Milo Talon Page 7

  Suddenly excited, I put the letter down and got to my feet. Harkin’s was, of course, Larkin’s where I had just been. “A place in the mountains” sounded like a lead.

  Staring down at the street, I felt an odd stirring of some memory, something scarcely tangible, yet—

  No. It would not come. I’d return to the letters and the notebook.

  CHAPTER 8

  GETTING UP FROM the bed, I walked to the side of the window and looked down into the street. All was dark and silent, only a little light from the windows.

  What was it that haunted me so? Some vague memory, perhaps, or some conversation only half remembered.

  There was a growing irritation in me. This was not the life I was used to. I’d spent most of my life so far out on the plains, in the desert or the mountains, and there was where I was most at home. Yet I knew that much of my problem lay right here in town.

  My thoughts went back to Jefferson Henry’s private car sidetracked near the water-tank for several days. I agreed with the cowhands in the saloon, it was no place to be. It was hot, windy, and miserable out there when a man could be any place he wished.

  Why there? Obviously, to meet with someone. Who? Why? Did he have others searching for his granddaughter? And the scream in the night? The scream of a man in agony.

  When morning came I’d better saddle up and ride out there. Another talk with Pablo might help as he might have recalled something not mentioned before. That Mexican was a good, solid man and I liked him. He was my kind of people.

  Returning to the bed, I opened the second envelope. It contained no letter, only two recent newspaper clippings.

  PIONEER MINING MAN DIES

  Nathan Albro, pioneer mining man with interests in Butte, Pony, and Black Hills mines, died late today after a fall from his horse. He was well known in the area as a developer of mining properties and railroads. He is survived by a former wife, Stacy, now Mrs. Newton Henry.

  The second clipping, dated only a few days later, was equally brief. The item was buried among local news and advertisements.

  Ask for Double Stamp Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, $3 per gallon.

  Scarlet flannel ladies’ vests and hosiery at the Lucky Strike Cash Store. Come early as they are going fast.

  .44 Winchester cartridges. 75¢ per box at the Boston Store.

  The Town Shooting Club will agree to a match of any six of its members … you pick ’em … against any equal number of men in the Territory, for any sum from $50 to $1,000. To shoot at glass balls or pigeons, pistol or rifle, snap-shooting or wheel and fire at the word. Put up or shut up.

  ROBBERY OF OFFICE

  Sometime between 7:30 p.m. last night and 8 a.m. this morning the business office of Albro & Co. was broken into and the safe forced.

  John Cortland, bookkeeper, assures us the safe contained nothing of value. On the advice of Nathan Albro himself, contained in a note to his heirs, the safe had been emptied following his unexpected death, Friday last.

  Fitch & Cornwell’s

  HUNKDORI

  For the Breath

  So … somebody had started to move as soon as Nathan Albro died. The breakin did not sound like the work of an ordinary thief or cracksman, although the work might have been done by an expert. The safe had been opened because somebody had reason to believe it contained something of value.

  Irritably, I put down the clippings. Too much was at stake of which I knew nothing, and with every step I became more deeply involved. Worst of all, I had no idea who my enemies were nor what they wanted except that at least one man wanted Nancy Henry.

  Where was she? Jefferson Henry had implied that his son was dead, but what had happened to Stacy? Was she also dead? The Magoffins had apparently been involved in some plot with Newton Henry to circumvent Newton’s father. No doubt each wanted the same thing. But what was it?

  Stacy had been advised to sign nothing. That implied she possessed something of value that could be signed away, and that made sense. Jefferson Henry, people said, loved power. Power in his world meant money, stock, control, leverage. Did Stacy hold stock they wanted? Had she possessed something in her own name that Jefferson wanted?

  What about the note to his heirs that Nathan Albro had left? Had he suspected something? If not, why would he leave such a note? Certainly, the heirs had acted swiftly—and fortunately—as it developed.

  Nothing in my life had prepared me to deal with activities in the business world. I knew a little of horses, dogs, and men, something less of women. I had handled cattle, worked in mines, and had seen a lot of town-site speculation as had everyone in the West. Beyond that I was an innocent.

  Jefferson Henry was a railroad man but with wide interests in other areas.

  To protect myself, and also the girl I was to find, I must learn a great deal and learn it fast. If there was time.

  What did I mean, protect the girl I was to find? Nothing in my arrangements with Henry said anything about that, yet already the feeling was strong that she would need protection, that she was a lamb among wolves.

  Penny Logan. She was a woman known to be bright about finance. She had handled her own property well and she kept the market quotations for the stockmen. Undoubtedly she heard much talk among those who came to her small shop, and there were several big stockmen in the area. She might be able to answer a few questions.

  Again I returned to what might be the most important question. Why had they hired me in the first place?

  Did they believe I had special knowledge? Did they, perhaps, believe that I knew where Nancy Henry was? Was the offer to spend fifty thousand dollars searching for her actually a bribe to tell where she was? Or to bring her in? Was I watched so that I might lead them to her?

  For a moment I ran over in my mind some of the girls I’d known, but none of them seemed to fit the bill. That is, I knew who they all were, where they lived, who their parents were, and like that.

  Another idea suddenly occurred. That breakin had come very quickly on the death of Nathan Albro. Just how much time had transpired between the two? Maybe Albro’s fall from the horse had been contrived? Had he been murdered and then the safe opened?

  At daybreak I was in the saddle and riding. The letters and notebook I brought with me, tucked away in my saddlebags.

  It took me an hour to arrive at the place where Pablo was holding the horses and it appeared to be a fresh camp. Two dogs ran out barking furiously as I approached, but there was no sign of the Mexican.

  Pulling up about a hundred feet away from the sheep-wagon he was using for a camp, I called out. There was no reply but my horse suddenly turned his head and, glancing to my left, I saw Pablo rising from a buffalo wallow.

  He walked toward me, a Winchester in the hollow of his arm. “Come on in, amigo,” he said, smiling. “A man can’t be too careful.”

  When we were seated beside the wagon where his fire burned, I asked him, “Had any trouble?”

  “Not yet,” he said, “and you?”

  “No trouble … yet, but it’s coming.”

  “Here, too.”

  “I came out to have a look around. Did you get much rain out here?”

  “Very little. It passed off to the west of us. We had only a sprinkle.”

  “So there may be tracks?”

  He glanced at me. “I think. Maybe. What do you look for?”

  “The man who screamed in the night. If there’s a body I’d like to find it. If there’s not, I’d like to find where it happened. There might be something, some little thing—”

  “Of course.”

  “Pablo?” I hesitated, then went on. “Somewhere in these hills there is a man … he probably lives alone. I’d guess he has been here ten years, perhaps more than that. He might have a girl living there, like a daughter or friend.”

  Pablo squatted on his haunches and rolled a cigarette. “There are not many who have been here so long. This was very wild. Many Apaches, others. In all the mountains there are not more th
an six or seven men who have been here so long.”

  He reached into the fire for a twig to light his cigarette. “This man,” he asked, “would he be in trouble?”

  “Not from me. Not from the law. The others, if they have not found him, they will.”

  “These men … they had to do with he who screamed?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe there is such a man. I must think.”

  Drinking the last of my coffee, I got up. “You think. I’ll take a ride yonder. How far would you guess?”

  He shrugged. “It was a clear, cold night. Maybe a quarter of a mile … a half mile at the limit. I think closer.” He pointed. “I have moved my camp, but not far. It would be somewhere over there.”

  As I tightened the cinch, I looked across the saddle at the prairie, taking my time and scanning it with care. Nothing moved out there, simply nothing at all. I glanced southward but could not see the water-tank where the private car had stood. That was another place I must visit.

  “Adios, amigo,” I said. “I’ll come back by, if possible.”

  “Cuidado,” he said, “I think there’s something out there. Or somebody.”

  The horse I rode had a shambling trot that ate up distance. As we moved I kept a careful eye on the prairie. The very flatness of it had a way of making one careless, which was dangerous, as it was not as flat as it appeared. Here and there were long shallow places, and coming up to one of them I found the tracks of a horse.

  Measuring the length of the stride with my eyes. I could guess at the size of the horse, and I noticed he had been ridden toward Pablo’s horse camp; yet it was not Pablo’s horse unless he had ridden one of those he was holding.

  Backtracking the horse for a short distance, I found his tracks had come from the northeast. Standing in the stirrups, I looked off that way but could see nothing. Turning away from that trail, I began to cast about for the tracks of the running man. It was unlikely any would be left but it was possible.

  The air was growing cooler and the sky had clouded over. It was not yet noon, but by the look of things I should start seeking shelter. Rain was one thing, but any rider out on the plains worried about lightning. Riding a wet horse with a wet saddle and being the highest thing around was not a pleasant thought, but there was simply no place to hide.

  And then I saw it. Just the edge of a heel-print, and not a boot-heel, but a shoe.

  Excited, I leaned from the saddle, studying it. Only an inch or less of the outer side of the heel-print and part of the back-curve. The man had been headed north. Turning my horse I walked him along, searching the ground with my eyes. If I could find two tracks close together so I could estimate his stride the tracking would be easier.

  Nothing.

  Swinging to the west I rode diagonally out for fifty yards, studying the earth. Finding nothing, I swung back an equal distance to the east. Almost at once I picked up a bare inch or so of the curving heel-print. He was headed east now, perhaps a little northeast.

  The ground dipped sharply, falling away into what looked like an ancient riverbed winding away to the southeast. I drew up on the bank, scanning the sandy bottom for tracks. It was hard-packed and smooth, without a blemish. I walked my horse along the rim and was about to turn away west when I saw where the bank had been broken away.

  It was just crumpled sand, but below it were tracks. Somebody had run this way, somebody had gone charging down the too-steep bank and had fallen at the base. There was a dark stain on the sand.

  Putting the gelding over the edge, I half-slid him to the bottom and studied the sand.

  The man had been wounded. Perhaps some time before, possibly just before he fell. These were the first drops of blood I’d seen, however.

  The running man had fallen, got up, fell again, and then got up and turned up the dry riverbed, running and staggering.

  For several hundred yards I walked my horse along his trail. He had fallen many times, each time he got up and continued on. Suddenly there was a place where the bank was broken and several horses had come over the rim.

  The footsteps showed the pitiful story. The running man had turned so violently he had fallen, and then he tried to run.

  He had been roped and dragged, dragged up the river-bottom which grew more rocky by the yard, and then the horses had all stopped; there was much movement, many horse-tracks, and a caved place near the bank where from under the sand an edge of a boot showed.

  When I moved that sand I knew what I would find.

  But not who.

  CHAPTER 9

  TAKING A QUICK glance around, I began uncovering the body. Both the cool weather and the dry sand had helped to arrest decomposition. Finally, when I stood back and looked down at the face, I knew him.

  At least, I remembered him. He had come to Ma’s ranch with two other men, making inquiries about land. One of the men had called him Tut.

  Getting up on the bank, I caved the sand back over him again, and mounting, I rode on. Due to the looseness of the sand at that point there were no well-defined tracks. It looked to me from the way the sand was churned up that there had been at least three riders whose mounts had circled about in the narrow space, probably excited by the smell of blood. There were many hoof tracks, such as they were. I saw one apparent boot-track, probably when the rider got down to take his rope from the body.

  From the way the dead man’s hands had dug into the sand, I doubted he had been dead when the sand was caved over him. It appeared that he had been lying on his face and his hands had convulsively clawed into the firm sand beneath him. He had struggled, apparently getting one knee under him after many efforts, had rolled over and then passed out, smothered as more sand spilled down over him from the disturbed bank above him.

  Riding on up the old riverbed, I saw no more tracks beyond that of a deer. Climbing out of the arroyo, I swung back toward Pablo’s camp. As I rode I was puzzling over what I had learned, which was little enough.

  Somebody had followed and murdered the man I had found. He had been dragged, tortured, and left for dead. The dead man had once visited my home in Colorado, and he had been called Tut. There had been two men with him.

  Had their visit been a coincidence? Or had their visit to our ranch been a preliminary to what was happening now?

  How long ago had their visit been? Checking back along memory’s trail, I came up with the idea that it must have been at least a year and probably a year and a half ago. Something about the three men had arrested my attention. Or was it some comment Ma had made?

  Portis had been right. The situation was dangerous. The Magoffins had been poisoned, Tut had been killed. Certainly, men who had already killed would not hesitate to do so again. My hunch was that I had better walk carefully and that Pablo had better move his horse camp. I told him so.

  It was noon by the time I got back to his horse camp. He listened, and when I advised moving, he agreed.

  “Today,” I said, “now. I’ll help you.”

  He hesitated. “The patron. My boss. He will come soon to look for me.”

  “He’ll find you. I just want him to find you alive. This is a bad outfit.”

  He shrugged. “I have seen many bad outfit, amigo. I do not want trouble, but if they come—?”

  “They didn’t give him much chance,” I said.

  “You say you know this man? The dead one?”

  “I saw him once. Three men came to our ranch looking for land to buy. A place to settle.”

  “For such a little thing you remember very well.”

  “It was Ma, I think. I believe there was something about them she did not like. And when Ma didn’t like a man, she didn’t waste much time on him.”

  Pablo smiled. “Your Ma is Em Talon? I have heard of her.”

  “If my Ma,” I said grimly, “found a grizzly bear on her place she’d order him off. And you know something? He’d go.”

  “Tut?” Pablo spoke the word thoughtfully, as if trying to r
emember. “It is a name?”

  “I’ve heard of folks named Tutt, but this here’s more than likely a nickname, short for something else like Tuttle—”

  I stopped short and Pablo looked around at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Humphrey Tuttle,” I said. “It was one of the names I got from Jefferson Henry. Humphrey Tuttle and Wade Hallett. They were tied to Newton Henry somehow.”

  “It is possible.”

  When we finished eating we bunched the horses, and with Pablo driving the wagon, we started them northwest, toward the hills. It might not keep him out of trouble but at least it was farther from what seemed to be the center of things, that water-tower and the town itself.

  “Near the mountains,” Pablo said, “there is a place. There are cottonwoods and a good spring with a large pool. Next week I was to have been there.”

  Every step was taking us higher, but it was a long, scarcely noticeable climb, and when we camped we had a good fifteen miles behind us and we had the stock on good grass and near a small stream.

  Several times I’d checked our back trail. There was no reason why anyone should follow Pablo and his horses nor why they should connect me with them unless I’d been seen talking to him in town. Even that should not make a difference, for over-the-beer conversations usually went no further. Nonetheless, I was in no mood to take chances.

  “We do not have need to sit up,” Pablo said. “My dogs will do that for us and the horses will not stray from such good grass and water.”

  “What of Indians?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. It has been a long time.”

  Nevertheless, I picketed my horse close by, and as I rested my head on my saddle, I tried to fix my thoughts on the situation.

  If Tut was Tuttle he had been prowling around these hills for a long time. Yet no longer than Jefferson Henry had been looking for his granddaughter. Obviously, they had some clue, yet why come to our ranch?

  “You know this country well?” I asked.