Range Rebel (Prologue Western) Read online

  He started along the lip of the canyon, picking his way through masses of shattered rock and thick brush. Sweat worked through his clothing and soaked it. His throat was harsh and dry when at last he reached a place close to Ruins Canyon. He rested again, scanning the country. The sun flashed from something down in Twelve Mile Canyon. He shaded his fieldglasses with his hat and focussed them on the canyon. A lone horseman was riding slowly south along the littered floor of the canyon. The glasses picked out the hatchet face of Mick Ochoa. Dave cursed. That human bloodhound was probably on his trail. The breed rode to the mouth of Ruins Canyon. He dismounted and studied the ground, for all the world like a questing hound. It was too long a shot for the stubby Spencer, although Dave was almost tempted to send down a lead calling card.

  The breed led his horse out of sight. Dave waited for him to reappear from behind a huge, naked shoulder of rock. Ochoa did not appear. Dave felt cold sweat work down his sides. Ochoa had either gone into Ruins Canyon or was waiting down there for some purpose of his own. Dave cased his glasses and plodded on to the rim of Ruins Canyon after two detours. It took him an hour and a half to reach the crumbling brink. There was no sign of life in the great trough. Ochoa was not in sight.

  Dave looked back. It would be after dark by the time he reached the place where he had ascended. He decided to look for a place to work his way down into the canyon. He made a sling from his scarf for the Spencer and slung the weapon across his back. The going was easy at first, but by the time he had reached the bottom he had lost a spur, some of the skin from one hand and the skin from both knees. He sat down for a time, panting from his exertions. The canyon was still devoid of life. Shadows were beginning to form at the west end of the canyon. As he walked toward his hideout he stopped short and then darted into the brush. There was a fresh pile of horse droppings in an open area amongst the mesquite. Dave cut through the brush toward the off-shoot. Brazos neighed a welcome. The picket line had not been broken. Dave watered Brazos from his hat. There was no doubt in Dave’s mind that Mick Ochoa had been in Ruins Canyon.

  Dave went up to his cool hideout and ate, stretching out on his blankets for a rest. He had a long, hard ride ahead of him that night. It was dark when he awoke. A cold wind searched through the canyon. He went down to the claybank. As he mounted he seemed to hear something borne to him on the moaning wind. A low noise which he couldn’t identify. He rode into Twelve Mile and north until he reached the creek where he watered Brazos. The creek road was silvered by the rising moon as he rode east. The moon was full up when he reached a point half a mile from Deep Spring. He picketed Brazos in a brushy draw and left his Spencer in its sheath.

  Dave followed the creek until he saw the first buildings of the town. He walked along the dark street which bordered the rushing creek. The lights were on in the back room of Cass Simmons’ General Store. He worked his way up the side of the building until he could see the front. The store was dark. He went to the back and peered into a window. Cass Simmons was working at a littered roll-top desk. Dave bent down and spoke through the partly open window. “Cass! Cass Simmons!”

  Cass started. “Who is it?”

  “Dave Yeamans. Let me in.”

  Simmons cursed. He opened the door and came outside to close the shutter over the window. Dave walked into the office. Cass locked the door behind him. “You damned idiot!” he said. “Bart Edrick and his men are looking all over for you.”

  Dave sat down. “They won’t think of looking for me here.”

  Simmons took a bottle and filled two glasses. “No, but don’t stretch your luck. Where you heading for?”

  “I’m sticking around here.”

  “You’re loco! Bad enough you had to larrup Shorty Ganoe, but you have to wing one of Edrick’s other boys too.”

  “I didn’t do it, Cass.”

  “So? That ain’t the way I heard it.”

  Dave told the storekeeper what had happened. Simmons nodded. “Vidal was in here today, stocking up. Said he was thinking of hiring half a dozen good gunslingers. I told him to just keep out of a range war. The silly bastard laughed at me! I’m worried about Leslie, Dave.”

  Dave downed his drink and allowed Cass to refill the glass. “Vidal is a troublemaker.”

  “You’re telling me? He swaggered up and down Front Street like he was waiting for trouble to start.”

  “He’ll get it.”

  Simmons wiped his mouth. “Slim Edwards is dying.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The man you were supposed to have winged. Doc Yarrow says it’s pneumonia.”

  Dave felt a ball of ice form in his gut. “They’ll have a murder warrant out for me soon then.”

  Simmons tapped Dave’s knee with a bony finger. “You won’t have a chance better’n a snowball in hell when Edrick’s boys get after you. Any time a Lazy E man has been killed the man who done it never reached the calabozo. Sort of an unwritten law of the Lazy E corrida. Why don’tcha pull out of this country?”

  Dave emptied his glass and rolled a smoke. “I don’t aim to be carajoed out of here.”

  “You’ll end up with a hole in your back or like a cottonwood blossom hanging from a hemp stem!”

  Dave eyed the older man. “Maybe.”

  “Why are you stickin’?”

  Dave lit his smoke. “I don’t like to see Leslie Waite run out of here by Edrick. And I don’t like Jesse Vidal! He fired the shot that hit Edwards. He and Hollis made it look like I did it to get me off the Double W. I broke away from Bart Edrick because I knew damned well I’d never reach the juzgado here in Deep Spring unless I was slung over a horse with lead weighting me down considerable.”

  Simmons leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarillo. “I don’t know why I trust you, Yeamans, but you strike me right. That larruping you gave Shorty Ganoe did my heart good. You ain’t no lone wolf working against these boys.”

  “So? I’ve been damned lonely so far.”

  Simmons got up and padded to the front of the dark store. He came back into the office and unlocked the door to peer up and down the dark half street behind the store. He sat down and drew his chair closer to Dave’s. “For some time some of the smaller ranchers and a few of the bigger ranchers have been working to uncover this rustling ring. We hired a stock detective to watch Edrick.”

  “We?”

  Simmons nodded. “I’ve got money invested in several small spreads. Besides Deep Spring business has been hurt by these ladinos around here. A lot of ranchers who do business with me are talking of selling out. I’ll go under if they do. I need their business. Anyway, we have a man watching Dan Edrick.”

  “Who?”

  “You know him. Mort Hastings.”

  “Well I’ll be damned!”

  “A good man. Worked for Pinkerton in Wyoming and Colorado.”

  Dave refilled his glass. The rye was good. “Has he uncovered anything yet?”

  “Not much. If Dan Edrick is mixed up in the rustling he’s managed to keep his trail pretty well covered up.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  Simmons shrugged. “Damned if we know! All we do know is that a helluva lot of cows are missing. We estimate between five hundred and a thousand beefs are gone.”

  “Where could they dispose of them?”

  “You have me there. None of them have showed up within miles of here. Leads us to think they never left the country.”

  Dave nodded. “I’m with you on that.”

  Simmons puffed at his smoke. “As long as you’re stubborn as an old mossyhorn, and won’t hightail outa here, you might as well do some good. You want to work for the Association?”

  Dave scratched his bristly jaw. “I’d rather work alone.”

  “What chance have you got working like a damned lobo? Throw in with us. You’ll need all the help you can get.”

  Dave shrugged. “It’s a deal then. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay hidden. Poke about. As soon as you get a le
ad let me know.”

  “How about Hastings?”

  “I’ll tip him off.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is he still working with the Lazy E?”

  “Yes.”

  Dave watched the storekeeper fill the glasses. “Damned odd he hasn’t learned anything out at the Lazy E.”

  “If Dan Edrick is mixed up in the sticky looping he’s as slick as a greased pig about it.”

  Dave drained his glass. “I’ll get out of here now.”

  “Where can we reach you?”

  “Leave any messages under the west end of the bridge where the valley road joins the creek road. Don’t mention my name.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Dave drew out his Starr. “Get me some cartridges for this. A box of Spencer .56/56. Bacon, flour, canned food, embalmed beef, tobacco, coffee and salt. You have any good rope?”

  “All you want.”

  “ ’Sta bueno! About one hundred and fifty feet strong enough to hold a man.”

  Simmons bustled about the dark shop and then came back with a full sack. He slipped in a bottle of rye. “For the night chill,” he said.

  “Make out a bill.”

  Cass gripped Dave’s shoulders with a long arm. “It’s on me, Davie.”

  “Thanks then. I’ll be on my way.”

  Simmons doused the light. “Be careful,” he said seriously. “This is a damned dangerous business.”

  Dave grinned in the darkness. “Nothing new for me, Cass. I was a scout for the Fifth Texas.” Dave picked up his sack and faded into the shadows.

  eight

  IN THE WEEK THAT FOLLOWED Dave’s visit to Cass Simmons he managed to explore some of the most confusing, tangled country he had ever encountered. Masses of fallen rock, fields of shin tangle brush, sedge and shinnery, box canyons and trails that ended abruptly. He floundered through piles of bone-gray flood wood and many times was forced to backtrail for miles to extricate himself from the jungle of shattered rock and huge naked ridges that thrust rough shoulders out of the very earth itself. His beard grew and his clothing was tattered. Once he had a hard fall from a rock face and lay stunned for half an hour. He put the rope to good use. At the end of the week he had learned nothing while his body felt like a herd of ladinos had trampled it.

  He rested for a full day in his hideout, mulling over everything that had transpired to date. There were no real clues. He had almost fallen asleep when something came to him as though the soft voice of a dead man had spoken over his shoulder. The voice of Cooper Jones who had died when the masked longloopers had taken the herd from Cup Valley. “Rile … Rile … Rile the voice seemed to breathe hollowly. He turned quickly but he was alone. Dave sat up and filled his pipe. It was the only word, or name, that had been mentioned so far as having something to do with the rustling. Everything else had been shrouded in shadowy mystery.

  Dave propped himself against the wall. “Rile might have been Riley,” he mused. “A slim lead, but it’s the only one we have so far. I’ll be damned if I can find any trace of cattle in this malpais jungle!” Dave pulled on his paper-thin boots and picked up his Spencer. He went down, saddled Brazos and headed the claybank north down Twelve Mile.

  There was a faint light from the old moon when Dave reached the bridge. He snapped a lucifer on his thumb and inspected the underside of the old bridge. He touched a fold of oil cloth. He unwrapped it. There was a fold of paper in it. He went back into the deep brush and lit another match, reading softly from the paper.

  “Jesse Vidal is now foreman of the Double W. Has hired three hard cases; Jonce Wilde, Tom Bowman, Chili Vegas, Double W stocking up on cattle. Double W corrida has had a brush with small number of masked men who tried to stampede small herd near ranch. Dan Edrick and some of the Lazy E corrida plan to scout Twelve Mile Canyon area soon. Slim Edwards died of pneumonia brought on by wound. Warrant for murder against you issued by Sheriff Bart Edrick. Mick Ochoa and Shorty Ganoe haven’t been around Lazy E. No trace of missing cattle as yet.”

  Dave tore off a piece of the paper and wrote a message.

  Anyone by the name of Rile, or Riley, known to you? Possibly Lazy E man. Important. No trace of cattle found as yet.

  Dave folded it in the oilcloth and took it back to the bridge. He mounted Brazos and rode toward the Double W.

  Dave left Brazos at the mouth of Cup Valley and went in on foot. The bitter odor of woodsmoke came to him as he entered the valley. There was a small herd bedded on a nearby slope. Dave walked back into the bigger valley. He led Brazos for a time and then rode toward the ranch. He hid the claybank in the same arroyo he had used the night he had stolen the guns from the ranch. As he neared the ranch he shook off a driving impulse to see Leslie. He dropped behind a rock outcropping and studied the ranch. There were quite a few horses in the corral. A small group of steers was on the slope beyond the buildings. Dave snaked forward, trailing his Spencer. He was within a hundred yards of the house when the butt struck a rock. The sharp sound carried clearly on the night air.

  Dave lay still for a time and then raised his head. A rifle flashed in the darkness near a shed. The slug bounced from a rock ten feet from Dave and sang thinly through the air. He rolled down a slope as the bunkhouse door banged open. A man yelled something which Dave could not make out. He trotted back toward Brazos. The rifle spat again.

  Dave mounted Brazos and urged him toward the road. Hoofs clashed on the hard earth behind him. Dave struck his one spur against Brazos and took off, jumping up a lot of dust. Men yelled and a rifle flatted off in the darkness. The rangy claybank split the wind. Dave looked back, making out the shadowy forms of two men racing after him. He levered a round into the repeater and snapped a shot behind him. He fired again, sheathed the Spencer, and looked back. He had slowed them down. Dave grinned. He rode hard, letting Brazos full out. He cut off the road, topped a low ridge and shot down the slope to draw rein in a small motte where he waited until he heard the hammering hoofs go back on the valley road.

  Dave dismounted and led the claybank south, keeping away from the valley road. He heard the two men ride back toward the Double W. There was a faint suggestion of the false dawn in the eastern sky as he entered Twelve Mile Canyon. He was bone-weary as he reached Ruins Canyon, picketed Brazos, and climbed slowly to his hide-out. Vidal was prepared for a range war all right. Part of the false dawn in the eastern sky as he entered Twelve at the ranch; riflemen on watch at the ranch for any intruders. Dave pulled off his boots and thoughtfully rubbed his feet. He could raise hell with Vidal’s plans, if he had any desire to give the Double W trouble, but he wasn’t fighting against Leslie, Jesse Vidal was his huckleberry.

  Dave slept until the sun was well up and then cooked and ate a big breakfast. He looked out of his hide-out after he had doused his fire. He swore and jumped for his rifle, cocking it, and eyeing the lone horseman who slowly picked his way across the brushy floor of the canyon, scanning the high walls. Dave uncased his glasses and focussed them on the rider. The lean, serious face of Mort Hastings swam into view. There was no one else in the canyon.

  Dave’s natural suspicion kept him undecided what to do until he realized he must trust someone. He hadn’t done any good working alone. He stepped out on the terrace and waved his hat. Mort moved like a well-oiled machine. He was off his horse in a flash, slapping the bay’s rump and jerking his rifle out. He dropped into the brush as the bay trotted away. Dave grinned. The stock detective wasn’t taking any chances either. The sun glinted on fieldglasses in the brush. Dave took off his hat and waved his hand. Hastings stood up and waved back, then walked to his horse and rode to the foot of the trail where he met Dave. Dave smiled. “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “I had a feeling you were in here somewhere. Why didn’t you tell Cass where you were hiding?”

  “Why take chances?”

  “Yeh, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  Dave pointed
to the off-shoot. “Take your cayuse in there. I’ll heat the coffee up in my mansion.”

  When Hastings came into the dwelling he looked around in appreciation. “Very snug. Ghosts bother you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I might be uncomfortable in here. I’ve got too much imagination.”

  Dave filled the cups and handed one to Hastings. He studied the agent as he drank. Hastings was long of face and nose, with a pair of keen gray eyes. A drooping dragoon mustache hung over his wide mouth. A stag-butted Colt was hung at his left side for a cross-arm draw. It was his rifle that interested Dave. It was a Sharps, but shorter than the issue Sharps. Yet it was longer than the issue carbine. Dave took the heavy weapon in his hands. “Special job?” he asked.

  Hastings shook his head. “U.S. issue. 1862. It had a thirty inch barrel but I had it cut down to twenty-six inches. Makes it easier to handle on a horse. It’s still four inches longer than the issue carbine though.”

  “Most men carry repeaters now. Henrys or Spencers.”

  Hastings drained his cup. “I’ve always had good luck with the Sharps.”

  Dave leaned the rifle against the wall. “What’s up?” he asked.