the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) (8 page)

There's nobody close around who stands to gain anything ... except maybe Mort Davis. If they got out of his hair, he might spread out himself."

"Ever look at a map of this country, Rusty?"

"Map? Hell no. I didn't know there was one.

Who wants a map?"

"Maps are handy things, my friend. Sometimes you never know what a country looks like until you've seen it on a map. A bird's-eye view can change a lot of things for you. A big country like this has a way of looking different on a map, and you can't get a good idea of the relationship of one place to another without one. Look here."

Squatting on his heels, Lance Kilkenny drew with his finger in the sand. *

"That V
... He suggested, "represents the combined holdings of Lord and Steele."... Off to one side he drew in Lost Creek Valley. He indicated the valley with his finger. "Right where Lord and Steele's holdings come together is Lost Creek Valley.

"That's what the fuss is about
... said Rusty. "They both want the valley and they both want the water."

"I know. But look here ... All this country that Lord and Steele control runs from the point of the V right into the widest cattle ranges in Texas.

"Up there are other cow outfits, many of them with far greater holdings than Lord and Steele combined. I rode through that country on the way down here, and saw some of the finest stock I've seen, with a lot of white-face bulls that have been brought in to improve the grade of beef.

"In a few years this is going to be some of the finest stock-raising country in the world. The fences won't make much difference, except to limit the size of the roundups. The stock will be better, more beef to the hoof than before, and there'll be a bigger demand for the better beef.

"The small ranchers won't be able to afford better bulls, and here and there they'll cut fences as much to let the bulls get at their own stock as anything.
But that's only one small part of it." Rusty was paying close attention.

"Look at those vast miles of good range that lay north of Lord and Steele. That range will be covered with fat stock, thousands of head that will feed the range off little by little. They won't be allowed to overgraze if the cattlemen are smart, and can be shifted from one area to another as the grass is eaten down to give the rest of the grass a chance to grow.

"Now most cowhands have rustled a few head or at least been a little careless how they use a
running iron
. A man works for the outfit, and if he finds stock on his boss's land he brands it...

It's not supposed to be that way, but many a small outfit grew big just like that.

"Look here."... Kilkenny drew a line with his finger in the sand, a line that went from those vast ranges to the north down through the Lord and Steele range and into the country below.

"See"..."... He asked.

Rusty swore softly. "Sure enough, I do."

Rusty put a finger on the crude map. "You mean whoever wound up holding Lord and Steele range could rustle cattle and take them right through to Mexico? What you're tellin" me is that whoever held Lord and Steele range could do as he damn well pleased, could appear to be honest ranchers with never a head of rustled stock on their range, yet profit from all the rustled stock?"

"It's a possibility
...
said
Lance. "And right now it's the only answer I can see to what's happening."

"And Bert Fold's involved?"

"Seems so."

They ate the bacon from the frying pan, strip by strip. For several minutes both were busy with their thoughts, but Lance Kilkenny got up then and walked away from the fire to listen.

It looked like rain, and they had some distance to go, yet he was in no hurry. He would be expected to be early on the trail, and if there were any hidden marksmen along the route they would begin to sense that he had taken another route.

He and Rusty had a long ride before them, but one they could manage well enough. He had learned long since that it was better to vary his time and pattern of travel as well as his route. Vigilance was the price of life, and not only of liberty.

He walked back to the fire. "There's a lot of border down there on the Rio Grande, but look what's at the point of the V that I drew?"

"Apple Canyon?"

"Right... And it's a hangout for outlaws. It's one of Bert Fold's favorite places. The Lord and Steele ranches, with Apple Canyon, would provide a safe route for rustlers over the last forty or fifty miles of their drive. That route could be a huge funnel pouring stolen cattle into Mexico."

"What do we do now"..."... Gates asked, as he began cleaning the frying pan.

Kilkenny spread the remains of their fire and kicked dirt over it, then threw the last of the water and the coffee over the coals that remained.

"Why, we mount up and ride down to Apple Canyon. We just go down and have a talk with this woman . . . What did you say her name was?"

"Nita Riordan
... Rusty said. "And wait until you see her!"

Chapter
VII

Their route lay south and west, along trails rarely ridden except by outlaws or smugglers. It was a country covered with clusters of oaks surrounded by grassy plains, the brush and trees like islands in a sea of coarse grass, prickly pear and other low-growing stuff.

It was a dangerous country through which to ride, with the clumps of oaks, brush and occasional arroyos.

For any one of these could be an ambush. There was a trickle of water here and there in some intermittent stream that emptied into the Rio Grande, but water was scarce and much of it brackish.

The buckskin took easily to such country, ambling along naturally, accustomed to having his head and going at his own pace when on a long trail.

Rusty Gates, his face burned almost as red as his hair, rode behind Kilkenny at times, and then in front It was easy to admire a fighting man, and Kilkenny had a position in the hard land of their living that few men could equal. The army knew him as one of there best scouts. The Indians had fought against him or beside him, depending on the circumstances.

Always one to admire a good fighting man, Rusty Gates had done his own share of it, fighting when necessary because it was natural to him. It came more easily to him than to most.

He had been about everywhere in four or five states and territories where a man could go on a horse. Like Kilkenny, he rode much alone, taking jobs where he found them, occasionally riding shotgun, driving stage, herding cattle or freighting, but he preferred the cattle business.

Twice he had started small spreads himself, and once he had sold out and gambled away the money.

Another time, he had been dry-gulched and then driven out, so he understood the plight of Mort Davis.

It was a hard land, but he wished for no other. Nothing in his years had been easy. Rusty Gates had grown up on a small farm, milking cows, making hay, cutting wood, caring for stock and trying to make a crop from land that was far from the best He had worked with his father and then when his father had been killed in the Kansas troubles, he had gone on, supporting his mother and his four younger brothers and sisters.

His mother had died when he was sixteen, working to make ends meet. A year later, Rusty had lost a sister to the cholera, and one brother was killed by a bad horse. Another brother, at fourteen went to work on a riverboat, and his sister, at sixteen, married a doctor in Joplin. At nineteen, Rusty rode away west to find what fortune might offer. He wanted land of his own, a few head of horses and cattle. Along the way west, then up and down the cattle and stagecoach trails, he began hearing stories of Wild Bill Hickok and John Wesley Hardin, of Billy Brooks and Jack Bridges, of Mysterious Dave Mather, Bill Longley and Cullen Baker.

There were other stories, too, of Cochise and Crazy Horse, of Satanta and Mangas Colorado, of the death of Jedediah Smith and of Lieutenant Harrison, killed by Indians with whom he was trying to be friendly.

There were stories about Ben Thompson and King Fisher, who hailed from this country where he now rode.

But there were few stories about Lance Kilkenny.

There might be trouble, a gun battle, a manor men dead ... and Kilkenny gone. Some thugs tried to rob him in a gambling den in Abilene. Two of them died very quickly. The others had backed off, wanting no further trouble.