“Nobody been around here,” Brisco said.
“Yesterday I seen three Injuns, but they was off a couple of miles and didn’t come this way. Today there hasn’t been nobody around.” During the three days that followed the trip to Painted Rock, Rafe Caradec scouted the range. There were a lot of Bar M cattle around, and most of them were in fairly good shape. His own cattle were mingling freely with them. The range would support many more head than it carried, however, and toward the upper end of Long Valley was almost untouched. There was much good grass in the mountain meadows, also, and in several canyons south of the Crazy Man.
Johnny Gill and Bo Marsh explained the lay of the land as they knew it. “North of here,” Gill said, “back of Painted Rock, and mostly west of there, the mountains rise up nigh onto nine thousand feet. Good huntin’ country, some of the best I ever seen. South, toward the end of the valley, the mountains thin out. There’s a pass through to the head of Otter Creek, and that country west of the mountains is good grazin’ land and nobody much in there yet.
Injuns got a big powwow grounds over there. “Still further south, there’s a long red wall, runnin’ pretty much north and south. Only one entrance in thirty-five miles. Regular hole in the wall.
A few men could get into that hole and stand off an army, and if they wanted to hightail it, they could lose themselves in that back country.” Rafe scouted the crossing toward the head of Otter Creek and rode down the creek to the grasslands below. This would be good grazing land, and mentally he made a note to make some plans for it.
He rode back to the ranch that night, and when he was sitting on the stoop after the sun was down, he looked around at Tex Brisco. “You been over the trail from Texas?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” “Once aboard ship you was tellin’ me about a stampede you had. Only got back about sixteen hundred head of a two-thousand-head herd. That sort of thing happen often?” Tex laughed. “Shucks, yes!
Stampedes are regular things along the trail. You lose some cattle, you maybe get more back, but there’s plenty of maverick stock runnin on the plains south of the Platte-all the way to the Canadian, as far as that goes.” “Reckon a few men could slip over there and round up some of that stock?” Brisco sat up and glanced at Rafe. “Sure could. Wild stuff, though, and it would be a man-sized job.” “Maybe,” Caradec suggested, “we’ll try and do it. It would be one way of gettin’ a herd pretty fast, or turnin’ some quick money.” They were days of hard, driving labor. Always, one man stayed at the cabin keeping a sharp lookout for any of the Shute or Barkow riders. Caradec knew they would come, and when they did come they would be riding with only one idea in mind-to get rid of him.
In the visit to Painted Rock he had laid his cards on the table, and they had no idea how much he knew or what his story of Charles Rodney could be. Rafe Caradec knew Barkow was worried, and that pleased him. Yet while the delayed attack was a worry, it was also a help. There was some grumbling from the hands, but he kept them busy cutting hay in the meadows and stacking it. Winter in this country was going to be bad-he needed no weather prophet to tell him that-and he had no intention of losing a lot of stock.
In a canyon that branched off from the head of Crazy Man, he had found a warm spring. There was small chance of it freezing, yet the water was not too hot to drink. In severe cold it would freeze, but otherwise it would offer an excellent watering place for his stock. They made no effort to bring hay back to the ranch, but stacked it in huge stacks back in the canyons and meadows.
There had been no sign of Indians, and Rafe avoided their camp. Yet once when he did pass nearby, there was no sign of them. It seemed as if they had moved out and left the country.
Then one night he heard a noise at the corral and the snorting of a horse. Instantly he was out of bed and had his boots on when he heard Brisco swearing in the next room.
They got outside in a hurry, fearing someone was rustling their stock. In the corral they could see the horses, and there was no one nearby. Bo Marsh had walked over to the corral, and suddenly he called out. “Boss! Lookit here!” They all trooped over and then stopped. Instead of five horses in the corral, there were ten!
One of them was the paint they had loaned the young squaw, but the others were strange horses, and every one a picked animal. “Well, I’ll be durned!” Gill exploded. “Brung back our own horse and an extra for each of us. Reckon that big black is for you, Boss.” By daylight, when they could examine the horses, Tex Brisco walked around them admiringly.
“Man,” he said, “that was the best horse trade I ever heard of! There’s four of the prettiest horses I ever laid an eye on! I always did say the Sioux knowed horseflesh, and this proves it.
Reckon your bread cast on the water sure come back to you, Boss!” Rafe studied the valley thoughtfully. They would have another month of good haying weather if there was no rain. Four men could not work much harder than they were, but the beaver were building their houses bigger and in deeper water, and from that and all other indications the winter was going to be hard.
He made his decision suddenly. “I’m ridin’ to Painted Rock. Want to come along, Tex?” “Yeah.” The Texan looked at him calculatingly. “Yeah, I’d like that.” “How about me?” Bo asked, grinning. “Johnny went last time. I could sure use a belt of that red-eve the National peddles, and maybe a look around town.” “Take him along, Boss,” Johnny said.
“I can hold this end. If he stays he’ll be ridin’ me all the time, anyway.” “All right. Saddle up first thing in the mornin’.” “Boss-“Johnny threw one leg over the other and lighted his smoke. “One thing I better tell you. I haven’t said a word before, but two, three days ago when I was down to the bend of the Crazy Man I run into a couple of fellers. One of “em was Red Blazer, that big galoot who was with Boyne.
Remember?” Rafe turned around and looked down at the little leatherfaced cowhand. “Well,” he said, “what about him?” Gill took a long drag on his cigarette.
“He told me he was carryin” a message from Trigger Boyne and that Trigger was goin’ to shoot on sight, next time you showed up in Painted Rock.” Rafe reached over on the table and picked up a piece of cold cornbread. “Then I reckon that’s what he’ll do,” he said. “If he gets into action fast enough.” “Boss,” Marsh pleaded, “if that redheaded Tom Blazer, brother to the one you had the run-in with-if he’s there, I want him.” “That the one we saw on the National stoop?” Rafe asked Gill. “Uh-huh. There’s five of them brothers. All gun toters.” Gill got up and stretched. “Well, I’ll have it pretty lazy while you hombres are down there dustin’ lead.” He added, “It would be a good idea to sort of keep an eye out. Gee Bonaro’s still in town and feelin’ mighty mad.” Rafe walked outside, strolling toward the corral. Behind him, Marsh turned to Gill.
“Reckon he can sling a gun?” Tex chuckled. “Mister, that hombre killed one of the fastest, slickest gun throwers that ever came out of Texas, and done it when he was no more than sixteen, down on the C Bar. And also, while I’ve never seen him shoot, if he can shoot like he can fistfight, Mr. Trigger Boyne had better grab hisself an armful of horseflesh and start makin’ tracks for the blackest part of the Black Hills fast!”
Nothing about the town of Painted Rock suggested drama or excitement. It lay sprawled comfortably in the morning sunlight in an elbow of Rock Creek. A normally roaring and plunging stream, the creek had decided here to loiter awhile, enjoying the warm sun and the graceful willows that lined the banks. Behind and among the willows the white, slender trunks of the birch trees marched in neat ranks, each tree so like its neighbor that it was almost impossible to distinguish between them. Clumps of mountain alder, yellow rose, puffed clematis, and antelope bush were scattered along the far bank of the stream and advanced up the hill beyond in skirmishing formation. In a few weeks now the aspen leaves would be changing, and Painted Rock would take on a background of flaming color-a bank of trees, rising toward the darker growth of spruce and fir along the higher mountainside. Painted Rock’s one street was the only thing about the town that was ordered. It lay between two neat rows of buildings that stared at each other across a long lane of dust and, during the rainy periods, of mud. At any time of day or night a dozen saddle horses would be standing three-legged at the hitching rails, usually in front of Joe Benson’s National Saloon. A buckboard or a spring wagon would also be present, usually driven by some small rancher in for his supplies. The two big outfits sent two wagons together, drawn by mules. Bruce Barkow sat in front of the sheriff’s office this morning, deep in conversation with Pod Gomer. It was a conversation that had begun over an hour before.