The Smoking Iron (14 page)

He kept on not thinking about Rosa. He had seen a lot of men fall before his guns in the past. Always, they had been men who deserved to die, and he'd never lost any sleep regretting their death.

He was determined not to lose any sleep over Rosa's death. In a sense, he had deliberately planned it that way. But he was sure it was best. Dusty's name might never have been cleared if he hadn't handled it as he did. And Rosa would have gone on to commit other evils. But he couldn't forget the way the men in the saloon had looked at him. He knew he was going to remember that scene for a long time. But a man had to do what he thought was right when the necessity arose. No man could ever be sure. You had to be true to yourself, to your own judgment, regardless of what others might do or say.

They had jogged along for hours after leaving Marfa, and Ezra had not said a word. His big frame was hunched forward in the saddle and his chin drooped on his chest. Pat glanced aside at him and envied the big man his childlike ability to put aside all worrisome questions and thoughts while he dozed in blissful peace.

It was better to be that way. A man didn't gain anything by worrying and asking himself questions that no man could answer.

The moon was beginning to pale, and the stars were slowly blinking out overhead. The breaking of day was otherwise imperceptible, but there was that added chill in the air that always presages dawn in the West.

Ezra straightened himself in the saddle and turned to look inquiringly at Pat. He sniffed the air and said, “Daylight, huh? I must of dozed off for a minute.”

“A couple of minutes,” Pat said. “Yeh. It'll be day pretty soon.”

Ezra yawned hugely and asked, “How far's it to Hermosa?”

“From Marfa?”

“Yeh.”

“About sixty miles. But we're to meet Dusty in Boracho.”

“Ain't that right across the river?”

“I think it's downriver some from Hermosa.” Pat was a little vague about Big Bend geography.

“Dusty'll hightail it 'cross the river soon as he hits there,” Ezra suggested. “He won't know whether there's a posse follerin' him or not.”

Pat nodded placidly. “He won't be expectin' us in Boracho for another day at the best. Maybe we'll stop off for a visit at the K T ranch 'fore we go there.”

Ezra aroused himself to frown and ask, “What's eatin' on you 'bout the Katie? You ast the sheriff about it las' night.”

“And I told you. Maybe the gal that's gettin' all her stock rustled will be in a mind to sell out some heifers cheap.”

“It ain't like you to take advantage of a gal what's in trouble, Pat.” Ezra shook his head and sighed. “I don't believe that a-tall.”

The darkness of night was giving way to dawn-gray, showing the broken landscape of stunted vegetation which Dusty had noticed as he rode toward Hermosa. Ezra glanced about him and snorted, “This is a hell of a cow-country anyhow. I wouldn't trade one ranch in Powder Valley for the hull of it.”

Pat said, “I reckon it gets better toward the river.”

The sky behind them became streaked with red, and full daylight came on swiftly. They were approaching the range of hills over which the stage had passed some hours previously. The road climbed up over rocky ridges, crawled down into shallow ravines choked with jack-pine and up steeper ridges toward the pass that led down the opposite slope into the river valley.

The sun rose behind them and became hot on their backs, and the air seemed thinner, more like the Colorado air they were accustomed to, as they climbed higher toward the low peaks marking the top of the range.

It was a good two hours after sunrise when they reached the top. When they pulled their panting horses up to rest, they saw a rider following the winding road up from the other side. He was pushing his horse hard, and they both swung off and rolled cigarettes and watched him approach.

He was riding an X L horse, and he pulled up with a dramatic flourish and demanded, “You fellows heard about the stage?”

Pat shook his head and asked, “What stage?”

“The one from Marfa. Headed to Hermosa.”

“What about it?”

“It's wrecked back yonder.” The rider waved behind him. “Turned over the side of the hill and smashed up at the bottom. Driver and passenger is both dead. Team's all tangled up and dead too.”

Pat threw his cigarette away and got slowly to his feet. “How many passengers were there?”

“Just one. Young fellow. Wearing a leather jacket and levis.”

Pat let out his breath slowly. “Dead, huh?”

“Yeh. Him and the driver both. And it wasn't no plain runaway. They're both shot.”

“Holdup?”

“I reckon.” He nodded importantly. “Me and another rider found 'em like that. He rode to Hermosa and I thought I'd better ride to Marfa to tell the stagecoach people.”

Pat took off his hat. He stared down at it, then put it back on his head. He wondered why Dusty had been the only passenger. Ben Thurston should have been on that coach too. Yet, many things could have prevented Ben from arriving on schedule. Must have missed connections somewhere.

He asked the Excel rider gruffly, “This the right road to Boracho?” just to be saying something more than anything else.

“Boracho, huh? That's a pretty tough town, Mister.”

Pat frowned and said flatly, “We ain't what you'd call tender.”

The rider grinned. “Take the fork to the left, 'bout five miles ahead. That'll take you right through the Katie spread and across a ford into Boracho. I better be gettin' on to Marfa.” He spurred past them and went around a bend in a cloud of dust.

Ezra cleared his throat. “That's plumb tough luck … him gettin' killed like that. He'll never know, now, that he didn't have nothin' to run from.”

Pat shook his head. He muttered, “I don't see how that adds up to anything.”

“What you mean? What don't add up to
what?
”

Pat didn't reply. The pattern had been unaccountably smashed. Dusty's death didn't fit into any plan that he could see. And the pieces had all seemed to fit in so neatly a few hours ago as he reviewed them.

He sighed and said, “I reckon we might as well ride on. He said the left fork … about five miles down the road.” He swung into the saddle and they started out.

12

It was well past noon when the two riders approached the edge of the rimrocks breaking down into the river valley. It was hot and they were dusty and tired and hungry. They had been riding for many hours through an uninspiring and forbidding landscape with scant vegetation and few waterholes. The scattered cattle grazing along the way were gaunt and sad-eyed creatures. They had turned off the main road back at the forks indicated by the X L rider and thus had by-passed both the wrecked stage and the village of Hermosa.

Pat Stevens pulled his horse up sharply when they reached the point where the road dipped over the rimrock. He woke the dozing Ezra with a loud whistle of surprise and pleasure.

Ezra's horse stopped automatically, and the big man lifted his head and blinked his one good eye downward at the wide valley of the Katie Ranch, shook his head disbelievingly at the spectacle of lush greenness stretching out in front and below them.

“It ain't so,” he muttered angrily. “I'm a-dreamin' an' we're back in Colorado. There ain't nothin' like I'm seein' in the Big Bend of Texas.”

Pat grinned and said, “I don't blame you none for thinking yo're dreamin'. But you ain't, Ezra. That there's real. There's water and green grass down yonder. Look at our hawses. They smell it all the way up here.”

“It's worth ridin' a long ways to look at that. What're we waitin' up here for?”

Pat began to roll a cigarette. “I just want to set here an' look at it. Kind of makes me feel good all over.”

“It don't look like it's even grazed good. It's a downright shame to let grass like that go to waste.”

Pat nodded, licking his cigarette. “It shore enough is,” he agreed. “I reckon that's maybe the Katie.”

“Might be. Can't see the brands from up here.”

“An' t'other side of the valley is the river, mostlike. It's no wonder a gal runnin' a ranch like this has trouble with rustlin'.”

A couple of riders appeared along the edge of the rimrock, coming toward them at a trot. Pat's eyes narrowed as he turned to watch them. One of the riders appeared to be a girl. The other rider was tall and rangy. He held his horse close to the girl's and leaned toward her as they rode forward.

“Let's ride down into the valley,” Ezra muttered. “Looks like that might be a ranch at them trees in the middle. My belly shore could use some linin' right now.” He scowled at the approaching riders. “Can't you see one of 'em's a gal? She'll wanta stop an' talk.”

Pat nodded slowly. “Yeh. She's a gal, all right.” They were too far away yet for him to see Katie's face, but he knew it was she. It had to be. That graceful figure just naturally went with the picture Ben Thurston had shown him back on the Lazy Mare in Powder Valley.

The other rider drew a little away from the girl as they came closer. Sunlight glinted from the silver ornaments on his buckskin jacket and was reflected from the ivory butt of his six-gun carried in a holster turned forward on his left side. Lon Boxley frowned blackly at the two Powder Valley men as he reined up in front of them and demanded in an arrogant voice, “Where you two waddies ridin'?”

Pat didn't look at Boxley. He was studying Katie's face, fascinated to discover that she was prettier than he remembered Sally to've been even. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. She looked back at him gravely, without seeming to resent his close inspection, even smiling a little when he grew embarrassed and began to blush as he realized he was acting like a moonstruck fool.

It was Ezra who answered Boxley. “Where we ride is our own business, Mister.”

“I ain't so sure about that,” Boxley said truculently.

Katie turned her eyes from Pat's and pleaded with her companion, “Don't go stirring up trouble, Lon. Not any more today.”

He insisted, “We can't afford to take any chances. Not with all the rustling lately. These two hombres look like they wouldn't hesitate to run off a few head of stock if they get the chance.” His jaw was swollen and purple.

Pat said, “I reckon yo're honin' to show off yore fancy draw.” His hands were clasped loosely atop his saddle-horn. His words were drawled but they rang out coldly.

Boxley looked him up and down, taking in Pat's careless posture and the crossed gunbelts with low-tied holsters. Before he could reply, Katie put in sharply: “You men quit acting like a couple of strange dogs … growling at each other and showing your teeth. We don't care if you're heading for Boracho, nor why. That's my ranch down below there, and you're welcome to ride right on across it to the ford.”

Pat lifted his hat and said, “Then I reckon you must be Miss Katie Rollins?”

“Why, yes.” She looked at him questionly. “Do I know you?”

“What's it to you who she is?” Boxley snapped.

Pat paid no attention to him, but Ezra wheeled his horse around to put him close to the X L rancher. He had his gun half drawn, and he warned Boxley hoarsely, “One more crack outta you will be yore last.”

“Don't,” Katie cried despairingly. She spurred her horse between the two men and said, “You'd better ride on back, Lon.”

“And leave you here alone with these two gunmen?”

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Her voice stamped its foot.

As though there had been no interruption, Pat said, “No, ma'm. You don't know me. I'm Pat Stevens from Colorado … on a buyin' trip for heifers. They say you've got some mighty fine stuff on the Katie.”

“I have.” Her eyes shone happily. “If you're interested in breeding stock …” Then she hesitated, biting her under lip and glancing aside at Lon. “But I guess I haven't anything to sell,” she ended lamely.

“Not a lead,” he agreed. “But I've got some heifers if you
are
looking for some to buy,” he added to Pat. “Why not come to my ranch and talk it over.”

Pat was watching Katie. He saw her wince. She said to Lon in a low voice, “I thought you planned to move your stock down on the Katie.”

He said, “I know what I'm doing.” And to Pat: “How about it?”

“Why, no.” Pat shook his head. “If I can't make a deal for K T stuff, I guess I won't bother.”

“Why don't you ride on across to Boracho?” Katie put in bitterly. “Half of my stock is on the other side of the river. You might get more of a bargain if you do it that way.”

Pat regarded her steadily for a moment. “Maybe that's a good idea, ma'm.” He reined his horse about and said curtly to Ezra, “Let's go.”

They rode on down over the edge of the rimrocks, with their lead horses falling in behind.

There was a wooden gate at the foot of the cliff barring the cattle from going up the road out of the valley. Pat swung off to open it, and as Ezra was riding through, he heard a horse coming down from above at reckless speed.

It was Katie. He held the gate open for her to ride through. She pulled up and said, “Thank you.” Her eyes were blazing with anger and a red spot burned high up on each cheek, but her voice was steady.

Pat closed the gate and swung onto his horse. Katie waited to ride between them, saying, “If you'd like to stop at the ranch I'll see if my cook can scare up something to eat.”

Pat said, “That'll be right welcome,” and Ezra echoed him feelingly, “We ain't et since last night in Marfa.”

“I'll have to apologize for Mr. Boxley,” Katie said, as though she had to force the words out. “He's gotten in the habit of looking at all strangers with suspicion.”