Passin' Through (1985) (14 page)

Somebody either had money to spend or Beacham owed somebody a favor.

Amongst some trees on a low knoll back from the trail I made a late, cold camp. If by some chance Pan Beacham was followin' me, I wasn't goin' to send up a smoke to bring him to me. Picketing my horses on the grass inside the cluster of trees, I bedded down in the shadows and slept, trusting my horses would warn me.

An hour before daylight I came down from the trees and headed east.

For a man wary of trouble I'd picked up a lot of people who were huntin' my hide, and when I rode out that morning I had a nasty feelin'. Trouble was riding my way and I'd best get set for it. I shucked my rifle and checked the loads, though I didn't need to. I held that rifle in my hands.

Did they know I had three horses? I doubted it. Beacham might, for he'd be checking around, making sure of things. Suddenly I left the trail and rode up into the trees. For a few minutes I sat my horse, studying the country around. Keeping under cover was not going to be easy, and those hunting me might know the country better than I.

My fingers rubbed the stubble on my jaw. Before I saw any womenfolk I was going to have to shave. Nothing moved back along the trail, nor in the country around. So why was I jumpy? And I was. I wiped my hands on my shirtfront and squinted, looking over the sunlit land before me.

Riding out of the trees, I kept to low ground, skirting the base of a tree-clad ridge. Suddenly, I pulled up, listening. I'd heard a horse running, or was I imagining it?

My eyes swept the country again. There was no dust, but there wouldn't be in this grass-covered country. The valley was wide, broken by occasional low ridges and knolls, mostly fringed with trees. There were a couple of small streams. Wary of open country, I headed back into the trees, working my way toward higher country.

Abruptly, I turned at right angles to the route I'd been following and dipped deeper into the trees, seeking open areas in the woods or game trails.

Slowly I worked my way through the trees, across open glades abloom with wildflowers, into the shadowed forest again, pausing now and again to listen. There was just no way I could travel with three horses in this kind of country and not leave a trail, and I had to ride wary for more reason than them who followed, for I did not know the country and did not want to be trapped in a cul-de-sac somewhere.

Swinging wide to avoid a patch of thistles, I glimpsed an opening in the forest and looked down where I'd been traveling. As I looked, four riders came into sight, one of them riding a horse Lew Paine rode. It was probably him.

They pulled up, looking along the mountain ahead of me. One of them pointed toward something and they started toward it.

Not hesitating, I started down the side of the hill toward them. By the time I reached the edge of the woods they were gone, so I crossed their trail and headed south and away from them.

By noontime I was butting up against the west side of a towering mesa split with canyons, all pointing their fingers at me as if beckoning. As I wasn't hunting a fight, I headed that way and stumbled on a trail, it was a dim trail, not traveled much, but I was in no position to be choosy.

It was slow going, and the worst of it was if anybody looked back that way they might glimpse me from time to time. In my favor was the fact that they'd never expect me to be going where I was.

The trail switched back and forth a couple of times, working its way up the steep side. Not knowing this country well, I could just guess that I was climbing the north rim of Mesa Verde, but it might be another mesa further west.

Standing among the cedars atop the ridge, I studied my back trail. There was no sign of movement, and if my luck held they would be looking for me off to the east where I should have been. From where I stood I could see for miles.

Far off to the northwest were the Aba jo Mountains and beyond them the La Sals, where I'd been not long since. The air was clear, with no smoke, and only a few high clouds. Off to the south I could see the high pinnacle of Shiprock, down New Mexico way. Again I looked back the way I had come and saw no movement, so went back into the cedar near the fallen rocks of a ruined building, and made my camp. This time I was far enough away and back in the cedars so I built a fire.

There was some graze for the stock, so I picketed the horses. The long-ago Indians who built this place had also put a wall across a natural run-off spot and trapped water from the recent rains. There was enough for me and for the horses and maybe a bit more.

Whilst I was building my fire a coyote came for water. Unused to people, he was also unafraid and came to within fifty feet of my camp.

He drank, looked over at me, then watching me from the corners of his eyes he drank again, looked at me with his head up and one paw raised, then trotted away, figuring I was of no account. Getting bacon out of my pack, I fried myself a bait and made frying-pan bread. It was getting on to sundown, and even if they found my trail again they'd probably not try that trail in the dark, not knowing where I'd be.

Setting by my small fire, drinking the coffee I'd been wanting, I speculated about the women at the ranch.

Mrs. Hollyrood now, she never seemed to go anywhere. Not that Parrott City or Animas City had much to offer, but womenfolks always like to shop around and look things over. She never left the ranch. Of course, bein' an actress an' all she'd probably had her fill of travel.

She was a right handsome woman, her beautiful gray hair always perfectly done, and few wrinkles for a woman her age.

Matty now, Matty was what some folks, like that English lord I guided, they would call her beauty classical. She was perfectly beautiful and beautifully perfect, if you get what I mean. Only she never seemed to smile. Her only expression was in her eyes.

Just who was she? There had been nothing wrong with her shooting when she shot that man riding at her with a torch. She'd grown up shooting, of course, but most folks would show more feeling, it seemed to me. She shot that man because she had it to do and that was all there was to it.

In my pocket I had the will that said Janet Le Caudy was to inherit the ranch, and when I got back, something would have to be done about that. And I was on my way back.

Yet, when I took a last look around, walking to the cliff edge and listening, it was Janet I was thinking about. "Le Caudy" sounded like Billy Cody's name, but the way she spelled it was French, I guess. A mighty pretty woman.

My fire was dying but the coffee was still hot. I drank another cup and then stretched out on my bed and slept like a baby.

Twice during the night I awakened, listened into the night, and once I walked to the cliff edge. The stars were bright in the sky, and high on the edge of the mesa I seemed almost among them. When morning came I saddled up and checked my supplies. If I'd had more I'd have stayed right there until they tired of hunting me, but at most I'd enough for two days. What I'd best do was get on down to the ranch, say my goodbyes, turn that will over to Janet Le Caudy, and ride on out of what was none of my business anyway.

Skirting the cliffs, I found a way where Indians had walked, and rode north. The view from there took a man's breath. I mean, I'd seen some sights but this was one of the finest. Finding a way through the cedars, I skirted the heads of some canyons an' worked my way over to the east rim of the mesa. There I could look east over the Mancos Valley and in the distance could see Maggie's Rock and the ranch land.

There was a narrow switchback trail came down off the rim there, and I took it. Then I headed east, keeping a sharp lookout for travel, but I saw nobody.

This was wild country. There were cattle running, most of the brands unfamiliar although I saw a few Phillips cows amongst them. The main trail was just north of me but I wasn't about to leave tracks on it, so I came around the end of Menefee Mountain and worked my way, keeping away from trails, into Thompson Park.

This was ranching country and there should have been folks working around, but I saw no one and hoped nobody saw me. At the head of Thompson Park I crossed Cherry Creek an' rode up Dead- man Canyon. Now I was in back of the ranch, and I found a horse trail that led up the ridge near Maggie's Rock.

When I left Deadman I had to ride through Spring Gulch, a pretty little canyon, both sides covered with trees. This was a place to take my time and I did so. I rode, rifle in hand, ready for anything. So far I'd used my head but also I'd had luck.

Thing that worried my mind was Pan Beacham. Who was he after? And if he was after me, where was he? The rest of them were troublesome men, but Pan ... he was poison, pure poison.

It was already dark when I rode up the lower end of Spring Gulch. I was dead beat and so were the horses although I'd switched saddles once. It was moonlight, so when I fetched up right below Maggie's Rock, I pulled the riggin' off my stock and picketed them. The grass was good, and I was tired. There'd be no coffee tonight.

Tomorrow I would ride down to the ranch, after scouting for trouble, and I'd say my goodbyes, then cut across to Parrott City to see Janet Le Caudy.

Not that she'd be waiting to see me.

She probably had forgotten I so much as existed, but I had to give her that will. It was hers, and half that ranch was hers.

That worried me, too. Why, when Phillips left the ranch to Mrs. Hollyrood, didn't he tell her he only owned half of it? That just didn't make sense.

This was no time to think about that. Tired as I was, my thinkin' just wouldn't make sense. Not that my thinkin' was anything to write home about. When it came to stock, like horses an' cattle, well, I could hold my own. At mining with a single jack an' drill I was a good man. Swinging a single jack or double jack can put power in a man's shoulders, and I guess I had that, but that was about the size of it.

It surely didn't look like rain but in these mountains rain could come up almost anytime, so I stowed my gear an' saddles back under a tree where the branches would give it some shelter from any rain that fell.

There was no worry about rattlers at this altitude, for I'd never seen one above seven thousand feet, or for that matter, not often about sixty-five hundred, and judgin' by the plant life I was around seventy-five hundred or better right here.

There'd been rain earlier. It hadn't fallen where I was but I'd heard distant thunder and had seen lightning over the La Platas. Dunn' the last hour I'd been travelin' over wet grass and seein' a good many pools left by the heavy showers. Before comin' up to camp I'd let the horses drink their fill at a couple of those pools.

There was one right down yonder where water had gathered in a slight hollow atop of a boulder. I'd go there and get my own drink.

Lots of shadows. Trees in clumps, trees standin' alone, big rocks here an' there. This was spooky country at night, but then, most wild country is spooky after dark. I stretched, getting the kinks out of my system.

Rifle in hand, I walked down to that rock where the water was. My lids felt thick and heavy. I was sure enough tired, I was -

I bent over to drink and felt a wicked blow in the back and then the roar of a shot, close by. I hit the grass, rolling, stunned and hurt bad. When I started to rise, another bullet struck a tree with an ugly whap, and I rolled again, fighting back panic.

Through a fog of shock and fear I heard a voice. He spoke in a conversational tone, easylike, with no hurry in him. "Got you, Mr. Passin'. If you're not dead you can expect me back come daylight. I got no idea of walkin' into a bullet from a man who's dyin'.

"I aimed true and I got you. I seen it hit an' I seen you fall, an' I got you with my second shot. I heard it hit.

"You give me trouble, Mr. Passin', but I figured you for a cagey one. You'd not go ridin' back down to that ranch without lookin' it over.

"Lookin' it over from where? Had to be that ridge, an' comin' at it from the west? Well, all I had to do was set up there close to Maggie's Rock an' wait. Sure enough, there you come. Your hosses was beat so I figured you'd be, too. Had you dead to rights.

"I wonder who you are, Mr. Passin'? You're somebody I should know, but I been fittin' an' comparin' an' tryin' to make you out. No luck so far. But you're good. You left them others half-crazy with wonderin' where you got to. They wasn't lookin' for three horses, like I was, so when they cut your trail they thought they had the wrong man.

"You ain't goin' no place. You jus' lie there an' die. I'll come around in the mornin', just to make sure, an' maybe I'll turn your stock loose so they won't starve when the grass plays out.

"Good night, Mr. Passin', an' goodbye. See you in hell, sometime."

He walked away and I could hear him go. Later I heard his horse, that was while I could still hear. It was a fight to hold still an' stay conscious. I slipped in my mind but I fought it back. If I moved or groaned he would kill me now. He was just hopin' I'd speak so's he could finish the job. He was just baiting me, waiting.

He knew I was somewhere down there in the dark an' I might be playin' possum, so he was behind a rock somewheres just a-waitin' for me to make a fool of myself, but I didn't go to school to eat lunch. Hurt as I was an' ready to pass out, I had sense enough to keep quiet.

Then I crawled. I had to get away, I had to hide. I had to live. I had to -