They were words of desperation.
I got my saddlebags and threw them over the saddle, then my blanket roll. I had an idea this was going to take a long time, and I was a man who believed in preparing for all possibilities.
Rossiter, I thought, was crazy. I had not realized it until now, but he must be off his head. Nothing he said was making sense, and it was obvious that Barby Ann felt the same way.
“Pa?” she said. “Pa, you’d better come back to the house.” “He will do all right, that boy will! Have an outfit bigger’n yours someday, Talon.”
“Rossiter, don’t fool yourself. Twin Baker will wind up at the end of a rope, or killed in a gun battle. I don’t know what you think he is but he’s shown himself a thief and a murderer, and hanging’s too good for him.” He stopped and stared at me, then shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he protested.
My horse was restless to go, as I was. Barby Ann said, “Pa? Let’s go up to the house.”
He pulled his arm away from her. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Talon, get him away from them. Don’t let them hang him. You’re a good man … a good man. I know you’re a good man. Don’t let them hang him.” Rossiter spat. “That Balch! He’ll want a hangin’. I know he’ll want it. And the major … he’s just like all them army men. Discipline! He’ll be for a hanging, too. You’ve got to stop them, Talon.”
I put a foot into the stirrup and swung to the saddle, turning the horse away from him. “You’re pleading for him? When he stole your cattle, too?” “He didn’t know they was mine. He couldn’t have known.” Rossiter shook his head admiringly. “Slick, though. Real slick.” He peered up at me, squinting his eyes. “You don’t think they’ll catch him? You said that. You don’t think they will?” “Rossiter, you’d better go to the house. You need some rest. We’ll find him, and if your cattle are still around to recover, we’ll recover them.” He turned away from me, his head shaking a little. At the moment, I could feel only sorrow for the man. I’d never liked him. Even as a boy, when I’d often talked with him, I’d never liked him. There was always something shallow and artificial about him, something that was all show, all front with nothing behind it. Now the physical magnificence was gone, and all that remained was a shell. Since joining his crew I’d only seen him inside, in the half-light of the house. And there had been a shadow of strength remaining. At least, there’d seemed to be. But under the sun, the deterioration was evident. “Go!” Barby Ann said irritably. “Get out of here! It was a sorry day for us when you came here to work. It’s you who’s done this to him … You.” I just looked at her and shrugged. “When we bring the cattle back, I’ll quit.
You can have my time ready. I’m sorry you feel as you do.”
Rossiter turned from us. “John?” he muttered. “John …”
He turned suddenly to me. “Don’t let them hang him! Don’t!” “Damn it, Rossiter! The man’s a thief! He stole your cattle, he stole from everybody in the basin, and he tried to stir up a shooting war. Why the hell should you care what happens to him?”
He stared at me from his blind eyes. “Care? Care? Why shouldn’t I care? He’s my son!”
25
My horse could walk as fast as many horses could trot, and he moved right out, heading south away from the ranch. Yet I had no idea of overtaking the posse. I’d never been one to travel in a crowd, and I had noticed that too often the wrong men wind up as the leaders of groups or mobs. It was a rough thirty-five miles and a bit more from the ranch to the cabin on the Concho, and I made a beeline for it. Shortly before night fell, I stepped down near the head of Kiowa Creek and, without unsaddling, built myself a fire and made coffee and bacon. When I’d eaten, I loaded up frying pan and coffeepot, drinking the last of the coffee from the pot itself, and I took off toward a hollow in the prairie maybe a half mile from the creek. I’d spotted this place before, and there was a seep that didn’t quite make it to the surface but did green up the grass. There I staked my horse, rolled up in my blankets and, with my horse for lookout, slept like a baby until the last stars lingered in the sky.
Moving out, I held to low ground well west of Kiowa country, and I came out of the timber on Tepee Draw on the south side of the cabin. There was no smoke, no sign of life.
For several minutes I sat the buckskin, watching the house. It had every appearance of being deserted, and there was a plain enough trail heading off toward the southeast. Chancing it, I rode up.
The cabin was empty. Most of the food had been cleared out. Only a few shabby clothes remained, and a few cast-off utensils. There was some coffee on the fire that was still warm. Stirring up the coals, I heated it again and drank from a broken-handled cup while pacing from window to window. I went outside. After watering my horse, I went back to the house. Everything that was worth anything had been cleaned out. Mounting up, I followed the trail southeast past the mountain, and after a few miles I reached Spring Creek. One rider was ahead of me, riding easy. The trail was several hours hold. It was that long-striding horse again.
Twin Baker!
Southeast of here lay the San Saba and the Llano River country, and I knew almost nothing about it except from bunkhouse or saloon talk. The next day, shortly after sunup, I rode down into Poor Hollow. There was a crude brush and pole corral there, big enough to hold a few head for a short stay. And from the droppings, cattle had been kept there recently as well as several times in the past.
At one side, under some trees, I found a small circle of stones where repeated fires had built quite a bed of ash. The ashes were cold, but the tracks looked no more than two to three days old.
Squatting under a big old pecan tree, I studied the corral, yet my mind was ranging back over the country. Twin Baker had evidently stolen the cattle in relatively small bunches, then drifted them by various routes to this or other holding corrals where he left them, while going back for more. There was water from the creek and enough grass to keep a small bunch. When he returned with another lot, he’d probably drive them further south and east. Moving out of Poor Hollow toward a prong of the San Saba, I made camp under some trees. I fixed a small bait of grub where the smoke would rise through the leaves and dissipate itself among them, leaving no rising column to be seen. It was on fairly high ground with a good view all around. My back to a tree, I studied the layout.
I saw a huge old buffalo bull with two young cows, a scattering of antelope, and a few random buzzards. Otherwise, nothing but distance and dancing heat waves. Nevertheless, I had an eerie, unpleasant feeling at odds with the beauty of the land. I had the feeling that I was heading right into a trap. Someplace, Baker had to have a base, a place with water, and good grazing, where cattle might be held for some time. After a rest I drifted on, taking my time. This country was more rugged, and there was a good bit of cedar. Twice I camped. Twice I came up to holding grounds where cattle had been corraled for a time, mostly young stuff, judging by the tracks and the droppings.
It was lonely country. Several times I saw Indian sign, but it was old. There were several sets of tracks, mostly made by that long-stepping horse, but now I began to come on other tracks, lone riders or sometimes two or three in a bunch. All of them headed east.
Come daybreak, I was up on the hurricane deck of my bronc again, and looking down the trail … And it was a trail. Yet this was what I liked, riding far in a wide, lovely country with distance all around. At every break in the hill, there was a new vista, yet the apparent emptiness of the country could fool you. And wherever a man looked, there were hidden folds of the hills that could hide an army … or an Indian war party looking for scalps and glory. Suddenly, there opened ahead of me a lovely green valley and some buildings. From a hill, I’d seen some adobe ruins off to the north and east of where I was … mostly east. That was the San Saba Presidio, an attempt by the Spanish in early times to settle and administer this country. Comanches did them in, wiping out the last few priests who didn’t get away ahead of time. The buildings I now saw must be south of the old Presidio. There were only four or five, a town, if you wanted to call it that-a store, a saloon, a few cabins. Some empty, some occupied. There were some corrals. The saloon was a long low adobe building. There was a bar in it, and a lean, savage-looking man with an almost bald head. Suspenders were holding up his pants. He wore a slightly soiled undershirt, and his brows were a straight bar across his head above his eyes.