Catlow (1963) (6 page)

"Sorry."

Bijah got up. "Have it your own way, then." The derringer he held in his big hand was masked from the rest of the room by the size of his hand. "You just sit tight."

He stepped to the door, then disappeared through it, but Ben Cowan made no move to follow. The time was not now.

It would come.

Men who are much alone, when meeting with other people either talk too much or become taciturn. Ben Cowan was of the latter sort. He had a genuine liking for people, finding qualities to appreciate in even the worst of them, but usually he was silent, an onlooker rather than a participant.

People who saw Catlow for the first time knew him immediately for a tough, dangerous man. But with Ben, although people might take a second look at him, it was only the old-timers who sized him up as a man to leave alone. It is a fact that really dangerous men often do not look it.

Strolling to the edge of the boardwalk, Ben looked down the busy street, letting all his senses take in the town. His eyes, his ears, his nose were alert, and something else ... that subtle intuitive sense that allows certain men to perceive undercurrents, movements, and changes in atmosphere.

Bijah Catlow had disappeared, but the Mexican half a block away who was too obviously ignoring Ben Cowan would probably be Catlow's man.

Ben Cowan took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. He was in no hurry, being a man of deliberation, and he knew that taking Catlow would be quite a trick. And Bijah had obviously made friends in Tucson. Moreover, a substantial portion of the population were something less than law-abiding; and as for the rest, they believed every man should saddle his own broncs. If Cowan wanted Catlow, let him take him.

Vigilante activity in California, and Ranger activity in Texas had contributed to the population of the Territory, but the population had always been a rugged lot, who fought Apaches as a matter of course.

The town was an old one--not so old as Santa Fe, of course, but it had been founded shortly after 1768 on the site of an Indian village, or in its close vicinity. There were Spanish-speaking settlers on the spot as well as Indians when Anza passed by on his way to California.

Ben Cowan had no plans. Catlow had mentioned a girl, but Ben shied from that aspect. Bijah had said he wanted him to meet her, and he was undoubtedly sincere, but Ben was uneasy around women, and he had known few except casual acquaintances around dance halls.

His mother had died in childbirth and he had grown up on a ranch among men, nursed first by a Mexican woman, and after she left, he was free to wander about as he pleased. Moreover, he was going to put the cutis on Bijah, and he wanted no weepy woman involved.

Actually he had little time to consider Bijah, for the man he had really come for was somewhere in the area. Ben had trailed him down the Salt River Canyon, through Apache country, and then had lost him somewhere to the north but headed in this direction.

Word had reached him at Fort Apache that a deserter named Miller had ambushed the Army paymaster and escaped with more than nine thousand dollars. He had been heard to refer, sometime before, to a brother in Tucson.

Ben Cowan had picked up the trail and followed his man into the town, where Miller had promptly dropped from sight.

Miller first, Cowan decided, and then Catlow.

Ben turned and strolled on down the street. Evening was coming on and the wagons were beginning to disappear from the street. A few men had already started to drift toward that part of town known as the Barrio Libre--the Free Quarter. Ben glanced that way, and then after a few minutes of thought, turned toward the Quartz Rock Saloon.

The bartender looked up as he entered, noticing the badge but offering no comment.

"Make it a beer," Ben said, and then added, "A friend of mine in Silver City said I should drop in here."

The bartender drew the beer and placed it on the bar before Cowan.

"His name was Sandoval," Ben said.

The bartender picked up the beer and wiped under it with his bar cloth. "What do you want to know?"

"The name is Miller. He may have other names. He rode into town within the last forty-eight hours. He may have a brother here."

The bartender put the mug down. "Are you lookin' for anybody else?"

Ben Cowan did not hesitate. "Not looking. I want Miller."

"It ain't a brother ... it's a brother-in-law, and he's no friend of Miller's--only there ain't much he can do about it. Miller is a bad one." The bartender leaned his thick forearms on the bar. "Only he'd better walk a straight line this time. Bijah Catlow is courtin' Cord Burton."

"Cord?"

"Short for Cordelia, daughter to Moss Burton, Miller's brother-in-law. From what I hear tell, Catlow is an impatient man."

Ben Cowan took a swallow of his beer. So there was to be no waiting ... everything seemed to point him toward Bijah Catlow.

He finished his beer and left the change from five dollars lying on the bar. As he turned away he was remembering what he knew about Miller.

The man had ambushed that paymaster. Moreover, every indication offered by his trail west implied that he was a sly, careful man. If such a man thought Catlow was a danger to him he would not say so to his face. He would wait, watch, and if possible kill him.

Bijah was a tough man but a reckless one. Did he know how dangerous Miller could be?

Chapter
Seven.

Ben Cowan had an uncomfortable feeling that events were building toward a climax that had no place in his planning.

It was true that he wanted to arrest Bijah Catlow and get him out of the way before he got into more trouble. It was also true that it was his duty to arrest him, as Bijah himself well knew. Yet first things came first, and in Ben's plans Miller was first in line. But now the trail to Miller led him right to Catlow.

He made no more inquiries, nor did he manifest any interest in Miller. Tucson was not a large town, and it was easy to find out what he needed to know by listening or by dropping a discreet comment.

He learned that Moss Burton was well thought of locally. He owned a saddle shop, and had some small interest in mining properties, as did almost everyone else in town. Besides his daughter Cordelia, he had two small sons; his wife had taught for a while in the first school organized by the Anglo-Saxon element.

In discussing Burton, it was natural that Miller's name would come up. Miller was a tough man, and Moss Burton was no fighter, so Miller had promptly moved in. Also, he was married to Mrs. Burton's sister.

By the time two days had passed Ben Cowan knew where Miller kept his horse, knew who his friends were, and which places in the Barrio Libre he preferred to others. He also knew that Miller was involved with a young Mexican woman, a widow, and trouble was expected, for her brothers disapproved.

Ben was quite sure that Miller did not know he had been followed to Tucson. Apparently he had been cautious just because it was his way ... but Ben Cowan took nothing for granted. He wanted Miller, but he wanted him alive if possible.

Twice he saw Miller on the street, but each time he was close to women or children, and in no place to start anything, and Ben Cowan was not an impatient man. On his third day in town, Ben Cowan saw the Mexican.

He came up the street riding a hammer-headed roan horse that had been doing some running. He carried a carbine in his hand, wore two belt guns, one butt forward, one back, and crossed cartridge belts on his chest. His wide-bottomed buckskin pants had been slit to reveal fancy cowhide boots, and spurs with rowels bigger than pesos. The Mexican had a scar down one cheek and a thick mustache.

The Mexican rode to the Quartz Rock Saloon and dismounted there. He kept his carbine in his hand when he went inside. A few moments later, Ben saw a Mexican boy leave the back of the saloon. Ben drew back into the doorway of a vacant adobe and lighted a fresh cigar. Soon the Mexican boy returned.

Ben studied the roan. The brand was unfamiliar, and looked like a Mexican brand. The horse had come a long way, by the look of him, as had the man. But that was a rugged character, that Mexican soldier, and the ride would not show on him as it would on the horse ... or on several horses.

Soldier? Now, why had he thought that? He could put his finger on no reason, yet he must have sensed something about the man--call it a hunch. And Ben was not a man who fought his hunches. Too often they had proved out.

A Mexican soldier here probably meant a deserter--and from just where?

A horse came up the street at a fast walk and Ben drew deeper into the shadows. The rider was Catlow, who dismounted and went inside.

Catlow had come from the direction the boy had taken. It did not follow there had to be a connection, but it seemed likely.

It was strictly by chance that Ben heard the voices.

The doorway in which he stood was set back from the walk by at least two paces. The window of the adjoining building-- the side window--was only a couple of paces further back. What he heard was a girl's voice.

"Kinfolk he may be, but he's none of our blood, Pa, and if you don't tell him to go, I shall."

"Now, now, Cordelia, you can't do that! You can't just throw a man out of the house for nothing."

"He's a thief, Pa, and probably worse. You know it, and I do."

There was silence within, and Ben Cowan waited. He did not like to eavesdrop on private conversations, but in this case it was his business to do so, for without doubt they were talking of Miller.

"Pa, he's afraid of somebody ... or something. He never steps into the street without looking out the window first."

Her father was silent for several minutes, and then he said, "I know it, Cordelia." A pause. "Cordelia, I can order him from our home, but what if he refuses to go? I was not in the war ... I've never used a gun but once or twice. I doubt," he added, "whether any other man in Tucson can say that, and living in the country as we do, I am surprised that I can." "I would not want you to fight him."

"If he refuses to go, what else could I do? I am afraid, Cordelia, that women sometimes make demands on their men without realizing the consequences."

Ben Cowan had lost interest, for the time being, in Bijah Catlow and the Mexican soldier. For a moment he considered going in the shop next door and asking them to invite him to supper ... then he could leave with Miller and make his arrest. But to do such a thing might endanger the Burtons, and he had no right to bring trouble to innocent people.

Miller was a cross-grained man with a hard, arrogant way about him, a man born to cause trouble wherever he might go. Ben Cowan tried to imagine Miller in the same house with Catlow, and could not; for Miller's attitude was just that calculated to move Bijah to action.

A door closed and Ben Cowan stiffened, glancing swiftly to right and left ... could it have been the shop door? He heard no voices--only the pound of a hammer on leather. He started to step from the doorway and found himself face to face with Cordelia Burton. He swept off his hat.

"I beg your pardon," he said, greatly embarrassed. "I--"

She glanced from him to the window, then abruptly walked on. He was about to speak, but held his tongue. He remained there, staring after her. She was lovely, undeniably lovely ... she was also very definitely a girl who knew her own mind. After a moment of consideration, Ben decided that she was not overmatched in coping with Bijah, for Bijah was basically a gentleman. Miller was another item, another item entirely.

Annoyed with himself, Ben started for the Quartz Rock. He felt a fool, being caught eavesdropping by such a girl, and he had stared at her like a damned fool.

Cordelia Burton walked on down the boardwalk, her heels clicking. The momentary irritation she had felt on seeing the man standing where he could obviously hear all that was said within passed away, but she was puzzled.

The man was a stranger ... a tall man with broad shoulders. In the shadow of the building she had seen only his chin, but he had spoken courteously and she had been wrong not to acknowledge it. Who could he be? And why would he be standing there?

The building was empty. There was nothing nearby, unless ... unless for some reason he was watching for somebody at the Quartz Rock. Suddenly she had a distinct impression that there had been a badge on his chest.

Badges were not frequent in Tucson, and she had never seen a man who resembled this one wearing a badge. He had been standing in the dark doorway of an abandoned building watching somebody or something. She flushed as she realized how self-centered she must have been to be so sure he had been listening in on her conversation. She paused on the corner.

She knew she had best be getting home. It was late, and a decent woman kept off the streets at this hour. Yet her curiosity made her turn to look back. The man she had seen was crossing the street toward the Quartz Rock Saloon. At the same time she noticed Bijah Catlow's horse tied to the rail.

She would ask Bijah--he would certainly know something about the tall stranger with the badge.

Suddenly, from behind her she heard the quick step of a fast-walking horse, and it loomed darkly beside her. Despite herself, she looked up, and when she did so she recognized the chin.