Tabor Evans (8 page)

Beyond the ford, the trace bore the signs of fewer wagons and more horses, but was still easy to follow. It meandered through the groves of towering cottonwood and broad-trunked sweet gum, through patches of scrub Oak that came barely to Longarm's waist as he sat in the saddle. Here and there, the bright green clumping of crackwillows marked a spring, a brooklet, or a patch of moist ground. A few of the brooks trickled across the road; none of them was wider than a man could step across, or deeper than a few inches, but the soft tinkle of running water making its way to the Canadian River broke the silence of the early afternoon.

Longarm ate in the saddle, chewing bits of jerky shaved off as he rode, moistened with a mouthful of water. He alternated the jerky with a few kernels of parched corn, and topped off his snack with a few dried prunes before lighting a cheroot and settling down for the long afternoon that lay ahead.

On two occasions, he turned off the trace where hooves had beaten a fainter trace toward the Canadian. He had no idea where Younger's Bend was located, except that it bordered the riverbank. The two trails he followed led to fords, not houses. He stopped at each of the crossings to breathe his horse and get the stiffness out of his own thigh muscles by dismounting and walking along the riverbank. He walked with a purpose other than exercise, though. There were so many bends in the Canadian that the high bluffs predominating along its northern bank could be seen far upstream--a series of humps diminishing in size with distance, but visible enough to show signs of settlement where any such signs existed.

He wasn't sure he'd come far enough east to reach Younger's Bend yet, but so far he'd passed no towns or settlements, or even a farm or ranch house where he could stop and ask. There had been a few threads of smoke visible on the south side of the Canadian at each of the two places where he'd ridden from the trace down to the river, but even on the more level, gently rolling land south of the stream, he hadn't gotten a clear view of any houses close enough to justify a visit. Each time, he'd ridden back to the main trace and continued east.

When he reached the third trail that forked south toward the river, Longarm reined in and sat in the saddle, studying the trail for several minutes. This one seemed a bit more distinct than the two he'd explored earlier. The forking was clearer, the ground around it beaten almost bare by hoofprints, the grass beside the trace shorter, as though more horses had grazed on it. Absently, moving his hands by habit rather than consciously, Longarm lighted a cheroot while he studied the trail. It led to a thick stand of scrub oak, and he could not see past the thicket. Still not committed in his mind to following the new trail to the river, Longarm twitched the reins to the left and the hammerhead bay walked slowly along the narrow path.

Beyond the stand of oaks, the trail remained clearly marked. Longarm's interest increased. He rode on, following the hoof-trodden line as it wound between cottonwood and sweet gum, skirted a rock outcrop, crossed an old burn almost bare of vegetation, and plunged again into a thicket of oaks dotted with still more gum trees and cottonwood. He was on rising ground now. The undergrowth thinned to isolated trees as the upward pitch of the slope grew sharper. The trail zigzagged up the rise and dipped on the other side into a narrow valley where it turned to follow its floor.

Here there was barely room for two riders to go abreast and the trail thinned and became more sharply defined. Longarm reined in at a wide spot and dismounted. To his experienced eyes, the trail had the marks of the kind of approach he'd been looking for, one that was both easy and difficult, a trail that passed through cover for defenders, if the need arose to stand off intruders. Above all, in its passage through the narrow valley, the trail seemed planned to string out any group of men and horses in a way that would allow a relatively small group to bar their passage.

Old son, he told himself, this is the likeliest spot you've hit. Somebody planned this trail, it didn't just grow up accidental. And even if there ain't no guarantee you're going to hit pay dirt at the end of it, You better strip down and be ready, just in case you do.

When he'd shed his coat, Longarm had transferred his wallet, with his marshal's badge Pinned inside, to his hip pocket. He fished the wallet out now, and dropped his trousers. By letting them down almost to the tops of his closely fitting cavalry boots, he managed to slip the wallet down inside a trouser leg and below the level of the boot top. Pulling UP his Pants, he inspected the leg. There was no bulge, and the edge Of the wallet wouldn't be felt by anybody searching him for a sheath knife or a small-caliber concealed pistol.

He climbed back in the Saddle and continued along the trail. It turned south at a cleft in the valley wall. Like the valley through which Longarm had ridden earlier, the opening was wide enough for only a single horseman. When Longarm entered the steep fissure, he saw unmistakable signs on both of its bare dirt sides that bushes and saplings had been uprooted from it in the recent past. The small amount of new growth that struggled to survive on the Steep walls was thin and spindly. Nowhere was there enough vegetation to give a man Protective cover. It Was planned, all right, Longarm assured himself, noting the barren walls of the defile as he rode deeper into it.

Three or four men Posted with rifles UP there on the crests could stand off a good-sized army. I don't wonder that Gower's been shying away from bringing in a posse to clean this place up, if it's the place I'm looking for. It's sure beginning to look like it is.

The narrow defile ended abruptly. Longarm reined in at its mouth and studied the scene that now lay revealed. A clearing stretched in front of him. It was roughly oval-shape and something more than a half-mile across at its widest point, which was several hundred yards from the cleft through which Longarm had just passed; the ravine Split the low, steep hills that concealed this stretch of level ground. The rise swept in an arc behind him, to both left and right. Somewhere ahead, the level land ended abruptly. Longarm couldn't see the actual ending, but it looked to him as though the flat clear area stopped at the rim of a sheer cliff, and he guessed that cliff must drop down to the Canadian River.

Trees dotted the clearing; they were widely spaced at its center and more distant edges, thicker as the ground began to rise in the slope that enclosed the place. Among the trees were stumps that had been left when the land was cleared. Centered in the level area, a house stood in the middle of about an acre of ground that had been completely cleared of stumps and trees. The house was neither large nor fancy. It stood on a low fieldstone foundation, and was built from squared timbers chinked with clay. If it had any windows, they were on the other side of the house. The side facing Longarm was unbroken by windows or a door. A fieldstone chimney rose at one end, and at the other, a pole barn--no more than a roof with widely spaced boards nailed to the supporting posts--nestled close to the house.

Longarm nodded when he saw the arrangement. He told himself, Old son, you hit the right place. Farmers and ranchers always put their animals away from the house, where the flies won't bother folks inside. Outlaws want their barn close, so they can get to their horses in a hurry in case of trouble.

Between the house and the slope behind it, stripped saplings had been driven into the ground between the living trees to form two irregular enclosures. One was sizable, and Longarm judged it to be a corral, though it was big enough to pen up a small herd of cattle. The second enclosure, much smaller, held half a dozen hogs. Here and there chickens wandered, scratching the dirt.

Behind one corner of the house he could see the low rise of a well curb. Still farther away stood an outhouse, and at an even greater distance, between the house and the edge where the land dropped away, there were three small cabins. Like the house, they were built from squared timbers and chinked with clay, and, like the house, they appeared to be windowless. All the wood of all the buildings--house, cabins, outhouse, barn--was raw; none of it had ever been painted. All the structures had weathered to a uniform gray, and irregular streaks of red clay chinking glowed in narrow swatches against the gray wood.

There was no one in sight in the clearing though a plume Of gray smoke rose from the chimney of the house, Smaller threads of gray came from the tin stovepipes that Protruded from the sides of two of the cabins and dog-legged up above their cedar-shake roofs. As Longarm studied the clearing, his sharp eyes picked up still another line of smoke rising from an area deep in the trees, beyond the staked enclosures, toward the hills. Whatever the source of that smoke might be, it was hidden from Longarm by the trees, which had not been thinned like the stands around the house.

Having fixed locations and directions in his mind, Longarm toed the bay into motion and headed for the house. The horse had taken only a few slow steps when a man Came through the trees. He was bent over with the weight of his load; in each hand he carried a large wooden bucket by its bail. He did not see Longarm, but moved at an angle away from him, toward the hogpen. Longarm Changed course and started for the same destination. He'd Covered half the distance between them before the other looked up and noticed him.

Longarm was close enough now to get a clear view of the stranger. He was an old man, wearing a fringe of white beard, and now it was obvious that age as much as his load was causing his forward-bending posture. He set the buckets down and waited for Longarm to rein in. Even before Longarm got close enough to Pull the bay to a halt, his nose twitched at the sour smell of corn mash coming from the buckets.

Pulling up a Yard from the oldster, Longarm said, "I guess I've found the right place. Is this Younger's Bend?"

"Yep." The old man was squinting through bloodshot blue eyes, trying to make out Longarm's features. He swayed as he lifted his head, leaned back, and threw out his arms to keep from falling. It was obvious that he was more than a little bit drunk. He asked, "Looking for somebody, are you?"

"If this is YOUNGER's Bend, I am."

"Told you it is. Now, who You looking for?"

"Depends on who's at home."

"I'm here, for one. You can see that. Ain't expecting callers, though. Mind telling me who you come to see?"

"Yes." When Longarm said no more, the Oldtimer continued, "Yes, meaning you mind?"

Again Longarm made no reply.

"Well, then," the man suggested, "tell me who in hell you are and if anybody's expecting you."

"Not now."

Shaking his head as though to clear it, the oldster took a step toward Longarm. One Of his feet hit the bucket closest to him and he almost fell down. Only reaching to grab at Longarm's leg saved him. He swayed uncertainly for a moment, then looked up at Longarm. "Damned if I don't recall your face from someplace," he said, frowning. "Black Hills Country, maybe?"

Longarm shook his head.

"Alder Gulch, then."

Again Longarm shook his head.

"Prascosa?" This time the old fellow didn't wait for a negative headshake before asking, "Mariposa?"

"No."

"Damned if you ain't the closest-mouthed son of a bitch I ever run into!" the gaffer exploded in angry frustration. "I guess I was Wrong about seeing you afore. I'd sure remember anybody that said nothing at all! Like a fellow I knew up on the Platte. He never talked much, either. We called him Windy. You ain't him, though."

"No. But Windy'll do, for now."

Longarm spoke abstractly. He didn't remember having seen the old booze-hound before, but he'd brought in a lot of men, and this one would probably look different if he was younger, shaved, and sober.

"They call me Yazoo," the old fellow said. "And there's nobody at the house right now but Sam. Steed and Mckee have rode into town with Belle, but they oughta be getting back pretty quick--its close to suppertime. Bobby and Floyd's down in the cabin, if it's one of them you're looking for."

"I'll wait for Belle," Longarm said.

"Figured you would. If you'll wait till I pour this mash in the hog trough, I'll walk over to the house with you."

Longarm swung out of his saddle. "I'll give you a hand. That's a pretty good load."

Slopping hogs wasn't Longarm's idea of a job fit for a grown man, but he wanted to take the closest possible look at Yazoo. He picked up one of the buckets and walked beside the old man to the hogpen. He stood back while Yazoo poured the mash into the trough, though. The smell that had filled his nose while he carried the mash was enough to last him for a while.

"I guess it wouldn't do no good to ask where you rode in from?" Yazoo prodded him as they walked toward the house.

"No." Longarm was leading the bay, but giving Yazoo a good eyeballing in an unobtrusive way.

"Damn it, Windy, you're with friends here. You don't have to be so close-mouthed." When Longarm made no answer, Yazoo shook his head. "I'm still sure I've run across you someplace, only I can't locate you in my mind. Maybe it'll come to me later on. Where else you been, Windy?"

"Here and there."

"All right, damn it!" Yazoo snorted. "Don't open up! It ain't no skin off my ass. Belle's going to want to know, though. She's right particular about who she lets stay here."

"Then maybe I won't stay."

"You'll stay," Yazoo said positively. "Else you never would've come here."

They reached the house and rounded its corner. There were windows on this side, glassless, but with wooden shutters. A narrow porch with a shed roof extended along the front of the house, and through the open door Longarm could see someone moving around inside. With the sun at his back now, he could also see into the barn, where three or four horses and several mules paced around in the dimness under the high roof. Longarm saw no hitch rail, so he led the bay over to the barn and looped the reins around one of the supporting posts. When he turned back to face the house, there was a man standing on the porch, covering him with a rifle. Longarm noticed that brass-headed tacks had been driven into its stock to form a star.