Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) (5 page)

You won't have any trouble finding it." He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. "Need any money now?"

"Sorry, I'm not looking for a job."

"What's that? Not looking for a job? At a hundred a month? When the average range-hand is makin' thirty?"

"I said I didn't want a job."

"Ah?" The genial light had gone from his eyes, leaving them mean and cruel. "So that's it. You've gone to work for Pogue."

"No, I don't work for Pogue. I don't work for any man. I ride my own trails."

Reynolds stared hard at him, and Canavan guessed he was a man who expected to be feared.

"Listen, my friend, and listen well. In these hills and in this valley there are two sides, and only two sides, those for Reynolds and those against him. If you do not work for me, I shall regard you as an enemy!

Canavan shrugged. "That's your funeral, Reynolds, but from all I hear you've enough enemies without making any more. Also, from what I hear you deserve them."

"What?" Reynolds had turned away but now he took a step back. "Don't sass me, Canavan!"

The lean, whip-bodied man beside him interfered.

"Let me handle this, Uncle Charlie," he said gently. "Let me talk to this man."

Canavan shifted his attention. The younger man had a lantern jaw and unusually long gray eyes.

The eyes had a flatness to them that puzzled and warned him.

"My name is Sydney Berdue. I am foreman for Mr. Reynolds." He stepped closer to where Canavan sat in his chair. "Maybe you'd like to tell me why he deserves his enemies."

Canavan's blunt features were innocent of expression, his eyes faintly curious but steady and aware.

"Sure, I'd be glad to," he said, "if Mr.

Reynolds wishes."

"You're talkin. Now tell us."

"Charlie Reynolds came west from Missouri right after the war with Mexico. He located in Santa Fe for a while, but when the wagon trains started along the Overland Trail he went north and began selling guns to the Indians."

Reynolds's face went white, then flushed with anger. "That's not true!"

Canavan's words were sharp. "Don't make me kill you, Reynolds, although you damned well deserve it. Every word I say is true and can be documented.

You yourself took part in wagon-train raids, and you collected your share of the white scalps. You got out of there with a good deal of loot, and met a man in Julesburg who wanted to come out here and go to ranching. He knew nothing of your crooked background"

Berdue went for his gun, but Canavan was expecting it When the Reynolds foreman stepped closer, he had come beyond Canavan's outstretched feet. Canavan hooked a toe behind Berdue's ankle, jerked hard and at the same moment stiff-armed him with an open hand.

Berdue hit the floor with a crash and his gun went off into the ceiling. From the room overhead there was a startled shout and a sound of bare feet hitting the floor.

Canavan kicked the gun from Berdue's hand, then swept it up.

"Get up, Berdue! Reynolds, get over there against the wall. You, too, Berdue.

White-faced, hatred burning in his eyes, Reynolds backed to the wall Behind him, the room was slowly filling with onlookers. "Now," Canavan said, I'll finish what I started. And remember, you asked for it.

"You asked why I thought you deserved your enemies. I started by telling about the people you murdered along the wagon trails, and the money you made from selling guns to the Indians. And now I'll tell you about the man you met in Julesburg."

Reynolds's face was ashen. "Forget that You're talkin' too much. Berdue was huntin' trouble and he got it. You just forget it. I need a good man and I'll pay good money."

"To murder somebody like you did your partner?

You made a deal with him and he came down here and worked hard. He planted those trees, he built that house. Then three of you went out and stumbled into a band of Indians and somehow, although wounded, you were the only one who got back.

Naturally, the ranch was all yours.

"Who were those Indians, Reynolds? Or was there only one Indian? The last man of three riding single file?

"You wanted to know why I wouldn't work for you and why you should have enemies, and I've told you. Now I'll tell you something else. I've come to the Valley to stay. I am not leaving."

Deliberately then, he handed the gun back to Berdue, who took the gun, reversed it and started it into its holster. Then his hand stopped and his lips tightened.

Bill Canavan seemed to be smiling. "Careful, Berdue. I wouldn't try it, if I were you."

Berdue hesitated. Then with an oath he shoved the gun down hard into the holster and, turning, walked rapidly out of the room. Behind him went Charlie Reynolds, his neck and ears red with the bitterness of the fury that throbbed in his veins.

Slowly, in a babble of talk, the room cleared, and Bill Canavan sat down again. "May," he said, "you've let my coffee get cold. Fill it up, will you?"

Chapter
V

Those who lived in the town of Soledad and the surrounding country were not unaccustomed to sensation. But the calling of Reynolds and his supposedly gun-handy foreman in the Cattleman's Cafe was a subject that had the old maids of both sexes licking their lips with excitement. Nor was the subject ignored by others. And, the west being what it was, the news traveled.

Little had been known of the background of the man who called himself Charlie Reynolds. And being what it was, the west did not ask questions. It was up to every man to prove himself and to show what manner of man he was.

Reynolds was the oldest settler, the owner of the largest and oldest ranching operation, and he was known as a hard character when pushed. Yet now they were viewing him in a new light, and nobody liked what they had heard.

Not the last to hear was Walt Pogue, who chuckled and slapped his thigh. "Wouldn't you know it? The old four-flusher! Crooked as a dog's hind leg!"

The next thing that occurred to anyone occurred to him. How had Bill Canavan known? And what else did he know?

That thought brought Pogue up short, and all his satisfaction at the discomfiture of Reynolds vanished.

This man Canavan knew too much. ... Who was he, anyway? And what did he want here? If Canavan knew that, he might ... no, that did not necessarily follow. Still, Bill Canavan would be a good man to have for a friend, and a bad enemy.

Not the least of the comment had revolved around Canavan's confidence, the way he had stood and dared Berdue to draw. Overnight Canavan had become the most talked-about man in that part of the country.

When gathering his information about the Valley country, Bill Canavan had gleaned other information that was of the greatest interest, and that information was very much on his mind when he got out of bed the following morning.

So far he had no opportunity to verify this last fragment of information, but now he intended to do just that. From what he overheard and what he had learned before coming to this part of the country, the area north and west of the mountains was a badlands avoided by all. It was lava-flow country, broken and jagged, with much evidence of prehistoric volcanic action. Biding there was a danger, and walking was a sure way to ruin a good pair of boots.

At one time there had been a man who knew the lava beds and all that part of the country that occupied some three hundred square miles. That man had been Jim Burge.

It had been Jim Burge who had told Charlie Hastings, Reynolds's ill-fated partner, about the Valley country. And it had been Jim Burge who drove the first herd of Spanish cattle into the Valley.

Burge tired of ranching, his itching foot getting the best of him, and he headed north, leaving his ranch and letting his cattle go where they willed. He had taken with him only a few of his best horses.

He had talked to Charlie Hastings, and Hastings had repeated the story to Reynolds, but by that time, Burge was gone. Gone into the Texas Panhandle, and a lone fight with Comanches that ended only when four Comanches were dead and the fifth tied.

Bulge's scalp to his horse's bridle.

Jim Burge had talked to other people in Santa Fe, and those people did not forget, either. One of those was Bill Canavan. And Bill was a curious man.

When he threw his saddle on the Appaloosa, he had decided to satisfy that curiosity before matters went any further. He was going to find out what had become of those cattle.

Nine years had passed since Burge had left them to shift for themselves, and in nine years several hundred head of cattle can do pretty well for themselves.

"There's water in those badlands if you know where to find it," Burge had assured him. "And there's grass, if you know where to look." Knowing range cattle, Canavan was not worried about them finding either water or grass, and if he could find it he could find them ... unless somebody else had.

So he rode out of Soledad along the main trail, and a number of curious eyes watched him go. One pair of those eyes belonged to Dixie Venable, inspecting her cattle and seeing where and how they fared.

She noted the tall rider on the oddly marked horse ... and felt a queer tug at her heart at the thought that he was riding away, perhaps forever.

Yet, remembering the way he had looked at her and the hard set to his jaw, she doubted he would be leaving for good. Such a man would surely return.

... Wouldn't he?

The story of his meeting with Reynolds and Berdue had come to her ears among the first. Berdue had always frightened her, for whenever they were near, his eyes were always upon her. They gave her a crawling sensation not at all like the excitement she drew from the quick, amused eyes of Bill Canavan.

She found herself thinking more and more of Canavan. The cool hardness of him masked gentleness and consideration, she was sure, yet he had a temper, and his manner of handling Reynolds had been rough, really rough. A foolish action, some might say, making an enemy of a dangerous man when it was unnecessary ... But was that true? How could she say without knowing more about Bill Canavan?

The Appaloosa was a good horse for rough country, and now he went quickly forward, ears pricked, eyes alert. These were the sights and smells he knew best, for he had run wild upon the range nearly four years before being captured and broken by Canavan.

Whether he wanted it that way or not, Canavan knew he was now in the very center of things, with all eyes upon him. From now on he must move swiftly and with boldness, but it would be helpful to keep them guessing just a little longer. Things were due to break wide open between Pogue and Reynolds, especially now that his own needling of Reynolds might stir the man into aggressive action.

Reynolds was no fool. He would know how fast the talk would spread, and it might not be long before embarrassing questions might be asked. The only escape from those questions lay in power. He must move quickly to put himself beyond questions. Eyes squinted against the glare, Canavan tried to think what Reynolds might do. It was his move, and Canavan had no doubt he would strike. But where? How?

The trail he sought showed itself suddenly, just a faint track off through the pinons, and he turned into it, letting the Appaloosa choose his own gait.

It was mid-afternoon before Canavan reached the edge of the lava beds. The black tumbled masses seemed without trails and only the sparsest vegetation.

He skirted the end of the lava flow where broken blocks had tumbled down along the face of the flow, searching for some indication of a trail. It was miserably hot and the sun threw back heat from the rocks until he felt like he was living in an oven. When he was on a direct line between Thousand Springs and the lava beds, he rode up the slope of a nearby mountain until he found an area of shade. And there he swung down to give his horse a rest While the Appaloosa cropped casually at the dry grass, he got out a set of field glasses he had purchased in New Orleans a year earlier. Then he began a systematic search, inch by inch, of the lava beds.

As yet he had but the vaguest of plans. But if the cattle he sought were there, he hoped to brand them and slip them out into the Valley, using that method to make his own bid for Valley range.

From previous experience, he knew that such lava beds often had islands of grass in their midst, places where the flow had been diverted by some obstruction and the lava had flowed around, walling in patches of pasture sometimes of considerable extent. Ice caves were not infrequent And often there were long tunnels where the outer surface of the lava had hardened, while molten rock continued to flow beneath the hard outer shell until it had passed on, leaving a natural tunnel. Some he had known were several hundred yards long, and he had heard of one that was several miles in extent.

To look at the lava beds, they seemed barren but empty, and to the casual passerby, a place without mystery or attraction. The end of the flow was abrupt, a wall some fifteen to twenty feet high. Beyond it the surface looked ropey, in some places like great masses of congealed molasses. After a half hour of study, he remounted Rio and walked the horse slowly along the side of the hill, pausing from time to time to renew his study of the lava beds.

It was almost dusk when he pointed the glass toward a tall finger of rock that thrust itself upward from the beds. At the base of the rock was a cow. And as he watched, she slowly began to drift off toward the northwest.