IT WAS PAST midnight and the countryside lay in darkness. Buck Halliday was stretched out on the ground with his hands clasped behind his head. Looking up at the stars, he thought of all the things that made the world go round of which he had none—home, a woman, money, prospects.
A thin smile broke out across his leathery features when he realized it had never been any different. Maybe there had been times when things had looked promising, but they’d been few and far between. Still, he had no regrets. A man made his own luck. And if he had it to do all over again, he doubted that he’d have changed a thing.
Five days ago he had been in Mooning. Now there was a town.
What if he hadn’t got into that argument with the town’s bully, hadn’t been forced to kill a back shooter, hadn’t taken Martha Digby up on her proposal... would he be any better off?
He doubted it. The memory of Martha would keep him warm nights.
When they’d first met, she was coy, reserved, frightened of the dark, shocked by gunplay, terrified of violence, unable to look anybody in the eye because she was unprepared for life’s trials and tribulations ...
Halliday’s laugh disturbed the silence and frightened a jackrabbit into a hurried departure. Man, was that town in for a shock! And wasn’t Jules Benson, Martha’s fiancé, in for one, too. When she had finally given in to her desires, Martha was like a hellcat.
Halliday looked down at his body. The marks couldn’t be seen in the darkness but they were there all the same. In time they would heal, but the memory of Martha would stay with him forever. He sighed wearily and closed his eyes.
“You there, don’t move a muscle or I’ll blast yuh straight to hell.”
Halliday lay perfectly still. The gravelly voice had come from his left and a little below him where rocks gave plenty of cover to anybody who wanted it. Then he heard the sound of loose stones being crunched underfoot.
Without turning his head, Halliday allowed his gaze to travel down to the nest of rocks where, suddenly, a shape began to materialize.
Halliday squinted and peered through the gloom. The shape soon became a hat, then the head and shoulders of a man carrying a rifle.
“Ain’t my country to invite you to share, mister, but you’re welcome anyway,” Halliday called in as companionable a voice as he could muster.
“Stay quiet and don’t move. I ain’t trustin’ you one spit. I ain’t tricked a posse for a day and a half just to let some sneaky jasper like you get the drop on me. Which outfit are you from anyway? Town or Findlay’s?”
“Neither.”
A grunt of disbelief came from the head under the hat.
“The hell you ain’t. I seen you ridin’ in nice an’ easy like, but you was checkin’ your backtrail like your life depended on it. I’m warnin’ you, give me any trouble and you won’t see the mornin’s sunrise.”
“Look feller, I’m just a harmless drifter,” Halliday insisted.
“I ain’t buyin’ that.”
Halliday wondered about the man’s next move. He was tired, having ridden all the way from Mooning that day with Martha’s fiancé and a posse hot on his heels. There had been plenty of rough country to cross, too. He’d hoped for a good night’s rest and to be back on the trail at first light. One thing was certain, this lizard-breeding country couldn’t go on forever.
He lay back and waited for the newcomer to make the next move. Finally, the man ran out of patience and he started to approach, keeping the rifle ready. When he was no more than ten yards away, Halliday saw the scraggy outline of a long beard and smelled the odor of a body that hadn’t washed in ages.
“Wish you’d have taken a bath,” he remarked laconically.
The rifle barrel was thrust forward menacingly and the newcomer squatted down on his haunches.
“Seen you plain, mister ... you been trailin’ me.”
“Nope,” Halliday disagreed. “Just driftin’, like I told you, lookin’ for a town, a way-station or a ranch. Someplace where I might find work. Money’s gettin’ low.”
“Liar!”
Halliday decided to chance it. He brought his hands from behind his head and instantly the man levered a shell into the rifle’s breech.
“Easy now. Maybe we can talk this over. Look at it my way ... if I was trailin’ you, I wouldn’t have built up a fire so you could see it, would I?”
“I saw no fire.”
“I used dry timber so as not to create much smoke.”
“I never seen no smoke nor smelled no burnin’. Damn you, you’re lyin’.”
“Feel the coffeepot. It’s still warm. Then, if you like, we’ll heat it again and get to know each other.”
A heavy silence settled between them. Under the menace of the rifle, Halliday had no option but to let the intruder take the initiative. He folded his hands across his chest, doubting whether he could draw his gun before a bullet from the rifle blasted him into eternity. He counted himself lucky that the nerve-shot fool hadn’t already cut loose.
“Okay now, here’s how it’ll be, mister. You sit up, real slow. You unbuckle your gunbelt and toss it here to me. An’ don’t try nothin’.”
Halliday sighed and did as he was told. As soon as the heavy gunbelt hit the ground, the newcomer snatched it up, and with a cry of triumph sprang to his feet. He stood there a moment, the gunbelt slung across one shoulder, the rifle held against the other. Halliday still couldn’t see much of his face but the voice had a raspy sound to it that suggested he wasn’t young.
A full minute passed in which Halliday noticed the stranger turning his head as if listening for something. From his sitting position, Halliday leaned forward and cradled his knees. Immediately, the muzzle of the rifle was rammed against his temple.
“That pot you spoke of, mister. Where’s it at?”
“Right here alongside me.”
“Push it here,” the stranger rasped.
Halliday moved the smoke-blackened coffeepot out several feet in front of him. Still holding the rifle, the man reached down to check whether it was still warm.
“Okay, so you told the truth about that. But I still reckon you’re huntin’ me.”
“Why are you being hunted?”
“For somethin’ I didn’t do, but they won’t believe me. They’re believin’ that lyin’ ramrod and his woman instead.”
“You’re outnumbered.”
“I know it. But I ain’t runnin’. I been fifty years in these parts and done it hard all the way. I don’t aim to pack up an’ run because of someone else’s lies.”
“Your name matters that much, eh?” Halliday asked, working one of his legs down until he figured a good kick might knock the feet from under the oldster.
“Never cared what folks thought about me. Still don’t. But Sam Findlay owes me and I don’t aim to let him forget.”
“Sam Findlay?” Halliday mused. “That the outfit you thought I was ridin’ for?”
“Still ain’t heard nothin’ to say you ain’t,” the old-timer said. “And move that leg once more an’ you’ll be short one kneecap.” Halliday drew down a ragged breath and put his leg back where it was. He figured this might be a long night.
The old-timer backed away to the edge of the rocks and peered off into the darkness below. Then he hunkered down and looked warily at Halliday for a long time, before he said,
“Guess I’ll have some coffee. Been dry out here, hidin’ out from them fools.”
“Help yourself,” Halliday invited. “Got a mug here.” Halliday reached over to the side, shifting his body so that his hand was concealed as he scratched up a handful of grit and earth. He filled the mug with the dirt and as the old-timer reached for the mug, he threw the grit and earth into his face.
At the same time, he swung his other hand over and pushed the barrel of the rifle away. He thanked his lucky stars that he did, because the rifle exploded and he felt a blast of heat as the bullet whistled past his face.
Halliday tried to wrench the rifle free, but the old man held onto it. But he was off-balance, and when Halliday jerked the rifle, he pulled him to the ground.
Then it was a simple matter of bringing a knee up into the old man’s face.
As the man crashed to the ground, Halliday retrieved his gunbelt from the old man’s bony shoulder and buckled it on. By this time the old man had finished spluttering and was on his knees, trying to finger the grit from his eyes.
“Now we’ll build up the fire so I can have a good look at you, old man,” Halliday said.
“Then you are one of ’em,” he accused sharply.
“I said I wasn’t and I’m still sayin’ it.”
“Then why the fire? That’s as good as tellin’ the world that you got me, ain’t it?”
“They likely heard your shot, so if they come, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
The old man groaned. “They were close enough last time I saw ’em around noon. Fifteen of the mangy critters—Wilder, the sheriff, Burdick, the deputy, couple other interferin’ towners and eleven of Findlay’s bunch.”
He drew in a ragged breath and brushed dust from his clothes. Then he held out his hand.
“Well, mister, I’m ready to believe you now. So hand back my rifle and I’ll be on my way.”
Halliday thought about doing that. Then he thought of all the other shrewd old men he’d known who’d lived by their wits. “I’ve a better plan,” he said. “Got a horse?”
“Down in the trees.”
“Then get it and ride.”
“What about my rifle?”
“When I ride away in the mornin’, I’ll leave it where you can find it.”
The old-timer was aghast at the suggestion.
“Hell, if they catch up with me, I gotta be able to fight ’em off. So far, I’ve led ’em a merry dance but they could get lucky.”
“What was it you said they wanted you for?”
“They said I cleaned out Findlay’s safe. Safe was cleaned out, all right, but I ain’t the one what done it. I seen his ramrod scurryin’ off in the dark. Wasn’t me that uppity young wife of Findlay’s seen, either. So won’t you let me have my rifle back?”
“No deal,” Halliday told him.
“Why?”
“Just coverin’ my tracks, old man. If I meet up with those hunting you and they have a more convincing story than yours, I’ll just tell them you’re wanderin’ around unarmed. If I don’t believe their story, I’ll tell them I heard coyotes prowlin’ close by and fired off a shot to scare ’em off. Then I’ll leave your rifle where you’ll find it. Okay?”
“You’re no damn better’n them,” the old man swore.
“You want me to fire off some more shots to tell them where you are?”
The old-timer clenched his teeth, kicked savagely at the ground then hitched up his trousers and squared his jaw. Pointing a finger straight at Halliday, he said;
“If I ever run into you again, there won’t be no talkin’. I’ll have your hide.”
“You’d find it tough to chew on,” Halliday told him.
He heard the old man stomp angrily away, and minutes later, the clip-clop of a horse’s hoofs. Putting the rifle behind him, he drew his gun and stretched out.
He smiled, but he wasn’t thinking of Martha Digby now.
He was thinking of a ramrod and a rancher’s wife. No matter where he went, it seemed it always came down to the same thing ... a woman dissatisfied with her lot in life.
Buck Halliday heard them coming as the first gray streaks of light proclaimed the dawning of a new day. First, a noise from the rocky country below disturbed him and made him drop a hand to his gun butt. Then closer sounds, from his right and his left, then the sharp snap of a dry stick from above told him he was surrounded.
He lay still with his eyes closed. After hiding the old man’s rifle under a bush twenty yards down the trail, he had put fresh kindling onto the fire. Anybody surprising him would regard him as a man who was in no hurry to go anywhere in particular. Which, he decided, was exactly what he was.
He breathed evenly and his body relaxed. The old man had said fifteen men were hunting him, so Halliday figured a lone sleeping man would not overly excite them too much.
He heard heavy footsteps from a short distance away and slightly below him, but he still managed to lie still. After another heavy footfall, something jolted the sole of his right boot. He opened his eyes and stared up into the craggy, hard-set face of a burly-bodied man wearing a tin star on a brush-torn, faded shirt. The weariness of the man was apparent in his red-rimmed eyes and gaunt face. His mood became more evident when he kicked Halliday’s boot again and snarled;
“Okay, you. On your feet.”
Halliday’s hand rested on his gun which lay on his chest, but he made no move to lift it. He drawled;
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Everything. On your feet, I said. Nice an’ slow. Let the gun fall to the ground.”
Halliday did as he was told, even going through the motions of rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms to ease away the kinks. By the time he was on his feet, men had come from all around to cover him. He let his stare run over them, and for the first time looked startled.
“What gives?” Halliday demanded, and looked down at the gun which lay close to his left foot.
“That’s what we aim to find out, stranger,” the lawman said, then introduced himself. “I’m Sheriff Dave Wilder from Calder. I been out in these damn ranges for two days and I’m in no mood for messin’ around. You got that?”
“Sure,” Halliday said.
“So, where are you from?”
“Mooning.”
Wilder pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed. After a moment’s intense scrutiny, he looked to his left. The tallest and skinniest fellow Halliday had come across in years stood with his body angled to one side, right hand on his hip, right foot pushed forward and the gun in his left hand pointing at the ground. Yet his pretense of absolute casualness was contradicted by the piercing stare which burned at Halliday uncompromisingly. “How’s it look to you, Will?” Wilder asked the man.
Will shrugged bony shoulders and Halliday expected him to rattle. He didn’t.
“I don’t know, Dave. We been followin’ two sets of tracks since early yesterday. One, I figure, belonged to that old geezer and the other to somebody connected with Norrie’s disappearance. You said they’d likely leave somebody behind to check on us.”
“Yeah,” Wilder agreed. “Be the thing they’d do, them pair. One coulda gone on with Norrie and the other coulda stayed behind to check us out.”
“Mind filling me in?” Halliday asked.
“I’ll get back to you in a minute, mister.”
Wilder looked at his sidekick, who also wore a badge. Burdick, Halliday remembered the old man telling him.
“Seems to me, Will, we followed the right trail far as the crick. Two sets of tracks left by them abductors and another set left by old Hash. Since the crick, we been followin’ only one set, which led us here.”
“And to him,” Will said, pointing his gun in Halliday’s direction.
Wilder brought his gaze back to Halliday then, and asked; “Name?”
Halliday told him but offered no more information.
“From Mooning, you said?”
“It was the last of a long string of towns I’ve visited recently.”
“A no-account drifter?” Will asked.
“I’m on the drift, yeah,” Halliday admitted.
Burdick grinned and his face looked like a piece of old leather.
“You wouldn’t have drifted onto the Findlay place during your travels by any chance, would you, Halliday?”
Halliday shook his head. “I don’t know any man by that name.”
“How long did you spend in Mooning?”
“Long enough to make some people happy and a few otherwise.”
“You’re pretty vague about all this, mister,” Will said.
“Don’t really know what’s goin’ on,” Halliday answered.
Wilder scratched the side of his dust-covered right cheek. “You come straight here from Mooning?”
“Stopped at a creek early yesterday to wash up and let my horse drink. Got this far by late yesterday.”
“Headin’ where?”
“You know of a good place and I’ll be happy to look it over.”
Wilder smiled thinly and looked at his deputy. But for the moment, Burdick was content to leave the talking to his boss. “Didn’t figure Calder would suit you, huh?” Wilder asked.
“Didn’t know about the place. I passed nothing that suggested anybody owned this stretch of country.”
“See anybody?” Wilder asked, and the sudden gleam that came into his eyes warned Halliday that this could be a trap.
“Saw an old man yesterday. He was maybe a half-hour in front of me and traveling fast. I would’ve liked to’ve caught up with him so he could’ve told me somethin’ about this territory or if there was anybody lookin’ to hire out. I’ve done just about everythin’ in my time.”
“Snatched maybe a few womenfolk now and then?” Burdick asked, and the lack of humor in his gaunt face told Halliday the deputy still had some doubts.
“Not my line of business, Deputy.”
“Just a regular peace-lovin’ drifter, eh, Halliday?” Burdick grinned.
“Who wants trouble?” Halliday replied with a shrug.
Both lawmen studied him seriously for a moment, then Wilder said;
“Tass, go look through his saddlebags and see what you c’n find.”
A thickset man with a blotchy face trudged forward and gave Halliday a supercilious glance as he went by into brush where Halliday’s unsaddled sorrel stood quietly. The man bent down and the effort brought a grunt from him. He tore open Halliday’s saddlebags and searched them thoroughly, then left the contents strewn about on the ground, and returned shaking his head.
“Travelin’ light. Coffee, beans, jerky and tobacco. Other side had fresh-washed clothes.”
“Washed them in the creek yesterday morning,” Halliday informed them.
Wilder scratched his cheek again and sighed. “Never caught up with an old rooster name of Hash Tovey, huh, Halliday?”
Halliday shook his head. “Nor anybody else, either.”
“You sure?” Burdick asked.
“I’m sure.”
Wilder turned and walked away, beckoning his deputy to follow him. At the top of the slope where Tovey had disappeared, he stared down over the vast expanse of untamed country which Halliday had intended to ride that day. For a time, the two men discussed something, then Wilder nodded and turned to the waiting horse.
“Get your horses. We’ll check out the next few miles and if we don’t come up with anythin’, we’ll break off the search and take the freight train back home.”
As the men moved away, Wilder returned to Halliday and studied him intently.
“You best come with us, Halliday. That way I’ll be sure you haven’t arranged to link up with anybody. If I find out later you’ve been feedin’ us a pack of lies, then I guess sometime or other I’ll catch up with you and you won’t find me so friendly.”
“Goes for me, too,” Burdick put in. “Never could stand bein’ lied to by a no-account drifter.”
Halliday returned their searching looks and went to repack his saddlebags. Then he saddled the sorrel and rode back into the small clearing.
Without a word, Wilder led the way out, carefully checking the ground. Will followed, then the cowhands, leaving Halliday to bring up the rear flanked by the man called Tass and a companion who looked like a towner.
The next three hours proved uneventful, and when they finally linked up with railroad tracks, the bunch drew rein, dismounted and relaxed in the shade of some trees. Wilder walked over to Halliday and said briefly;
“Looks like you might have been telling the truth.”
“One of my better points,” Halliday told him.