Range Of Golden Hoofs Page 14

  “I believe you were right, Ramon,” Delaney said calmly. “This is the best way after all.” His right hand reached into the pocket of his coat and reappeared holding a small derringer.

  At sight of the gun Ramon de la Luz’s eyes widened. “George!” he began. “What are you…?”

  “I’ll finish what you started,” Delaney snapped, sudden ferocity on his face. “You…” The derringer leveled. Martin O’Connor’s eyes were wide with incredulity. Once again the walls of the rock house reverberated with the explosion of powder. One…two…the shots came deliberately, crashing and echoing in the little room. Delaney lowered the derringer and faced Ramon de la Luz.

  “That settles that!” he snarled. “It’s finished!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  THE ROAD HOME

  For almost a week after his first contact with Sol Haberman, Dan Shea stayed in the vicinity of San Luis. First the sheep had to be moved closer to the little town, and then came the delivery. Haberman was in no hurry and, sensing Dan’s impatience, he took advantage of it. The merchant, having bought a bargain, sought to make the bargain better, and he quibbled and argued over the cutting of the herd and the terms of the agreement.

  Haberman, strive as he would, could not stretch out the delivery indefinitely, and finally it was accomplished. The merchant paid for the ewes with a draft on a Trinidad bank. He did not have in cash the amount necessary to complete the transaction. Dan Shea wanted cash. He could not take the draft to Albuquerque and cash it there, for then the money would of necessity go into O’Connor’s account, and there was still an attachment on the don’s bank account. The best place to exchange the draft for money was in Trinidad. Whisky Pass, the road across the mountains from San Luis to Trinidad, was blocked with snow. It was necessary that Dan go another route.

  Placing Hilario in charge of the herders, and with fresh supplies purchased, Dan started them back along the trail. They were to go down through the valley, past Costilla, on to Arroyo Hondo and, crossing the river on the toll bridge, continue south, following the road in to Santa Fe, to Albuquerque and thence south to Bendición. In order to expedite the return Dan bought mounts for the herders. He himself, with Vicente to accompany him, struck south. At Costilla, above the plaza, they found the river low enough to ford. Crossing the river, they traveled southeast, bucking the snow and making a laborious progress across the mountains to the thriving mining center of Elizabethtown. From that place they had a good wagon road that led directly to Trinidad.

  In Trinidad Dan encountered difficulty in cashing the draft. Dan Shea was not known to Haberman’s bankers, and they demanded identification. Fortunately there were men in town who had known Shea in the days when he had operated a freighting outfit, and when these had identified him the draft was paid. Thus, with a fortune about his middle in a money belt, and with Vicente trotting along beside him on a mule, Dan Shea began the long journey home.

  From Trinidad he climbed up, taking Wooton’s toll road across Raton Pass, paying toll at the gate close beside the old pioneer’s ranch house, dropping on down to the stage station at Willow Springs, following along the stage road through Springer, Wagon Mound, Las Vegas and on toward the south. He was cautious as he rode for he knew that travelers were not safe in the country and that he was a tempting bait for any robber. Restraining his impatience, he stopped when night came, making his journey only by daylight, taking no risks. Vicente was always beside him, bright-eyed, alert, his Springfield across his thighs as he rode. Vicente had grown. He was squat and broad shouldered and stout, and a dark fuzz was beginning to cover his face. Dan Shea was Vicente’s god. At a word from Dan Vicente would have walked into hell itself and gone to grips with the devil.

  There was snow in the mountains below Las Vegas. In places the road was blocked by drifts through which the two travelers fought their way. The days were short, and perforce the journey of the day was also short. Dan fumed with impatience. Marillita was at the end of the long road, pulling on the strings. Dan Shea could feel the tug of those strings. Restraint became more and more difficult. They reached Santa Fe, tarried there a night and then went on. Bernalillo was reached late in the day with the sun going down and the long winter darkness spreading all about. Albuquerque was but twelve miles from Bernallilo, two and a half hours’ journey beyond them. Dan Shea cast caution to the winds. They would go on to Albuquerque. In Albuquerque was Bruno Gotleib and word from El Puerto del Sol. In Albuquerque there would be a letter from Marillita.

  Vicente and Dan Shea ate a hasty supper in the stage tavern in Bernalillo. While they ate their meal the mules were fed. Intent upon continuing his journey, hurried, fretted by his own impatience, Dan Shea lost some of his alertness. He had told the tavern keeper, when that worthy made inquiry, that he would not stay the night but would push on; and in the dining room, engrossed in his meal, he did not see the bearded man that came to the tavern keeper and casually made inquiry concerning the white man and the Indian in the dining room. Nor did he see the bearded man turn away, his inquiry answered, and walk out into the night that surrounded the tavern.

  His meal finished, with Vicente beside him like a shadow, Dan Shea sought the barn. The mules had been fed, the hostler said there in the warmth of the stable. It was a cold night and the weather was unsettled. There was a storm in prospect. Dan Shea, tightening the cinch about his mule, paid scant heed to the hostler’s warning. As he mounted, Vicente, too, found his saddle, and side by side the two left the lights and movement of Bernalillo. Before them stretched El Camino Real, the King’s Highway. Twelve miles more and they would be in Albuquerque, their journey almost done!

  Vicente’s mule was weary, more tired than the mule that Dan bestrode. Vicente’s mule, with the stubbornness of the breed, kept dropping back. Dan Shea, perforce, halted from time to time and waited for his companion to catch up. Sometimes in his impatience Dan did not notice that Vicente lagged and went on a distance before he stopped. The night was dark, with a ringed moon that gave but small light. Half an hour out of Bernalillo snow began to fall, great, wet flakes that melted when they struck Dan’s face and formed a thin white collar on his coat.

  Vicente had dropped back and Dan was perhaps fifty yards in advance when the call came. From beside the road, in the shadow of the great, gaunt cottonwoods that towered skyward, a voice lifted.

  “Hey there! Hey, stranger!”

  Dan Shea stopped his mule. He was alert, the thoughts that had engrossed him lost in the immediate awakening. “What’s wanted?” he called.

  “I got some trouble here,” the voice answered plaintively. “Wagon’s broke down. Can you give me a hand?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” Dan answered. “Can’t stop.” As he spoke he unbuttoned his outer coat. Vicente had stopped at the hail, just as Dan had done. He was back there on the road, waiting. Dan’s coat swung open and his hand reached in to the butt of the Colt holstered beneath his arm. He was alarmed.

  “Will you take word into town for me then?” Again the voice came from the shadow of the cottonwoods. “I got to have some help. Broke the reach on my wagon an’…” A lone man was coming out of the shadows toward Dan. Instinctively Dan relaxed. One man complaining about a broken wagon reach could not be very dangerous.

  “I’ll take in word,” Dan agreed. “Who do you want me to tell?”

  “You can tell the hostler at the OK wagon yard,” the advancing man answered. “You can…”

  He broke his speech and moved swiftly, almost beside Dan Shea. His hand shot up, gripping Dan’s coat and jerking, hauling Dan down from the mule. Behind Dan Shea, in the darkness, Vicente stirred to action. Vicente’s Springfield, carried across his thighs, was immediately available. The Springfield boomed, flame ringing its muzzle, blindingly. There was a frightened squawl from the ditch beside the road, the ditch that the cottonwoods shadowed, and momentarily the man that struggled with Dan Shea stopped his tugging.

  That moment gave Dan his chance. His hand came out f
rom beneath his coat, the Colt cocked and gripped firmly. He thrust the Colt down, its muzzle touching cloth, and pulled the trigger. The man who held him grunted and released his hold, staggering back. Dan came off the mule, tumbling from the little beast. He sensed rather than heard Vicente go by, running on foot. Then he was at grips with the man he had shot, tumbling over him, the pistol upraised in his hand as he sought for a place to strike.

  The gun chopped down, thudding on cloth and flesh, chopped down again. Beyond Dan there was a flurry of sound, a squeak as frightened as the sound of a mouse when the cat pounces, then the dull roar of a shot. Dan swung the Colt again, struck and heard the gun crunch against bone. Beneath him his adversary slumped, relaxed and lay quiet. There were footsteps close by and Dan, rising so that he was on his knees, pointed the gun in the direction of the sound, finger tense upon the trigger.

  “Soy Vicente,” came a voice.

  Dan relaxed his finger on the trigger and then, thumb on hammer, uncocked the gun.

  “El otro está muerto,” Vicente announced with satisfaction.

  Dan Shea got to his feet. With trembling fingers he sought and found a block of sulphur matches, pulled them out and, breaking off one match, struck it against the block. The match flamed an evil yellow. Bending, the match in his hand, Dan examined the man who had attacked him. A bearded, snarling face was upturned. Dan recognized that face. It was the man of the stage station of San Felice who had killed Maples, the man Dan had seen talking to George Delaney in Bendición’s plaza.

  The match guttered out. Vicente tugged at Dan’s sleeve. Together they walked to the ditch, and there Dan Shea lit another match. This time he knew not only the identity but the name of the man that Vicente had killed. It was Buster, the erstwhile rider of Jesse Louder’s YH. Vicente had used a knife, and Buster was not a pretty sight. Retiring a short distance from the bodies, Shea and his companion stood together. The mules were waiting patiently. Involuntarily Dan Shea shivered. He was chilled with a coldness other than that of the winter night. This was no ordinary robbery, no common holdup. These men had been sent; George Delaney had sent them. Dan was sure of it, sure but could not prove his facts.

  “Señor…” Vicente wanted to know the next move. He wanted Dan to make a decision. Dan thought rapidly. They were almost halfway between Bernalillo and Albuquerque. Should they go back? Dan shook his head. No use of going back. He knew no one in Bernalillo. In Albuquerque there was Bruno Gotleib.

  “We’ll go on,” Dan announced. “Leave them here, Vicente. We’ll go on to Albuquerque.”

  They mounted the mules. Riding on toward the south, the mules made a circle around the bodies that lay beside the road. Vicente stared down at the black blotch on the snow, the black blotch that was Buster. Pride welled up in Vicente. He had proved his worth. Dan Shea added to the pride.

  “You’re a good boy, Vicente,” he said after riding a long distance in silence.

  Vicente straightened visibly, sat taller in his saddle.

  It was eleven o’clock when Albuquerque was reached. Dan led the way directly to Bruno Gotleib’s house. That was the first place to report. When Gotleib was up and dressed they would go to the sheriff’s office together, and Dan could tell his story then but not before. It would be a good thing to have Bruno Gotleib with him. Gotleib could vouch for Dan Shea to the officers.

  The house stood in darkness. Dan left Vicente with the weary mules and, climbing the steps, battered on the door. Three times he knocked before a light appeared within the house. From behind the door a woman’s voice came, muffled and frightened. “Who is it?”

  “Dan Shea.”

  There was a brief pause, then the lock rattled. The door swung open and Mrs Gotleib, muffled in a long dressing robe, a lamp in her hand, stood facing Dan.

  “Where’s Mr Gotleib?” Dan asked hastily. “I’ve got to see him.”

  Mrs Gotleib shook her head. Her eyes were wide, filled with some emotion that Dan could not read. “Bruno isn’t here,” she said. “He’s gone to El Puerto del Sol.”

  “To El Puerto del Sol?”

  Slowly the woman nodded her head. “You haven’t heard,” she said, her voice filled with compassion. “You’ve been gone.”

  “Haven’t heard what?” Dan demanded. “Tell me.”

  “Martin O’Connor was killed,” Mrs Gotleib said. “Bruno’s gone to El Puerto to do what he can. You’d better come in, Mr Shea.”

  Dan Shea put his hand against the doorjamb for support. “Killed?” he said, unbelievingly. “Why I…”

  Mrs Gotleib stepped back. “Come in,” she said gently. “Is there anyone with you?”

  “Yes. There’s Vicente. I…”

  “Call him in. I’ll tell you what I know, Mr Shea.”

  Dan called Vicente, ordering him to tie the mules and come. When Vicente had obeyed the two men followed Mrs Gotleib into the house. In the living room she placed the lamp on the table and, drawing her wrapper about her, sank into a chair. Dan Shea faced her, and Vicente remained beside the door, his face an expressionless mask.

  “Mr O’Connor had been to see Bruno,” Mrs Gotlieb began. “He was going home. He was caught in a storm evidently and took shelter in a goat camp. The herders found his body there. He’d been robbed. They brought him in to Albuquerque and Bruno was called. He’s taken the body back to El Puerto del Sol. He left two days ago.”

  “Was anybody with Don Martin?” Dan asked, his voice strained.

  “Salvador Ocano. He was killed too.”

  “Do they know…? Is anyone suspected?”

  Mrs Gotleib shook her gray head. “No one,” she answered. “The sheriff thinks that Mr O’Connor was killed and robbed. He hasn’t any idea who did it. Let me make you some coffee, Mr Shea. You’re tired and this has been a shock to you. I’ll…” She got up.

  Dan held up a restraining hand. “I’ve got to get on to El Puerto del Sol,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve got to go. Where can I get horses, Mrs Gotleib? I’ve got to go on now, tonight!”

  Mrs Gotleib nodded understandingly. “I’ll dress,” she said. “Then I’ll take you over to Mitchell Kemp’s. He’s Bruno’s clerk. He can help you get horses.”

  “Tell me where he lives,” Dan ordered. “There’s no need of your going out. I can…”

  “No.” Mrs Gotleib shook her head. “It won’t take but a minute for me to dress. I’ll go with you.”

  Morning light, gradually unfolding details of road and country, found Dan Shea and Vicente on the road below Albuquerque. They were riding horses rented from the stage line. At San Felice they would leave the mounts they bestrode and, taking fresh horses, go on. Both men were weary, tired through to the bone, but there was no stopping. A grim relentlessness kept Dan Shea upright in his saddle, and that force, derived from Dan, also kept Vicente going. Vicente dozed as he rode, his hands wrapped about his saddle horn, his head slumped to his chest. But Dan could neither relax nor rest at all.

  At San Felice the change of horses was accomplished and the men rode on. It was impossible for them to reach Bendición before night came. Still, as evening grew they pushed steadily into the dusk. It was then that Vicente, riding close, spoke to his companion.

  “Señor…”

  “What is it, Vicente?”

  “Do you think that Don Martin was killed by those men we met?”

  Dan Shea shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I do think that those men and the men who killed Don Martin worked for the same man.”

  “Do you think we will meet that man?”

  “I know we’ll meet him,” Dan Shea answered with a grim sureness of tone. “I know that, Vicente.”

  Vicente reined his horse away and rode on. He was content.

  The hours went past with the miles. Night came and the horses followed the road in the moonlight. Then in the moonlight the black spot that was Bendición showed and gradually grew nearer, resolving into houses, into the skeletons of trees, into sparks of light. Wearily Dan Sh
ea and Vicente turned their horses into the plaza. There were lights about the plaza, glowing from the buildings, from the Golden Horn, from Fitzpatrick’s saloon, from the hotel. In front of Fitzpatrick’s the horses stopped, and stiffly the riders dismounted. With Vicente following him Dan pushed open the door and stepped into the barroom. At the bar a customer, taking one last drink, looked up quickly at the sound of arrival. Behind the bar Fitzpatrick said: “I’ll be damned. It’s Dan!”

  Dan Shea leaned wearily against the doorjamb. “It’s me, Fitz,” he agreed. “I’ve had the word. I’ve got to get out to El Puerto del Sol.”

  Fitzpatrick came around the end of the bar. “You’re tuckered out,” he announced. “Wouldn’t tomorrow mornin’ do? Can’t you wait?”

  Dan shook his head. “Tonight,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve got to…” Fitzpatrick caught Dan as he slumped down and, supporting him, helped his friend to a chair.

  “You can’t go tonight,” he objected. “You’re pooped out, Dan.”

  “I’ve got to go tonight.”

  Fitzpatrick straightened. Vicente had slumped wearily into a chair and was already asleep, his head resting on his arms where they sprawled out on a table. “Then I’ll take you out,” Fitzpatrick announced. “I’ll get a team from the livery barn an’ drive you.”

  “It’s mighty good of you, Fitz,” Dan Shea said, and utter exhaustion showed in his voice. “I…I think I’ll sleep a little while you get the team.” Every word had been an effort. Now, with the sentence spoken, Dan Shea, too, leaned forward on the table and, like Vicente, rested his head on his extended arms.

  Fitzpatrick looked at his solitary customer. “Jack,” he directed, “you stay here an’ look after things awhile, will you? I’m closed up for the night. I’ll be right back.”

  The customer nodded and Fitzpatrick, taking his coat from a hook on the back wall, pulled it on and hurried out into the night.