Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (14 page)

"That man ... did he say anything? I mean, was he still living when you found him?"

She was very lovely, tall, with blond hair bleached by the sunlight.

"He was alive when I first saw him through my field glasses, but by the time I ha
d
crossed the canyon, he was dead." He tasted his coffee. It was cowpuncher coffee
,
black and strong. "Did you know him?"

"No." The suit she wore was not new. Excellent material and beautifully tailored
,
but growing shabby now. "I... I thought he might be coming to see me. I'm Rose Murray."

The RM. He knew the ranch; from what he had heard earlier, he had ridden over par
t
of it on his way into town. He waited for her to continue, and after a minute sh
e
said, "I'd never seen him. He ... he knew where something was, something that belong
s
to my family. He was coming to get it for us."

Gradually, she told him the story. Her ranch had steadily lost money after the deat
h
of her father. Rustlers, drought, and the usual cattle losses had depleted her stock.

With only a few hands left and badly in debt, a letter came from out of nowhere.

Long ago an outlaw band had roamed the area and they had raided the hacienda, stealin
g
several sacks of gold coins, a dozen gold candlesticks, a gold altar service fro
m
the chapel, and a set of heavy table silver by a master craftsman. Owing to the weigh
t
of the treasure and the close pursuit, the thieves had been compelled to bury th
e
loot. Taking only what gold coins they could safely carry, they had scattered.

Two of the six had been slain in a gun battle with the posse and another had bee
n
shot down on a dark El Paso street a few weeks later. The writer of the letter, wh
o
had not given his name, had gone west. He had fallen in love, married, and gone straight.

Hearing of the collapse of the once great fortune and the dire straits of the girl
,
his conscience troubled him. His own wife had died and he was once more alone. Som
e
word had come to him from Texas that worried him, so he had written the girl tha
t
he was coming to her.

"He mentioned no children?"

"There was a son."

When Rose had gone, Chick crossed to the stable for his horse. The hostler walke
d
back with him. "Ain't you that Castroville Ranger? Name of Bowdrie?"

Bowdrie nodded, waiting.

The old man nodded widely. "Figured so. Gent comes in askin' who your hoss belonge
d
to. Seemed mighty interested. I told him I didn't know."

"What did this fellow look like?"

"Oldish feller, shabby kind of. Thin hair, gray eyes. No color to him but his guns.

They seen plenty of use."

The hostler pointed out the inquirer's horse. Chick looked it over thoughtfully.

Dusty and tired. He put a hand on the horse. "So, boy," he said gently, "so . . ."

The horse was too tired to resent his hand as he picked up the hoof. Holding it a
n
instant to let the horse get used to it, he turned it up and examined the shoe. I
t
was badly worn on the outside. So were the others.

Bowdrie straightened. "Thanks. Do you a favor some time."

At daylight he was out of town and riding for the border. Crossing the river, h
e
pulled up at the house of an old Mexican he knew in Boquillas.

Miguel watched Bowdrie as he came up the walk from the gate where he had tied hi
s
horse. He started to rise, but Chick put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't get up, m
y
friend. I have come to talk to the one who remembers all."

"You flatter an old man, senor. What is it you wish to know?"

When he explained the old man nodded. "Si
,
I have not forgotten, but it was long ago." He leaned forward. "It was the Chilto
n
gang, amigo. There were six, I was amon
g
those who fought the two who were killed. Before one died he told us one of the other
s
was Bill Radcliff."

"The Chilton gang ..."

Bowdrie remembered them from the files of the Rangers. Dan Chilton, Bill Radcliff
,
and Andy Short had been the core of the group. Robbing payrolls had been their game
,
at ranches, mines, and the railroad. "One was killed in El Paso," he said.

"Radcliff." Miguel lighted a fresh cigarette. "The killer was never known. Some though
t
John Selman. He was marshal then. I do not think so."

"Chilton?"

Miguel shrugged. "Who knows? He was the best of them. Wild, but a good man. My brothe
r
knew him. Short was the worst. A killer."

They talked into the hot afternoon about the border and bad men and Indians and wars.
It was only with great reluctance that Bowdrie got up to leave.

"Vaya con Dios."

"Adios, amigo. Till next time ..."

Bowdrie rode toward Glen Springs Draw. He thought again of Andy Short... it coul
d
have been the name the dead man had been saying, shaping the name with his lips a
s
he died.

Sunlight flashed on a distant hillside, and instantly Chick Bowdrie reined the roa
n
over and slapped spurs to his ribs. The horse jumped just as the bullet whiffed pas
t
Bowdrie's head, but the roan was startled and the second bullet missed by yards.

Only the sunlight on a rifle barrel had saved his life.

The shot had come from the slopes of Talley Mountain, and Chick kept the roan running
,
dodging from arroyo t
o
arroyo and swinging back toward the mountain whence the bullet had come. Suddenl
y
he eased to a canter, then a walk.

Dust in his nostrils, a settling of dust in the road, and the tracks of a horse ...
w
ith shoes worn on the outside!

Making no attempt to follow, he turned his horse into the trail that led to the Ba
r
W and the RM. Both outfits had headquarters beyond the ridge, and the trail swun
g
suddenly left into a narrow cut.
Hesitating only briefly, Bowdrie started into the opening.
The sheer walls offered no place for a sniper, and the low rocks withi
n
the cut gave no shelter. He rode slowly, however, his six-gun in hand, and suddenl
y
drew up, aware of a clicking. The sound stopped, and he started on. It began again.

Suddenly he smiled ruefully. His horse's hooves were scraping against the erode
d
stones that lined the base of each wall....

Shortly before sundown he walked the roan into the yard of the Bar W. The old adob
e
house, the pole corrals, the sagging roof of the barn gave no evidence of life. The
n
a rusty hinge creaked and Bowdrie saw a man step from the barn.

He saw Bowdrie in the same instant, and for a moment he hesitated, as if half-incline
d
to drop the bucket he was carrying and grab for a gun.

Unshaven, big and rough, his shirt was dirty and he had a narrow-eyed look like
a
surly hound.

There were, Bowdrie noted, six mules in the corral, and several fine horses... h
e
took out the makings. "Howdy"- his voice matter-of-fact-"takin' on any hands?"

"No." He jerked his head. "Go try the RM."

Bowdrie continued working with his smoke, taking his time. "Old place," he commented
,
"could stand some work. Figured there might be a job."

"You figured wrong."

"Don't rush me, amigo. I'm interested in old places. Why, I'd bet this one was her
e
in the days o' the Chilto
n
gang-"

The name brought no reaction. "Never heard of 'em."

"Some years back. Nobody ever did find all that loot."

The big man was interested now. He walked toward Chick. "What loot?"

It was possible, Bowdrie decided, to drop a pebble in this pool and see what happene
d
to the widening ripples. It might cause dissension in the ranks of the enemy. O
r
create a diversion. "A quarter of a million in gold and jewels," he said carefully.

"It was cached. Somebody right close about knows where it is."

"You don't say!" The man was interested now. "So, what's the yarn?"

Bowdrie explained, then added, "Ticklish business, huntin' for it. Two of the outlaw
s
must be still alive."

The man was greedy and interested, but obviously a hired hand who knew nothing. Chic
k
reined his horse around. "Your boss probly knows the story. Oldish man, isn't he?"

"Not more'n twenty-six or seven." The big man grinned maliciously. "An' pure D poiso
n
with a six-gun. You maybe heard of Rad Yates."

Bowdrie had ... no definite record. Bought and sold cattle, gambled a good bit, usuall
y
consorting with outlaws and men along the fringe. He had killed, according to report
,
nine men. All had been in what were apparently fair fights.

Yates was not old enough to have been one of the Chilton gang, but the Strawhous
e
Trail pointed right at the Bar W ... or the RM. Scowling, Bowdrie considered tha
t
as he headed off, down the trail.

Somebody had attempted to dry-gulch him, and tha
t
somebody rode a horse with worn shoes, as had the killer of the man in Venado Canyon.

That somebody had come from this direction.

Tracks in the dust stopped him. Again the worn shoes... and the tracks were fresh!

He skirted wide around a clump of mesquite, then spotted the rider ahead of him
,
just disappearing down a slight declivity. Swinging wide again, he took the roa
n
at a run toward the wash. Sliding into it, he put the horse up the far side alon
g
a trail cattle had taken. Dust hung in the air, and it followed the rider he wa
s
seeking. He swung around and drew up at the trailside. There were no tracks ... an
d
then he heard the hoofbeats of a cantering horse.

The rider rounded a low knoll, and Bowdrie stepped his horse forward, gun in hand.

"All right. Get your hands up!"

He stared into the astonished eyes of Rose Murray.

His astonishment matched hers, but he was quick to note the rifle in her scabbard.

After all, what did he know about her? She had been curious about the dead man, an
d
a woman can squeeze off a shot as well as a man. He lowered his gun.

"Can flower my hands?" Bowdrie nodded. "Who did you expect to see?"

"Not you . . ." He hesitated only briefly. "Riding home?"

As they rode he explained about the mysterious rifle shots and his visit to the Bar
W.

"Rad Yates seems very nice," Rose said. "He's called at the ranch."

They rode into the yard and swung down. Bowdrie caught a vague movement up the mountainside.

There was a man there, his clothing blending perfectly with the background. Onl
y
his movement had betrayed him. Ros
e
had just stepped inside, so he followed, getting a corner of the barn between th
e
hill and the door as he reached it.

A Mexican woman brought coffee, and after
a
few minutes Bowdrie asked, casually, "Had that horse long? The one you were riding?"

"He was born from one of my mares. Nobody has ever ridden him but me."

There had been her chance and she had passed it up. She seemed to have no suspicio
n
of his reason for asking the question. In fact, she was not suspicious as a guilt
y
person should be.

A drum of hooves and a hail. The Mexican woman answered the door and a moment late
r
a big young man walked in. He had brown hair and a bold, handsome face. He walke
d
with a casual swagger and his guns were tied down.