Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (13 page)

A board creaked and Reb looked up. The cook was facing him across a double-barrele
d
shotgun. "Drop it or I'll cut you in two!"

Reb Farrell's gun was level and he did not hesitate. "You fire," he said, "and I'l
l
kill you. You'll get me, but I'll take you with me. Now go ahead and shoot, becaus
e
I'll not miss at this range!"

"Go ahead!" Ike shouted. "Shoot, you greasy fool!"

The cook stared, gulped, and his eyes shifted. He didn't like the situation eve
n
a little. That Reb would not surrender in the face of the scattergun was somethin
g
of which he had never dreamed. Now it was quite obvious that while he would kil
l
Reb, the bullet from the pistol would unquestionably kill him. And he was not read
y
to die. Moreover, Reb Farrell's very heedlessness in attacking four men when alon
e
was enough to prove that he just didn't care. The cook hesitated.

"Shoot," Reb said, "or drop it! I'm tired of waiting."

The cook's eyes wavered to the man on the ground. "Yeah"-he sneered-"a lot you car
e
what happens to me." His eyes swung back to Reb and the six-gun was unwavering. "Neve
r
was much of a poker player. I reckon you got me. I'd rather be alive an' in jai
l
than dead on the ground." He bent over and placed the shotgun carefully on the groun
d
and took a step back. "Hope you'll recall that when the trial comes."

Quickly, Reb gathered up the loose weapons, including the rifle he had given hi
s
father, found inside the cabin. He tied the hands of Ike and the cook, then bandage
d
Banta's wounds. The redhead was dead.

It was noon on the following day when Reb Farrell rode down the street of Palo Seco.

Doors began to open and people stepped out to look at the procession. Joe Banta
,
the cook, and Ike Goodrich followed by the horse carrying the body of Red, and behin
d
them all, his rifle across his saddle, was Reb Farrell.

Nathan Embree stepped from the saloon and stopped. Laura was standing at the doo
r
of the post office, her face suddenly white.

"Embree." Reb's voice rang loud in the street. "Here's your rustlers. You'll fin
d
your cattle in Dark Canyon. This here, in case you don't know him, is Joe Banta.

They carried my dad's body out here as a warning, but when we shot they dropped th
e
body an' ran."

Embree's face was red. "I guess I owe you an apology," he said stiffly, "but you'l
l
admit that I had reasons...."

Reb Farrell looked at him. "Reason to doubt a man who had worked hard for you, fo
r
years? Reason to suspect an old man who had harmed nobody? Embree, I'm ridin' ou
t
of this country, but I'll be back for the trial.

And the hanging." He shot a cool look at Banta. "Nathan, I hope this teaches you a lesson. Nex
t
time don't be so quick to judge."

Laura stood beside her father, her face white, her teeth touching her lip. Suddenl
y
Reb felt sorry for her.

"Reb!" She put up a hand as if to hold him back.

He drew up. "I'm not blamin' you, nor anybody. I figure you never knew me real wel
l
or you'd not have been so quick to doubt. Next time I'll think twice before I figur
e
someone's my gal."

Reb moved on; Dave Barbot was standing on the walk. "Dave, you were the only on
e
who gave me a kind word. Understand you're in the market for some cows? Well, betwee
n
Dad an' me we had maybe four hundred head."

"I'd say a few more," Dave said. "You aim to sell?"

"To you, and the price is one thousand dollars and the care of my dad's grave s
o
long as you live."

"A thousand, Reb?" Barbot was incredulous. "They're worth twice that!"

"That's my price. How about it?"

"Sure," Dave said, "I'd be a fool to pass it up."

Reb told him about the horses in the corral at the lone cabin. "Pick 'em up, Dave.

They are yours."

"We'll trade, Reb. Down in the livery-barn corral there's a horse you'll know. M
y
'paloose stallion. You always fancied that horse. Well, he's yours. Throw your saddl
e
over him an' take this one for a packhorse. This deal you're giving me isn't fai
r
to you, so let me throw this in."

"All right, then. Have the money when I come back from the jail."

On his way back down the street, Reb saw an old man standing on the edge of the porch
,
leaning against the awning post. It was Lon Melchor.

"Well, all right. I ain't so strong right now, son, but I
a
im to be. I'd have to ride a mite easy the first few days, because this side pain
s
me some, but if you'll have me, I'll trail along."

He waved a hand at the town. "Folks here don't cotton to me and I want to see som
e
new country."

Reb Farrell's heart warmed to the old rustler. "Get up in your saddle, Lon. We'r
e
headin' up to Denver to see us some of these electric lights and telephones and such."

The old man crawled painfully into the saddle and faced around. His face was strained
,
but his lips smiled and there was even humor in his eyes. "Let's go! Denver it is!"

The sun was high and the mountains in the distance were a far purple. The air wa
s
fresh and there was the 'paloose stepping out, tugging the bit.

*

He looked through his field glasses into the eyes of a dying man. A trembling han
d
lifted, the fingers stirred, and the dying lips attempted to form words, trying desperatel
y
to tell him something across the void, to deliver a final message.

Chick Bowdrie stared, struggling to interpret the words, but even as he stared h
e
saw the lips cease their movements and the man was no longer alive.

Lowering his glasses, Chick studied the wide sweep of the country. Without the glasse
s
he could see only the standing horse that had first attracted his attention. Th
e
canyon between them was deep, but the dead man lay not more than one hundred yard
s
away.

Mounting his hammer-headed roan, Chick Bowdrie swung to the trail again and starte
d
down the steep path into the canyon. By this route the man must have come. Had h
e
been dying then? Or had he been shot as he reached the other side? There had bee
n
a dark blotch on the man's side that must be blood.

Twenty minutes later he stood beside the dead man. No tracks but the man's own. Fallin
g
from his horse, the fellow had tried to rise, had finally made it, struggled a fe
w
steps, and then fallen, to rise no more.

Chick knelt beside the dead man. About fifty-five, one hundred and thirty pounds
,
and very light-skinned for a Western man, which he obviously was. He had been sho
t
low down on the left side.

No ... that was where the bullet had come out. The bullet had entered in the man'
s
back near the spine.

Nothing in the pockets, no letters, no identification of any kind ... and only
a
little money.

The jeans and shirt were new. The boots also. Only the gun belts, holster, and gu
n
were worn. They showed much use, and much knowing care. The trigger was tied bac
k
... the man had been a slip-shot.

The dead man's hands were white and smooth. Not the hands of a cowhand, yet neithe
r
was the man a gambler. Getting to his feet, Chick walked to the horse. A steel-dus
t
and a fine animal, selected by a man who knew horseflesh. The saddle was of the "center-fire"

California style, of hand-worked leather and with some fine leather work on the tapaderos.

The rope was an easy eighty feet long, and new.

No food, which indicated the man expected to reach his goal before night. He ha
d
been shot not more than two hours before dusk, which implied his destination coul
d
not be far off. Surely not more than fifteen miles or so.

A new Winchester rifle with a hundred rounds of ammunition. An equal amount for
a
pistol, and then, curiously enough, a box of .32-caliber pistol ammunition. Returnin
g
it all to the saddlebags and a pack under the slicker, Bowdrie slung the body ove
r
the dead man's saddle, then mounted his own horse.

Four miles from where the body had been found, the tracks of a shod horse turne
d
into the trail. Chick swung down and studied them. The shoes were not new and wer
e
curiously worn on the outside. Stepping back into the leather, Chick rode on.

Valverde came to life when Chick rode down the street. A man got up from a chai
r
in front of the livery stable, another put down his hammer in the blacksmith shop.

A girl came from the general store. As one person, they began to move toward th
e
front of the Border Saloon, where Chick Bowdrie had stopped.

"Deputy sheriff here? Or marshal?"

A bulky man with a star came from the saloon. "I'm Houdon, I'm the marshal."

"Found him on the trail." Bowdrie explained as the marshal examined the body, ye
t
as he talked Chick's eyes strayed to the faces of the crowd. They revealed nothing.

Behind him, there was a click of heels on the boardwalk, a faint perfume, then
a
gentle breathing at his shoulder.

The girl who had come from the store looked past him at the body. There was a quic
k
intake of breath and she turned at once and walked away. Because she had seen a body?

Or because she knew the man?

After answering questions, Bowdrie walked into the saloon. The bartender shoved th
e
bottle to him and commented, "Eastern man?"

"California," Bowdrie replied. "Notice his rig?"

The bartender shrugged, making no reply. Chick downed his drink, filled his glas
s
again, and waited, listening to the discussion in the bar.

There was, he learned, no trouble in the vicinity, and jobs were scarce. Occasionall
y
he helped the conversation along with a comment or a question. Most local cowhand
s
worked years for the same outfit, and most of them wer
e
Mexicans. The Bar W had let two hands go, but that was an exception. The Bar W wa
s
in old Robber's Roost country, over against the Chisos Mountains.

"That trail I was followin'," he commented idly, "wasn't used much."

"It's the old Strawhouse Trail. Smugglers used it, a long time back. Only the old-timer
s
know it."

But the dead man had been riding it. Was he an old-timer returning? Chick threw dow
n
his cigarette and crossed to the restaurant.

Pedro opened one eye and looked at Bowdrie. A fat, jolly Mexican woman came fro
m
the kitchen. She jerked her head at the man. "He is the sleepy one! Good for nothing!"

Pedro opened the eye again. "Juana have nice restaurant, six leetle ones. Good fo
r
nothing! Hah! What can we get you, senor?"

"How about arroz con polio?"

Chick Bowdrie dropped to a bench beside the table, considering the situation. A ma
n
had bought an outfit, then loaded for bear, he had come to the border, a man wh
o
knew the old trails and who probably had been here long before. From his age, however
,
the sort of man who would not lightly return to the saddle.

He was eating when the girl came in and stopped near his table. She hesitated, the
n
abruptly, she sat down. She put her hands on the table before her and he glance
d
at them, carefully kept hands, yet Western hands.