Dark Canyon (1963) (3 page)

"If he so much as makes a move toward her," Pico said, "I shall kill him."

It was only two weeks later that Gaylord Rile
y
rode into Rimrock for the first time. Had Hardcastle been less absorbed in planning a limitation to Dan Shattuck's future he might have paid more attention to the stranger who rode past his saloon and dismounted at the bank.

Strat Spooner did notice. He also noticed the double set of heavy saddlebags Riley took from his horse and carried into the bank.

Amos Burrage looked up from his battered desk at the dusty cowhand.

"I want to make a deposit," Riley said.

Burrage indicated the cashier. "See him," he said. "I'll see you." Riley lifted his saddlebags to the desk-top. "I want to deposit that, and I want to buy cattle."

Burrage glanced into the saddlebags. There were dozens of small sacks, carefully wrapped. He opened several of them. He saw gold in chunks, in dust, in coins . . . tightly rolled greenbacks.

"That's a lot of money, boy. How'd you come by it?"

Gaylord Riley did not reply, and Burrage felt distinctly uncomfortable under his hard, steady gaze. It irritated him that this young man-he could be scarcely more than twenty-could make him feel as he did.

"The Boxed 0 has longhorns they might sell," he suggested.

"I want Shorthorns or white-face stock," Riley said.

"The only man around here with white-face cattle is Dan Shattuck, and he won't sell-he went to too much trouble to get them here in the first place. He thinks they will do well here, but nobody else does."

"I do."

"You'll bring in your own, then. Shattuck won't sell. In fact, the Lazy S is in the market for more than they have."

Riley indicated the money. "I'll be drawing against that. Take care of it."

He walked out to the street, a rangy young man in shot-gun chaps, a faded maroon shirt, and a black hat. He paused on the street and gave it his sharp attention while appearing to be beating the dust from his clothes.

With that brief study he located every place in town. He saw Strat Spooner loafing in front of the place called Hardcastle's, saw the buckboard coming down the street driven by a girl, saw the Mexican vaquero who rode beside her.

Riley crossed the street toward the Emporium. He had categorized Spooner in that one brief glance. The man loafing in front of the saloon was probably a hired gunhand or an outlaw. Gaylord Riley had reason to know the type.

Moreover, at a time when any employed cowhand would be hard at work, this man sat at his ease. He wore brand-new boots that must have cost twice what a cowhand could afford. As Riley crossed the street he was conscious of the man's attention, and knew the reason for it.

Valenti
came from the saloon and asked, "Who's he?"

Riley, as he stepped up on the boardwalk in front of the store, heard the question.

The sun lay warm upon the dust of the street, warm upon the buildings, the freshness of their lumber already fading snider the sun and wind. Gaylord Riley paused on the walk and looked around again. After all, this would be his town. Here he would come to market, and here he would get his mail-if any.

He frowned, wondering if he could buy a newspaper anywhere in town. And then he saw the sign: The Rimrock Scout, All the News, Plenty of Opinions.

Riley strolled down the street and opened the door. The hand press and the fonts of type-these were things of which he knew nothing. The weather-beaten man who walked up to the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth, smiled.

"How are you, son? Huntin' news, or providin' it?"

Riley chuckled. "Figured you might sell me a paper and let me browse through some back issues. Seems to me that's the best way to learn about a community."

The newspaperman thrust out a hand. "Glad to know you're going to be one of us. I'm Sampson McCarty, editor, publisher, and printer. You're the first newcomer who has had sense enough to come in here and find out about the country. You help yourself."

He waved toward a stack of newspapers on a shelf. "That's all there is-thirty-six weeks, thirty-six issues. Take all the time you like, come as often as you like."

"I'm Gaylord Riley. I'm ranching over west." "That's rough, wild country," McCarty commented. "Not many even ride into that wilderness." "Suits me. I'll be runnin' cows, not visitin'." Riley took a handful of newspapers and sat down at a table. He sat where he could look out of the window, his back partly toward McCarty. The newspaper idea was one he had picked up from Jim Colburn. Colburn had discovered that you could get a good idea about how rich a bank was by studying the papers . . . and a good idea about how dangerous the law might be.

McCarty saw at once that there was nothing haphazard about Riley's way of going over a newspaper. The first thing he did was run down the column of box advertisements to check the business and professional ads, making several notes as he went along.

Next he scanned the column of local items each issue contained.

McCarty, from his position in setting type, could see over Riley's shoulder, and as he knew every item it was easy to ascertain the reader's interests.

The news story referring to the arrival of Shat-tuck's Herefords held Riley's attention; but when he came upon the story of Spooner's killing of Bill Banner, he paused to read the item with care. The next story at which he stopped was that of the holdup at Pagosa Springs-or rather, the attempted holdup. Two bandits had been wounded, and one of the outlaws was said to have been a member of the Colburn gang.

He read on, skimming the local items, and at last he pushed back in his chair and was rising when the door opened and Marie Shattuck entered with Pico. McCarty wiped his hands and came up to the counter again. "How do you do, Marie. Howdy, Pico."

The printer turned and gestured toward Riley. "Miss Shattuck, Pico, meet Gaylord Riley. He's ranching over west. Newcomer.'

Riley straightened up, suddenly aware that he was flushing. "Shattuck? Of the Running S?"

"You know of us?"

"Only that you're running Herefords, and I'd like to buy some.'

Pico's mahogany face was inscrutable, and he looked at Riley with care. This man had been up the creek and over the mountain-he was no average man.

"Uncle Dan wouldn't dream of selling, Mr. Riley. He had too much trouble getting them in the first place. But you might talk to him."

When they had paid for their paper and gone, Riley turned to McCarty. "I saw an item there in the paper about a gun ba
ttle. Somebody named Spooner.

That wouldn't be him sitting down in front of the saloon, would it?"

"It would. And he's a man to leave alone. If you had read back a little further you'd see that two, three months before that one he had another fight . . . killed that man, too."

"Thanks."

McCarty watched him as he left the office and turned down the street; and McCarty, who had operated newspapers or worked as a printer in many western towns, was puzzled.

There were many varieties of men in the West, but this one had none of the diffidence of the average cowhand. Young as he was, he carried himself with a quiet assurance, yet with a watchfulness that reminded McCarty of Earp, Courtright, or Hickok. But he was not one of these, and no other that he had ever heard of.

Rimrock was a town without secrets, and before nightfall McCarty heard the story of the deposit of ten thousand dollars in the local bank. He heard also that Riley had hired two cowhands, both of them known to McCarty.

Cruz was a Mexican, lean, hard-riding, and capable. Darby Lewis was a loafer much of the time, though when he worked he was a top hand on any outfit, but he worked as little as possible.

The restaurant at Rimrock was the town's one attempt at the ways of the city. Instead of merely the usual boarding-house tables, they had a dozen tables that would seat four people each. The boardinghouse tables they had as well, and few of the citizens patronized anything else.

Martin Hardcastle ate at one of the smaller tables, and so did Amos Burrage, but there were few others who did except Shattuck and his niece. Gaylord Riley chose a table by himself because he did not wish to be questioned or led into talk. He wante
d
time to think, to plan, and to sort out what he had learned that day.

Most of all, he wanted to think about what he had read about the attempted robbery at Pagosa Springs, for if the information was true, two of the members of the Colbum gang were wounded, perhaps seriously. If so, they would need food, a hide-out, and maybe medicine.

He sat alone and ate alone, conscious that at a nearby table sat Marie Shattuck, with Pico.

He was sitting where he could watch the door, for he was expecting the sheriff. From the local items he had gathered that Sheriff Larsen ate his supper in the restaurant once or twice each week, and dropped in more often for coffee. Sooner or later they must meet, and Riley preferred it to be now.

Pico glanced at Marie. "New hombre," he said slyly.

"Picot Will you stop trying to marry me off?" "Your uncle, he is a busy man, and he knows much of cattle, nothing of women. Your mother and your aunt are dead. Who is to look after you if not Pico?"

Suddenly the door opened and Martin Hardcastle came in. Riley, attuned to such things, saw the look he gave Marie, and saw Pico's stiffening; then he saw the Mexican slowly relax, but as a big cat relaxes while watching a snake-quiet, but poised and alert.

Hardcastle glanced at Riley, then walked on to an empty table and sat down, facing Marie. He was within Riley's line of vision, and Riley felt himself stir irritably at the way the big man stared at the girl. She seemed utterly unaware of it, yet Riley was not at all sure of that.

McCarty, who usually ate alone in his own bachelor's shack, decided on this night to invest the price of a meal in the possibilities of news. With a sixt
h
sense given to good newsmen and law officers, he sensed trouble, though without any idea of where it would develop, or how. An ordinarily quiet man who talked little, he was friendly and knew everyone.

He paused as he reached Riley's table. "Had an idea that might help you. If Shattuck won't sell any of his Herefords, why don't you try the country north of here? I hear some of the folks coming through on the Overland Trail still have cattle to sell."

"Sit down," Riley said.

McCarty sat, leaning his forearms on the table. "Sometimes movers run short of cash and grub, and they'd sell out if you were there with an offer."

"I may try that."

The door opened again and a man entered and paused, blinking slowly from small blue eyes almost hidden between high cheekbones and bushy brows. The bone structure of the man's face was massive; his hair was blond, mixed with gray.

He was not a tall man, but broad and thick, and he moved with deceptive slowness. On the vest underneath his coat Riley could see the gleam of a badge, and he held himself very still. This wa
s
Larsen.

Larsen's eyes swept the room, nodding here and there. Finally his eyes came to rest on Riley, but only for the briefest instant. They passed over him to McCarty.

"H'lo, Mac," he spoke in a low, deep voice. "You smelling trouble again?"

McCarty shrugged. "You know I am," he said. "And you can laugh if you want. It will come."

"I won't laugh. It's headed dis way."

"Trouble?"

"The Colbu
rn
gang."

Chapter
4

Sheriff Ed
Larsen turned his slow blue eyes to Riley. "Do you know the Colburn gang?"

"I'm from Texas."

"He's a newcomer, Ed. He's ranching over west of here, and wants to buy some Herefords. I was telling him he might find some among movers along the Overland Trail."

"I t'ink so. Mebbe. Dey are goot cows, dose Hereford." He accepted the coffee the waitress brought to the table and poured a heavy dollop of honey into it. "Rough country west. You t'ink dey do well dere?"

"There's some meadows where I can cut hay for winter feeding, and there's plenty of forage on those high plateaus. And I'm in no hurry. I want to get some good breeding stock and build a good herd." "Sheep," Larsen said, "dere is money in sheep. More dan in cows, I t'ink."

"I don't know anything about sheep."

Larsen studied Riley thoughtfully. Then he said, "You must know dis country here. It is rough to the west. I t'ink not many know dat country."

"Once when I was sixteen I rode through this country. We camped two days at the spring where I've located. I never forgot it."

"Ah? What spring is Oat?"

There was no way of avoiding it, so he said, "O
n
a bench of the Sweet Alice Hills-head of Fable Canyon."

Larsen was surprised. The names obviously meant nothing to McCarty, but the old Swede shook his head and muttered, "Dat is wild. I t'ink nobody goes dere. And it is high . . . very high oop."

"I like the view."

Larsen nodded. "Yoh, I fink so. It is a goot view."