Lost Trail Read online

  The sun lowered itself slowly toward the far, chocolate-colored mountains, but it had grown no cooler. The white sand was stained pink by the setting sun, but there was no shade to be found, not a breath of air stirred.

  Abruptly John saw, thought he saw, a dust cloud on the distant horizon. With no wind blowing, he concluded that it had to be a horse kicking up dust in its passing. How many men could there be out here on the open desert riding on this day? Damned few, and he lifted the red roan into a canter again.

  He had caught up with his man.

  Now the sky began to darken noticeably as the sun began to hide its face behind the hills. There was a coolness across the land as the day sank into shadow. Welcome as it was, the coolness was a harbinger of the settling darkness. Tanner hurried on. What chance would he have of finding Chad Garret in the desert night?

  The roan mis-stepped and stumbled and Tanner cursed. He could not lose the horse to a broken leg. A man out here without a horse was as condemned to death as a prisoner waiting on the scaffold for his executioner. He slowed the animal again to a walk, letting it pick its own way across the ground which had now begun to be broken, red sand desert.

  He cursed Chad Garret three or four times, but it did nothing to help him gain ground, did nothing to alleviate his fury. The moon was already rising in the east; the orb resembled a gaunt ghostly face. Hadn’t he seen such a moon before?

  The land began to lift and roll now, and the figure he thought he had seen disappeared behind a sandy knoll, but as Tanner crested a rise, he could see the man on horseback, much nearer now, the crazy moon silhouetting him. Tanner dipped into a small valley and scaled another knoll. The man ahead of him was still nearer now, his horse seemed to be faltering, and Tanner decided to test the roan’s speed. He heeled it into startled motion, and its muscles uncoiled like taut springs. If that was Chad Garret ahead, and it had to be, he could not give the desert rat time to find one of his hideouts.

  The roan continued to run swiftly, with apparent ease as Tanner raced toward the moon and his mounted prey. The night was cool, the roan’s hoofs sent up sprays of sand as it charged up yet another knoll and dipped down again. Now the man ahead of Tanner did see him coming. He sat his horse – it was a pinto – for a moment, just staring in disbelief, and then slapped spurs to the spotted pony. Tanner recognized the man’s hat, the red shirt he had been wearing, and he rode on wildly. The pinto had little left to give after the long trail it had run, and it slowed despite its owner’s urging, finally coming to a dead stop. Exhausted, quivering, the pinto could run no farther. Tanner’s fresh red roan drove on. John watched as Chad Garret leaped from the saddle, hurriedly untied the saddle-bags from his horse’s back and raced off madly.

  Where Chad thought he was going, there was no telling. But he was not going to outrace a running horse on this open land. Chad slowed and turned, firing across his shoulder at the charging Tanner. He must have known who it was, who it had to be, still John felt a pang of sorrow that his new friend would actually shoot at him. Tanner had a rifle in his scabbard and thought he could probably pull up the roan and shoot Chad down.

  The thing was, he could not. Chad had pulled his irons out of the fire on more than one occasion. He decided to try it another way.

  ‘Chad?’ he called out. ‘Just give me the money back – that’s all I want. Drop your saddle-bags and I’ll let you walk away from this.’

  Chad was on one knee, his face bone-white in the light of the moon, his pistol aimed and steady. He shouted out a muffled curse and pulled the trigger on his pistol. Tanner ducked reflexively as the shot was fired, although by the time he heard the report of the gun, the bullet, of course, had already flown past. His horse was rearing up and shaking its head angrily. Chad’s bullet had gone through the roan’s left ear.

  That was too close to allow for further consideration. Chad was trying for a killing shot, and Tanner reached for his rifle as he tried to settle the angry, nervous roan. By the time he unsheathed the Winchester, Chad had risen to his feet again, and he now held his Colt with both hands. He meant to kill Tanner; there was no doubt about that now.

  ‘Chad?’ Tanner yelled again, shouldering his rifle at the same time. He saw the flame explode from the barrel of the Colt, saw Chad’s face illuminated brightly as the shot rang out. Then Tanner sent a spinning .44-40 bullet into Chad’s chest, saw the man flop back against the sand and lie unmoving in the silver-gray moonlight.

  There was no room left in Tanner’s heart for regret. He had killed the man only because it had been necessary for his own survival. Swinging down from his saddle he walked slowly toward the still figure of Chad Garret. Garret was definitely dead. His saddle-bags lay inches away from his nerveless hand. His eyes were still open, staring skyward. Tanner was not sorry that Chad was dead, only that a thing so small as the twitching of a finger could end a life like that; in one brief second erase the friendship they had shared on the long trail.

  John took no more time to speculate on the workings of his own mind, his burdened soul. He unsaddled the pinto, slipped its bit and tossed the reins aside, then he clambered aboard the roan and started back toward Ruidoso, hoping that Becky Canasta had been effectively managed and that she had not somehow broken free to cause more trouble.

  SEVEN

  It remained cold; the star-bright sky was still and haunting as John Tanner retraced his steps and halted the roan in front of the stable in Ruidoso. He called out twice, three times then waited patiently. The stable hand would have undoubtedly been asleep at this hour; although his duties required him to respond at any hour to any traveler needing assistance, he would not be happy to be dragged from his bed.

  After much grumbling, the man appeared, his thumb hooked under one red suspender, adjusting it over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Afraid so. Hated to wake you up, but we have some business.’

  ‘Hey,’ the stableman said, suddenly becoming alert as he reached up to stroke the roan’s neck. ‘What’s this – he’s been shot in the ear.’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Tanner said wearily. ‘You’d better tend to it.’

  ‘I will, by God! Then I’ll tend to you. Brother, you will pay for this.’

  ‘What’s the going price on a horse’s ear?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ the man sputtered. ‘But you’ll pay.’

  ‘I will pay,’ Tanner promised.

  ‘Beautiful animal like that,’ the man griped, his voice falling to a low muttering as he unsaddled the roan and put it up. Tanner took a few minutes to look at his gray horse which eyed him uneasily as if suspecting that his human meant to take him out to get his ear shot now. Tanner patted the gray and then walked back to the front of the stable where by lantern-light he completed his deal with the stable hand, apparently to the man’s satisfaction.

  It was just past midnight when Tanner, bone-weary and unhappy walked toward the hotel, saddle-bag over his shoulder. He supposed he should take another room now, but first he meant to check on Becky. She might have decided the false bodyguard had been just that, simply packed her bags and walked out of the room. But she had been obviously frightened and weary, so Tanner did not really think she would have attempted anything on that night. But he was determined to take nothing for granted from then on.

  With a tap, Tanner proceeded into the hotel room, relieved to find Becky where he had left her. The phantom bodyguard had done his job, it seemed. Tanner slid his saddle-bags under his bed and sat down, looking at Becky’s pale, wary face. Nothing could be read from her expression.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as Tanner tugged his boots off.

  ‘I am going to sleep,’ he replied.

  ‘In here – with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tanner stretched out on the bed, still dressed. He couldn’t remember a comfort greater than that of having a mattress to stretch out on. His body felt shaken, battered and trail-weary. He was lu
cky – by then he could have felt quite dead.

  ‘I don’t like you sleeping here,’ Becky protested. ‘Besides, I’ve been cooped up in here for a long time. I could use some fresh air.’

  ‘Open the window.’

  Tanner curled up. He was bone-tired and knew he would sleep deeply, but not so deeply that Becky could slip past him – if she had such an idea in mind. Besides, she did not know if the ugly bearded man was still out there, watching. After half an hour or so, Tanner heard Becky shift on her bed, and he forced himself to stay awake until the movement on her bed stopped and he heard her soft steady breathing. Then he allowed himself four hours of heavy, dreamless sleep.

  The first golden glint of sunrise struck the hotel window and brought Tanner instantly awake. He felt refreshed but his thoughts were a muddle as he sat on the side of his bed, hands clenched. Becky Canasta was there, still asleep, and the money – almost all of it – was there as well. He stamped into his boots, making no effort to be quiet, then walked to the basin on the bureau, splashed in some water from the ewer and rinsed off as well as he could, avoiding his image in the stained mirror.

  ‘It’s so early,’ Becky said as she sat up.

  ‘And it will be hot before long. Get your riding clothes on, Becky; we’re heading home to the C-bar-C.’

  ‘Why are you in such a rush!’ she complained behind a yawn.

  ‘Because this is as close as I’ve been,’ he explained. ‘Every time I think I’ve taken a step forward, I find that I’ve been pushed two steps back. Aren’t you eager to get home? To see your father?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said a little snippily, ‘but I can’t see that a few hours, a day matters much.’

  ‘Your father may only have a few days, a few hours,’ Tanner told her. She nodded thoughtfully, and he said, ‘I’m going down to the restaurant to get some coffee for us. I’ll only be gone a few minutes, but that should give you time to dress.’ At the doorway, he paused and said: ‘I can see the room from the restaurant.’

  Becky’s expression hardened. ‘I suppose that means you don’t trust me, not at all. I don’t see why not.’

  ‘When we have a lot of time, I’ll tell you,’ he answered before going out the door and down the stairs to the restaurant.

  The man at the stable was a different one – perhaps the owner. Tanner told him what they had come for and he checked his ledger and took another few dollars from Tanner. Thinking how much he had spent at these places, Tanner thought that it might be a good business to be in. After all, anyone riding the desert eventually needed feed and water for his mount.

  Tanner managed to saddle his own gray with little difficulty. Then he helped Becky with her dun, tying her travelling bag to the saddle pommel. On this morning she was oddly cheerful. Perhaps she had managed to sleep away her thoughts of the kidnapping, whatever terror Morgan Pride might have put in her heart.

  The gray was heavily burdened with the weight of the three saddle-bags, but he was still reluctant to use Becky’s dun for carrying a portion of the stolen money. Perhaps his suspicions were unfounded, after all this was Becky Canasta! Still he gave her only the water bag to carry, tied to the opposite side of the saddlehorn to balance the weight of the traveling bag.

  The sun was low, raking their eyes as they rode out of Ruidoso, once again to attempt the long desert. John Tanner thought that he should feel uplifted, with his task nearly completed, but he did not. A vague uneasiness, an even vaguer longing settled over him as he walked the gray across the red desert, the sun rising with incredible slowness. The horses seemed to move through wet cement, the hours felt like weeks, months, years as they passed in painful progression And course it grew hotter, still hotter. Tanner envied Ben Canasta his ranch in the pine forest; the old man had chosen wisely when he settled there. Perhaps, Tanner thought, he could find a place like that for himself and….

  He reined in his fantastic thoughts. He had only known Candice Grant for a few days, those spent as if she were nursing an injured animal. He knew little about the young lady who owned the hat shop, nothing of what she intended to do, wished for, hoped to have one day. It likely didn’t involve a rambling man who owned nothing.

  ‘You couldn’t have believed her,’ Becky Canasta said out of the dead silence.

  ‘Believe who?’ he asked, briefly thinking that Becky had somehow penetrated his daydream.

  ‘Monique, of course,’ Becky said rather sharply. ‘You can’t have believed her when she told you that I voluntarily assisted Morgan Pride in that robbery. My father’s money! It would have been mine someday anyway.’

  ‘Some people don’t like waiting for that day to come,’ Tanner said, squinting at her through the sun rays.

  ‘It was only because Monique wanted Matt Doyle!’ an exasperated Becky exclaimed. ‘He wanted me, but I did not want him. But Matt kept playing up to me and Monique developed a heated jealousy.’

  ‘I know that,’ Tanner said, because that much was true. But there had to be more to it. Not many women would shoot a man just because he was paying her unwanted attention. What was the real reason Becky had shot Matt Doyle? John might never learn that.

  He might never learn anything about Becky Canasta at all.

  They rode on. Occasionally Tanner looked across his shoulder. Would Charlie Cox and Wes Dalton take up the pursuit again? It seemed not, but there was a lot of money involved. This was their last chance to recover it – out on the open desert with no witnessing eyes for mile after mile. There was no telling, anymore than there was about the intentions of Ted Everly and his crew, sent after Morgan Pride by Monique with instructions to bring Beck Canasta home to the C-bar-C.

  Tanner had been riding the trail a long time. Now it seemed that the trails in his mind were just as confused and lost as those he followed. He focused his thoughts again and set his mind on the things he could accomplish and did not need to understand – he would take Ben Canasta’s daughter and his money to the old man. After that he would be finished with the C-bar-C and all of its closely-held secrets.

  He owed them nothing more – none of them.

  By noon the high sky sun had begun to take its toll. Mirages had begun to form wispy threads of substanceless images before Tanner’s eyes. He squinted into the sun, trying to clear his warped vision. Glancing at Becky, he could see that she had gotten worn down as well. She slumped in the saddle, leaning over her dun’s withers.

  They needed anything – a hint of shadow, a flickering tongue of cool breeze to keep them going. There was nothing.

  And then there was or so his glare-ravaged eyes suggested. Tanner saw a long line of gray vegetation to his left. It must be, had to be the dry wash where he had first encountered Chad Garret, where they had rested in the heated shade of the willows. He tried to shout out to Becky, but his voice was a strangled croak. Eventually Tanner got her attention and pointed out the long line of dead willow trees. It was not certain if she understood their significance or not, but she followed him across the sand toward the shallow wash. Reaching it, Tanner led the way, his horse sliding down the bluff, going nearly to its haunches.

  Again there was no obvious sign of water along the bottom of the coulee, but here and there Tanner noticed that some of the shaggy old trees had bright green young leaves at their extremities. The two of them did not need water just then; they still carried the burlap waterbag they had brought from Ruidoso. They needed first of all shade and a place to rest. Later Tanner would scout around and try to find standing water for the horses.

  Across the dry riverbed, Tanner spotted a decent-sized copse. Not much, but it would have to do. He started across the streambed; Becky followed without a signal passing between them.

  ‘Thank God,’ she gasped as she swung down from her dun horse’s back. ‘I don’t think I could have ridden on for another hour.’

  They spread their saddle blankets on the sand beneath the willows leaving their disappointed horses to search out whatever poor foliage they could di
scover. The shade was thin, the air still and hot, but it was some respite from the stunning heat of the desert day. Sagging, Tanner sat on his blanket as gnats and deer flies swarmed around them. A stream of red ants made its way across the white sand of the river bottom, going somewhere known only to them. Otherwise the earth was silent and still.

  Tanner glanced at Becky and saw that she had already stretched out, arm thrown over her eyes, trying to sleep. Tanner leaned back himself, knowing that there was nothing useful to be done just then, and that he had to take this opportunity to rest while he could. They still had a long ride to Split Rock and from there back to the C-bar-C. He could will himself to hurry on, to get back to the home ranch, but he knew he did not have the physical resources just then, and so he let his eyelids close, and slept if uncomfortably, restoringly.

  When Tanner next awoke it was with a start, with a sense of disorientation. He sat up, taking long minutes to clear his mind, to remember where he was. Becky still lay sprawled nearby. Perspiration glistened on her forehead and upper lip. Tanner was aware now of a stirring breeze in the willows, and glancing to the west he could see that the sun was dropping toward the far horizon. How long had he slept? It did not matter – he had needed the sleep. They were no longer in a race no matter how eager each might have been to get back to the C-bar-C. Where….

  Where what? Where anything might have happened in their absence. Ben Canasta might have passed away. Monique might be in charge of things. Ted Everly might have made his way back to the ranch.

  It was too much to think about. Tanner rose heavily, unkinking his back. Looking again at Becky, he decided to spend some time searching the river bottom for a pool of standing water where the horses could drink. Plugging his hat on, he walked northward, leading his gray. The dun decided to stand where it was. At least the horse would be some reassurance for Becky should she wake up confused and feeling deserted.