Milo Talon (11 page)

I stopped short and Pablo looked around at me. “What’s the matter?”

“Humphrey Tuttle,” I said. “It was one of the names I got from Jefferson Henry. Humphrey Tuttle and Wade Hallett. They were tied to Newton Henry somehow.”

“It is possible.”

When we finished eating we bunched the horses, and with Pablo driving the wagon, we started them northwest, toward the hills. It might not keep him out of trouble but at least it was farther from what seemed to be the center of things, that water-tower and the town itself.

“Near the mountains,” Pablo said, “there is a place. There are cottonwoods and a good spring with a large pool. Next week I was to have been there.”

Every step was taking us higher, but it was a long, scarcely noticeable climb, and when we camped we had a good fifteen miles behind us and we had the stock on good grass and near a small stream.

Several times I’d checked our back trail. There was no reason why anyone should follow Pablo and his horses nor why they should connect me with them unless I’d been seen talking to him in town. Even that should not make a difference, for over-the-beer conversations usually went no further. Nonetheless, I was in no mood to take chances.

“We do not have need to sit up,” Pablo said. “My dogs will do that for us and the horses will not stray from such good grass and water.”

“What of Indians?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. It has been a long time.”

Nevertheless, I picketed my horse close by, and as I rested my head on my saddle, I tried to fix my thoughts on the situation.

If Tut was Tuttle he had been prowling around these hills for a long time. Yet no longer than Jefferson Henry had been looking for his granddaughter. Obviously, they had some clue, yet why come to our ranch?

“You know this country well?” I asked.

Pablo’s head turned. “The mountains I know better than the plains.” He jerked his head toward the hills. “I was born back there, where there is a small valley. My father, he was a friend to all, but especially he liked
the Utes. He traded with them, hunted with them, hid some of their women and children from the Kiowas.”

He smiled. “It is why I do not fear the Indios. They know me, I know them.”

“My home is in the north, at the edge of the mountains also.” I looked up at the stars, thinking. Does he think this girl is hidden in the mountains?

Pablo sat up. “How is it at your place?”

“There’s a valley, then a series of mountain meadows reached by trails, each higher than the last.”

“Here, also. I think we have something, my friend.”

“But the pictures, they were not of Colorado. I am sure they were California.”

“Si? And why not? Maybe she was there and then has come here. Have you thought of that?”

Of course. Newton had written in that letter that soon she would be old enough to travel by herself, which meant she was not intended to remain in California or wherever she had been when the letter was written.

It was not yet daybreak but I was up building a fire when I heard approaching horses.

“Pablo?”

“I hear them. Do what you are doing, but be ready,
amigo
. I think this is trouble.”

When they rode up to the camp I had the fire going and was putting some coffee on. There were three of them, and I remembered there seemed to have been three after Tut, too.

They pulled up at the edge of the camp and I stood up slowly. All three had Winchesters in their scabbards, but they weren’t planning to use them, not right
now. All three had their coats unbuttoned and moved back to make drawing easy. Perhaps I was foolish or overconfident, but I was not worried. I’d had to use a gun a few times, here and there.

“You!” He was a big, red-faced man with a mustache and a narrow-brimmed hat, worn more often in the north. “Where’s the greaser?”

“Who? You’re not very polite.”

He swore. “You’ve got a bad lip there. Something like that can get you killed.”

“I was about to suggest the same thing.”

A short man in a mackinaw coat said, “He thinks he’s salty, Bolter. Shall we show him?”

“Not yet.” He stared hard at me. “I asked where the greaser was.”

From the darkness beyond the firelight there was the very audible click of a cocked rifle.

“Now you know where he is,” I said, smiling. “And you, Shorty? Did you want to show me something? Just the two of us, maybe?”

He was staring at me, but he was hesitating, too. “Any time, Shorty. I’ve fifty dollars that says I can part your mustache right under your nose.”

“Go to hell!”

“You first, Shorty. You just choose your time.”

Looking past him at Bolter, I said, “You seemed in a hurry when you rode up here. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“I want to know what you’re doing, riding around the country?”

“I’m minding my own affairs,” I replied. “What are you doing?”

Bolter didn’t like it. He had expected to ride up here and frighten us, run us out of the country, perhaps. He knew nothing of me but he didn’t like what he was hearing, and he didn’t like the sound of that cocked rifle from out in the darkness. Right now he wanted to get out and get away, but he hated to back down.

“Whose horses are those?” he demanded.

“Shelby’s,” I said, which was the name of Pablo’s employer. “If there’s something you don’t like about them, take it up with him.”

Now Shelby was running some ten thousand head of cattle and a lot of horses. He also had two dozen hands around, riding herd, breaking horses, or whatever, and among them were some salty lads, all of which Bolter probably knew.

“You work for him, too?”

“I work for myself.”

He didn’t like what I said and he didn’t like me. He started to speak but I interrupted. “I don’t know what you had in mind when you rode up here, but you don’t act very friendly. My advice is to turn around and ride back where you came from. When you get there you can tell your boss they’ve raised the bets and if he’s smart he’ll throw in his hand.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You tell him. He’ll know.”

The third man had sat silent, not talking, just watching me. “Let’s go, Sam,” he said, finally. “Can’t you see he means it?”

Angrily, Bolter reined his horse around, giving me a wide-eyed, angry look. Shorty hesitated, not wanting to leave it, but I waited, watching him.

“One thing more,” I said mildly, “you boys had better go easy calling my friend a greaser. He can take any one of you any day in the week and twice on Sunday.”

They rode away, not looking back, and I watched them go. They had ridden up expecting to run a bluff, prepared to kill somebody if necessary. If I had been guessing I’d bet they were the ones who killed Tut.

“Coffee’s boiling, Pablo,” I said.

He came in from the dark, rifle in hand, glancing off in the way they had gone.

When he had a cup in his hand he said, “It was you they wanted, not me.”

“I know it. The trouble is, Pablo, I’m in a game where several people are holding cards but I don’t know who they are.”

With breakfast behind my belt I mounted up and started for town. As I rode I asked myself questions. Whose side had Tut been on? Who killed him, and why? What had been in Nathan Albro’s safe that he wanted removed? Where was it now? What had the Magoffins found out?

Nathan Albro had been involved in various financial operations. I knew he was active in both ranching and mining, perhaps in railroads. Jefferson Henry was busy in the same areas, so it was possible to assume that whatever Nancy had that they wanted could lie in those fields. Albro had been acting in the girl’s interest. Despite what he said I doubted if Henry was … or his son, either.

One thing seemed obvious. Newton had hated his father, and the feeling seemed to have been mutual. Had Newton married against his father’s wishes?

Suppose … just suppose that Newton, knowing something his father wanted or needed, had deliberately tried to circumvent him? Suppose what Jefferson Henry had wanted was in that safe, and that Newton had married Stacy Albro to get it?

All guesswork, but nonetheless, all very possible.

I needed to know more about Albro and more about Henry also. There was a chance Penny Logan could tell me. If not, she could tell me where and how to find out.

It was sundown when I rode into town and left my horse at the livery stable. Carrying my rifle and saddlebags, I returned to the hotel.

My room was undisturbed. Taking out the suitcase, I opened it again. For a long time I studied the painting. Those had to be Digger pines, and the ghost-like tree could be a buckeye. The patch of gold in the distance looked like California poppies, and the masses of small blue flowers looked like what was sometimes called baby blue eyes—

This was probably the same area in the background of the photographs. California … the high desert, perhaps the San Joaquin Valley, but more likely the former.

If I played my cards right I might not even have to go there to find out.

And if they didn’t kill me first.

L
YING IN BED, I considered the situation. The three men who had come to Pablo’s horse camp had been acting on their own, I believed. They undoubtedly worked for somebody else but when they followed me to the camp, if that was what had happened, I believed they were not under orders.

I sat up suddenly, locking my arms around my knees, and looked out into the night. If only I knew what was going on! If I knew what the stakes were!

Item by item I went over what had happened and what I knew, but there were holes everywhere. I simply did not know enough.

Why had Newton wanted to get Nancy away from her mother? Who had killed the Magoffins? Was Tut trying to sell out the Newton faction or was he working on his own?

This was not for me. I needed to be out in wild country, hunting, working cattle, or just drifting. Why had I ever got myself into this? Because I needed the money, that was the reason.

Who sent for the Arkansawyer? Was he hunting me?

Finally I laid back on the pillow and went to sleep.

When I tiptoed past Molly Fletcher’s door the next morning there was already a crack of light showing at
the bottom of the door. I went on downstairs and walked along the street to Maggie’s.

The air was fresh and cool. The dog was lying on the step this time but he flopped his tail at me. I squatted on my heels and said, “How you doin’, fella?”

He flopped his tail again and I ruffled the hair on his back a mite, then went around him to Maggie’s. It was still gray with early dawn but lights were showing here and there. As in most western towns people were early to rise, but I would have blamed nobody for staying in bed on this morning. It was dull and gray and looked like rain.

As I stopped at the door of the restaurant I saw a reflection of an upstairs window across the street, saw a curtain fall back into place.

Now a lot of people look out of windows, but I was in no position to make any wrong guesses. Once inside, with nobody in the place but German, I said, “Who lives upstairs across the street?”

“Woman who owns that building lets rooms. There’s four rooms up there and she rents ’em by the week or month.” He brought me four eggs easy-over and some fried potatoes. “Old woman, pays no mind to much except that she gets what’s coming to her. This time of year those rooms are usually empty. Roundup time, they’re apt to be full, with buyers comin’ in.”

The eggs tasted good. I was setting back to enjoy my coffee when Molly came in. She gave me a quick smile and went on through to the back, soon coming out, tying her apron. “I was afraid you were gone,” she said.

“Ever know a man called Tut?” I asked, just on a chance.

Her hands, tying the apron, stopped. She then finished tying it and came over to my table and sat down. “Milo, I wish you would drop all that. Leave it alone.”

“What do you know about it?”

She hesitated, then evaded the question. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Tut did get hurt,” I said. “They killed him.”

She started to speak, then stopped. I said, “Molly, you’re going to tell somebody, sometime, so why not me? Sooner or later they will find out who you are, they will find out that you know something, and you will be in trouble.”

“I am Molly Fletcher. That’s all I am.” She went to get coffee and came back, sitting down again. “Yes, I did know Humphrey Tuttle. I am not surprised that he’s been killed. He was always mixed in something shady.”

“Did you know Newton Henry?”

“Yes, I did, and he was an evil man. He was very smooth and polished and he talked well, but he was vindictive and cruel.”

“And his father?”

“I never knew his father. Newton hated him, I do know that much.”

“Did you know his daughter?”

“He never had a daughter.”

“What? But—?”

“Nancy was not his daughter.”

“Not his daughter? But I thought—”

“So did everybody.”

Well, I stared at her. Now I had been around enough to know that nobody can complicate their lives more than just average people. “But I thought Stacy was married to Newton?”