Novel 1963 - Dark Canyon (v5.0) Read online

  Nor were they the first men who had come to this lonely land, for the strange paintings on the walls could not all have been of their making. What of the pictures he had seen not far from Spanish Fork—pictures of strange llama-like beasts of burden and their drivers, near the remains of what may have been an ancient mine? What people were those? What manner of beasts did they drive?

  He was thinking of these things when a rider drew up near him. “We’ll need beef. Is it all right to cut one out?”

  Riley laughed. “Did you ever ask before?”

  The rider was one-armed, Riley saw as he turned away. The fellow shot him an amused look. “Not often,” he said, chuckling, “not very often.”

  CHAPTER 9

  DAY AFTER DAY the drive rolled southward under its hovering cloud of dust, south toward the five towering peaks of the Henrys, across the Dirty Devil, across the forty miles of parched desert that lay beyond. On across the Maidenwater Sands, and down the long arroyo of the Trachyte to Dandy Crossing, on the Colorado.

  When Gaylord Riley and Jim Colburn, pointing the drive, reached the Crossing, Cass Hite walked out to meet them.

  “Howdy, Cass!” Riley said. “Had many visitors lately?”

  Hite came up to him, and spoke in a low tone, knowing how well sound carried in that rocky land.

  “We never have many visitors, an’ you damn well know it,” he said pleasantly. “This here is about the loneliest place there is, unless it’s that ranch site you picked.

  “One thing, though. There’s been a gent up on the mesa with a glass, a-watchin’ for somebody. I’d not say it was for you exactly, but he showed up right after you went through, and he’s been up there ever since.”

  The Colorado at this point described a large bend like a letter C with the open side toward the east. Dandy Crossing, and the “town” named for Hite, lay at the top of the C, the easternmost point, while within the bend was a mesa, roughly a thousand feet higher than the Crossing itself.

  From up there a man with good glasses could watch not only the Crossing, but the approach to it along the canyon of the Trachyte.

  “What do you think, Riley?” Colburn asked.

  “Could be somebody layin’ for you.”

  “More’n likely.”

  “You’ve got to go back, Jim. If that’s a posse up there, they’d have you trapped. There’s no other crossing in a good many miles downstream, and nothing up the river. If they’re waiting for you over there, you’d never have a chance.”

  “We’ll see you across the river, boy. From there on you’ll be on your own.”

  “Riley,” Hite suggested, “if you need he’p, I’ve a couple of loafers you can have. They owe me, and if I say they work for you, they dasn’t say no.”

  “Send them along. I’ll promise them three days’ work. If they shape up, I can use them longer. Meanwhile,” Riley added, “keep your eyes open for good men. I’d like to hire two more, full time.”

  “I’ll shake hands now,” Colburn said, “because when your cattle are across the river we’ll take out for the faraway hills. Any posse hunting us is going to see plenty of dust and country.”

  FOR TWO WEEKS after the drive ended, Riley had no time for anything. When the cattle were turned into the basin, the branding was begun. There had been no time even to run a trail brand on the herd before leaving Spanish Fork.

  The smoke of branding fires was in his nostrils, mingled with the smell of burning hair and dust. Only at night under the stars could he be free of it, and smell the soft wind, the cedars, and the sage.

  It was hot, grueling work, with no let-up, but Cruz was a fast and a hard worker, a good roper, and a fine horseman. Darby Lewis knew his business and worked without lost motion, but even so the job went slowly.

  On the first day of the third week, Cruz rode over to Riley. “Rider coming, amigo. A stranger.”

  Riley straightened up from the branding fire and wiped the sweat from his face, then moved a hand back to slide the thong from his six-shooter.

  The rider came on, riding a lineback dun and leading two pack horses that looked like good stock. He was a tall man wearing a buckskin shirt and a battered black hat. He drew up alongside the fire. “Riley? Cass Hite, down to Dandy Crossin’, said you were needin’ a hand.”

  “If you can ride an’ rope, you’re hired. Thirty a month an’ found.”

  The man stepped down from the saddle, and he stood two inches taller than Riley’s six-one. He squatted on his heels and picked up the coffeepot. “Soon as I get myself a cup of coffee, I’ll be workin’,” he said. “My name is Tell Sackett.”

  Riley had started to turn away, but he glanced back over his shoulder. “Sackett? Are you kin to the Sacketts of Mora?”

  “Brother.”

  “Heard of them … like what I heard.”

  Together they plunged into the work. Cruz and Lewis now worked as a team, and Sackett worked with Riley. The new hand was fast and sure with a rope, and he had three good horses.

  The day began at three A.M., when they rolled out in the cold, fired up, ate a fast breakfast, and by daylight usually had a rope on a cow. With the cavvy brought down the trail and supplied by the rustlers from the San Rafael Swell, Riley now had sixty-six horses in his corrals, and they were needed. Each man used three to four horses every day. The horses were 1,000 to 1,150 pounds as a rule, running heavier than Texas cow horses, and they had good, hard hoofs. Whatever shoeing was done the hands did themselves, using a rasp and then tacking on the shoe. No fire was needed, and no time wasted. Where plenty of cattle had been caught up, two men did the roping and two the branding.

  Twice, Gaylord Riley came upon tracks on the range, and once he caught a flash of sunlight from field glasses as somebody watched from a butte bordering the basin.

  Each night they rode into camp dead tired, rarely returning to the house on the plateau, but camping among the cedars close to the basin and their work.

  STRAT SPOONER RODE into Rimrock shortly after nightfall. He rode directly to the Hardcastle saloon and swung down from the saddle. Across the street Sampson McCarty was closing his door, about to lock up for the night. He turned his head at the sound of the horse, and watched Spooner dismount.

  It had been weeks since he had seen the big gunman in town, and both man and horse looked beat. Standing in the shadows, McCarty watched Spooner as he stepped up on the boardwalk. The saloon door opened and Hardcastle came out. The two stood talking in low tones.

  Across the street there was a slight movement in the shadows, and McCarty strained his eyes to see a bulky figure loitering in front of the store. When the gunman mounted his horse to go on to the livery stable, McCarty saw the man emerge from the shadows and stroll toward the restaurant. It was Sheriff Larsen.

  Neither McCarty nor Larsen had been in a position to hear what it was that Spooner had to say, and which Hardcastle was obviously anxious to hear.

  In that conversation Spooner wasted no time. “Riley’s back. Brought in a herd of mixed stuff, Shorthorns and whitefaces, less than half of them branded so far. He has three hands riding for him, Cruz and Lewis and some drifter he picked up. They worked together most of the time, so I think your time is now.”

  Hardcastle took a handful of coins from his pocket, all of them gold. He handed them to Spooner, then added another. “That’s a bonus, Strat. You’ve done a good job. Now get some sleep.”

  Sampson McCarty walked on to the restaurant and joined Larsen. “I see Spooner is back in town.”

  “I see.”

  “Something’s in the wind, Ed. What is it? What’s going to happen?”

  “Maybe … maybe nothing. I do not know.”

  McCarty knew from previous experience that when Larsen would not talk there was no use trying to get anything from him. He glanced around the room. “I haven’t seen young Riley in town lately.”

  “No.”

  Just then Dan Shattuck opened the door for Marie and they entered the room, speaking
to first one and then another. McCarty, who was at heart a romantic, noted the quick look around by Marie, and her evident disappointment.

  “Somebody else,” he commented to Larsen, “misses our friend Riley.”

  Larsen did not reply, and McCarty’s eyes followed the sheriff’s toward Spooner, who was staring at Marie. The expression in his eyes was both insolent and somehow possessive.

  Dan Shattuck looked up and Spooner’s eyes swung away, but not so quickly that Shattuck did not notice. McCarty saw the rancher’s face darken with anger, but at a whispered word from Marie he turned his attention to her.

  McCarty reviewed the situation in his mind and liked none of it. News there would be, and he was interested in news, but this situation looked like news of a kind he could do without. There were too many elements, too many threads … and some of those whom he both liked and respected were sure to be hurt.

  Pico entered, and crossed to Shattuck’s table and joined him. The big Mexican had been almost a member of Shattuck’s family for many years, since long before Marie was born. It was well known in the community that Pico had long considered himself a sort of guardian for Marie.

  Shattuck said something to Pico, and Marie seemed to be protesting. Pico’s eyes lifted, and across the room they met the eyes of Strat Spooner, but the big gunman merely gave the Mexican a taunting smile and looked away.

  McCarty was puzzled over Spooner’s change of attitude. He had been around town for some time, but he had always been careful, had avoided contact with the people of the town, and had rarely left Hardcastle’s saloon unless on some errand for Hardcastle. Now he seemed almost to invite trouble.

  Strat Spooner’s manner, the whispers of impending trouble for Shattuck, and the mysterious drifters who kept passing through town or reappearing in town worried McCarty. He was a friendly man, and the people of Rimrock he counted as his friends, yet even Larsen, under his placid exterior, was obviously worried.

  Larsen had been going about more. He seemed never to sleep, and there were few evenings now when he was not dropping into the restaurant or one of the saloons. He was present, without fail, when Shattuck came into town, though he only watched and said nothing.

  Several days passed after this evening in the restaurant, and McCarty was making up his paper. Suddenly a shadow fell across his window, and the door opened. It was Gaylord Riley.

  He bought a newspaper, chatted a bit, then stepped outside. What happened then, McCarty observed with interest. Peg Oliver walked by and cut Riley dead. Eyes straight to the front, chin lifted, she walked right by him.

  Riley stood there, his mouth opened to speak, but she kept on walking. Astonished, he shuffled the paper in his hands, then turned and walked toward the restaurant.

  McCarty hesitated, glanced at the paper before him, and hurriedly took off his apron and his eye-shade. The paper could wait. He had a hunch he was going to learn something. He stepped out on the street, hastily shrugging into his coat.

  He was in time to see Riley stopped by Sheriff Larsen, and as he approached he overheard what was said.

  “Are you puying cows?”

  “When I can find them … whiteface or Shorthorn.”

  “I did nodt t’ink dere was so many aroundt.”

  “There aren’t many.”

  “Do you haff pills of sale?”

  Gaylord Riley slanted a sharp look at the Swede’s bland face. “Sure … what are you getting at?”

  “Do you mindt if I come oudt and look dem over?”

  Riley felt his neck getting hot, and he was suddenly aware that all movement on the street had stopped. “Any time, Sheriff, any time at all.”

  Riley turned sharply away, and as he did so he saw Desloge. The gunman was seated on a bench before the saloon, and as their eyes met Desloge slowly, significantly, closed one eye.

  Riley’s anger rose, but he started on toward the restaurant, when Hardcastle stopped him. “Anything I can do,” Hardcastle said, “you come to me.”

  Riley stopped abruptly. “What do you mean? How could you help me?”

  Hardcastle shrugged. “I don’t believe it for one minute, but the word’s gone around town—Shattuck is losing cattle and blaming you.”

  “To hell with him!” Riley brushed by him and went to the restaurant.

  At that hour it was almost deserted. The girl who took his order did not smile—she simply took the order and walked away. When his food was placed before him it was almost thrown upon the table.

  Angrily he started to rise, but he was hungry, and there was no place else in town where a man could eat. He relaxed, and began to eat. It was then that McCarty came in.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Riley looked up with relief. “Glad to have you, but the way people are treating me, I don’t know whether you should or not.”

  “I’ll chance it.” McCarty ordered his own supper and sat back, lighting his pipe. “Shattuck is missing cattle.”

  “So he blames me?” Riley said bitterly. “I’ve got plenty of cattle of my own.”

  “Who else would dare take them?” McCarty asked mildly. “There simply aren’t any others anywhere in the country around. Nobody can understand where you got all those cattle you say you have.”

  “I bought that herd in Spanish Fork.”

  McCarty shrugged. “Understand me, I am not saying this, and it was I who told you of that herd, but some say there never was such a herd, and if there was there would be no way of getting it down, not from there to here.”

  He had brought that herd down over the Outlaw Trail, and few even knew of that trail’s existence. The drivers who brought it down for him were themselves outlaws.

  “I bought it from Doc Beaman’s nephew—that doctor here in town.”

  McCarty looked up sharply. “Have you told anybody that? If you haven’t, don’t. Coker Beaman was found two weeks ago, shot dead beside the trail. He had been murdered and robbed.”

  Gaylord Riley suddenly stared at the food before him, his appetite gone. Within him arose a feeling of desperation. Was he to have no chance? Was this to be the end of all he hoped for?

  “I didn’t kill him. I bought the herd from him, and I have a bill of sale for it. I paid him in gold coin.”

  “Doc thought a lot of that boy. He’s stirring up the law to find the killer.”

  “I hope they do find him.” Riley sat back in his chair, trying to think the problem through.

  He was a stranger here, a man without friends, a man with no history he dared to repeat. Nor could he call anyone as witnesses, for his friends were outlaws who dared not come in; and even if they did, their word would not be accepted.

  “You’d better eat,” McCarty suggested. “I think you’re going to need it.”

  Riley knew it was unlikely that anyone would believe he had brought his herd of cattle through the rough, dry country where ordinarily two or three men on horseback were lucky to find enough water. And the men who knew anything about that country were few indeed, and unlikely to want to appear. Several were Mormons, hiding out for reasons best known to themselves, hardworking men who had found safety in the remote mountains of the Roost country.

  He felt suddenly sick. He stared bleakly across the room. He could give it all up and run. He could ride back to Dandy Crossing, swim the Colorado, and head for the Roost. There probably had not been one night when, half-consciously, the outfit had not waited, expecting him to come. It was hard for an outlaw to make it on the outside. Their futures as well as his own were at stake here, and he had cattle and a ranch, and a home being built.

  “If anybody comes hunting me,” Riley said, “you tell them they won’t have to look far. I’ll be out there in the Sweet Alice Hills, or I’ll be here. If they want to talk, I’ll talk; but if they come hunting trouble, they’ll get a belly full of it.”

  McCarty’s eyes warmed. “Good lad,” he said quietly. “Stay with it, and I’ll stay with you—as much as a man can.”

  C
HAPTER 10

  MARTIN HARDCASTLE ROLLED the cigar in his lips and considered the situation with pleasure. From their hideout in the Blues his men had struck swiftly at the Shattuck herds. They had stolen only a few cattle at first, and they had left not too clear a trail—a trail that led into the broken canyon country beyond which lay the Sweet Alice Hills.

  A few nights later, they had struck again, and to make it not too obvious, they had swept up a few Boxed O cattle at the same time.

  Hardcastle himself had helped to foment the talk about the whiteface cattle; after all, where could Gaylord Riley get such cattle when Shattuck would not sell? And why would any honest man choose to live in such a remote place?

  Hardcastle knew from experience that most people love to talk, and like to repeat what they have heard. Trouble is born of rumor, and nine people out of ten will repeat a rumor—consciously or unconsciously adding their bit. Out of those rumors had come Peg Oliver’s attitude, Larsen’s questions, and McCarty’s sympathy.

  Hardcastle was bidding for a cattle war out of which he would not only have his revenge against Dan Shattuck, but a profit in sweeping up the pieces. He would not be suspected, since he had nothing—apparently—to gain.

  Riley was young and likely to be hotheaded. Dan Shattuck was stubborn and hotheaded himself. Hardcastle intended to see a gun battle between the two, and he did not care which man won. He knew nothing of Riley’s skill with a gun.

  GAYLORD RILEY HAD planned to remain over-night in town, but now he decided against it. With two pack horses loaded with supplies, he took the trail to the hills. Behind him, but not too far behind, rode Desloge.

  Desloge was too shrewd not to see what Hardcastle was bidding for, and was also too shrewd not to realize the whole affair would erupt into a shooting match of which he wanted no part. A bad man with a gun, Desloge had long since been aware that men get killed in gun battles, and that there is no telling who will die and who will survive. Bullets are indiscriminate, and he had no intention of dying at this stage of the game. Hence, what he wanted was quick cash and a quick ride out of the country.