Range Of Golden Hoofs Page 15

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  YELLOW PARCHMENT

  Fitzpatrick brought a buggy from the livery barn. There was not room in the buggy for three people, and so when he wakened Dan and helped the sleep-numbed man out to the waiting rig, Fitzpatrick did not disturb Vicente. With the help of the man who had stayed at the saloon Fitzpatrick carried Vicente to a cot in the back room and placed him there, Vicente sleeping deeply throughout the whole proceeding.

  “You tell my bartender to look out for him, Jack,” Fitzpatrick admonished his companion. “He’ll be all right there for now, but he’d drink all the liquor in the place if somebody wasn’t with him when he woke up. An’ tell the bartender I’ll be back when I get here an’ he’s to look after things.”

  Jack said: “Sure thing, Fitz.”

  “An’ take these horses down to the livery,” Fitzpatrick ordered. “I forgot ’em. Here…wait till I get the stuff off the saddles.”

  He was standing in the door of his saloon as he spoke and now he stepped out to the horses, lifted Dan’s saddlebags from behind one saddle and, untying saddle strings, took Vicente’s bundle from behind the cantle of the other saddle. “I’ll lock up,” he said. “An’ I’m sure obliged to you, Jack.”

  “That’s all right, Fitz,” Jack said.

  A key clicked in the lock of the door, and Fitzpatrick climbed into the waiting buggy where Dan Shea, utterly worn, slept soundly. Jack waited until the buggy rolled away and then, taking the bridle reins, started down the side of the plaza, leading the horses.

  Fitzpatrick drove steadily. He had moonlight until the bridge was crossed. After the moon set he continued, the horses following the well-marked road; Fitzpatrick relaxed under the darkness of the buggy’s top.

  Gray dawn was in the east when Fitzpatrick’s buggy wheeled into the settlement of El Puerto del Sol. He drove up the hill, stopped the buggy in front of the big house and, reaching for Dan’s shoulder, shook it.

  “Wake up, Dan!” Fitzpatrick ordered. “Wake up. We’re here.”

  Dan opened his eyes and stared blankly at his friend. Then as realization dawned, overpowering sleep, he straightened, shifted on the seat and stepped down from the buggy.

  El Puerto del Sol was not yet awake. Dan Shea, with Fitzpatrick beside him, beat upon a door until it was opened and the sleepy face of the mayordomo showed. That face brightened as the arrivals were recognized, and the mayordomo brought the two men into the living room of the big house and hastened away to arouse the occupants of the hacienda. Dan sank down in a chair. Fitzpatrick walked over and stood looking out a window. Muffled voices sounded, then Bruno Gotlieb, his nightshirt tucked into his trousers, and slippers on his sockless feet, entered the room.

  “You heard?” he asked, looking at Dan.

  “In Albuquerque,” Dan answered. “I came right on. How is Marillita?”

  “She’s taking it badly,” Gotleib answered. “She…” He stopped. Swift steps sounded. Marillita, a dressing gown thrown over her night robe, appeared at the door, paused a moment and then with a little cry ran across the long room to Dan. Gotleib turned away. Fitzpatrick, after one hasty glance, faced the window again. There was no sound in the room other than the soft weeping of the girl.

  Gradually her sobbing quieted. Lifting his face from Marillita’s hair, Dan saw Gotleib and Fitzpatrick watching him, compassion in their expressions. There were two others in the room: Perrier, the Englishman, and a short, small-bodied man dressed in the robes of a priest. The priest advanced, his face sad and yet somehow lifting the sorrow that weighted Dan. The priest reached out his hand and gently touched Marillita.

  “He has come a long way,” the priest said softly. “He needs rest and food, Marillita.”

  It was exactly the right thing to have said. The girl straightened, recalled from her grief. “Of course,” she said. “Oh, Dan…”

  A moment more she remained in Dan’s arms, as though loath to leave their consolation. Then, freeing herself, she hastened across the room and out the door. The priest stood looking at Dan Shea. “I am Father John, my son,” he announced, holding out his hand.

  Dan took the proffered hand in his own. He shook hands with Bruno Gotleib and received and returned a firm handgrip with Perrier. Marillita came back into the room to cross and stand beside Dan. He slipped his arm around her, and there was an awkward silence. While the girl was present Dan could not ask the questions that filled him. Father John sensed that. Once more he came forward and touched Marillita.

  “Come,” he ordered, “the men must talk.” Obediently Marillita followed him, looking back at Dan Shea from the door. When priest and girl were gone Dan sat down.

  “You’ll want to know what happened,” Gotleib announced, his tone clipped and short. “I’ll tell you.” He, too, seated himself. Perrier found a chair. Fitzpatrick remained standing, staring moodily out the window.

  “I brought Don Martin back yesterday,” Gotleib began. “I came in yesterday afternoon.” With that beginning he continued, telling Dan of the finding of two bodies by goatherders who came to shelter following a storm; of how those herders had sent for officers; of the identification of the bodies; of how he had been informed, and of what had been done. Halfway through, an interruption checked the recital. Fitzpatrick turned from the window and made a brief announcement. “Here’s Louder.”

  Gotleib paused while Perrier went to the door and ushered lanky Jesse Louder into the room. Louder shook hands with Dan, with Perrier and with Gotleib and made brief announcement. “I got the word last night. Came over as quick as I could.” He sat down, and Gotleib, going back, retraced what he had already told and then continued to the completion of his tale.

  “No one knows who did it,” Gotleib concluded. “There were no tracks. The rain had washed them out. Whoever killed Don Martin left no clues. But…” The lawyer paused a moment.

  “Go on, man!” Dan Shea ordered.

  “Ramon de la Luz and George Delaney were in Bendición just before the bodies were found,” Gotleib announced. Then significantly: “They’d been in Albuquerque but they weren’t there when the word was brought in.”

  Dan Shea grunted, like a man hit low, below the belt. His eyes traveled around the little circle and paused upon Gotleib’s face.

  “Of course that proves nothing,” Gotleib interposed hastily.

  “I want you to know,” Louder said in the silence that followed Gotleib’s statement, “that I’m with you in whatever you do, Shea.”

  Dan turned to look at the cowman. Louder was watching him intently, as were all the others. It was borne to Dan Shea then that these men, all of them, were with him. Louder had simply voiced the thoughts of all. They would follow him, Louder, Fitzpatrick, Perrier, even Gotleib. The leadership was his.

  “I…” Dan Shea began. Then: “We’ll take things one at a time.” He paused a moment as though he would speak further, then abruptly he got up and left the room.

  Marillita was in the little chapel. Martin O’Connor lay in state before the altar and, as was fitting, Salvador Ocano lay beside him. El Puerto del Sol had furnished two diamond-shaped wooden coffins for these, her master and her son. Tall candles burned about the biers, and Marillita knelt before the altar. Dan Shea joined her. They were both there, kneeling side by side, when Father John, robed in his vestments, roused them gently and led them to the family pew. The little church filled with silent men and women, and the strong deep voice of the priest as he began to intone the Latin of the Mass echoed in the quiet.

  From the tiny chapel, through the cold December morning, the men of El Puerto del Sol carried Martin O’Connor to his final resting place. Salvador Ocano followed his patrón, in death as in life, and in the burial ground Martin O’Connor was lowered beside his wife. Again the priest spoke, completing the ritual, asking a final blessing on these servants of the Church, and presently the graveyard was emptied as the procession filed away, Marillita leaning heavily upon Dan Shea’s arm.

  Back at the
house once more Perrier and Fitzpatrick, Louder and Gotleib, gathered in the living room. Father John joined them there.

  “Dan?” Fitzpatrick said, questioning the priest.

  “He’s with Marillita,” Father John replied.

  Fitzpatrick nodded and sat down. The others also found seats. A fire snapping in the fireplace broke the heavy silence of the wait. Father John looked at the men. Their faces were hard, stern with the thoughts of their owners. The priest sighed. He could guess those thoughts.

  “I wish Dan would come,” Fitzpatrick said restlessly when the wait had grown intolerable.

  “He’ll come soon enough,” Perrier answered, his words clipped. “And he’ll tell us.”

  As though that were his cue Dan Shea came through the door and stopped. “Marillita’s resting,” he announced. “I persuaded her to lie down.” Every eye in the room was fixed on Dan’s face.

  “Well, Shea?” Louder rasped.

  Dan came on into the room and sank heavily into a chair beside the fireplace. Mechanically he reached down and, lifting a log from the pile beside the hearth, placed it on the flames.

  “I sold the sheep,” he announced suddenly. “I’ll tell you.”

  The others leaned forward, all save the priest who stood watching them.

  “I’ve brought the money home,” Dan continued. “Not that it will do any good now.” His voice was bitter. “I sold the sheep to Haberman in the San Luis Valley.”

  There was no inflection in his voice as he continued. Dispassionately, as though he spoke of some immaterial thing, Dan Shea recounted the story of his northward journey. When he told of the Apache raid and of the vengeance he had exacted his voice rose a trifle, dropping back into its monotony when that portion of the tale was finished. The long trip north passed before Dan’s listeners in his terse, quiet account. The bargaining with Haberman, the final delivery of the sheep, the trip to Trinidad: all these were passed over swiftly, simply.

  “So I got the money,” Dan Shea completed. “I traveled days because I wanted to get it here safe. When we got to Bernalillo I got impatient. We came on that night. Below Bernalillo we were jumped by two men. One of them was the man who killed Maples. Remember, Fitz? I said I’d seen him with Delaney in the plaza.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded.

  “The other”—Dan turned to Louder—“used to work for you. His name was Buster Something-or-other.”

  “Buster Flint,” Louder amended. “Go on, Shea.”

  “They tried to waylay us,” Dan recounted. “Vicente was behind. His mule was tired and he’d dropped back. He came up, and that gave me a chance and I took the fellow that had jumped me. Vicente got to this Buster Flint and killed him. We came on to Albuquerque. I was going to report the whole thing to the sheriff, but when I got to your house, Gotleib, I heard about Don Martin so I came on here.”

  His recital finished, Dan looked at his friends. A little silence hung over the group. “That’s all of it, then,” Fitzpatrick broke the quiet. “What do you think, Dan?”

  “What you all think,” Dan answered swiftly. “But I haven’t got a dime’s worth of proof.”

  “Hell,” Louder drawled, “we don’t need proof.”

  Fitzpatrick placed the tips of his long fingers together. “The man that killed Maples,” he said slowly. “He tried for you an’ you got him. Dan, I’ve always wondered why Maples was killed. If that damned Lucero up at the stage station hadn’t sloped with Maples’ grip mebbe we’d of found out. He…”

  Suddenly Dan Shea straightened. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “I was talkin’ about Maples,” Fitzpatrick reminded patiently. “I said if that hostler, Lucero, hadn’t run off with Maples’ grip mebbe we’d of known what that was all about.”

  In Dan’s mind events fell into place, seemingly clicked into a pattern. Maples! Lucero! He could almost picture the campfire with Landcaster, the scout, lounging beside it; could almost hear the old scout’s drawling voice: “Lucero was a half-breed an’ clear bad. He’d worked with white men just long enough to get smart. I knew there’d be trouble when he come back to the reservation last spring.”

  “I wish Vicente was here,” Dan said. “He’s got some stuff in his bundle that I wish I had.”

  “I brought it out last night,” Fitzpatrick stated, rising. “It’s around someplace. Mebbe in the buggy.”

  Dan’s eyes brightened. “Get it,” he ordered and then, looking at Father John: “Can you read Spanish, Padre?”

  “Yes,” the priest answered, puzzled. “I can read it.”

  “Get that bundle, Fitz!” Dan Shea commanded.

  Fitzpatrick went out. While he was gone the men eyed Dan Shea with puzzled eyes. They sensed his excitement, sensed the pent-up tension in the man. “What’s this all about, Shea?” Louder asked finally. “What’s got you stirred up?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Dan responded. “I think…Here’s Fitz!”

  Fitzpatrick came back carrying Vicente’s blanket-wrapped bundle. He dumped it down on a table top without regard for the polished surface. “There you are, Dan,” Fitzpatrick said.

  Dan’s fingers fumbled as he untied knots in a buckskin string. He spread the bundle open, exposing Vicente’s few personal belongings, exposing a battered derby hat, a wrinkled coat with a loud pattern, bringing to light a long roll of leather. Still with fumbling fingers he opened the roll and brought out parchments which he held out toward Father John.

  “Can you read this?” Dan demanded.

  The priest took the parchments, yellow and crackling. He looked at the first page, bent closer and began to study it.

  “What is it?” Dan rasped.

  The priest held up his hand. “Wait!” he ordered.

  Dan stepped back a pace. Father John, face wrinkled in concentration, continued to pour over the parchment. Presently he lifted his hand. “This,” he said slowly, “is the record of a Spanish court. It is the report of a suit between Don Silberio de la Luz and Don Portillos Alarid.”

  “What does it say?” Dan demanded. Gotleib was beside the priest now, bending down, peering over the priest’s shoulder, his thin face keen and excited.

  “I’ll read it for you,” Father John announced. “It will be slow, for the writing is old and hard for me to read. Sit down. I’ll read it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  GOOD WINE SPEAKS

  Fitzpatrick’s bartender, opening up at nine o’clock, wakened Vicente. The bartender had come down early, and he was pleased to find his guest still asleep. Jack had relayed Fitzpatrick’s instructions to the bartender, including the warning not to leave Vicente alone.

  Awake, stiff from his long ride and still very weary, Vicente stayed around the saloon, hoping for something that would help him. He felt alone, discarded and out of the picture. Dan Shea, the bartender told him, was at El Puerto del Sol. He advised Vicente to get out there because Martin O’Connor was being buried. There was definite hostility in the attitude of the bartender who, as he often announced, didn’t like a Mexican. Vicente sensed that hostility and reacted to it typically. It was as natural as breathing for Vicente to take a full quart of wine when the bartender’s back was turned.

  With the quart hidden under his coat Vicente fared out to see what he could do about breakfast and transportation to El Puerto del Sol. East of the plaza, in that section of Bendición that was known as Chihuahua, Vicente encountered a friend, one of the men from the shearing crew in which Vicente had acted as colero. Vicente gave his friend a drink, and the friend gave Vicente breakfast at his house. Warmed and satisfied by the meal, Vicente forgot his determination to get to El Puerto. He decided to stay in town awhile.

  Vicente’s friend was filled with news. From the friend Vicente learned of the things that had occurred in Bendición since his departure for the north. Too, in all the native population of the town, there was an undercurrent of rumor. Talk and speculation were rife concerning El Puerto del Sol and the death of Don Martin
O’Connor. There was a story circulating, a nebulous tale that had no facts to back it, that there had been a big fight and that O’Connor and Salvador Ocano had been killed during the combat. Vicente, his friend, and some others that came in polished off the bottle. Vicente had money given him by Dan Shea. Basking in his glory as a returned traveler, as a man who had seen far places and come back, and as an Indian fighter, Vicente bought a fresh supply of wine.

  The news of Dan Shea’s return was spread over Bendición. Jack, who had carried word to Fitzpatrick’s bartender, told the story when he visited the post office. The bartender amplified the tale when he was questioned. Dan Shea was back and had gone directly to El Puerto del Sol. Vicente Lebya had been with Shea, the bartender said. Vicente was someplace around town. It was very natural that George Delaney, coming down to get the mail, should hear the story. It was natural, too, that Delaney should be worried. From the post office he went directly to his law office where he kindled a fire in his small sheet-iron stove. Then as the fire warmed the room Delaney sat down behind his desk and, the mail forgotten, indulged in thought.

  Delaney was afraid of Dan Shea. In all his conniving and scheming, Dan had been the unforeseen factor, the one person that Delaney could not discount. Somewhere in his plans, Delaney knew, things had gone wrong. There had been a mistake, a grave blunder, else Dan Shea would never have returned to Bendición. George Delaney was frightened. A frightened man commits errors. George Delaney sent for Ramon de la Luz.

  It was eleven o’clock before Ramon answered the summons. Arturo was with Ramon when he came into Delaney’s office. Ramon was anxious, for Delaney’s summons had been urgent. Arturo swaggered as he came through the door and, finding a chair, placed his hat on the floor beside him. Since the death of Martin O’Connor Arturo had felt his importance keenly. He played the bravo whenever he was in Bendición.

  “Dan Shea is back,” Delaney announced without preamble and looking steadily at Ramon. “He came in last night.”