Conagher (1969) (11 page)

Where
?

Sitting down on a bench, Conaghe r traced out the route .
Now you hold to it.

Don't try no short cuts, because there ain'
t any in that country. Keep a sharp watc h out for Indians . . . maybe they'll be there , maybe they won't. The man we want i s trappin' back yonderhis name is Chi p Euston. I don't have any idea whethe r he'll come, but if he does come he'll b e worth any three of those outlaws .

When Johnny McGivern rode off , taking a route that would avoid towns , Conn rode out on the trail down whic h he expected the Ladder Five to come.

When he got out a way, he rode of f the trail, climbed a ridge, and bedde d down where he could look around hi m and listen.

He was trusting more to his horse tha n to himself. He had deliberately chosen a mountain-bred mustang, a horse only a few months away from running wild. H
e wanted a horse that was spooky . . . tha t would hear every sound . . . and a hors e could both see and hear better than a man.

He slept fitfully, awakening to listen an d look, dozing off again. At daylight th e country was empty as far as his eyes coul d reach. A slow smoke lifted from th e chimney at the ranch, and wearily h e climbed into the saddle and rode back.

They didn't come , Tay said.
j No, but they will. They will .

He went to the bunk house and tumble d into his bunk and slept.

Tay and Leggett could keep watch. H
e would sleep.

FOR some time after he awoke he la y still, staring up at the bottom of th e bunk above him. The room wa s shadowed and still, and he heard no soun d outside. He was still tired, but he ha d often been tired, and simply being so di d not offer a reason for lying abed.

But he was more than tired. An d perhaps because he was tired he wa s feeling again that dreadful, depressin g loneliness that came to him sometimes.

Was it that which led him to fight for th e brand for which he rode? Was it actuall y because he was an honest man, or was i t simply that he clung to the brand, th e outfit for which he rode, as the one stabl e thing in his transient world?

He was not, he told himself, gifted wit h much imagination. He simply did wha t had to be done, and his code of ethics wa s the code of his father, his family, and hi s time. It would be easy, he told himself , to throw everything overboard and disclai m any responsibility. All he had to d o was saddle up and ride out of the country.

It sounded easy, but it was not that easy , even if a man could leave behind his sens e of guilt at having deserted a cause. To be a man was to be responsible. It was a s simple as that. To be a man was to buil d something, to try to make the world abou t him a bit easier to live in for himself an d those who followed.

You could sneer at that, you could scoff , you could refuse to acknowledge it, bu t when it came right down to it, Con n decided it was the man who planted a tree , dug a well, or graded a road who mattered.

He was a lonerhe had always been a loner. He was as covered with spines a s any porcupine. He was cantankerous an d edgy. Outwardly easy-going, he shie d away from people, wary of the trap s surrounding people that could lead t o trouble. Yet once in trouble, he knew of n o other way than to fight it out to a finish.

Conagher had worked too hard to o many times to like a thief or a vandal wh o would steal or destroy the efforts of othe r men. Maybe in the last analysis what the y said of him was true, that he didn't give a damnabout himself or those who got i n his way. He did have a few principles, an d he had not thought much about them.

They were few, they were simple, the y were his. And he lived by them.

He swung his feet to the floor an d fumbled for his socks. He would have t o stay put long enough to do some laundry , he decided, looking at a sock. He pulled i t on, and then the other, tugged on hi s boots, and stamped into them.

He reached for his gunbelt, slung i t about his hips, and went to the door.

The bullet struck the door jamb , scattering splinters, and he jerked back s o sharply he almost fell. Wheeling around , he ran for his Winchester.

The door was standing open now, bu t there was no other sound from outside. H
e glanced at the place where the bullet ha d hit, and then from well back in the roo m he knelt down and followed its probabl e trajectory to a low hill a good four hundre d yards away. Back in the shadows of th e interior of the bunk house, he studied tha t hill. Then he moved farther back to th e second window, which was well towar d the back of the building. As he thought , the view from that window was obscure d by the corner posts of the corral and it s watering trough.

There was no sound from the house.

The horses were quiet in the corral.

Moving around, he studied the view fro m the two windows on the opposite side o f the bunk house.

Was this an all-out attack? Or was it th e work of one disgruntled enemy?

Where was Johnny McGivern? Wher e were the Old Man and Leggett? Then h e remembered: he had sent McGivern int o the mountains to recruit Chip Euston i f possible.

The windows on the far side of the bun k house looked toward the stable and to th e open range beyond, but Conn distruste d what he saw. The plain out there looke d too level and innocent; there could be dip s and hollows that could hide the body of a man. He had a hunch that was the idea: f irst, the shot from the other side, then h e was to try to get out on the far side, an d when well out of the window he would b e killed.

He moved restlessly from window t o window. That man out there on the grass , if there was one, had better be a goo d Indian, because he was going to have t o wait . . . and wait.

Conagher liked the look of the corra l post and the trough. It was the best cover , but for the time being he would simpl y watch and wait.

Nothing moved out there. The bun k house was strongly built and could stand a long attack if necessary. As yet he had no t fired a shot, and they might believe he wa s dead. They had shot as he started to leav e the door, and he had fallen back out o f sight. If they did believe it they woul d soon come to investigate.

The floor of the bunk house wa s puncheon and did not squeak, so the y could not hear any movements within. A s low half-hour passed. He poured a cup o f coffee from the pot that sat on the stove. I t was strong and scalding, but it taste d good.

He was in no hurry. Conn Conaghe r had lived through too many range wars , too many Indian troubles to hurry. H
e knew how those men felt out there in th e open. They had taken up their position s before daylight, and they had now bee n waiting three hours or more. During al l that time they had had a chance to fire onl y once.

The night had been cold, but the chil l was leaving the air now, and it would b e getting warm out there. No doubt the y had water, but he had shelter, coffee, an d plenty of ammunition. Let 'em wait.

Nevertheless, he went from window t o window, always remaining well back in th e room where there was less chance of bein g seen. There was a limit to patience, unles s you were an Indian, or Conn Conagher.

Suddenly he saw movement, or rathe r the shadow of movement beyond th e corral. Somebody had crept along th e ground close to the corral on the opposit e side, and was nearing a post at the corne r identical with the one Conn had planne d to use for cover. From the window wher e he now watched he could not see th e crawler, but he could see tiny puffs of dus t from his movements. There was a chanc e that when he reached the end of the corral , with the protection of the post and th e buttressing posts that strengthened th e corners, he would rise to a standin g position. And when he did he would sho w a portion of his body between the poles o f the corral.

Conagher took a quick run around th e windows, glancing out, and then cam e back. Again he saw a tiny puff of dust. H
e eased the window up, and it made n o sound. Carefully, he took aim at th e opening that seemed to offer the bes t chance. He took up the slack on th e trigger, set his sight picture on a point o f the gap nearest the post, and waited.

Perspiration trickled down his cheek , down his neck. The morning had grow n warmer and he was close to the stove. H
e held his slack and continued to wait.

Suddenly a spot of blue showed wher e he held his aim, and he squeezed off hi s shot.

He heard the thud of the bullet, for th e man was no more than sixty feet away.

The thud sounded so loud that for a moment he believed he had hit one of th e poles, but then he heard the clatter of a rifle against the poles as it fell, and th e moan of a man who has been hard hit.

It was the first shot he had fired, an d only the second shot fired since the attac k began.

There were no answering shots, an d there was no movement. For severa l minutes he waited, moving from windo w to window, expecting an attack now ... o r would they still wait, perhaps until dark?

Suddenly he heard a shuddering groa n from the man beyond the corral.

You hit bad
?
he asked, hoping hi s voice would carry no further than th e wounded man.

Yes, damn you
!

Well, you came askin' for it. I didn'
t put out no invitations .

There was no reply, and after a bit h e said , If you want to call your friends, I'l l let 'em come get you, but the first one wh o lifts a gun gets killed .

They won't believe you .

That's your problem. I'll see no ma n suffer, and whoever you are, I'd advise yo u if you live through this to get yoursel f some new friends ... if they don't com e after you .

I can't... I couldn't make 'em hear .

The injured man's voice sounded weak , and Conagher moved to the door an d called out: ?You got a hurt man dow n here. If you want to come get him, leav e your rifles behind and come on. I'll kill th e first man who tries a shot .

There was a long silence, then all of a sudden a voice rang out , Hold your fire!

I'm coming down !

The man stood up, half crouching as i f ready to fall back, but when there was n o shot he came on, slowly at first. He wa s young, curly-haired . . . Conagher ha d heard of him. Scott, his name was, a ne w recruit.

He ain't turned sour yet , Conaghe r said .
There's a chance for him .

He spoke to himself, but he said it lou d enough for the wounded man to hear, if h e was conscious. Conagher's shot probabl y had gone through his body side to side , but that was only a guess. When he ha d fired he thought he saw the tips of th e cartridges in the man's belt just under hi s aiming point, but he could not be sure.

Scott was coming on down the slope. H
e had slowed some more, but he was walkin g along.

The boy's got sand , Conagher said , speaking aloud again , and he's got som e show-oflf in him, too. He's taking this like a big Injun .

Scott had reached the wounded ma n now, and he stood up straight .
Yo u inside! I can't carry this man! He'd di e before we'd gone any distance. He's gutshot , and bad .

Was it a trick? Conagher wasn't worrie d about tricks. Those that he hadn't use d himself had been used on him .
All right , kid, bring him on inside .

You want me to drop my gunbelt ?

You keep your gun. And if you fee l lucky, grab for it. I'll not kill any man wh o isn't packing iron .

Scott picked up the wounded man an d carried him to the bunk-house door , brought him inside, and put him dow n gently on a bunk.

The wounded man was Hi Jackson, on e of the two men Conagher had encountere d at Horse Spring station. Blood soaked th e lower part of his shirt and the front of hi s pants around the belt. The bullet, a s Conagher has surmised, had gone in at on e side and out the other, and it was an ugl y wound.

Scott's face was pale. Evidently he ha d not seen much blood before, and now i t was on his own shirt and hands.

You can wash up outside the door , Conagher said , if you want to chance it .

Scott glanced at him .
You must b e Conagher. You don't think much of us, d o you ?

A bunch of damn two-bit thieves tha t would rustle an old man's cows? No, I don't think much of you. If Smoke Parnel l had the guts of a mouse he'd get out an d earn himself a living instead of robbing ol d men .

The boy flushed, and Conagher studie d him coldly .
No, kid, if you want to know , I don't see anything a damn bit excitin g about what you're doin' now. I don't thin k it takes nerve, and I don't think it'
s romantic, like some folks seem to think.

The outfit you're tied up with are a bunc h of dry-gulchin' thieves .

Scott turned to go .
You better do som e thinkin', boy , Conagher said .
You loo k like you had the makings, and it took san d to come down here after this man. Look a t your hole card, kid, and quit this bunch .

They're my friends .

They were his friends, too. The y knowed him a lot longer than you have , but who came after him? And who'd com e after you? Kid, it's just pure luck tha t you're standin' here talkin' with m e instead of lyin' on that bunk, gut-shot .