Novel 1969 - Conagher (v5.0) Read online

  Sometimes when I am alone I feel I will die if I do not talk to someone, and I am alone so much.

  I love to hear the wind in the grass, or in the cedars.

  He read it through, then read it again. He started to throw it aside, but then he tucked it into his vest pocket.

  He liked the wind in the grass, himself. And the cedars, too, and the smell of them. He wondered if the writer of that note had ever really looked at a cedar. Gnarled, twisted by wind, rooted often enough in rock, still it lived and grew. It took a sight of living and hardship to grow like that, but when they did grow they grew strong, and they lasted. Why, he’d seen cedars that had split rocks apart, cedars that must have been old before Columbus landed.

  Leggett was sitting in front of the bunk house when Conagher rode in. The old man looked up. “We’ve et,” he said, “but coffee’s on. The Old Man figured you might come in late.”

  “Thanks.”

  Conagher stripped the rigging from his horse and threw it over a saddle tree under the shed. He was dog-tired and bone-weary.

  “McGivern come in?”

  “Nope…Kris took off some place, too.”

  Conagher dumped water into the washbasin beside the door and, rolling up his sleeves, he took off his hat and neckerchief and washed his face, neck, and arms. Then he dried them on the roller towel, hitched his gunbelt into place, and started for the house.

  Then he stopped. “Leggett, you might as well have some coffee with me. You’ll grow right into that bench if you set there much longer.”

  Leggett got up and walked along with him to the patch of light that fell from the kitchen door.

  “The Old Man’s turned in, but he said you’d better pick yourself a couple of good winter horses and iron them out a little, to suit you.”

  “All right.”

  “Tay’s got good stock. There’s a big dapple-gray would make quite a horse if you’re man enough to take the kinks out of him, and there’s a buckskin about the same size. Both of them big enough and strong enough for the snow.”

  “Does she get deep around here?”

  “In the draws and canyons she piles up. You’ll need Montana-style horses.”

  They sat in silence for a time, and then Conagher refilled his cup. “You been on this range quite a while. How’s the Old Man when it comes to trouble?”

  Leggett gave Conagher a bleak look. “He’ll stand by you, if that’s what you mean, but nobody else will. I’m the only one of the old hands left, and I’m only here because I ain’t a youngster no more and I got nowhere to go.”

  Leggett got to his feet. “I don’t know you, cowboy, an’ you don’t know me. If you got any ideas about buckin’ trouble you got to go it alone.”

  “You won’t help me?”

  “How much help would I be? I’m up in my sixties, boy, older than you thought, an’ I want to live out my days, not die on some sandy slope with lead in my guts.”

  “And the Old Man?”

  Leggett looked at him. “Ain’t that what they want most? If they can get him out on the range they’ll kill him, and then they can take the cattle as they want, and nobody to stop them.”

  Conn Conagher was a stubborn man. He had never given much thought to truth and justice or the rights of man, but he did not like what seemed to be happening here, and anything that happened to an outfit he rode for, happened to him.

  “Will you stand by the Old Man?” he asked. “Supposin’ they come after him?”

  “I’ll fight. If they come after him, I’ll fight.”

  “All right, then you stay here. You keep a rifle handy, and if there’s any doubt—shoot.”

  Chapter 8

  *

  KRIS MAHLER RODE in about an hour later. Conn was seated in the bunk house with his feet up on a box reading a dog-eared copy of a magazine. He knew by the way Mahler stalked into the room that the man was angry.

  “Conn, what’s got into you? We’ve got a good thing here if you play your cards right.”

  “I play them the way they’re dealt, Kris. What don’t you like?”

  “There’s no need to stir up trouble. You wanted a place to lay up during the winter…well, you got it. So set still and ride it out. In the spring you can drift.”

  Conagher glanced around. “When I take a man’s money, Kris, I do the job he hired me for. I don’t know no other way.”

  “No, I guess you don’t.” Mahler dropped onto a bench. “Conn, you’re no tenderfoot. The Ladder Five is Smoke Parnell’s outfit. Tile Coker is his right hand. You run a-foul of them and they’ll nail your hide to the barn door.”

  Slowly, Conagher lowered his feet. Every time somebody warned him or threatened him it got his back up. He wanted trouble with no man, but he wasn’t going to take any pushing around, either.

  “You tell me something, Mahler. Where do you stand? Are you riding for the brand? Are you runnin’ scared? Or are you sellin’ out to that damned bunch of highbinders on the Ladder?”

  Mahler’s face turned ugly. “I could make you draw a gun for that,” he said hoarsely. “Damn you, Conn! Don’t push me!”

  “Seems to me,” Conagher replied mildly, “that I am the one who is being pushed. I’ll tell you this, Mahler, and put it in your pipe and smoke it. Every ST beef critter I see heading toward Ladder range is going to get turned back, and if I smell any hide burning from a Ladder iron, I’ll go in a-fogging it…no matter who is doing the branding. Do you hear me?”

  “You’re a damn fool,” Mahler said. “Look, they’re going to clean him out. By spring there won’t be a head of beef left on ST range, and there isn’t a thing anybody can do about it. You can do your job an’ look the other way, or you can set yourself up for a target. You’ve got a choice.”

  “It’s you who have the choice, Mahler. You’ve got the choice right this minute. You throw your pack on your horse and ride out of here tonight, or you do what you mentioned, and pull that gun on me.

  “Before you reach for it, remember this. I been shot at a few times, and I’m still around. I’ve gone down a few times, but I always got some lead into the man who did the shooting.”

  Conn Conagher stood up. “Kris, you pack up and light a shuck. I got no use for a traitor.”

  Mahler got to his feet, his features dark with fury. Desperately, he wanted to pull a gun on Conagher, but there was a healthy streak of caution in him.

  There was nothing of the tenderfoot in Conagher. He was an old curly wolf from the high country, and Mahler had seen what he did to Staples. That beating had been brutal and thorough. Moreover, in the close confines of a bunk house there was no way either of them could miss. Kris Mahler was ready enough to shoot, but he was not ready to die.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll pull out. And Johnny will go with me. That means there’s just you, the Old Man, and Leggett…how far will that take you?”

  Conagher shrugged. “Kris, neither of us is going to get out of this alive. That’s the only thing a man knows about life.

  “I’ll work my tail off and cash in my chips some dark night riding herd on another man’s cows, but when they write my epitaph they’ll say, He rode for the brand, and when they write yours they’ll say, He sold out the man who trusted him. I like mine better.”

  “You’re a damn fool,” Mahler said.

  “Am I? I’ve seen your kind, Kris. Whatever you steal, the women on the Line will get, or you’ll get headaches from the rotten booze they feed you, and when your back is turned one of your partners will shoot you for what’s left in your pockets.”

  Kris Mahler walked to the door, dropped his gear, and went to saddle a horse.

  Seaborn Tay came to the door of the ranch house. “Kris? Is that you?” he called.

  “He’s just quit, Mr. Tay,” Conn said. “He’s workin’ for the Ladder outfit now.”

  “You got money coming, Mahler,” Tay said.

  “He’s got nothing coming. He’s helping them rob you.”

  “Neve
rtheless, I am paying him. Come to the house, Mahler, when you’re ready to go.”

  “There’s a square man, Kris,” Conagher said.

  Mahler did not speak, but when his horse was saddled he turned on Conagher. “Tell him to keep his damn money! I don’t want it!”

  “Better take it. That may be the last honest money you ever see.”

  Mahler turned around sharply. “Lay off, Conagher. Damn you, lay off! I don’t want to kill you, but—”

  “Arizona is nice this time of year, if you go south far enough,” Conn suggested, “or California, or the gulf coast of Texas.”

  Suddenly a rider came in from the dark. It was Johnny McGivern.

  He looked startled when he saw Mahler packing his gear behind the saddle. “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?”

  “I just quit, kid. Get your outfit and let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I’m joining up with the Ladder Five. Come on. I ain’t got all night.”

  Johnny stared at him, then looked at Conagher. “Is this your doing?”

  “No, his. He decided he didn’t want to swindle a man who paid him honest wages. He’s going where he belongs, of his own choice.”

  “You talk too damn much!” Mahler said. “Come on, kid.”

  “There it lays, Johnny. You’ve got a choice. You can ride the owl-hoot trail, or you can play it honest. What you decide tonight can change your whole life.”

  “Kris is my partner!”

  “Right down the road to hell, or to a hangman’s noose. That the way you want it?”

  “Lay off, Conn!” Mahler exclaimed. “I’m warnin’ you. Lay off!”

  “Can’t you see it, Mahler? I’m never going to lay off. I’m going to show those friends of yours what it costs to steal an honest man’s cattle. From the moment you ride out of here, it’s war, Kris, and I don’t have one ounce of mercy in me for your kind.”

  “You’re only one man.”

  “I know. And there was a Texas ranger named Captain Bill MacDonald who said there was no stoppin’ a man who knew he was in the right and kept a-comin’.

  “You boys had better shoot me, Kris, and then you’d better shoot me again and stomp the life out of me, because as long as I can crawl, I’ll fight. As long as I can move a finger, I’ll squeeze a trigger. You boys have saddled your bronc, now let’s see if you can ride him!”

  “Johnny, you goin’ to stand there? Come on!”

  “Conn? What’ll I do?”

  “You’re a man, son,” Conagher answered. “You make your own decision. Just remember when you make this bet you’ve thrown your life into the pot…your life and your future.”

  Johnny hesitated, then slowly he got down from the saddle. “I’ll stay. You ride on, Kris. I’m sorry, but this here’s where the trail divides.”

  “The hell with you!”

  Kris Mahler jerked his horse around savagely and rode out of the yard.

  Conagher looked at the boy. There were tears in his eyes. Conn put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, son. You need something to eat.”

  The next morning, leaving Johnny McGivern on the ranch, Conn Conagher took off, but instead of making the wide sweep he rode directly across country. From the top of a ridge he studied the layout with his field glasses for nearly half an hour before he rode down to the flat.

  Then he began a sweep, pushing cattle back toward the canyons of the Black Range where there was water and grass, as well as some shelter from the weather. He worked hard, starting several bunches moving, and stopping every once in a while to study the range to the north.

  Then he rode on, keeping under cover, starting cattle whenever he encountered them, having the one idea of getting them as deep into ST territory as possible.

  It was late afternoon before he saw any riders, and when he did see them he turned at once toward the hills, riding back toward the ridge by a route he had previously scouted. Leaving his horse out of sight beyond the ridge, he dug out a small hollow in a place that seemed to offer no cover, and there he watched the riders. One of them was young, the second was, by the look of him, Smoke Parnell himself.

  Suddenly they drew up. Conagher swore. They had found his tracks!

  He eased his rifle forward and waited, watching to see what they would do.

  Parnell studied the tracks, then scanned the country around, particularly the ridge where Conagher lay, but farther to the east and west in places of obvious cover. Then he reached for his rifle, and when he put a hand on it, Conagher tucked the butt of his own rifle against his shoulder, his cheek against the stock, and took a good sight. He squeezed off his shot as Parnell’s rifle began to leave the scabbard.

  He saw the horse jump and go to pitching even as the boom of the shot reverberated against the hills. Instantly Conn was on his feet and running for his horse.

  When he reached the crest of the ridge again, fifty yards off, he was in the saddle, and only his eyes cleared the ridge, behind some brush.

  Parnell was getting up off the ground, and he was shouting mad. His horse had run off a few steps, and the rider with Parnell had gone after it. Parnell stooped to pick up his rifle and Conagher shot again, his bullet kicking sand within inches of Parnell’s hand.

  The outlaw leaped back so swiftly that he tripped himself and fell again. Instantly, Conn fired again, splashing sand into Parnell’s face; then switching his aim, he put a bullet in front of the horse just as the other rider was reaching for the bridle. The frightened horse, evidently burned by the first bullet as it ricocheted, now took off running.

  The rider wheeled his horse and rode back, lending a stirrup to Parnell. Just as Parnell lifted a foot to the stirrup, Conagher coolly shot again, kicking sand under the horse’s belly.

  The horse lunged, and Parnell, his foot caught in the stirrup, fell to the sand, and the plunging horse dragged him twenty feet before its rider calmed the animal enough for Parnell to get up.

  Conagher checked his position as he fed shells into the magazine. He had dismounted for more accurate shooting, and now he walked back and mounted up. When he let his eyes clear the ridge again, the horse carrying two riders was some distance off, and out of rifle shot.

  Conagher worked on until sundown, pushing strays back toward the mountains. Once they got into those canyons where there was plenty of water and good grass it would be the devil’s own job to round them up and get them out. And as he knew, outlaws have no particular drive toward hard work.

  It was long after dusk when he started back, and midnight before he finally rode into the ranch yard.

  There was a movement in the shadows near the house, and Seaborn Tay walked out into the open.

  “Worried about you, boy. Your horse looks beat, plumb beat.”

  Conagher dismounted, stripped the rigging from his horse, and roped another. As he did so, he explained, and added, “Might as well let them know it isn’t all going to be fun,” he said. “Might be they’ll lose their taste for it.”

  “Not them,” Tay said. “Not Smoke Parnell.”

  “They’ve been warned. Now they’ll come a-hunting blood. You got to be ready for them.” Conagher walked into the kitchen and dropped wearily into a chair. “I’m going out on the trail…bed down and wait for them.”

  He ate slowly, relishing every bite, scarcely aware that he had eaten nothing in many hours. But he could feel the heaviness in his muscles. He needed sleep—needed it the worst way, but he had started something today that would take some time to quiet down.

  “We need men,” Tay said. “You can’t carry this on by yourself. Leggett’s old, and McGivern…well, he’ll get himself killed. He’ll try too hard, I’m thinking.”

  “Leave it to me. You hold the place, I’ll move around and make it kind of unpleasant for them.”

  Suddenly his eyes brightened. “I’ve got an idea where we might find a man. It’s a gamble, but worth the chance.”

  When he left the house he went out and shook Johnny awake. “How
’d you like to ride, fifty, sixty miles?”

  “Where?”

  Sitting down on a bench, Conagher traced out the route. “Now you hold to it. Don’t try no short cuts, because there ain’t any in that country. Keep a sharp watch out for Indians…maybe they’ll be there, maybe they won’t. The man we want is trappin’ back yonder—his name is Chip Euston. I don’t have any idea whether he’ll come, but if he does come he’ll be worth any three of those outlaws.”

  When Johnny McGivern rode off, taking a route that would avoid towns, Conn rode out on the trail down which he expected the Ladder Five to come. When he got out a way, he rode off the trail, climbed a ridge, and bedded down where he could look around him and listen.

  He was trusting more to his horse than to himself. He had deliberately chosen a mountain-bred mustang, a horse only a few months away from running wild. He wanted a horse that was spooky…that would hear every sound…and a horse could both see and hear better than a man.

  He slept fitfully, awakening to listen and look, dozing off again. At daylight the country was empty as far as his eyes could reach. A slow smoke lifted from the chimney at the ranch, and wearily he climbed into the saddle and rode back.

  “They didn’t come,” Tay said.

  “No, but they will. They will.”

  He went to the bunk house and tumbled into his bunk and slept.

  Tay and Leggett could keep watch. He would sleep.

  Chapter 9

  *

  FOR SOME TIME after he awoke he lay still, staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him. The room was shadowed and still, and he heard no sound outside. He was still tired, but he had often been tired, and simply being so did not offer a reason for lying abed.

  But he was more than tired. And perhaps because he was tired he was feeling again that dreadful, depressing loneliness that came to him sometimes.

  Was it that which led him to fight for the brand for which he rode? Was it actually because he was an honest man, or was it simply that he clung to the brand, the outfit for which he rode, as the one stable thing in his transient world?

  He was not, he told himself, gifted with much imagination. He simply did what had to be done, and his code of ethics was the code of his father, his family, and his time. It would be easy, he told himself, to throw everything overboard and disclaim any responsibility. All he had to do was saddle up and ride out of the country.