Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) (12 page)

They had met with the Indians, and with the chiefs. They made them gifts, and they talked; and the upshot of it was that John Toomey had bought land from the Indians. Bought land with well-defined boundaries, and received a deed on a buckskin in Indian writing.

Nor was that the end. The Toomeys knew that the times were changing, and they had learned a good deal during the war, talking with Yankee soldiers who had been in business. They were shrewd enough to see that the old ways of settling on land in the West were on the way out. They wanted land, but they wanted a solid claim to it.

That was the real secret of those pages from the journal, for they not only told of the purchase from the Indians, but also told how Clyde Toomey had ridden south, found the last survivor of the Mexican family that once held a Spanish grant to this land, and bought his claim from him.

Pio knew a part of the story. He did not know that Clyde Toomey had bought the land again from the Mexican claimants. He only knew that Clyde had ridden away, and after some days had returned.

In the meantime, there had been trouble. Some of the hands—he did not know how many—had quit and drifted west. Two had been killed night-herding.

They had not been killed by Apaches, though the intention had been to make the others believe Apaches responsible.

“Was there a Wells in the outfit that killed them?” I asked.

“No Wells…the Wells name came later, by marriage. Teale’s daughter married a Wells—Marvin Teale. He was the one who done it. He was a little man, but strong. He came from California. We heard the talk.” He grinned at me. “Most Indians stand quiet, say nothing, hear plenty.

“Teale had had to leave California…murder, we heard. He had known Reese somewhere, and Reese had already been thinking about all that land and those cattle. Reese knew nothing about the purchase of the land, or why Clyde went to Tucson that time.

“Teale and Reese, they ambushed Clyde Toomey and two hands. Killed them and hid their bodies, then they brought in some outlaws from Tucson and Tubac…and they killed the rest. It was white man’s trouble. The Apache had trouble of his own.”

The Apaches were always around, in the mountains, in the valleys, and like all wild things, they were curious. From up on the ridges they would spend hours watching the actions of the white men—actions that from their viewpoint were peculiar. And there was little they did not see. The motives for such actions they did not know, but what happened they had known.

“What about Belle Dawson? Where does she stand in this?”

“There was a boy—a very young boy. When the fight was over, Bal Moore…he carried him off. Later he came back and claimed a half section—a grazing claim—in his name and the kid’s. Him I knew. He was a tough old man.”

“They said he was killed by Apaches.”

“They always say that. Apaches liked him. He got a bullet into Teale once…tried to kill him, but Teale lived. After that they dry-gulched Bal.”

The meat was done, and it was good. When we had finished our coffee I got up. In spite of the bit of sleep I’d had during the night, and the rest now, I was still tired. But there was no time now to rest any longer.

“I’m going to get Belle from them,” I said.

“You gone on her?” Pio asked.

“It isn’t that. They’ll want to kill her. She knows too much now, and they can’t afford to have her around. I just hope I’m not too late.”

“If you like her, you keep her away from Jimbo.”

He got up. “All right, Cap, I’m with you. Only I’m shooting for the record.”

“Give yourself a chance, Pio. You’re out of prison—you can stay out. Don’t shoot unless you have to. You can help me, but leave that to me, and when the showdown comes I’ll speak for you.”

“Nobody’d believe you, Cap. Nobody at all. They know Pio—they know me, and they know how I’ll feel, them killing Pete and Manuel.”

“Reese killed Pete—Belle told me. The point is, Pio, if you get convicted for killing any one of them, they’ll have made a clean sweep. Play it smart, stay with me, help me, but don’t shoot unless we’re backed into a corner.”

He looked at me. He dug into his shirt pocket and took out a square of tobacco and bit off a chunk. He had always been a chewer, even in Korea.

“All right, we’ll see.”

“Think about it Apache-style, Pio. You kill Colin, and he’s out of it. But suppose we get Belle away from him? Then suppose we go into court and prove that he doesn’t own all this land? Suppose we can go into court and prove that he killed Manuel, or conspired to have him killed? Which would hurt him worse?”

“Yeah,” he agreed reluctantly. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

We went along the mountain toward the northwest, keeping to the high country as an Indian does, watching the trails below.

As we walked I thought of Doris. She was cold, and she liked violence. Belle would be in her greatest danger when in Doris’ hands…perhaps even more so than in the hands of Jimbo, who was a spoiled boy who had never grown up, and one whose strength as well as his wealth had given him all he’d ever wanted.

Never in my life had I sought out a fight, but I’d never lagged much when the time for one came. Perhaps I am a throwback to some earlier, less law-abiding era. There is no one anywhere who has more respect for the law or for men of the law who do a hard job well, when they do it honestly—and most of them are honest. But now we were for the time being beyond the reach of the law. There was one chance in a hundred that my call had gotten through, that the operator was curious enough or concerned enough to inform the police.

The police might dismiss it as one of the many freakish things that do happen. On the other hand, good police officers have a sense of impending trouble, and a natural inclination to be not only suspicious, but skeptical. Their work, and the people they meet in the course of the day’s work, make them so. They know, for instance, that some drivers will lie when stopped for a traffic violation, and as many will ignore traffic regulations if they believe they can get away with it. And often enough a boy who disrespects the law has learned it in the front seat of a car, watching his father, or listening to him try to alibi himself out of a ticket.

There was a good chance that the police had their own ideas about Colin and Jimbo Wells. They might just drive down to the ranch to check on the telephone call—if it ever got through.

In another few minutes we saw them. They were a thousand feet below us and about a quarter of a mile out on the flat, headed for the headquarters ranch.

Belle was with them. She was sitting her horse, her hands tied behind her, and her horse on a lead-rope to Colin Wells’ horse. They were all there, in a tight little group. Off ahead of them was a jeep, which we saw through the telescopic sight on Pio’s rifle. But it was in evidence chiefly by its dust cloud.

They must have finished out the night on Seward’s Bar-Bell ranch, and started out early for the home ranch. I had an idea that Benton Seward had hastened their going…he would be worried about that phone call and would want them far enough away so he could claim that he knew nothing about any of it.

Where we were we had cover enough to remain unseen, but they must have been worried about us. They knew I was out here somewhere, and that I constituted a threat in every sense. They also knew there was at least one other man, and no doubt they had decided that it was Pio Alvarez.

It was just past noon when we hunched down among the junipers on the slope of the Mustang Hills just above Tangle Creek. We were about two miles from the ranch house, but in a good position to see what went on.

Pio had not spoken a word since we left the hideout on Cedar Mountain. He had lost none of his skill at moving across broken ground, and it was easy to see why the Apache had always preferred to fight on foot. They might ride a horse to the scene of action, but they fought on the ground. Pio possessed an instinctive feeling for terrain; he kept to low ground, utilizing every bit of cover, alert to every sound.

Neither of us needed to be told we were getting close to a showdown. Belle Dawson was down there and we had to get her away. I was hoping it could be done without bloodshed, for this was no longer the West of the days when bloodshed was taken for granted. When a man was wounded or killed nowadays, people asked for explanations, and coroners’ juries investigated.

How many of the Wells riders would stand for killing or injuring a woman? Rough as they were, and willing as they had proved themselves to kill rustlers, I doubted if any of them—unless it might be Reese—would stand by while harm came to a woman. Especially if it was one whom they all knew and had no reason to dislike.

Pio kept taking sights on the ranch, picking out each bit of movement and studying it through his telescopic sight. It worried me. When might he decide to shoot? Of course, we were too far off, and he could see little, distinguishing those he knew by some manner or movement or by the clothes we had seen them wear earlier.

After a brief rest we skirted the edge of the hills, and within an hour we were among the rocks and brush behind the ranch house. Below us the pool was a splash of deep blue, the white house a picture of comfort. Benton Seward’s jeep stood in the open near the house.

How many were down there? Colin, Jimbo, Mark Wilson, and Seward? How about Reese?

As we watched, a man came to the bunkhouse door and looked around. He was wearing a belt gun. He walked slowly toward the corral, pausing from time to time to look about him.

“Rip Parker,” Pio muttered. “He’s a bad one. So’s Dad Styles. Both of them were on the spot when Pete was killed. Pete had trouble with Rip over in Prescott one time. Parker whupped him pretty bad.”

We waited, watching the ranch, sleeping by turns, but we saw nothing of Belle, nor of Doris.

In mid-afternoon Mark Wilson came out, got into the jeep, and drove off down the road toward the mountains. Except for this, the place seemed lifeless. There was no sign of a police car. My call must have failed, then, and there was no other chance to reach a telephone.

While Pio slept, I left our vantage point and, while staying within viewing distance of the ranch, succeeded in scouting the terrain behind us. First I looked for a way of escape if we were located. I found two partially covered routes by which we could get away from the slope. One was a deep draw, the other was sheltered by cedars.

The lack of movement down there at the ranch worried me. They had no choice now but to find and kill us, so why weren’t they trying? As the day wore on, I became increasingly jumpy, starting at the slightest sound. Out in lonely country there are always such sounds—the rustle of some small animal moving, the trickle of sand, the sound of wind, however slight.

Without a doubt we were being hunted. Even as we lay here men would be searching for us, men who knew this terrain, men who could guess our objectives, who would know where to look. We might choose to escape, or we might choose to pull Belle out of trouble. In either case they would be ready for us. It was not a comfortable thought to realize that they might come upon us at any time. Yet there was no sign of them, no sound of them.

With the coming of twilight Pio was awake. He listened as I whispered to him of my scouting, and mentioned the two routes of escape.

With the approach of darkness Dad Styles came from the bunkhouse and relieved Rip Parker, who went inside, probably to eat.

“All right,” I said suddenly, “let’s go.”

We started down the rocky slope, working our way with care. The ranch house lay before us, and we were intent upon reaching it without arousing any excitement there. We had moved quietly but steadily, our concern directed at the house, and at the dark figure of Dad Styles. So intent were we on moving silently and watching Styles for any sign of alarm that we were caught flat-footed when three flashlights suddenly held us in their glare.

“All right.” Colin’s triumph trembled in his tone. “Drop the guns.”

My only wonder is that they did not shoot us down where we stood.

There was simply no chance for us. At least four shotguns and as many rifles covered us at close range.

We had been fools not to think they would be waiting for us on the slope, and we had walked right into the trap. It had all been too neat, too easy. We had worried about what lay above and behind us, and we had worried about the ranch house. We had not given a thought to that slope below us and within range of our eyes, yet it was the logical, natural route for anyone wanting to approach the house under cover.

We dropped our guns and lifted our hands.

Pio didn’t turn his head, but suddenly he chuckled. It was an old, familiar sound, and I knew what it meant. “Well, keed,” he said mildly, “here we go again.”

“What’s he mean?” Seward asked nervously. “What’s he saying?”

“Nothing,” Colin replied impatiently. “For God’s sake, Bent, relax. It’s all over now. We’ve got them and we’ve got Belle. Now we can close the book.”

“You’re very naive, Wells,” I said casually, “if you think this book can be closed. If anything happens to us you’ll have kicked up a nest of hornets. I’m expected in Los Angeles, and my publisher is a very nervous man. If I don’t show up he’ll start wiring everybody in the country…he’s done it before when less money was involved.”

“So what?”

“So he wires the sheriff, he wires the governor, he wires the attorney general. He’s hell on wheels when he gets going.”

“Huh!” Jimbo snorted. “You aren’t all that important.”

“Money is important to everybody, and I represent money to a lot of people.”

We went ahead, Pio a step or two in front of me, walking carefully. They had us, and they were very sure of it. But desperate as the situation was, I couldn’t lose hope. I suppose one never does, really. Books and motion pictures have prepared us for rescue…only this wasn’t any motion picture.

“Colin,” I heard Seward protest in a whisper, “we’re running a big risk. After all, he’s a pretty well-known man. Sheridan isn’t just a rustler.”

“And this isn’t a few head of beef, either,” Colin replied shortly. “It’s everything we own, your ranch and mine. What more could we lose?”