CHAPTER 12

T DIDN’T DO me any good to stall around the next morning, although I never taken so long to saddle a horse in all my born days. Nor so long over breakfast, either. I was hoping Meg would show up but she didn’t and after awhile I swung into the saddle and rode off up the trail.

When I was maybe a mile off and away higher up I glanced back in time to see a small figure come running from the ranch house and stop there in the yard, and I lifted my arm and waved, but surely she could not see me at the distance and against the mountain.

Two days of riding it needed before I came up with the herd. I saw their dust long before I rode up to it, but when I came near I swung off to one side so’s not to turn them. Whoever was riding point had gone off somewhere, but that big old brindle steer in the lead needed no help.

Halfway down the herd I came up to Parmalee, looking like a dude. He pulled in and thrust out his hand, and dude he might be but he had power in that grip. I had a feeling those flatland Sacketts had much to be said for them other than money, for they were all well off. Nick Shadow rode up from the drag and allowed he was glad to see me. It had been a hard drive.

“You’re coming into good range now,” I said, “but nothing like what your headed for along the La Plata.”

“We’ll need some hands,” Parmalee said. “Most of these just joined up for the drive.”

“You got anything against Indians?”

“No… why?”

“I’ve just taken on a whole set of them. Tough old warrior and some followers of his. He came to me hunting advice, and looking for a place to light.”

“So you took them on,” Shadow said. “Good for you.”

He looked at my face, which still carried a few scars. “You’ve had trouble, then?”

“I had a difficulty with Curly Dunn. I was in no shape for it, but I whopped him. A couple of days back I had a run in with Jobe. I scratched him with a bullet, but don’t take them lightly, old Bull Dunn is a tough man.”

“Old?”

“Aw, you know! He ain’t that old. Maybe forty, but he must weigh about two hundred and fifty pounds and I don’t think any of it is fat.”

We rode along together, the three of us, talking things over and reminding ourselves of other days, other cattle, other drives. Time to time I kept looking back into my mind for pictures of Meg, knowing I was a damned fool all the time I was doing it. She was like every other girl that age who likes to flirt and think about love and such. Curly had the inside track there, and I knew it, but that couldn’t keep a body from dreaming, and dreamable girls were almighty scarce in this country.

It was on that drive that I learned that Shadow was one of the best hands with a rope I’d ever come across. He used the rawhide rope, the la reata that Americans have cut down to lariat. He’d learned it from the Californios, and he worked with a rope sixty feet long. He could really make that rope stand up and perform. He never tied fast, though. A man who ties fast with a rawhide rope is in trouble. When a big steer, say a thousand pounds give or take a few, hits the end of that rope something’s got to give. A hemp rope will stand the gaff better, but Shadow liked rawhide and he stuck with it, and I never saw anybody who could rope any better.

He was a good hand with stock and he never shied from doing his fair share of the work. They had brought eighteen hundred head of mixed stuff, and a few of them were Texas longhorns, big, rangy beasts who could walk the legs off any other kind of cow crittur and most horses. They’d brought the herd along carefully and they didn’t seem to have lost much weight on the trail.

Aside from Parmalee and Shadow there were just four hands and the cook, which was nowhere near enough even after the herd was trail broke. Seven hands were all right as long as there was no trouble. Now that I had come along there were eight and that extra man meant all the difference.

“I can’t figure it,” I said that night at the fire. “Bull Dunn told everybody he was going to run us out. He’s made his brags, now he’s got to make good, so why hasn’t he done something?”

“Maybe he was waiting until Galloway was alone,” Parmalee suggested.

“He’s waiting for the cattle,” Shadow said. “What does he gain by running you out? He keeps the country to himself, but is that enough? If he runs you out after you have your cattle brought in then those cattle are going to run loose on the range, and after a respectable time he’ll just start slapping his brand on them all. And who’s to stop him?”

“If that’s the case,” Parmalee suggested, “he’ll stampede our cattle as soon as we’re close to his range… or sooner.”

Morning came bright and clear, and the cattle started off well. Maybe it was the smell of fresh water, maybe it was the grass, but the cattle wanted to go. We had the towering wall of Mesa Verde on the east and Ute Park on the west, and soon we would start bearing east to strike the trail to the ranch.

Suddenly one of the cowhands rode up. “Sackett,” he said, “we’re being watched.” He pointed toward the distant ridge. “Indians!”

Sure enough, there were several Indians watching us from the ridge, and as we moved along they kept pace with us, watching our every move.

HE DUNN RANCH house was long, low and built of logs. Cornered against it and forming a right angle was the bunkhouse, where there were bunks for twenty men, and thirty yards away, forming another side to the loose square, was a barn or shed, also low-roofed and built of logs. The fourth side of the square was the corral.

Inside the house, seated at the table, was Bull Dunn. A huge man with bulging muscles, he slouched at the table with a pot of black coffee and a jug of whiskey, staring at Curly with narrowed eyes.

“You listen, and you listen damn well,” he said—then his eyes swept the room—“and this goes for you all. I seen countries change. I ain’t so young as you, and I seen them grow up. Well, when they do those folks who hold land are the ones in power, they run things. Those who don’t have nothin’ are shoved out.

“This here’s the end of it. We’re going to latch onto a big chunk of this country and we’re going to hold it. We’re through bein’ movers. Here’s where we make our stand.

“The Sacketts are bringing in a herd. That’s fine, because we’ll need stock. There’s two of them and this Nick Shadow. I happen to know the cowhands comin’ in with the herd won’t stay. Anyway, there’s only four of them.

“We’re goin’ to hit that herd of a night, and we’re goin’ to scatter it to hell an’ gone into the breaks of the canyons, and we’re going to kill the Sacketts and Shadow. If one of them goes down from a fall or is hurt in the stampede, just leave him lay. We want this to look as right as it can be… not that there’s much chance of anybody nosin’ around up here.

“Curly, you been sparkin’ that Rossiter gal long enough. Marry her, with old Rossiter’s let-be or not. You latch onto her, then you be the nice lad and you go over there and work for her papa, and you work hard. I want Rossiter to tell folks what an all-out fine son-in-law he’s got. Then if anything happens to Rossiter nobody will ever think you had a hand in it.

“Then I want ever’ last one of you to file on claims, grazing land or mining claims, just so you claim title to it.

“We been wanderin’ around the country long enough, and the land is fillin’ up back east and we might as well have ours while we can. This is closed-off country, and if we move right it’ll be our country and sooner or later we can freeze out anybody who moves in.”

Ollie Hammer rolled a cigarette, touched the paper with his tongue and folded it over. “Maybe you’re cuttin’ a wide swath, Bull. These Sacketts have the name of bein’ rough.”

“So are we. On’y we’re rougher and meaner. I got Vern comin’ in and when he gets here he’ll take to the hills and clean up anything we left over…. As for the stampede, we blame it on the Utes.”

He downed his whiskey and refilled the glass to the halfway mark, then took a gulp of the black coffee.

“We done this before, and you all know what to do. I want nobody seen. And get this into your thick heads. We ain’t outlaws no more… we ain’t renygades… so when you go into Shalako or any other town, you act like gents. If you can’t hold your liquor, don’t drink.

“Get this—” Bull Dunn pointed with a stiff middle finger, “some folks are goin’ to complain… let ’em. But if we mind our p’s an’ q’s we’ll end up with a good many folks on our side.

“Now they can’t have more than three men on the night ridin’ job, and three ain’t goin’ to stop any herd of near two thousand head. If we can stampede those cattle right over their camp, so much the better… we might just take out a Sackett in the process.

“But remember this. I want nobody seen! An’ Curly, as soon as ever this is over, you ride hell bent for election back here, get you a fresh horse and go on over to Rossiters’ place. Tell ’em your horse spooked a couple of times, and you think there’s Indians about. Rossiter will likely get up, but you offer to set up with a rifle.

“Above all, if one of them Sacketts should show up over there, you be friendly. You put yourself out to do it. And you act the gent, see?”

When all had scattered, Bull Dunn drained his glass, gulped another cup of black coffee, then stretched out on his bed. He was not worried. His outfit had scattered or rustled herds across seven states in the past dozen years and nobody had ever caught up with them yet. Of course, there was a lot of places where they could not return, but they had no idea of going back, anyway.

This place he liked, and here he was going to stay. He chuckled in his beard. More than one old-time cattleman had rustled a few head and then put on the coat of respectability, and so could he… and he would enjoy it, chuckling all the time at how he had fooled them.

Curly worried him. Rossiter was too shrewd a man to fool, so as soon as ever Curly was married up with that Rossiter girl, they’d have to do something about Rossiter. In this rough country with half-wild horses and cattle, with dangerous trails and rough winters, a lot of people disappeared.

He was tired of moving, and this was the best country he had found. Right here he would stay.

The Sacketts’ herd moved north and then turned east. In the mountains, their horses grazing nearby, the Dunns played cards, slept, or talked in a desultory fashion as they waited.

Galloway Sackett saddled a horse to ride into Shalako. With a trail herd coming there’d be more hands to be fed, and they would need more grub.

Far to the east, at a stage stop not far from Pagosa Springs, a big man on a sorrel horse rode up to the hitch rail and dismounted. The hostler, his team ready for the incoming stage, glanced at the horse.

“That’s a mighty fine animal, but you’re riding it hard.”

“I got a ways to go.” The big man with the shaggy hair had a bullet hole through his flat-brimmed hat, and he wore a low-slung gun, tied down. “You got a horse you want to swap? I’d want as good a horse as I’m trading.”

“Only one around is a strawberry roan over in the stable. I don’t know if the owner would swap or not. But he might sell. He’s in a poker game and he’s losing ground fast.”

The big stranger walked across the hard-packed yard. He wore a beat-up sheepskin coat and striped pants. His boot heels were run down. He walked into the stable, glanced at the horse, then untied the knot and took it outside where he walked it around a good bit. When he retied the horse he walked back. He took the stub of a cigar from his pocket and put it between his teeth. He lighted up, then squinted over it at the hostler. “That man in there? He’s surely losin’?”

“He was unless it’s changed in the last five minutes. Mister, you’d not go wrong on that horse. It can run and it can stay.”

“I figured it. Will you hold mine for me? I’ll be comin’ back through in a few days. I got me a little business to tidy up… family business.”

The big stranger walked into the stage station. In one corner of the room near the ticket window three people were sitting, concerned with their own affairs, luggage on the floor beside them. At the other end of the room was a bar and there were several tables. A poker game was going on at one of them.

The big man walked to the bar and ordered a beer, and taking it in his hand, strolled over to where the game was being played. The owner of the horse was immediately obvious.

His brow was beaded with sweat and he was peering at the cards he held close to his chest. Two of the players had dropped out of the hand, and the two remaining were obviously card sharps. The big man knew both of them by sight but it was none of his affair. A man who played poker should not play unless he could pay, and if he played with a pair of card mechanics it was his tough luck.

The man with the diamond scarf pin tossed two chips into the pot. “Up twenty,” he said. The other card sharp did likewise.

“Now wait just a minute,” the loser said. “I’ll raise the money. I’ll—”

“I’ll let you have twenty for your horse,” the gambler with the scarf pin suggested.

“And I’ll give him thirty-five,” the big stranger said. “Cash on the barrelhead.”

The gambler looked up, his eyes level. “You were not invited into this discussion,” he said pointedly. “Mr. Liggitt and I were discussing a business deal.”

“And I put in my bid,” the stranger said, and he was not smiling.

“Look here!” Liggitt objected. “That’s a fine horse! That horse is worth a lot of money!”

“He’s worth what I say he is worth,” the gambler replied harshly. “And you’ve got just two minutes. Put up, or shut up.”

“My offer at thirty-five stands,” the big stranger said.

The gambler’s gaze was deadly. “I am getting a bit tired of you,” he said. “Just a little tired.”

“Wait a minute!” Liggitt said. “I’ll take that bid! Thirty-five it is.”

The gambler’s eyes remained on the big man’s. “I told you,” he said evenly, “that I was—”

The gambler was not really a gambler. He was a man who played with marked cards and loaded dice, and when he used a gun he did not gamble either. Suddenly a little warning bell was ringing in his ears. This big man was too confident, too ready… and he wasn’t worried. Not the least bit.

“Give him the thirty-five,” the gambler said, “and let’s get on with the game.”

The big man thrust his hand into his pocket and the gambler went for his gun. By ordinary standards he made a good try. The only visible gun on the big man was in a holster on his leg, his right hand was in his pocket.

The stranger drew and fired… drew a gun from his waistband with his left hand and shot the gambler through the third button of his vest.

There was a moment of silence and the acrid smell of gunsmoke. Liggitt slowly pulled back from the table, his face a sickly white. “I’ll be goin’,” he said. “I guess I’ll be goin’.”

“Wait.” The big man put thirty-five dollars on the table. “A bill of sale for one strawberry roan with a white stocking and a Rafter Open A brand.”

“The game’s over. There’s no need for me to sell.”

“You agreed. You taken my offer.” The big man looked around. “I leave it to you all. He taken my offer, didn’t he?”

It was unanimous. Liggitt looked around, sweating. Reluctantly he made out the bill of sale and picked up the thirty-five dollars.

“That horse is worth a lot more,” he protested.

“That he is,” the big man agreed, “so I suggest that as long as the game is over, and nobody knows how it would have turned out, you take half of what’s on the table.”

The other gambler recovered his voice. “Like hell!” he said. “I won this fair and square! I—”

The big man’s smile was not pleasant. “My friend,” he said, “my advice is to let well enough alone. If you get half of this it will give you a road-stake, and that’s more than you’re entitled to. Now don’t make me start reading from the Book. You ain’t even very good at what you’ve been doin’, so let it ride.”

The gambler sat back carefully. “All right,” he said to Liggitt, “fifty-fifty.”

The hostler had come in and was standing near the door. “I put your saddle on the roan. I’ll hold your horse for you until you come back.”

“Thanks.”

The big man watched while Liggitt and the other gambler split what was on the table, then he turned and went out, his spurs tinkling softly as he walked.

There was a silence when he left, then the gambler sighed. He looked over at the hostler. “Did you know that man?”

“No, sir, but I seen him before. I seen him a couple of times. That was Logan Sackett.”

The gambler looked at his hands, they were trembling. Then he glanced at the body of his partner. “You damned fool!” he said softly. “You poor damned fool!”

The sound of hoofs pounded away into silence, and the bartender came around from behind the bar. “Jim,” he said to the hostler, “you take his heels.”