Oncoming summer touched the high country. At midday the canyon walls shimmered and the sun at its zenith seemed fixed forever in a cloudless sky. No wind stirred and the only sound was the rushing murmur of Buffalo Creek.
Starbuck halted the gelding in a patch of shade. He looped the reins around the saddlehorn and took the makings from his pocket. He creased a rolling paper, spilled tobacco from the sack, and slowly built himself a smoke. Striking a match on his thumbnail, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. His gaze scanned the rocky gorge, which was narrow and winding, hemmed in by steep walls on either side. He understood now why lawmen never ventured into Hole-in-the-Wall. The canyon approach was some ten miles long, and every switchback along the snaky creek was a natural ambush site. A man soon began waiting for the crack of a rifle shot.
Some hours earlier, Starbuck had ridden out .from Houk’s ranch. The cattleman sent him off full of flapjacks and good cheer, with the map tucked in his shirt pocket. A few miles northeast the rangeland petered out into a succession of hogback ridges. The terrain rose sharply thereafter, the Big Horns majestic in the early-morning sunlight. Then, suddenly, Buffalo Creek
made an abrupt bend into the canyon. The plains wind dropped off into an eerie stillness; there was a sense of being entombed within the foreboding gorge. Nothing moved, and the gelding’s hoofbeats echoed off the canyon walls with a ghostly clatter. Around every turn it was as though something waited, and the long ride had a telling effect. On edge and on guard, a man’s nerves were soon strung wire-tight.
Gathering the reins, Starbuck nudged the bay in the ribs and rode on. He deliberately turned his mind from the canyon to the gossipy revelations of Ed Houk. Last night, with a load of rotgut under his belt, the rancher had grown talkative. Hole-in-the-Wall, according to Hank, was home to cattle rustlers and horse thieves, as well as a collection of robbers and stone-cold killers. At any given time, their number varied, for their activities took them far and wide. Still, even a conservative estimate ranged upward of fifty or more. Under one name or another, the majority were fugitives from justice, with a price on their heads. And most were determined never to be taken alive.
Contrary to popular opinion, the outlaws were not organized. Some operated in small gangs, or teamed up for a particular job. But for the most part, Hole-in-the-Wall was populated by men with a philosophy all their own. Far too independent to conform—especially to the outside world’s laws and strictures—they saw no reason to impose codes on themselves within the mountain stronghold. No man was his brother’s keeper, and their general attitude was a rough form of individualism that pivoted around devil take the hindmost. By choice, their lives were beset with danger, and the eternal threat of a hangman’s noose. Yet, while they lived, they enjoyed a form of
freedom as addictive as opium. All they needed to earn a livelihood was a fast horse and a little savvy about cows. Or a quick gun and no great conscience.
Understandably enough, Houk in no way considered himself slightly windward of the law. He saw himself and the owners of the Bar C spread as neutrals in somebody else’s war. Their cattle outfits were on the fringe of civilization, and the law of might makes right prevailed. Forced to fend for themselves, they had formed an attitude toward the outlaws that was part trade-off and part accommodation. No one asked questions—or condemned the inhabitants of Hole-in-the-Wall—and no harm resulted. Whether they approved of the outlaws was beside the point, germane to nothing in the isolation of the High Plains. With no personal reason to be against the lawless element, they simply took a stand of live and let live. The badmen came and went as they pleased, and the ranchers studiously minded their own business. The trade-off was a mix of pragmatism and common sense. No one lost and everyone profited—each in his own way.
Shortly after the noon hour, Starbuck emerged from the canyon. Before him lay the valley of Hole-in-the-Wall. Some thirty miles long and two miles in breadth, the valley was split by a latticework of streams that fed into the Middle Fork of the Powder River. The streams were bordered by trees, and the valley floor resembled an emerald sea of graze. Cradled beneath high northern peaks, it was sheltered from blustery winds, and the forested mountainsides provided abundant game even in the coldest months. There was water, plenty of wood, and ample forage
for livestock. To a cattleman—or an outlaw—it lacked for nothing.
The Red Wall, directly across the valley, rose in a sheer thousand-foot palisade of rock. The windswept battlement stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, one great mass of vermilion-hued sandstone. To the west, the slope of the Big Horns climbed steadily skyward. Farther north, the mountains converged with the Red Wall, and ultimately vanished in cloud-covered pinnacles. The green of the valley stood out in sharp contrast between the sandstone wall and the blue-hazed mountains. There was a smell of crystal-clear air and sweet grass. And an almost oppressive sense of serenity.
The outlaw cabins were located where Buffalo Creek entered the valley and made a leisurely bend to the north. Spread out along the slope of the mountains, the cabins were constructed of logs and appeared large enough for no more than two or three men. Starbuck counted eight buildings altogether, each with its own log corral. There were no men in sight, and he assumed the noonday heat had driven them indoors. The corrals, however, gave testament to a comment made by Ed Houk last night. Outlaws valued their horses above all other possessions; a reliable mount often spelled the difference between life and death. Whether bought or stolen, the animals were selected with meticulous care. Speed and stamina were the qualities sought, and men who rode the owlhoot considered top-notch horseflesh an investment in their trade. The horses in the corrals merely underscored the point. There wasn’t a crowbait in the lot.
Starbuck held the bay to a walk. His inspection
of the cabins was casual, and he swung wide of the slope. Across the valley he spotted Little Hole-in-the-Wall, the old game trail, leading over the escarpment to Powder River country. From what Houk had told him, rustlers occasionally used the trail to spirit stolen livestock over the wall and into the valley. The primary entrance from the east, however, was some miles farther north. There, within the gap carved out by the Middle Fork of the Powder, was the true Hole-in-the-Wall. Horses and cattle were routinely driven through the gap from ranches in eastern Wyoming.
Once in the valley, there was little problem in hiding stolen livestock. The mountain slopes to the west were laced with hidden gullies and box canyons which made perfect holding pens. The outlaws also constructed cleverly concealed pole corrals in stands of trees along the streams. Farther up the slope, where timber was more abundant, dead trees were used to build an enclosure that resembled a blowdown. In each instance, the corrals were camouflaged and designed to fit in with the natural surroundings. The purpose, so far as Starbuck could determine, was to protect the livestock from fellow thieves. No one attempted to recover stolen stock from Hole-in-the-Wall.
Nor were the outlaws in imminent danger. The valley afforded them several natural hideouts, all of which were virtually invisible to an outsider. On the slope to the west, canyons and gullies concealed men with even greater ease than rustled livestock. Along the base of the Red Wall there were numerous caverns, with subterranean passages leading from one to the other. Anyone familiar with the layout could hide for days, perhaps months, with no fear of discovery.
Yet that, too, was a matter of small likelihood. No one was foolhardy enough to chase outlaws into the valley. Hole-in-the-Wall was a world unto itself, at once mysterious and deadly. And forever inviolate.
Ed Houk had revealed all these secrets and more last night. Starbuck was nonetheless leery; his cynicism had never betrayed him before, and a grain of salt seemed prudent where the rancher was concerned. For all his garrulous good humor, Houk hadn’t been totally forthcoming. The odds dictated that he knew exactly where to locate Mike Cassidy. But he’d evaded the question by steering Starbuck to the Bar C foreman, Hank Devoe. All that led to a reasonable assumption, and reinforced the need for caution. Houk was playing for time, and fully intended to warn Mike Cassidy. Before nightfall, the outlaw would have gotten the message. A stranger was inquiring about him—by name.
Starbuck considered it a matter of spilt milk. He’d asked the question—taken a calculated risk—and there was nothing to be gained in regrets. For now, however, he’d lost the element of surprise. His next step would be determined largely by what he learned from Hank Devoe. He steeled himself to give a memorable performance for the Bar C foreman. He would underplay the role, thereby lending Arapahoe Smith a certain larger-than-life deadliness. The character of a mankiller was, after all, one he understood completely. With only minor variations, the part was very much made to order.
He would play himself.
The Bar C headquarters was impressive. Substantial log buildings within the compound included a main
house, a large bunkhouse with attached cook shack, and several smaller outbuildings. Some distance beyond the bunkhouse was a log corral.
The compound was situated on a stretch of grassland ten miles north of the outlaw cabins. Easily identified, the spot was located where Buffalo Creek emptied into the Middle Fork of the Powder. Across the creek was another landmark—Steamboat Rock—a massive chunk of sandstone shaped along the lines of a paddle-wheeler. A mile or so due north of the compound, the river made a sharp turn eastward through the Red Wall. This narrow gap, formed by erosion along the riverbed, was the true Hole-in-the-Wall. The valley itself extended northward for another twelve miles beyond the compound. There the Red Wall joined the Big Horn Range.
Starbuck rode into the compound late that afternoon. By the size of the operation, he judged the Bar C would have a crew of no fewer than ten cowhands. The owners were a couple of wealthy cattlemen who seldom came anywhere near the ranch. He’d been told by Ed Houk that they lived in Cheyenne, and gave their foreman a free hand in running the outfit. If true, that made Hank Devoe a man of some stature in the valley. Operating a spread in the middle of Hole-in-the-Wall—while maintaining a neutral position toward the outlaws—would require the tact of a diplomat on foreign ground. And above all else, it would demand a tightlipped attitude toward outsiders.
Several things indicated that Devoe was no slouch at walking on thin ice. When the outlaws went east of the Red Wall, into Powder River country, their raids were generally conducted at night. Allowing time for trailing the cows westward, that meant they
would pass through Hole-in-the-Wall and enter the valley somewhere after sunrise. Which, in turn, meant the stolen livestock would be driven past the Bar C headquarters in broad daylight. It followed, then, that Devoe would have firsthand knowledge of the brands on the rustled cows. From there, it required no mental genius to deduce which ranches had been raided. He would, moreover, know the names of the outlaws who had pulled the job. All in all, it was dangerous information, especially if Devoe leaked it to the wrong people. Apparently he wore blinders and possessed the ability to button his lip. Otherwise, he would have long since taken a one-way trip to the boneyard.
Starbuck dismounted outside the main house. A moment later an ox of a man stepped through the door and walked forward. He was a big, rawboned fellow, standing well over six feet, with not an ounce of suet on his frame. His jaw was stuffed with a quid of tobacco, and his eyes were impersonal. His gaze swept Starbuck’s grizzled appearance, lingering an instant on the conchas belt and the crossdraw holster. Then he stopped, and nodded.
“Howdy.”
“Hullo yourself.” Starbuck’s tone was low, slightly abrasive. “I’m looking for Hank Devoe.”
“You’ve found him.” Devoe stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Arapahoe Smith.” Starbuck shook once, a hard up-and-down pump. “I was told you’re the man to see at Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“Who told you that?”
“Ed Houk.”
“You a friend of Ed’s?”
“Nope,” Starbuck said bluntly. “Never set eyes on him before yesterday.”
“Why’d he send you to me?”
“Mostly because he’s a piss-willie.”
Devoe hesitated, clearly surprised. “Ed wouldn’t take kindly to anybody talkin’ like that.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn whether he would or not.”
“You might if it got back to him.”
“Nothing I wouldn’t say to his face.”
“Suppose I told you Ed’s a friend of mine?”
“That’s your problem.”
“And if I took exception to you callin’ him names?”
“Then you’ve bought yourself a bigger problem.”
Starbuck’s manner was cold, and deadly. He’d learned early in life that confidence counted far more than the odds. A man assured of himself bred that same conviction in other men, and as a result, forever held the edge. His performance was calculated to create an impression, one that left no room for doubt. Arapahoe Smith was a man with an explosive temper and a short fuse. A killer.
Devoe’s appraisal of him was deliberate. After a time, the foreman turned his head and spat a brownish squirt of tobacco juice. He watched as it hit the ground and kicked up a puff of dust. Then he looked around.
“What makes you think Ed’s a piss-willie?”
“I asked him a simple question,” Starbuck said flatly. “He gave me a song and dance, and passed it along to you. I got the impression he don’t hardly take a leak without asking permission.”
“All depends on the question.” Devoe paused,
shifted the quid to the other side of his mouth. “Around here, there’s some questions better left unanswered.”
“I’m not one for loose talk, myself. All I want’s a civil answer and no ring-around-the-rosy.”
“Awright, go ahead and ask your question.”
“Whereabouts would I find Mike Cassidy?”
Devoe hawked as though he’d swallowed a bone. “Judas Priest! It’s no wonder Ed gave you the fast shuffle.”
Starbuck’s eyes took on a peculiar glitter. “I rode five hundred miles to hear the answer. So do yourself a favor, and don’t hand me another dummy routine.”
“Mr. Smith,” Devoe said hesitantly, “if I was to talk out of school about Mike, I wouldn’t last long anyway. To get answers, you got to give a few. Otherwise my lips are sewed shut.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“For openers—” Devoe stopped, met his gaze. “Who are you and where’re you from?”
“I already told you.” Starbuck looked annoyed. “The name’s Arapahoe Smith.”
“So you did,” Devoe agreed. “But you left out the where from.”
“Robbers Roost.”
“Are you wanted?”
“I sure as hell didn’t ride all the way up here for the scenery.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Murder.” Starbuck grinned crookedly. “A fellow asked me one too many questions, and I put a leak in his ticker.”
Devoe eyed him in silence a moment. “You a friend of Mike’s?”
“A secondhand friend,” Starbuck noted dryly. “Somebody down at Robbers Roost gave me his name.”
“Why so?”
“I had to light out pretty sudden, and Hole-in-the-Wall seemed the natural place to come. He told me Cassidy was a square shooter.”
“That’s it?” Devoe persisted. “You’re lookin’ for a place to lay low—nothin’ more?”
“Nothin’ more?” Starbuck rocked his head from side to side. “I don’t get your drift.”
“Lemme say it another way,” Devoe rumbled. “If you’re a lawman—or you’ve got some personal score to settle with Mike—then I’d advise you to make dust and not look back. It’s the only way you’ll ever leave here alive.”
“I’m no lawdog!” Starbuck bristled. “And I never even met Cassidy. So how the Christ could it be anything personal?”
“All I’m tryin’ to do is warn you.”
“Don’t do me any favors.” There was a hard edge to Starbuck’s voice. “You’ve had your answers and now I’ll have mine. Whereabouts do I find Cassidy?”
Devoe looked down and studied the ground. “I hope you’re who you say you are, Mr. Arapahoe Smith. If you’re not, then take my word for it—we’re both dead men!”
Starbuck laughed. “I aim to live awhile yet.”
“I’m mighty relieved to hear it.”
“And I’m still waiting for directions.”
Devoe considered a moment, then gave him a slow nod. “I take it you come in by way of Buffalo Creek Canyon?”
“You take it right.”
“Head back that direction,” Devoe said, motioning down the valley. “You recollect them cabins, on the west side of the creek?”
“I got pretty good eyesight.”
“Try the third cabin headed south. Last time I heard, that’s where Mike called home.”
“He bunk alone?” Starbuck asked. “Or does he have a pardner?”
“Search me.” Devoe shrugged noncommittally. “I stick to this end of the valley.”
Starbuck walked to his horse. He stepped into the saddle, then his gaze settled on Devoe. His mouth quirked and he bobbed his head.
“I always remember a favor, Mr. Devoe.”
“That’s a comforting thought, Mr. Smith.”
Starbuck chuckled and rode off down the valley.