the Key-Lock Man (1965) (6 page)

"That's home, boy. Right down there. You've got to be careful now."

Once, by daylight, he had taken the big horse up the trail, but never had he attempted to come down in the darkness. "All right, boy," he said at last, "just take your time."

The big horse tugged at the bit; he was worried yet eager. Tentatively, he put a hoof down the trail, snorted a time or two, and then delicately, as if walking on thin ice, he picked his way down the narrow trail. From time to time a rock rattled off down the cliff and fell among the rocks below.

THE NIGHT of the sixteenth day, Kristina rode her horse down the canyon to its junction with the main canyon and sat her horse there in the darkness, watching an occasional bat circling in the sky above, and listening for some sound.

He would come. Somehow, deep within her, she knew she was not deserted. Earlier there had been moments of doubt, but with the coming of darkness all her fears of being abandoned left her. If he had not come, it was because something had happened. Perhaps Neerland had found him.

She had little doubt now that Neerland would follow them, for he was a man to whom hate was a driving force. Hate was as necessary to Neerland as the blood that flowed in his veins. And somehow she was sure that when he came he would not come alone.

She had not been idle during this time, for being idle had never been her way. The life was new to her, but some of it was not entirely strange to her. She had hunted before this, and she had dressed game, so when she killed a deer she skinned it, dressed it, and cut some of the meat into strips for smoking. She had never done this before, but she had seen it done.

She had moved their things to a place under an overhang of the cliff, a place masked by willows and manzanita, and she had carefully made two beds of slender willow boughs and leaves. And then, she had moved the beds together, so that they were one bed.

The dwellers in the cliff houses had thrown their refuse over the edge and it had piled into a mound.

She had climbed over this, looking at the odds and ends she found there, or the things she pushed out of the earth with a pointed stick.

There were fragments of pottery, some of it black and white, some orange, some red, and mixed with it were chunks of charcoal or discarded stone flakes chipped off in making arrowheads. There were bits of worn-out sandals, and broken knives of stone, and all these things gave her some idea of the people who had lived in this place. She wandered, too, through the long-deserted rooms, trying to visualize the ones to whom this had been home.

Oddly enough, she was happy. The thought came to her suddenly on the fourth day of her being alone. She was alone, but her man was returning soon, and the solitude did not depress her. She had lived much among people, but she had loved the days on the high mountain slopes, loved the cold, icy solitudes, loved the dark forests. And just so she was coming to love this country.

Now that she looked about her, she realized that much of her life prepared her for this-skiing, climbing, riding, swimming . . . but with all these activities she had always returned to the high, lonely places in the mountains whenever possible.

Surprised as she was by the realization of her happiness, she was equally amused at the thought of what some of her friends might think if they could see her now.

She, who had moved in court circles, happy and at home in this lonely canyon, far from the easy, gracious life she had known.

She discovered a small patch of level ground which was grown to grass and brush, but which could easily be cleared and planted. They would have a vegetable garden there. It was close beside the small stream, so there would be ample water. She had always loved gardening, although until now it had been a thing to do merely for pleasure; now it would be work that held meaning.

She found that she could not remain long away from the pile at the foot of the cliff. When she was a child, a frequent visitor in her home had been Christian Jurgensen Thomsen, the Danish archaeologist who had first divided prehistory into the ages of Stone, Bronze, and Iron. Many times he had taken her through his museum in Copenhagen, and she had seen its counterpart in Stockholm as well.

By family tradition as well as by training and education, her father had been a diplomat, but his preference was for study and research, and his home was a stopping place for most of the scholars of Europe.

Both Boucher de Perthes and William Pengelly had visited her home, and had talked to her about the origins of prehistoric man.

Fascinated by these strange ruins here of which she had previously heard nothing, she collected hundreds of fragments of pottery, bits of sandals, arrowheads, and other evidence of the people long gone. But always in the back of her mind was the growing fear that something might have happened, that Matt had met Neerland again, or been killed by Indians, or been thrown from his horse.

But on the sixteenth night her doubts had somehow left her, and she knew he would come. Somewhere out there in the darkness he rode under these same stars, he smelled the desert as she was smelling it, he felt the coolness of the night.

At last she rode back, unsaddled her horse, and led him to water; then she picketed him on the grass nearby.

Hours later, she woke suddenly, hearing him nicker. Swiftly she rose from where she lay and took up the rifle Matt had left with her.

She listened for the sound of hoofs, and heard them at last, a walking horse, coming along surely and steadily. With her rifle in her hands she waited, her lips dry with excitement, her heart beating heavily.

And then she heard him speak. "All right, boy, we made it. We're home."

She sank down on her knees, trembling.

The KEY-LOCK MAN rode up Skeleton Mesa on a black horse. He rode to a high point east of a cliff dwelling and due north of Marsh Pass. Dismounting there, he climbed up the rocks to a slightly higher spot.

There was no actual peak here, but the place was high enough to allow him to look across the canyons and down the valley toward Castle Butte and the sand dunes.

He had a fair sweep of country before him, and he sat down with his field glasses and waited.

It was not yet daylight, but what he hoped to catch was a drift of smoke or dust, or the glint of dawning light on metal. Or rather, it was what he hoped not to catch. He wanted to be left alone.

He remained right where he was for almost an hour, while the sun rose behind him and swept the shadows from the broad land. He saw the Echo Cliffs, many miles away, turn to gold; he saw the valley become white and still under the sun, and saw Thief Rock standing straight and still and dark, as though no sun could reach it.

He saw a buzzard ... he saw a band of wild horses . . . he saw a few quail nearby. But he saw no riders, nor any sign of human life. Not even an Indian.

As he watched he was thinking of Kristina. He perhaps had been a fool to bring her here, a fool to marry her. He only knew that from the moment he saw her he knew she was his woman, that she was born for him.

Kristina was better educated than he, and she had known well a world of which he knew little. She had, to be sure, climbed mountains in Europe, she had camped out, she had even roughed it on boats, but she had no idea what she faced here.

He was sure he loved her, and in her own way and her own time, she was coming to love him. But love was not enough. A marriage is as much a product of thoughtfulness and consideration as of love, and he was thinking now of what he must do. The primitive surroundings he could accept were not right for her. Nor was the life of the frontier quite what she would prefer, although she had accepted it and was adapting as if born to it. But he did not want to see her become toughened by work, by the sun and wind.

His thoughts veered. Neerland, he was sure, would come looking, and Neerland would not come alone. Moreover, his every instinct warned him that though he had been lucky with Neerland, he could not depend on luck again. For Neerland was a dangerous man, a man who knew how to hate; and he was no coward. ... He might come at any time.

He relaxed, waited, and taking up the glasses once more, he saw again the band of wild horses, drifting restlessly through the scattered brush toward the water near Thief Rock. He had seen their tracks there, and he intended to look them over.

Sometimes there were good horses among them, but the Navajos and Piutes had weeded them out, taking most of the good ones.

After some time he returned the glasses to the case and rode the horse down into the canyon. He was eager to be with Kristina, yet strangely reluctant, too. As yet he knew so little about her, for she did not talk of herself- at least, she had not yet.

He saw the smoke rising from the fire, but it was a thin smoke . . . that she had learned quickly enough.

Smoke could be either a warning or an invitation, and in this country where he had many enemies and no friends, the only kind of an invitation it could be was an invitation to trouble.

"Nothing," he said, in reply to her unspoken question. "I think they have gone back."

"Will they come again?"

He considered that, recalling the faces of the men as he had seen them when lying close behind the bank of the arroyo. "Yes . . . one of them, at least."

He had never known freedom from danger, never since he was a child, and he had grown accustomed to watchfulness. It was something that had ingrained itself deeply. It did not show, but it was there in all his actions, and he was forever alert.

She showed him her collection now, and he was fascinated. "In Europe they study things like this, and it is beginning to be a science. I knew a man ..." She went on to tell him about Thomsen and the others and about some of the things they had told her as a child.

Then she continued: "There's a bit of ground over there where I thought we might plant some vegetables.

The Indians grew corn, and some kind of melons or squash, so maybe we can."

They went down to the patch she spoke of. He took an axe along and began clearing the ground. The growth was sparse, just brush and canyon growth, and by late afternoon they had cleared a good little corner. The next day he dug it up, and she raked it over and planted some of the seed-corn, beans, peas, and pumpkins. By the end of a week, they had cleared and planted half an acre.

By this time the supplies he had been forced to abandon in Freedom were desperately needed, yet he held back, reluctant to ride away again.

Meanwhile he rode, at least twice a day, to the lookout points on the hills around.

SKAR NEERLAND WAS standing on the street when the posse rode in, and he watched them as they swung down tiredly from their horses and trooped into the saloon for a drink.

Sam took a bottle from the back bar and placed it out for them. He needed to ask no questions.

"Lost him," Chesney said. "He just dropped off the edge of the world."

"He'll be back," Kimmel said. "That man needed grub. He rode out of here with nothing, nothing but a woman's comb."

Neerland had followed them in, and he was leaning on the bar, not looking at them, but listening. He had trailed the Key-Lock man this far, and he had listened to talk of the shooting, and to descriptions of the man who had killed Johnny.

"Know where we lost him?" McAlpin said. Short looked up at the words. "At Mormon Well!"

Sam was polishing a glass, but his hand froze.

"Mormon Well?"

"Uh-huh." McAlpin could not hold back the story. "Led us right to it, then just clean dropped out of sight."

"You talk too damn' much," Short growled.

Sam rested his hands on the bar. "Mormon Well- that's the key to the Lost Wagons. Why, you could be rich men! When you goin' back?"

"Well, now ..." McAlpin put his glass down. "Seems to me-was "You let him get away, then," Neerland interrupted.

Their eyes turned to him, a stranger, and their faces were blank, noncommittal. Except for Chesney.

"Not by a damned sight!" he said in an ugly tone. "I'll follow him to hell, if need be."

"You've all got outfits that need care and attention," Neerland suggested. "Me, I'm footloose."

"What's that mean?" Chesney demanded.

"It's cheaper to hire somebody to hunt that killer.

You men could work your ranches, let me do the hunting.

I'll find him. In fact, I know who he is."

"You know him?"

"Uh-huh-his name is Matt
Keylock
.

That's why he uses that brand."

"We won't need any help," Hardin said.

"We'll find him."

"My name's Oskar Neerland, and I've come west hunting a place to light." He waved a hand.

"Seems like a nice town here, and I'm favorable to taking this chore off your hands. Of course, I'd want some sort of right."

"Right?"

"Well, I don't want to just start hunting a man, not just off-hand. I'd want the right to hunt him, like as if I was marshal."

It was a new idea, and their faces showed it.

Hardin started to speak, then held his peace. Bill Chesney was saying nothing. The others waited, looking to Chesney or Hardin for a lead.