It was dark when Hank Dawson and his men brought their horses to a halt in front of Dawson’s ranch house. Dawson walked toward the front door, where a lamp burned behind the window. He didn’t bother with his horse; he just let it stand there snorting. A cowboy grabbed the reins and led the horse to the stable.
The veranda shook as Dawson walked across it and opened the front door. The hallway was dim, and Dawson hung his hat on the peg. One of his gunfighters sat in a chair near the stairs.
Dawson climbed the stairs, and the planks of wood creaked underneath his weight. A carpeted corridor was at the top of the stairs, and Dawson walked down it, toward his son’s bedroom.
He came to the door of the bedroom and paused, to prepare himself for the shock he knew would come. Wayne was on his bed, his promising young life finished.
Dawson opened the door, and a sickly sweet odor struck his nostrils. A dark form lay on top of the bed. His boy was dead, and nothing could bring him back.
Dawson swerved away from the bed and opened the windows, to get the stink out. He’d have to bury Wayne first thing in the morning, because of the heat. He lit a lamp on a dresser and carried it to the bed, forcing himself to look at the corpse of his son.
It was gray and stiff as a board. The cheeks had sunk in and the lips were blue. Wayne had been full of life just a short time ago. He loved to ride horses and go hunting, and now was a rotting corpse.
Hank Dawson placed the lamp on the night table, and sat on a chair near the bed. The bedroom was large, with stuffed heads of an antelope, bear, and mountain sheep on the walls. At the far end of the room was the rocking horse that Wayne had played on as a child.
Wayne loved horses all his life. He owned twenty fine horses personally. Hank would buy his son anything he wanted. Hank knew he spoiled Wayne, but why not?
Hank Dawson had been poor as a child. His father owned a little dirt farm in Illinois, and there was never enough of anything. All Hank Dawson had was a skinny mongrel dog. They were so poor they couldn’t afford to feed the dog, so it had to survive on its wits, killing squirrels and rats. Once the dog tried to kill a skunk, and came home stinking. Everyone thought that was funny, but the dog almost died.
Dawson’s mind returned to the bad smell in the room. He’d always thought Wayne would come to his funeral, and instead he was going to Wayne’s.
Wayne was the only person Hank Dawson ever loved. He hadn’t liked the boy’s mother much; she nagged too much, but he took care of her when Wayne was four years old. Rat poison in her dinner, followed by a fast funeral in the backyard.
The boy hadn’t missed her; he’d always loved his daddy best. Hank bought him whatever he wanted: horses, guns, women, and whiskey. Let the kid have a good time, because life was short and there was no hereafter except in the minds of stupid idiots.
Wayne had been a terror as a child. He hollered at the maids and cowboys, and all the Dawson employees had been ordered to do whatever young Wayne said, ever since he was five years old. It was funny, seeing grown people jumping at the whims of a five-year-old. They actually were afraid of him.
Everybody had been afraid of Wayne Dawson, and Hank had liked that. It meant no one would ever harm the boy, and the boy loved to fight. He was big and strong and whipped everybody. People stayed out of his way, and he took several gunmen wherever he went. Yesterday, at the restaurant, had been a fluke. He’d only been with two men because it was a busy day at the ranch and most of the hands were working.
The boy had been a good worker. Could hold his own with the strongest cowboys, but didn’t like work much, preferring hunting, drinking, gambling, and whoring.
Hank Dawson had thought he’d live forever through his son, his son’s son, and so on into the future. He’d been thinking lately of who should marry Wayne. Most of the families in the area would be happy to wed their daughters to the son of Hank Dawson. The boy could have his pick.
Dawson had been about to sound out his son about these matters, so that together they could pick the lucky girl. It would’ve been a good night of drinking and laughing. Wayne had looked up to his father the way a puppy looks up to his master. The future had appeared so bright. Nothing could go wrong, or so it had seemed.
Now all those dreams were shattered in one night with one bullet, and it was the fault of John Stone. If John Stone hadn’t ridden into town that day, Wayne would still be alive.
Hank thought of John Stone as he’d seen him in the jail house the previous night. The man had a presence that Hank hadn’t liked the moment he’d set eyes on him. He’d watched as Stone had fought off his men, and it had been an impressive display of fighting ability. Hank Dawson didn’t like people who were extraordinary, because they made the most trouble.
Dawson knew Stone was out there in the night, and sooner or later his men would find him. He’d blanket the country with riders, put them in all the towns, and wait for Stone to show his face. Stone didn’t even have a horse. He couldn’t get far, and sooner or later he’d be caught. Dawson would string him up by the heels and beat him to death.
A breeze blew through the bedroom, rustling the hem of the bedspread underneath Wayne Dawson’s corpse. The light flickered in the lamp, casting weird shadows on the wall. Hank Dawson had a stomachache and his head hurt. His rear end felt sore from so many hours in the saddle.
He had many things to do, but somehow couldn’t raise himself from the chair. All he could do was sit and gaze at the corpse of his son, and think about all that could have been if it hadn’t been for that goddamned John Stone.
At the Delane Ranch, Craig and Cynthia were seated at opposite ends of their long dinner table. It was covered with a white tablecloth and a candelabra that held six glowing candles. Craig and Cynthia wore evening clothes, and raised their glasses of champagne.
“To the Consortium!” Craig said.
They were too far away to touch glasses, so they smiled and lifted the glasses to their lips, tasting the fine old French champagne that Craig had imported all the way from New York for special occasions, and tonight was a special occasion. He and Cynthia had reaffirmed their love and Cynthia agreed to stay on the ranch for at least another year.
Craig lowered his glass and gazed at Cynthia, whose face glowed in the light of candles. Her eyes were catlike and her high cheekbones gave her face a dramatic cast. Craig thought she was absolutely stunning.
The door opened and Bernice appeared, carrying a silver tray on which was a silver tureen filled with chicken consommé. She served the consommé to Craig and Cynthia, then backed out of the dining room.
Cynthia tasted the consommé, and no one in New York City, even in the finest restaurant, would taste any better. Bernice was an excellent cook, and the staff grew plump chickens. It was nice to live luxuriously on the frontier.
Cynthia decided to stay with Craig because the more she thought about it, the more she realized she no longer missed the gay social whirl of the city. A person could feel on the crest of a new wave on the frontier. They were creating a great new land.
But something nagged her. She was unable to push John Stone out of her mind. Where was he?
She recalled seeing John Stone pull out his guns and open fire in the restaurant. What kind of man could do such a thing? Cynthia still was amazed by how calmly and confidently Stone had stepped into danger, and why? To help a person he didn’t even know? Cynthia wished she could talk with Stone and find out what made him tick. He’d come all this way to find a woman, how strange.
Craig finished his bowl of consommé and looked up at Cynthia, whose fingers were poised on her spoon, a faraway expression on her face.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She smiled and gazed down the table at him. “How happy we’re going to be together.”
Jesse Atwell sat on his heels beside the campfire and jabbed a long, thin branch into the red-hot coals. The end of the branch burst into flame, and Atwell drew it back to the cigarette between his lips. He inhaled and filled his lungs with the rich, tasty smoke.
He took a few steps back from the fire and looked ahead at the mountains. The injun still hadn’t come back, and it was clear to everybody that John Stone must have killed him.
Atwell reasoned there must be a hidden cave or other hiding spot someplace that his men had missed. He’d ordered them to search for such a spot, and that’s what they were doing. Atwell sat with Shorty by the fire, and Shorty whittled a piece of wood.
The prairie was vast and the night dark. It wouldn’t be hard for Stone to escape now, but he wouldn’t get far on foot. The man had no food, unless he could live off the land like an injun. Atwell expected Dawson to hire more injuns in the morning. Then Stone might be found.
Atwell and the others would have to be cautious. Stone was fighting for his life and was dangerous as a rattlesnake.
Times had been easy for Atwell and his men before John Stone arrived. No one ever dared defy the men from the Circle Bar D, and they’d ridden roughshod across the land. Then Wayne had to get into a fight with John Stone.
Atwell wasn’t bereft by the death of Wayne Dawson, because Wayne had humiliated Atwell on many occasions. None of the men had liked Wayne much, but stayed for the good money and easy work.
Atwell wondered what would happen to the Circle Bar D now that Wayne was gone. There’d be a lot less damned foolishness probably. They’d get more of the real work done, without Wayne interfering, and Hank Dawson would get richer than he was already.
“Somebody’s comin’,” said Shorty, whittling his stick.
Atwell heard the sound of hoof beats, and a form materialized out of the night. It was Jack Mullins on horseback; he came to a stop in front of Atwell.
“Cain’t find ’im,” Mullins said.
“Keep lookin’,” Atwell replied.
“The men’re gittin’ tired. We didn’t have hardly no sleep last night. How’s about some of us hittin’ the hay for a spell?”
“Maybe later,” Atwell said, “but in the meanwhile, git back and keep lookin’.”
“Oh, shit, come on, Atwell. Don’t be a hard ass.”
“I said git back there and keep lookin’. Don’t forget that reward money. Maybe you’ll be the lucky cowpoke who’ll wind up with it.”
Mullins took off his hat. “If we ain’t caught him now, we ain’t gonna catch him. There’s no tellin’ where he might be right now.”
“He’s around here someplace. The man ain’t got wings. The boss’ll git hot under the collar if we don’t find him.”
“Let the boss pick up his big ass and find ’im, if he thinks it’s so easy.”
“Nobody said it’s easy. Git goin’.”
Mullins wheeled his horse and rode toward the base of the mountains. Shorty chortled as he whittled his stick of wood.
“What’re you laughin’ at?” Atwell asked.
“Funny how everything’s changed,” Shorty said. “Nobody would’ve dared talk like that when Wayne was alive, because he was always with us. But he ain’t around no more, and we can speak our peace.”
“No you can’t,” Atwell said, “because I’m still here, and I won’t tolerate anybody criticizin’ the boss.”
Shorty chortled again. “Come off it, Atwell. Ain’t nobody around here afraid of you.”
Atwell puffed his cigarette. He wasn’t the fastest gun in the outfit and everybody knew it. But he was still the ramrod, and wanted to keep his job.
“You wanna git fired, Shorty?”
“Who’s gonna fire me?”
“Me, and Dawson will back me. He always has.”
“You fire me, and I’ll kill you, old man.”
Atwell was older than most of the men at the Circle Bar D, but he was only thirty-eight, and that wasn’t so old.
“Anytime you’re ready to kill me, make your play,” Atwell said. “I’ll be a-waitin’ for you.”
“Don’t worry about it, old man. I will.”
Stone dropped to one knee. He’d been searching the canyon and hadn’t found any caves, valleys, tunnels, or other ways out. His stomach was empty and numb, and he felt a lightness in his head. He thought he could go without food several days, as long as he had water, but after that he’d collapse. He had to resolve his food problem.
He couldn’t get over the mountains; they were too steep and high. The only alternative was go out the same way he came in, and face Dawson’s cowboys.
He was sure they were out there. Dawson wasn’t the kind of man who’d walk away from a feud, and Stone realized that’s what he was in, a feud. Dawson wanted to kill him and everything he stood for, and he had to fight back if he wanted to stay alive.
It was dark and gloomy in the shadow of the canyon, but Stone had learned in the war that the night could be your best friend. High up on the mountains, wind whistled through the few trees. Stone crouched and peered ahead across the floor of the canyon, ready to dive to the ground at the sight of danger. He wished Tad McDermott were still alive. Together they’d have a better chance, covering each other, four hands were better than two.
Stone felt somehow he’d let McDermott down. He should’ve talked him out of going into Eagleton. He’d known there was danger. He could smell it.
Stone saw movement ahead, and dropped to his stomach behind a bush. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Nothing happened. Stone waited several minutes, ready to fire his rifle, but there was no more movement. Maybe it was a bird, or a small animal.
He rose to his feet again and continued to move across the floor of the canyon, holding his rifle tightly, ready to fire.
Tom Reece and Billy Finch searched the base of the mountains on the other side of the canyon. They were dismounted, carrying rifles, poking in bushes, and peering around boulders.
“I’m gittin’ sick of this shit,” said Reece. “Let’s have us a smoke.”
“We’re supposed to be lookin’ fer John Stone.”
“To hell with John Stone.”
“I want that two hundred dollars.”
“He could be ten feet away right now, and we wouldn’t see him. You can’t find somebody at night.”
Finch looked around fearfully under the brim of his big hat. “Let’s have that smoke,” he said. “These boulders look like a good place.”
They sat behind the boulders and leaned their rifles behind them. Reaching into their pockets, they took out bags of tobacco.
“I’m gittin’ plumb tired,” Reece said. “I want to roll up in my blanket and get some shut-eye.”
“Atwell might find us.”
“So what if he did? I ain’t afraid of that son of a bitch.”
Reece’s paper tore as he was rolling the cigarette. He threw the torn piece over his shoulder and reached for another. Meanwhile, opposite him, Finch watched the paper fly through the air. He expected it to bounce off the wall, but somehow it kept going, seemingly through the wall.
“What the hell was that?” Finch asked.
“What the hell was what?”
Finch arose and walked toward the wall. He raised his hand and it went right through.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Reece, turning around.
“There’s a cave here.”
Reece stood and walked toward the opening. They looked inside and saw pitch-blackness.
“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Reece asked. “Maybe this is where Stone went. Let’s go back and tell the others.”
“What the hell for? You wanna share the two hundred dollars with them? Let’s get Stone for ourselves.”
“He killed the injun.”
“We’re white men, and we can handle him. Are you afraid?”
“Hell no, but I don’t feel like goin’ up against him with just you.”
“I thought you said you wasn’t afraid.”
“Let’s get the others in on this. John Stone ain’t nobody to fuck with. He killed a lot of people tonight.”
Finch turned around and cupped his hands around his mouth. He was about to yell when Reece clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Wait a minute!” Reece said. “What if this cave is only three feet deep? You might call everybody over here for nothin’, and make fools of us. Let’s at least check it out a little bit on our own.”
Finch could see the sense in that. “Okay.”
Reece entered the narrow passageway, pointing his rifle straight ahead. He took a step, and then another step. The passageway inclined to the right. Reece pawed ahead with his rifle, and it didn’t touch anything.
“The cave keeps going,” Reece said.
“I think I’d better go back and tell the others.”
Reece looked into the darkness. John Stone could be straight ahead, his gun cocked, and Reece wouldn’t be able to see him. “I’ll wait for you right here,” Reece said.
Finch turned around and called out. “We found a cave!”
There was a pause for a few seconds, and then he heard Atwell’s voice echoing through the night. “Light a fire so’s we can see where you are.”
Finch gathered some twigs and set fire to them with a match. It wasn’t much of a fire, but it could be seen in the darkness. Soon the sound of horse’s hooves came to Reece and Finch. Standfield and Burkers galloped up, and a few moments later Atwell arrived, followed by the rest of his men.
The men climbed down from their horses and pulled their rifles out of the boots.
“What the hell you got here?” Atwell said, stepping forward.
“This cave,” said Finch, pointing to it.
Atwell didn’t see any cave. He dismounted and walked toward the spot Finch indicated, reaching out tentatively with his foot, and it vanished in the darkness. Now he saw it, but didn’t want to be the first one in. Stone might be waiting in there, rifle in hand. The only thing to do was get down on his belly and crawl. He was ramrod and had to lead the way.
“Shorty,” he said, “stay with the horses. The rest of you follow me.”
He crawled into the passageway, expecting to run into a wall, but the passageway inclined to the right and it turned over onto itself like a big snake. Atwell heard his men behind him, grunting and scraping over the floor of the passageway. He expected a bullet to blast into his head at any moment. Finally he saw a shaft of moonlight and realized he’d passed through the base of the mountains.
“There’s a canyon in here,” he said. “Stay ready. Stone might be just ahead.”
Atwell moved forward cautiously and came to the edge of the passageway. His men crowded behind him.
Reece pointed straight ahead. “There’s somethin’ lyin’ out there.”
Atwell saw a shadow in the shape of a man lying next to bush. “Follow me,” he said.
He crept toward the shadow, and his men followed cautiously. The canyon was dark and silent as they moved deeper into its stillness. Atwell drew close to the shadow. “It’s the injun.”
Red Feather lay on his back, his arms spread out and his throat cut from ear to ear. He’d been stripped of weapons and ammunition, and now Atwell knew what happened to Stone.
He pointed to the tracks on the ground with the barrel of his rifle. “Spread out and go after him. Watch yore step—you can see what he’s done to the injun.”
Atwell stepped forward, following the tracks that led into the canyon. His men came behind him, examining rocks and bushes around them. The moonlight glinted on the barrels of their guns as they advanced deeper into the canyon.
Stone, behind a nearby boulder, watched them disappear, following his old trail. If they stayed on it, they’d roam the canyon for hours. A coyote howled on a distant ridge, and Stone waited, to make sure they were far away.
Finally he came out of his hiding place and stepped toward the passageway, listening for sounds of someone coming the other way, then moved through it silently, alert for danger, and upon reaching the end peered into the rolling hills.
He saw the boulders where he’d hidden, and a hundred yards beyond them were horses crowded together and saddled. Nearby a man sat cross-legged on the ground, his rifle lying across his knees. The man’s head was inclined forward and it looked as though he was asleep.
Stone pulled the Indian’s knife out of the sheath in his boot, and held it blade up in his fist. Then he got down on his belly and crawled toward the guard.
The guard raised his head, and Stone stopped. It appeared as though the guard heard something. The guard looked in Stone’s direction.
“Who’s there?”
Stone lay still on the ground. The guard arose and walked toward him, leaning forward, holding his rifle. Stone could drill him through the eyes with his rifle, but the sound would give him away.
The guard stopped ten feet from Stone, stood rooted to the same spot for a few seconds, then turned and walked toward where he’d been sitting. He dropped to his haunches and stared aimlessly into the night.
Stone had to creep up on the guard, but the night was still and sound carried far. He crawled forward, and the guard’s head snapped around. The guard rose to his feet, and Stone gripped his knife tightly in his hand. The guard appeared to be looking directly at him.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” the guard said.
The guard advanced cautiously, and Stone lay on the ground in front of him, moonlight dappling his body and making it look like a pile of rocks.
Suddenly Stone sprang to his feet and lunged forward.
“Hey!” shouted the guard, raising his rifle.
Stone slammed the rifle down and jabbed the knife into the guard’s jugular. A sigh passed between the guard’s lips, then his knees became jelly and he fell to the ground at Stone’s feet. Stone wiped the blade of the knife on the guard’s trousers, dropped the blade into his boot, and ran toward the horses.
They were picketed a short distance away, and Stone appraised them quickly, settling on the biggest one. He untied the others and slapped their haunches, shooing them away.
Stone tightened the cinch on the big horse, then untied the reins and climbed into the saddle. He prodded the horse with his spurs, and the animal moved off into the dark, billowing night, leaving behind the dead guard with his eyes wide open, staring sightlessly at the moon.