Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) (9 page)

Pogue shrugged. "Damn it, man, with all this trouble around I'm getting jumpy. It's none of my affair what you two talk about."

Voyle came back into the room accompanied by two men. "No sign of him, boss, and we've been all over the place. We did find a box down under some spuds in the cellar. Might have been big enough to cover a man."

Allen Kinney had strolled back into the room, and Pogue turned on him. "What about that, Kinney?"

"Probably just something to keep the spuds off the ground," Canavan commented, to nobody in particular.

"Damp ground will rot them mighty fast."

Pogue was angry. He started to say something, then thought better of it in time. Nor did Voyle have anything to say, and his eyes avoided Canavan's.

The man was no coward, and it could only be that he was afraid of what Canavan might know. The allusion to Dahl had worried him. He's mixed up in something he doesn't want his boss to know about, Canavan told himself. He's afraid I might spill the beans!

Pogue turned and strode from the restaurant and out of the lobby door to the street, his men trailing after him. When the last man was gone, May turned to Kinney. "Allen, where can he be? He was there.

You know he was there!"

"I know," Kinney agreed. "He must have heard them and got out somehow. He'd be the last man to want to get any of us in trouble. But where could he go?"

Bill Canavan was thinking far ahead of them. The searchers would no doubt stop for a drink, but they would not stop long, and Pogue was there to make them get on the trail. Voyle apparently was not in on the plot to kill Burt, because he had been at Thousand Springs. Too little response had come from the CR, so it could have been a plot among Burt's own people to be rid of him. For some reason, Roily Burt had become dangerous to them, and obviously it was intended that he die in the gunfight the previous night.

Instead he had shot his way out of it, killing one of their men and wounding another. Now he would know that even his own outfit must be plotting against him, and he must be killed, and soon.

Yet Canavan was thinking beyond that. His mind was out there in the darkness with the wounded man.

Enemies on every side, where could he turn? What could he do? How could he get away? What would he, Bill Canavan, do if he were a wounded man out there in the night with little ammunition and very little time?

He would have to hobble, or drag himself. He would be quickly noticed by anyone and investigated.

He would not dare try to go far, and he must keep to the darkest ways, for there was enough light outside for a man to be seen.

Canavan, to whom every piece of ground was a potential battlefield, remembered the stone wall. It began not far from the hotel stables and fenced in a large orchard, planted long ago. Some of the stones had fallen, but it was still the best place around in which to fort up. Also it gave a man the shelter of darkness for about a hundred yards, no small aid to a man who must hitch himself along slowly.

Turning quickly, he went out the back door of the hotel into the darkness. He stood for an instant to let his eyes grow accustomed to the night, and after a moment or two he could make out the stable and beyond it the wall.

Walking to the stable, he went along its side.

Putting a hand on the stone wall, he vaulted easily over it. He stood still once more. If he approached Burt suddenly the wounded man might shoot, mistaking him for an enemy. And he did not know Burt, nor Burt him.

Moving stealthily, he worked his way along the wall. It was almost four feet high for most of its length, and there was a hedge of brambles and weeds growing close against it. He ripped a deep scratch into his hand, and swore softly, bitterly. Then he went on and was almost to the corner when a voice spoke from the shadows.

"All right, mister, you've made a good guess but a bad one. You let out one peep and the first one to die will be you."

"Burt?"

"Naw!" The cowhand's tone was ripe with disgust.

"This here is King Solomon, an' I'm huntin' the Queen of Sheba!"

"Listen, Burt, and get this straight the first time, because somebody else is going to do some guessing in the next few minutes. I'm your friend, although you don't know me. And I'm a friend of Kinney and May, from the hotel. I've come to help you get out of here.

There's a horse at May's cabin, and we've got to get you there as fast as we can. And then get you out of town."

"How do I know who you are?"

"If I'd been with them, I'd have yelled, wouldn't I?"

"You might yell once, but not more than once.

Who are you? I can't see your face."

"You're aren't missing much. I'm Bill Canavan. I just blew in."

"You the gent who backed up Syd Berdue?

Heard about that. A good job it was, too."

"Can you walk?"

"Give me a shoulder and I'll take a stab at it."

"Let's go then."

With an arm around Burt's waist, Canavan got him over the wall at its darkest place, then down a dark alley and over a fence. Then they faced open ground, but all in darkness, and beyond it a patch of woods and brush. Once under the shelter of the trees they would have cover all the way to May's house. If caught in the open there'd be nothing left but to shoot it out.

"All right, Burt. If a door opens anywhere, freeze."

"Where we goin'?"

"May's place, and her horse. Then we're taking to the hills. You know that old trail to the badlands?"

"Sure, but it's no good unless you circle around to Thousand Springs. There's no water. And that's a mighty rough ride."

"Don't worry about that. You get over there and lie down beside the trail. You hold up until you see me. I'll be riding an Appaloosa and leading her horse."

Burt's grip suddenly tightened. "Watch it.

Door opening!"

They stood stock-still, no muscle moving, and then Burt's hand moved ever so carefully and it held a gun.

He held it across in front of him, covering the man who stood in the light of the opened door. It was the bartender.

Somebody loomed over his shoulder. "Hey! Who's that out there?"

"Go back to your drinks," the bartender said. "I'll go see."

He came down the steps toward them, letting the door slam behind him. He walked straight toward them, and Canavan gripped his six-shooter.

As he drew near, Burt spoke. "Pat, you're a good man, but you'd make a soft bunk for this chunk of lead."

"Don't fret yourself," Pat replied cooly.

"If I hadn't come out, one of those Box n punchers would have, and there'd have been hell to pay. Go on ... beat it.

I'm not hunting trouble with either side." He turned his head to look at Canavan. "Nor with you, Bill. You don't recall me, but I remember you and that fuss you had with those Kingfisher outlaws. You boys get along now."

The fat man turned and walked back. They heard a drunken voice say, "Who was that? If it's that Roily Burt, I'll surely-was "Don't fret yourself," Pat repeated. "It's just a Mexican kid and a stray burro he's picked up." The door closed.

Canavan heaved a sigh. With no further talk, they moved on, hobbling across the open stretch and into the trees. They heard a door slam, and angry voices.

The town of Soledad would be an unpleasant place on this night.

When Canavan had the mare saddled, he told Burt: "If you hear anybody coming, get out of sight.

When I come, I'll be riding that Appaloosa of mine.

You'll know him."

"I've seen it. I just keep goin', is that right?"

"Right. And keep out of sight of anybody, and don't talk to anybody, and that goes for your CR hands as well. You hear me?"

"I surely do. They sure haven't been much help, at that. But I'll not forget what you've done, amigo, and you a stranger, too."

"Ride. ... Forget about me. I've got to get back into town and get my horse without exciting any comment.

Once I get you where I'll be taking you, nobody will find you."

He watched the mare start off at a fast walk, and then he turned and walked back toward town. He heard shouts and yells up ahead, and then some drunken cowhand fired three times into the air. He saw the flashes.

Bill Canavan hitched his guns into place.

He'd be lucky if he got out of town this night.

Very lucky. ...

Chapter
IX

The disappearance of Roily Burt was a nine-day wonder in Soledad and the Valley country.

During the days following, Bill Canavan was in and out of town several times, riding as he usually had but avoiding all discussion of local politics and troubles, of which he blandly insisted he knew nothing at all.

Burt had not been seen in Pie Town or anywhere else around, nor were any horses missing. The search pursued by the Box n hands had been intensive, but turned up nothing at all. Roily Burt, wounded, had dropped off the end of the world.

Following the shooting and the search, Soledad seemed abnormally quiet. Yet a rumor persisted that with the end of the coming roundup, trouble would come again and there would be nothing less than allout war between the two big ranches, with all outsiders advised to keep out of the way and present a low profile. For the time being, with the roundup in the offing, both ranches seemed disposed to attend to first things first.

Second only to the disappearance of Roily Burt was interest in Bill Canavan himself. He came and went around Soledad, but nobody seemed to have any idea who he was or what he was about. Yet whatever else he was doing, he was making friends among the small-fry and those businessmen who wished the troubles over.

Yet he remained a source of puzzlement to many, and especially to Walt Pogue, Charlie Reynolds and Star Levitt. And there was another who was even more curious and infinitely more wary. And that man was Emmett Chubb.

He first heard of Canavan's presence following the disappearance of Roily Burt. The CR hands habitually ate at one long table presided over by Reynolds himself, and Syd Berdue invariably sat at his right hand.

"Hear Walt Pogue and his man Voyle had some words with Canavan," Reynolds commented to Berdue.

"Looks like he's a man who makes enemies."

Berdue's comment was stifled by a sudden exclamation from down the table. Emmett Chubb put his cup down hard. "Did you say Canavan? Would that be Bill Canavan?"

"That's the man," Berdue looked down the table.

"Do you know him?"

"I should smile, I know him. He's huntin' me."

"You?" Reynolds was relieved. "Why you?"

"Me an' a friend of his had a run-in. You probably knew him. Vin Carter."

"Ah? Carter was a friend of Canavan's?"

Reynolds chewed in silence. "How good is this Canavan?" he asked suddenly.

Chubb waved a hand. "I wouldn't know. Down where he comes from, they set store by him."

A slim dark-faced young cowhand down the table drawled softly, "I know him, Emmett, an' if you tangle with him, be ready to go all the way. He's the gent who rode into King Fisher's hide-out in Mexico after a horse one of Fisher's boys stole off him.

He rode the horse out of there, too, and the story is that he made Fisher take water. He killed the man who stole his horse. The fellow made a fool of himself and went for his gun."

"So he's chasing you, Emmett? That accounts for his coming here," Reynolds said. "I was wondering what he had on his mind."

"He might be here because of Vin Carter," Berdue suggested thoughtfully. "If he is, that could spell trouble for Walt Pogue."

In the days that followed Burt's escape from Soledad, Canavan was busy. He had roped and branded some of the wild cattle from the lava beds, and had pushed a few of them out on the range below Thousand Springs. There would be enough time later to brand more of them, but all he wanted now was for the brand to show up when the roundup started.

Astride the Appaloosa, he headed for the W. The morning was warm and pleasant, and he rode into the shade under the giant cottonwoods feeling very fit and very pleased with his world. Several of the hands were working around the place, and Kerb Dahl was there, mending a saddle girth.

Tom Venable was there, and his brow furrowed as he saw Canavan. He glanced quickly around, then walked to meet him. "Step down, won't you?

Dixie has been telling me about you."

"Thanks. I will. Is Dixie around?" This was more than a chance to see Dixie, although that was always welcome. What he wanted more than anything was to simply look the place over and try to develop some idea of what was happening there.

"She's here," Venable said, then hesitated, making no move to tell him she had a visitor. "I say, Canavan, you're not coming with the idea of courting my sister, are you? You know she's spoken for."

"That's the impression everybody seems determined to sell me, Tom. I heard it first from Star Levitt."

"You mean he spoke to you about Dixie?"