Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0) Read online

  Mentally, she began to go over that trail to the south. Every mile of it was dangerous, every mile had seen death by Apache warriors, every mile of it was liable to be raided at any time. Of all those who had tried to live to the south, only Pete Kitchen had survived any length of time, and his house and ranch were laid out for defense.

  When she reached her own gate she went into the yard where her father had begun to plant grass for a lawn, and then paused as she looked back up the street. It was like her father, she thought, to bring his eastern ideas to Tucson, and to be among the first to plant trees, flowers, and grass with an idea of bringing coolness and beauty to the place.

  Would Ben Cowan be like that? So many western men seemed heedless of anything but the present moment. She supposed it was because so few of them planned to stay wherever they were…or were too busy fighting Indians, drouth, and disaster to think of beauty.

  She was undressing for bed when she heard General Allen come in. He often stopped by to talk with her father, and when she heard his voice she stopped to listen through the door, for he nearly always had news. And it was news he brought now.

  “…came in about ten minutes ago. That marshal had irons on Catlow. Threw him in jail.”

  There was an indistinct mumble, and then she heard the words, “wanted in Texas.”

  Bijah Catlow arrested?

  Chapter 10

  BY MORNING THE news was all over town—Bijah Catlow had been arrested. And then she discovered what everybody else seemed to know already…that Bijah Catlow was an outlaw and a gunfighter, known throughout the West.

  Another story got around, too. Miller was wanted for desertion and murder, but he had vanished, dropped from sight as though he had never existed.

  Soon everybody in Tucson was talking about the way Ben Cowan had taken Catlow, and it was Catlow himself who told the story, laughing at his own innocence in falling for an obvious trick.

  He had been riding south through what seemed to be open country and there, lying in the trail ahead of him was a brand-new white sombrero, obviously expensive. Intrigued, Catlow dismounted and bent over to pick up the hat, and from behind him Ben Cowan ordered him to hold his position.

  Bent over as he was, his pistol riding around in front of his hip, his body would impede any attempt at a draw; and to straighten, draw, and turn was too much of a chance against a man as fast as Ben Cowan. Catlow surrendered.

  Ben Cowan slipped the cuffs on him. “I don’t want to kill you, Bijah,” he explained, “and damned if I don’t think you’d try to make a break.”

  “Sure as hell would!” Bijah said ruefully. “I got business below the border.”

  Ben Cowan did not talk about the capture, but Catlow was full of the story, and it passed from person to person around the stables and the saloons, that Ben Cowan had outsmarted his old friend, lying hidden in a shallow place that apparently would not hide a desert fox, waiting until Catlow bent over to pick up the hat.

  It made a good story, and Ben Cowan found himself suddenly a popular man, doubly so as it was obvious that Catlow, who was well-liked, held no grudge.

  Cowan was sitting at his desk working over a report when Cordelia Burton appeared with a basket covered with a napkin.

  “Marshal Cowan? May I give this to the prisoner?”

  He looked at her gravely. “I will have to look it over.”

  She stiffened indignantly. “You do not trust me?”

  “Ma’am, where Bijah is concerned I trust nobody. That man is wily as a snake and trickier than a ’coon.”

  He rummaged through the basket, his mouth watering as he saw half an apple pie, a large breast of chicken, and other assorted edibles.

  Bijah Catlow got up from his cot and came to the bars, his face flushed a deep red. “Ma’am, I sure never calculated to have you see me in such a place.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have done whatever it was you did to get in here. I am sure the marshal had reason for arresting you.”

  “Oh, sure! He had reason, all right!” He grinned his appreciation. “Where d’you suppose he got the idea for that durned hat trick? I never heard of such a thing! There was that brand-new hat lyin’ there in the trail and nobody around, nowhere. Seemed like somebody had lost a good hat. Then just as I bent to pick it up, he had me.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Bijah glanced at her quickly. “Ben? Best man I ever did know.” He looked at her with a grin. “But you just wait…see who has the last laugh.”

  The town had it the next morning, for Bijah Catlow was gone.

  Ben Cowan had stayed on watch until almost daylight, then had unrolled his bed and turned in.

  An hour later the jailer shook Ben awake. “He’s gone! Catlow’s took out!”

  The cell was empty.

  The jailer’s story was simple. He was making coffee when his daughter appeared at the door. He opened it and she came in, followed by three masked men. They had gagged and bound him and his daughter, taken the keys from him, and opened the cell to let Catlow out.

  She had not been molested in any way. In fact, aside from threatening her with the gun, they had treated her with utmost politeness.

  Knowing Bijah and how well-liked he was among the Spanish-speaking population, Ben Cowan suspected the jailer’s daughter had been only too willing to cooperate, and the gun a mere gesture. The jailer himself did not seem very disturbed by the escape.

  In disgust, Ben Cowan tore up the report of Catlow’s capture and headed for the stable for his horse.

  The horse was gone. Tacked to the side of the stall was a note.

  You can pick him up at Pete Kitchen’s. Sorry to set you afoot, but I got business to attend to.

  There was no signature, and no need for one, but within the hour Ben Cowan realized just how many friends Catlow had, and how important they could be, for nobody in town had a horse that was ready to go. Either they had just gone lame, or they had been promised, or they were out at pasture, or somehow indisposed.

  By afternoon several people came to him offering him horses, but they knew and he knew that by that time Bijah Catlow was gone beyond recapture, and the town of Tucson was chuckling again.

  Ben Cowan sat behind the scarred desk in the jail office and considered the situation. Bijah Catlow, and Miller as well—both had eluded him.

  Bijah Catlow had undoubtedly gone to Mexico. Ben Cowan considered the probabilities and decided that Miller had gone the same way. He was a deserter, although his time in the Army had been of brief duration, and possibly only for the chance to watch the paymaster. He must avoid places where he might be recognized. His stop in Tucson was probably en route to Mexico, anyway.

  Bijah Catlow had spoken of a big strike. Allowing for exaggeration, what were his chances in Sonora or Chihuahua, both within riding distance? Carefully, Ben considered the possibilities, but they were few and none seemed to promise anything like the amount of money Catlow must have had in mind, from the way he talked and planned.

  The arrival of the Mexican soldier was obviously tied in with his plan. Had it then, anything to do with the Mexican army? A payroll, perhaps? Or captured loot?

  With no idea of what way to take, Ben Cowan began in the only way he knew how: he began by asking questions, by starting a conversation in the direction he wished it to go, and then just listening. What he wanted to know about was Mexico.

  The hint that he needed came from Allen. They were talking over lunch at the Palace—the Shoo-Fly’s only rival in Tucson—and Allen was commenting on the death of Juarez and the succession of Lerdo to the presidency.

  “You know,” Allen said, “I have been expecting this would happen, and wondering if when it happened that silver would turn up.”

  “Silver?”

  “Sebastian Lerdo de Tejada was the strong right arm of Juarez during some trying times, and before the French intervention both the Conservatives and the Liberals were in desperate need of money. The simplest way to get it was
to confiscate some of the shipments from the mines, and Lerdo moved swiftly. One of those shipments had just been seized when, on June 10th, 1863, General Forey, with 30,000 French soldiers, entered the City of Mexico.

  “Juarez fled to San Luis Potosì, and the mule train loaded with two million dollars in silver and gold vanished from sight. Yet in 1867 when Juarez was elected president and Lerdo was in his cabinet, there was already a somewhat reserved feeling between them. Later, Lerdo ran against Juarez for the presidency, was defeated, but became president of the Supreme Court; and on the death of Juarez, Lerdo became president.”

  “What about the two millions in silver?”

  “Some of that two millions was in gold. Well, nobody who knows the whole story will tell it; but Lerdo had ambitions of his own, and apparently kept the knowledge of that treasure to himself, holding it back against such a time as has now come. He is president, and such a treasure would be of enormous use to him—especially with such a formidable rival as Diaz.”

  Ben Cowan listened as Allen talked on, discussing the involved politics of the land below the border in that year of 1872.

  Tucson, in many respects, had closer ties with Mexico than with the United States. Only a few years earlier it had in fact been a part of Mexico, and many of the local population had been citizens of Mexico and had relatives there. Many of the local Anglos had married girls of Spanish descent, and were vitally concerned with Mexican affairs.

  Suppose…just suppose…that Lerdo had removed those two millions from their hiding place and was having it transferred to Mexico City?

  The possibility was slight, but the chance was there…depending on where that silver actually was…and that Mexican soldier could have been a messenger to Catlow.

  “That silver—would it have been somewhere in Sonora when it disappeared?”

  “You’ve heard the story then? Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. And it dropped right out of sight. But you can take it from me that if anyone knows where it was, Lerdo is the man. He’s a deep one. Brilliant man,” Allen commented; “shrewd, capable, and yet I do not believe he understands the temper of his people. He has lived too far from them, I think.”

  Later that night Ben Cowan loitered at the bar of the Quartz Rock Saloon. He listened to the talk around him but said nothing himself; when the moment came, he spoke quietly to the bartender. “There was a Mex soldier in here…stranger in town…stopped around here and the Hanging Wall, talked to Bijah Catlow some. I’d be interested to know what they talked about.”

  The bartender hesitated, then met Ben’s gaze with cool, searching eyes. “Bijah is a friend of mine. I’d heard he was a friend of yours…and then you jugged him.”

  “Look”—Ben spoke softly—“Bijah is a friend of mine, but he’s so damned bull-headed he won’t listen to a friend, and he’s walking himself right into a trap.”

  Cowan knew he was stretching things a bit, but he felt that what he was saying might be true.

  “He’s tackled something too big for him, and he’s going to get killed unless I can stop him—and I don’t even know where he’s gone. After all,” he added, “I couldn’t arrest him in Mexico, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” the bartender agreed, “that’s so.”

  He served a beer down the bar, then came back to Ben. “I got no idea where they went—only that Mex, I heard him mention Hermosillo a couple of times…and something about a mule train. I think,” he went on, “he was trying to sell Bijah on the idea that whatever they did had to be done before that mule train reached Hermosillo.”

  It was little enough, but Ben Cowan had pieced a trail together on much less. Still, he had no authority in Mexico, and at the moment there was little good feeling between the two countries…although Washington, and the United States Marshal’s office in particular, had instructed him to do all he could to promote good feeling with Mexican officials.

  If it was true—and he had no evidence at all on which to proceed—that Catlow had gone into Mexico to attempt to steal the two millions in treasure long, concealed by President Lerdo, then he must be stopped. Such a theft by American bandits, if successful, would deal a serious blow to all future relations with Mexico. Ben Cowan knew what the cooperation of Mexican officials could mean, as did his superiors.

  All right, then. The chances were good that Bijah Catlow had gone to Hermosillo. So Ben Cowan would go there too, trying all the way to pick up the trail he wanted. Fortunately, a man as flamboyant as Catlow would not be difficult to follow.

  FOR DAYS BEFORE Catlow left, Ben had been preparing for a trip. He had bought a pack horse, had purchased supplies and extra ammunition, and while talking with people about the town, he had listened to much discussion of trails into Mexico.

  “The Apaches are the danger,” somebody had commented, “when they raid they go in small bands so they have no need to hold to the trails where the water holes are. Why, out there in the desert there are seeps and hidden tanks in the rocks with water a-plenty—a-plenty for six or seven men, maybe even a dozen if the water isn’t used too often.”

  Several days had passed since Catlow escaped jail, and Cowan had done nothing. It seemed that he had no plans to do anything. And then, suddenly, he was gone.

  Cordelia Burton saw Ben on his last day in town. He was standing on the street nearby when she emerged from her father’s shop. She hesitated, and regarded him thoughtfully.

  He was a remarkably handsome man, when one took time to look at him, and she liked the easy, casual way he handled his tall, lean body. His face was lean, browned by sun and honed by wind, and there was something about his eyes, something that haunted her, but she could not decide what it was. She should have asked Bijah about him, she thought.

  He straightened up when he saw her, and removed his hat. His dark brown hair was curly; now it showed distinct reddish tones that she had not seen before.

  He fell into step beside her. “I haven’t much excuse to walk you home,” he said…“not in broad daylight.”

  “Do you need an excuse?”

  He smiled slightly, and laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes broke the gravity of his expression. “No, ma’am, I guess I don’t.” He glanced at her again. “Have you heard from Bijah?”

  “No.”

  “He’s going to be a hard man to take.” He paused a moment. “You ever lived on a ranch, ma’am?”

  “No…not exactly. It seems a lonely life.”

  “Depends…there’s plenty to do. I take kindly to open lands. I like to look far off. Seems like a man’s free, whether he is or not.”

  “You do not think a man can be free?”

  “No, ma’am, not exactly. Maybe…some ways. There’s always his duty, duty to folks about him, to his country, to the law…such-like.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, then stood still so she could see his face well. “Ben, you believe in your duty, don’t you?”

  He shrugged slightly, and squinted his eyes against the sun. It might be that he was embarrassed to speak of such a thing. “Without duty, life don’t make any kind of sense, ma’am. If folks are going to live together they have to abide by some kind of rules, and the law is those rules. The law doesn’t work against a man, it works for him. Without it, every house would have to be a fortress, and no man or woman would be safe. First time two men got together I expect they started to make laws for living together.

  “There’s always mavericks who can’t or won’t ride a straight trail, and the law needs somebody to ride herd on them.”

  “And you are one of the herders?”

  “Sort of.” He smiled. “I need some herding myself, time to time.”

  He looked down at her. “Living on a ranch mightn’t be as bad as you think,” he said.

  At sunup the next morning he was ten miles south of town and riding for the border.

  He had a man to take…two of them, as a matter of fact.

  Chapter 11

  BIJAH CATLOW HAD entered Mexico and disapp
eared.

  So far as Ben Cowan could discover there had been only four men in the group. One of these, judging by descriptions, was Old Man Merridew, and a second would surely be Rio Bray. As the fourth man was a Mexican, it was probably the soldier who had met Bijah in Tucson.

  Whatever Catlow planned could scarcely be done by so small a group, so Ben Cowan loitered about Nogales on both sides of the border, and bought quite a few drinks, and asked quite a few questions. Had there been any other strange gringos in town that night? Gringos who were no longer around?

  There had been—two, at least. They had ridden off on the trail toward Magdalena…a very foolish thing to do, for the Apaches made travel along that trail much too dangerous, except for large, well-armed groups.

  To the click of castanets, the rattle of glasses, and the somber singing of a Mexican girl, Ben Cowan leaned on the bar and listened. He bought tequila, and he drank it, but most of the time he made idle talk in his fluent cow-country Spanish—and as always, he listened.

  Wherever people gather together, they talk, and often they talk too much. In towns where there is little news and little else but one’s surroundings to discuss, they invariably talk too much.

  When Ben Cowan rode from Nogales down the Magdalena trail, he rode alone, and soon he picked up the hoofprints left by the horses of Catlow, Bray, and Merridew. He had quickly become familiar with these around Tucson.

  Others had left Tucson after them, but he could follow the tracks of Catlow’s men with much difficulty. When they seemed to disappear from the trail he turned about and rode back. The trail had been almost obliterated by a herd of goats—undoubtedly not an accident—but soon the goats had turned toward Nogales and the four had ridden on.

  Ben Cowan found where they had camped that first night in an arroyo only a few miles southwest of Nogales. Two other riders joined them there, and the party of six rode on.

  A half-day’s ride farther along, an Indian had joined them, an unmounted Indian. Ben back-trailed that Indian and found where he had waited a couple of hundred yards off the trail, smoking dozens of cigarettes and evidently watching for Catlow. When the party continued on, the Indian trotted beside Catlow’s horse.