Lost Trail Page 6

  ‘Want me to saddle your horse?’ the stable man asked.

  ‘No. I can do it myself,’ John said with a kind of perverse pride. He removed his saddle from the partition and swung it up and on to the gray’s back. The movement hurt him – not with the kind of saber-like shock he might have suffered a few days ago, but still it caused a spasm of pain.

  John wondered if he were healing, or if the pain had been such a constant that he was simply learning to endure it.

  Early afternoon found him riding out on to the desert once more. Taking his bearings from the rough map, he followed a gully through a stand of cottonwood trees, their leaves silver in the sunlight. The gully, he decided, must have been Wolf Creek – a seasonal stream.

  Pointing the horse’s nose toward a distant knobby hill, John rode on. The real estate agent had estimated the distance from town to be about three miles. It was much farther than that. It seemed that Morgan Pride had chosen the most remote hideout possible.

  Finally John saw what he had been looking for. From the crest of a sandy knoll, he could see the two weather-grayed wooden buildings below. A small house, a tiny barn. He let his horse blow as he tried to formulate a plan. There seemed to be no way to creep up to the house unseen. The creosote-studded desert was flat ground for hundreds of yards around the house. Were they even in the house? John had to believe that they were. Why go to all of the trouble of renting the house when all Pride wanted to do was rest for a few days, then, perhaps striking out toward the Mexican border?

  Warily, John started his horse down the rocky face of the knoll, the sun now on his back as it lowered toward the western horizon. He heard a sound from the tiny barn – a horse nickered. They were still there then – or someone was.

  Having achieved the flats, John approached the house from the blind side. There were two small windows in front, none he could see anywhere else, unless there was a back window he could not see from this angle.

  He checked the loads in his Colt unnecessarily. It was always loaded. It was only a nervous gesture.

  He pulled up the gray beside the stable where he could not be seen from the house. And if his horse were to be heard to nicker it would be assumed that it was one of their own horses – for passing the barn door, Morgan could see that there were two horses stabled up within its dark, musty interior. Palming his Colt, he slipped up to the side of the house. It took him a minute to gather his courage. Without a plan, he was risking much, but this was the job he had accepted, and this would be his last day on the job.

  One way or the other.

  There was a narrow porch in front of the house, but John was reluctant to use it. It was very old and likely swayed and creaked when someone passed over it. Instead he made his way directly to the front door and after three deep breaths leaped across the sagging steps there, putting his shoulder to the door which burst open, slamming against the wall. He didn’t have to wait long to find Morgan Pride.

  The robber was sitting at a wooden table, his back to John Tanner who had his gun cocked and ready to fire.

  ‘Wes?’ Morgan asked glancing toward the sun-bright rectangle of the door, blinking into the glare of the desert sun.

  ‘Wes won’t be coming,’ John told Pride. ‘Neither will Charlie Cox.’

  Morgan Pride remained motionless while his eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the day. He abruptly half-rose, shouting out, ‘John Tanner!’

  ‘That’s right. I wouldn’t try it, Morgan. I’ve got you in my sights. There’s no way you’re going to beat me.’

  ‘Listen, Tanner,’ Morgan Pride said, hoisting his hands high as he rose cautiously from the table. ‘You know I never….’

  Pride was snake-quick. Tanner should have just shot the man in cold blood as he sat at the table, for Pride drew his pistol and rolled to the floor, firing three hasty shots at John before he rose to one knee to try sending a more carefully aimed bullet in John’s direction.

  Deliberately then, Tanner shot the man once, twice and Morgan Pride jerked spastically, trying to come to his feet. His arms flailed; his right knee buckled beneath him and his revolver dropped from his fingers.

  ‘That was damned stupid,’ Tanner said to the dying man. But Morgan Pride had always had more heart than common sense. Reflecting, Tanner decided that this was the only way it could have ended – with one of them dead. What was he to do? Escort Pride back to the C-bar-C with Pride watching every minute, waiting for the first opportunity to break free, watching Tanner as he slept, looking for a moment’s inattention?

  He stood over the unmoving Morgan Pride for a time, studying the dead man’s contorted features. Then he heard a small sound from the other room, and cocking his pistol, Tanner started that way, wondering if he had guessed wrong about Pride being alone out here.

  She leaned against the far wall, facing it. Becky’s hands were clenched into fists. She looked around fearfully, then recognized Tanner and rushed to him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I knew you would come, John,’ she said. ‘It’s been a nightmare! Did you … kill him?’

  ‘He won’t bother you again.’

  ‘I had to do whatever he said,’ Becky said with a trembling lip. ‘I even had to pretend to like him. Otherwise … he said that all I was doing was slowing him down.’

  Tanner nodded without replying. Was he listening to the truth or to a hurriedly concocted story? The real estate agent had said that she appeared fearful – that was the only evidence he had that Becky Canasta had been accompanying Morgan Pride as a hostage. He had deep reservations, but as he looked into her damp blue eyes, saw the fear there, he almost believed her; wanted to believe her. Perhaps he could find out something definite on the trail home. Ben Canasta wanted his daughter back, and Tanner meant to deliver her. He got on with more practical matters.

  ‘Change into riding clothes and get your horse ready to trail out of here, Becky. I’m taking you back to the C-bar-C. Untether Pride’s horse and let it follow along with us or stay out here, whichever it chooses to do. There’s only one other thing:

  ‘Where is the money hidden?’

  SIX

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ Tanner, who was not an especially religious man, breathed as they reached the town limits of Ruidoso late that afternoon. Becky Canasta, dirt on her face, her expression glum, hair straggling free of her straw hat, bore little resemblance to the goddess he had once seen in the moonlight. She had a small travelling bag tied to her saddlehorn. Just now she was wearing blue jeans, and a red plaid shirt.

  She looked far more exhausted than Tanner felt. But after all she was returning from a life of peril and entering an uncertain new life.

  As for Tanner – now it was done. He had the money stolen from Ben Canasta, minus that spent by the Morgan Pride gang along the way, and he had Becky. He was looking forward to returning to the C-bar-C, having done his job well. For now he meant to take a much-needed rest. Knowing the way, Tanner rode directly to the hotel, still feeling the warm glow of success.

  ‘I need a bath, a bed,’ Becky said in a dry, throttled voice.

  ‘Any minute now,’ Tanner said as he swung down from his horse, shouldered the saddle-bags which contained Morgan Pride’s share of the stolen money. Becky had hesitated when Tanner had demanded the money, but finally she had showed him a disused pantry where Pride had concealed the loot.

  Now as they entered the hotel, the weight of the saddle-bags on his shoulder was reassuring rather than being a burden. They passed the desk of the hotel, and Becky inquired with her eyes. ‘I’ve already got a room here,’ Tanner explained. ‘We’ll get you another after I’ve had the time to sit down with Chad Garret and talk things through.’

  Becky’s eyes were dubious but not necessarily worried. After all she had spent the past week in the company of a gunman. Walking into Tanner’s room, despite the fact that it was something a lady just did not do, held little threat for her.

  Tanner stopped in front of the hotel room door, rapped twice, frowned as he got
no answer, then figured that Chad was already up and gone, probably to some restaurant to alleviate his constant hunger.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Tanner said, and he stepped into the room. It was empty; Chad had gone out somewhere. Gesturing Becky in, he dropped his saddle-bags on the unused bed and heard Becky drop her travelling bag on the floor behind him. The room was musty and Tanner opened the window a few inches.

  Turning, he looked the room over, because another thought had occurred to him – perhaps Chad had not gone out voluntarily. There were still men on their back trail. Perhaps Charlie Cox hadn’t given it up yet, even Ted Everly, if he had not grown weary and disgusted with the long trail, could have found them by now.

  ‘Does that mean anything?’ Becky asked as she stood, unbuttoning the collar button of her flannel shirt. Tanner looked in the direction of Chad Garret’s rumpled bed where a note lay on the pillow. Frowning, Tanner walked that way. It could be anything, an explanation of where Chad had gone, a ransom demand. He picked up the note and quickly read the two words scrawled there:

  ‘Thanks, Partner.’

  Tanner groaned inwardly, then got to his knees to search under his own bed. There was no sign of the money.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Becky asked, studying the pained expression on Tanner’s face.

  ‘What? I got suckered,’ Tanner said, sitting back on his heels. ‘I had enough subtle clues; I just didn’t want to believe it of Chad.’ Stiffly he rose and walked to Becky. He was only a few inches away from her, and her shining blue eyes took him back many years to a point in time when he would have believed her, trusted her about anything.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Run the man down,’ Tanner said in a low, cold voice. ‘I’m sorry, Becky, but you’re going to have to stay in this room for a while.’

  ‘I’m tired anyway,’ she said, shrugging as if it made no difference to her. Her clear blue eyes which seemed to reflect innocence and deceit depending on Tanner’s own mood, shone as she watched him closely.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Tanner said. He would have given anything to take her and kiss her, but he would not know who he was kissing – a liar and a thief, or only an image in the moonlight. Tanner grabbed his hat and walked out of the room.

  Downstairs in the hotel lobby he leaned against the wall, waiting for his man. It didn’t take long.

  Across the room he saw a bulky, bearded stranger whose eyes showed he had been drinking, and who wore an expression that said that he had not had enough. Tanner approached him.

  ‘What d’ya want?’ the man said in a voice that seemed to rumble from his chest.

  ‘I wanted to offer you a job,’ Tanner said to the big stranger. The offer of work obviously didn’t appeal to the burly man.

  ‘Stuff that,’ he answered.

  Tanner fished in his pocket and showed the man a five-dollar gold piece. ‘For two minutes work.’ The man’s dull eyes glittered more brightly than the coin for a minute, then grew wary.

  ‘Who do you want dead?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘It’s nothing like that. You don’t even have to move from here.’ Tanner went on to tell the man what he wanted, and the big man agreed, even smiling toothlessly as Tanner handed over the gold coin.

  Upstairs, Tanner returned to the room where Becky sat sagged on Tanner’s bed, hands clasped between her knees. She looked up sharply as Tanner entered. Tanner sat beside her for a moment, and told her: ‘Becky, I can’t let you go with me and I can’t leave you alone.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘I can’t. I trusted Chad Garret, and look where that got me.’

  ‘You’re going after this Chad, then?’

  ‘I have to. He’s stolen the money I spent many days trying to recover.’

  ‘But you plan to leave me here with Morgan Pride’s gold?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Why do you ask? Would you try to slip out on me, Becky?’

  ‘Of course not, but what if someone else finds me, finds the gold?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone will,’ Tanner said seriously as he tried to ignore the sensations that being so near to Becky caused. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay in the room to be safe. The hotel will send up your meals. In the meantime, I’ve hired a bodyguard for you.’

  Becky looked doubtfully at him. Tanner continued:

  ‘I don’t care what people say about his past, all of those murders – he works for pay – and he is always loyal to the dollar. He won’t let anyone get past him and … sorry, he won’t let you out of your room.’

  ‘But who…?’ Becky answered with anxiety showing in her eyes.

  ‘Come with me,’ John Tanner said, and he took her hand to help her to her feet.

  Outside, standing in the center of the hotel lobby, a man stood waiting for Tanner to appear on the gallery. When he did, towing a slightly reluctant-looking little blonde with him, the big bearded man did what he had been instructed to do.

  Tanner pointed at Becky’s head. In response, the bearded stranger pointed back at her and nodded. Then he turned and walked out of the hotel. Five dollars for that kind of work was gravy. And the money was enough for three fresh quarts of whiskey over at the Porcupine.

  Tanner thought that the charade had properly impressed Becky. She now seemed willing, even eager, to stay in the room, door locked behind her. For Tanner it was only the beginning of a long tortuous day.

  Entering the stable, Tanner still harbored faint hopes that he had been mistaken, but Chad Garret’s pinto pony was missing from its stall. The stable man ambled forward to meet Tanner. John asked: ‘Have you got a fast animal? I need one.’

  ‘Fast?’ the stablehand nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve one that was bred as a race horse, but you wouldn’t want to know how much it would cost you.’

  ‘I don’t want to buy it, just use it for a day or two. Look, these two,’ he said indicating his gray and the dun horse Becky had been riding, ‘are security for a rental.’

  ‘Both of ’em look pretty beat up,’ the man said as he appraised the horses.

  ‘They are – which is why I need to borrow a horse. If I misuse this horse of yours, I’ll let you keep these two.’

  ‘Plus fifty dollars.’

  ‘All right,’ Tanner said, knowing he was getting taken for a ride. ‘Plus fifty dollars.’

  The stable man led Tanner to the corral in back of the stable where a big red roan, its coat shining like burnished copper stood watching their approach. ‘There he is,’ the man said.

  ‘Hell of a good-looking pony,’ Tanner said, meaning it.

  ‘It is. I got him from a gambler that got himself trimmed and needed a fresh stake. I figure he bought the horse when he was on a roll.’

  ‘Or won it from someone else.’

  ‘Could be. Anyway, friend, take the roan. You’re welcome to it, but if you bring it back foundering it will cost you a lot more than fifty dollars.’

  ‘I just need a fresh horse, something with some speed under me.’

  ‘Hunting someone?’

  ‘Let’s just say that a friend of mine left without a proper goodbye.’

  ‘The gent who was riding that pinto pony?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I seen you two together; that’s why I figured that. He came by an hour or so ago and left like he was in a hurry.’

  ‘Did you see which way he went?’ Tanner asked after the stablehand had caught up the roan and begun saddling it.

  ‘I watched him go out. He turned right on Main Street and left town.’

  ‘To the east, you mean?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘To the east. Though I don’t know why any man would ride out on to that desert unless he had an urgent reason.’

  Tanner thought he did: Chad Garret was a desert rat, used to the country, knowing where to find water, how to live off the land. It would be difficult to find Chad in the desert wilderness. Tanner accepted the reins to the tall red roan, swung aboa
rd and started out of town himself, feeling dismal mentally, but he had noticed as he had mounted, remarkably pain-free physically. Damn Chad! Didn’t he realize that Tanner would have rewarded him lavishly for the help he had given John? He had even considered taking Chad along with him back to the C-bar-C where Chad could find honest work and a decent home. And he could have used Chad’s capable help on the trail. Apparently the thought of the stolen gold just across the room was too much for Chad to resist.

  Tanner understood the impulse, but Chad Garret was not going to keep the loot. John had worked too hard, ridden too far to give Ben Canasta’s hard-earned money away now.

  He rode the wide desert once again, feeling the fine-lined, sleek pony he was riding moving smoothly beneath him. About a mile out of town he decided to test the horse and heeled it to a full gallop. It was like riding a lightning bolt once the roan reached full stride, and John slowed the horse again. It might have to be ridden far. There was no telling. The sun was still high, white in the crystal-blue sky. He remembered Chad Garret’s own rule about riding through the heat of the day, and wondered if that rule applied when you were riding with your saddle-bags filled with another man’s money.

  John Tanner was already perspiring heavily after an hour in the kiln of the desert. The red roan had slowed noticeably, its eagerness fading. John rode on, taking the miles carefully – half of each mile at a walk, the other half at a canter. When he slowed the roan to a walk, his face was surrounded by blowflies: a sign that there was something recently dead in the vicinity, for the nasty things lay their eggs in dead flesh or in the wounds of living creatures.

  How far was he from the wash where he and Chad had once rested? There was no telling; he only knew that men, like all other animals, are creatures of habit, returning to places they have once had safety and comfort.

  The one sure thing was that Chad would have to rest sometime; his pinto could not be in that good a shape, even with the brief rest it had had in Ruidoso. There John definitely had the advantage. The roan had not been ridden for a long while, and it was fresh and perky. Where Chad had the large advantage was in his knowledge of the country. John was lost, he realized. He had had enough sense to fill a burlap waterbag and he would not go dry for sometime. The horse was a different matter.