the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) (2 page)

"What about water?"

"He'll find water. He can find water where a coyote would die for lack of it, and he leaves no more trail than a ghost... I have that from a Delaware who tried to find him for the Army, when he was needed."

"Just so's he comes. I'm no hand with a six-shooter more'n the average, an' that's a tough outfit we're facin'. You tell him to ride careful, for they'll be out to kill any man they don't know on the idea that if he isn't one of theirs he must naturally be an enemy. If I get back to the ranch with my hair, I'll need all the luck in the world."

"All right
... Hohner replied. "If you need anything for the trail, just tell Ray at the bar.

He'll see that you have it."

Hohner paused a moment and then said, more quietly, "Son? if I were you I'd put all those ideas about a girl and a few drinks out of my mind. If you want to live to see Texas, you'll leave within the hour."

"Huh? Are you crazy? I just got in, an' the boss said"

"I don't care what he said. Your boss isn't in Dodge. There's not a man in town who doesn't know there's a rider in town from Texas hunting Kilkenny. And among those men who know are three of Webb Steele's riders who've been up here recruiting gun-hands.

"Now I've got a horse outside the back door. That horse is a fast black with a lot of guts and its wearing an HR brand. That horse now wears your bridle, saddle and rifle, and if you're half as smart as I think you are you'll ride north out of town to where Jake Breslin is holding the HR herd. You'll stay there until about sundown. And then you'll ride east about three or four miles and then cut south for Texas, avoiding any cattle herds you find.

"I'd ride all night, if I were you. There's another HR herd coming up the trail and you should run into it about three days south of here. Swap horses there and keep going."

The cowhand stared glumly at his food. "Hell
... He said. "And I was all ready for"

"There's other days and other times. As well as other girls ... if you live."

Hohner paused. "By now at least one of those Steele riders is watching your horse, which is in the livery stable. I had it put there within ten minutes after you walked into this place. They will have at least one man watching the trail south, and at least one more hunting you here in town."

"I had no idea
... The cowhand muttered. "I didn't figure there'd be any of that outfit in town."

"There is
... Hohner said quietly, "and they have hired at least two Colorado renegades already. The word is that Steele intends to ride roughshod over Chet Lord as well as Mort Davis and a few others.

He's hired some real rough lads from over on Macho Creek, and he's ready."

"Gimme another cup of coffee and I'll hit the saddle
... The cowhand said. He was a tough, barrel-chested man, his jaws dark with beard even when clean-shaven. He was no fool, and as John Hohner summed up the situation for him, all thought of whiskey and women left his mind.

Mentally, he began going over the herds he had passed on the way up from Texas, wondering which ones he dared visit on the way back. He had friends along the way, as did Mort Davis, but there were friends of both Steele and Lord among them, too. And Davis was small potatoes when it came to the big outfits.

He knew very well that one purpose of the oncoming range war was the avowed intention of the two big outfits to possess themselves of Davis's ranch.

Davis's range was the best piece of grass from the Rio Grande to the Red ... at least, in the minds of local ranchers.

The cowhand finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and got to his feet "Be careful
... Hohner warned.

Chapter
II

For those who opposed the stringing of wire on the range of Texas, the hour was late. Already, in a vacant lot in Botalla ... and there were many such lots, for the town was very new ... lay great reels of wire gleaming spools of it ready for the stringing.

Reports had it that there was soon to be a railroad in Texas, and fat beef, good beef, was soon to be hi great demand. If this should prove to be the case, then the long drive to Kansas and the railroad there would no longer be necessary, for the shipments could be made right from Texas.

The cattle would fatten on local grass, and the possession of good, well-watered range would mean wealth almost immediate wealth, with the demand what it was.

Suddenly every rancher in the area began looking at his range with thoughtful eyes. And looking at that of his neighbor as well...

In the saloon of the Trail House in Botalla, rancher Webb Steele smashed a ham-like fist on the bar. "We're putting it up
... He declared, and Webb spoke always as if addressing a public meeting. "Hoss-high, pig-tight and bull-strong! If there's some as don't like it, and want war, it's war they want and its war they'll get!"

"Who fences Lost Creek Valley"..."... Only a hardened soul could dare ask such a question. "You or Chet Lord?"

"I'm fencin' it
... Steele glared at once around the room as if he had expected a challenge. "If necessary, my riders will ride the fence with Winchesters!"

There was a murmur of subdued talk in the room, for such a statement was tantamount to a declaration of war, and everybody from the Neuces to the Rio Grande knew that when Webb Steele said he would fight, he meant it They also knew that Chet Lord had never surrendered anything to anybody.

Nobody in his right mind made war talk in the Neuces Strip country unless he meant it. Those who ranched mere were hard, tough men, accustomed to fierce fights with over-the-border bandits many of them Anglos who took refuge in Mexico to avoid the law. Nobody wore a gun for show. There had once been a few of those but they had been buried long since, and those naive souls who might have ventured into the Strip were usually warned in time and rode away to more tolerant climes.

The rangy yellow horse with the black mane and tail as well as three black ankles loped down the street toward the trail house, unaware and unconcerned. At the Trail House, the rider pulled up and swung down. He glanced at the lights from the windows, then tied his horse and loosened the cinch.

He stood for a moment, looking along the street.

Then he hitched up his gunbelts and slipped the thongs from both guns.

He was a quiet man of rangy build, broad in the shoulders, slim hi waist and flank, with a lean, brown face and green eyes. Leaving his dusty coat tied behind the saddle, he stepped up on the boardwalk and stood one moment longer. He wore a worn buckskin vest, black shirt and trousers, and a black, flat-brimmed hat. He was dusty and tired and, for just a moment before he stepped inside, he closed his eyes to clear away some of the tiredness in order to leave his vision clear.

He knew that the men along the walk most of them seated at benches against the wall had seen him. They knew him for a stranger. Their eyes had lingered a little longer than customary on the two tied-down guns. Two guns were only occasional, and tied-down guns were rare, for it was a method not much used and only of limited value.

He pushed through the doors into the saloon and paused just briefly to let his eyes adjust to the change of light Webb Steele, brawny and huge, strode past him with the air of one who commanded the earth and all that was on it The stranger swept the room with a brief, comprehensive glance. It told him he knew no one there, and it was unlikely anyone knew him.

He walked to the end of the bar, away from the others.

"I'll have a whiskey
... He said.

Several men lounged against the bar, the nearest a young man who had moved into the place left by Webb Steele, a slim, why man better dressed than most cowhands, with black polished boots and large-roweled Mexican spurs.

The young man's cool gray eyes swept the stranger with a sharp glance. "Don't I know you"..."... He demanded.

The green eyes were expressionless. The stranger shrugged. "You might"

"Ridin' through?"

"Maybe."

"Want a job?"

"Maybe."

"Aren't you a cowhand?"

"Sometimes."

"We'll pay well... very well!"

"What outfit are you with?"

"I am not with any outfit
... The young man's tone was sharp. "I am the Tumbling R."

"Bully for you."

The young man's mouth tightened, and a queer kind of excitement came into his eyes.

"I don't like the way you said that
... His tone was aggressive, eager.

The man with green eyes looked at him, then looked away. He offered no comment, but the look was enough.

"In fact, I don't hire you
... The young man insisted.

"Does it matter?"' drawled the stranger.

There was an instant when the young rancher stared as if he could not quite believe what he had heard. Then he felt rather than saw the men hurriedly backing away from him, getting out of the line of any gunfire.

Something turned over inside the young man, and he realized with a sudden, sickening awareness that he was facing trouble, possibly a gun battle, out in the open and all alone.

With a shock he realized that he was frightened, that he had pushed himself into this situation of his own will. He felt an icy chill go down his spine. Always before, when he had talked loud and free or swaggered a bit too much, men had backed off because they knew he was Chet Lord's son. Men knew his hardbitten old father all too well The case of Bonnet and Swindell had helped, too. They had affronted young Lord and both had been found dead on the trail, their guns in their hands.

Yet nothing his father might do later could help him now. He must fight He stiffened, trying to seem unafraid, his mind scrambling like a frightened rat seeking a hole. Somebody would stop it, surely.

Somebody must.

"Yeah, it matters, and I'll make it matter
... His voice shrilled a little, but his hand hovered over his gun.

The onlookers stared, tense, holding their breaths as one man. The tall stranger looked easily into Steve Lord's eyes, and then suddenly he smiled. There was humor in his eyes, not taunting or something worse, just plain good humor.

"Well."... He spoke slowly, gently, "Don't kill me now. I'd hate to get shot on an empty stomach."

Deliberately, he turned his back and spoke to the bartender. "One more, and then I'm getting something to eat. Seems to me I ate half the dust in Texas for breakfast."

Everyone began talking suddenly, and Steve Lord, astonished at his good luck, turned to the bar himself.

Something had happened, and he was not altogether sure what it was, but he suddenly knew he had narrowly escaped a shoot-out and with a man to whom such things were not new.

He faced the bar, thankful that the men on either side were strangers. He was trembling, if not outwardly.

He was definitely trembling inside and could not trust his voice. He was going to have to watch himself.

Since he was a child he had tried to adopt his father's hard, thrusting ways but without what it took to back them up. He had always believed himself to be a tough, dangerous man and then, suddenly, in the first real showdown he had ever had with a stranger, all the sand had gone out of him.

Yet. . . why had the stranger turned away? He had heard his father speak of such men-men so sure of themselves that they could step casually aside.

Yet a moment before, there had been death in the man's eyes, cold, ugly death.

Preoccupied with his own feelings and the shock that remained with him, he did not see what was happening.

Only the stranger saw it, lifting his eyes from the just-poured drink to see a lean-bodied, thin-faced man slide quickly from his chair and go out a side door.

No one seemed to see him go but the stranger, who was the kind of a man who had learned to notice such things, to live with awareness, to recognize an enemy where others would see nothing but another human being. Too long he had walked the ragged edges of death, going quietly in where others shrank back.

Only he had noted the hostility in the man's gaze, and the furtiveness he had been unable to disguise.

The stranger swallowed his drink, then turned quietly and went outside, unnoticed. For such minor altercations were not unusual, and there had been no shooting. Some would say that the stranger had backed down, others would realize that he had merely sidestepped a killing. But in any event it was over and nothing amiss had happened.

In the street, he paused. The thin-faced man was talking to three men who stood across the street in front of the Spur Saloon. He caught their eyes as they looked and sized him up, but he knew none of them. The trouble was, he was sure the thin-faced man had known him ... or suspected him of being someone he should know.

He ought to leave town, and leave now, yet there were things he needed to know, and this was the best place to discover them. The stranger would wait a little longer.

Although he had not known the three men across the street, he had recognized their type. All three were cowhands, but the kind who relied more on what they could do with guns than what they could do with ropes or branding irons.