Milo Talon (14 page)

He had lost a lot of blood. The bullet had grazed the back of his arm above the elbow and had gone through the thick muscle around the shoulder blade. The bullet had been under his skin for no more than two inches but he had bled a lot from both openings. Pouring a little water in my hat, I bathed the wounds as best I could. He stirred, then came awake.

“Looks like I can’t leave you alone, even for a minute,” I grumbled.

“Ah,
amigo!
It is you!”

“Lucky for you,
compadre
. Did you see that cat? He had you all staked out for dinner when I came along.”

“I see him. I see him just as he jump.”

“What happened back there?”

“I am awake,
amigo
. There has been a lion, perhaps this one. He worries my horses and I was up and around. Then I see the horses turn their heads and look and I dropped to the ground and I can see a hat, then another, against the sky.

“Then they come. The horses scatter. I run for cover. I fire, then fire again, then run again. There are many. Eight, ten. I do not know. I fire and hear a man fall. I am hit, and they are coming for me. I run along the creek in the sand where I make no sound.

“They look, they curse, they destroy everything. My horses are gone. I do not know where. I am bleeding. I do not know how much I am hit.

“They scatter out and search for me. I know this place. Back there is a trail. I pass out. I come to and I hear. Down below there, they come up the creek, they pass me by because I am up here. They ride away but I think maybe they will come back.”

“Can you walk? Better have a drink of this.” I handed him the canteen and he drank greedily. I took the canteen and slung it over my shoulder and let him lean on my left side. First I stood up and looked all around, listening.

“Let’s go.” We started toward my horse but Pablo was weak. It was merely a flesh wound but he had bled more than I’d have believed. When I got him into the saddle I started off, leading the horse.

Pablo’s pistol was still in its holster, held there by the thong, but I saw nothing of his rifle.

“On my horse,” he explained. “My night-horse. He
was saddled and ready but I could not get to him fast enough.”

I walked fast, leading my horse, and worked our way back into the trees, climbing steadily higher. There might be a back way into Fisher’s Hole if I could find it. Pablo was looking gray and sick and I knew he could not stick it out. Maybe, just maybe I could leave him and ride down on the flat and find his horse. I had a feeling we would need that extra rifle.

We found a place among the trees and rocks and I left him there with my canteen, first checking his Colt to make sure it was loaded. When a man shoots and then passes out, he’s apt to forget how many times he’s fired his gun. He had three empty shells, which I replaced.

Then I circled around and headed back, keeping a background of mountain for myself so I’d not be so readily seen.

When I got to the edge of the trees I could see some horses scattered on the prairie below and they were beginning to bunch up as horses will that have run together awhile. From far off I could see other horses gradually coming into the bottom along Muddy Creek. I studied them as best I could, searching for one with a saddle, but had no luck.

Circling around, I began to bunch them from far out, just starting them on toward the herd, which was where they were headed anyway.

All of a sudden a saddled horse came out of a shallow draw right in front of me and started toward the herd. I’d started to head it when I heard hoofs, and, turning my horse fast, I found myself facing two riders.

They were more surprised than I was, and I had my rifle in my hands. “You boys rustlers?” I asked.

“Rustlers? What d’ you mean, rustlers?”

“I see you chasing another man’s horse. Riding after a bunch of Shelby’s stock. And you are not Shelby riders.”

“We’re lookin’ for a Mex.” The rider was a lean, mean-looking cowhand who looked like he’d come from a long line of sidewinders.

“Don’t look for him,” I advised. “Just ride back the other way. That Mexican has a lot of friends,” I continued, “who wouldn’t want to see him troubled.”

“I don’t give a damn for his friends. Where is he?”

“I’m one of his friends,” I said.

He looked at me with some contempt. “I don’t give a damn for you, either.”

I smiled at him. “My, but aren’t we big and rough! I’ll bet you used to scare the schoolmarms when you went to school!”

Smiling again, kind of what I hoped was ruefully, I said. “Oh, I’m sorry! I know! You didn’t go to school.”

“Who says I didn’t go to school?” he demanded belligerently. “I did so go to school.”

“Didn’t think you did,” I said, “but then the schools can’t win all the time, can they?”

He stared at me. “You tryin’ to be funny?”

“You’ve got the edge on me there,” I said. My eyes had both of them in range. Were there more?

“Were you one of the rustlers who stampeded the Shelby horses?”

“Rustlers? Who you callin’ rustlers? We were lookin’ for that damned Mexican, that’s all!”

“Likely story. You say you’re looking for a quiet, peaceful man minding his own business herding Shelby horses. Well, Shelby’s ridin’ over here and I’ll just read your brands to him. If you know Shelby he’ll be after you boys with a rope. The last time anybody messed with Shelby stock he hung three of them in a nice, neat row. He’ll be glad to do the same for you boys.”

The other cowhand was growing a bit nervous. “Wally? Let’s get out of here.” Then he said to me, “We’re not bothering Shelby stock. We was just lookin’ for that feller.”

“Who is a Shelby hand,” I said. “Go ahead and look, it’s your neck that’ll be stretched.”

“I don’t like you,” Wally said. “I got a good notion to—”

“You better have another notion that beats that one,” I said, “because I don’t like you, either.”

It was time I got back to Pablo but I did not dare go where these might follow. And I intended to take his horse.

“Who’re you, anyway?” Wally demanded. “I got a notion—”

“Any time,” I said.

He dearly wanted to, but he looked at me and he looked at that Winchester and he looked back at me again.

His tongue touched his lips and he looked at me again. It was almost as if he was drawing me a picture. He was just wondering if he could draw and fire before I could fire. Now most anybody in his right mind would know there was no way he was going to beat
me, but when a man fills his mind with how tough he is, he definitely is not in his right mind. He’s got to prove something.

My eyes were on Wally but they took in the other man, too. “You,” I said, “you with the blue shirt? Are you in this? Or do you want to live?”

“I’m lookin’ for a Mexican,” he said, “just what we were sent to do, and that’s all. Wally? Come on. Let’s ride.”

“You ride,” he said; and then still drawing the picture, he said, “All right, I’ll ride along with you.”

He started to turn his horse and as he did he drew his pistol. He was medium fast, and completely dead.

He had the pistol clear and his face was shining with triumph. He’d show me! Why he would show this—!

The jolt of the .44 didn’t knock him out of the saddle but it let air through him from one side to the other. He dropped his six-shooter and grabbed for the horn and he hung on tight, staring at me, his face growing whiter.

“I’m sorry, Wally, all you had to do was ride away.”

“I—I thought—” He slumped forward then fell from the saddle, one foot hanging in the off-stirrup. The horse started to move, and, stepping my horse around him, I caught the bridle.

“Take him home,” I said. “And ride with a partner who isn’t so much on the prod. You’ll live longer.”

“I couldn’t believe it. You with that Winchester—”

Riding so I could keep an eye on the rider in the blue shirt, I caught up Pablo’s horse, bunched the others, and started for the hills. That shot might bring other riders and I’d had enough of killing.

Wally was one of those who think tough and talk tough, but they’ve never been there when the chips were down and they don’t realize that tough talk is the first move on the long slide down to Boot Hill.

What was back there was something I did not like to think about. I would rather watch the horses move in the sunlight.

Pablo was on his feet, watching for me when I rode in. He looked at the horses, then at his horse.

“You count ’em,” I said. “I don’t know how many there were.”

“I heard shots,” he said.

“A man named Wally,” I said, “one of those who came after you last night, judging by the tracks of his horse.” I stepped down from the saddle. “Only one,” I said, “the other man had good sense.”

T
HE ONE THING I wanted to do was to get away from the area. The shooting that had just taken place could lead to retaliation and I wanted no more if it could be avoided. Besides, I had a job to do.

Pablo was weak. He needed rest and attention. If Anne was still living in Fisher’s Hole she was the sort to help; so getting Pablo into the saddle, I followed Gleason Canyon toward the St. Charles River.

Most people would have said Pablo was in no shape to ride. Maybe he wasn’t, but men on the plains and in the mountains lived a hard life and were accustomed to toughing it out. Doctors were few and far between and we made do with what we knew or what we had. It wasn’t always enough but in the majority of cases we survived. Seems to me the more medical attention you can afford the more you need it.

This was wild country through which we were riding. Several times we saw deer and rode past a couple of bear trees where they had left marks of their claws. Before pulling out I’d gone around to see that lion I’d killed. He was a big one, my guess was he’d weigh well over two hundred pounds, although I’d seen one weighed that tipped the beam at two hundred and thirty.

He’d been a beautiful, splendid beast. I was never
much on killing anything I didn’t need to eat, but ever since I’d seen what a mountain lion would do to a pen of lambs I’d not hesitated to shoot one. Weak as he was, Pablo wouldn’t have had much chance with this one.

We rode through the trees, winding our way upward, picking our way with care. Pablo slumped in the saddle, but like most cowhands he could stay in the saddle when only half conscious.

The air was clear and cool. We were nearly seven thousand feet above the sea, and when we stopped to give our horses a chance to catch their wind I could see out through the trees to the plains below. This was a part of the front range, the face of the Rockies looking eastward toward the wide, wide plains that ran all the way to the Mississippi and beyond.

Every now and again I’d stop to check our back-trail. There was nowhere that let me see very far, but there was no sign of movement down below or no sign we were followed. That did not mean we were not.

Riding on, I got to studying about Jefferson Henry and this girl I was to find. Portis figured the Magoffins had been murdered. I knew that Tut had been, so somebody was playing for keeps.

What had been in Nathan Albro’s safe that he wanted removed? What was it that thief had been trying to steal? By all accounts, Nathan Albro was an honest man, although a strict, stern one. He had wanted to protect Nancy’s inheritance and had tried.

What had become of Stacy, Newton’s wife? Where was Newton? Was he dead? Had he been killed, too? My trouble was that I was riding a trail where I
couldn’t read the sign. No wonder the Pinkertons had given up. If they had.

Nathan Albro apparently owned something Jefferson Henry wanted and would stop at nothing to get. Newton, who obviously hated his father, had slipped around and married Stacy, probably simply to get possession of whatever it was, then he had hid out from his father.

Why try to get Nancy away from her mother? Maybe Newton had bet on the wrong horse when he married Stacy. The property or whatever it was must have been left to Nancy. By getting Nancy away from her mother she might be tricked or frightened or cajoled into signing away what she owned. Newton was going to prove to papa he could do something on his own and in spite of papa.

Maybe.

The Magoffins had apparently helped Newton or been in the deal somehow and had decided to sell him out. This was all surmise, but I had to figure the thing out. Then Newton had them murdered, or murdered them himself?

Maybe.

They had hidden Nancy away in California with her mother. Those Digger pines, I’d seen them growing at some place in the foothills of the Sierras and in the Tehachapi Mountains. That great splash of blue … somebody was painting the desert in wildflower time, and the patch of orange was California poppies.

Pausing to give the horses another breather, I stepped down from the saddle and walked back to Pablo. He was all in. I mean he was hanging on but I
could see there was no way we were going to go farther right then.

We had crossed the head of Spring Branch and St. Charles Peak was ahead and on our left. “Can you stick it a couple of more miles?”

He had nerve, that Mexican did. He tried to smile and almost made it. “
Si
. Two miles, four miles, I stay.”