Range Of Golden Hoofs Read online

  Range of Golden Hoofs

  John Trace

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  Surprise Attack

  Dan held his finger on the trigger of the Sharps, cocked the hammer and took careful aim. When the Sharps roared the whole thicket of mesquite responded, leaping into life with the crash of rifles.

  There was wild confusion in the arroyo. From both arroyo and mesquite the yells arose. A savage, wiry and swift as a cat, scrambled up the opposite bank, poised for a moment and then collapsed into a bundle of rags and brown flesh. From the mesquite, heedless of thorns or footing, the herders came leaping, whooping, savage as the Apaches themselves. Dan Shea dropped the Sharps and with his pistol in hand crashed through the growth and ran into the fray.

  To Dr. G. W. R. Smith

  El pie de la oveja siempre déjà oro.

  Wherever the sheep sets his hoof, there gold is found.

  SPANISH PROVERB

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Surprise Attack

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: Cold Deck

  Chapter Two: Black Sheep Returns

  Chapter Three: El Puerto del Sol

  Chapter Four: “Lousy Sheepman”

  Chapter Five: Master of the Hunt

  Chapter Six: Rider Afoot

  Chapter Seven: There Gold Is Found

  Chapter Eight: Disputed Title

  Chapter Nine: “If You Come Again I’ll Kill You!”

  Chapter Ten: Trail North

  Chapter Eleven: Surprise Attack

  Chapter Twelve: Journey’s End

  Chapter Thirteen: Out of the Storm

  Chapter Fourteen: The Road Home

  Chapter Fifteen: Yellow Parchment

  Chapter Sixteen: Good Wine Speaks

  Chapter Seventeen: Hounds to the Kill

  Chapter Eighteen: Tomorrow

  Other Leisure Books By John Trace

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE:

  COLD DECK

  At noon, well along the road to Bendición, the El Paso stage stopped to change horses. Since early morning Dan Shea had been riding the leather-covered seat, and here at the nooning he stepped out to stretch his long legs. Fitzpatrick, the saloon-keeper, also alighted from the stage, correcting the angle of his narrow-brimmed derby hat and settling his coat more truly on his shoulders.

  The trip down had been a pleasant one despite the heat which comes early in the middle valley of the Rio Grande. The men had enjoyed it. Fitzpatrick, returning to Bendición following a buying trip to the pueblo of Albuquerque, was a friendly, talkative man, his occupation, his identity and his convictions an open book for all to read. Dan Shea, more reticent, had risen a trifle to Fitzpatrick’s talk, and a mutual and common meeting ground brought them together. At the Vicksburg siege Dan Shea had been outside the city; Fitzpatrick within it. Old enemies, their animosity had long since died. The Lost Cause was lost. As a loser, Fitzpatrick had the tale of many a victory to recount. As a winner, Dan Shea could afford to be generous. The bitterness of the fight was gone from between these fighting men, and here in the middle of the New Mexico Territory the war was a remote thing, as far distant as a game of chess played ten years agone.

  “Yank an’ Reb,” Fitzpatrick said, leading the way toward the dark door of the stage station, “an’ both of us Irish. It just goes to show what an Irishman will do to get into a fight. I’ll buy you a drink, Shea.”

  “And I’ll buy your dinner,” Dan Shea answered. “We lay over here.”

  As they entered the station Fitzpatrick pushed back his hat. He was a lank man, sandy haired, hair and mustache the color of the desert, and his eyes a faded blue. Dan Shea, following his acquaintance, was heavier, broader and more youthful. Black Irish showed in hair and blue eyes that alertly scanned the interior of the stage stop.

  Beside the desk that immediately confronted the door the bar of the stage stop stretched to the left. To the right was the dining room, the walls white plastered and the single long table almost filling the narrow space. The station manager was outside with the hostlers, and only a native barman attended the bar, while at the table three men stopped their eating to survey the newcomers. Fitzpatrick leaned easily against the bar and spoke to the barman whom he knew. Dan Shea, pausing just inside the door, scanned the room and its occupants.

  The men at the table fell to eating again and Fitzpatrick said: “Give me whisky, Carlos,” and looked toward Dan, lifting his eyebrows in inquiry.

  “The same,” Dan agreed and took the short two steps that brought him to Fitzpatrick’s side. As the small glasses were set out and the bartender reached for the bottle on the back bar, there came the rattle and clank, the thudding of hoofs, that spoke the arrival of another stage. Again the men at the table lifted their heads to watch the door.

  “The eastbound stage,” Fitzpatrick commented. “Well”—he turned his small glass between his fingers—“I’ll give you a toast, Shea: To the friends we’ll see no more.”

  Dan Shea drank. The whisky was hot in mouth and throat, and the water that followed it was lukewarm and insipid. Replacing his glass on the bar top, he listened to the men outside. Fitzpatrick, having taken his drink, had replaced his glass and turned so that his back was to the bar and his face to the door.

  “The off leader’s lame,” a hoarse voice said. “Picked up a stone, I reckon.”

  At the table the three men, finished with their meal, had risen. Now they moved, edging along the table until they reached its end, and stopped. Rough men, bearded, booted, each armed, they gathered at the table end and stood between the bar and the table, facing the door. The door darkened and the station manager filled it, his head turned so that he talked over his shoulder to a man outside.

  “There’s no express,” the manager said and came on in, walking around the end of his desk and pausing behind it. “I’ve got a sack of mail though.”

  The stage guard, a stranger to Dan Shea, followed the manager, crossing to the desk and pausing before it, his back to the door. He leaned his elbows on the desk, and then for a third time the doorway darkened.

  Dan Shea had observed these things, not with interest but as a habit. He saw the man in the door, small, neatly dressed. The new arrival looked quickly to right and left with beady black eyes. A wisp of black mustache beneath his long nose completed so apparent a likeness that Dan Shea almost laughed. Here was a mouse: one of those small, indefinite people who cling to the side of buildings as they walk, ready, always, to seek safety in a hole. The man took a step from the doorway and at the table one of the three diners said: “That’s him.”

  Instantly Dan Shea turned. At the end of the table the three men had gone into action. Their weapons were in their hands, and even as Dan looked toward them the little room rocked with the reverberation of the shots. At the door the mousy man staggered back, one small claw of a hand coming up as though it could ward off the heavy lead that jerked and tugged and slammed into his slight body. Fitzpatrick had leaped away and was crouched against the wall, and Dan Shea, staring at the falling man beside the door, became aware that the direction of fire had changed and that he himself was in the center of it. On the bar the whisky bottle broke and the liquor splashed, and Fitzpatrick was yelling: “Down, Shea. Get down!”

  Dan dropped to his knees. His own weapon kicked sharply into the fork of his hand, and the smell of smoke was sharp and acrid in his nostrils. The little man lay beside the door and the three murderers were running, almost trampling the body in their haste. Fitzpatrick brushed against Dan, upsetting him as he made for the vacant doorway, and Dan, regaining his feet, followed toward the square of light.

&n
bsp; Just outside the door Fitzpatrick crouched, his left arm raised, a long black gun leveled across it. Toward the corral there was a hitching rack, and at it horses milled as men mounted. Fitzpatrick fired once and then again. Dan Shea raised his own weapon and took careful sight.

  Above the sharp ridge of the foresight a figure appeared momentarily. Shea’s gun bounced and settled, bounced again, and on his horse a man lurched forward, clutching at the saddle. Then horses and men were gone, wheeling sharply about the end of the adobe-walled corral, and Dan Shea lowered his gun. Fitzpatrick had straightened and was standing just beyond Dan, staring at the corner of the corral. For perhaps a full minute he stood there and then, turning, looked at Dan Shea.

  “You hit one that last shot,” Fitzpatrick said almost casually. “Looked like you hurt him bad.”

  Dan’s mouth was dry, his tongue seeming to cling to its roof. “They were waiting for him,” he said thickly.

  “Sure they were.” Fitzpatrick’s voice was gruff. “He never had a chance. Came through the door and walked right into it. Well…?”

  They turned then, acting on common impulse, and went back into the station. The mousy man lay beside the door, just where he had fallen. The station manager was bending over him, and the shotgun guard and the driver stood staring down. Over by the table two women hovered: the cook and the waitress. The waitress had picked up a soiled dish and was holding it. As Dan Shea came through the door the driver said: “He was goin’ to Albuquerque. That’s all I know.”

  “They got away,” Fitzpatrick announced, replacing his weapon in its holster under his coat. “My pardner here hit one when they went around the corner of the corral.”

  Dan was suddenly aware of his own gun, heavy in his hand. He lifted it, sliding it down into place beneath his arm. Over behind the bar the native bartender showed the round moon of his face as he came up from hiding, and the station manager, rising, made an unnecessary statement.

  “He’s dead.”

  The waitress dropped her plate, screamed and threw her apron up over her head, turning blindly and banging against the table as she made toward the kitchen door. Behind Dan Shea men arrived: the driver of the El Paso stage, the guard and the hostlers. They pushed Dan aside, their hands rough and their voices hoarse as they asked questions. The stationman looked at them.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know just what happended. I was gettin’ the mail sack for Charlie when it started.”

  “He walked in and they just went to shootin’,” Fitzpatrick stated. “Just like that.”

  Dan looked at the man on the floor. He was a dead mouse now, an inoffensive, harmless, little dead animal. The black mustache was very dark above his lip and the beady eyes had lost all their sharpness.

  “I don’t know who they were,” the station manager said, answering a question. “They just came in an’ ordered dinner. I don’t know who they were.”

  The guard of the westbound stage, the drivers, the hostlers, the eastbound messenger who head been at the desk, even the station manager who had stooped for the mailbag, were filled with questions. The drivers and the hostlers had been in the corral when they heard the shots. Wisely they had remained behind the protection of the thick adobe walls. They had not seen what happened, either inside or outside the station. As always, in aftermath, each man spoke, identifying his part in this tragedy, placing himself as to time and location during its occurrence, so filled with his own small part that it became of pre-eminent importance in his recital. Dan Shealeaned against the wall, not looking at the dead man but watching the others, tension easing out of him. Fitzpatrick, too, was relaxing. He answered the questions that poured in upon him, his words brief, sharp, terse. No one could identify the men who had been at the table. No one could identify the dead man.

  “His grip’s on the coach,” the eastbound driver said. “I’ll get it.” He went out.

  “No,” Fitzpatrick answered a hostler’s question, “we weren’t with him. We’re headed west. We just came in for a drink and to eat dinner.”

  The driver came back lugging a heavy telescope grip. He dumped it down on the floor. “You think we ought to open it?” he asked doubtfully.

  “The sheriff ’ll open it,” the station manager answered. “You get hold of him as soon as you get to Bendición, Bill. Tell him what happended.”

  “What are you goin’ to do with him?” The driver gestured to the body. “You want me to take him in?”

  The stageman shook his head. “We’ll keep him for the sheriff,” he answered. “Juan, you an’ Lucero get him out. Take him down to the feed room an’ wrap him in a tarp. Fitz, you’ll tell the sheriff when you get to town. You an’ this gentleman seen it all, didn’t you?” His eyes sought Dan Shea.

  Dan nodded. The hostlers were lifting the body, one at the head, the other at the feet. Dan moved aside to give them passagway.

  “The stage company ain’t responsible,” the stationman stated. “You know that? You saw what happened?” “We’ll tell Youtsey all about it,” Fitzpatrick agreed. He had joined Dan and was standing beside him.

  The station manager was brisk. “You gents certainly took a hand,” he commended. “They shot at you too. Smashed a bottle right beside you.” He looked at Dan Shea. “Well…we’ll get the teams changed. You want some dinner?”

  Dan Shea shook his head. Fitzpatrick said, “No,” and then in a drawling voice: “I’ve kind of lost my appetite.”

  The westbound driver was tugging at one heavy glove. “Get the teams changed,” he rasped. “I don’t want no dinner neither. We’ll go on.”

  Dan Shea took his eyes from the little pool of blood that the mousy man had left on the floor. He looked at Fitzpatrick.

  “A hell of a thing,” Fitzpatrick said, “Wasn’t it a hell of a thing?”

  In the stage, the coach rocking on the thick leather of the thorough braces, Dan Shea and Fitzpatrick were silent. They looked out the window as the road turned, watching the stage station, its few trees, the long adobe walls of the corrals dwindle and become a child’s plaything in the distance. When the road turned again and the station was gone from sight they sat, each staring moodily at the feet of the other. Atop the coach the driver, the messenger seated beside him, spoke to his teams, unging them along, finding relief in his accustomed business. Dan Shea and Fitzpatrick were denied that relief.

  The coach lurched down into a wash and climbed out of it. Methodically, as though he had just found something to do, Fitzpatrick produced his long weapon from its holster, looked at it a moment and then placing the hammer at half cock, opened the loading gate and pushed out four spent shells. The empty cartridge cases tinkled as they fell to the floor of the stage. From his belt Fitzpatrick refilled the cylinder.

  Dan Shea, reaching under his coat, performed a like service for his own shorter gun. Fitzpatrick dandled his weapon between his knees and, lifting his eyes from it, looked at Dan.

  “Happened quick,” Fitzpatrick commented.

  “It did,” Dan agreed.

  “I missed every shot.” The saloon man looked down at his gun again. “You were in line with me when it started.”

  Dan made no answer. After a long interval Fitzpatrick spoke again. “They must have wanted him bad.”

  “Bad,” Dan assented.

  “He never knew what happened.”

  “No.”

  Fitzpatrick shrugged and put away his gun. “You ain’t a bad kind to have along,” he praised. “You started quick.”

  “They took a shot or two at us.”

  Silence in the coach for a moment, broken only by the sounds of the trotting horses and the rattle of the wheels.

  “I wonder why they wanted him,” Fitzpatrick mused. “He didn’t look like the kind that gets in trouble, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Across from Dan, Fitzpatrick straightened his shoulders. “I don’t like to get mixed up in a thing like that,” he announced. “I run a good, peaceful pla
ce in Bendición. Trouble is bad for my business.”

  “Any kind of business,” Dan amended. “Well…the sheriff will ask questions.”

  “An’ we’ll answer ’em,” Fitzpatrick said. He was quiet for a moment, absorbed in his thoughts, then his eyes met Dan’s.

  “As cold a deck as was ever dealt,” Fitzpatrick rasped. “He never had a chance.”

  “No,” Dan Shea agreed slowly. “He didn’t. He surely didn’t.”

  CHAPTER TWO:

  BLACK SHEEP RETURNS

  Bendición was built about a plaza shaded by towering cottonwoods, their leaves small green elf ears. About the plaza brown adobes squatted, and over-towering the adobes and the plaza but not of them a twin-spired mission raised its crosses skyward. At a corner of the square, not on the plaza itself but withdrawn from it, was a courthouse, and an acequia gurgled pleasantly beneath a bridge, bringing water to the cottonwoods and to the grass of the enclosure. Evening had brought surcease from the heat and brilliant sunlight of the day, and here and there beneath the awnings that porched the adobes a lamp glowed yellow and pleasant.

  Dan Shea—the dust of travel removed and a hearty supper past—issued from the hotel upon the street and looked to right and left before choosing his course. He had, since his arrival, spent a good deal of time at the courthouse where with Fitzpatrick he had informed the sheriff of the happenings at the San Felice stage station. It was evident during that period that Fitzpatrick and Youtsey, the officer, were not on good terms. Leaving the courthouse, Fitzpatrick had explained briefly: “I was against him for sheriff last election.”

  Now, with evening all about, Dan stood in Bendición’s plaza and glanced up at the light-burnished sky, at the cottonwoods and at the twin spires; then, turning deliberately, he walked along the street.

  Fitzpatrick’s saloon carried his name above the door. Dan went in, pausing after he had entered and surveying the room. The saloon was not pretentious. There were many other places along Bendición’s dusty plaza that vaunted more and brighter lights, louder voices and greater size. Bendición drew her substance from the mines in the hills to the west, from the little farms along the river and from the stock country north and east. An odd conglomeration of a town, Bendición could afford amusement of any caliber, goods of almost any kind. Fitzpatrick’s saloon plainly catered to a quiet trade. There was a bar along one side of the room, a back bar liberally stocked with glasses and bottled goods and, beyond the bar, three tables. Fitzpatrick, coat gone now and vest hanging open, came from the bar to greet Dan Shea at the door.