Even in the darkness Jordan could see the place was a shambles. Drawers had been pulled open, the bed stripped, furniture overturned; every conceivable nook that might conceal anything had been investigated. Ben glanced at the small rug he had pulled across the loose floor board. It appeared undisturbed. Closing the door, and still in the dark, he dropped to his knees. Brushing the carpet aside, he lifted the plank. Relief flowed through him as his groping fingers felt the worn, smooth surface of leather, sought and touched the packets of currency, and toyed with the gold coins. If it had been the money the intruder was looking for, he had failed to find it.
Jordan gave that consideration. It had to be the money, or, at least, the saddlebags, for he had brought nothing else with him when he rode into Ashburn’s. And who would be so interested in what he was carrying in the leather pouches? He replaced the floor board carefully and pulled the carpet and chair back into place. The saddlebags were the only thing anyone could be after; it was hardly possible that any of Ashburn’s hired hands knew he was in possession of a small fortune. That added up to one answer. The trespasser was searching for something he did not know the exact nature of—an article he felt would have bearing on Jordan’s presence. That brought Ben’s thoughts to a dead stop on Oran Bishop. He had been the only man to take note of the saddlebags, to remark on the jealous care that Jordan accorded them. It would be Bishop then, possibly curious as to what made the pouches so valuable, and hopeful they would contain something with which he could discredit Ben in the eyes of Tom Ashburn. The rider in the hills, watching to be certain Jordan did not return unexpectedly early, could have been Oran’s friend, Ross Colby. It was all an outside guess—but it made sense.
Suddenly angered, Ben left his cabin and walked the short distance to the bunkhouse. He pushed open the door and entered. Several of the cowpunchers had already crawled into their bunks. Cruz Rodriguez and three others sat at a table playing poker for matches. They glanced up as Jordan halted before them. The Mexican smiled, sobered quickly when he saw Ben’s face.
“¿Qué pasa, amigo?”
“Who just came in here … during the last five minutes?” The riders looked at each other. Rodriguez said: “Nobody. Who do you look for?”
Jordan shook his head. “Not sure.” He moved deeper into the room, made a slow tour of the bunks. Bishop and Colby were among those absent. That would mean they were part of the crew night hawking the cattle. He halted near the door. “Any of you seen Oran, or Ross Colby since you rode in?”
“They come to the herd at dark,” Rodriguez said. “We leave to eat. They stay. I have not seen them since.”
That had little meaning. The two men could have slipped away unnoticed. One of the cowpunchers started to rise.
“You want them, Mister Jordan? Be right pleased to go get them for you.”
Ben said: “No, let it go. I’ll see them in the morning. Good night.”
He left the bunkhouse but halted when he reached the yard. All was quiet and for a time he stood there, his shoulders squared against the night sky while he lost himself in thought. One thing came through to him, quick and clear: he must get Walt Woodward’s money off his hands. It was dangerous to have it around any longer.
He wheeled, headed for the main house where a lamp still burned in the kitchen. He would tell Ashburn he needed to make a trip into Langford that next morning. He would get it done at once. But Tom Ashburn had already gone to bed, as had Sally. Jordan ate his meal of cold, sliced beef, warmed-over biscuits, and coffee in solitude, deciding he would talk to the rancher first thing that following morning. And it was probably best that he not take Sally with him. He was only assuming the intruder who had searched his quarters had been Oran Bishop. There could be another, someone who had learned he had the money, somebody besides Bart Crawford and his outlaw friends who were out to get the $20,000 he had sworn to deliver to Olivia Woodward. There could be danger.
He finished his supper and walked back into the yard. Far from sleep, he strolled on to the barn, looked in briefly at the sorrel contentedly crunching his ration of grain in one of the stalls, and then, keeping to the shadows, circled the yard to its opposite side where he could stand in the brushy windbreak planted years ago by Ashburn. There, unseen, he could watch his cabin. The intruder might pay a return visit, Ben reasoned, if he thought no one was around.
The night was cool and quiet. Off to the east a coyote barked and fell silent. An owl swished across the yard on motionless wings, and then came to a halt somewhere beyond the cook’s vegetable garden. Inside the bunkhouse someone laughed and Cruz Rodriguez said something in quick Spanish. The light in the kitchen winked out as Mattie, the cook, wound up her chores and went off to bed.
A faint breeze began to stir, drifting in from the west, fresh with the scent of grass and juniper, almost sharp with a breath of winter. Jordan glanced to the sky, a vast, black arch studded with low hanging, glittering stars. A cold sky, he thought, and snow could not be too far off. It would come sooner than Tom Ashburn had predicted. He must get the crew busy and prepare for the days when the weather would turn bad and neither man nor beast would find it possible to move about.
Tomorrow. He would start the crew gathering the herds that next morning, get them moving north to fresh grass. His thoughts halted. He would not be there. He must make the trip into Langford and rid himself of the responsibility that lay so heavily on his shoulders. It would take two days, even more if he had trouble locating Olivia Woodward. He could arrive there and find her out of town, or possibly moved away. Yet if he were to fulfill his new obligations to Tom Ashburn, he could not afford to waste even one day.
He stepped from the windbreak of tamarisk, and crossed to the bunkhouse. The card game had broken up and now Cruz Rodriguez squatted on his heels, back pressed against the wall of the building as he smoked a final cigarette. He looked up and grinned, as Jordan approached.
“You find sleep comes hard, señor,” he said, stating it as a fact rather than a question. “Perhaps it is because the Barranca Negra teaches a man always to keep one eye open for death.”
“Down there, if a man is not careful, it comes too soon,” Jordan agreed.
“But there are other things that trouble you, no?”
Ben nodded. “Got to make a trip to Langford. I’ll be gone a couple of days, maybe more. I want all the stock moved onto the north range. I’d like to have the crew get at it in the morning. I want you to pass the word along.”
Rodriguez stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. He placed it between his lips, inhaled, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Up here, amigo,” he said quietly, “one such as I … a Mexican … does not give an order.”
Ben stirred impatiently. “It’s my order, not yours. I’m only asking you to repeat it since I won’t be here myself.”
Rodriguez flipped the cigarette into the yard. “It shall be as you wish. I will repeat the order.”
“If anybody balks, tell them they’ll answer to me when I get back. The main thing is I want the stock grazing up there before bad weather hits so the rest of the range gets a chance to shape up for winter.”
Rodriguez said: “I understand, señor. This journey you must take to Langford … it is important?”
“Has to be done,” Jordan replied. “No way out of it.”
“The patrón … Ashburn, he knows of this?”
“I figure on telling him in the morning.”
The Mexican was silent for a long time. Then: “And you will return, amigo? He is a fine man and he thinks much of you. I would not like to see him sad.”
“I’ll be back, Cruz. Depend on it.”
“It is enough,” Rodriguez said, thrusting out his hand. “Adiós. Buena suerte.”
“Adiós, and thanks,” Ben said, enclosing the man’s fingers in his own. He turned then, walked to his quarters.
Not bothering to remove his clothing, Jordan stretched out on the bed, his pistol placed nearby for instant use should the intruder return again. Sleep came quickly to him now that the decision to deliver Woodward’s money had been made.
He awoke at the first gray streaks of dawn. Washing himself from the bowl and pitcher on the dresser, he made himself ready to travel. That done, he paused in the center of the room to formulate a plan. He would first have his breakfast and tell Tom Ashburn of his need to go to Langford. Then he would return to his quarters, take the saddlebags from their place of concealment, get the sorrel, and leave. It could be done with a minimum of wasted motion and time—unless he had trouble with Sally. But there was a possibility she would not be there for the early meal. She had been tired; she could sleep late.
He stepped to the door, pulled it open—and came to a quick stop. Four riders were pulling into the hitch rack in front of Ashburn’s house, four grim, dusty men. He knew them all—Crawford, Aaron, Gates, and Arlie Davis.