Ride the Man Down (19 page)

The order of these holdings was in his mind. Case at Six X and Ladder and Sam Danfelser and Bide Marriner held the range of the Salt Hills and the flats below them in that order, moving south to north. All of these outfits had for their main source of water Bandoleer Creek, which came out of the Salt Hills on Bide's range and swung south, angling out into the flats and finally touching Boundary and again swinging on south.

Beyond Bandoleer Greek to the west, approaching Hatchet range, water was less easy to find, and it was through this country that Will rode today. The winter's heavy snows had brought up a thick grass here, and Will was reminded of Phil Evarts. This stretch of range that lay between the Salt Hills outfits and the edge of Hatchet had always tantalized Phil Evarts, perhaps only because it marked the limit beyond which he could not extend Hatchet's holdings. No man stopped him; it was nature, for this stretch was waterless. The cattle from Hatchet grazed out into it, but they must always return for water. Likewise, cattle from the Salt Hills ranches edged into it but drifted back to Bandoleer Creek for water. Until Bide Marriner developed Russian Springs, that was. Following which, of course, Phil Evarts took it away from him. For outside of the two wells that Phil Evarts had dug and which were failures, Russian Springs was the only water in this stretch which was claimed for Hatchet.

In early morning Will came upon the first Six X cattle pushed out by Case. The recent rains and the new grass allowed them to graze deep into this strip, and Will was not surprised.

And then in midmorning he came upon the first D Cross cattle. A scattering of them was gathered at one of Phil Evarts' dug wells and was watched by a pair of D Cross riders, dismounted and having a smoke.

Will pulled his horse back into the coulee he had just left and moved, afoot now, closer in the deep grass until he could make out the brands on more of the cattle.

It was D Cross all right. He came back to his horse and made a wide circle of the well, but he was disturbed. This was claimed as Hatchet range, and Sam Danfelser's cattle were on it. Sam was not the man to do this behind Celia's back. Or had he despaired of Celia ever moving off the others and decided to claim his share of Hatchet to save it from falling to Marriner or Case? Will wished savagely that he could see Celia now and find out.

Keeping on north now, holding to cover where it was afforded, he came into the range around Russian Springs in the afternoon. The country here was different, more broken, and rolling, long patches of timber darkly stippling the new green of the grass. There were cattle all through it, and Bide's Bib M brand was on them.

Will moved deeper into this country, for he had measured his risk Bide would have pulled most of his men off to hunt him, yet Will moved carefully, keeping to the timber and the high ground until, some hours later, he came upon the open valley where Russian Springs lay.

Russian Springs had got its name from a peddler who had been murdered years ago in his camp here by Indians coveting his trade goods. The Springs themselves were at the head of the valley, welling up under at the base of a towering outcrop of rotten limestone. A big tank had been rocked up under the base to hold the water, and its overflow, filtering down the valley floor, left a stripe of deeper green the length of it. Across the valley were the log shack and corrals which Bide had thrown up originally, only to lose to Phil Evarts and now regain.

Will noted the horses in the far corral and saw a pair of Bide's hands yarning in the sun outside, but he paid them scant attention. It was the springs themselves that interested him, and he studied them closely for many minutes.

Afterward he pulled away from the valley and again kept north and by full dark was in the foothills of the Indian Ridge country.

More cautious now, when he came to a stream he rested his horse and had some cold grub and a cigarette and afterward climbed to one of the many trails that threaded a way to the Ridge and the Cavanaugh shack.

He traveled this timbered terrain carefully, his senses alert now, for he was in the country where Bide would naturally hunt him. But with him now, too, was a melancholy he could not shake. Later tonight he would make the shack and his answer from Lottie would be waiting there. He thought of her now, and little things about her, lovable things, rose to taunt him.

He reined up suddenly, hardly knowing why. There was the smell of wood smoke plain in the forest air, and he felt his horse uneasy under him. Suddenly, ahead of him and not far distant, a horse nickered sharply.

Will rolled out of the saddle instantly and lunged for his black's head, covering its nose with his hand to prevent an answering whicker. He listened, then, and heard men talking, and he pulled his horse around and led him quietly back down the trail. He heard now the sudden pounding of horses at a dead run behind him. Vaulting into the saddle, he roweled his horse off the trail some twenty yards into thick brush and again dismounted, again covered his horse's nose with his hand. Seconds later a pair of riders he could not see pounded past on the dark trail at a reckless speed.

Will mounted and returned to the trail and turned up it, lifting his hone into a run. There was a chance that other men were ahead, but he determined to risk it. He came over a rise and saw the small campfire by the trail, bedrolls beside it. The camp was empty, and he kept his horse at a dead run through it and stopped only minutes later far beyond to blow his horse and listen. The night was quiet once more, but Will listened with an uneasiness upon him. His idle time was up; Bide's men were riding the hills, watching the trails already. From now on it was travel hard, keep moving, and forget sleep.

He pressed on, sobered now and alert, moving deeper into the gaunt canyons and steep timber of Indian Ridge. Later in the night then he paused on the canyon rim overlooking the trail down into Cavanaugh's place. If there was a light in the shack he would see it.

He moved down the steep trail and presently came into the clearing around the shack. He approached it carefully and found it empty, just as he had left it.

He put his horse behind the shack, returned and stretched out on the porch, and presently slept.

He awoke sometime later, dismay in him. He did not move, only listened. And then there came to him the sound of a horse being ridden down the trail, and he knew this had wakened him. A fierce joy was in him, and he came to his feet, peering into the darkness. This was Lottie.

The rider came on and was now abreast of the well. Will listened intently, and then he caught the rustle of cloth and he stepped down and said, “You came, Lottie.”

The rider stopped, and there was no answer. Will halted, and his hand dropped to his gun, in case he had made a mistake.

And then the answer came. “It's me, Will—Celia.”

Will felt the hope in him die, leaving a sharp, brief bitterness. That was all, and he came up to Celia's horse. “You've seen Lottie.”

“She said she wasn't coming, Will.”

“I didn't mean that,” Will said sharply, and then he realized that Celia wouldn't know what he was talking about. “I only wondered how you found me.”

“Yes, she told me.”

Will silently thought of this. Lottie was gone, and she had not troubled to tell him herself. Will knew that was unfair. They had said everything there was to say long ago, and she had ended it with bitterness and accusation.

Will was suddenly aware that Celia was silent, watching him. He told her to dismount and took her horse and put it with his own.

He went over to Cavanaugh's woodpile now and picked up some chips and chunks of wood and brought them over close to the porch and built a fire. He watched it come alight, a taciturn expression on his still face, and presently he looked up at Celia, who sat on the edge of the porch. He found her looking at him curiously, uncertainly, like a sober child.

“Would you rather I hadn't come, Will?”

Will rose and said gently, “I was never more glad to see you,” and his smile was quick, careless.

“Isn't this fire risky?” she asked.

Will nodded soberly and looked at her and again grinned. “It is.”

Celia laughed suddenly, for the first time in days. She could forget now that she had watched John Evarts buried this morning in the hills behind Hatchet alongside her father, his brother. She was with Will again, and that dry, blunt, truth-telling, humorous part of him hadn't changed. It was like being home. Will sat beside her now and began to fashion a cigarette. He said idly, “Tell me about Lottie.”

When Celia didn't answer he looked at her and saw the soberness in her eyes. “I'd rather not,” Celia said slowly.

Will watched her a moment, understanding, and then he looked away. “It doesn't matter. If she'd come here tonight we'd have ridden over to the reservation and been married. But she didn't come.”

“What was it, Will?”

“Hatchet.”

Ceila said quietly after a moment, “I think I know how you feel—a little.” When he glanced at her she said, “Sam's not going to marry me, Will. He told me.”

Will looked at her sharply, an unaccountable gladness in his eyes. It took a moment for him to accept the fact that this gay and courageous daughter of Phil Evarts was not going to marry a man who didn't deserve her. He studied her dark face, her gray, musing eyes, and he saw no heartbreak there and he said quietly, “Bless him. He finally saw you weren't good enough for him, did he?”

Celia glanced quickly at him and saw the humor and friendliness in his eyes and understood the meaning behind his words. She nodded, smiling.

Will tossed his unmade cigarette in the fire and said soberly, “I told you, kid. We're mavericks. This was in the book.”

“For you and Lottie too?”

Will nodded. “That was in the books. I didn't have the sense to see it.”

“But if it hadn't been for Hatchet, maybe—”

“It would have been something else and too late, then. She wants it safe.”

Celia, listening, nodded. “Sam does too.”

They looked at each other fully now, and suddenly Will shook his head. “Peace be with them, then.”

They were quiet a moment, both staring at the fire, a closeness between them that did not need speech. Celia said suddenly, in a small voice, “I guess it isn't wrong to say it now, Will. But when Sam told me I felt as if a door opened.” She looked at him with quiet wonder in her eyes. “I'd been in the dark. I didn't know it.” She hesitated. “You knew I was, Will, and you didn't tell me.”

“One man's opinion,” Will said, smiling gently.

Celia sighed deeply and shook her head. “I'm afraid of him. He believes in the right things and he's honest, but there's a wild streak in him, Will. Not a wild streak like yours. I—I can understand yours. You don't think you're better than other men; you just think the things you believe are better than what other men believe. But that's not Sam's wildness.” She shivered a little. “He thinks he was born in the right. He only believes in himself and he'll break and smash everything in front of him to prove it to himself. He—he thinks he's God, almost.”

Will listened, watching her, knowing this was something she had to rid her mind of. Beneath it, now, he saw the shape of fear, and it puzzled him. He said gently, “Sam's trouble is he hates to take a beating.”

“He hates it most from you,” Celia murmured.

Will shook his head. “From anybody.”

“But most from you,” Celia repeated. “He's going to kill you, Will. He told me.”

Will didn't smile. He asked suddenly, “Is that what you're afraid of, Celia?”

Celia nodded. “That's why I came, I guess. I didn't know why I did come—until I said that.”

Will's glance shuttled to the fire, and he stared at it a long time, his face settling into a tough-shaped somberness. He said gently, “I can promise you one thing, Celia. Sam won't get a chance to kill me until Hatchet is on its feet again.”

Celia laughed uncertainly. “That's as good as forever, Will.”

He glanced at her levelly. “I don't think so.”

“We've got two hands, a cook, a cripple, and a foreman on the dodge. Aren't you just wishing, Will?”

“There's a way,” Will said quietly. “See what you think of it.”

He rose and got some more wood and threw it on the fire, and afterward he talked long into the night.

Chapter 18

This amused Joe Kneen, and he watched it with a dry and bitter relish. At all hours of the day and night tired riders drifted into town. They would report to Sam and Bide at the Belle Fourche when those two were in, which was seldom, and then cross to the hotel and sleep like dead in the rooms Bide had engaged for them. The town watched and heard stories. There was the one about Will passing two D Cross riders on a trail at night, and they had tracked him up into the Indian Ridge where they found his fire still warm in the mouth of a cave. They had called in help and had spent a futile day beating the brush, and afterward the original two had gone back to their old camp. They found a warm fire, their bedrolls burned, their grub vanished, and a coin left prominently on a rock.

Then there was the time—yesterday, that was—when two riders, their horses lathered, rode into Boundary, each from a different direction, each swearing that they had seen Will Ballard ride through the piece of country they were watching.

Late one night, too, one of Garretson's hands was brought into Boundary in a spring wagon. He had jumped Will Ballard in the Indigos and, heedless of his employer's decision that his outfit had no part in this, had tried an ambush. The doctor said he had a good chance to live.

Kneen heard all this at second hand, usually relayed to him by one of the ranchers from under the Ridge, who still sat by and watched. Which was what Kneen was doing, too, this morning, as he had every morning since the shooting of Cavanaugh.