  Zapata! Sharon’s eyes widened, and she looked around to see Dud staring at her, gray-faced. She had seen Zapata shoot!

  In stunned silence the men stared up at the three riders.

  Rock broke the silence. “You can see what this means?” he said sternly. “Wes was a mighty nice boy. I hadn’t known him as long as these men, but he seemed to be a right fine fellow. Now he’s been murdered … dry-gulched. That’s going to mean trouble.”

  “But why come to us?” Cap protested. “Sure, you don’t believe we ….”

  “We don’t believe!” Bat Chavez broke in harshly. “We know! We trailed three riders down out of those hills. Three from here. Wes was my ridin’ partner. He was a durned good boy. I’m goin’ to see the man who done that.”

  “Turn around.”

  The voice was cold and deadly. As one person, they turned. Pete Zapata, his guns low slung on his hips, was staring at the three riders. Flanking him were two men with shotguns, both of them from the teamsters’ crowd, and Lamport and Purcell of the wagon train.

  Behind them, and a little to one side, was Morton Harper. He was wearing two guns.

  “Get out of here!” Harper snapped harshly. “Don’t come around here again, aiming to make trouble. That’s all you came for, and you know it. You’ve been looking for an excuse to start something so you could get us out of here, take our homes away from us. Now turn your horses and get out!”

  His eyes riveted on Rock Bannon. “As for you, Bannon,” he said sharply, “you’re a traitor. You rode with us, and now you’ve gone over to them. I think you’re the cause of all this trouble. If a man of yours is dead, I think it would be a good idea if these friends of yours back-trailed you. Now get moving, all of you!”

  “This is a bad mistake, Harper,” Rock said evenly. “I’m speaking of it before all these people.” He nodded at the group in front of the house. “Bishop was inclined to let ’em stay, despite the fact that he was afraid they’d bring more after them. He listened to me and didn’t run you off. Now you’re asking for it.”

  “He listened to you!” Harper’s voice was alive with contempt. “You? A trail runner?”

  Red looked quickly at Rock and started to speak. Bannon silenced him with a gesture.

  “We’ll ride, Harper, but we want the man … or men … who killed Wes. And we want him delivered to us by sundown tomorrow. If not, we’ll come and get him.”

  Turning abruptly, they started away. Wheeling, Zapata grabbed a shotgun from one of the teamsters. “I’ll fix him, the bluffer!”

  “Hold it!” George Pagones had a six-shooter and was staring across it at Zapata. “We don’t shoot men in the back.”

  For an instant, they glared at each other.

  Then Harper interposed. “Put it down, Pete. Let them go.” He looked around. “There’ll be a meeting at the saloon tonight. All of you be there.”

  When they had all gone, Tom Crockett shook his head sadly. “More trouble, and all because of that Bannon. I almost wish we’d let him die on the trail.”

  “It wasn’t Bannon, Father,” Sharon said. “Those men were right, I think. Mary and I saw Zapata yesterday. Two of the horses they trailed back here were ours. The other one was his. We were not fifty yards away from him when he fired that shot. We didn’t see what he shot at, but it must have been that man.”

  Crockett’s face was gray. “Are you sure, Sharon? Are you positive?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then we must give him up,” he said sadly. “If he killed, he should suffer for it. Especially if he killed that way.” He got up and reached for his hat. “I must go and tell Morton. He’ll want to know.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Father, you mustn’t. Don’t say anything to him until you’ve told the others. Pagones, I mean, and Cap. I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? Morton Harper is a fine man. When he knows what happened, he’ll want something done himself.”

  Putting on his hat, he started across the road for the cluster of buildings. Only for an instant did she hesitate. Then she swung around and ran to her horse, standing saddled and bridled as she had planned to ride over to Mary’s. Dud Kitchen would be there, and Pagones.

  They were sitting at the table when she burst into the room.

  “Please come,” she said when she had explained. “I’m afraid.”

  Without a word, they got up and buckled on their guns. It was only a few hundred yards to the saloon, and they arrived just a few moments after Tom Crockett had walked up to Harper.

  “Morton, my daughter and Mary Pagones saw Zapata fire that shot yesterday that must have killed Bishop’s man,” Crockett was saying. “I think we should surrender him to Bishop. We don’t want to have any part in any killings.”

  Harper’s face hardened and he started to speak. Zapata, overhearing his name, stepped to the door, his hand on a gun. Then Harper’s face softened a little, and he shrugged.

  “I’m afraid they were mistaken,” he said carelessly. “You’re being needlessly excited. Probably Pete was up that way, for he rides around a good deal, the same as the girls do. But shoot a man in the back? He wouldn’t do it.”

  “Oh, but he did,” Dud Kitchen interrupted. “What the girls say is true.”

  “You call me a liar?” Harper turned on him, his face suddenly flushed with anger.

  “No,” Kitchen replied stiffly, his face paling. “I ain’t callin’ no man a liar, ’specially no man who come over the trail with me, but I know what I seen with my own eyes. Mary, she done told me about that, and I’ll admit I figured there was something wrong with what she said, so I went up and back-trailed ’em. I didn’t have no idea about no killin’ then, but I trailed the girls, and then I trailed Pete. Pete Zapata stalked that cowhand for two miles before he got the shot he wanted. I went ov
er every inch of his trail. He was fixin’ to kill him. Then I trailed him down to the body. I seen where he wiped his knife on the grass, and I seen some of them brown sort of cigarettes he smokes. Pete Zapata killed that man, sure as I’m alive.”

  Zapata had walked, cat-footed, to the edge of the wide plank porch in front of the saloon. He stood there now, staring at Dud.

  “Trailed me, huh?” His hand swept down in a streaking movement before Dud could as much as move. His gun bellowed, and Dud Kitchen turned halfway around and dropped into the dust.

  “Why, Mort!” Crockett’s face was gray. “What does this mean? I ….”

  “You’d better all go back to your homes,” Harper said sternly. “If Pete Zapata shot that man, and I don’t admit for a minute that he did, he had a reason for it. As for this shooting here, Kitchen was wearing a gun, and he accused Zapata of murder.”

  Pagones’s face was hard as stone. Two of the teamsters stood on the porch with shotguns. To have lifted a hand would have been to die.

  “That settles it,” Pagones said. “You can have your town. I’m leaving!”

  “I reckon that goes for me, too,” Crockett said sadly.

  “I’m afraid you can’t go,” Harper said smoothly. There was a glint of triumph in his eyes. “My friend, John Kies, has lent you all money and supplies. Unless you can repay him what you owe, you’ll have to stay until you have made a crop. California is a long ways away, and he couldn’t be sure of collecting there.

  “Besides,” he added, “Indians have rustled some of our stock. I have been meaning to tell you. Most of your oxen are gone.” He shrugged. “But why worry? Stay here. This land is good, and these little difficulties will iron themselves out. There are always troubles when a new community begins. In a few years all this will be over and there will be children born here, a church built, and many homes.”

  *

  Dud Kitchen was not dead. In the Pagoneses’ house, Mary sat beside his bed. Jim Satterfield had removed the bullet, and he sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.

  “He’s got him a chance,” Satterfield said. “A good chance. I’m no doctor, just picked up a mite when I was in that Mexican War, but I think he’ll come through.”