Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) (2 page)

So that was the way of it? Two cow outfits wanting the water that another had. Two big outfits wanting to grow, and a little one holding them back.

No fighter was he? But a man with nerve…it took nerve to sit on the hot seat like that.

But that was enough for now. My eyes turned to the daughter of Rud Maclaren. “You can buy your trousseau,” I said. “You'll not have long for planning.”

She looked at me coolly, but there was impudence in her, too.

“I'll not worry about it. There's no weddings on Boot Hill.”

They all laughed at that, yet behind it they were all thinking she was right. When a man starts wearing a gun it is a thing to think about, but there was something inside me that told me no…not yet. Not by gun or horse or rolling river…not just yet.

“You've put your tongue to prophecy,” I said, “and maybe it's in Boot Hill I'll end. But I'll tell you this, daughter of Maclaren, before I sleep in Boot Hill there will be sons and daughters of ours on this ground.

“I've a feeling on this, and mountain people set store by feelings. That when I go I'll be carried there by six tall sons of ours, and you'll be with them, remembering the good years we've had.”

When the door slapped shut behind me I knew I'd been talking like a fool, yet the feeling was still with me—and why, after all, must it be foolishness?

Through the thin panels I heard Mother O'Hara telling her, “You'd better be buying that trousseau, Moira Maclaren! There's a lad knows his mind!”

“It's all talk,” she said, “just loose talk.”

She did not sound convinced, however, and that was the way we left it, for I knew there were things to be done.

Behind me were a lot of trails and a lot of rough times. Young as I was, I'd been a man before my time, riding with trail herds, fighting Comanches and rustlers, and packing a fast gun before I'd put a man's depth in my chest.

It was easy to talk, easy to make a boast to a pretty girl's ears, but I'd no threshold to carry her over, nor any land anywhere. It was a thought that had never bothered me before this, but when a man starts to think of a woman of his own, and of a home, he begins to know what it means to be a man.

Yet standing there in the street with the night air coming down from the hills, and darkness gathering itself under the barn eaves and along the streets, I found an answer.

It came to me suddenly, but the challenge of it set my blood to leaping and brought laughter to my lips. For now I could see my way clear, my way to money, to a home, and to all I'd need to marry Moira Maclaren…The way would be rough and bloody, but only the daring of it gripped my mind.

Turning, I started toward the stable, and then I stopped, for there was a man standing there.

He was a huge man, towering over my six feet two inches, broader and heavier by far than my two hundred pounds. He was big-boned and full of raw power, unbroken and brutal. He stood wide-legged before me, his face as wide as my two hands, his big head topped by a mass of tight curls.

“You're Brennan?”

“Why, yes,” I said, and he hit me.

There was no start to the blow. His big balled fist hit my jaw like an axe butt and something seemed to slam me behind the knees and I felt myself falling. He hit me again as I fell into his fist, a wicked blow that turned me half around.

He dropped astride of me, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him, and with his knees pinning my arms, he aimed smashing, brutal blows at my head and face. Finally he got up, stepped back, and kicked me in the ribs.

“If you're conscious, hear me. I'm Morgan Park, and I'm the man who's going to marry Moira Maclaren.”

My lips were swollen and bloody and my brain foggy. “You lie!” I said, and he kicked me again and then walked away, whistling.

Somehow I rolled over and got my hands under me and pushed up to my knees. I crawled out of the street and against the stage station wall, where I lay with my head throbbing like a great drum, the blood welling from my split lips and broken face.

It had been a brutal beating he'd given me. I'd not been whipped since I was a boy, and never had I felt such blows as those. His fists had been like knots of oak and his arms like the limbs of trees.

Every breath I took brought a gasp, and I was sure he'd broken a rib for me. Yet it was time for me to travel. I'd made big talk in Hattan's Point and I'd not want Moira Maclaren to see me lying in the street like a whipped hound.

My hands found the corner of the building and I pulled myself up. Staggering along the building, using the wall for support, I made my way to the livery stable.

When I got my horse saddled, I pulled myself into the saddle and rode to the door.

The street was empty…no one had seen the beating I'd taken, and wherever Morgan Park had come from, now he was nowhere to be seen. For an instant I sat my horse in the light of the lantern above the stable floor.

A door opened and a shaft of light fell across me. In the open door of Mother O'Hara's stood Moira Maclaren.

She stepped down from the stoop and walked over to me, looking up at my swollen and bloody face with a kind of awed wonder.

“So he found you, then. He always hears when anyone comes near me, and this always happens. You see, Matt, it is not so simple a thing to marry Moira Maclaren.” There seemed almost a note of regret in her voice.

“And now you're leaving?” she said.

“I'll be back for you…and to give Morgan Park a beating.”

Now her voice was cool, shaded with contempt. “You boast—all you have done is talk and take a beating!”

That made me grin, and the grinning hurt my face. “It's a bad beginning, isn't it?”

She stood there watching as I rode away down the street.

Throughout the night I rode into wilder and wilder country. I was like a dog hunting a hole in which to die, but I'd no thought of dying, only of living and finding Morgan Park again.

Through the long night I rode, my skull pounding, my aching body heavy with weariness, my face swollen and shapeless. Great canyon walls towered above me, and I drank of their coolness. Then I emerged on a high plateau where a long wind stole softly across the open levels fresh with sage and sego lilies.

Vaguely I knew the land into which I rode was a lost and lonely land inhabited by few, and those few were men who did not welcome visitors.

At daylight I found myself in a long canyon where tall pines grew. There was a stream talking somewhere under the trees, and, turning from the game trail I had followed, I walked my buckskin through knee-high grass and flowers and into the pines. It smelled good there, and I was glad to be alone in the wilderness which is the source of all strength.

There beside the stream I bedded down, opening my soogan and spreading it in the half sunlight and shade, and then I picketed my horse and at last crept to my blankets and relaxed with a great sigh. And then I slept.

It was midafternoon when my eyes opened again. There was no sound but the stream and the wind in the tall pines, a far-off, lonely sound. Downstream a beaver splashed, and in the trees a magpie chattered, fussing at a squirrel.

I was alone.…With small sticks I built a fire and heated water, and when it was hot I bathed my face with careful hands, and while I did it I thought of the man who had whipped me.

It was true he had slugged me without warning, then had pinned me down so I'd have no chance to escape from his great weight. But I had to admit I'd been whipped soundly. Yet I wanted to go back. This was not a matter for guns. This man I must whip with my bare hands.

But there was much else to consider. From all I had learned, the Two-Bar was the key to the situation, and it had been my idea to join forces with Ball, the man who was stubborn enough to face up to two strong outfits. I'd long had an urge for lost causes, and a feeling for men strong enough to stand alone. If Ball would have my help…

To the west of where I waited was a gigantic cliff rising sheer from the grassy meadow. Trees skirted the meadow, and to the east a stream flowed along one side, where the pines gave way to sycamore and a few pin oak.

Twice I saw deer moving among the trees. Lying in wait near the water, I finally got my shot and dropped a young buck.

For two days I ate, slept, and let the stream flow by. My side ceased to pain except when a sudden movement jerked it, but it remained stiff and sore to the touch. The discoloration around my eyes and on one cheekbone changed color and some of the swelling went down. After two days I could wait no longer. Mounting the buckskin, I turned him toward the Two-Bar.

A noontime sun was darkening the buckskin with sweat when I turned into Cottonwood Wash.

There was green grass here, and there were trees and water. The walls of the Wash were high and the trees towered until their tops were level with them, occasional cattle I saw looked fat and lazy.

For an hour I rode slowly along, feeling the hot sun on my shoulders and smelling the fresh green of the grass, until the trail ended abruptly at a gate bearing a large sign.

TWO-BAR GATE

RANGED FOR A SPENCER .56

SHOOTING GOING ON HERE

Beyond this point a man would be taking his own chances, and nobody could say he had not been warned.

Some distance away, atop a knoll, I could see the house. Rising in my stirrups, I waved my hat. Instantly there was the hard
whap
of a bullet passing, then the boom of the rifle.

Obviously, this was merely a warning shot, so I waved once more.

That time the bullet was close, so, grabbing my chest with both hands I rolled from the saddle, caught the stirrup to break my fall and settled down to the grass. Then I rolled over behind a boulder. Removing my hat, I sailed it to the ground near the horse, then pulled off one boot and placed it on the ground so it would be visible from the gate. But from that far away an observer would see only the boot, not whether there was a foot and leg attached.

Then I crawled into the brush, among the rocks, where I could cover the gate. To all outward appearances a man lay sprawled behind that boulder.

All was still. Sweat trickled down my face. My side throbbed a little from a twist it had taken as I fell from the horse. I dried my sweaty palms and waited.

And then Ball appeared. He was a tall old man with a white handlebar mustache and shrewd eyes. No fool, he studied the layout carefully, and he did not like it. It looked as though he had miscalculated and scored a hit.

He glanced at the strange brand of the buckskin, at the California bridle and bit. Finally, he opened the gate and came out, and as he turned his back was to me.

“Freeze, Ball! You're dead in my sights!”

He stood perfectly still, taking no chances on an itchy trigger finger.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Not trouble…I want to talk business.”

“I've no business with anybody.”

“With me you've business. I'm Matt Brennan. I've had trouble with Pinder and Maclaren. I've taken a beating from Morgan Park.”

Ball chuckled. “Sounds as if you're the one with trouble. Is it all right to turn around?”

At my word, he turned. I stepped from out of the rocks. He moved back far enough to see the boot and grinned. “I'll not bite on that one again.”

I sat down and pulled my boot on.

Chapter 3

W
HEN I WAS on my feet I crossed to my hat and picked it up. He watched me, never letting his eyes leave me for an instant.

“You're bucking a stacked deck,” I said. “The gamblers are offering high odds you won't last thirty days.”

“I know that.”

He was a hard old man, this one. Yet I could see from the fine lines around his eyes that he'd been missing sleep, and that he was worried. But he wasn't frightened. Not this man.

“I'm through drifting. I'm going to put down some roots, and there's only one ranch around here I'd have.”

“This one?”

“Yes.”

He studied me, his hands on his hips. I'd no doubt he would go for a gun if I made a wrong move.

“What do you aim to do about me?”

“Let's walk up to your place and talk about that.”

“We'll talk here.”

“All right.…There's two ways. You give me a fighting, working partnership. That's one way. The other is for you to sell out to me and I'll pay you when I can. I take over the fight.”

He looked at me carefully. He was not a man to ask foolish questions. He could see the marks of the beating I'd taken, and he'd heard me say there had been trouble with Maclaren and Pinder. I knew what I was asking for.

“Come on up. We'll talk about this.”

And he let me go first, leading my horse. I liked this old man.

Yet I knew the cards were stacked my way. He could not stay awake all night, every night. He could not both work and guard his stock. He could not go to town for supplies and leave the place unguarded. Together we could do all those things.

Two hours later we had reached an agreement. I was getting my fighting, working partnership. One man alone could not do it, the odds were all against any two men doing it…but they'd have a chance.

“When they find out, they'll be fit to be tied.”

“They won't find out right away. My first job is grub and ammunition.”

The Two-Bar controlled most of the length of Cottonwood Wash and on its eastern side opened upon a desert wilderness with only occasional patches of grass. Maclaren's Boxed M and Pinder's CP bordered the ranch on the west, with Maclaren's land extending to the desert at one place.

Both ranches had pushed back the Two-Bar cattle, usurping the range for their own use. In the process, most of the Two-Bar calves had disappeared under Boxed M and CP brands.

“Mostly CP,” Ball advised. “The Pinder boys are mighty mean. They rode with Quantrill, an' folks say Rollie rode with the James boys some. Jim's a fast gun, but nothin' to compare to Rollie.”