Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (11 page)

They went then, and we watched them ride, and then I faced around and looked at th
e
Gleasons and they looked at me. Maggie Ryan had her arm around me and then she spok
e
up and said to them, "There's coffee on. Will you come in?"

So we went in and the coffee was hot and black, and there by the table there wa
s
warm and pleasant talk of cattle and grass and what a man could do in a green growin
g
valley, with time on his hands.

*

The riders moved forward in a body, then halted. "Strike a match, Reb!" Nathan Embree'
s
voice trembled with triumph. "We finally got one, I heard hi
m
fall."

Reb Farrell slid from the saddle. "I see him! He's right over here!" A match whispere
d
on his jeans and the light flared.

All necks craned forward. The man on the ground had a bullet through his head, bu
t
the face of the man was placid. It was a quiet face, seamed with care and years tha
t
had not been kind. The face of a man tired of the endless struggle of living. I
t
was the face of Reb Farrell's father.

Numb with horror, Reb stared down at the man they had killed, the man who had fough
t
to give him some little education and a sense of honor, who had fought so hard an
d
lost, and who now was dead, killed, possibly by a bullet from the gun of the so
n
he loved.

"My God!" Dave Barbot's exclamation was low. "Not Jim Farrell! It can't be!"

Nathan Embree's own shock changed to sudden, bitte
r
fury. "So that was it? That was why you couldn't find any rustlers for me, Reb? Mayb
e
this explains how they always knew when an' where to strike! Maybe this explain
s
why they were always one jump ahead of us!"

Reb Farrell stared unbelievingly at the body of his father, shocked as much by hi
s
father's presence here as by the feeling that he had himself shot him. He did no
t
hear the words of Nathan Embree. He did not hear Dave Barbot's refusal to agree.

"You don't believe that, Nathan!" Dave's voice was sharp. "Reb's fought them harde
r
than anybody! He's recovered two herds for you!"

"Uh-huh."
There was cold certainty in Nathan Embree's voice.
"Why did he find 'e
m
when nobody else could? Maybe it was because he was the only one who knew where t
o
look? When did this rustling start? Right after I made him foreman, wasn't it?"

Reb Farrell looked up. "What was that? What did you say, Nathan?"

Nathan Embree was a wealthy man and he was a driver. He was also a just man, bu
t
hard and merciless. The moon had emerged from under a cloud and showed him the fac
e
of his young foreman.

"You're fired, Reb! Get your gear an' get off the place! I can't prove anything agains
t
you, but if you're still in the country within twenty-four hours, we'll hunt yo
u
down an' you'll hang!"

Astonishment held Reb speechless for a full minute, and then as the riders bega
n
to turn their horses to ride away, he found his voice. "You accusin' me of rustlin'
,
Nathan?" His eyes seemed to flare. "I won't take that from no man! Don't call m
e
a rustler unless you're willing to grab iron!"

Embree turned on him. "Yes," he said contemptuously
,
"you would try something like that! Oh, we all know you're a gunfighter, Reb, bu
t
now that your own father's dead, you should have some sense in that head of yours!"

Reb Farrell stared, unable to believe what he heard.
Embree had shouted at them to fire as they heard the rush of hooves, and he had fired at the silhouette of a man in the saddle.

"By rights you should be hangin', an' it's only because of my daughter that you ain't!

But get out, an' don't ever show your face around my place or my daughter!"

Wheeling his horse, he led the group away, and only Dave Barbot lingered. "Sorry
,
Reb," he said softly. "I'm really sorry."

Alone in the darkness, Reb Farrell stood beside the body of his father and the ashe
s
of all that had mattered to him, and listened to the sound of their retreating hooves.

Like a man walking in his sleep, Reb caught up his own horse and then his father's.

He loaded the body across the saddle and started for home. He rode slowly, his hea
d
hanging, devoid of thought. It was the end of everything for him. The job on th
e
ranch he loved, Laura, everything.

The old cabin where he had spent his boyhood was dark and silent. Dismounting, h
e
went inside and lighted a lamp. Without waiting for day to come, he got some loos
e
boards and knocked together a crude coffin, lining it with an old poncho. Sodde
n
with grief, he went to the place under the trees and there beside the grave of hi
s
mother, who died when he was a child, he buried his father.

Although he had eaten nothing since morning, he had no thought of food. Slowly, h
e
looked around the cabin that had been his home until he moved out to the ranch. Wha
t
should he take with him? What was there to take? Though men may die, the living mus
t
continue to live, and he must think of food, bedding, guns.

Guns ... his father's fine old Sharps .50, the new Winchester .44 which his fathe
r
had ...

The Winchester was gone!

Reb felt a queer tingle of excitement go through him. The Sharps was in its plac
e
on the rack, but the new Winchester was gone? And there had been no saddle scabbar
d
on the saddle of his father's horse. Knowing his father, Reb knew he would neve
r
have gone out at night without taking a rifle, and that meant the Sharps. Despit
e
the fact that Reb had made him a present of the Winchester, his father had kept i
t
on the rack and held to his familiar old buffalo gun.

Aware of something wrong, Reb stood stock-still in the middle of the cabin and looke
d
around. Suddenly he thought of the carefully hoarded cache of money his father had.

A few hundred dollars only, it was his insurance against illness or old age. Re
b
dropped on his knees and slid the board from its grooves in the floor. The mone
y
was gone!

Slowly Reb got to his feet. No money had been in his father's pockets. Somethin
g
was wrong, but what could it all mean?

Looking around the cabin, Reb was suddenly struck by the coffeepot on the stove
,
and going to it, he lifted the lid. There were still grounds in the pot. Either somebod
y
else had made that coffee and left the pot or Jim
Farrell
had been drawn from hi
s
fire while making coffee, for Jim had habits of neatness acquired from years of livin
g
with his wife. He never left a pot on the stove and never left a dish unwashed.

As he packed the remaining food Reb Farrell considered all the possibilities, an
d
slowly the conviction gathered in his mind that either his father had been someho
w
alarmed and left the cabin or he had been taken from it by force.

It was daylight when Reb Farrell finally left the cabin. He took with him two packhorse
s
and four head of saddle stock aside from the horse he himself rode. There were Rockin
g
F cattle around that belonged to him, but they would have to wait.

Reb struck for the hills above Indian Creek. He was not leaving the country, no
t
until he knew exactly what had happened. Of one thing he was sure. His father ha
d
never done anything dishonest. There had been too many times in the past when h
e
might have profited without anyone the wiser, but Jim Farrell had not taken one singl
e
thing that did not belong to him. Not even when, as had happened, he had a shado
w
of a claim.

As Reb rode up the narrowing canyon he thought the matter over. His father had n
o
enemies. A kindly man, he never had trouble with anyone, working at whatever he coul
d
to eke out his existence, and selling off little by little the once fair-sized her
d
he had owned. Therefore, if his cabin had been looted, it had been by chance thieves.

Or ... the thought came to him suddenly . .. enemies of Reb's!

But who were Reb's enemies? Aside from a few fist-fights at dances, none of whic
h
led to enmity, Reb had no enemies.

Except . . . except the rustlers themselves. Reb had found and recovered two herd
s
of stolen cattle, and he had upon several occasions trailed the rustlers for miles.

In fact, he had been the only man they had reason to fear. Suppose they had chose
n
this way to strike at him?

Skirting South Peak, Reb Farrell rode into a narrow canyon where he had once traile
d
a wounded elk, and circling into the back of the canyon, he dismounted and opene
d
an old corral and turned in his horses. Then he switched saddles from the anima
l
he had been riding to
a
long-legged zebra dun. There was plenty of grass in the corral, growing rich an
d
green, and a small stream flowed through one corner of it. Several years ago he ha
d
built that corral himself, but had never expected to use it as he was now.

There was no cabin, but the deep overhang of a cliff provided all the shelter h
e
needed, and the firs growing before it would keep his fire from reflecting by nigh
t
and would dissipate his smoke by day, for Reb had no intention of leaving the country.

The dun was a fast and tough horse, one whose staying power and heart he had teste
d
before this. In the saddle, he headed for town. First, he had to see Laura Embree.

The town of Palo Seco was resting when he rode in. There were lights in the two saloon
s
and in a few scattered houses. One of these was Nathan Embree's town house. Knowin
g
well the hardheadedness of his former boss, Reb dismounted in the cottonwoods som
e
fifty yards from the house and walked up along the rail fence surrounding the Embre
e
garden. Easing into the yard, he glanced through the window.

Laura was at the piano and there was no one else in the room. Swiftly, he mounte
d
the porch and tapped gently on the door. A second time he tapped, and then the musi
c
stopped. He heard the sound of steps and the door opened.

"Reb!" Laura's hand went to
her
lips and her eyes widened. "If Father finds you here
,
you'll be killed!"

"Maybe. But I had to see you." His eyes searched her face. "Where do you stand, Laura?

Do you believe I am a rustler?"

"I don't know, Reb," she said cautiously. "But I don't know if I can take a chanc
e
on you either."

"You can trust me! You just watch, I'm gonna-" Sh
e
closed the door in his face and he stood staring at it, his world collapsing aroun
d
him.

Laura, too! Stunned, he turned away and walked back to the dun. Somehow, even whe
n
he tried to convince himself that she would think as her father did, he had not believe
d
it. But tonight she had looked at him as though at a stranger!

One hand on the pommel, Reb Farrell hesitated, scowling. All right, he had to begi
n
somewhere. He knew his father was not a rustler. He knew his father had not bee
n
out there willingly. As long as he knew those things there was a chance to prov
e
himself right.