Range Of Golden Hoofs Read online

  After the greeting Dan was introduced to Fitzpatrick’s bartender, and then the two men seated themselves at a table. The bartender, assured that it was too soon after supper for a drink, returned to his post and Fitzpatrick, leaning back in his chair, surveyed his companion.

  “They treat you all right at the hotel?” he asked.

  Dan nodded, and Fitzpatrick, finding a cigar, proffered it, bit the end from another and scratched a sulphur match against his boot sole. “How do you like Bendición?” he questioned around the cigar. “Pretty good town?”

  “A pretty good town,” Dan agreed.

  Men drifted into the saloon: two townsmen who stood at the bar and ordered beer; three men—riders, cowmen from their dress—came through the door and paused at the end of the bar. The bartender went to them, attending to their wants, and Dan Shea puffed his good Havana and let the smoke trail up.

  “A pretty good town,” he said again.

  “Halfway between Albuquerque an’ El Paso,” Fitzpatrick stated. “There’s lots of minin’. It would be a good town to settle in.” He looked narrowly at his companion.

  “I…” Dan began and checked.

  Sam Youtsey, the sheriff, had come through the door and, nodding briefly to the cowboys at the bar end, advanced toward the table.

  Youtsey stopped beside Shea and Fitzpatrick, pulled out a chair and sat down. “I sent a wagon out for the body,” the sheriff announced without preamble. “It ought to be in tomorrow.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded gravely, and Dan inched his chair around so that he more fully faced the officer.

  The sheriff looked at Dan Shea. “What’s your business here, Mr Shea?” he asked bluntly.

  Dan was slow in replying. The question broke the ethics of the time and country. A man’s business was private until he chose to announce it. Still, the interest of the sheriff was official rather than personal.

  “I’m looking for some sheep that can be bought reasonably,” Dan said. “You know of any?”

  Youtsey thought a moment before replying. “Sheep?” he said when he spoke.

  “I said sheep.”

  Youtsey looked at Fitzpatrick and seemed to smile. “You don’t look like a sheepman,” he commented, turning back to Dan.

  “But sheep are what I’m interested in.” Dan lifted his eyes from the sheriff. At the bar the cowboys were listening. Youtsey shifted in his chair.

  “Figgerin’ to locate?” he asked.

  “I just want to buy some sheep,” Dan drawled.

  “Well”—Youtsey’s admission was grudging—“there’s some sheep in the country. I could spare ’em, I guess, if you wanted to take ’em out.” He grinned appreciatively at his little joke. “The La Luz folks got some, an’ you might find some sheep at El Puerto del Sol. Don Martin O’Connor might let you have some.”

  “Don Martin O’Connor?” Dan echoed the words.

  “That’s his name,” Youtsey said. “He owns El Puerto del Sol. Yeah…I guess you could find some sheep there.”

  “Whereabouts is it?” Dan leaned forward.

  “East.” The sheriff waved a vague hand. “Mail hack goes out there. O’connor’s headquarters are on the star route.”

  “When does the hack leave?”

  “Tomorrow.” The sheriff paused. “We’re goin’ to hold an inquest tomorrow mornin’ too. I came to tell you. About eight o’clock. You be there.” He included Fitzpatrick in his glance. The saloonkeeper nodded.

  “At the courthouse,” Youtsey added and stood up. He nodded to Fitzpatrick, glanced at Dan and then, turning, walked toward the door, stopping to speak briefly to the cowmen at the bar.

  When Youtsey was gone Fitzpatrick grunted. “The sheriff,” he drawled, “is quite a joker.”

  “How do you mean?” Dan asked.

  Fitzpatrick did not answer that question. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to buy some sheep?” he asked. “I could have steered you.”

  “I came down tonight to talk to you about it.” Dan Shea smiled.

  “Oh!” Fitzpatrick’s grunt was mollified.

  “Do you,” Dan spoke slowly, “think I might pick up some sheep from O’Connor?”

  Fitzpatrick’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Don Martin,” he drawled, “is a pretty hard citizen. Nobody around here likes him much. There’s other places where you might get sheep easier.”

  “But O’Connor’s got ’em?”

  “He’s got plenty.” The saloonkeeper broke off and appeared to be lost in thought. “Why don’t you try someplace else?” he asked suddenly. “O’Connor…” Fitzpatrick broke off abruptly.

  “It’s the closest place, I take it,” Dan answered. “What I want is sheep. I’m not interested in the kind of man I get ’em from.”

  Up at the end of the bar one of the cowpunchers spoke, lifting his voice until the words were plain. “Let’s git out of here. I never could stand the smell of a lousy sheepman.”

  Dan Shea flushed. Fitzpatrick lifted his head and looked at the speaker, his stare long and slow and hard.

  “If I bother your business…” Dan began, shifting as though to rise.

  “Set still,” Fitzpatrick rasped, continuing to stare at the men.

  “It does kinda stink in here.” Another of the three made his ideas evident.

  Fitzpatrick got up. “Get out then,” he said definitely. “Down at the honky-tonk’s where you belong. Go on down there!” The saloon man’s voice was hard, rasping. Dan Shea had seen Fitzpatrick in action. Fitzpatrick, he judged, was a pretty salty citizen, a man capable of looking after things.

  “Go on!” Fitzpatrick ordered curtly.

  At the end of the bar the cowboys hesitated. They had been drinking, were drunk enough to be ugly. Fitzpatrick moved away from the table and took a step. One of the cowboys put money on the bar.

  “It’ll be a damned long time before we’re back,” he snapped, glaring at Fitzpatrick.

  “It won’t be half long enough!” Fitzpatrick rasped.

  The cowboys went out, one of them clinking change defiantly in his hand. Fitzpatrick sat down. “I’ve been wantin’ to do that,” he drawled.

  Dan made no comment. There was something between Fitzpatrick and the men who had gone out, some old quarrel half settled.

  “Have a glass of beer,” Fitzpatrick invited.

  The bartender brought the beer. Dan and Fitzpatrick sat drinking it, sipping slowly. The beer was not quite warm, not quite cold. “I can’t get ice in here,” Fitzpatrick said. “Have to keep the beer in the cellar.”

  Dan nodded.

  The evening business had begun. Men filtered into the saloon, stepping up to the bar, speaking to Fitzpatrick, asking him concerning his trip. Dan Shea sat at the table, his fingers touching his beer glass, watching the men, watching Fitzpatrick. There was more to Fitzpatrick, he estimated, than there was to the ordinary run of saloonkeepers. Dan liked the man, realizing the force that lay under the sandy exterior, recognizing the man’s strength. Fitzpatrick, he thought idly, would do to take along. He would make a hand.

  “You didn’t tell Youtsey that you wanted to locate here,” Fitzpatrick said suddenly.

  “I don’t, really,” Dan answered. “I want to trail sheep north. There’s a market in Colorado. I need to make a little money. The panic wiped me out.”

  “It’s made hard times every place,” Fitzpatrick agreed. “I…” He stopped. Dan Shea was looking toward the door, his face set in harsh, hard lines.

  Two newcomers were in the doorway, poised there, filling the opening. One was short, broad, with flaxen yellow hair and a blond mustache. The other, taller and dark, was plainly a native. Dan Shea stared at the blond man.

  “You know him?” Fitzpatrick asked curiously.

  “I know him!” Dan Shea answered shortly.

  In his mind was recollection. There was heat and the hard, sharp sounds of battle all about him. Brush surrounded him, too, lying in a tangle all about, and beside Dan sprawled a man in a blue uniform
: Ashland Davies, his friend. Davies was bleeding out his life. For the moment Dan Shea was back in the wilderness fight. He could almost smell the powder smoke.

  “I take it you don’t like Delaney,” Fitzpatrick drawled.

  Dan did not answer. Delaney and his companion had left the door and were coming toward the table. Delaney was looking at Fitzpatrick. His eyes left the saloonkeeper’s gaze and met Dan Shea’s. For an instant George Delaney stopped short, then a smile broke across his face and he came on, his hand outstretched.

  “Dan Shea!” All the warmth of greeting was in Delaney’s voice. “I never thought I’d see you here. I never expected to see you again!”

  Dan did not move. He ignored the outstretched hand, and his eyes, meeting Delaney’s, bit into them.

  “You never expected to see me anyplace, Delaney,” he rapped out. “Not after you’d left me to die!”

  Delaney had stopped beside the table. He lowered his hand slowly. “Why, Dan…” Delaney began.

  Dan Shea read the bitter indictment that was in his mind. “You pulled out! You knew that Davies was dying and you knew that I was hurt. You heard me call you and you never came back. You damned coward!”

  Delaney’s eyes would not meet Dan’s own. Dan Shea went on, his voice passionless. “Davies died. I spent the next six months in a hospital. I looked for you after I got out. I wanted to tell you what kind of a skunk you are, Delaney!”

  A hot flush suffused George Delaney’s cheeks. “I didn’t hear you call,” he evaded. “I…”

  “That’s a lie!” Dan Shea said flatly and waited.

  The color drained slowly from Delaney’s face. For an instant he remained, confronting Dan Shea, and then he wavered, half turning toward the bar. The native with him took a half step and glared down at Dan, his eyes hostile. “Señor…” he began.

  “You’re in poor company,” Dan Shea said coldly and looked at Delaney again. Delaney completed his turn. He said: “Come on, Ramon,” over his shoulder, and without a backward glance started to the door. The native paused, undecided, then wheeling swiftly, followed Delaney. The barroom was quiet until they had gone out, remained quiet. Dan let his shoulders relax until they touched the back of his chair.

  “You said you knew him,” Fitzpatrick drawled. “I take it he knew you, too. All right. We’ll have another drink over here.”

  Dan shook his head. “I’ll get out,” he said thickly. “I’m going back to the hotel.” He rose wearily to his feet. Fitzpatrick looked at the bartender who had moved to serve them.

  “Let the drink go,” he instructed. “I’ll walk back to the hotel with you, Shea.”

  Outside the saloon the street was quiet enough. A wind was rustling the little leaves of the plaza’s cottonwoods. Dan Shea, walking toward the hotel, Fitzpatrick beside him, hardly heard the wind. His mind was still filled with the cold anger that possessed him. Fitzpatrick strolled along, unhurried, and perforce Dan’s gait matched that of his companion.

  “Want to talk about it?” Fitzpatrick asked.

  Words broke from Dan Shea, rushing over the dam of his mind. “He left the best friend I ever had to die! It was in the Battle of the Wilderness an’ we were trapped. I couldn’t get Davies out alone. I called to Delaney…”

  “An’ he never looked back,” Fitzpatrick drawled. “I’ve thought there was somethin’ wrong with George Delaney.”

  “I said I’d kill him!” Dan did not heed Fitzpatrick’s interpolation. “I swore I’d kill him if I saw him again.”

  Fitzpatrick’s drawl was soothing. “You couldn’t do it.”

  Dan Shea stopped short in his stride. “I swore I would,” he countered. “I swore I’d kill him.”

  Fitzpatrick’s level voice blended with the murmur of the wind. “You couldn’t do it,” he repeated. “You ain’t the kind of man that can do a killin’. I know you’ve got guts, Shea, but you ain’t the kind that can step out an’ drop a man cold. He’s got to fight back.”

  They resumed their walking, Dan Shea moodily silent. A corner was turned, a street crossed, and they were almost at the hotel.

  “You didn’t do Delaney any good,” Fitzpatrick said. “You didn’t help him none. The talk will be all around town.”

  Still Dan said nothing. Fitzpatrick spoke again. “An’ you didn’t help your business any. That fello’ with Delaney was Ramon de la Luz. Delaney does some business for Ramon an’ they’re pretty thick. I guess you won’t get any De la Luz sheep, Shea.”

  The saloon man pondered a moment. They had stopped in front of the hotel now. “Most folks,” he drawled, “like Delaney. He’s got a pretty good business here. Does some law work an’ sells some land, an’ so on.”

  “Everybody always liked him,” Dan said shortly.

  “Until they found out about him, huh?” Fitzpatrick commented. “Well…good night, Shea.”

  “Good night,” Dan Shea answered and entered the hotel.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  EL PUERTO DEL SOL

  The Mail Hack for the East left Bendición at noon. Dan Shea, climbing into the spring wagon beside the driver, felt the fierce heat of the morning sun even in the semishade of the plaza. He had spent the morning at the courthouse, listening to Youtsey and Bendición’s justice of the peace conduct an inquest, and he was glad now to have that experience behind him.

  The little man who had been killed at the San Felice stage station was named Maples. So much had been ascertained from the letters found in his pocket. Other identification, there was none. The letters had come from the East, one from Boston, another from a town in Vermont, and were addressed to Sante Fe. Their contents shed no light on Maples, his connections or his business. One, apparently, came from a relative. It was signed, “Lovingly, Aunt Cora,” but aside from the postmark there was no address. The other letter, from Boston, was evidently a reply to some request Maples had made. It quoted prices on suits.

  The manager of the stage station who had come in for the inquest was apologetic concerning Maples’ telescope grip. “That damned Lucero,” the manager said, “sloped with it.”

  Lucero, the manager further stated, was a half-breed Mescalero Apache. He had been hired as a hostler at San Felice. Aside from that the manager knew nothing of Lucero’s antecedents or of where he had gone. “Them Indians,” the stageman informed, “will take anything that ain’t nailed down. I guess Lucero seen the clothes an’ truck in that grip an’ figgered that he wanted ’em. Anyhow, he pulled out with it sometime last night.”

  Youtsey opened his mind concerning the slackness at the station, letting the stationman know just what he thought of such carelessness, but there was nothing that the sheriff could do about it. The grip was gone.

  Fitzpatrick had come down to the post office to see Dan off. He stood leaning on the wheel beside Dan while the driver attended to those last-minute details that seem always to be a part of any departure. Dan, comfortable on the seat, his coat removed and folded beside him, settled his hat so that it shaded his eyes, and grinned down at the saloon man.

  “I’ll be back,” he assured. “Tomorrow or the next day. I’ll see what there is at El Puerto del Sol and if I don’t find what I want I’ll come right back here.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded, his blue eyes gloomy. “They’re goin’ to bury Maples this afternoon,” he said. “He won’t keep in this weather, an’ I guess they’ve got to bury him right away, but it kind of seems a shame somehow.”

  “Youtsey,” Dan commented dryly, “don’t seem to be much stirred up over a murder. He’s taking it pretty easy, it seems to me. Well, we did what we could, anyhow. We’re not officers.”

  “No,” Fitzpatrick agreed. “We ain’t. Here comes the driver. You take care of yourself, Shea. I’ll be lookin’ for you back.”

  They gripped hands briefly, and Fitzpatrick retreated to the front of the post office while the driver climbed into the seat and gathered up the lines. Under his urging the horses eased into the collars and the spring wagon rolled awa
y. When Dan looked back Fitzpatrick was still beside the post office, leaning against the wall, a solitary, inscrutable figure.

  Pulling out of Bendición, the mail wagon came to the long wooden bridge that stretched across the Rio Grande. The horses’ feet thumped on the planking, and the wheels rumbled. Beyond the bridge was the desert, and the road climbed slowly toward a mesa top. On either side of the road the country stretched away, rock and sand dotted with the hardy desert growths, and behind them the river lay, a green flanked serpent in the brown earth. Cat’s-claw, mesquite, greasewood lined the road, here and there interspersed with sparse grass. The sun beat down and the horses walked steadily.

  “Goin’ to El Puerto del Sol?” the driver asked.

  Dan nodded.

  “Goin’ to buy some sheep?”

  It was apparent that Dan’s business had been bruited about the town that morning. Dan nodded again.

  “Ol’ Don Martin ain’t apt to sell you any,” the driver stated and spat expertly over a wheel.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he ain’t.” A brief pause, then: “He don’t sell to nobody around here.”

  Dan waited. Apparently the driver was going to pass out information. The driver did. “Don Martin O’Connor,” he drawled. “He married one of the Alarid girls. That’s how come him to have El Puerto.”

  “Whereabouts is it?” Dan asked.

  “Right ahead,” the driver answered. “We’ll be on grant land pretty quick. El Puerto del Sol reaches from back of the Alforjas clear down to Alamo Creek. Soon as we cross the creek we’re on Don Martin’s land.”