to Tame a Land (1955) (18 page)

This Mead seemed like a nice fellow, but whateve r he had in mind, I didn't know. And he was taking a lon g time getting to it.

"Tyler, do you have anything that belonged to you r mother?"

"A picture, that's all. Everything Pap kept was lost i n that Indian raid."

"A picture? Do you have it?"

When I settled in town I began carrying the picture i n my pocket instead of keeping it in the saddlebags, so I h ad it with me. I took it out and handed it to him an d he smiled. "Of course! Virginia Blair! I'd know the fac e anywhere, although I've only seen pictures of her myself."

"Blair?"

"Her maiden name. The family was fairly well off , Tyler. Not wealthy, but substantially fixed. And with a good position socially."

That meant nothing to me until he told me I'd bee n left some money. Rather, Ma had been left it. Som e money and a good-sized farm in Maryland and Virginia.

It was more than a thousand acres.

"There's a nice home on it, some stables. They use d to raise horses in the old days." He sat back and lit a cigar. "It's all yours, of course. The family was upse t when she married your father, but they were sorry fo r their attitude later, when it was too late. We tried t o locate your mother, but had no luck.

"Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll give up all thi s and come East. You seem to know stock. You've ha d experience breaking horses. You could probably do ver y well back there."

Nothing like this had ever come into my mind. I'
d have to study it well, yet all the time I was explainin g this to him, I was thinking that back East I wouldn'
t have to carry a gun. And there was small chance anybody would have heard of Ryan Tyler, the gun fighter.

It would be a good thing . . . and then I remembere d Liza.

Her note had told me to go away, but I read mor e into it than that. She was afraid of what would happen t o me if I stayed, and if I persisted in trying to find her.

But me, I had my own ideas.

So I got up. "Mr. Mead, I'm taking your advice. I'll g o back East and make my home there. You go ahead an d get it all fixed up so I can take over. But first I've go t a job to do."

He got up, too. "Tyler," he warned, "be careful. I k now something of the situation here. I've been kept informed. You've made this town peaceful, but only on th e surface. There are men here who hate you and fea r you. Make one slip and they'll be on you like a pack o f wolves."

"Yes, sir. You get those papers fixed up. I'll be back."

So I walked out on the street, knowing as I walke d that my decision was right. This was what I should do.

It was a good time to go . . . and, after all, why shoul d I look for Liza? She was with somebody else. If sh e hadn't made her choice, at least she was doing all right.

And I had no actual reason to believe she was living a s she was through any reason but her own. So that wa s over. I'd go back East and stay.

Mustang was pacing the floor when I came in. H
e turned sharply around. "Got news for you! I went ou t and hunted up the tracks of those folks who visited Ol d Blue. They headed south, right into the rough country , and they took a trail that only goes one way."

"Where?" I asked the question, knowing the answer.

"They went to the Roost. And one of those riders wa s a woman."

Liza . . . and Ash Milo.

Everything had been pointing that way and I couldn'
t see it until now. Sure enough, that had to be where Olli e Burdette had holed up after leaving the Crossing, an d where he'd seen Liza with "a better man." It tie d everything into one neat package, and it was the explanation for Billings' knowledge, and why he would no t talk. It was common gossip around town that Billing s had connections at the Roost.

It explained everything . . . or almost everything.

People all over this part of the country had a justifie d fear of the Roost and its riders. No rancher would talk.

Some were friendly to the outlaws, but even hones t ranchers refused to risk incurring their anger. Robber'
s Roost lay somewhere on a plateau among a network o f canyons, a country unknown to any but themselves.

How many outlaws were in there? Some said fifty , but most said it was nearer a thousand. It was the mai n hideout on the Outlaw's Trail, which stretched fro m Canada to Mexico through the Rocky Mountain region.

And at the Roost, and for miles around, Ash Milo wa s king.

Unless a man knew the trails, he had no chance o f finding his way in. Or so they said. That was the story , all right.

The names of the leaders of the Roost gang were notorious. Ash Milo was the boss, but there were others , names feared all through the West; Sandoval, Bronc o Leslie, Chance Vader, and Smoky Hill Stevens. All o f them wanted in a half-dozen states, all men who wer e handy with guns.

And that was where Liza was, among a lot of outlaws.

But she didn't want me to come. All right, I wouldn't.

"This Milo," Mustang Roberts said, "he knows you , all right. He knows a lot about you."

"Stories get around."

"Sure. And I thought I'd heard them all, but th e grapevine from the Roost has one story I never heard."

"What's that?"

Mustang Roberts took his time. He pushed his ha t back on his head and put a boot up on the desk. Hi s spur jingled a mite. He began to build him a smoke.

One thing I never heard," he said, touching his tongu e to the paper. "That you killed a man named McGarry."

Chapter
16

MUSTANG ROBERTS started me thinking again. H
e got me to wondering, and an hour before daylight I ha d my mind made up.

Mustang had turned in, as the night was quiet an d he was tired from the riding he'd done that day. Me, I p ut a saddle on the gray, shoved the new Winchester 73

I'd bought into the boot, and then I belted on one gu n and shoved the other into my waistband.

First thing, I switched my shirt and left my badg e on the table. Where I was going a badge was an invitatio n to get shot. The shirt I put on had no pin holes left b y the badge. Nor did I shave. Right then I was growin g a mustache, which was well along, and I trimmed it a little, but let the stubble of beard stay. Then I shrugge d into a coat and packed a bait of grub out to the gray.

We took the trail just as the sky was lightening. Nobod y needed to tell me what I was riding into. There was n o way this trail could miss leading into trouble. Mayb e Liza wanted to live with outlaws. Maybe she was As h Milo's girl, and maybe she wasn't. But I was going t o know.

Leaving town by the trail, I turned off up a dry canyon.

It was a long ride I had before me, so I let the gra y make his own speed. In later years they said the Roos t was farther south, but the time I rode into that countr y the outfit was located in a canyon back of Desolation , not far off the Green River.

It was very hot. Back in the canyons there was n o breeze. Soon my gray shirt turned dark with sweat an d my eyes had to squint to stand the glare.

There was no sound but the sound of my horse's hoof s and the creak of the saddle. Once in a while a ston e rolled underfoot. So it was I started into that rough , wild country, unexplored except by Indians and outlaws , and most of it unknown even to them.

The way I figured, it would be midafternoon befor e Mustang Roberts realized I was gone. Then he woul d figure out where I'd headed. Shrewd as he was, he'
d guess right the first time. But I'd be long gone then an d he'd resign himself to sitting out my stay.

Several times I saw antelope, and once I frightened a mountain lion away from a big-horn sheep.

This was far-off country, wild and lonesome. country.

It was big country, and I'd seen city men shrink fro m the immensity of it. Some men are built for this kind o f country, and some aren't. I guess my Maker shaped m e for the land that we had to shape. I liked it.

There was small chance any of these outlaws woul d know me as the marshal of Alta. They had been denie d the town by Ash Milo, and if I was lucky I'd get wel l back into that country, looking like an outlaw on th e drift.

The gray liked it. He was always a good trail horse , happier when he was going. He was a saddle bum lik e me, liking the dust of far trails, the smell of pines an d sweat, and he would prick his ears at every hill we cam e over, at every turn we rounded.

Most of the time I rode off to one side of the di m trail. I rode alongside the pines, or took the far side o f a ridge, or kept under cover. It was smart in two ways: It would keep me from being seen as long as possible, an d if I was seen I'd look like a man on the dodge.

Twice I made short camps and slept a little, then I p ushed on. Time enough to take it easy when I began t o get close. Then I would have to look careful.

Nobody in Alta knew where the Roost was. Maybe Be n Billings, but he never went there. He was never out o f sight long enough. Oh, probably some of the men wh o came and went around town did know, but nobody wh o would talk to me or who would have helped me. So I'
d never tried to find out, and now I was glad.

I wouldn't want anybody remembering that the marsha l of Alta had been inquiring about trails.

Once into the rougher country, I took my time. Skirtin g Indian Head peak, I crossed the end of the Roan Cliff s and rode into Nine Mile Valley. It was long and empty , unmarked by trails, and pointed southeast, the way I w anted to go.- There were cliff dwellings along the canyo n walls, and rocks covered with Indian writing. Several time s I saw arrowheads and broken pottery.

With a three-day growth of beard on my face and m y clothes dusty from travel, I was beginning to look the part.

Also, I was getting wary.

Everywhere was rock. Rocky cliffs and crags, grea t mesas rising abruptly, shelves of rock and plateaus o f rock. It was pink and white, with long streaks of rus t red or maroon, all carved by wind and rain into weir d shapes and giant forms. Huge pinnacles pointed thei r ghostly fingers at the sky. It was a land shaped like flames , a land riven and torn, upset and turned over and upse t again.

I rode down long corridor canyons to the echoing of m y horse's hoofs against the sounding boards of the grea t walls, walls that sometimes pressed close together, and a t other times spread wide.

Suddenly the canyon bent northeast, and I followed it.

Here was a creek, and I watered the gray, then loosene d the girth.

It was late afternoon. It was very hot and I was ver y tired. In all this vast desert through which I was ridin g there seemed to be nothing and no one. Lying down o n the grass beneath some willows, I stretched out with m y hat over my eyes.

Awakening suddenly, I saw that the gray's head wa s up and that his ears were pricked. With one quick mov e I was on my feet. When I see a horse like that, eve n swelling himself a little as he gets set, I know he'd goin g to whinny. My left hand grabbed his nostrils and my righ t his neck just as he started, and I stopped him. He shied a little, frightened at my sudden move, then stood still.

Listening, I could hear voices. They were some distanc e off, but seemed to be coming nearer.

My position was behind the willows and out of sight , if nothing attracted their attention. Gray knew he wa s supposed to keep quiet now, so I released him and droppe d my hand to my holstered gun. It was in place. So wa s the one behind my belt.

Then I picked up my hat and moved back beside m y horse, listening and ready.

At first I heard nothing. Whoever it was had stoppe d talking. Then I heard their horses' hoofs, and, peerin g through the willows, I saw them.

Neither was a man I had seen before. One wore a black vest over a dark-red shirt. He was a lean, dar k man. The other was sandy-haired and freckled, and fro m his saddle he could have been a Texan. They drifted o n by and were almost past me when I heard the redhea d call the other one "Bronc." This could be Leslie, the Malheur County badman.

Stepping into the leather, I slow-walked my horse to a point where I could watch them. The afternoon was almost gone, but here was a chance to find my way righ t to the hideout at the Roost.

If I tried getting closer alone, I might manage it, bu t if I rode in with Bronco Leslie, I'd be asked few questions. Pushing the gray, I moved out into the open unti l I could see them plainly.

About the same time they heard me and drew up , waiting.

Bronco Leslie had a scar over one eye and his eye s were the blackest I'd even seen. His face was thin an d drawn down, and he had a quick, nervous way abou t him. That I saw right off.

"Where you goin'?" he asked, mighty rough.

Drawing up the gray with my left hand, I said, "Hunting the Roost. I figured you boys might be heading tha t way."

"What made y' figure that?" Red demanded.

This was touch and go, and I knew it. Any moment a wrong word could start somebody shooting, but in som e ways it was less risky with men like this. They were goo d men with guns, and a man who knows guns doesn't foo l around. He knows they can kill.