Over on the Dry Side (8 page)

Dawn came with a cool wind off the mountains, a smell of pine and the chill of rocky peaks where some of last year's snow still lingered from the winter, awaiting the next snow.

Owen went to the woodpile and took up the ax. For a half hour he worked, cutting wood for the cooking fires. From time to time he paused, leaning on the ax and taking time to study the country. His eyes searched out every canyon, every draw, placing them exactly in his mind.

Lost Canyon lay just north, a great, timbered gash coming down from the northeast. Only barely visible from where he stood, he had ridden to it on his first scouting of the country. A creek ran along the bottom.…One day he would go down there.

It was one of the last areas in the States to be settled. Rivera had reached it in 1765, and Escalante had passed through in 1776. Otherwise the vast land had remained unrecorded by any white man, yet men must have ridden through, hunted and prospected here. There was always one curious rider who went a little farther, or passed through going from here to there. Discoverers were only those who called attention to what they'd seen and done.

When Owen left the woodpile he climbed to the loft and rummaged through the books. The
Odes
of Horace in the original Latin did him no good at all. Clive had been the Latin scholar of the family.

There was a two-volume edition of the poems of Alfred Tennyson—a contemporary—published in 1842. Chantry had read some of Tennyson, and enjoyed him. The rest could wait. He took up the two Tennyson books and climbed down.

He opened a book when he reached the last step and looked through it, riffling the pages and glancing at a poem here and there. One page was marked by a torn piece of newspaper. It was “Ulysses.”

He closed the book and put it down for later reading.

When he walked outside again, both Kernohan and Doby had gone. The team was gone, as was Doby's gelding. Owen had started back toward the house when he glimpsed three riders coming down the draw toward the house.

Chantry took his rifle from inside and placed it beside the door. Suddenly, he saw movement near a bush by the stable. His hand was poised for a draw when a voice called out, “Don't shoot, Owen!”

It was Kernohan, hoe in hand, unarmed.

“Stay right where you are or get into the barn,” Chantry advised.

He was watching the riders. He knew that bay. It was a big horse, weighing twelve hundred or more and standing over sixteen hands. It was notoriously fast and had won many races around the country.

It was Strawn's horse, and nobody ever rode that horse but Strawn.

Freka would be with him. Freka was part Finlander, a troublemaker who had lived in a colony of Scandinavians in Utah until they drove him out. He was known to be a good man with a gun and had figured in several pointless killings in the past few years.

They turned into the yard and drew up when they saw Chantry standing in the door, waiting for them.

“Howdy, Chantry!” Strawn said casually. “It's been a while.”

“Fort Worth, wasn't it?” Chantry asked.

Freka was the thin, blond man in the checkered shirt. The third man was heavier, a barrel-chested fellow with a bull neck and a shaved head to whom Chantry couldn't yet put a name.

“You boys traveling?” Chantry asked them.

“Sort of prospectin' around. You ever been to the La Platas?”

“Time or two.”

“Rough country, but mighty purty. How's for a drink?”

“Water or coffee? We haven't any whiskey.”

“Coffee sounds good.” Strawn swung down from his bay, and the others followed. Slowly, they walked toward the house. Halfway there, Freka suddenly turned and looked toward the barn, pausing, then saying something in a low voice to the barrel-chested man, who was nearest him.

Owen Chantry got down four cups from the shelf and then the coffeepot. They seated themselves around the table and Chantry filled their cups.

“No sugar out here,” Chantry commented. “Honey all right?”

“I favor it,” Strawn said.

He was a good-looking man, his face somewhat long under a high forehead, with carefully parted and combed hair. He was a man of nearly thirty but he looked younger. He was good with a gun. He had been in a couple of cattle wars and several shootouts.

Jake…that was the third man's name. He'd used other handles from time to time, but that was his real name.

“This here's a long way from somewhere for you, Chantry,” Strawn said. “I figured you for a town man.”

“I like wild country. The wilder the better.”

“Well, you got it,” Strawn said. “There just ain't hardly nobody around here. You could ride a hundred miles in any direction and find nobody.…Nobody.”

“Except the Mowatt outfit,” Chantry commented.

Strawn looked up, grinning. “You seen them?”

“They stopped by to visit. Didn't stay long.”

Strawn stared at him, then smiled. “Well, well. You mean you backed him off? You backed off Mac Mowatt?”

Chantry refilled their cups. “You know how it is, Strawn. Mac didn't figure the odds were right. Maybe he wanted company to be present. He might have been waiting for somebody.”

Strawn chuckled. “You know, I like you, Chantry. I really do. Hope I never have to kill you.”

“Be a shame, wouldn't it, Strawn? Somebody sending you out on a job like that? And you so young, too.”

Strawn's eyes glinted, but he chuckled again. “Good coffee, Owen. I'm glad we stopped by.”

“You know, Jake, I was hoping to have this talk with you. You know me better than Mowatt does, and I don't think you ever knew me to lie.”

“You?” Strawn stared. “I'd shoot the man who even suggested it.”

“Mowatt is after something, Jake. He's after something that isn't even there, that never was there. I don't know all the facts, but I do know there's no treasure. There's nothing here that would be valuable to anybody but a scholar.”

“What's that mean?” Freka was suddenly alert.

“It means that when my brother rode up out of Mexico he brought something he valued greatly…and the treasure story got started.”

“So?”

“What he brought…and I'll admit I've never seen it…was information. A book, a manuscript, some notes…perhaps a plaque of some kind. To someone trying to reconstruct history it would be valuable. But to the average person, worthless.”

Freka smiled with exasperation. “You must think we're all simpleminded to believe a story like that. Why would a growed-up man risk his life for something like that?”

Jake Strawn looked thoughtful. “And if there's nothing there, we wind up empty?”

Chantry shrugged. “Did you ever hear of Mowatt giving away anything of his own? Look, Jake, you've ridden for some tough outfits, and so have I, and you know that nobody but some crazy kid, some wild youngster fights for anything but gain.…Not in our world. So if there's no gain in treasure, where's the payoff? You know I'm good with a gun. I know you are. I know damn well I don't want to come up against you for fun, and I don't think you want to lock horns with me for no payoff.”

“And you say there's no gold?”

“I do. What I suggest is this, Jake. I suggest you and Freka talk to Mowatt. Make him lay it on the line. I know all he's doing is following a dream. Somebody told a story once, and then it was told again and again and each time it got bigger. A Chantry riding out of the desert with treasure in gold on him. With a Mowatt. How did they carry all that vast treasure?”

Strawn, Chantry could see, was half convinced. But Freka wasn't even listening. In fact, he was making a great show of ignoring the talk.

“Hot air,” Freka said. “Mowatt's no fool. He knows what he's about.”

“Like a hundred other foolish prospectors roaming these mountains to the east of us, hunting for gold they'll never see.” Chantry emptied his cup. “Just thought I'd lay it on the line, Jake. You know me, and I know you.”

“So why're you here?” Freka demanded.

“A good question, Freka. I've had a brother killed, and that's a part of it. The rest is something you'd not likely grasp.

“I've been up and down and across this country. I've gambled and fought, and I've killed men for reasons that might seem slight. I've fought in cattle wars, and town-site battles, for railroad rights of way and just about everything else. I've never had much and never expect to have, but I'd give ten years of my life to add just one little bit to the knowledge of the world.

“We Chantrys have a failing, Freka. We like to finish what we start. I know the history of my family for two hundred years the way you know the trail to Santa Fe. And we've always finished what we started, or died in the trying. It's a kind of stubbornness…damned foolishness, maybe.

“Look, Strawn, a million years or more ago men began to accumulate learning. Over the years more bits and pieces of knowledge have been added and all of it is building a wall to shut out ignorance.

“I think what Clive Chantry brought back from Mexico was a piece of the pattern, his brick for the wall. Maybe it was a clue to a lost civilization, maybe a treatment for some killing disease, maybe a better way to grow a crop. Maybe it's one of the books of the Mayas that didn't burn. The one thing I know is that it wasn't gold.”

Freka yawned. “Jake, let's ride. This talk is puttin' me to sleep.” He got up. “You talk mighty well, Chantry, but I don't buy it, not even a piece of it.”

Strawn got up. “You suggestin' I lay off, Chantry?”

“No. We're mercenaries, you and me. We're paid warriors. All I'm asking is that you make sure the payoff is there. If I got up against a man of your caliber, I want to be sure I'm getting paid for it, one way or another. And I'll be paid, that I know. But what will you get out of it?

“If we lock horns, Jake, one of us is going to die. There's a better than even chance that both of us will. I've seen you in action, and you're good. Damned good. I believe you've seen me in action, too.”

“I have.”

“Well, make Mowatt come up with something more than hot air.”

“Mowatt knows something. He doesn't go off half-cocked.”

“No? How many times has he told of a Wells-Fargo treasure chest that was supposed to be loaded with gold…and then it turned up empty?”

“Maybe you're right, Chantry. But Freka won't buy it. He wants to kill. And he's good, Chantry, damn good.”

“I hope when I find out how good he is you don't have me in a cross fire, Jake.”

“Hell, I fight my own battles. You and him…I'd kind of like to see that.”

Strawn picked up his hat and followed Jake and Freka, who had gone outside. “See you, Owen.” He paused. “I'll talk to the old man.”

Owen Chantry stood in the door and watched them ride away.

Kernohan slowly approached the house. “What was all that about?”

“Strawn and Freka, killers working for Mac Mowatt, and dangerous men.”

“Taken you long enough. I figured you was old friends.”

“No…Jake Strawn and I know each other by sight and reputation. We've even eaten in the same bunkhouse, and he rode shotgun on a stage I drove a few times. I've never seen Freka before…but he's mean as a rattler, and just as deadly.”

“Strawn ain't?”

“Strawn's one of the best men with a gun I ever saw, and he'll take a lot of lead before he dies. He's got six bullet wounds I know of, and he's still breathing good. The men who shot at him are dead. I was just trying to convince him there was no gold, so there couldn't be a payoff. He almost bought it, but Freka didn't. Freka doesn't care.”

Kernohan was silent a minute. Then he said, “Chantry, I'm goin' to pull out. Me and the boy ain't geared for such as this, and I don't aim to get him hurt.”

Chantry shrugged. “Your decision, Kernohan, but you've got a nice place here. You can run cattle and do well. You've a meadow or two where you can cut hay, and there's water. You'll have to hunt awhile to find its equal.”

“Mebbe. But I don't aim to get my boy shot up for nothin'. I don't take to shootin' folks. I don't want him endin' up like Strawn or them others.”

“Like me?” Chantry suggested.

“Or you. I don't know much about you, Chantry, but if your stories are true you've been mixed up in a lot of shootin'.”

“Yes, I have. And you're right, Kernohan. But stay…I'll keep them off your back. But talk Doby out of going into the hills. He's got a kind of case on that girl.”

“He's never even seen her!”

“He's a boy alone, Kernohan. Don't you recall how it was? At sixteen there's always a girl you dream about. Well, she's the only one around.”

“Let 'im dream. Won't do no harm.”

“Not unless he ties in with that Mowatt outfit just to be close to her.”

Kernohan swore. “I wondered why he taken his ridin' horse when he went after them poles!” He paused, worried. “He'll come back. I know he will.”

Chantry had a sudden thought. “Kernohan, when you first got here were those books boxed up?”

“No, they was on that shelf.” He pointed.

“Was there anything else?”

“No, not's I recall.” Kernohan sat down at the table. “That poor man lived a bit after he was left for dead. You could see that.”

“How do you mean? He'd been dead a good while, you said.”

“He had. But there was writin' on the step. That's why I figured there might be treasure. He tried to write some numbers.”

“Show me?”

“Sure. It's faded now. He had a stub of pencil.”

They walked outside. On the riser between the first and second step was written, in a barely legible scrawl, one word:

Ten…

“He was layin' there, kinda bunched up. Course, coyotes or wolves might have twisted his body round some, but I figgered he started to writin' some figgers and died 'fore he got any more wrote down.”