The Man from Battle Flat Read online

  He stopped briefly to eat, and slipped on his shirt before sitting down. As he buttoned it up, he saw a faint movement far down the Soledad trail. Going to his saddlebags, he dug out his glass and took his position in a lookout post among the rocks on the rim. First making sure the sunlight would not reflect from the glass and give him away, he dropped flat among the rocks and pointed the glass downtrail.

  The rider’s face was still indistinct, but there was something vaguely familiar about him. And then, as he drew nearer, Ross saw it was Sydney Berdue.

  What was the Reynolds foreman doing here? Of course, as this was considered RR range, he might be checking the grass or the stock. He rode swiftly, however, and paid no attention to anything around him. When he reached the pool below, he swung down, seated himself on a rock, and lighted a cigarette.

  Waiting for someone.

  The sun felt warm and comfortable on Ross’s back after the hard work of the morning and he settled himself comfortably into the warm sand behind the rocks. Thoughtfully he turned his glass down the trail, but saw no one else. Then he began scanning the country and, after a few minutes, picked up another rider. The man rode a sorrel horse with three white stockings and must have approached through the timber as he was not in sight until the last minute. He rode swiftly up to the pool and swung down. The two men shook hands, and, puzzled, Ross shifted his glass to the brand.

  The sorrel carried a VV on his shoulder! A Vernon rider at what was apparently a secret meeting with the foreman of the RR! The two seated themselves, and Haney waited, studying them, and then the trail. And now he saw two more horsemen, and these were riding up the trail together. One was a big, slope-shouldered man who he had seen in Soledad, and he rode a Box N horse. The last man rode a gray mustang with the Three Diamonds of Star Levitt on his hip.

  Here was something of real interest. The four brands, two of them outwardly at war, the others on the verge of it, meeting in secret. Haney cursed his luck that he could not hear what was said, but so far as he could see, Berdue seemed to be laying down the law.

  Then he saw something else.

  At first it was a vague suggestion of disturbance in the grass and brush near the foot of the cliff, and then he saw a slight figure, creeping nearer. His heart leaped as he saw Sherry Vernon crawling nearer. Sherry Vernon!

  Whatever the meeting of the four men meant, it was at least plain that they intended no one to see or overhear what they had to say. If the girl was seen or heard, she would be in great danger. Sliding back from his lookout point, he hurried in a crouching run toward the house and got his Winchester.

  By the time he was back, the brief meeting was breaking up. The girl lay still below him, and the men mounted, one by one, and rode away. The last to go was Sydney Berdue.

  After several minutes had passed, Sherry got to her feet and walked out in the open. She went to the spring and drank, then stood looking around, obviously in profound thought.

  Ross debated the possibility of getting his horse, but dismissed it as impossible. It would require a couple of hours at least to ride from here to the spring, although he was within a few hundred feet of it.

  The girl walked away toward the woods, finally, evidently going for her horse. After some minutes she rode out of the trees on Flame and started down the trail toward the VV Ranch, distant against the far hills.

  There had been a meeting of the four brands, but not of the leaders. Sherry Vernon had probably overheard what was said. He scowled thoughtfully. The girl had moved with care and skill, and her actions showed she was no mean woodsman when it came to playing the Indian. None of the four below had been a tenderfoot, yet she had approached them and listened without giving herself away. Sherry Vernon, he decided, would bear some watching herself.

  Saddling Río, Ross rode back through the aspens and down the lonely and dangerous trail to the rim of the badlands. He still had found no way to enter the lava beds, and, if he was to take the next step in his program of conquest, he must find the cattle that he was sure still roamed among those remote and lost water holes in the lava.

  The afternoon was well along before he found himself skirting the rim of the cañon that opened near the lava beds, and, when he reached them, it was already late. There would be little time for a search, but, despite that, he turned north, planning to cut back around the mesa and return to Soledad by way of the springs.

  A slight movement among the trees ahead caused him to halt, and then he saw several elk drifting slowly down a narrow glade toward the lava. His eyes narrowed suddenly. There was no water of which he knew closer than the Thousand Springs pool, and these elk were drifting away from it rather than toward it. As they usually watered at sundown or before daybreak, they must be headed for water elsewhere, and that could be in the lava.

  Dismounting, he ground-hitched his horse and watched the elk as they drifted along until they had almost vanished in the trees, then he mounted and followed them down. When the trail he was following turned down and joined theirs, he continued along it. In a few minutes he grunted with satisfaction, for the hoof marks led him right up to the lava and into a narrow cleft between two great folds of the black rocks.

  Riding carefully, for the trail was very narrow and the lava on both sides black and rough, he kept on, following the elk. It was easy to see how such a trail might exist for years and never be found, for at times he was forced to draw one leg up and lift the stirrup out of the way, as it was too narrow, otherwise.

  The trail wound around and around, covering much distance without penetrating very far, and then it dipped down suddenly through a jagged and dangerous-looking cleft. Ross hesitated, studying the loose-hanging crags above with misgiving. They looked too shaky and insecure for comfort. He well knew that if a man was ever trapped or hurt in this lava bed, he might as well give up. There would be no help for him. Yet, with many an upward glance at the great, poorly balanced chunks of rock, many of them weighing many tons, he rode down into the cleft on the trail of the elk.

  For over a half mile the cleft led him steadily downward, much of the going very steep, and he realized that he was soon going to be well below the level of the surrounding country. He rode on, however, despite the growing darkness, already great in the dark bottom of the cleft. Then the trail opened out, and he stopped with a gasp of amazement.

  Before him lay a great circular valley, an enormous valley surrounded by gigantic black cliffs that in many places shelved out over the edge, but the bottom was almost level and was covered with rich green grass. There were a few scattered clumps of trees, and from somewhere he heard the sound of water.

  Drifting on, he looked up and around him, overcome with astonishment. The depth of the valley, at least 1,000 feet lower than the surrounding country, and the unending sameness of the view of the beds from above safely concealed its existence. It was without doubt an ancient volcanic crater, long extinct, and probably the source of the miles of lava beds that had been spewed forth in some bygone age.

  The green fields below were dotted with cattle, most of them seemingly in excellent shape. Here and there among them he noticed small groups of horses. Without doubt these were the cattle and horses, or their descendants, left by Jim Burge.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, he pushed on, marveling at the mighty walls around him, at the green grass, and the white-trunked aspens. Twice he found springs of water; in both cases they bubbled from the ground. Later, he found one spring that ran from a cleft in the rock and trickled down over the worn face of the cliff for some thirty feet to sink into the ground below. None of the cattle seemed in the least frightened of him, although they moved back as he approached, and several lifted their noses at him curiously.

  When he had ridden for well over two miles, he drew up in a small glade near a spring, and, stripping the saddle from his horse, he made camp. This would end his rations, and tomorrow he must start back. Obviously this would be a good place to start such a cache of supplies as Scott had adv
ised.

  Night brought a strange coolness to the valley. He built a fire and fixed his coffee, talking to Río meanwhile. After a moment he became conscious of movement. He looked up and saw that a dozen or more cows and a bull had moved up. They were staring at him with their amazed bovine eyes. Apparently they had never seen a man before.

  From all appearances, the crater was a large one, being several miles across and carpeted with this rich grass. The cattle were all in good shape. Twice during the night he heard the cry of a cougar and once the howl of a wolf.

  With daylight he was in saddle once more, but by day the crater proved to be smaller than he had at first believed, and there were probably some 2,000 acres in the bottom. But it was all the same level ground with rich grass and a good bit of timber, all things considered.

  Twice, when skirting the edges of the crater, he found ice caves. These he knew were caused by the mass cooling so unevenly that, when the surface had become cold and hard, the material below was still molten. As the fluid drained away, caves were formed under the solid crust. Because lava is a poor heat conductor, the cold air of the caves was protected. Ice formed there, and no matter how warm it might be on the surface, there was always snow in the caves. At places pools of clear, cold water had formed. He could see that some of these had been used as watering places by the deer, elk, and wild horses.

  When at last he started back toward the cleft through which he had gained entrance to the crater, he was sure there were several hundred, perhaps as many as 600 head of wild cattle in the bottom of the crater.

  He rode out, but not with any feeling of comfort. Someday he would scale those cliffs and have a look at the craggy boulders on the rim. If someone ever fell into the cleft, whoever or whatever was in the bottom would never come out.

  It was dusk of another evening before the Appaloosa cantered down the one street of Soledad and drew up at the livery stable. A Mexican came to the door, glanced at him, and then accepted his horse. He looked doubtfully at the strange brand.

  “You ride for Señor Pogue or Señor Reynolds?” he asked hesitantly.

  “For myself,” Ross said. “What’s the matter? The town seems quiet.”

  “Sí, señor. There has been a keeling. Rolly Burt of the RR was in a shooting with two hands from the Box N. One of them was killed, the other wounded, and Señor Burt has disappeared.”

  “Left the country?”

  “Who knows? He was wounded, they say, and I am sorry for that. He was a good man, Señor Burt.” The Mexican lighted a smoke, glancing at Haney. “Perhaps he was no longer wanted on the RR, either.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ross asked quickly. “Have you any reason for it?”

  “Sí. He has told me himself that he has trouble weeth Señor Berdue.”

  Berdue had trouble with Burt, yet Burt was attacked by two Box N hands? That didn’t seem to tie in, or did it? Could there be any connection between this shooting and the meeting at the springs? In any event, this would probably serve to start hostilities again.

  VII

  Leaving his horse to be cared for, Ross returned to his room in the Cattleman’s Rest Hotel. Kinney was not in the lobby when he crossed it, and he found no one on the stairs. He knew how precarious was his own position, for while the house he was building was reasonably safe from discovery, there was no reason to believe that someone would not soon discover the ground had been plowed back under the trees. It wasn’t much, but enough to indicate he was working on the place.

  Uneasily he surveyed the situation. So far everything was proceeding according to plan, and almost too well. He had his water rights under control. He had found the cattle. He had in the crater and on the mesa two bases of action that were reasonably safe from attack, yet the situation was due to blow up at almost any moment.

  Berdue seemed to be playing a deep game. It might be with the connivance of his uncle, but he might be on his own. Perhaps someone else had the same idea he had, that from the fighting of Pogue and Reynolds would come a new system of things in the Ruby Hills country. Perhaps Berdue, or some other unnamed person or group, planned to be top dog.

  Berdue’s part in it puzzled Haney, but at least he knew by sight the men Berdue had met secretly and would be able to keep a closer watch on them. Also, there were still the strange hardcases who lived and worked on the VV. Somehow they did not seem to fit with what he had seen of the Vernons. The next order of business, he told himself, is a visit to the VV.

  A dozen people were eating in the hotel restaurant when he entered. He stopped at one side of the door and surveyed the groups with care. It would not do to walk into Berdue or Reynolds unawares, for Berdue would not, and Reynolds dared not, ignore him. He had stepped into the scene in Soledad in no uncertain terms.

  Suddenly, at a small table alone, he saw Sherry Vernon. On an impulse, he walked over to her, his spurs jingling. She glanced up at him, momentarily surprised.

  “Oh, it’s you again? I thought you had left town.”

  “You know better than that.” He indicated the chair opposite her. “May I sit down?”

  “Surely.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, Ross Haney, you’re not an entirely unhandsome sort of man, but I’ve a feeling you’re still pretty savage.”

  “I live in a country that is savage,” he said simply. “It is a country that is untamed. The last court of appeal is a six-shooter.”

  “From all I hear, you gave Sydney Berdue some uncomfortable moments without one. You’re quite an unusual man. Sometimes your language sounds like any cowboy, and sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes your ideas are different.”

  “You find men of all kinds in the West. The town drunk in Julesburg, when I was there, could quote Shakespeare and had two degrees. I punched cows on the range in Texas with the brother of an English lord.”

  “Are you suggesting that you are a duke in disguise?”

  “Me?” He grinned. “No, I’m pretty much what I seem. I’m a cowhand, a drifter. Only I’ve got a few ideas and I’ve read a few books. I spent a winter once snowed up in the mountains in Montana with two other cowhands. All we had for entertainment was a couple of decks of cards, some checkers, and a half dozen books. Some Englishman left them there, and I expect before spring we all knew those books by heart, an’ we’d argued every point in them.”

  “What were they?” she asked curiously.

  “Plutarch’s Lives, the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare, some history . . . oh, a lot of stuff. And good reading. We had a lot of fun with those books. When we’d played cards and checkers until we were black in the face, we’d ask each other questions on the books, for by the time we’d been there half the winter we’d read them several times over.”

  He ate in silence for a few minutes, and then she asked: “Do you know anything about the shooting?”

  “Heard about it. What sort of man is Rolly Burt?”

  “One of the best. You’d like him, I think. Hard as nails, and no youngster. He’s more than forty, I’d say. But he says what he thinks, and he thinks a good deal.”

  Ross hesitated a few minutes, and then said: “By the way, I saw one of your hands in town yesterday. A tall, slope-shouldered fellow in a checkered shirt. You know the one I mean?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes cool and direct. He had an uncomfortable feeling that she knew more than she was allowing him to think she did. Of course, this was the man she had watched from hiding as he met Berdue. Probably she had overheard their talk.

  “Oh, you mean Kerb Dahl! Yes, he’s one of our hands. Why do you ask?”

  “Wondering about him. I’m trying to get folks placed around here.”

  “There are a lot of them trying to get you placed, too.”

  He laughed. “Sure! I expected that. Are you one of them?”

  “Yes, I think I am. You remember I overheard your talk on the trail and I’m still wondering where you plan to be top dog?”

  He flushed. “You shouldn’t have he
ard that. However, I back down on none of it. I know how Chalk Reynolds got his ranch. I know how Walt Pogue got his, and neither of them has any moral nor other claim to them aside from possession, if that is a right. You probably heard what I told Chalk in here the other day. I could tell him more. I haven’t started on Pogue yet, and I’d as soon you didn’t tell anyone I plan to. However, in good time I shall. You see, he ran old man Carter off his place, and he had Emmett Chubb kill Vin Carter. That’s one of the things that drew me here.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Call it what you like. I have a different name for it.” He leaned toward her, suddenly eager for her to understand. “You see, you can’t judge the West by any ordered land you know. It is a wild, hard land, and the men that came West and survived were tough stern men. They fought Indians and white men who were worse than Indians. They fought winter, flood, storm, drought, and starvation. There’s a sheriff here in town who was practically appointed by Chalk Reynolds. The jail here stands on Reynolds’s land. The nearest court is over two hundred miles away, over poor roads and through Indian country. North of us there is one of the wildest and most remote lands in North America where a criminal could escape and hide for years. The only law we have here is the law of strength. The only justice we have must live in the hearts and minds of men. The land is hard, and so the men are hard. We make mistakes, of course, but when there is a case of murder, we try to handle the murderer so he will not kill again. Someday we will have law. We will have order. Then we can let the courts decide, but now we have none of those things. If we find a mad dog, we kill him, for there is no dogcatcher or law to do it. If we find a man who kills unfairly, we punish him. If two men fight and all is equal, regardless of which cause is right, we let the killing stand. But if a man is shot in the back, without a gun or a fair chance, then the people or sometimes one man must act.