Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) (17 page)

Otis was only mildly curious at the moment. Yet he wondered who the man was. The man had seemed very big, and in the Laird Valley country only five men were of that size. Logan himself, Judge Collins, Finn Mahone, Leibman, and Byrn Sonntag.

Dean Armstrong was bent over the desk when Otis opened the door. He looked up. “Hi, Otis!” he called cheerfully. “Come on back and sit down!”

“Mahone been in town?”

Dean shook his head. “Not that I know of. No, I'm sure he hasn't been back since the fight. He said he would bring me a book he was telling me about, and he never forgets, so I guess he hasn't been in.”

Then the man wasn't Finn Mahone.

The idea had never been a practical one, anyway. What would Mahone want with Logan? And meeting him in secret? It wouldn't make sense. It had certainly not been Judge Collins. That left only Leibman and Byrn Sonntag. Otis shoved his hands down in his pockets and watched Armstrong's pen scratching over the paper. “Dean,” he asked, “what do you know about Pierce Logan?”

“Logan?” Armstrong put his pen down and leaned his forearms on the desk. Then he shook his head. “Just what everyone knows. He's got one of the best ranches in the valley. Been here about two or three years. He owns the livery stable, and has a partnership in the hotel. I think he has a piece of the Longhorn, too.”

Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. “Why?”

“Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you suppose he'll marry that Kastelle girl?”

“Looks like it.” Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn't appeal to him. “If he does he'll control over half the range in Laird Valley.”

Otis was restless. He got up. “Yes, you're right about that. And if McInnis and Brewster decided to sell out, he would own it all.” He turned to go.

“Wait a minute and I'll walk over to the Longhorn with you.”

Then Armstrong glanced at Otis. “Have you eaten?”

Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. “Why, no. Come to think of it, I haven't.”

“Then let's stop by Ma Boyle's and eat before we have a drink.”

They walked out together, and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed it. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it. The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains…like a world by itself!”

Armstrong was thoughtful. “You know,” he said reflectively, “it would be one of the biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest.”

Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle's. When they entered, the long table, still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium, was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.

Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty. “How are you, Doc?” he asked. “Been out on the range?”

“Yeah, down to the Mains's place. She's ailing again.” He sawed at his steak, then looked up. “Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin' down the range on that buckskin of his.”

Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache. A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the rustlers. He overheard Doc's comment.

“Mexie, huh? He's a bad 'un. Nobody ain't never proved nothin' on him, but I always figgered he dry-gulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?”

“I ought to!” Doc said. “Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for almost a mile.”

“A Sharps'll carry that far,” Miller said. “Further, maybe. Them's a powerful shootin' gun.”

“Sure,” Doc agreed, “but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet's dropping
feet
, not just inches. That would take some shooting…and he was drilled right through the heart.”

“They believed it was a stray bullet, didn't they?” Powis asked. “I remember that's what they decided.”

Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry's death was sketchy at best. One factor in the idea interested him, however. He asked a question to which he knew the answer. “What became of Hendry's ranch?”

“Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it,” Harran said. “You recall that Sam Hendry? Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off.”

“Best thing ever happened to this town!” Powis said. “Logan's really done some good here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought 'em.”

“That's right,” Harran agreed. “The town's at least got a hotel a woman can stop in now.”

Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work, and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few extra dollars, proceeded to get very, very drunk.

He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often remembered things he had otherwise forgotten. Perhaps it was the subject of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination of the two and Otis's worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.

At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.

Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices, and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that seemed to be a body.

Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn't until afternoon the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought returned now, and with it came another.

For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he did nothing.

R
EMY KASTELLE AWAKENED with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.

Quietly, she dressed, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the door. She crossed the room and picked it up.

Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There's hot water over the fire, and coffee in the pot.

When she had bathed and combed her hair, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door.

She stopped dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.

The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white. It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the valley ran Crystal Creek, silver and lovely under the bright morning sun. In all her life she had seen no place more beautiful than this.

Looking down the rippling green of the grasslands, she saw the enormous stone towers that marked the entrance, a division in the wall that could have been scarcely more than fifty feet wide. From out on the porch, she could look up the valley toward where Crystal Creek cut through another entrance, this one at least two hundred yards across, looking into a still larger valley. Scattered white-face cattle grazed in the bottoms along the stream. Not the rawboned half-fed range cows she knew, but fat, heavy cattle.

As she looked, she saw a horseman come through that upper opening, a big man riding at a fast canter on a black stallion. She watched him, and something stirred deeply within her. So much so that, disturbed, she wrenched her eyes away and walked back into the kitchen. Putting down her cup she went into the bedroom to get her hat. Only then did she see the picture.

There were three, two of them landscapes. It was the third that caught her eyes. It was a portrait of a girl with soft dark eyes and dark hair, her face demure and lovely. Remy walked up to it, and stared thoughtfully.

A sister? No. A wife? A sweetheart?

She looked at the picture first because of curiosity, and then her eyes became calculating, as with true feminine instinct she gauged this woman's beauty against her own. Was this the girl he loved? Was this the reason he preferred to live alone?

Memory of the cup and the warm coffee returned to her. Was he alone?

The sound of the arriving horse jerked her attention from the picture, and hat in hand she walked out to the porch.

“Hi!” Mahone called. “Had some coffee?”

Remy nodded. “If you'll show me the way, I'll start back now.”

“Better let me show you the rest of the valley,” he suggested. “This is beautiful, but the upper valley is even more so.”

“No. I often stay away all night. Father's used to it. But I always head back early. I stay at the Brewsters' occasionally, and sometimes with the McInnis family. Once even at Judge Collins's ranch.”

She laughed. “The judge was really nervous. I'm afraid he thought I was compromised and that he might have to marry me!”

Finn looked at her, his eyes curious. “You're right. And I think you'd better be sure somebody knows where you are from now on.”

“You think there'll be trouble?”

“Uh-huh.” He was deadly serious now. “That valley is going to be on fire from one end to the other in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You mark my words.”

Remy walked down to the corral while he roped Roxie and saddled her. “You know what they think, don't you?” she said.

“That I'm a rustler?” he asked. “Sure. I know that. But look around…why would I rustle? And if I did, how would I get them in here?”

“There isn't any other way?”

“Not from Laird. I've got all the cattle I want. As long as I keep the varmints down there's nothing to worry me here.”

“If they accuse you, and try to make trouble, what will you do?” Remy asked as they neared the slate slide again.

He shrugged, and his face was grim. “What can I do? I'll fight if I have to. I never rustled a cow in my life, and I'm not going to take any pushing around.”

She looked at Finn thoughtfully. “Texas Dowd doesn't think you're a rustler, but he warned me to stay away from you, that you were dangerous…to women.”

Finn Mahone's head jerked around, and she could see the flare of anger in his eyes. “Oh, he did, did he? Yes, he would think that.”

“Why did he say it?” she asked.

“Ask him,” Finn replied bitterly. “He'll tell you. But he's wrong, and if he says that in public, I'll kill him!”

Remy tensed, and her eyes widened. There was something here she didn't understand. “Shall I tell him that, too?”

“Tell him anything you want to!” he snapped. “But tell him he's hunting the wrong man and he's a fool!”

“If there's trouble coming I'd like to think you were on our side,” Remy said.

He looked at her cynically. “That cuts both ways, but Dowd wouldn't stay with you if I was. Dowd wants to kill me, Remy.”

“And what about you?”

For a moment, he did not answer, then he said simply, “No, I don't want to kill anybody.”

He was silent, leading the way down to the slide. They made it now, by daylight, without mishap, but Remy kept her eyes away from the depths beyond the rim.

“You said,” Finn suggested suddenly, “that you wanted me on your side. Who do you think is on the other side?”

They were fording the Laird, and she looked around at him. “I don't know,” she protested. “That's what makes the whole situation so bad. Nobody seems to know.”

S
HE LEFT HIM at the opening of the Notch and rode on toward home. She was well aware what the people of Laird would say if they knew she had spent the night in Crystal Valley. The ranch people who knew her would think little of it, for she came and went on the range as freely as a man. But, in town, those people would be another matter.

She was halfway to the Lazy K ranch when she met Texas Dowd. He was wearing his flat-brimmed black hat and a gray shirt. With him were Stub and Roolin, two of the hands.

“We was lookin' for you, ma'am,” Dowd said. “All hell's busted loose!”

“What do you mean?” Remy reined the mare around, frightened at the grimness of their manner.

“Somebody shot Abe McInnis last night. He went off up the valley, with that cowhand named Tony. When they didn't get back, Roolin here, who was up that way waitin' for him, rode up after him with Nick James, that hand of Logan's.

“They found 'em back in a narrow canyon near a brandin' fire. Tony was dead, shot three times through the belly, once in the head. McInnis had been shot twice. Doc says he might live; he's in purty bad shape.”

“Who did it? Who could have done it?”

“I don't know who done it,” Roolin said suddenly, harshly, “but he took off through the mountains ridin' a black stallion. There was another man or two with him. Abe evidently come up on 'em, an' they went t' shootin'.”

“People in Laird's some upset,” Dowd said. “Miller's gone out that way to have a look. Abe's got him a lot of friends around.”