Novel 1969 - The Empty Land (v5.0) Read online

  “No.”

  “Gentlemen,” Laurie interrupted, “it’s time for supper. I take it that none of you is going to refuse my hospitality?”

  The kitchen door opened and Joss Ringgold came in followed by Free Dorset. Clyde recognized Joss, and grinned at him. “How are you, Joss? It’s been a long time.”

  Joss grinned back at him. “It’ll be longer, Clyde. Much longer.”

  Only Coburn smiled. Dorset looked puzzled. “What’s all that about?” he demanded.

  “Old joke,” Clyde said, brushing it off, “just between Joss an’ me.”

  They talked quietly, while Laurie put dishes on the table, and a Mexican girl who appeared as if by magic from the back of the house brought dishes to the table. Beef, chili, string beans, and a huge platter heaped with doughnuts.

  “What about Burke?” Clyde said then. “You want him to ride with somebody else when Harry Meadows is around?”

  Matt looked up, and Laurie, watching with curious, appraising eyes caught a flash of worry on his face. “I had forgotten,” he said. “I’ll take the job.”

  “And I’ll up the ante,” Clyde said. “I’ll pay you a hundred for the trip.”

  “A hundred dollars?” Dorset exclaimed. “For one trip to Carson? I’ll do it for fifty!”

  Clyde glanced at Matt, while Felton watched curiously. It was Ringgold who spoke. “Free, you talk too much. They wouldn’t give you fifty, nor twenty-five even. They aren’t hirin’ a gun, they’re hirin’ a man. They’re hirin’ judgment, an’ the kind of experience you only get the hard way.”

  Dorset was angry. “A lot you’d know about it, you old fossil!”

  “Free!” Laurie spoke sharply. “We will have none of that! If you can’t be polite, I will ask you to leave.”

  Dorset was about to speak, but changed his mind and sat down abruptly.

  “While we are talking,” Newton Clyde said in a slow, conversational tone, “we might bring up the fact that there are few men anywhere who would like to try conclusions with Joss Ringgold with a gun.” Dorset looked up, astonished and unbelieving, as Clyde turned to Joss. “Do you mind, Ring? Can I tell them?”

  “Matt knows,” Ringgold replied, “and so does the boss. So go ahead.”

  “Fifteen years ago Joss Ringgold was one of the most widely known outlaws in the country. He held up more stages than most of us will ever see. More than anybody, even more than Harry Meadows. He slipped, we caught him, and he did time in Yuma. A few years ago he was pardoned, and I was one of those who circulated a petition asking for that pardon. I think every employee of Wells Fargo signed it.

  “Do you know why they signed it? Joss had robbed one of our stages of six thousand in gold and was making a clean getaway when the Apaches attacked the stage he had just left. They wounded the driver and killed the messenger, and then Joss rode back and fought them off until help came.”

  Freeman Dorset stared at Joss, then sat back in his chair, his mouth shut tight. Occasionally he glanced from one man to the other, still uncertain as to whether he should believe the story or not.

  Dorset had hired on at the ranch, very condescending about working as a plain cowhand, and he had been arrogant about his own skill with a gun. He remembered it now, and felt his cheeks flushing just to think of some of the bragging he had done. Joss had seemed like any old saddle tramp who had never been anything else. It was hard to imagine that the old man he had treated with such casualness had been a noted outlaw.

  When the conversation became general, Dorset slipped outside. The air was clear and cold off the mountain, and he stood there thinking, feeling his irritation grow.

  That old man? He didn’t believe it, not for a minute. No tough man acted like that, so they had to be joshing him, trying to make a fool of him. He’d show them! And then the thought came.…What was that outlaw’s name? Harry Meadows?

  Chapter 6

  *

  THE NEXT DAY the type was large across the face of the local newspaper, The Voice of Confusion:

  CONFUSION SHIPS $50,000 IN GOLD!!

  At daybreak tomorrow the mines of Confusion will make their first shipment of gold bullion to Carson City. The gold, largely from the Discovery group, represents the first recovery from the mines of the district.

  Matt Coburn will ride shotgun.

  The town boosters were elated. This would show all those doubters in Virginia City, San Francisco, and points between that Confusion was no empty boom town, as many had claimed. Also, it would increase the flow of would-be miners into the district, a bonanza for the merchants, the gamblers, the saloonkeepers.

  “Damn fools,” a stranger muttered, “advertisin’ that way! Lettin’ every would-be road agent in the Territory know just when the gold is shipped.”

  “They done it a-purpose,” an old-timer said to him sourly. “No road agent in his right mind is goin’ to tackle that stage with Matt Coburn a-settin’ on the box.”

  Nobody had seen Matt. He was not in Confusion, nor was he at the Rafter LS. He was, in fact, lying up in the hills, where he could watch the trails from Confusion to the Fortifications and points west. He had a comfortable spot, a canteen of water, and lunch wrapped in a newspaper. It had been typical of Laurie Shannon that when he asked for the lunch she asked no questions.

  The sun was warm and he had been dozing slightly when some minor noise natural to his surroundings caused his eyes to open. All was quiet around him, but far down the length of Spring Valley he could see a tiny cloud of dust and the black speck that meant a horseman. His glasses were strong but the rider was too far away to be identified. Matt watched for several minutes, speculating on that rider.

  Harry Meadows had ridden in that direction. So far as Coburn was aware, there was no one else off there, and the speed of this rider implied a definite destination and the necessity for quick arrival.

  If the rider was not going to see Meadows, he was of no importance to Coburn. But if he was riding to see him, it must be to tell him of the gold shipment and the fact that Matt was to ride shotgun. So the way to look at it was to take it for granted that he was heading for Meadows’ camp.

  The question was, who was the rider, and where had he come from? It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning. TheVoice was not due on the street for another hour or two at the earliest. Newton Clyde would not say anything about Matt’s plans, and Felton was neither a talkative man nor a mixer. Anyway, there had not been time for the news to spread, nor for a rider to come this far.

  Moreover, no one from Confusion would have a horse still capable of that speed after the long ride from town. Either the rider had gotten a fresh horse from the Rafter LS, or he had started from there.

  After a while, Matt Coburn ate his lunch. He had not lived as long as he had without realizing the fallacy of jumping to conclusions. He ate slowly, chewing each bite with appreciation for the flavor of the beef and bread, the taste of the doughnuts. Then he washed it down with water from his canteen.

  Finally he got up, tightened the cinch on the appaloosa, checked his rifle, and replaced it in the scabbard. He had never wished to ride shotgun or run a tough town again, but it was the mention of Dandy Burke that had won him over.

  Four years before, near Frenchman’s Station, Harry Meadows, his brother Archie, and two others had attempted to stop a stage driven by Burke. They had killed the shotgun messenger at the first fire, and Burke had caught up the shotgun and had let Archie Meadows take both barrels in the chest. Then he had escaped with the coach. Harry Meadows had sworn to get Burke, but everybody who knew Harry Meadows at all knew he would not do it until the time was right. To really get Burke you had to take his coach away from him, and then kill him.

  It was dusk when Matt Coburn rode into Confusion. He did not ride through the town, but came in over the ridge and went first to Newton Clyde’s office. Fife was there, as well as Felton.

  “Hello, Sturd.” Coburn held out his hand to the newspaper publisher. “Nobody’s killed you ye
t, I see.”

  “Nor you.” Fife handed him a copy of the sheet announcing the stage run. “I gave you some good billing. Right at the top of the sheet.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said dryly. “I didn’t need that.”

  “It was my idea,” Clyde said. “I figured it might scare off the small fry.”

  “It won’t scare Meadows, and he knows. He had the word before noon today.”

  They looked at each other. “How could that be?” Felton asked. “The paper wasn’t on the street until nearly two this afternoon.”

  “He knows.” Coburn explained about the rider he had seen, and his own reasoning.

  “Joss?” Clyde was incredulous. “You mean he’s gone back?”

  “I called no names, nor will I.” Coburn was emphatic. “I have no idea who was at the Rafter last night, or who rode out of there this morning. I only know that Meadows knows, if he wants to do something about it.”

  “Do you thnk he will? Isn’t he afraid of you?”

  Coburn smiled without humor. “He’s not afraid of me, or of anybody, but Harry Meadows is a careful man. I don’t think he will buck the odds. There will be other gold shipments. Sure, he wants Dandy’s scalp, and he wants fifty thousand dollars, but there will be other times when Dandy is less ready and when I am not riding shotgun.”

  “How about the marshal’s job?” Clyde asked.

  “No. I’ll take your shipment to Carson, and that’s the end of it. I’m going to buy some cattle and start my own outfit.”

  Newton Clyde had taken space in a building put up by Gage, using it for both office and living quarters, and he suggested now, “I have a spare cot, Matt, if you want to bed down there. I’d feel safer. The gold is on the premises.”

  “All right,” Matt said.

  When he left the meeting Matt walked out into the street. Removing his hat, he wiped the hatband, thinking as he did so that all these towns sounded alike, and they were alike. He knew what was happening down there now, knew what would happen in the hours to come. Even the faces were the same, although some of the names had changed; the cast was an old one, and familiar to him. He had been a part of that cast too many times; he had walked just such streets as these, sometimes as the law, sometimes as a drifter.

  He was a different man now, less patient than he had been, and that was a danger both to himself and to others. Once such towns had been a challenge. He had come into them to bring law and order, but too many of them had only imagined that was what they wanted, and all too often he had discovered that even those who hired him became his enemies. They wanted the money that would be spent, without the turbulence that came with it. The buffalo hunters, the cattle drivers, the prospectors, and the miners were free spenders, but they accompanied their spending with the release of exuberant spirits that started with shouts and raucous laughter and too much whiskey, and often ended in gunfire.

  Fife came out to stand beside him. For a minute or two neither man spoke, and then it was Fife who said, “She’s a doozer, Matt, she’s a rip-snortin’ doozer! There’s eight to ten ready killers down there, and twice that many murderers, and on top of that there’s the lads who like it rough. You’ll find a lot of old friends down there.”

  “Not many, Sturd. A man in my line of work doesn’t have too many friends.”

  “You should have friends. You’ve made a dozen towns decent to live in.”

  “But not for their kind. They like them rough, Sturd. I used to think I did.”

  The stars were out. Up at Discovery there were lights. Felton and his partners were working a night shift. The Treasure Vault was also working, and there were a couple of men busy at the Slum Bucket.

  “Nathan Bly’s down there, Matt. He killed a man a couple of days ago who’d accused him of cheating.”

  “He asked for it, then. Nathan Bly never cheated anybody.”

  “He’s fast, Matt. Quicker on the shoot than he used to be, and he doesn’t go as far with them.”

  So Bly was losing his patience, too? Was it that, or had they both become killers? Had they, somewhere along the line, lost their perspective? Had the ability to kill become a willingness to kill?

  “What about Thompson?” he asked.

  “Ah, now. There’s a bad one, Matt. He’s mean, he’s vicious and low-down. But he’s fast. He drinks a lot, but he shoots just as straight when he’s drunk. And many a time he acts the drunk when he’s cold sober. He likes it, Matt. He makes his brag that the man doesn’t live who can stand face to face to him with either fists or guns. I’d say he weighs about two hundred and sixty, and not over five to ten pounds of it blubber. Over at Eureka he smashed Tim Sullivan down, then put the boots to him. Crippled him for life.

  “He made his reputation whipping loggers up in Oregon. He was a river man until he found he could live easier with a fist and a gun. They say he’s killed twenty men. Cut that in half, if you’re talking gun or knife battles, but he killed one man with his fists.

  “And Peggoty Gorman is almost as bad. He’s a sand-bagger or a knife man, does his work in an alley. He used to be an acrobat in the old country, but they shipped him out for murder.”

  Leaving Fife chewing on the stub of a cigar and listening to the town, Matt went into Clyde’s quarters and pulled off his boots, then hung up his gunbelt, the butt of his gun close at hand.

  The last thing he remembered was the muttering of some drunken miners as they wandered past the building. Clyde was already asleep.

  It was cold and dark when he awoke. He lay perfectly still for a few minutes. The town was quiet. There were no sounds in the room except for the breathing of the Wells Fargo man. Matt struck a match, and shielding it with his hand, glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of five o’clock.

  He swung his feet to the floor, and dressed swiftly and silently. Then he went into the next room, and having lighted the coal-oil lamp, he shaved and combed his hair carefully. Taking his hat, he stepped out into the darkness of predawn.

  The stage was already standing in the street and he helped Burke hook up the trace chains.

  Dandy Burke was a slender man of thirty-odd. He was smoking the stub of a cigar when he came around the lead team. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. I could use some coffee, though.”

  “Come on over. Felton’s up, and Dan Cohan just took the pot off the fire.”

  Four men stood around nursing cups and looking as if sleep was still in them that the coffee had not warmed away.

  “Shotgun.” Felton pointed.

  “I’ve got my own,” Matt said.

  Burke picked it up. “I’ll take that. I’ve seen the time I wanted one.”

  Matt Coburn let his eyes take in the group. Felton, Cohan, Zeller, and Newton Clyde, who had come over while Matt was helping Burke with the team. Clyde was a good man—these Wells Fargo men always were, and they were in every new camp, ready to ship gold before there was even a post office.

  Matt’s eyes dropped to the cases on the floor. These in addition to the cases across the street? “We’ll be carrying more than fifty thousand, then,” he said, indicating them.

  Felton looked at him. “An even hundred thousand,” he said, “if their figures match ours.”

  Matt took a deep breath. If Harry Meadows knew there was that much he would take the gamble, Matt Coburn or no.

  “We hit a pocket,” Cohan said. “We lifted one nugget that weighed nine pounds, and we hit some thick seams just loaded with it.”

  You could not keep a thing like that quiet, and Matt knew it. He saw Dandy Burke’s face. The Irishman looked grim.

  “I made a bargain,” Matt said quietly, “but Dandy ought to have more money.”

  “He’s getting fifty,” Felton said somewhat testily.

  “Did you ever sit up on that box holding the lines on some half-broke broncs while you’re getting shot at? If I’d known there was that much gold I’d never have agreed to the price. Once the story
gets out, every thief in the country will be riding.”

  “All right,” Felton agreed reluctantly.

  Matt Coburn turned abruptly and went outside. For the first time he was really worried. Fifty thousand was a lot of gold—but twice that much? And the story of the big nugget would surely get out. There was excitement in such a story, and there was challenge.

  Dandy Burke came outside. “Thanks,” he said. “That was decent of you.”

  “You’ve got it coming,” Matt said. “You’ll earn it.”

  “Let’s have some more coffee.”

  While they were drinking the coffee Matt saw some people coming up the street—two men and a woman. The woman was not with the men, but walked slightly behind them.

  Holding the cup in his hands, he watched them. The men were strangers. One was a stocky, wide-shouldered, bearded man with quick movements and a tough, capable look about him. The other man was slender, better dressed, but not a gambler, Matt decided, and probably not a businessman.

  The woman was scarcely more than a girl, young but with no wide-eyed innocence about her. She was dressed very well for the time and place, and wore no make-up. She carried only a carpetbag.

  Newton Clyde came out, followed by Cohan and Felton. “Passengers?” Matt inquired quietly, over his cup.

  “There will be four,” Clyde said. “Matt Coburn, meet Charlie Kearns”—this was the stocky, bearded man—“and Peter Dunning.”

  The girl had halted, well behind the others, but Clyde made no move to introduce her until the two men had acknowledged the introductions and gone inside for coffee.

  “Matt,” Clyde said quietly, “this is Madge Healy.”

  The girl’s eyes were on his face, awaiting a reaction, but Matt’s smile was casual and friendly. “Howdy, ma’am.” He held his hat in his hand. “I hope you won’t mind a rough ride.”

  Her chin lifted slightly and she looked straight into his eyes. “I have had some rough rides, Mr. Coburn. I think I can stay with you.”

  “You know,” he said gently, “I think you could, at that. Would you like some coffee?”