Range Of Golden Hoofs Read online

  O’Connor—who had seen neither Delaney nor Ramon—stared curiously at his companion. Dan blurted out words. “I’ve as much reason to be in this as you have. This is as much my job as it is yours. Marillita…” He broke off.

  “You’re lookin’ after her, Dan. Is that it?” Still O’Connor eyed his friend.

  Dan nodded. He was looking after Marillita. That was part of it, that and his friendship for Martin O’Connor and his own interests as Don Martin’s partidario. But that was not all. Deep down in Dan Shea was his ingrained hatred for George Delaney. Startled by the thought, he realized that, regardless of Marillita or Don Martin or anything else, he would have entered this fight, entered it for the sole purpose of beating Delaney.

  “Let’s go to the hotel,” he said abruptly.

  Marillita was waiting for them in the hotel. She had shopped all morning and was filled with ideas and a desire to show her purchases. While she talked Don Martin smiled fondly at his daughter, but Dan stood silent. The thought that he must destroy this pleasure pained him.

  “And I bought curtains,” Marillita continued joyously. “Drapes for all the windows and…What is the matter, Dan?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dan said bluntly, “but we can’t buy them now, Marillita.”

  “Of course you can buy them,” O’Connor boomed. “There’s nothin’ to keep you from…”

  “Not now,” Dan interrupted firmly. “Not until I come back from Colorado.”

  “From Colorado?” Marillita spoke her surprise. “But…”

  “There’s no need to go into it,” O’Connor said hastily.

  Dan Shea shook his head. Martin O’Connor had kept details from his daughter, had shielded Marillita. Not so Dan Shea. He knew the stuff of which the girl was made, and to him his marriage would be a partnership. What he faced, what Martin O’Connor faced, Marillita must also face.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said brusquely. “I’ll have to go to Colorado.” He continued then, telling Marillita about the things that had happened during the morning, detailing the difficulties that confronted Martin O’Connor and El Puerto del Sol, outlining the plans that had been made, going over it all despite Martin O’Connor’s frown of disapproval.

  “So you see,” Dan concluded, “that we can’t buy things now, Marillita, and that I’ve got to go to Colorado with the sheep. You see that, don’t you?”

  The girl was slow in answering. She stood with lowered eyes staring at the floor. When she lifted her head there was a smile for Dan Shea. “Of course I see,” she announced. “I’ll go to the stores this afternoon and take back the things I’ve bought. It’s all right, Dan. I’m glad you told me. You had to tell me.”

  Dan glanced at Martin O’Connor and then turned to the girl. “Of course I had to,” he agreed.

  That night the three, Don Martin, Marillita and Dan Shea, dined with Bruno Gotleib. Gotleib’s wife, a small, gracious woman, was a perfect hostess, and at the table there was no mention made of the errand that had brought the guests from El Puerto del Sol. It was late when the group left Gotleib’s house and, in the lawyer’s carriage, was driven back to the hotel.

  Don Martin and Marillita went to their rooms to rest. In the morning the party would leave for their return journey. Dan Shea, lingering in the lobby, paid for their accommodations and then, smoking a cigar, walked out to the porch and stood thinking, letting the cool breeze whip away the smoke.

  It was odd, he thought, how he should have come to be the controlling influence in all these happenings. He had come into the country without particular destination in mind. His sole idea had been to recoup the losses he had suffered in the North. Now here he was, in partnership with Martin O’Connor, engaged to marry the most desirable woman in the world and embroiled in a fight. Had it been through chance, he wondered? Had all this happened through circumstance, or was there some guiding spirit that had ordered his life, that had brought him to New Mexico Territory, sent him to Martin O’Connor’s door and placed Marillita in his arms? Dan Shea looked up at the stars and wondered.

  As he stood there, the cigar finished and thrown away, still musing, still pondering the events, still questioning himself concerning them, he was aroused from his introspection by a swift step on the porch. Dan turned. Light from the lobby streamed through a window, and Ramon de la Luz crossed that light. Dan faced the man in the shadows, and De la Luz stopped.

  “Señor Shea?” he asked.

  “I’m Dan Shea.”

  Ramon de la Luz continued, speaking in Spanish. “You came with Martin O’Connor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I came to warn you,” De la Luz announced. “Leave El Puerto del Sol. Leave Señor O’Connor. This business does not concern you. If you value your life you will leave it alone.”

  With an effort Dan Shea restrained himself. His mind cried to him for action; his muscles ached with their tension. “George Delaney sent you,” Dan Shea said sternly. “Go back to him and tell him that you’ve failed.”

  “There are a great many of us,” Ramon de la Luz said softly. “You have already made enemies, señor. I am giving you a chance. You…”

  Dan Shea’s restraint broke. His left hand, powerful as a vise, shot out and caught the coat of Ramon de la Luz. Dan pulled the man toward him, nearly lifting De la Luz from his feet, holding him tightly so that in the darkness of the porch their faces almost touched.

  “Get out!” Dan Shea rasped thickly, his hand trembling with his wrath. “Get out, cabrón!”

  He thrust forward then, releasing his hold. Ramon de la Luz reeled across the streaming light from the window, brought up against the wall and, staggering, recovered his balance. Dan, controlling his anger, holding himself as best he could, spoke once more, made one more statement.

  “If you come to me again, you or Delaney, I’ll kill you! Get out!”

  CHAPTER TEN:

  TRAIL NORTH

  On the night of his first day out from El Puerto del Sol Dan Shea sat beside his campfire and looked into the darkness where his sheep were bedded. Out there in the dark beyond the firelight there were five thousand head of El Puerto del Sol ewes. About him, clustered close, were his herders: Hilario Bargas, Nopomencenco Montano with the knife scar across his face; Hipolito, Nopomencenco’s brother; Hilario’s two sons, Eusabio and Cercencio, strong as young oxen; Juan Vigil, quarter-breed Comanche, and Vicente Lebya, the Apache boy. Seven men in all, hardy, strong-bodied, loyal to Dan Shea and to El Puerto del Sol. They were quiet, respecting the silence of their patrón, and close beside them their sheep dogs lay, eyes half shut against the firelight.

  It was odd, Dan Shea reflected, sitting there in the firelight, how he should have come to be here with the sheep; odd and yet natural too. How could he have done otherwise? he asked himself. All the past events marched before him. His arrival in Bendición, his encounter with Martin O’Connor, his partnership, his love for Marillita, each fell into ordered sequence. Dan Shea shifted position beside the crackling fire, and his thoughts went on.

  Marillita’s parting kiss was still warm upon Dan’s lips as he sat there musing. It would remain, warm and promising, all through his long journey, he knew, just as would Don Martin’s parting handshake remain, strong and reassuring. Dan’s eyes lighted as he thought of Marillita and Don Martin, then they dulled again. There were things to think of other than the sweet bitterness of parting. Many things.

  This was his task, this business of trailing five thousand sheep north to a Colorado market. This task he had set himself for the benefit of them all, for the welfare of El Puerto del Sol. But he wished that it had not been necessary. Others had wished that too: Marillita and Don Martin and Jesse Louder. Dan remembered his talk with Louder, the half suspicion, half frankness of the man. Dan lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead as he recalled that meeting.

  Louder, his hostility apparent, had come to him as Dan prepared for his journey. There had been difficulties between Louder and O’Connor, and now this suit had re
vived all the old dissension. Louder spoke of them frankly.

  “I wish you were goin’ to be here, Shea,” he had concluded their conversation. “You an’ me get along. I don’t get along so good with O’Connor.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go,” Dan Shea had answered. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do though.”

  “No,” Louder said moodily. “I guess there wasn’t anything else to do.”

  “And I’ll be back,” Dan promised. “Mr Louder, like you’ve said, you and me get along. I’m going to ask you to be patient while I’m gone. If anything comes up I ask you to wait until I’m back before you do anything about it. Will you do that?”

  Louder thought for a time and then nodded. “That’s fair enough, I guess,” he said. “I won’t make any promises, Shea, but I won’t go off half cocked.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Dan Shea said.

  Louder was silent again and then thrust out his hand. “So long, Shea,” he said. “I’ll push on home.” Again he hesitated. Then: “I guess things will be about the same when you get back.”

  There beside his campfire Dan Shea smiled. Jesse Louder had made no promises, but his handshake and parting words had been enough. Dan had an ally in Louder.

  The smile faded and Dan’s eyes grew bleak. There were others besides Louder in Bendición and the adjoining countryside who were not allies. Of these, George Delaney was pre-eminent. Thoughtfully Dan considered Delaney and his part in all these happenings. Delaney gave them point, had surely been the motivating force. Perhaps Delaney was simply shrewd. Dan could not believe that. He could not believe that it was opportunism that had brought Delaney into this affair, that had made George Delaney the representative for Ramon de la Luz in the suit. No, knowing Delaney as he did, Dan was sure that suit and claim, trouble and grief, all the difficulties that had descended upon El Puerto del Sol, originated in Delaney’s fertile mind. Dan scowled at the thought.

  “Coffee, Señor Dan?” Eusabio spoke softly beside Dan Shea. With a start Dan was brought back to the present. He reached out his hand, and the scowl was erased by a smile.

  “Gracias, Eusabio,” Dan Shea said gratefully.

  In the morning the herd went on, dirty gray against the brown of the good fall grass, stretching out, changing shape but moving north as the ewes grazed. Behind the ewes and about them the herders and their dogs held place, watching wanderers, preventing straying, always moving forward. Back of the herd came Eusabio, the cook with his burros and the camp equipment. Ahead of the herd Dan Shea rode, scouting the country, choosing the course, selecting the camp site when night came. Three hundred miles to the north lay Colorado and the market. Slowly the sheep moved northward.

  Day dawdled into day, each like its fellow. Fall rains came, cold and cutting to the skin as wind-driven drops swept earthward. Sunshine succeeded the rain, and Eusabio dried the scanty bedding. Some few sheep, finding whorled milkweed, ate it and died. The mornings and the evenings merged into one until the days had no identity, and ever the herd crept slowly on.

  Then on a bright morning, riding ahead of the herd, Dan saw smoke on the eastern horizon. Rising beneath the morning haze, the smoke intrigued Dan as he watched. He spoke briefly to Eusabio and, turning his mule, rode toward the east, leaving the herd to Hilario’s watchfulness.

  After an hour of riding Dan was tempted to turn back. The smoke had died into a threadlike column and then was gone. Dan debated momentarily and then, deciding to top one last rise, rode on again. Reaching the summit of the slope, he looked down into the valley below. There, before him, lay the source of the smoke. For a full five minutes Dan sat there, sickened but not so sickened as to be unwary. Then with his heels he urged the mule forward and rode down.

  There was not much left in the valley. The little plaza was a cluster of smoke-blackened rock squares, the dirt roofs fallen into the ruins or sagging over them. Where hay had been stacked there was black ash, some of it still smoldering. A wagon was charred wood with its irons still hot to the touch. Destruction was all about, and the scent of smoke was tinged with the odor of burned flesh.

  Dan Shea, his rifle across his arm, left the mule and walked gingerly among the ruins. Here he found a body, the scalp ripped from the head, flies buzzing about, already at work. Here a woman had died, the mouth of the corpse still open in a soundless scream. Here a man had fought. The arrow in his throat had killed him. Dan Shea whirled about, the big Sharps leaping to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. He poised, ready, and the sound that had alarmed him was repeated, the rasp of movement on stone. Then timidly a voice said: “Señor Shea…”

  Dan lowered the weapon. “Vicente!” he said sternly. “¡Ven acá!”

  Vicente, eyes downcast, came from behind a ruined house. He said no word but advanced, coming like a dog would come to an angry master, obedient and placating, but afraid.

  “What are you doing here?” Dan Shea demanded.

  “I followed you,” Vicente answered. “Always I follow you. Every day.”

  There, amidst that desolation, with death and ruin all about, Dan Shea almost laughed. Here then was explained the silence of Vicente when Dan spoke to him concerning the happenings in camp. Here, too, was explained a certain taciturnity among the herders. By mutual consent and agreement between them they had chosen to keep a watch over Dan Shea. Vicente was that watch. Now Dan knew why, when upon occasion he had returned to camp and found Vicente missing, Eusabio had spoken concerning some errand that occupied the boy. Now Dan knew why Hilario’s hostility toward Vicente had decreased until it was no more. Vicente was carrying a Springfield across his arm, and there was a knife at his belt, and he limped.

  “I hurt my leg,” Vicente said apologetically. “My foot slipped on a stone; otherwise the señor would not have heard me.”

  Dan eyed him sternly. “You follow me every day?” he demanded.

  “Sí…” Vicente’s voice was resigned. “Yo crei…I believed…” He broke off and made hasty amendment: “Nosotros creímos…we thought…”

  “That I was a child that must be watched?” Dan finished, his voice harsh.

  “No, señor. But you ride out alone, and we knew that was not good. We would not have you hurt, señor. What would we do without you?”

  “And so you followed?” Dan Shea said. “I think…well, no matter. Later we will talk of that. Now: Who was here? Who did this?”

  Vicente straightened, and his eyes swept over the ruins, over the blackened stone of the houses, the still-smoldering hay, the burned wagon, the silently screaming woman and the man with the arrow in his throat. Black and beady and inscrutable, the eyes returned to Dan Shea’s face.

  “Los indios de la Sierra Blanca,” Vicente answered gutturally. “Apaches.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  SURPRISE ATTACK

  There was nothing that could be done at the placita. With Vicente walking beside the mule, Dan Shea started back toward the west. Just at the edge of the ruins Vicente stopped and lifted his hand. Dan halted the mule. Vicente was listening intently. He turned toward a shed, the posts burned away and the roof sagging, listened a moment more and then went swiftly to the wreckage. When Vicente emerged his face was triumphant, and he held out a small bundle of inert fur. Dan Shea looked at the trophy. Vicente had found a puppy, so small that its eyes were not yet opened. The pup hung down from Vicente’s hand. In all that desolation only the one small spark of life remained. With Vicente carrying the dog and trotting beside Dan’s mule, the two went back toward the sheep.

  The ewes were spread out and grazing peacefully. Men assembled about Dan Shea and Vicente, listening to the tale that was told them, alarm in their eyes as they heard of the rape of the placita. Bold men these herders, else they had not ventured on this journey; fighters, ready with knife or gun, but with a tradition behind them: the tradition of fear of the Apache.

  Dan Shea watched their eyes and saw their fear. He spoke brusquely. The Apaches had gone on. There was no cau
se for worry. Even Apaches would hesitate to attack so strong a party as this. Despite Dan’s assurances fear lingered in the eyes of his men. Dan Shea took counsel with himself.

  In company with all his kind he cherished one idea: Dead Indians were good Indians. Frontier experience lay behind Dan Shea. The Apaches, he believed, would hardly overlook this flock moving through the country. The sheep themselves would be of little value to a raiding party; the ewes were too slow of movement to be stolen and driven. Horses and cattle were more to the savage fancy. Still there was loot in the packs and scalps on the heads of the herders, both desirable from the Apache viewpoint. That little raiding party was a menace.

  Dan knew his men. Experienced in fighting, he realized that under the strain of waiting for an attack, in the surprise of an attack, these men might break. If that occurred sheep and men were lost.

  But there was an alternative. They need not wait, need not sit helplessly, anticipating an attack. They themselves were in the position of initiative, and under certain circumstances the herders would be brave enough. Dan rubbed his bearded jaw and looked at his men and reached a decision. Calling Nopomencenco and Vicente to him, he gave instructions. They were, Dan ordered, to scout the country about the herd and make sure that it was clear of Apaches.

  Nopomencenco and Vicente departed. Dan ordered Eusabio to prepare food, forbidding the kindling of a fire. Hilario he sent to the ridge north of the little valley wherein the flock grazed. Hilario was an outpost.

  The men munched cold food and eyed Dan Shea. They believed in him, would follow him blindly and loyally. On Dan’s shoulders rested the responsibility, upon him the command. The sun was straight above. It was noon. Dan sent Cercencio to replace Hilario at the outpost.

  Time wore on. The sheep grazed peacefully. Without orders the herders held them in the valley, men and dogs turning back those venturesome ewes that sought to climb the ridges. Eusabio concerned himself with the puppy rescued from the placita. There was a goat in the herd, a doe that was followed by a three-months-old kid. Eusabio caught the doe and brought her in. He tied the goat’s feet and, bringing the pup to her, placed the small dog adjacent to her udder. The goat fought and struggled and finally, giving up, lay still and watched her captor with wicked, black-slotted, yellow eyes. Dan, strolling over, stood beside Eusabio. The pup sucked a teat, with small whimpering noises when he lost it.