There were few secrets. Somebody always talked, and somebody always listened. Most of the western outlaws were known, and when they traveled they were noticed. No matter what their orders were there was always one who wanted to see an old girlfriend or stop off for a drink with old acquaintances.
For not the first time he was glad he was no longer a wanted man. He could see what was happening.
Chantry and Sackett were comparing notes, and if they were, others would be, and then the law would start to close in. He would have to be very, very careful. Ben Curry, or so the word was, wanted no killings during the commission of a holdup, but that was a matter of policy, and he would and had killed when pursued. His own knowledge of Ben Curry’s operation was limited to a comment here and there or a rumor. He had not thought about a pattern to the crimes until Chantry pointed it out, showing his series of clippings, reward posters, and notifications from other peace officers. There was a pattern, and a pattern meant a trail one could follow, and not all trails were tracks on the ground. Behavior patterns were difficult to eliminate, and in moments of stress one reverted to them.
The outlaw might believe he was winning for a time, but someone-like Chantry or Sackett-somebody was carefully working out the trail. His weakness had always been horses, better horses than he could afford to buy. He loved them for their speed, their beauty, and just for themselves. He had stolen some of the finest horses in the west, but the trouble was such horses were usually known. Just a few weeks ago Chantry had taken him out to Chantry’s old ranch and pointed out a handsome bay gelding.
Kim caught his breath when he saw the horse.
It was a beauty. “”The man who owned that horse,” Chantry said, “I sent to prison. He’ll do twenty years if he lasts that long, and as he’s a sick man now neither of us believes he will.
I asked him what to do with his gear. was “Keep my guns, rope, and saddle,” he told me. “I never sold my saddle and never will.” was “What about the gelding?”’ I asked.
was “That’s the finest horse I ever rode, and I wouldn’t want him in the wrong hands,” he told me.” Chantry said, “I knew how he felt, and I told him I had a man who loved horses and would care for him as long as he lived. He asked me who, and I told him “Kim Baca.” “He laughed, Kim, laughed real hard.
“Kim? Well, I’ll be damned! Sure, I’ll write a bill of sale for him. I’ll bet that’s the first bill of sale Kim ever had, and I’ll bet it was the first horse he was ever givenl’ was “You mean he gave that horse to me?” “He surely did. Here’s the bill of sale.
And Kim?” “Yes, sir?” “When you ride that horse, carry the bill of sale with you. Anytime the law sees you on a fine horse they are apt to ask questions.” Kim had caught up the gelding and saddled it.
Across the pasture, bunched together like they were old friends, were five other horses, all of them fine stock.
“That them?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“That’s them, just waiting to be picked up when somebody is traveling fast and needs fresh horses to outdistance a posse.” He turned as Chantry followed him outside.
They rode out of town together.
“Take me a few days to get to Denver,” Kim suggested. “Take the steam cars. They’ll put your horse in a stock car, or if there isn’t one, I’ll get him in the baggage car.” .
“Why didn’t I think of that? I can’t get used to thinking of trains and railroads and such.” He turned his horse away. “See you in about a week.” Borden Chantry sat his horse, watching Kim ride away. The sky was clear and blue, the air fresh and cool with morning. From the low hill on which he sat his horse he could see the distant Spanish Peaks far off to the westward. Some day he’d ride over that way again, a beautiful country.
Closer, he saw a coyote trotting across the distance, stalking some antelope.
The coyote was wasting his time unless there was an old one or a cripple amongst them. No fawns yet that he had seen, but several of the antelope looked about ready, which was probably why the coyotes were closing in, waiting until the does were down and helpless.
No wolf or coyote could catch an antelope running, and several times he had seen antelope run right away from the fastest greyhounds and stag hounds.
He looked around slowly, drinking in the vast distances. Bess wanted him to leave this. He loved her, but could he do it? And she did not realize what a position she was putting before him. She had always seen him in a position of strength, as a rancher and then as a town marshal and sheriff. Back east he would have none of the needed skills, nor had he the education required there.
He started his horse and walked it slowly down the slope. Kim Baca vas, of course, right. He should be paying more attention to counterfeiting. For years now it had been one of the major crimes in the west, and a comparatively safe one. A bogus bill might be months or even years in reaching a bank where it could be identified, and a lot of queer money had been showing up. Both he and Baca believed the source was close by First, he must prepare for an attempted robbery.
The Ben Curry boys had refrained from killing, but he knew that if capture appeared to be a possibility, they would fight. He was going to alert the town and select a couple of deputies for the emergency. If Hen Curry wanted his bank he would have to get it the hard way.
This new man Baca mentioned? What about him?
Who would he be? Whoever it was, they could expect a shooting fight, and with the kind of men Ben Curry recruited that meant somebody would get killed.
Unless he could figure out a way, a plan.
He didn’t want to kill anyone or see anyone be killed, but the choice might not be his.
At the Red Wall it was quiet. A few cows grazed on the meadows below the house. Dru Ragan stood on the wide porch and looked broodingly down the canyon. There had been nothing friendly about that rider she had seen. Nor was he an Indian. An Indian might not have approached the house and out of curiosity might just have looked it over, but it had been a white man and had he been friendly he would have come on up to the ranch for a meal or at least for coffee.
Most of her life had been spent in the east, but she was instinctively western in her thinking. From first sight she had loved all this wild, lonely, wonderful country with its marvelous red canyons, its blue distance, its green forests, and the golden leaves of the aspen when autumn came to the hills.
She loved seeing the cattle out there, and riding through the sage on horseback, topping out on a high ridge with magnificent views in every direction.
This had long been sacred land to the Indians, and the great peaks they revered had become important to her, also.
Now there was this other thing, this lurking danger. Or was it danger? Riding around she scouted the country, knowing little about tracking but looking for the obvious. She came upon the tracks of the rider she had seen, and followed them. Several times, from several positions, he had looked at the ranch. That was obvious enough, for she could see where he had stopped and his horse had moved restlessly, leaving many tracks in the one position.
She wanted to follow the tracks, as they seemed plain enough, but the hour was late. She glanced off to the north where the great canyon lay. Someday she wanted to see it. Someday she would stand on its rim. Voyle Ragan was waiting when she rode up. He was standing on the porch where she had looked over the country before beginning her ride. He was worried, she could see that. “See anything?” “Tracks,” she said. “Somebody has definitely been looking us over.” With its shielding canyon walls darkness came early to the V-Bar. The Red Walls lost their color to shadows, and the night lay like velvet upon the meadows and the range. Only the stars were bright, and the windows of the house and the bunkhouse.
They would need to keep watch again. Voyle walked back into the house and took his rifle from the rack.