The drinking of the hands from the ranches supported the National Saloon, too, and Gene Baker, who for all his willingness to live and let live was a good citizen, or believed himself to be, found himself examining a situation he did not like. It was not a new situation in Painted Rock, and he had been unconsciously aware of it for some time, yet while aware of it he had tacitly accepted it.
Now there seemed to be a larger rat in the woodpile, or several of them.
As Baker smoked his pipe, he found himself realizing with some discomfort and growing doubt that Painted Rock was completely subservient to Barkow and Shute. Pod Goner, who was town marshal, had been nominated for the job by Barkow at the council meeting. Joe Benson of the National had seconded the motion, and Dan Shute had calmly suggested that the nomination be closed, and Gomer was voted in.
Gene Baker had never liked Goner, but the man was a good gunhand and certainly unafraid. Baker had voted with the others, as had Pat Higley, another responsible citizen of the town.
In the same manner, Benson had been elected mayor of the town, and Roy Gargan had been made judge.
Remembering that the town was actually in the hands of Barkow and Shute, Baker also recalled that at first the tactics of the two big ranchers had caused grumbling among the smaller holders of land. Nothing had ever been done, largely because one of them, Stu Martin, who talked the loudest, had been killed in a fall from a cliff. A few weeks later another small rancher, Also Chase, had mistakenly tried to draw against Bonaro and had died.
Looked at in that light, the situation made Baker uneasy. Little things began to occur to him that had remained unconsidered, and he began to wonder just what could be done about it even if he knew for sure the way Rodney had been killed. Not only was he dependent on Shute and Barkow for business, but Benson, their partner and friend, owned the freight line that brought in his supplies.
Law was still largely a local matter. The Army maintained a fort not too far away, but the soldiers were busy keeping an eye on the Sioux and their allies, who were becoming increasingly restive, what with the booming gold camps at Bannack and Alder Gulch, Custer’s invasion of the Black Hills, and the steady roll of wagon trains over the Bozeman and Laramie trails. If there was trouble here, Baker realized with a sudden sickening fear, it would be settled locally. And that meant it would be settled by Dan Shute and Bruce Barkow.
Yet even as he thought of that, Baker recalled the tall man in the black, flat-crowned hat and buckskin jacket. There was something about Rafe Caradec that was convincing, something that made a man doubt he would be controlled by anybody or anything, anytime or anywhere.
Rafe rode silently alongside Johnny Gill when they moved out of Painted Rock, trailing the two packhorses. The trail turned west by south and crossed the north fork of Clear Creek. They turned then along a narrow path that skirted the huge boulders fringing the mountains.
Gill turned his head slightly. “Might not be a bad idea to take to the hills, Boss,” he said carelessly. “There’s a trail up thataway-ain’t much used, either.” Caradec glanced quickly at the little puncher and then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Lead off; if you want.” Johnny was riding with his rifle across his saddle, and his eyes were alert. That, Rafe decided, was not a bad idea. He jerked his head back toward Painted Rock.
“What you think Barkow will do?” Gill shrugged. “No tellin’, but Dan Shute will know what to do. He’ll be gunnin’ for you if you’ve sure enough got the straight of this. What you figger happened?” Rafe hesitated, and then he said carefully, “What happened to Charles Rodney wasn’t any accident. It was planned and carried out mighty smooth.” He waited while the horse took a half dozen steps and then looked up suddenly.
“Gill, you size up like a man to ride the river with. Here’s the story, and if you ever tell it, you’ll hang four good men.” Briefly and concisely, he outlined the shanghaiing of Rodney and himself, the events aboard ship, and the escape.
“See?” he added. “It must have looked foolproof to them. Rodney goes away to sea and never comes back. Nobody but Barkow knows that mortgage was paid, and what did happen was somethin’ they couldn’t plan forand probably didn’t even think about.” Gill nodded. “Rodney must have been tougher than anybody figgered,” he said admiringly. “He never quit tryin, you say?” “Right. He had only one idea, it looked like, and that was to live to get home to his wife and daughter. If,” Rafe added, “the wife was anything like the daughter, I don’t blame him!” The cowhand chuckled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. She’s pretty as a baby in a red hat.” “You know, Gill,” Rafe said speculatively, “there’s one thing that bothers me.
Why do they want that ranch so bad?” “That’s got me wonderin’, too,” Gill agreed. “It’s a good ranch, mostly, except for that land at the mouth of the valley. Rises there to a sort of a dome, and the Crazy Man swings around it.
Nothin’ much grows there. The rest of it’s a good ranch. his “Say anything about Tex or Bo?” Caradec asked. “No,” Gill said. “It figgers like war, now. No use lettin’ the enemy know what you’re holdin’.” The trail they followed left the grasslands of the creek bottom and turned back up into the hills to a long plateau. They rode on among the tall pines, scattered here and there with birch and aspen along the slopes. A cool breeze stirred among the pines, and the horses walked along slowly, taking their time, their hoofbeats soundless on the cushion of pine needles. Once the trail wound down the steep side of a shadowy canyon, weaving back and forth, finally reaching bottom in a brawling, swift-running stream. Willows skirted the banks, and while the horses were drinking, Rafe saw a trout leap in a pool above the rapids. A brown thrasher swept a darting red-brown arrow past his head, and he could hear yellow warblers gossiping among the willows. He himself was drinking when he saw the sand crumble from a spot on the bank and fall with a tiny splash into the creek. Carefully, he got to his feet. His rifle was in his saddle boot, but his pistols were good enough for anything he could see in this narrow place. He glanced casually at Gill, and the cowhand was tightening his cinch, all unaware.
Caradec drew a long breath and hitched up his trousers. Then he hooked his thumbs in his belt near the gun butts. He had no idea who was there, but that sand had not fallen without a reason. In his own mind he was sure that someone was standing in the willow thicket across and downstream, above where the sand had fallen.
Someone was watching them.
“Ready?” Johnny suggested, looking at him curiously. “Almost,” Rafe drawled casually. “Sort of like this little place. It’s cool and pleasant. Sort of place a man might like to rest a while, and where a body could watch his back trail, too.” He was talking at random, hoping Gill would catch on. The puncher was looking at him intently, now. “At least,” Rafe added, “it would be nice here if a man was alone. He could think better.” It was then his eye caught the color in the willows. It was a tiny corner of red, a bright, flaming crimson, and it lay where no such color should be.
That was not likely to be a cowhand, unless he was a Mexican or a dude, and they were scarce in this country. It could be an Indian. If whoever it was had planned to fire, a good chance had been missed while he and Gill drank. Two well-placed shots would have done for them both. Therefore it was logical to discount the person in the willows as an enemy. Or if so, it was a patient enemy.
To all appearances, whoever lay in the willows preferred to remain unseen. It had all the earmarks of being someone or something trying to avoid trouble.
Gill was quiet and puzzled. Catlike, he watched Rafe for some sign to indicate what the trouble was. A quick scanning of the brush had revealed nothing, but Caradec was not a man to be spooked by a shadow.
“You speak Sioux?” Rafe asked casually.
Gill’s mouth tightened. “A mite. Not so good, maybe.” “Speak loud and say we are friends.” Johnny Gill’s eyes were wary as he spoke.
There was no sound, no reply. “Try it again,” Rafe suggested. “Tell him we want to talk.