Catlow (1963) (7 page)

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, it's late for a lady to be out. If you'll permit, I'll just ride along to see you get home safe."

"Thank you."

Oddly enough, she felt shaky inside--an unusual sort of trembling feeling. But she kept on walking, looking straight ahead. After a moment, he spoke again.

"Ma'am, I couldn't help overhearing back there." So he had been listening! Her lips tightened. "If you'll allow me to say so, you shouldn't urge your pa to kick Miller out. He might try it."

"And so?"

"You know the answer to that. Miller might kill him. More probably he'd shame him, which would be worse. It's a bad thing for a man to be shamed in front of his womenfolks ... it's sometimes worse than bein' killed. If he was shamed, he might get a gun and try it on Miller."

Cordelia was appalled. Suddenly, for the first time, she realized what her indignation might mean to her father. Of course, Miller would not go unless he wanted to, and the thought of her father trying to face Miller with a gun touched her with icy fear.

"I--I didn't think of that."

"No, ma'am, and you didn't think about stayin' out this late. Supposing some drunk had come up to you and spoke improper. I'd have to speak to him, and he might resent it. First thing, ma'am, there'd be a man killed--and you'd be to blame."

"It was my only chance to speak to Pa alone."

She had reached the gate at her house, and she turned toward him. "Who are you? What are you?"

"Ben Cowan ... Deputy United States Marshal in the Territory."

"You--you came here after somebody?"

"Miller's my man."

Miller? Then why didn't he arrest him? It would solve everything. She started to say as much, but he spoke first.

"I'll thank you to say nothing to anyone, ma'am. I want to do this in my own good time, and where nobody will be hurt--not even him, if I can help it." He turned his horse. "Evening, ma'am."

He rode away up the street, gone before she could thank him. She went through the gate, closing it behind her, then paused in the darkness to look after him. He was briefly seen against the window lights of a saloon.

Bijah Catlow was sitting at the table talking to her mother as she placed the silver. He looked around at Cordelia. "I near came after you," he said. "It's no time for a decent girl to be out."

"That's what Marshal Cowan said."

Bijah gave a start. "Ben Cowan? You met him?"

When she explained he asked, too quickly, "Did he tell you anything about me?"

"No." She was surprised. "I had no idea you even knew each other."

"Since we were boys. He's a good man, Ben is. One of the best." He looked at her again. "Cord, did he say why he was here?"

She hesitated a moment. "No," she said.

Pa would be coming along soon, and Miller, too. Miller had not met Catlow yet.

Suddenly the door opened and Miller came in--a lean, rangy man with hollow cheeks and sour, suspicious eyes. He shot a quick look at Catlow, and Cordelia introduced them.

Catlow's forearms lay upon the table. He looked up from under his shaggy brows, cataloguing Miller at a glance. "Howdy," he said carelessly.

"Mr. Miller is married to my mother's sister." Cordelia decided she would make it plain at once that there was no blood relationship. "He is visiting us for a few days."

Miller gave her a hard look at the words, "a few days." Then he said, "I got to be around longer'n I figured."

There was a step on the porch outside and Bijah noted the quick way in which Miller turned to face the door. Moss Burton came in.

"I'm driftin' south," Catlow said. He had sensed the situation quickly, recalling words he had heard dropped before this. "Why don't you ride along with me?" He put his eyes hard on Miller. "Men like you or me, we sleep better outside, anyway."

The stillness that entered the room made Cordelia hold her breath. She hesitated, ever so slightly, before placing the last plate upon the table.

"When I'm ready," Miller said, "I'll go."

Catlow looked up at him and cold amusement flickered in his eyes.

"Get ready," he said.

Chapter
Eight.

Though Miller was a cautious man, now fury burst like a bomb in the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes on his plate, but it was only with an effort that he fought back the urge to lunge across the table at Catlow. He forced himself to take a bite of food and to begin chewing.

"This is your doin," he said to Cordelia. "I don't like it."

"When you come visiting again," she replied coolly, "we will be glad to see you ... if you bring Aunt Ellie." Then with an edge to her voice she asked, "By the way, where is Aunt Ellie?"

"She's in Kansas."

"We'd love to see her. She is always welcome here."

Moss Burton had started in from the kitchen, where he had gone to wash his hands. Now, desperately, he wished he had remained there.

Miller saw him and started to accuse him, but Bijah Catlow was nothing if not considerate of the feelings of others. To save Moss the embarrassment of reiterating the request to leave, with all that might follow, Bijah interrupted Miller.

"You ain't goin' to like it around here nohow," he said, grinning cheerfully. "Cordie's got herself a new gentleman friend."

"What's that to me?"

Catlow chuckled, a taunt in his eyes and in his tone. "Figured it might be. It ain't every day a girl has a U.S. Deputy Marshal comin' to set with her."

The hot fury in Miller's belly was gone. Where it had been there was now a cold lump of fear. "I don't believe you," he muttered, and his fingers fumbled with the handle of his coffee cup.

Catlow, who knew what the grapevine was saying, had a sudden hunch and played it. "Army paymaster killed over near Stein's Pass by a deserter. Were you ever in the Army, Miller?"

Miller gulped his coffee to cover his fear. He had seen too much of what United States marshals could do when he had been around Fort Smith. Why had he been such a fool as to ride into Tucson? Too many people knew he had a brother-in-law here.

He would have to get out. To go ... where? Prescott was out of the question--too many knew him there. Yuma, then? But someone at the Fort might recognize him. The Army was always moving men around ... and the thought of the Federal pen made him nervous.

"That marshal means nothin' to me, but it's plain enough that I ain't wanted ... among my own kin." He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, glancing at Bijah, who watched him, amused but alert. "You, I'll see again."

"Right outside the door, if you like," Catlow replied carelessly, "or in front of the Quartz Rock in half an hour."

"I'll pick the time," Miller said, "and the place."

"You an' Matt Giles," Catlow said.

When Miller had gone, Cordelia asked, "What was that about Matt Giles?"

"Man I used to know. Figured Miller might know of him."

Bijah took Cordelia's guitar from its place in the corner and, tuning up, sang "Buffalo Gals," and followed it with "Sweet Betsy from Pike." He sang easily and cheerfully, just as he had sung around many campfires and in bunkhouses. He was a man who did everything well, and he did most things with something of a flair. As he sang, he watched Cordelia.

She was, he thought, a thoroughbred. She had courage, and a cool, quiet strength, but above all she was a lady. Poised, without pretensions, and gracious, she was friendly, yet reserved. What she thought of him, Catlow had no idea. He had met her, asked to call, and had visited the house several times.

Now he was going away, and for the first time he found, with some surprise, that he did not wish to go. He recalled what he had told Cowan about wanting to marry this girl, and he realized he had meant every word of it. Of his life she knew nothing. She assumed he was a cattleman looking for range--a few of them had drifted into Arizona, looking around. Henry C. Hooker had a herd of cattle stampede while driving them through the state for sale to the Army, and when the stampede was over the cattle were grazing around a cienaga in the Sulphur Springs Valley, and it was there he established the Sierra Bonita Ranch. Hooker started it; others had followed. All this was known to every child in the street, and Catlow was so obviously a cattleman.

Cordelia would not have been likely to hear any of the stories about him, Bijah decided, nor would her father, for that matter. Moss Burton worked over his saddles, boots, and bridles, paying little attention to gossip; he ate his meals at home, and did not frequent the saloons.

As Bijah played, idly strumming the guitar, his thoughts turned to the venture that lay ahead. There were twelve men in his outfit, and several of them were strangers, but they had been selected with as much care as possible. Bijah knew very well what lay before him. He possessed a sharp, intelligent brain, and he was using it in this.

Every detail had been planned. Not only the move south and the taking of the money, but the escape. This, he felt sure, would be the crux of the whole thing. With any kind of luck, they could reach their destination unseen and, if all went well, take the gold. Their great danger lay in their escape, and to this he had given most of his thinking.

If they were captured during their attempt on the gold they would probably be shot; otherwise they would rot in a Mexican jail. The courts were slow, and nobody would be in a hurry to try a bunch of gringos who had come into Mexico looking for trouble.

His band of men had one thing in common: all spoke Spanish, Mexican-style, and all could pass as Mexicans. This would help during the ride south if they were seen, which Catlow hoped would not happen.

One member of his outfit was a half-breed Tarahumara Indian who knew all the secret water holes and rock tanks, places known only to wild animals and wilder Indians. Catlow and his men would avoid the main trails, avoid the Apaches as well, and reach the heart of Sonora unseen.

Not one of the men he had selected was known for having a loose tongue; nevertheless he had told them only a part of his plan. The escape route he kept to himself, and only the two involved knew about his cattle deal.

Impulsive he might be, but Abijah Catlow had done the most careful planning for this big strike. He was going to make this one and get out ... and then to Oregon and the cattle business.

It was after ten o'clock when he left the Burton house, and he took the precaution of having Cordelia take the lamp into the kitchen before he left by the front door.

When he reached the house where he was living, Old Man Merridew was loafing at the door. "Marshal's inside ... wants to talk."

Ben Cowan was sitting in the rocker in the dark, and Bijah removed the chimney from the lamp and touched a match to the wick. He replaced the chimney and looked across the lamp, the light throwing highlights and shadows on his strongly boned face.

"You goin' to pull me in?"

"No," Ben replied. "I just came with a friendly word of advice."

Bijah chuckled. "What else did I ever get from you, Ben? What is it now?"

"Miller ... you've made an enemy there, and the man's dangerous."

"Him? Small potatoes. I ain't beggin' trouble, but if he wants it he can have it."

"Don't low-rate him. He's worse than Giles."

"Him?" Catlow repeated skeptically. "Miller? You're loco."

"I know him. I followed him here from New Mexico. The man's a wolf. He'll wait a year, two years if necessary. He's a hater, Bijah. You and me were never that, and a hater is a tough man to beat."

"That all you came for?"

"It's a plenty. Did you ever know me to shy from shadows? I know the man."

Catlow sat down and rolled a smoke. "All right. If you say he's that bad, I'll put my money on it."

"I'm going to take him in, but I want him where nobody will get hurt if there's shooting. I can wait, too."

Bijah sat down on the bed and pulled off first one boot and then the other. He sat there, holding the boot in his hand, wriggling his toes into comfort. Then he dropped the boot and removed his gun-belt, tossing it over the post at the head of the bed where it would hang near his hand as he slept.

The coal-oil lamp threw shadows into the corners and behind the old wardrobe. There was little enough in the room. The bed, a straight-backed chair, and the rocker where Ben sat, the wardrobe, a table, bowl and water pitcher. In the corner near the door was Bijah's saddle and his rifle, saddlebags and a blanket-roll.

Ben took a cigar from his pocket and lit up. His eyes dropped to the gear on the floor. There was a canteen there, too. It had been freshly filled. As Bijah had been out, it must have been filled by one of the others--Merridew probably. They were pulling out, then.

"Like to talk you out of this deal you've got," Ben suggested. "You're asking for it."

"Hell!" Catlow said. "I figured you'd be glad to get me out of town--you walkin' my girl home like you done. You tryin' to cut me out?"

Ben Cowan shook his head. "You know better than that. She was on the street alone ... besides, she caught me listening to talk between her and her father. It was about this Miller ... she was fixing to get her pa killed."