Читать книгу Saddle and Ride: Western Classics - Boxed Set - Ernest Haycox - Страница 89

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Denver cantered down Prairie Street and racked his horse before Grogan's around the middle of the afternoon. Dismounting, he slipped the cinch of his saddle a trifle and proceeded toward the saloon; but he was arrested on the threshold by sound of his name. He swung to find Fear Langdell leaning out of a second-story window.

"Dave, would you mind dropping up to my office a minute?"

Denver crossed the street and circled the last building on that side. When he climbed the stairs and entered the hot little cubicle he found Langdell pacing the floor. Without preliminaries he broke into a kind of nervous talk entirely at variance with his usual self-control.

"Good God, man, I haven't had a decent minute since your rider came in with word that Steele was done up! Why, I talked to him in this very room less than twenty-four hours ago. We discussed our plans for the next few months. Now he's gone—like that. Who killed him, Dave?"

"The ground was full of tracks," said Denver. "A big party. Use your own judgment."

"You've made up your mind as to the killer, ain't you?" insisted Langdell, stopping in the center of the room.

"Yeah."

"Always a close-mouthed man, Dave," grunted Langdell. "You got no call to be cagy with me. You know what I stand for. You know my shoulder's to the wheel with Leverage."

"I'd still like you to use your own judgment," said Denver. "My guess might be wrong."

"So?" retorted Langdell. "I observe you consider it a good enough guess to act on it."

"Who told you?"

"That mess of no-accounts come in from the Wells. They'll be kicked out of town before sun sets if I've anything to say."

"Let 'em alone, Fear. We're not fighting them. We're shootin' for big game, not sparrows."

"So you fired the Wells?"

"Yeah," said Denver impassively.

Langdell threw his cigar out the window. "Ain't that a sort of sweepin' thing to do?"

"If so," replied Denver, "I'm prepared to stand the consequences. My way of doin' business is to make up my mind and then move. I don't call a meetin' of the county and try to pass the buck. If these big ranchers had stopped belly-achin' and done their dirty chores long ago, Cal Steele would be alive today."

Langdell's face turned sour. "For some queer reason," he blurted out, "you set yourself against every idea I bring up. I'm free to say I don't like it. I expect more of you, Dave."

"You expected me to lead the vigilantes once," pointed out Denver. "But now that I do the logical thing, which is hit at Redmain wherever I can, you back water. What do you want, anyway?"

"I know, I know. But this is different. You're laying yourself open to a charge of lawlessness."

"I don't see any particular legality in the acts of the vigilantes," was Denver's cynical rejoinder.

"It's got the approval of every important rancher in Yellow Hill," argued Langdell. "It's got the weight of the Association behind it."

"Then my acts ought to have the same approval. I'm doing neither less nor more than the vigilantes would do."

"Different altogether," insisted Langdell. "You're actin' as an individual. If there was somebody mean enough to stand on due form he could hook you bad at law."

"Was I you," drawled Denver, "I'd forget about law for a while. It's been pretty feeble around here lately."

"Oh, hell," exclaimed Langdell, "I was just trying to point out something for your own protection. Now it looks like I'm crawfishing on my published sentiments, which I'm not. But since you intend to go after Redmain you ought to throw in with Leverage."

"Disagree."

"Why?"

"I know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. More than that, I know the kind of men riding with me. That's more than I can say for the vigilantes. I still maintain some party or parties unknown are grindin' axes with the vigilantes. I don't propose to help 'em. I fight my own way."

"Of all the cursed nonsense!" broke in Langdell, shaking his arm violently. "You ought to know better, Denver! You're the same as questioning my honesty. Good Judas!"

A wagon and a group of riders came clattering down Prairie Street. Denver rose and went to the window. Leverage, with a dozen or more men, made a sort of escort to the wagon, which was driven by Doc Williamson. In the bed of it lay a figure covered with blankets. Denver turned sharply away.

"Never mind how I go about this business," he said. "The point is, I'm after Redmain. And I'll get him if I go down in ruin. Never think I won't!"

"Have it your own way," grunted Langdell. "Now that you've burned out his quarters, what comes next?"

"I don't know," muttered Denver.

"You mean you're not telling," corrected Langdell.

"Leave it like that if you want."

Langdell's cold, hard formality returned to him. Denver lifted his shoulders and turned to leave, halting at the sound of somebody coming rapidly up the stairs. Leverage walked into the room. Seeing Denver, he nodded his head vigorously. "Good boy, Dave. I hear you burned the Wells. Now we can work together. Here, let me give you this confounded job of mine. I'm too old. I think I've aged ten years in the last two weeks."

"You waste your breath," interrupted Langdell. "Dave wishes to be the big toad in his own small puddle. He doubts the virtue of everybody but himself."

"Maybe," was Denver's laconic reply. "Or maybe I ain't built to dangle on the end of somebody's string. I'll leave the Christian charity to you, Fear. You seem to be drippin' with it."

Leverage caught the strained situation immediately. He had entered the office expectantly, but when he saw Denver still to be unchanged of opinion, that expectancy died. However, he made haste to ease off the tension.

"Well, I believe I've got wind of Redmain now. I've been ridin' fifteen and sixteen hours at a stretch. So's some of my men. And we've got a smell."

"Where?" asked Langdell with swift interest.

"Up behind my place. Across the Henry trail in the high meadows. I got a rumor he's makin' a run for the valley tonight with part of his bunch. I aim to ambush him, cut him off."

"Do it," snapped Langdell and pressed his lips together.

"Don't want to join me, Dave?" asked Leverage.

"I'm workin' it a little different," replied Denver. "Better for us to go separate. But for your own sake, trust no rumor and don't walk into any traps. Redmain's an Indian for that sort of hocus-pocus."

"I guess I can take care of myself," answered Leverage, with a trace of resentment.

"Sorry," said Dave. "I won't presume to advise you again. May see you tonight and may not. In either case, I'll be somewhere around your territory."

"Don't let's ram into each other by mistake," warned Leverage.

On the threshold of the door Denver paused and turned to catch Fear Langdell's frosty, intent glance and so received the definite knowledge of the man's personal antagonism to him. Going back to the street he reflected on this. "Queer combination of righteousness and bigotry. He despises anybody who don't track with him."

They were taking Steele's body into Doc Williamson's place. Denver veered off to Grogan's. A part of Leverage's men trailed to the bar with him. It was quite apparent to him that they knew about his recent activities and that they were anxious to find out if he meant to throw in with the vigilantes. Range etiquette forbade the open question, but it stood in their eyes, nevertheless. And so, drinking and turning away, he answered it in a roundabout fashion.

"Good luck to you boys," said he, and walked out of Grogan's. Presently he was cantering from town.

He left dissatisfaction behind him. "What the hell's the matter with that fella?" one of the vigilantes wanted to know. "Too proud to talk to us?"

Another of the bunch was quick to defend Denver. "Keep yore shirt on, Breed. He's got sense enough to keep his idees to himself. If we'd quit publishin' our intentions to the world mebbe we'd ketch a fish now and then. Don't worry about Dave Denver. He's up to somethin', you bet."

Grogan lounged up to them. By and by he grunted. "Funny thing. He comes right in, stays five minutes, and walks right out again. Now, does that make sense?"

"If he didn't have a purpose," maintained Denver's defendant, "he wouldn't 'a' been here. I know Dave."

"Well, what was his idee?" demanded Grogan.

"Yore guess is as good as mine," was the other man's abrupt answer.

A slim, olive-colored little man emerged from the Palace, climbed on a calico pony, and quietly left Sundown. He circled the town, crossed the stage road a half mile behind the vanishing Denver, and fell into a lesser trail. Twenty minutes later when Denver was running along the flat stretch beyond Shoshone Dome this fellow stood on a ridge and watched, and a little later began a solitary game of distant stalking.

Denver, meanwhile, was engaged in a mysterious game of his own. A few miles beyond Shoshone Dome he drew beside the road, dismounted, and went to a stump. He capsized a loose rock, and found a piece of paper. There was a scribble of words on it. With a pencil he added a line of his own, signed his initials and put the paper back. After that he raced up and down the hairpin curves until he arrived at the Sweet Creek bridge. Here again he imitated his first performance under the timbers of the bridge; and again travelled with the highway as it swooped into the valley of Sundown. Presently he was at the mouth of Starlight. But instead of turning for home he tarried to study the distant reaches of the road. Cattle and men filled it yonder, emerging from a hill trail. He advanced at a set pace and found a half- dozen men from Fear Langdell's ranch driving approximately two hundred head of stock to the south. Langdell's foreman came up—a long, lean man with a cheerful drawl.

"We crossed yore territory, Dave," said the foreman. "Want to cut this bunch for strays?"

"I'll just take a stand down the road a bit and watch 'em pass," replied Denver. He went on a distance, drew aside, and rolled a cigarette. The foreman followed him.

"Got goin' awful late. We won't make the railroad today. Nice critters for the market, ain't they?"

Denver's glance went expertly through the passing line of cattle, reading brands. Most of the stuff was in Langdell's own original brand; but at odd intervals he saw steers Cal Steele had sold to Langdell for shipping; recognizable as such by the vent—a small replica of the owner's brand—each carried on its hip. Denver suddenly dropped his cigarette and crowded his pony into the stream of stock, coming abreast an enormous brute with sweeping horns and a red blaze on an otherwise cream head. He leaned down, passed his palm across the brand, and looked carefully at the earmarks. When he withdrew from the procession Langdell's foreman was once more beside him.

"What's the caper, Dave? That's a Steele steer we bought last week to ship."

"Ahuh. Just wanted to look closer at the ugly critter. Well, I find nothing here belonging to me. See you later."

The outfit went by, the bawling and the shouting diminished downgrade. As long as man or beast remained in sight Denver kept his position, scarcely moving a muscle. But the cast of his face slowly changed, lines deepening, lips compressing. Through his mind raced an unpleasant truth. That steer had worn a Fee brand last year. He was certain because he remembered finding the animal strayed into his own stock. And he had driven it back across the Copperhead bridge to Fee territory. No mistake about that. Undeniably the same Fee beef now going to market with Cal Steele's brand.

Of course such things honestly happened now and then. Cattlemen sold to other cattlemen; or in adjusting occasional cases of misbranding at roundup time they swapped beef to rectify these errors. But what overthrew either of these possible explanations was the fact that this particular steer had lost his Fee brand. Steele's brand proclaimed to the wide world that the steer had originated as a Steele beef. There was only one answer—a switching of marks, a careful and expert doctoring. His eyes had picked up no suspicious blurring; but his inspecting palm had felt the slight roughness and variance of the outer ridges. Even so, had he not known that steer by sight, he would have passed it as a genuine Steele product. And since both Steele and Fee used the same small underhack on the ears of their cattle, the switch would pass any casual observer's inspection.

He drew a deep breath, wishing he had never seen the steer. There were other explanations, he told himself. Yet common sense kept insisting that no matter what explanation he might conjure up to protect the memory of his friend, somebody's treachery was at the bottom of this change. The black mystery of the country had cast its shadow even over the man he loved above all others.

He stiffened in the saddle. Brush swirled beside him. A body shifted, out of sight, and a soft voice spoke to him. He caught himself after the first sidewise glance and stared impassively down the road.

"Joe Hollis saw riders passin' across the Henry trail from where he was hid, Dave. He passed the word along the line. And Lyle Bonnet placed Redmain's bunch in one of the high pockets about seven miles west of Leverage's place. Seemed like they was takin' it easy. Saddles off."

Denver spoke from the side of his mouth. "Go back. Collect the boys where the Leverage back trail runs into the Henry. I'll be along a couple hours after dark. But tell Lyle not to let 'em out of his sight. If they move, follow. In such a case, leave one man at the junction spot to meet me, and another one or two along the line so I'll know where to come. Get going, and be careful. There's somebody scouting me."

He spurred along the road to Starlight and went rapidly up. Two miles in from the highway he saw a fresh track across the soft earth and cut down the side of the canyon. The sun was dipping over the western range when he cantered across the D Slash yard and dismounted. He threw his horse into the corral and joined the remnant of his crew at the supper table.

They had nothing to report, these restless home guards. They had worked the lower corner of D Slash range and found everything proper. Steve Steers had come along during the middle of the afternoon with a small bunch of D Slash strays. They had told him of Steele's death.

"And I thought he was a-goin' to shoot me when I spilled the news," said Dan Russell. "Never saw a fella stiffen up thataway. He wanted to know where you was, and I said I figgered mebbe yuh'd be home to eat supper. He rode off like a bat outa hell. Didn't bother to take four cows and beavertails we had fer him."

Denver nodded. "Comes hard on him. He'd bunch any other job in the world to join this chase. But he can't walk out on Nightingale. I bet he's stampin' the earth."

"Well, now," put in Russell, "ain't it about time us fellas got into this jam? Shucks, we're entitled to some fun. What's the percentage—"

"Tonight," replied Denver, "you boys stick right here. Burn all the lights on the place. Make lots of noise. Somebody stay in the main house—as if it was me. Baldy, rope out the gelding for me. Also, three-four of you get into the kitchen and help Si slap up a mess of sandwiches. I'll be carryin' 'em back to the bunch in the hills."

"How about knittin' some mufflers?" grunted Russell, full of discontent. "If this ain't the damnedest—"

Steve Steers and Al Niland appeared at the dining-room door. Denver got up from the table and walked back into the living room with them, carefully closing the door.

"Missed you by ten minutes in Sundown," said Steve tersely. "I never stopped ridin', once I got the news."

"Go back to your business, Steve."

"Is that all the advice you got for me?" challenged Steers. "You ridin' tonight? Then so am I. And so is Al."

"Listen to reason. You can't leave Nightingale in the lurch. Do you think this is just a one-night affair? It ain't. Nobody knows when the last of it will come. You've got no business slashin' around the hills, leavin' Nightingale's range wide open to Redmain. You know it."

"So that's the way I stand by my friends, is it?" was Steve's bitter retort.

"I guess I've got to hit from the shoulder," stated Denver. "You've always been a wild-eyed buzzard. There never was a job you wouldn't quit in a minute. Well, here's one time when you've got to measure up to your job. It ain't a question of what you want to do. It's a question of what comes first. You're foreman of a ranch—and it's up to you to see it ain't robbed poor."

"Go ahead, slap the spurs into me," grunted Steve petulantly. "What's one Englishman's cows to me stacked up beside Cal Steele? Oh, damnation, I reckon yore right!"

"Yeah, he is," broke in Niland. "There's more angles to this Redmain business than just foggin' him. Maybe he wants everybody to go on a wild-goose chase after him. Never any way of tellin' what that quick mind of his is hatchin'."

"Just so," agreed Denver. "And that lets you out of any ridin' for a while, too. I've got something I want you to do."

"Me?"

"I want you to nose around Sundown and find out how long Steele had been sellin' stock to Fear Langdell."

The other two stared at Denver in an almost startled manner. Steve Steers was puzzled; Al Niland's much sharper mind cut right through to Denver's unspoken reason. But in spite of that and in spite of the fact Denver was one of his closest friends, he parried. "Why? What do you know about those transactions that don't please you?"

Denver drew a long breath. "What do you know about them, Al?"

Niland shook his head. "I never pried into Steele's affairs. If you got anything on your mind, let's know it."

"Get away from bein' a lawyer for a minute," muttered Denver. "I saw somethin' different on your face."

"I'd never judge a man by unsubstantiated thoughts," was Niland's very slow answer. "Cal had a habit of goin' into fits of depression sometimes. And he'd say a few flimsy things. But that ain't anything to speak about."

Steve finally caught up with the train of thought. "Here, here, you fellas, what you tryin' to cook up?"

"What I say must never be repeated," said Denver. "It must die right here, understand? Never to be spoken again—even if it takes perjury to cover it."

"That's unnecessary for you to say," Niland reminded him.

Denver came to a stand in front of them. "I found a steer in Langdell's shipment this afternoon. It was one Steele had sold him last week. It had Steele's original brand and Steele's vent mark. No other brand. But last year it was a Fee cow. I recognized it. No chance for mistake."

To a man in cattle country this needed no explanation at all. Niland and Steers were dumbly silent. It was natural that Steers, being absolutely loyal, should mirror shocked belief; and it was equally natural that Niland, with his knowledge of human error, should slowly nod his head. Through the open doors came a soft wind. The crew strolled along the yard. The bell-like clarity of an owl's hoot floated in. Denver went on: "I have figured this thing backward and forward, and I continually come to a conclusion I despise. There's other ways of explainin' it. There might be a crook in Steele's crew who is plasterin' other critters with the Steele brand for his own profit. But how would such a fellow cash in? I don't see that. It's also possible Redmain might have done the job in the hope it would be discovered and so discredit Steele. Yet I doubt it. That switch from Fee to Steele was absolutely an expert job. I wouldn't have noticed it unless I'd personally hazed the cow last year."

"Well, then," broke in Niland, "what's the answer?"

"Whatever the answer," said Denver quickly, "we keep it to ourselves. Forever. Cal Steele is dead, and he's entitled to his clear reputation. He'll have it, if I've got to turn Yellow Hill upside down. But somehow or other Redmain's in this. And I'd like to know more about Fear Langdell's connection. Did he buy from Cal Steele knowing about the blotting or not?"

Niland's face began to lighten up. "If I could nail that man to the cross after all he's done in the name of justice I'd give my seat in heaven! I wonder if that's why he filed his request with the judge to act as executor to Steele's estate? To cover up—"

"Never say it," warned Denver. "But you've got to get in there and find out, somehow."

One of the hands ambled through the front door. "Hawss is ready for yuh, Dave." The owl's sentinel signal echoed again. Denver lifted his head, becoming aware of the sound. "So you've both got your work cut out," he went on. "We won't ever get the whole story straight. Steele will never tell his part. Redmain's beyond the talking stage. There's nothing left but to go after him, never give him peace. That's what I propose to do. As—"

He broke off and moved for the door. The hoot of the owl had become too insistent. Crossing the porch he descended into the darkness of the yard. The call came again, along the ridge. Advancing toward it, he reached the grade. A question came through the blanket of shadows. "Denver?"

"Who's that?"

"It's us—Meems and Wango. We want to see yuh."

"Then come down here like white men. What's all this hocus- pocus for?"

"Well," came Meems's solemn answer, "we got a decent respeck fer our hides. We're comin'—but not into the lights. What we got to say is private, is that a go?"

"All right."

The two shuffled forward. "You'll keep the source o' this inf'mation to y'self?" insisted Meems.

"I said I would."

"Yore word's enough with us. It ain't none of our business, y'unnerstan'? But yore in this fight and it jest didn't seem right holdin' back. Only, don't give us away, and don't ask us to testify. When we're through talkin' we drift. See?"

"Get it out of your system," grunted Denver.

"We was just a-leavin' the dance last night when a fella come ridin' outa the dark. We seen him go acrost the bridge and as fur as the schoolhouse. He didn't come back that-away. But when we heard about Steele we jest put one and one together. Mebbe it makes two. Mebbe it was the gent that drawed Steele away from the dance."

"Who was it?"

Meems sighed and let the silence stretch out. "I'll speak the name," said he finally, "and yore free to act on it. But yore the only man in God's green footstool I'd do such a thing for. And forget who told yuh."

"Agreed," said Denver.

"It was Stinger Dann," muttered Meems; and as soon as the name was spoken both men backed off and were lost to sight. Denver heard them ride rapidly away.

As for himself, he strode to the house at half a run. Niland and Steers both caught the blaze of light on his face and came nearer.

"I have found the man who pulled Steele away from the dance. It was Dann. Whatever Cal's connection with Redmain, I think he started away from that schoolhouse with the idea of protecting my stock. Remember, he was shot on my range—and Redmain's men were there. Trying to protect me from that bunch of killers."

"I don't believe he'd have no truck with Dann or—" Steve started to say, half-heartedly. But Niland broke in.

"There's part of the story. No matter how far into Redmain's scheme he might have been, he'd still stick up for you or the rest of us. Dammit, Dave, Redmain must have hooked him into this dirty mess!"

"If I didn't think so," was Denver's sober reply, "I wouldn't be riding now."

"Be doggone careful," grunted Steve Steers. "I hate this business of me laggin' behind."

Denver was already on the gelding. He ran up the hillside to the trail, went a few hundred yards along its familiar course, and abruptly switched to a dim side trace. The ground buckled up from ravine to ravine, and the dim stars gave him no sight. Nevertheless, he pressed the gelding on, suddenly fell into the Sundown-Ysabel Junction road, and settled to a long run. Down the hairpin turns with steel flashing on gravel; over the Sweet Creek bridge, on along the level stretch that led around to Starlight and thence to the open prairie. Short of Starlight a mile he veered to the right and went with equal rapidity through massed pines. Then the gloom was broken by the wink of a ranch light, and he rode up to Leverage's gate. The wheeze of the hinges was like an alarm. Nearing the porch, he was challenged by an invisible guard.

"Who's that?"

"Denver. Where is Jake?"

"You tell me and I'll tell you."

"Can you reach him?"

"Sorry."

The front door of the house opened. Eve stood framed in the glowing yellow rectangle. "That you, David? Come in."

Denver stepped to the porch. "I reckon I haven't time. I'm tryin' to find your dad." He heard the intake of her breath. "Is it important?"

"Eve," called the unseen guard gruffly, "you shouldn't stand in the light."

Dave drew her out, shut the door. "I consider it important."

She dropped her voice. "He left here before supper—alone. I think he's riding beyond the Henry trail with the vigilantes. That's all I know."

Once more the guard's cautioning words cut in. "Yuh shouldn't peddle no inf'mation to nobody, Eve. How do we know?"

But Eve had a temper of her own. "Clyde, will you hush! You're covering too much territory."

"Maybe I'll pick up his tracks," said Denver. "I'm headin' that way."

"David—there's something in the wind tonight?"

"Maybe," said Denver.

Her hand rested light as thistledown on his shoulder. "Oh, David, if I were only a man! Not to shoot and destroy, but just to be along. Anything is better than this uncertainty."

"Don't worry. Your dad's got a big bunch with him."

"Do you think he is the only one I worry about?" asked the girl softly.

"Bless you for that," muttered Denver. "I've always been a hand to think I did very well ridin' the single trail. But when you say somethin' real comfortin' like that to me it's mighty pleasant. It sticks with me a long time. I guess a man never realizes what loneliness is—"

He bit off the rest of it and turned away. "No time to lose now. Don't worry."

"You should never ride by yourself after dark," said Eve.

He was in the saddle. "If your dad comes back very soon tell him Redmain's been located in a high meadow due east of here about seven miles. Tell him to watch out for a trap. Redmain never strikes direct. He's too tricky for that."

"And yourself, Dave?"

"I was told today," he said morosely, "that I was as much of a savage as Redmain. I reckon I'll be all right. So-long till I see you."

"So-long, David."

He cut around the house, and fell in with the western trail. A few rods from Leverage's it began to warp with the rising slope. The cleared meadows fell off, and he was riding once again in the abysmal shades of the forest. And around ten o'clock of the night he reached the Henry trail, feeling the presence of a man about him. Quietly he let a phrase fall into the utter silence.

"All right."

"Denver?" questioned a husky voice.

"Yeah. Who is it?"

"Hank Munn."

"Which way?"

"Still up yonder to the west. We better drift."

"Lead off."

Munn came out of the trees, rode across the Henry trail and proceeded due west, Denver following. The path was narrow, extremely crooked, and overhung by branches that swooped down to rake them as they passed. Munn put up with the tedious vagaries of the path until a small clearing appeared. At that point he swapped directions, hurried over the open space, and with another sudden shift went down a glen soaked in fog. Water guttered across stones. The horses splashed through a creek and attacked a stiff bank with bunched muscles. Presently Munn halted in black nowhere and cleared his throat.

There was no answer. Munn forged on a few hundred yards. Again he coughed. Out of the brush rode a sentry.

"Munn?"

"Yeah. What made yuh drag yore picket?"

No answer. Munn dropped back to second place as this new outpost led them on. More turns, more offset alleys through the pines, yet always climbing toward some high point; a high point they abruptly came upon after a hundred yards of end-over-end ascent. There was a murmured challenge ahead. Men closed in. Lyle Bonnet spoke from a short distance. "Dave?"

"What've you got, Lyle?"

"Come over here. Here. Look off down yonder."

Denver crowded his horse beside Bonnet and saw, far below, a point of flame shimmering through the rolling fog; rising and falling and trembling with a queer, shutter-like effect.

"Redmain's camp," said Bonnet. "I been watchin' it better'n four hours. Saw 'em movin' around until the fog came in. Can't make out nothin' but the fire now. All the boys is here. And it's up to you."