Dark Canyon (1963) (17 page)

Holding a cup in his hands he glanced over at Colburn. "The last time I saw you I
worked
in, a store in Dodge. You rode for Pierce . . . came over the trail with him. You hadt the name of being a goot hand." He tasted his coffee, and glanced at Cruz with respect. "I chudge a man by his actions," he said.

When he was gone, Colburn looked after him, then smiled and said, "Riley, I never thought I'd really like a sheriff!"

Jim Colburn walked to the door with Riley. "All right, Lord," he said, at last, "we will stay . . . as long as we cause you no trouble."

"This will end it," Riley said.

"Then one last order from your old boss. Go see that girl, and don't waste time. Go
now!
"

Strat Spooner was, a careful man and he knew the penalty for molesting a woman in western country. But the time for thinking reasonably was past, for he was a man obsessed.

Moreover, with the country in a turmoil over the raid on the 5B, with the drifters leaving the country in all directions, it would be difficult if not impossible to say which one of so many had done what he planned to do at the Shattuck ranch.

He took his time, keeping to low country and utilizing every bit of cover, for he did not wish to be seen at all. Yet he made no effort to cover his tracks until he rode on the range that was claimed by Dan Shattuck. Once, from the shoulder of Horse Mountain, he saw Marie. She was riding with someone in a black coat, which could only mean Sampson McCarty or the doctor. And the chances were they would ride on toward town when she turned off to follow the trail to the Lazy S.

He checked his guns again. There was little to worry about. At this time of year Shattuck usually had only two hands aside from Pico. They would be miles away, over on the Horsehead where Shattuck ran most of his cattle.

The old cook was sure to be there, but he would offer no opposition.

From a hilltop near the ranch, Strat Spooner sat and smoked, watching the place. He saw Marie arrive alone, saw the cook come to the door to throw out some water, but after an hour he had seen nobody else. At this time of day, if anyone was on the place they would surely be moving around. He got to his feet, brushing off his pants.

He would go down there like he was riding the grub line. Nobody in the West ever turned down a hungry man. Once inside, the rest would be easy, and he would know in a few minutes if anyone else was around.

He felt oddly excited, but nervous too. His mouth was dry and he kept wetting his lips. He turned several times to look all around, but he saw no one. He rode into the ranch yard at a walk, eyes alert for any movement.

He knew the favorite horses of both Dan Shattuck and Pico, and both were gone.

He tied his horse with a slip knot and went up to the kitchen door, which stood open. He thrust his head into the door. "How's for some coffee?"

He looked past the cook at the open door that led to the rest of the house. From inside he heard faint stirrings of sound.

Baldwin, who had cooked for Dan Shattuck ever since they left Baltimore together, was frightened. He knew Strat Spooner, and knew that, while any man might stop for a bite
to eat, it was highly unlike
ly that Strat would stop, knowing how he was regarded on the Lazy S.

"Just in time," Baldwin said quietly. He filled a cup, and was surprised to see that his hand was trembling.

The old Negro was shrewd, and he realized that Spooner had not come here by accident. Moreover, he had arrived only a few minutes after Miss Marie had come in.

He placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table and a large slab of apple pie. He did not like Spooner, but the apple pie might put him in a pleasant mood, and might get him out of here. Mr. Shattuck and Pico had left hours ago . . . no telling when they would be back.

Strat Spooner sat down and picked up the coffee cup. His ears were alert to the slightest sound from the other part of the house, and he was sure only one person was there-at least, only one who moved about.

The kitchen was a spacious room; the adjoinin
g
room was the dining room where the crew ate, and Shattuck and his niece as well when they were not entertaining guests. Suddenly, he heard the sound of quick, light steps in the hall, and Marie came into the kitchen.

She stopped abruptly, chilled by fear. Strat Spooner, after what had happened upon the trail, would never dare come here unless certain she was alone.

"Howdy, ma'am," he said easily. "Glad to see you lookin' so well."

Fighting a desire to turn and run, she said "Ned, Uncle Dan will be back soon. You'd best prepare dinner for Pico too."

"That Riley feller had fighting friends," Spooner commented. "I never figured he was so much himself."

"Don't ever be foolish enough to try him," she replied coldly.

"Glad Shattuck and that Mexican ain't to home. That was the one thing had me puzzled."

Ned Baldwin regretted for the first time that he kept no gun in the kitchen. There never had been need for one, and he was not a man who liked guns, although he knew how to use one.

Marie turned as if to walk into the other part of the house, but Strat's voice stopped her. "Don't be in a hurry, Marie," he said. "I ain't through talking." "I have nothing to say to you," she replied.

"Set down," he said, indicating the seat opposite him. "Might as well join me."

Baldwin cleared his throat. "You finish your coffee, Spooner," he said, "and get out of here." A large butcher knife lay on the cutting board and he turned sharply toward it.

Without rising, Strat Spooner swung a backhand blow with the heavy white crockery cup and struck the old Negro on the temple. He dropped as if shot.

Marie ran to the old man, her face stricken. "You -you've killed him!"

"I doubt it." Spooner took out the makings and began to build a cigarette while he watched them. Then reaching out swiftly, he caught her arm and jerked her to her feet, and thrust her into the hall that led to the living room. Spurs jingling, he pushed her ahead of him, then threw her from him to a divan.

"No use to make any fuss," he said, drawing on his cigarette. "It ain't going to do you a mite of good." He flicked the ash from his cigarette and grinned insolently. "An' you'd better hope nobody comes. I'd only have to kill them."

"Pico will be coming!"

"That Mex don't worry me none." He crossed the room and took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard, and two glasses. He filled the glasses, put down the bottle, and handed a glass to her. "Here, have a drink. An' don't say I ain't generous."

"I don't drink."

Spooner was enjoying himself, but his eyes kept straying toward the windows. He was not going to hurry this, nor was he going to be surprised.

"Have one anyway."

"No!"

The amused smile left his lips. "You take it, and you drink! Otherwise I'll force it down you."

She took the glass, then deliberately she threw the whiskey at his eyes; but he had been expecting some such move and struck her hand. She would not have believed a big man could move so swiftly. He knocked the glass from her hand, then slapped her with his open palm.

The blow brought her to her knees, but almost instantly she was on her feet, her head ringing with the force of the blow. Quickly, she put the table between them. Picking up the bottle he took anothe
r
drink; then, smiling, he reached over to the tabl
e
and pushed it slowly toward the wall. There was n
o
place to go, and there was no weapon in the room.

And then they both heard a walking horse outside.

Spooner swore and, drawing his gun, stepped quickly to the side of a window. Then he laughed. A riderless horse stood in the yard, and it was Dan Shattuck's horse.

Pico, in taking Shattuck to the Riley ranch, had caught the nearest horse, which happened to be Hardcastle's. Left alone, Shattuck's horse had returned home.

Spooner turned back to the room. "Honey, you'd better be nice to Strat. Your uncle ain't
comin
' home. That was his horse, and there's blood on the saddle."

Unmindful of Spooner, she ran to the window and caught back the curtain. One rein was hung around the pommel, the other dragged on the ground. There was blood on the saddle, and some across the side of the horse.

A floor board creaked and she dodged away just in time, for Spooner was almost upon her. Swiftly she moved away, turning a chair into his path. He stopped for another drink, took it while watching her with an amused smile, and came on. . . .

Gaylord Riley had also seen the riderless horse, and recognized it. He slowed up, wondering what to tell Marie about her uncle. His horse was walking in from the woods, and not on the main trail, and an instant before he entered the yard he saw Strat Spooner's horse.

He remembered the horse clearly from the attack that morning, and Kehoe had told him about the scene he had interrupted at the creek.

In an instant he was on the ground and was walking swiftly toward the kitchen door, his eyes shiftin
g
from window to window. The door was closed, but easing. it gently open, he saw the cook lying on the floor, his head bloody from a lacerated scalp.

From the living room he heard a man's low chuckle, and then a sudden scurry of movement. Tiptoeing to the door, he saw Spooner standing facing Marie, half turned toward him.

There was fear in Marie's eyes, the fear of a trapped animal. Seeing it, Riley felt something rise inside him, a feeling he had felt to that same degree since the night those men had killed his father.

"Hello, Strat," he said.

Marie gasped, and Strat's shoulders bunched as if he had been struck. The big gunman turned slowly, looking at Riley, then beyond him. Riley was alone.

"Hello, kid." Spooner knew what he was going to do, and he was completely at ease. "Ready to die?" Taking a quick step, Spooner put himself behind Marie, with the girl directly in Riley's line of fire. But even as he stepped, she divined his purpose. As Spooner's hand swept down for his gun, she dropped to the floor.

Gaylord Riley felt a coldness within him, an utter stillness. He took a quick, light step to the left, putting Marie still more out of the line of fire, and as he moved, he palmed his gun and fired.

Spooner's bullet burned his neck. He felt the sharp lash of it as he fired. Hip high, his elbow at the hip, the muzzle of his gun ever so slightly turned inward toward the center of Spooner's body, he fired again. He felt a wicked blow on his leg and it started to buckle as he fired his third shot. The bullet struck Spooner's gun, glancing upward, ripping a wide gash in his throat under his chin and ear.

Strat Spooner backed up slowly, blinking his eyes, trying to steady his gun for a final shot. He was hurt
,
but he had no idea how badly. Eyes wild and terrible, he tried to steady his gun for a final shot.

Riley crumpled to the floor, felt the whip of a bullet by his face and, rolling back on his elbow, he triggered his gun as fast as he could draw back the hammer. The roar of the concussions filled the room, then the hammer clicked on an empty shell. Splinters stung Riley's cheek and his eardrums went dead with the crash of a bullet into the floor alongside him.

Hurling his gun, Riley dove for Spooner's legs and brought him down in a heap. Rolling over, he saw Spooner, his face and throat covered with blood, grabbing for his eyes with rigid fingers. Striking the hands aside, Riley struck the gunman in the face with his fist, but he seemed invulnerable.

He lunged at Riley, and Riley rolled away from him, then came up to his knees. His hand swept back and grabbed the neck of the bottle behind him. He swung the bottle, a wide-arm swing with all his force, and it smashed against Spooner's skull, shattering glass.

Spooner slumped over on his face, struggled to get
his
hands under himself, and then, staring at Riley with wide eyes, he said, "Brazos . . . I know you now. That two-by-four kid from the Brazos!"

He got to his feet then, took two long strides, and smashed into the wall. He fell face down and rolled over and was dead.

Marie rushed to Riley and they clung to each other until a groan from the kitchen startled them. Riley attempted a step, but his leg buckled under him, and then the shock was gone and for the first time he felt weakness and pain.

Much later, when he was stretched on a bed, and Doc Beaman had come and gone, she asked him, "What did he mean ..
about a two-by-four kid from the Brazos?"

"That's where I grew up. All of a sudden he mus
t
have remembered me from there. Seems a long time ago."

If you should come, after the passing of years, across the sagebrush levels where the lupine grows, and if by winding trails you should come to the slopes of aspen and pine, you might draw rein for a while among the columbine and mariposa lilies, and listen to the wind.

Do not look there, at the foot of the Sweet Alice Hills, for the house of Riley, for it is gone. Over the changing seasons only the hills remain the same. Yet if you should ride across the broken red lands to where the Colorado rolls, beyond Dandy Crossing you will find the trail they followed from Spanish Fork no easier.