Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) (16 page)

“Were you ever in Mexico?” It was a shot in the dark, but she noticed that Finn picked up a stick and began poking the fire. Why, she could not have guessed, but suddenly she felt she had touched the nerve of the whole story.

“Mexico? I reckon most every man who lives along the border gets into Mexico. Right pretty country…some of it. Fine folks, too.”

They were silent for a moment.

“What's it like in there?” Remy indicated the trail toward Crystal Valley.

“Like a little bit of heaven,” he said. “Quiet, peaceful, green…the most beautiful spot I ever saw. There's something about living back in these hills that gives a man time to think, to consider. Then, I like to read. Back there I can sit on my porch for hours, or over a fire in the cabin, and read all I like.”

“How about your cattle? Don't you ever work them?”

He shrugged, and poked thoughtfully at the fire. “They aren't much trouble,” he said. “No other cattle can get to them. I brand the calves while out riding around. Carry a running iron with me all the time. That way the work never gets much behind.”

He stood up. “The moon's higher. We'd better go.”

Remy knew one thing. She would never forget that night ride across that mile of treacherous shale. It was a ride she would never want to make alone, even by day. Yet she was dozing in her saddle and half asleep when they pulled up at the cabin.

“Go on in,” he said. “I'll put up the horses.”

She went up the steps and opened the door. It was dark but warm inside. She was struck at once by that warmth. An empty house, empty for hours on a chill night, shouldn't have been warm. She struck a light, and saw the candle on the table. When she lighted it, she turned slowly, half expecting to see someone in the room, but it was empty.

Puzzled, she walked to the fireplace and, with the poker, stirred the coals. They glowed red. Then she saw the coffeepot and, stooping, touched it with her hand. It was warm, almost hot.

She straightened then, and looked around. The room was small, but comfortable, having none of the usual marks of bachelor quarters. Surprisingly, it was neat. The few clothes she saw were hung on pegs, the pots and pans were polished and shining, the dishes on the shelves were neatly stacked, and all was clean. Only one cup stood on the table. In it were a few coffee grounds.

Remy was standing there looking at that cup when Finn came in. He tossed his hat to a peg across the room and it caught. He glanced at the cup, then at her eyes. “We'll warm the coffee up,” he said, “and then have something to eat.”

She turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “The coffee,” she said, and there was a question in her voice, “is warm. Almost hot!”

“Good,” he said. She stared at him while he stirred the fire. “We'll eat right away, then.”

“Can I help?”

“If you like.” He got some plates down and put them on the table.

Why she should be disturbed, she didn't know. Obviously, there was someone else around. She had understood that Finn Mahone lived alone in the valley. Who was here with him? Where was she now?

Why must it be a woman? Remy didn't know why, but she wondered if it was. There was nothing effeminate about the room, yet it was almost too neat, too perfect. From her experience with cattlemen and cowhands, they usually lived in something that resembled a boar's nest. This was anything but that.

She looked up suddenly to see him watching her with a covert smile. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” he suggested. She had the feeling that she amused him, and her spine stiffened.

“No, I don't think I'd care to! It isn't at all necessary!”

He grinned and picked up the candle. “Come on,” he said.

She hesitated, then followed. She was curious.

The next room was a bedroom with a wide, spacious bed, much resembling an old four-poster. She thought it was, but when she drew nearer she could see it was homemade. On the floor was an Indian rug, and here, too, there were pegs on the walls. There were three pictures.

She started toward them, but he turned away and went into a third room. She followed him, then stopped. Here was a wide, homemade writing desk, and around her the walls were lined with books. The candlelight gleamed on the gold lettering, and she looked at them curiously. How her father would love this room! She could imagine his eyes lighting up at the sight of so many books.

They returned to the other room and he got the coffee and filled two new cups. They ate, almost in silence, but Remy found her eyes straying again and again to that empty cup. If Finn Mahone noticed, he gave no sign.

When they had finished eating, she helped him stack the few dishes. Somewhere not far off a wolf howled, a weird, yapping chorus that sounded like more than a dozen.

She stopped in the act of putting away the last of the food. “It's nice here,” she said, “but so quiet. How do you ever stand it…alone?”

“I manage.” His smile was exasperating. “It is quiet, but I like the stillness.”

The problem of the night was before them, but Remy avoided the thought, trying to appear quiet, assured. She should have been frightened or worried. She told herself that would be the maidenly thing. Yet she wasn't. She was curious, and a little disturbed.

Sometimes she saw his eyes on her, calm and amused, and she wondered what he was thinking. No other man had ever upset her so much, nor had she met any other who was so difficult to read. Dowd was older, a simple, quiet man, and if he did not talk about some things, it was something she could understand. Somewhere he had been hurt, deeply hurt.

There was none of that in Finn Mahone. He was simply unreadable.

“You're going to have trouble, you know,” she said suddenly.

“Trouble?” He accepted the word, seemed to revolve it in his mind. “I think so. It's been coming for some time. But don't be sure it will only be for me. Before this is over, there will be trouble for all of us.”

She looked at him, surprised. “How do you mean?”

He tossed a stick on the fire. “How long has this rustling been going on? They say some five thousand cattle have disappeared. I would say that is about ten percent of what there is on the range around here, yet who has actually
seen
any rustlers?

“Who has seen any cattle being moved? Who has heard of any being shipped? Why were there always cattle on the lower ranges, and none up in the canyons?”

“Why?” Remy watched him, curious and alert.

He looked up at her, and his eyes, she noted, were a strange darkish green. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why? Because the rustlers have taken cattle slowly, carefully, a few at a time, and when they have taken them they have moved other cattle down from the canyons where they could be seen, so no suspicion would be aroused.”

He looked at her with a wry smile. “Five thousand cattle are a lot of cattle! And they are gone. Gone like shadows or a bunch of ghosts. You think that doesn't take planning?”

“You know who is behind it?”

“No. But now that people are accusing me, I aim to find out!”

“We haven't lost many, Dowd says.”

Finn nodded. “Want to know why? Because that foreman of yours is a right restless hombre. He keeps moving around. He's up in every canyon and draw on your range. He knows it like the back of his hand. They don't dare take any chances with him. Whoever is behind this rustling doesn't aim to get caught. He means to go on, handling as many cows as he can without suspicion.”

“You're a strange man,” Remy said suddenly.

He turned his head and looked at her, the firelight dancing and flickering on his cheek. “Why?”

“Oh, living here all alone. Having all those books, and yet fighting like you did down there in the street.”

He shrugged. “It's not so strange. Many men who fight also read. As for living alone, it's better that way.” His face darkened, and he got to his feet. “It saves trouble. I don't like killing.”

“Have you killed so many?” Somehow she didn't believe so. Somehow it didn't seem possible.

“No, but there's one I don't want to kill,” he said. “That's one reason I'm back here. That's one reason I'll stay here unless I have to come out.”

Remy arose and stood facing him. How tall he was! He stood over her, and looked down, and for an instant their eyes met. She felt hot color rising over her face, and his hands lifted as if to take her by the arms. She stood very still, and her knees were trembling. Suddenly the room seemed to tilt, and she swayed, her eyes wide and dark.

He dropped his hands abruptly and went around the chairs toward the porch. “You sleep in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the wide bed. “I'll stay out there with the horses for a while, then sleep in here by the fire.”

He was gone. Remy stared after him, her lips parted, her heart beating fast. She knew with an awful lost and empty feeling that if he had taken hold of her at that moment he could have done as he pleased with her. She passed a hand over her brow, and hurried into the other room, closing the door.

CHAPTER 3

P
IERCE LOGAN HAD made his decision. A long conference with Sonntag and Frank Salter had convinced him that the time had come to make a definite move.

He disliked definite moves, yet had planned for them if it became necessary. His way had always been the careful way, to weed the range of cattle by taking a few here and a few there, until his own wealth grew, and the others were weakened. Then, bit by bit, to take what he wanted.

All in all the Rawhide outfit were making more money than they had ever made, but none of them were content. They wanted a lot of money quick, and they wanted action.

“If they don't git what they want, Pierce,” Sonntag said, “they'll begin to drift. I know every man jack of 'em! They don't like none o' this piecin' along.”

“Dowd's gettin' suspicious,” Salter said. His eyes were cold gray. Pierce Logan had an idea that the old guerrilla didn't like him. “We got t' git rid of Dowd!”

“That's been seen to,” Sonntag said. “Any day now.”

Pierce Logan had returned to Laird filled with disquiet and anger at his plans deliberately being altered, but it was an anger that slowly seeped away as a plan began to evolve in his mind. A plan whereby he could come out with most of the profits himself. If those fools insisted on starting an out-and-out war, he would appear to be an innocent bystander. His cowhands were men known on the range. None of them were rustlers. Logan had been careful to see to that, and to keep the rustlers off his ranch except when they were getting some of his own cattle. When that happened, he managed to see that his hands were busy elsewhere.

Several of the men who worked for him, like Nick James and Bob Hunter, had ridden for McInnis or Judge Collins. They were known to be capable, trustworthy men. Carefully, Pierce Logan examined his own position. His meetings with Sonntag had always been secret, and there was no way anyone could connect him with the rustling.

Sonntag had done something about Texas Dowd. From what he had said, the foreman of the Lazy K would die very soon. When Dowd was out of the picture, his most formidable enemy would be removed. And in the meanwhile, he had the problem of pinning decisive evidence on Mahone.

So far as anyone knew he had avoided Rawhide. His connection with those ranchers was unknown. In any plans to move against the rustlers, as ranchers the Rawhide group would be included, and so know all the plans made against them. While considered a rough, tough crowd, no suspicion had been directed at them so far.

If anyone suspected them it would be Texas Dowd.

The only other possible joker in the deck would be Finn Mahone. Now, once suspicion was pinned on him, the Rawhide gang could hit the ranches hard, and it could be attributed to Mahone's “gang.” Logan meant to sow that thought in the minds of the Laird ranchers: that Mahone had acquired a gang.

He was perfectly aware that Judge Collins, Doc Finerty, and Dean Armstrong did not believe Mahone a rustler. His evidence would have to convince even them.

Once the blame was saddled on the man from the Highbinders, he would turn the Rawhide bunch loose on some wholesale raids that would break McInnis and Brewster, Collins and Kastelle. The raids would still be carefully planned, but no longer would the rustlers take cattle in dribbles, and they would kill anyone who saw them.

The new plan was to clean up while they had Mahone to blame it on. When the big steal was over, when Mahone was shown to be guilty, then killed, and Logan was left in power, he would marry Remy Kastelle and own Laird Valley.

From there, a man might go far. He might, by conniving, be appointed governor of the Territory. He might do a lot of things. A man with money and no scruples could do much, and he meant to see that none remained behind to mark the trail he had taken to wealth.

But in all his speculations and planning he overlooked one man. He did not think of Garfield Otis.

Otis was a drunkard. A man who practically lived on whiskey. He neither intended nor wanted to swear off. He drank because he liked whiskey and because he wanted to forget what he would like to have done, and live in the present. He was always around, and a man who is always around and taken for granted by everyone hears a great deal. If he is a man of intelligence, he learns much more than people give him credit for.

Had Pierce Logan realized it, only one man in the Laird Valley suspected him. That man was Otis.

Texas Dowd smelled something odorous in the vicinity of Rawhide. He knew men, and if Banty Hull, Montana Kerr, and the rest were peaceful ranchers, then he was the next Emperor of China. He knew all about Sonntag. He did not like Logan, but did not suspect he was the brain behind the rustling.

Neither did Otis. But stumbling along the street one evening, Otis had seen Logan ostentatiously lighting a cigarette in front of his office. Later, he had seen him cross the street and enter the livery stable. Seated on the edge of the walk, he had seen Logan leave the stable, and a moment later a rider headed off across the country. The rider was a big man.