In the morning, after only three hours’ sleep, Ben Sarasen awoke before dawn. He packed clothes into his warbag, went downstairs to shave, left money behind the empty desk, and took his meager possessions to the livery stable. There was a faint flush of pink in the east. The hostler was not there yet; he backed his own horse out of the stall, saddled, and filled his canteen at the trough. After dropping a coin on the battered bureau he mounted up and rode into the brightening street.
It was still gray, but pinking up, when he rode out, and just at that moment he heard the whistle of the train coming in, the train to Lordsburg. By the time he rode the single-footing buckskin past the depot, the train was chuffing into the station, and he saw Louise standing on the platform with her tattered carpetbag. When the train stopped she picked up the valise. Sarasen stopped his horse and watched her soberly.
Just before getting on the train, she looked around and saw him. From fifty feet away she watched him motionlessly for a long time. Then she took the carpetbag into the Pullman car and disappeared from view.
Sarasen reined the buckskin around and pointed it north, sure now that the business with Louise was finished. She would not come after him again. It should have made him light at heart, but it did not. Perhaps he was too far gone down the wrong road. He didn’t know; the future looked as bleak as the past and it was difficult not to look on all of life with despair.
The road led northward parallel to the Mogul Rim and perhaps two or three miles out from it. The Rim, a high escarpment that defined the boundary between plains and mountains, served to delay sunrise over Spanish Flat by as much as a quarter of an hour. Beyond it, with only a few ten-thousand-foot peaks visible over the top, stood the thick tangled range of the timbered Yellows. And fifty miles to the east, on the far side of that range, lay the San Pablo Apache Reservation. The mountain range, most of it too rugged for ranching or lumbering, made a tortuous stronghold for Oakley Madden’s outlaw crew. Here and there among the peaks, however, lay pretty little green valleys locked away from the rest of the world. Knowing all this, Sarasen found himself bemusedly entertaining daydreams—of turning the buckskin off the road, finding a trail up through the Mogul, riding back through the mountains, discovering a lost fertile valley and making a home.
Warm pleasant thoughts, but he did not turn off the road, he did not ride into the Yellows. While the sun climbed over the Rim, bringing the desert into burning life, he kept the buckskin pointed north on the coach road. He had no exact destination in mind, but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break; circumstances had cast his life into a mold and now that mold had hardened. He entertained no illusions about being able to change the pattern of his existence. It was as he had said to Clarissa: there was only one trade he knew well, and he had become too used to being top dog. Danger had become a narcotic and he could not see himself enduring without it.
Up to now he had made no plans. He had not expected to be alive to greet this hour. Now he must put his mind on the future. The Circuit—that nebulous trail that connected the West’s great boom towns, and along which the gambling and gunfighting elite had traveled—was dying out. He remembered the tall men he had traveled with on that trail: Ben Thompson, Dave Rudabaugh, Doc Holliday, Ed Masterson, Luke Short, Ethan Scott, Virgil Earp, Tom Smith. Now Thompson and Scott were dead, shot down; Virgil Earp was a cripple, his brother Morgan dead, Wyatt gone away; Doc Holliday had died peacefully in Colorado of consumption, with his boots off. What had become of the others Sarasen did not know, but they were no longer on the Circuit. The day of the high-rolling gentleman-gambler-killer was gone; Sarasen felt like a living fossil, accidentally living into a new age that had no room for him.
While these bitter thoughts occupied the inside of his mind, his alert senses never failed to capture, interpret, and convey to his consciousness every slight sign about him. The road undulated northward through low hills, waving with wind-stirred yellow grass that stood belly-high on a horse; westward stretched the desert, parched and without moisture, supporting only the scrub growths of cactus and creosote and catclaw, while to the east marched the high limiting wall of the Mogul. Between desert and Rim lay this precious strip of grassland through which the road cut. He came by side roads and mailboxes, Spur ranch on the left, then Chainlink on the right. He took a sip from his canteen and went on.
When presently he came upon a fork in the road, he reined in and sat with his leg curled over the saddlehorn, tipping his hat back and considering the alternative branches of the road. The one to the right seemed to cut in closer to the Mogul and go on northward at the base of the Rim; the left-hand road cut farther out into the desert. Where it went then was purely a matter of conjecture; he was unfamiliar with this part of the country. Somewhere in that direction would be Phoenix and then Prescott; but that would be one or two hundred miles away.
While he weighed the choices, he brought a cardboard packet of expensive tailor-made cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, selected one and ignited it. When he had smoked it down to the short butt he flipped it forward over the horse’s ears. A gust of wind came along, picked up the butt in midair and deflected it to the right, where it fell in the rocky hardpan of the road.
Sarasen let that decide him; he put his horse on the right-hand fork and headed up along the base of the Mogul Rim.
He had not traveled far when he discovered that he was being followed. He knew there was a rider behind him by a telltale wisp of dust drifting above the road half a mile behind him; he knew the rider was tailing him, and not just coincidentally traveling the same road, by the way the rider took pains to stay out of sight in the brush.
Thus warned by subtle signs that a less wary man might have missed, Sarasen kept jogging forward while he decided what to do. He did not look back again, for to do so would warn the rider on his tail that he had been discovered. Sarasen felt safe enough; the rider was pretty far back, and in order to catch up would have to make a racket. The point was that by his actions the rider demonstrated his unfriendliness, and where Sarasen was concerned, unfriendliness meant mortal danger.
His nerves keyed up, his sensitivities heightened, Sarasen felt fiercely invigorated; it was always in times when his life was most threatened that he felt most keenly alive. Now he was very conscious of the ripple of the buckskin’s shoulder muscles as it moved forward under him, the creak of saddle leather, the faint dampness of sweat along the horse’s flanks and withers, the harsh beat of the sun against the back of his right shoulder, the ring of shod hoofs against stones, the abrupt rising to his right of the Mogul, dark and sheer.
Ahead of him a short distance, the Rim made a turn to the right. At the base was a loose talus slope, crumbled granite chunks that had been ripped off the face of the cliff sometime after the great prehistoric upthrust of earth had created the Rim. When Sarasen passed around the end of this slope and followed the turning of the cliff, he looked back and saw that he was now hidden from the trail behind.
With that advantage, he swung the buckskin off the road and went trotting into a loose field of high boulders. Just at the base of the cliff was a clump of trees: a few tall cottonwoods and thick bunchings of mesquite and manzanita and paloverde, stunted by the constant shade of the Rim overhead. Here was sufficient cover to offer concealment for him and his horse. He drew up within the trees and withdrew his Spencer rifle from the saddle boot. It was an old rifle, antiquated and made almost obsolete by newer models, but he felt comfortable with it. He knew its capabilities and its idiosyncrasies, and he knew the wicked damage its .52 caliber bullet could inflict.
Somewhere nearby he could hear the trickle of water: a spring coming out of the cliff-base, to feed the clump of growth in which he hid. He settled back in the saddle, rifle across the bend of his arm, to wait for the pursuing rider to come around the talus slide.
It took a while, and he was beginning to frown and chafe, but in time a rider appeared, going forward in no hurry, maintaining a steady gait. The rider was anxiously scanning the trail ahead. As he drew closer Sarasen recognized him: Jed Bolton, the man he had disarmed in the alley last night.
He let Bolton get close. When the man was forty yards distant, Sarasen put his horse forward out of the trees and cocked the Spencer’s big hammer and laid the big bore toward Bolton. He didn’t have to speak.
Bolton reined in and held both hands on the reins, at chest-height, making no quick moves; he waited until Sarasen came up and then put on a sort of sickly smile. “Howdy,” he said weakly.
“Just out for a ride, I suppose?” Sarasen said.
“You kind of took me by surprise, there.”
“Think of that,” Sarasen murmured. “What’s on your mind?”
“To tell the truth, I was following you.”
“Think of that,” Sarasen repeated; this time his voice was very dry.
“Madden put me up to it,” Bolton said.
“What for?”
“To see which way you headed when you rode out of town.”
“And why might that interest Madden?”
Bolton shrugged. “He likes to know what goes on in these parts. Can I put my hands down? My arms are getting tired. I ain’t fool enough to try anything with you, especially when you’ve got the drop.”
“All right,” Sarasen said. Bolton’s hands dropped to the saddlehorn. Sarasen told him, “You can take the word back to your boss that I’m on my way out of the country. I’ve got no interest in you or him.”
“That ain’t exactly what he had in mind.”
“No?”
“Madden kind of thought it might be a good thing for you and us to get together.”
“On what?”
“Search me. All I know is he’s got some kind of fancy plans.”
“I don’t work with tinhorns,” Sarasen said without malice.
“Just the same, you might like to listen to what he’s got to say. Can’t hurt none just to listen, can it?”
“What for?”
“Money,” Bolton said. “Madden says there’s a big pile of it he can get, but he needs somebody like you to make sure he pulls it off.”
“Robbery’s a little out of my line,” Sarasen said.
“Too bad. From what I hear a man could get powerful rich for a few minutes’ work.”
“If Madden’s that smart, why isn’t he rich already?”
“Now and then a man runs into trouble,” Bolton said. “Don’t ask me about Madden; I’ve rode with him five years and I ain’t figured him out yet.”
“That’s funny,” Sarasen said. “I only laid eyes on him once, for two minutes, and I got a pretty clear picture.”
“Could be you made a mistake. Lots of people jump to the wrong conclusions with him.”
“Maybe,” Sarasen conceded. He looked at Bolton, at the awkward sag of Bolton’s holster, and decided it would be no risk to put away his Spencer. He uncocked it and slid it into the boot. During that time his mind was going back over what Bolton had said. It was true he needed money; he was a man of expensive tastes, although much of his life was lived in hardship, and the outlook for jobs up the trail, for a man of his particular talents, was dim. Perhaps after all it wouldn’t hurt to listen to whatever Madden had in mind. If Sarasen’s part in it didn’t conflict with the rigid boundaries of his self-enforced code, it might indeed be profitable to join the outlaw for one coup. Madden had looked more intelligent and more ambitious than most of his kind.
Sarasen said, “Where can we find Madden?”
Bolton grinned. “Home. I’ll take you.”
“Fine,” Sarasen said. “You first.”
Not objecting, Bolton gigged his pony and went on down the trail. Sarasen followed a couple of lengths behind, keeping careful watch on Bolton. Presently Bolton turned off the road into a narrow trail that appeared to run right into the base of the high cliff. But as they drew closer, Sarasen could see that there was a notch cut back in the face of the Mogul, a narrow dark canyon littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes, the floor of which ascended at a sharp pitch toward the top of the Rim. They went in, Bolton leading; heads down to inspect the ground, their horses picked slow careful paths upward through the rubble. Bolton said, “Ain’t many passes up through the Rim. A few men could hold off an army.”
“There’s more than one way into the Yellows,” Sarasen observed.
“True enough.” They traveled on in silence, making the slow climb and afterward breaking out onto the broad flat shelf at the top. Beyond it lifted the serrated hills that quickly fed into the high ragged fortress of the mountains. Vast sheets of yellow limestone mountainsides had given the range its name. They passed the base of one such tilting rock-face. Then Bolton turned along the side of a groined ridge and they rode up a grassy slope, pitched over the top of a hogback, and immediately were swallowed into a thickness of timber, pines and aspens. It was like a different world from the desert below.
“Lots of loners still up in these gorges,” Bolton advised. “Some of ’em are pretty skittish if they see strangers. Keep your eyes open.”
“Thanks,” Sarasen said, his voice edged with sarcasm. He thought abstractedly that he had probably forgotten more tricks than Bolton ever had known.
They dropped into a long cut in the mountainside, its walls hung with precarious loose shale. Hoofs sent up strong echoes on the rocky floor. They followed a faintly defined game trail that carried them along a narrow ledge and finally curled into a higher canyon, creek-fed, leading upward. The walls here stood tall and steep, blocking out the sun; in the dimness was a thick tangle of jungle-like brush half drowned in spray from the swift rock-bedded stream. Near the head of the canyon they splashed across the creek and Bolton led the way up over the side, his horse’s flanks heaving with effort on the steep slope. Then again they were moving along a slope carpeted with brown pine-needles and cones, with branches overhead making a lacework against the deep cobalt sky.
It proved to be a journey of several hours, during which never once did Sarasen relax his taut vigilance—wary of Bolton and the trail as well, for it was likely ground for an ambush. Through these mountains Sarasen rode with the cocked Spencer across his saddle pommel.
At noon they stopped at a clearwater spring to water the animals and drink. To push on they had to cut through thick brush, batting branches away from their faces, thereupon they achieved a brief flat plateau, heavy with vertical lances of pine, and put their horses up a hard slope that took them onto the spine of a razorback ridge. Sarasen was reluctant to expose himself that way on the skyline, but Bolton seemed to know where he was going, and Sarasen had to content himself with an extra portion of caution.
Without incident they reached the end of the ridge and plunged down a brief talus slope, thereafter climbing steadily along the looping switchbacks of a hard-packed trail that took them up past timberline into a rocky country of scrub growth and stunted trees. Here the air was brisk, almost cold, even under the direct harsh blows of the sun.
Bolton said, “Just through that notch,” and turned off the trail into a V-shaped opening between two hills. Coming through the gap, Sarasen felt his hand tighten on the grip stock of the Spencer; his eyes whipped to both sides as they broke out of the mouth of the notch. A sentry was posted atop a rock not far up the trail; this man answered Bolton’s wave. Sarasen kept an eye on the sentry until they were out of his sight in the rocks, and then they rode around a bend and were at the campsite.
There were only four men there. Bolton stepped down and called out names in a rough manner of introduction—Madden, Bolton’s brother Creed, Faro Price, a thin hungry man named Hench. Sarasen inspected them all, especially the smooth calm features of Oakley Madden; presently he dismounted and stepped two paces forward, standing far enough from the others so that he could keep all of them within the frame of his vision. At the same time he relied on his ears and instincts to warn him of anyone approaching from the sides or behind.
The outlaws stood in a loose group around the big open-pit fireplace. Set back in the trees were a number of flimsy shacks and lean-tos that probably served as their semi permanent home. The elevation here was over 8500 feet and the air was thin in Sarasen’s lungs.
Madden said, “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Maybe it’s just an excuse to find out what you’re up to.” Madden smiled disarmingly. “Fair enough. Nobody’s going to force you into anything; it’s a favor to you, anyway.”
“I guess I’ll have to decide that for myself,” Sarasen said. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”
“Have you got to stand there with that cannon in your fist?”
“It might save us all trouble,” Sarasen murmured.
“All right,” Madden said, “suit yourself. Let’s go where we can talk.” So saying, he turned his back confidently on the fire and Sarasen, and walked toward a clapboard shack.
Sarasen stepped around the others and followed. Once he stopped and wheeled to put his hard gaze against the others. Jed Bolton gave him a friendly grin; the one called Hench was watching him with intent eyes; the others matched Sarasen’s own poker expression. None of them moved toward weapons. Sarasen stepped inside the shack.
Sparsely furnished with hand-hewn wood chairs, table, and bunk, the cabin was no more comfortable than a sheepherder’s line camp. A whisky bottle stood full on the table. Madden was wiping out a couple of glasses with a towel when Sarasen entered; the outlaw took the glasses to the table, sat, and indicated a rickety chair. “Rest yourself.”
Sarasen took the chair and pushed it back against the wall. He accepted a glass of liquor, took it with him and sat, tilting the chair back, holding the rifle across his lap while he sipped whisky and watched Madden over the rim of the tumbler.
Madden said, “Last night I was pretty sore at you.”
“Were you?”
Madden smiled. “It wore off. I figured we might be able to do each other some good.”
“Go on.”
“You’re pretty tough, aren’t you? If I tried to rig a trap, you probably wouldn’t fall for it.”
“Probably not,” Sarasen agreed drily. “Come to the point.”
Madden threw back his head and drank. His eyes gleamed shrewdly. And after a while he began to talk in an unhurried drawling voice.