5
The Union Pacific tracks lay to the north, and beyond was the Overland Trail to California. On the Pacific side of South Pass that route divided into two, the northern becoming the trail to Oregon.
Horse and cattle thieves operating out of Brown’s Hole had developed a thriving business stealing stock from emigrants on one trail and selling to those on the other. Occasionally the thieves drove their stolen stock into Brown’s Hole for sale the following season. The grass was good, and by comparison with the country around the winters were mild.
To the north and east lay the Hole-in-the-Wall country; north and west from there, the Crazy Mountains with the border of Canada beyond. To the southwest of Brown’s Hole lay Utah’s San Rafael Swell with its Robbers’ Roost, and south of that, Horse Thief Valley near Prescott and a ranch near Alma, New Mexico. This was the country of the so-called Outlaw Trail
In fact it was a maze of trails, obvious and hidden, and along those trails ranchers or homesteaders were friendly to drifting men, asking no questions, and providing no information to strangers.
Originally most of the trails had been scouted by Indians or mountain men, and here and there they had located hideouts away from prying eyes. A drifting man might ride from the Mexican border to Canada and be assured of meals and shelter or an exchange of horses anywhere along the route.
Those who rode the outlaw trail were not all wanted men; some were tough cowhands or drifters who traveled with the seasons and had friends among the wild bunch. A few were occasional outlaws, rustling a few cows when the occasion offered, playing it straight the rest of the time.
Milo Talon was known along the Trail. As there was constant movement up and back, it seemed the best way to get in touch with him was just to ride to the Hole and pass the word.
Morning came with me a-horseback. By daylight I’d put the Empty far behind and was snaking along a trail up through the pines and skirting the aspen groves. It was a fine, clear morning with the air washed clean by rain and drops hanging silver on every leaf. Even the wild things a body saw didn’t seem to mind him much, so pleased they were with the morning.
My horse and me were of a mind. We taken our time, just breathing the good air, keeping an eye out for trouble, but just enjoying it. Far off and below I seen a dot that had to be buffalo. Most of them had been killed off, but here and there small herds had taken to the mountain valleys. Maybe two hundred in the lot I saw.
Of a sudden I rode out on a grassy slope that dropped steeply off into a valley far, far below. Ahead of me and a mite higher was a thick stand of aspen, and turning my horse I skirted the edge of that grove until I came on a likely spot. Putting my horse on a picket rope, I bunched a few sticks and with some shredded bark and twigs built myself a coffee-making fire.
I’d backed up against that grove on purpose. Looked at from down below no smoke would show against the white of the tree trunks and the gray-green of the leaves. From alongside the aspen a little branch trickled down over the rocks, twisting and turning to find itself a way down the mountain. It was so narrow in places the grass almost covered it from view. Dipping up a pot of water I set her on the fire, dumped in some coffee, and waited for it to boil. With that, some jerky and a chunk of homemade bread I figured to make do.
There’s no prettier place than a stand of aspen. The elk and beaver like the bitter inner bark, and you’ll nearly always find them where there’s aspen. There’s no thing that provides more grub for wildlife than the aspen grove.
There’s usually wood around. The aspen is self-pruning, and as it grows taller it sheds its lower branches, just naturally reaching for the sun. Those branches dry out quickly and make excellent kindling.
Much as I wished to be back at the ranch for the safety of the womenfolks, I didn’t figure to lose my hair in the process. Stopping to make coffee was giving my horse a rest, giving me food to start a long day, but it was also giving me time to watch my back trail a little.
I was pretty sure I’d come away from the Empty without being seen, but a man can get killed taking things for granted. If anybody was on my trail I wanted to look him—or her—over before they came up to me.
Meanwhile, setting there in the morning sun and watching my water get hot was a pleasure I could take to heart. I never was one for rushing through a country. I like to take my time, breathe the air, get the feel of it … I like to smell it, taste it, get it located in my brain. The thing to remember when traveling is that the trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast and you miss all you are traveling for.
When my coffee was boiled good and black. I poured myself a cup. It was strong—take the hide off a bull, that stuff would. Fellow I punched cows with down Sonora way said my coffee was dehorning fluid … one drop and a bull’s horns would melt right off.
It ain’t true, but it does measure up. A cup of it will open a man’s eyes.
Chewing some jerky, I tasted that coffee now and again, and kept an ear out for sound and one eye on my horse. That horse was wild and a wild horse has all the senses of a deer and a good deal more savvy.
Pretty soon the roan lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and spread his nostrils. I forked my Winchester around and slipped the thong of the butt of my pistol. I wasn’t one to hunt trouble, although I’ve buried a few who did.
There were two of them, studying the trail as they rode, and they had not seen me. Holding the Winchester in my hands, I stood up slowly. At that instant my horse whinnied and their heads turned sharply as if on one neck.
“Lookin’ for something, boys?” My Winchester was easy in my hands. I never sight a gun of any kind; I just look where I’m shooting.
They didn’t like it very much. They were tough-looking characters, and both of them rode Eight-Ladder-Eight brands on thek horses. Their horses were Morgans, fine stock, and the brands were a rewrite job if I ever saw one.
“Eight-Ladder-Eight,” I commented sarcastically, “an’ Morgan horses. Ain’t many Morgans in this part of the country, boys, but a good man with a cinch ring and a hot fire could change a Six-Four-Six into an Eight-Ladder-Eight without half trying.”
“You saying we stole these horses?”
“You did or somebody did,” I said, “But if I were you boys I’d get shut of them, an’ quick.”
“Why?” one of them said.
“You ever heard of Dutch Brannenburg?”
“Wasn’t he the one who chased those hombres from Montana to Texas?”
“Uh-huh. That’s the one.” I grinned at them. “You boys maybe don’t know it, but he’s registered a Six-Four-Six brand. You’re sittin’ right up in the middle of two of his horses.”
Seemed to me their faces turned a shade gray under the tan. “You’re funnin’,” one of them said. “Why, we—!”
“Shut up, you damn’ fool!” The older man was as sore as he was scared. “I tol’ you it looked too damn’ easy!”
“He’s probably right behind you now,” I told them, “and from what I hear of Dutch he wastes no time. You boys better learn to pray while you’re ridin’. Dutch takes pride in his horses.”
They headed off down the trail, rattling their hocks out of there. Me, I finished my coffee, tightened my cinch, and was just about to step into the leather when I heard them coming.
Dutch was a tough man. He was maybe fifty years old and nearly as wide as he was tall, and every ounce of him was rawhide and iron. There were nine in the party and they swept up there just as I turned. My Winchester was still in my hands.
They taken a quick look at me and at my horse. “You there!” Dutch shouted. “Did you see a couple of men ride through here?”
“I wasn’t looking very close,” I said.
He pushed his horse at me. He was square-jawed and mean. I’d heard a lot about Dutch and liked none of it. He ranched, but he ranched like he was bull of the woods. You crossed him and you died … I’d heard he’d set fire to a couple of rustlers he’d caught.