Milo Talon (17 page)

Topp? Topp was associated with Henry and they would have known Molly was here all along. Topp ate in here every day, had a chance to speak to her every day, and had ordered meals from her a dozen times perhaps.

Somebody else, but who?

Bolter? Bolter was merely a gunhand, riding for somebody who gave the orders. The same was true of Shorty.

Suddenly I remembered the Mexican who had so unexpectedly helped me because I was a friend to Pablo.

He might know something. Anyway, the Mexican end of town knew a great deal that never reached this side of the tracks. It was worth a chance.

The cheap little cantina where I had my trouble with Shorty was open, but the saloon was empty with only the bartender leaning his sweaty, hairy forearms on the bar.

When I came through the door he drew a beer. “On the house,” he said. “I like the way you handle yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You know that Mexican who helped me? I need to talk to him.”

“Felipe? He talks to no one. Leave him alone,
amigo
, and consider yourself lucky it was you he liked and not those others. Felipe is a bad one,
amigo
, a very bad one.”

“He is a friend to Pablo.”

“Ah? Who is not? Pablo is another bad one but a good bad one. Very dangerous, that Pablo. Felipe is his friend but he is a friend to no one else.”

For a moment I sipped my beer and then I said, “I think you are a good one.” I smiled. “Maybe a good bad one.”

He mopped the bar. “A man is what he is.”

“A girl is gone. A good girl, a decent girl. The one who bought part of Maggie’s place.”

“Gone?”

“A wagon came, a sort of covered wagon. There were at least two men and a woman in it, and they took the girl away. She did not wish to go but she knew they would take her.” Taking the note she had left from my pocket, I placed it on the bar. “She found time to leave this for me.”

He read it, and then he refilled my beer glass. “The wagon belongs to Rolon Taylor. He has a ranch near Goodpasture. He has many cows, excellent cows. It is said they sometimes have three or four calves a year.”

“That’s a lot of calves.”

“Sí
, it is many.” He shrugged and sipped his own beer. “Maybe his cows are better. Or maybe his vaqueros swing a wider loop.

“He not only has many calves, he has many vaqueros who do not seem to work very hard but they have
mucho dinero
. Often they come here and always with money. I think if you ride that way,
amigo
, you are to ride with care. But who am I to tell you, Milo Talon?”

“I shall find the girl and return her to Maggie’s,” I said. “As for Felipe, he is my friend also. He did a thing to help me when help was needed. I shall not forget. A good man or a bad man I do not know, but he did the right thing at the right time.”

I finished my beer. “Whether I talk to him or not, he has a friend in me.”

It had been in my mind to recruit him to help me with what lay ahead, but as we talked I realized I could do no such thing. Where I was going there would be trouble and no doubt the man had troubles enough of his own without shouldering mine.

Goodpasture lay not far from the valley where I had gone to see Anne, and I had seen a wooden slab with the name painted on it and an arrow showing the direction when I was riding to see her.

There was no longer any idea of going back into the valley to see Anne. My reception had not been exactly what I’d hoped for. A pretty girl she certainly was, but if she had any interest in me she concealed it very well.

Stopping by Maggie’s, I picked up the grub he’d packed for me. I’d no need to ask what it was. German had been a chuck-wagon cook too long not to know what was needed.

This time I rode due south, skirted the Hollow, and headed for Chicosa Creek. If anybody was watching I had mild hopes of confusing them a mite. That night I made camp on the Huerfano River, and was sitting over coffee in the morning when I noticed a couple of stray horses edging toward my fire, ears up.

My horse whinnied and they responded and walked on in. They were Shelby horses, lost when the herd was scattered. Unsure what I’d best do, I put ropes on them and decided to take them along. Pablo was responsible and as he was not here it was up to me. Also, I might use a couple of spares. In fact, I decided to switch my rigging right there and leave on a fresh mount.

Within an hour I was getting into scattered trees, advance scouts feeling their way into the plains from the legions that covered the mountain slopes.

Taking my time, not anxious to stir up dust that might attract attention, I did not get to the Greenhorn until late afternoon, and there I made camp. Up to now I’d been riding across country, but starting from now I’d be heading into what might be called enemy country. It was still a good distance to Goodpasture, but Rolon Taylor had a good many hands and they covered a lot of country.

Before daybreak I was up and riding, astride a fresh horse again. Keeping to low ground, I scouted toward the mountains until I came upon what I was seeking, an old trappers’ trail that led due north toward the St. Charles.

That river lay in the bottom of a canyon, and a man had to know the country to find a way to cross. The old trail I was riding was one Pa had told me of long ago, and the years had not treated it well. Only here and there could I see any sign of it, but enough to hold my course.

They had used it to move through Indian country with less chance of being seen, and that was exactly what I wanted.

Now I began scouting for wagon tracks. Up to this point I had avoided the used trails, not wanting to be seen. Time to time I paused to listen and study the country around. The trail I was following did not seem to have been used, and with luck I could get close to Taylor’s place without being seen. If I was I’d simply tell them I was rounding up Shelby’s horses. It
was a plausible excuse, although they might not believe me.

It wasn’t until I was coming up to Turtle Buttes that I saw wagon tracks. I’d walked across those tracks back at Larkin’s when heading for the train, and a tracker has a memory for such things. This was either the same wagon or one mighty like it.

The trouble was this wagon had gone into Fisher’s Hole and had returned, heading northeast. Northeast was where Rolon Taylor’s outfit had its headquarters, but why go into Fisher’s Hole
first?

Sitting my saddle in the shade of some pines, I studied those tracks, looked the country over, and tried to make up my mind.

If they had Molly Fletcher in that wagon, and I’d every reason for believing it, why go to Fisher’s Hole? A four-horse team and a wagon does not move fast, and nobody goes out of his way or just wanders around in one. If they went into Fisher’s Hole it was to deliver something or get something.

My attention returned to that something that dropped to the floor in Anne’s cabin and the startled reaction on all their faces.

Was Molly a prisoner there? Had she heard my voice and tried to attract attention?

But why at
Anne’s?
Of all places. She had nothing to do with this.

Or did she?

C
LOUD SHADOWS MADE islands upon the valley floor, and far off a rain-shower marched across the distance shading a space of the horizon into deeper blue. My horse stamped his hoofs, restless to be moving, yet I waited, watching, considering.

I was alone upon the land. My one ally, Pablo, lay wounded and ill, and somewhere Molly Fletcher was a prisoner, perhaps marked to die.

What was at stake here I did not know except that men were willing to kill for whatever it was, to kill and to hire men to kill. They had money, knowledge, and power; against them I had nothing, or next to nothing. What I needed most was to
know
, to know what the fight was about, to even know who my enemies were.

So far I had just been around where things were happening, so far I had only resisted when my friend and his horse herd were attacked, but once I rode from the shadow of the pines I would have committed myself. No longer would I be considered merely a suspicious bystander, but an avowed enemy, for when I moved out of these pines I would be moving against them, riding into enemy country where I must win or die.

It was not an easy thought. I had never considered myself a daring man. I did what was necessary at the time, and it was I who advised Molly Fletcher to buy a
partnership in Maggie’s Place and stay in town. Had she gone on to Denver she would now be free.

The wagon had gone in to Fisher’s Hole. The evidence pointed to Molly being a prisoner in that wagon. The wagon had returned from the Hole and gone on, apparently, to Rolon Taylor’s ranch. The only reason I could think of for taking the trip into the Hole would be to make a delivery. Hence, Molly must be in the Hole.

Something had fallen to the floor when I was in the house, and for some reason all had been startled and alarmed. Suppose, as I had thought before, Molly heard my voice and deliberately knocked something to the floor to warn or alert me?

Riding out from the pines, I turned my horse up the narrow trail into Fisher’s Hole.

I hoped I would not be too late.

Once within the Hole I turned sharply left and took a dim trail up into the trees close to the flank of the Hogback. Here there was some concealment. Night was coming on and I hoped to get within sight of the house before it was completely dark. The horse I rode was new to me but a good mountain horse who seemed alert and seemed to be satisfied with his rider. My other horses followed on a lead rope.

Branches hung low and often I had to lie along my horse’s neck to pass under them. Here, under the trees, there were shadows, although light still bathed the crest of the Hogback, and the bottom of the Hole was still light. My horses walked upon pine needles, making no sound, and the creak of my saddle could be heard no more than a few feet away. Several times I reined in to listen.

What I would do once I got into the valley and in position I had no idea. First, I must scout the ranch, and, judging by the man with the shotgun, it would be well-guarded.

Emerging from the thick stand of trees into a space only partly screened, I saw a lamp had been lighted in the house. Although some distance away, I heard a door slam and heard the creak of a windlass of somebody at a well. Turning, I rode out on a small point comprising about an acre of ground, partly fringed by trees and brush. From where I sat in my saddle, my view of the ranch below was excellent, while my outline must merge with the bulk of the mountain and the forest behind me.

For a moment I sat my horse, hands resting on the pommel. What was I getting into? After all, this was Anne’s home, or the place where she lived. What would she think if I was found sneaking about, spying on her home? Certainly the wagon had come into the Hole, but maybe it had gone elsewhere, and the falling object might have been knocked off by a cat. I was being a fool.

Yet why were they so alert for trouble? Who were the men with Anne?

My welcome down below had certainly not been warm. I mean, nobody tried to make me feel at home. They fed me and got rid of me.

Somehow I had to get down there, prowl around, and discover if I could who if anyone was in that other room. I’d seen no dog, for which I was profoundly grateful.

Dismounting, I picketed my horses, and taking my
rifle, I walked to the edge of the woods. Already the valley below had become gray shading into black and only two lighted windows showed from the house, neither of which seemed to be the room where I heard the sound.

There was a fallen log and I seated myself, watching the house. A door opened throwing a patch of light across what must have been a small back porch, and a man came out carrying a lantern. He walked toward the low shed and disappeared inside … feeding the horses? Or saddling up?

The shed door was pushed open and a man emerged leading several horses. If I was not mistaken there were four horses. Tying them, he returned for a fifth horse. They were leaving then.

Swearing softly, I pulled my picket pins and slid my rifle into its scabbard, then coiled the lines and mounted. There was a trail down the mountain, a game or cattle trail, that I had recognized earlier. It would bring me to the back of the ranch in the opposite direction from the way they would ride.

Leading my spare horses, I went down the trail at a fast walk. Reaching the bottom, I started across a meadow of tall grass, then drew up, listening.

A door slammed, and although still a good two hundred yards off, I heard someone say, “Better put out the light, Charlie.”

“Aw, why bother? Make ’em think we’re still here.”

“Make who think?” someone asked sarcastically. “There’s nobody within miles.”

“That gent … the one who was here. He might come back.”

“Him? Anne said she knew him. Just a harmless cowpoke who was kind of sweet on her up the road some time back. No need to worry about him.”

“So you think. Me, I worry. He looked too damn smart to suit me.”

“Come on! Let’s get out of here!”

“Please, gentlemen! We must be going! I want us off the roads by daylight.”