Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) (9 page)

The more I thought of it, however, the more positive I became that the man must be Maclaren. That would be why the Slades were to kill Canaval.

When I was six miles from Silver Reef I turned off the trail into a narrow-mouth draw and rode back up some distance. There, under some mesquite bush, I made a dry camp.

It was after midnight…something stirred out in the brush.

This was lonely country, only desert lay to the north, and south the country stretched away, uninhabited, clear to the Canyon of the Colorado. It was a rugged country, split by great canyons, barred by pinnacled backbones of sandstone, a land where even the Indians rarely roamed.

In Silver Reef, I had stocked a few supplies, and over a tiny fire I fried bacon and a couple of eggs, then cut grass for Buck, and bedded down for the night.

In the moonlight the bare white stones of the draw bottom stood out clearly. The mesquite offered some concealment, and I was safe enough while the night lasted.

There was a tough sheriff in Silver Reef who might put two and two together if he talked to the bartender to whom I had talked.

When I awakened it was cold and gray in the earliest dawn-light. The clumps of brush were black against the gray desert…the sky was pale, with only a few stars. Over coffee I watched the stars fade out, then saddled up.

Buck moved out, eager to be on his way, and swinging wide of the trail I rode toward the ridge that followed the trail but lay half a mile away from it. Morgan Park would be riding that same trail. I did not want him to know I had been in Silver Reef.

There was no sound but that of the horse's hoofs and the creak of saddle leather. The black brush turned to green, the last stars faded, and the ridges stood out sharp and clear in the morning light. Great boulders lay scattered in the desert beyond the mountain's base, and here there were occasional stretches of sparse grass.

Once, looking toward the trail, I saw a faint plume of dust…a rider passing there.

Morgan Park?

It could be…and he might have seen my tracks.

Chapter 12

S
EVERAL TIMES I drew up, looking off toward the trail. That lone plume of dust seemed to be keeping pace with me, yet I doubted if the rider was aware of my presence.

Where I rode there was little dust. We circled and climbed and dipped, and we had the rocky face of the mountain in back of us. Against that background I could not be outlined nor easily seen, but I held to low ground.

The wall of the mountain grew sheer, reaching high and straight up, its face without crack or crevice. At the base were heaps of talus, the scattered fragments of rock failling from the eroded sand stone. At noon I made camp at a small seep among a clump of trees. There was no sound…I picketed the buckskin on a patch of grass and rested, chewing on a chunk of jerked beef.

Resting by the water, I tried to plan. If Park was actually plotting some move against Maclaren, I should warn him, but he would not listen to me. Nor would Moira…she had known Morgan Park for some time, while I was a new and troublesome visitor. Such a story coming from me, and without proof, might do more harm than good.

Canaval…Canaval was the man.

He might not believe me, but he would be cautious, for he was a naturally cautious man and, like most gunmen, he trusted no one.

I must warn him of the Slades.

When I came back to Cottonwood Wash and the Two-Bar, the wind was whispering among the cottonwood leaves and stirring the tall grass. It was good to be home, and under me I felt the buckskin's gait quicken as he stepped into a trot despite his weariness.

Mulvaney stepped into sight as I rode past the boulder where I had waited on that day that now seemed so long ago, the day when I first saw old man Ball and waited for him to approach me.

“Any trouble?” I asked.

“No…some men came by, but the sound of my Spencer moved them along.” He turned back to the cabin. “There's grub on the table.”

Stripping the saddle from the buckskin, I looked around. Mulvaney had not let up on the work while I was gone, and what he had done was a day's work for two men. He was a good man, Mulvaney, and I owed a debt to Katie O'Hara for sending him to me.

“Trouble in Silver Reef?”

“A man killed.”

“Be careful, lad. There's too many dying.”

So as I curried the buckskin, I told the story, leaving nothing out, and Mulvaney listened, watching me. He was a good man and I had respect for his judgment.

“Right,” he said, at last. “You'd best talk to Canaval.”

Turning away from the corral I looked off down the length of Cottonwood, looked at the white-faced cattle grazing there, and at the water flowing through the ditch to irrigate the vegetable garden we'd planned. It was something begun. I was no longer dreaming. I was putting down roots.

Mulvaney had been watching me as we ate, sitting back from the fire and sheltered so no shot could reach us. “You're tired,” he said. He had lighted his pipe, and he smoked quietly, then went on, “You'll back up that challenge to Morgan Park?”

“I will.”

“He's a power of man, lad. I've seen him lift a barrel of whiskey to the length of his arms overhead.”

He need not tell me that, me who had felt the weight of his fist. But how would Morgan Park be with a man who stood up to him? And one hard to hit? I was thinking that such big men rarely have to fight. Their size is an awesome thing and most men draw back. Had he fought much? Or had he always won easily and by bluff? I meant to see.

“Have you boxed any, Mulvaney? You told me you'd wrestled, Cornish style.”

“What Irishman hasn't boxed? If it's a sparrin' mate you want, you've picked your man. It would be good to get the leather on me maulies again.”

There followed a week at the Two-Bar that was uninterrupted, and it was a week of work, but a week of sparring, too. Only sometimes we went at it hot and heavy, and Mulvaney was a brawny man, a fierce slugger and powerful in the clinches. On the seventh day we did a full thirty minutes without a break; my strength was nearly back, and my side hurt hardly at all.

The rough and tumble part of it…let Morgan choose the way. I'd grown up in wagon camps and cow camps. I knew my way around as a fighting man. After our tenth session with the gloves, Mulvaney stripped them from his hands.

“It's a power of muscle behind that wallop, lad! That last one came from nowhere, and I felt it to my toes!”

“Thanks…I'll be riding to town tomorrow.”

“To fight him?”

“To see Moira, to buy supplies, and to talk to Canaval. It is late for that. I've been worried.”

On the day after my return two of the Benaras boys had stopped by on a rare trip to town, and I'd sent them to Canaval with a message from me—and to be given only to him. What might have happened since then, or what Canaval had thought of my message, I had no idea. And I was worried. Canaval could care for himself, but could Maclaren?

In my message to Canaval I had said there was some plot against Maclaren. I'd dared to say no more.

“And Morgan Park,” I told Mulvaney, “I want the man mad. I want him mad and wild before we fight.”

“It'll help…but be careful, lad.”

Hattan's Point lay still under a noonday sun when my buckskin shambled down the street. When he'd been watered I walked into the saloon. It was not a drink I wanted so much as conversation. I wanted news.

Key Chapin was there, and as always, I wondered about the man. Where did he stand? What did he want?

“You've been making a name for yourself,” Chapin said.

“All I want is a ranch.”

“Lyell was killed…over in Silver Reef.”

His eyes measured me, searching, but asking no question.

I shrugged. “You know there's a saying, ‘If you live by the sword—'”

“They've got a sheriff who's serious about his business. They say he's asking questions.”

Ignoring that, I asked one of my own.

“You said when I first came here that the town was taking sides. On which side are you?”

He hesitated, fiddling with his glass.

“That's harder to say since you came. I'm against the CP because they are essentially lawless men.”

“And Maclaren?”

“Stubborn, and sure of himself. But at times he can be reasoned with. He has an exaggerated view of his own rightness.”

“And Morgan Park?”

He glanced sharply at me, then looked out the door. He was frowning. “Morgan is generally believed to see things as Maclaren does…you don't believe that?”

“No…unless it so serves his interest. Morgan Park is anything to get the coon. He could choose any side if it would further his own interest.”

At that, Chapin was silent, and I could see he was disturbed by what I had said, although for what reason I could not guess. He was Maclaren's friend, I believed, but he had also seemed friendly to Morgan Park.

“Look, Chapin,” I said leaning toward him, “you're the press. I've seen a dozen frontier towns tougher than this one—and all of them were tamed. To get law and order meant a fight, but they got it. You more than anyone could lead such a fight here. And I'll help.”

“Even to stopping this war?”

“What war? A peaceful old man had a ranch that two big outfits wanted. They tried to get it. They failed. He left that ranch to me. If protecting one's property is war, then settle down for a long fight.”

“You could sell out.”

“No.…” I took my hat from the table and was about to leave. “What you should do is start examining motives. How'd the fight start?Why not look into the background of some of the people around? And I don't mean Maclaren or Pinder.”

“You haven't gotten over being sore at Morgan.”

Standing up, I put on my hat. “Ever hear of a lawyer at Silver Reef named Booker?”

“He's an unmitigated scoundrel.”

“Ask yourself why Morgan Park is meeting him in secret. And when you see the Slade Boys in town, ask yourself why they are here.”

He looked up at me, definitely startled, and then I turned and walked outside.

Moira was not in town, so I turned the buckskin toward the Boxed M.

When I rode into the ranch yard the first person I saw was a cowhand with a bandaged foot. He started up, then realizing he was far from a gun, settled carefully back in place.

“Howdy…if you want to know, I'm visiting, not hunting trouble.” I grinned at him. “I've no hard feelings.”

“You've no hard feelin's? What about me? You darned near shot my foot off!”

“Next time keep your foot under cover. Anyway, why gripe? You haven't done a lick of work since you were hurt. Just sittin' around eating your head off!”

Somebody behind me chuckled and I turned in my saddle. It was Canaval.

“Did it for an excuse, Brennan.”

“Excuse?”
The injured man came to his one good foot, his face flushed. Then he saw we were grinning and, disgusted, he limped away.

Canaval turned to me. He took out his tobacco and began to build a cigarette.

“What do you want, Brennan?”

“Courting…you mind?”

“None of my business. Rud may not like it. He may have me order you off.”

“If you tell me to go, Canaval, I'll go. Only one thing. If Park is here, you keep him off me. I'm not ready for him, and when I
am
ready I'd rather she didn't see it.”

“Fair enough.” His eyes twinkled a little and he looked up at me, only his eyes smiling. “You might be wrong about Moira. She might like to see it.”

Swinging down, I loosened the girth a little and tied my horse to the corral. Canaval stood by, watching me.

“The Benaras boys were here.”

“You got the message?”

He was alert and interested now. “Yes…I got it. Why would the Slades come here? Who would want to kill Rud Maclaren?”

“You figure it out…maybe somebody wants you dead so Rud will be alone.”

He was not disbelieving me. I could see that, and I saw it with surprise. Did Canaval know something I did not? Or had something happened since my warning?

On the steps I stopped and looked back. “That same gent is saving me for dessert…and his own special attention.”

He was standing there smoking when I knocked, and inside a voice answered that sent my blood pounding. It was a voice that would always have that effect on me, a voice that I would never hear too often.

As I entered there was an instant when my reflection was thrown upon a mirror beside hers. Seeing me gazing over her shoulder, she turned.

We stood there looking at ourselves. A tall, dark young man with wide shoulders in a dark blue shirt, a black silk handkerchief, black jeans, and tied down holsters with their walnut-stocked guns; and Moira in a sea-green gown, filmy and summery-looking, a girl with a lovely throat and shoulders, with soft lips.…

“Matt! You shouldn't have come! Father will be—”

“He'll have to get over it sometime, and it might as well be now.”

“That's foolish talk!”

She said it, but her eyes didn't seem to say it was foolish. Yet right at that minute, looking as lovely as she did, and surrounded everywhere by evidences of wealth and comfort, it may have sounded foolish even to me.

“You'd better start buying your trousseau. I won't have much money for a year or two, and—”

“Matt”—her eyes were anxious—“you'd better go I'm expecting Morgan.”

I took her hands. “Don't worry, Moira. I promised Canaval there'd be no trouble, and there will be none.”

She was unconvinced and tried to argue, but I could only keep thinking how lovely she was. Poised, a little angry, her lovely throat bare, she was enough to set any man's pulse to pounding.

“Matt!” She was really angry, and a little frightened by the thought of Morgan Park coming. “You're not even listening! And
don't
look at me like that!”