Читать книгу A Nose for Trouble - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 3

Table of Contents

Tom Rainse sat up in his day-coach seat as the train began the long, switchback climb over Tanner's Mountain. He peered eagerly through the smudged window. It seemed to him that he had left here only yesterday, instead of five years ago.

When the train reached the mountain's top, he gazed down a long slope toward a clearing and a town in the bottom of a valley. The town was Hilldale. Five years ago, just after his father died, he had boarded the train there to join a wild stampede to western gold fields.

Tom leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and focusing them on the hillside pasture at the upper end of the town. Enclosed by barbed wire, half a hundred horses grazed in the sloping pasture. They were of all colors and weights, from heavy work beasts to lithe saddle stock. They seemed like a lot of horses, for Hilldale. Tom kept his eyes on them as the train sped down the mountain toward the town. Suddenly his glance was arrested by one horse standing alone.

A black and white pinto, it stood on the very top of the pasture hill. Trim and graceful, it held its head high against the wind that ruffled its silvery mane. Tom's eyes remained on it until the descending train had passed, then he twisted in his seat so he could continue to watch. The pinto did not move.

There were all kinds of horses in the mountains, Tom reflected, but not too many good ones ever found their way to Hilldale. The pinto looked good to Tom: fast, tough, and agile. Still, he had no reason to think of horses now. He would be back in Hilldale for a short time only.

The train puffed to a sliding halt in front of the town's small station. Tom pulled his canvas pack from the rack above his seat and made his way to the door. He stepped down on the station platform, and sniffed the clean air hungrily.

He had seen a lot of country since he had left his native hills. He had been through burning deserts and up snow-capped peaks. But this region was his home; he had been born back in the mountains that surrounded the little town. Now he had returned, five years older and the possessor of a few hundred dollars he had grubbed out of hard-to-find gold pockets.

The only person in sight was a buck-toothed attendant pushing a baggage cart.

"Say," Tom asked him, "who owns that herd of horses I saw from the train?"

"What'd you want to know for?" the attendant demanded suspiciously.

"I might want to rent a horse."

"Don't rent one off'n Fred Larsen," the attendant replied gloomily. "Such of his hosses as ain't got the heaves are wind-broke, or spavined, or somethin' else. Besides, he won't rent you none."

"Thanks."

Tom shouldered his pack and strode up the dusty street, toward the corrals he had seen from the train. Hilldale had changed considerably. New buildings had been erected and some of the old ones had even been painted. Still a sleepy mountain town, it had begun to show at least a few signs of activity. Most of the people were strangers, and Tom made no effort to find anyone he knew. The mountains, not the town, were his home, and the mountain folk his only close friends. If he could get even a reasonably decent horse under him, he could reach his father's old cabin by nightfall. Tomorrow he'd ride over to see the Tollivers and get whatever news there might be.

He came to the pasture, and carefully looked over the grazing horses. The baggage attendant had been right. There was nothing to recommend any of them, that he could see. They were mostly pack horses, and some of them looked as though they might collapse of their own weight any second.

He looked at the top of the hill, and saw the black and white pinto still standing there. It was no thoroughbred, but its trim lines suggested a strong dash of Arab in its mingled ancestry. Tom twitched his nose, and fell to a disinterested study of a lanky bay mare that stood near the fence. He stole another glance at the pinto. The black and white horse was alert, watching him, following his every move. Tom dropped his pack and leaned over the fence.

From the corner of his eye he saw a big, dishevelled man emerge from the small barn at the foot of the hill and come toward him, scowling. Tom decided that the scowl was probably permanent. His face was heavily lined, marked with a strong crosshatch of red veins. Even his eyes were red. The approaching stranger looked anything but friendly.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he growled when he came near.

Tom swung to face him. "Are these your horses?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I'd like to rent one."

"Ain't got none for rent."

"No?" Tom pointed to a group of horses that were milling near the fence. "You don't use all of them for your own packing, do you, Larsen?"

Fred Larsen glanced at the horses that bore marks chafed by pack saddles, then looked keenly at Tim.

"I do some packin'," he admitted, "but I still ain't got no horses for rent. I'll sell you one."

"Wasn't figuring to buy. I'll be in only a few days."

"Where you goin'?"

"Back in the mountains."

"Pretty wild country, mister. Know folks there?"

"Could be."

Tom stifled a growing annoyance. Five years ago any stranger could have come into Hilldale, rented a horse, and gone where he willed without question. Now, for some reason, this horse dealer was getting almighty curious.

"Do you want to sell that pinto?" he asked shortly.

"Dunno about that one. It's a mighty good horse," Larsen evaded.

Tom grinned. The pinto was for sale, but at the highest possible price. That was the kind of horse trading Tom understood. He stooped down for his pack, and shouldered it again.

"Well, keep it then. I'm used to walking."

The big man blinked his bloodshot eyes. "I'd sell him, but I'd have to get my price."

"What's your price?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars."

"I'll give you fifty."

"That ain't no pack horse, mister! Look at him."

"I can get a lot of horse for a hundred and fifty dollars."

Fred Larsen showed his teeth in a yellow grin. "That pinto is a lot of horse, stranger."

"I'll give you seventy-five."

"Hundred and twenty-five, cash."

Tom took out his poke, and shook a twenty-dollar gold piece into the palm of his hand.

"I'll toss you for it. Heads, I get him for seventy-five. Tails, I give you a hundred and twenty-five."

The other considered for a moment. "All right, on one condition. You pay me cash right now, and no goin' back on the deal."

"I might not like it," Tom said mildly, "if a wind-broken horse was unloaded on me."

"I'll guarantee that pinto is sound as your double eagle, and stand behind that."

"Good enough."

Tom flipped the gold piece. It glittered brightly in the sun, and fell on the scuffed earth beside the pasture fence. Fred Larsen bent over to look.

"Heads," he conceded sourly. He picked up the coin, and suspiciously turned it over.

Tom laughed as he counted out two more twenty dollar gold pieces, a ten, and a five-dollar bill. Then he balanced his poke in his hand.

"How about a saddle and bridle?"

Fred Larsen jerked a stubby thumb toward the barn. "I got three stock saddles and half a dozen bridles in there. Take your pick, along with a blanket, for fifty dollars."

"Let's see 'em."

Larsen led him back into the barn, and Tom looked at the three saddles on a rack. They were good enough, as were the leather bridles and blankets, and Tom counted out fifty dollars more. He shouldered the saddle, hung the bridle on it, and with the blanket in his other hand climbed the hill to the black and white pinto. Larsen leaned on the fence and watched.

He approached slowly but confidently, making no swift moves that would alarm the horse. His eyes roved over its trim, clean lines, and his heart warmed. The pinto would be fast and quick on its feet, and its well-developed chest bespoke endurance.

As Tom came near, the horse extended a soft muzzle to snuffle him over. Tom scratched its ears.

"Pete," he said softly. "From now on your name is Pete. If you're as good as you look, I've really got me a horse!"

He slipped the bit into the pinto's mouth and strapped the bridle on. Holding the reins in his left hand, he laid the blanket on the horse's back, threw the saddle over it, and tightened the cinch. Pete made no objection, and followed Tom willingly when he led him down the hill and through the gate that Fred Larsen had opened.

"Well, mister, he's your horse now," said the dealer, closing the gate. "Let's see you ride him."

Tom put his left foot into the stirrup, and threw his right leg over the saddle. The world seemed to explode. The pinto reared, then came stiffly down on his front legs, only to throw his hindquarters into the air. Almost unseated, Tom tightened his knees and hung on.

He knew now why Fred Larsen had insisted that there should be no return after the deal was closed. The pinto was gentle enough—until someone tried to ride him.

He was bucking now, thudding about with racking jars that cracked through Tom's spine and up into his skull. Tom held a light rein, letting Pete have his head and do his worst. If he was ever going to ride the horse, it had to be now.

The pinto gave a wild sidewise lunge, twisting his back as he did so. Tom grimly held his seat. He had ridden pitching horses before, but never one like this. No horse he had ever ridden had such agility.

Three minutes later it was all over. The pinto suddenly stopped bucking and stood still, his sides heaving. Pete had met his master, and acknowledged it. Tom reined him lightly to the left, then to the right, and turned him back to where the dealer stood with mouth agape.

"Gosh!" he gasped. "Goshamighty!"

"Good horse," Tom said calmly. "Little frisky, though."

"Frisky! Mister, every man in the mountains has had a crack at that hoss, but you're the first as ever rode him to a standstill!"

Tom laughed, swung from the saddle, and picked up his pack. The pinto stood quietly as Tom lifted the pack to his back, tied it behind the saddle, and again mounted. Pete quivered, then relaxed and stood contentedly stamping his feet while Tom turned in the saddle to wave at the astonished dealer.

"So long. And thanks for the bargain."

Tom trotted his new horse back into Hilldale, hiding his amusement at the men who turned to stare; evidently the pinto had a reputation as an outlaw. Tom stopped only long enough to buy a few supplies, then headed out of town again.

They were soon out of the clearings and into deep forest, the trim little horse walking effortlessly up the mountain road. As Tom leaned forward to pat the pinto's neck, he grinned at his own impetuosity. He had returned to his home country intending to stay just long enough to renew old acquaintances and pick up his belongings. Now, before he had been back an hour, he found himself the owner of a horse he didn't need. Maybe he'd sell him to Bill Tolliver when he left. Bill liked fast horses.

He turned from the road down a shaded woods trail, and reined up to look curiously at the many hoof marks in the soft dirt. Some were old and some fresh; horses apparently traveled this way regularly. That was unusual. Times must have changed; in the old days this trail was seldom used.

Far off, muted by distance and the intervening forest, a rifle shot rang out. Tom sat still. There was no second shot and no other sound save those common to the wilderness. He frowned, puzzled. Who would be shooting up here in this late summer season? Nobody used to live in this section. Tom urged the pinto into a trot.

A half mile farther on, by a branch trail, he saw the fresh tracks of a shod horse. Again Tom reined Pete to a halt, bending over his neck and looking down at the trail. The tracks were far apart; the horse had been galloping. And they were very recent. Tom glanced down the branch trail from which the galloping horse had come, then went on.

Letting Pete walk slowly, he continued to study the tracks. Presently Pete bent his ears forward and nickered softly.

Tom raised his head to see a man with a revolver in his hand step from behind a tree. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and with a shock of unruly red hair. His denim shirt was soaked with sweat, and there was a bloody furrow across the right cheek. It might, Tom decided, have been slashed by a sharp branch—or nicked by a bullet. He couldn't tell.

"What do you want here?" the stranger demanded brusquely.

Tom sat silently, resentful of both tone and manner. He used to travel these mountains with nobody inquiring as to where or why. Now it seemed to be everyone's business.

"I'm trying to mind my own affairs," he answered.

"I asked what you're doing here," the stranger repeated.

"Look, my name is Tom Rainse. I've been away for five years. I just got back to Hilldale this morning. All I aim to do is head for my cabin down on Rainse's Creek. I don't know what anybody else is doing and I don't care. Now stand aside."

"Where'd you get the horse?"

"Bought it. Now look here—"

"All right, Rainse. Go on."

The man holstered his revolver and stood silently aside. Tom clucked to Pete, and without looking back rode on down the trail.

He had a lot to think about. The shot he had heard had been from a rifle, and this man was carrying only a revolver, which was odd enough in itself. If the shot he had heard had been intended for the redheaded man in the trail, then it had nearly killed him. Who would shoot at him? Why had the man shown himself at all? Where did all the hoof marks come from? Something about which he knew nothing was certainly going on in his once-peaceful mountains. He'd better see Bill Tolliver tomorrow and find out.

Nine miles from Hilldale they came to another branch trail, and Tom swung his mount up it into a forested valley. As they came to a spring-fed trout stream across the trail, a splash of sunlight revealed a clearing ahead. They broke into the clearing and Tom pulled up the pinto.

"We're home, Pete," Tom said happily. "How do you like it?"

A sturdy log cabin occupied the center of the clearing. Beyond it was a small barn with a little corral attached. At the end of the clearing, where it pitched four feet over a shelf of rock, Rainse's Creek was white spray. A couple of deer that had been feeding fled silently back into the forest. But Tom scarcely glanced at them. He was staring at the cabin.

He had left it five years ago. It should have been tumbledown and porcupine chewed. But it was in good repair. Somebody had certainly been living in it, and recently. Well, there was nothing wrong with that, Tom reflected as he dismounted. The cabin had been empty, and it would do no harm to have it occupied, as long as the occupants had not abused their privilege.

"Besides, they should have left wood behind," Tom murmured to Pete. "Then I won't have to cut any."

Tom unlashed the pack, swung it down, and left it in front of the cabin while he led Pete to the corral. The barn door sagged on rusting hinges. Whoever had lived in the cabin had evidently not used the barn. Tom opened the corral gate, led Pete inside, unsaddled and unbridled him, and rubbed him down. Then he left the black and white horse contentedly cropping grass while he returned to the cabin.

Picking up his pack, he stepped inside and looked around. He had been wrong. It was not a matter of who had been living in his cabin, but who was living in it!

Well, whoever it was, he was a fairly neat housekeeper, Tom admitted. The place was reasonably clean and quite livable. There was wood in the wood box, and kindling on top of the wood. The kerosene lamps were half filled. There was flour, salt, sugar, half a can of lard, and dried apples in the pantry. His blankets, which he had left tied in a pack suspended from the rafters, were neatly made up on the bed. Tom had left his guns, fishing tackle, and all valuable articles with old Bill Tolliver, so he did not have to wonder about them.

Tom stood in the middle of the floor, staring about him in bewilderment. Who could have moved in so calmly and made himself free with Tom's possessions? True, he had been away a long time, and no one knew when he was coming back. It was probably one of his friends—maybe somebody whose cabin had burned. Tom shrugged. This was just another homecoming mystery to ask Bill Tolliver about. Meantime, he was hungry.

He unlaced his pack, stowing his personal articles in the closet but keeping out a length of fishing line and his box of tackle. That tackle had been a godsend more than once when he had ventured into lonely places without adequate supplies, and now it would serve again. Twilight shadows were gathering over the clearing when he stepped outside with the line and tackle box in his hand.

Pete, who had eaten as much as he could hold, nickered from the corral. Tom talked softly to the black and white horse as he walked toward a stand of willows near the creek. With his clasp knife he cut a lithe wand, attached the line to it, and tied a hook on the line. He kicked a rotten stump apart, found a handful of white grubs, baited his hook, and cast. Within ten minutes he had four trout, all he could eat for supper and breakfast.

After supper, Tom sat on the porch while darkness closed over the mountains. No one came, and he heard nothing but the familiar sounds of the forest and the brook. In spite of all his unanswered questions, he was supremely happy just to be back. The whippoorwills were singing their night songs, and Pete was a shapeless mass in the corral, when he finally went to bed.