Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) (11 page)

There were men there, men and women, and even he in his half-delirium and his half-awareness knew these were like no Indians he had seen. Each carried a basket and they were gathering something from among the squat green trees on the hill. He started up and called out, but they neither turned nor spoke, but finally completed their work and walked slowly away.

Daylight came…one instant the sky was gray, and then the shadows retreated into the canyons and the dark places among the hills, and the sun crowned the distant ridges with gold, then bathed them in light, and the last faltering battalions of the shadows withered and died among the rocks and morning was there. In the early light Jacob Almayer drank again, drank deep now, and long.

His thirst gone, hunger remained, but he stood up and looked over at the hill. Had he seen anything? Or had it been his imagination? Had it been some fantasy of his half-delirium? Leaving the spring he crossed the small valley toward the hillside and climbed it. As he walked, he searched the ground. No footsteps had left their mark, no stones unturned, no signs of a large body of people moving or working.

The trees…he looked at them again, and then he recalled a traveler who had told him once of how the Indians gathered the nuts from these pines…from the piñon. He searched for the cones and extracted some of the nuts. And then he gathered more, and more. And that evening he killed a mountain sheep near the spring.

At daylight he resumed his walk, but this time his gourd was filled with water, and he carried fresh meat with him, and several pounds of the nuts. As Jacob Almayer started to walk, he picked up a stone, and then an idea came to him.

How far would an Indian walk in a day? Those who followed this trail would probably have no reason for hurry. Would they walk fifteen miles? Twenty? Or even thirty? Or would distance depend on the water supply? For that was the question that intrigued him. Where they stopped there would be water. The solution was to watch for any dim trail leading away from the main route-toward the end of the day.

Soon he found another pile of the stones, and he dropped the one he carried, and picked up another. And at nightfall he found a dim trail that led to a flowing spring, and he camped there, making a fire and roasting some of his meat. As he ate and drank, as he watched his fire burn down, as he thought of the trail behind and the trail ahead, he looked out into the darkness.

Jacob Almayer was a Breton, and the folk of Brittany are sensitive to the spirits of the mountains and forest. He looked out into the darkness beyond the firelight and he said aloud, “To the spirits of this place, my respects, humble as they are, and in my heart there will always be thanks for you, as long as I shall live.”

The fire fluttered then, the flames whipping down, then blazing up, brighter than ever. From far off there came the distant sound of voices. Were they chanting, singing? He couldn't tell…it might have been the wind.

RUSTLER ROUNDUP

CHAPTER 1

J
UDGE GARDNER COLLINS sat in his usual chair on the porch. The morning sunshine was warm and lazy, and it felt good just to be sitting, half awake and half asleep. Yet it was time Doc Finerty came up the street so they could cross over to Mother Boyle's for coffee.

Powis came out of his barbershop and sat down on the step. “Nice morning,” he said. Then, glancing up the street and across, he nodded toward the black horse tied at the hitching rail in front of the stage station. “I see Finn Mahone's in town.”

The judge nodded. “Rode in about an hour after daybreak. Reckon he's got another package at the stage station.”

“What's he getting in those packages?” Powis wondered. “He gets more than anybody around here.”

“Books, I reckon. He reads a lot.”

Powis nodded. “I guess so.” He looked around at the judge and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Seen anything more of Miss Kastelle?”

“Remy?” The judge let the front legs of his chair down.

“Uh-huh. She was in yesterday asking me if I'd heard if Brewster or McInnis were in town.”

“I've lost some myself,” Collins said. “Too many. But Pete Miller says he can't find any sign of them, and nobody else seems to.”

“You know, Judge,” Powis said thoughtfully, “one time two or three years back I cut hair for a trapper. He was passing through on the stage, an' stopped overnight. He told me he trapped in this country twenty years ago. Said there was some of the most beautiful valleys back behind the Highbinders anybody ever saw.”

“Back in the Highbinders, was it?” Judge Collins stared thoughtfully at the distant, purple mountains. “That's Finn Mahone's country.”

“That's right,” Powis said.

Judge Collins looked down the street for Doc Finerty. He scowled to himself, only too aware of what Powis was hinting. The vanishing cattle had to go somewhere. If there were pastures back in the Highbinders, it would be a good place for them to be hidden, and where they could stay hidden for years.

That could only mean Finn Mahone.

When he looked around again, he was pleased to see Doc Finerty had rounded the corner by the Longhorn Saloon and was cutting across the street toward him. The judge got up and strolled out to meet him and they both turned toward Mother Boyle's.

Doc Finerty was five inches shorter than Judge Gardner Collins's lean six feet one inch. He was square built, but like many short, broad men he was quick moving and was never seen walking slow when by himself. He and the judge had been friends ever since they first met, some fifteen years before.

Finerty was an excellent surgeon and a better doctor than would have been expected in a western town like Laird. In the hit-and-miss manner of the frontier country, he practiced dentistry as well.

Judge Collins had studied law after leaving college, reading in the office of a frontier lawyer in Missouri. Twice, back in Kansas, he had been elected justice of the peace. In Laird his duties were diverse and interesting. He was the local magistrate. He married those interested, registered land titles and brands, and acted as a notary and general legal advisor.

There were five men in Laird who had considerable academic education. Aside from Judge Collins and Doc Finerty there were Pierce Logan, the town's mayor and one of the biggest ranchers; Dean Armstrong, editor and publisher of
The Branding Iron
; and Garfield Otis, who was, to put it less than mildly, a bum.

“I'm worried, Doc,” the judge said, over their coffee. “Powis was hinting again that Finn Mahone might be rustling.”

“You think he is?”

“No. Do you?”

“I doubt it. Still, you know how it is out here. Anything could be possible. He does have a good deal of money. More than he would be expected to have, taking it easy like he does.”

“If it was me,” Doc said, “I'd look the other way. I'd look around that bunch up around Sonntag's place.”

“They are pretty bad, all right.” Judge Collins looked down at his coffee. “Dean was telling me that Byrn Sonntag killed a man over to Rico last week.”

“Another?” Doc Finerty asked. “That's three he's killed this year. What was it you heard?”

“Dean didn't get much. He met the stage and Calkins told him. Said the man drew, but Sonntag killed him. Two shots, right through the heart.”

“He's bad. Montana Kerr and Banty Hull are little better. Miller says he can't go after them unless they do something he knows about. If you ask me, he doesn't want to.”

Finerty finished his cup. “I don't know as I blame him. If he did we'd need another marshal.”

The door opened and they both looked up. The man who stepped in was so big he filled the door. His hair was long and hung around his ears, and he wore rugged outdoor clothing that, while used, was reasonably clean and of the best manufacture.

He took off his hat as he entered, and they noted the bullet hole in the flat brim of the gray Stetson. His two guns were worn with their butts reversed for a cross draw, for easier access while riding and to accommodate their long barrels.

“Hi, Doc! How are you, Judge?” He sat down beside them.

“Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!” Doc said. “I'm afraid you'll never give me any business.”

Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong, handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. “I came very near cashing in for good.” He gestured at the bullet hole. “That happened a few days ago over in the Highbinders.”

“I didn't think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?” the judge asked.

“No idea. It wasn't quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster place on the other side of Rawhide.”

“Accident?” Finerty asked.

Mahone grinned. “Does it look like it? No, I think I came on someone who didn't want to be seen. I took out. Me, I'm not mad at anybody.”

The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. “Who owns that black stallion out here?”

“I do,” Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He had never seen Remy Kastelle before. He had not even heard of her.

She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.

He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.

“I'd like to buy him!” she said. “What's your price?”

Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness. “I have no price,” he said, “and the horse is not for sale.” A trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth.

“Well,” she said, “I'll give you five hundred dollars.”

“Not for five thousand,” he said quietly. “I wouldn't sell that horse any more…any more than your father would sell you.”

She smiled at that. “He might…if the price was right,” she said. “It might be a relief to him!”

She brushed on by him and sat down beside Judge Collins.

“Judge,” she said, “what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?”

There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. “I doubt it, ma'am. He's too lazy. Rustlin' cows is awfully hot work.”

“They've been rustling cows at night,” Remy declared. “If you were from around here you would know that.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said mildly, “I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a runnin' iron or a cinch ring. Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands a little with a burn here, an' more there.”

Finn Mahone got up. He said, “Ma'am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers in this country, I'd do it with a pen and ink.”

He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.

Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. “Well! Who was that?” she demanded.

“That was Finn Mahone,” Doc Finerty said gently.

“Oh!” Remy Kastelle's ears reddened.

“Who?” The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall man, as tall as Mahone or Judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five, but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.

Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird River country but two years, and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and he knew men.

“Finn Mahone,” Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest. “Know him?”

“Probably not,” Dowd said. “He live around here?”

“No, back in the Highbinders. I've never seen his place, myself. They call it Crystal Valley. It's a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place.” He nodded to Remy.

“Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?” Collins continued. “Well, the route to his place lies up that Notch. I've heard it said that no man should travel that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn't know it. It's said to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking about it, and he can tell you things…but that trail would make your hair stand on end.”

“He come down here often?” Dowd asked carefully.

“No. Not often. I've known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place is closer to Rico.”
“Name sounded familiar,” Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. “Are you ready to go, ma'am?”

“Mr. Dowd,” Remy said, her eyes flashing, “I want that black stallion Mahone rides. That's the finest horse I ever saw!”

“Miss Kastelle,” Finerty said, “don't get an idea Mahone's any ordinary cowhand or rancher. He's not. If he said he wouldn't sell that horse, he meant it. Money means nothing to him.”

Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out. “Doc, I've got an idea Dowd knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?”

“Uh-huh.” Doc lit a cigar. “Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He's been here more than a year, too. Gettin' on for two years. And he has a sight of money.”

“Now don't you be getting like Powis!” Judge Collins exclaimed. “I like the man. He's quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees it. I don't blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn't a better one in the country!”

F
INN MAHONE STRODE up the street to the Emporium. “Four boxes of forty-four rimfire,” he said.