the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) Read online

  "No," Haney repeated, "he's not for sale."

  "Lookin' for a job? I could use a hand."

  Ross Haney drew erect and looked over the horse's back. He noticed, and the thought somehow irritated him, tHkt Pogue was even bigger than himself. The rancher was all of three inches taller and forty pounds heavier. And did not look fat.

  "Gunhand? Or cowhand?"

  Walt Pogue's eyes hardened a shade, and then he smiled, a grim knowing smile. "Why, man," he said softly, "that would depend on you. But if you hire on as a warrior, you've got to be good!"

  "I'm good. As good as any you've got."

  "As good as Bob Streeter or Repp Hanson?"

  Ross Haney's expression made no change, but within him he felt something tighten up and turn hard and wary. If Pogue had hired Streeter and Hanson, this was going to be ugly. Both men were killers, and not particular how they worked or how they killed.

  "As good as Streeter or Hanson?" Haney shrugged. "A couple of cheap killers. Blood hunters. They aren't fighting men."

  His dark eyes met that searching stare of Walt Pogue's again. "Who does Reynolds have?"

  Pogue's face seemed to lower, and he stared back at Haney. "He's got Emmett Chubb."

  Emmett Chubb!

  So? And after all these years? "He won't have him long," Haney said, "because I'm going to kill him!"

  Triumph leaped in Pogue's eyes. Swiftly, he moved around the horse. "Haney," he said, "that job could get you an even thousand dollars!"

  "I don't take money for killing snakes."

  "You do that job within three days and you'll get a thousand dollars!" Pogue said flatly.

  Ross Haney pushed by the big man without replying and walked into the street. Three men sat on the rail by the stable door. Had they heard what was said inside? He doubted it, and yet?

  Across the street and three doors down was the Trail Emporium. For a long moment his eyes held their look at the one light gleaming in the back of the store. It was after hours and the place was closed, but at the back door there might be a chance. Deliberately, he stepped into the street and crossed toward the light.

  Behind him Walt Pogue moved into the doorway and stared after him, his brow furrowed with thought. His eyes went down the lean, powerful figure of the strange rider with a puzzled expression. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?

  He wore two well-worn, tied-down guns. He had the still, remote face and the careful eyes typical of a man who had lived much with danger, and typical of so many of the gunfight- ers of the West. He had refused, or avoided the offer of, a job, yet he had seemed well aware of conditions in the valley.

  Had Reynolds sent for him? Or Bob Vernon? He had ridden into town racing with Sherry. Had they met on the trail or come from the VV? That Pogue must know and at once. If Bob Vernon was hiring gunhands it would mean trouble, and that he did not want. One thing at a time.

  Where was he going now? Resisting an instinct to follow Haney, Pogue turned and walked up the street toward the Bit and Bridle Saloon.

  Haney walked up to the back door of the store building, hesitated an instant, and then tapped lightly.

  Footsteps sounded within, and he heard the sound of a gun being drawn from a scabbard. "Who's there?"

  Haney spoke softly. "A rider from the Pecos."

  The door opened at once, and Ross slid through the opening. The man who faced him was round and white haired. Yet the eyes that took Haney in from head to heel were not old eyes. They were shrewd, hard, and knowing.

  "Coffee?"

  "Sure. Food, if you got some ready."

  "About to eat myself." The man placed the gun on a sideboard and lifted the coffeepot from the stove. He filled the cup as Ross dropped into a chair. "Who sent you here?"

  Haney glanced up and then tipped back in his chair. "Don't get on the prod, old-timer. I'm friendly. When an old friend of yours heard I was headed this way and might need a smart man to give me a word of advice, he told me to look you up. And he told me what to say."

  "My days on that trail are over."

  "Mine never started. This is a business trip. I'm planning tp locate in the valley."

  "Locate? Here?" The older man stared at him. He filled his own cup, and dishing up a platter of food and slapping bread on a plate, he sat down. "You came to me for advice. All right, you'll get it. Get on your horse and ride out of here as fast as you can. This is no country for strangers, and there have been too many of them around. Things are due to bust wide open and there will be a sight of killin' before it's over."

  "You're right, of course."

  "Sure. An' after it's over, what's left for a gunhand? You can go on the owlhoot, that's all. The very man who hired you and paid you warrior's wages won't want you when the fighting is over. There's revolution coming in this country. If you know the history of revolutions you'll know that as soon as one is over the first thing they do is liquidate the revolutionists. You ride out of here."

  Ross Haney ate in silence. The older man was right, of course. To ride out would be the intelligent, sensible, and safe course, and he had absolutely no intention of doing it.

  "Scott, I didn't come here to hire on as a gunhand. In fact, I have already had an offer. I came into this country because I've sized it up and I know what it's like. This country can use a good man, a strong man. There's a place for me here, and I mean to take it. Also, I want a good ranch. I aim to settle down, and I plan to get my ranch the same way Pogue, Reynolds, and the rest of them got theirs."

  "Force? You mean with a gun?" Scott was incredulous. "Listen, young fenow, Pogue has fifty riders On his range, and most of them are ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Reynolds has just as many, and maybe more. And you come in here alone-or are you alone?"

  The storekeeper bent a piercing gaze upon the young man, who smiled. "I'm alone." Haney shrugged. "Scotty, I've been fighting for existence ever since I was big enough to walk. I've fought to hold other people's cattle, fought for other men's homes, fought for the lives of other men. I've worked and bled and sweated my heart out in rain, dust, and storm. Now I want something for myself.

  "Maybe I came too late. Maybe I'm way off the trail. But it seems to me that when trouble starts a man might stand on the sidelines and when the time comes, he might move in. You see, I know how Walt Pogue got his ranch. Vin Carter was a friend of mine until Emmett Chubb killed him. He told me how Pogue forced his old man off his range and took over. Well, I happen to know that none of this range is legally held. It's been preempted, which gives them a claim, of course. Well, I've got a few ideas myself. And I'm moving in."

  "Son," Scott leaned across the table, "listen to me. Pogue's the sort of man who would hire killers by the hundreds if he had to. He did force Carter off his range. He did take it by force, and he has held it by force. Now he and Chalk are in a battle over who is to keep it and which one is to come out on top. The Vernons are the joker in the deck, of course. What both Reynolds and Pogue want is the Vernon place, because whoever holds it has a grip on this country. But both of them are taking the Vernons too lightly. They have something up their sleeve, or somebody has."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's this Star Levitt, for one. He's no soft touch, that one! And then he's got some riders around there, and I'd say they do more work for him than for the Vernon spread-and not all honest work, by any means!"

  "Levitt a western man?"

  "He could be. Probably is. But whoever he is, he knows his way around an' he's one sharp hombre. Holds his cards close to his chest, an' plays 'em that way. He's the one you've got to watch in this deal, not Reynolds an' Pogue!"

  Ross Haney leaned back in his chair and smiled at Scott. "That meal sure tasted good!" he acknowledged. "Now comes the rough point. I want to borrow some money-military funds," he added, grinning.

  Scott shook his white head. "You sure beat all! You come into this country huntin' trouble, all alone an' without money! You've got nerve! I only hope you've g
ot the gun savvy and the brains to back it up."

  The blue eyes squinted from his leather- brown face and he smiled. He was beginning to like Haney. The tall young man had humor, and the nerve of the project excited and amused the old outlaw.

  "How much do you want?"

  "A hundred dollars."

  "That all? You won't get far in this country on that."

  "No, but along with it I want some advice." Haney hitched himself forward and took a bit of paper from his pocket and then a stub of pencil. Then from a leather folder he took a larger sheet which he unfolded carefully. It was a beautifully tanned piece of calfskin, and on it was drawn a map. Carefully, he moved the dishes aside and placed it on the table facing the older man.

  "Look that over, and if you see any mistakes, correct me."

  Scott stared at the map, and then he leaned forward, his eyes indicating his amazed interest. It was a map, drawn to scale and in amazing detail, of the Ruby Hills country. Every line camp, every waterhole, every ranch, and every stand of trees was indicated plainly. Distances were marked on straight lines between the various places, and heights of land were also marked. Lookout points were noted and canyons indicated. Studying the map, Scott could find nothing it had missed.

  Slowly, he leaned back in his chair. When he looked up his expression was halfway between respect and worry. "Son, where did you get that map?"

  "Get it? I made it. I drew it myself, Scotty. For three years I've talked to every puncher or other man I've met from this country. As they told me stuff, I checked with others and built this map. You know how western men are. Most of them are pretty good at description. A man down in the Live Oak country who never left it knows how the sheriff looks in Julesburg and exactly where the corrals are in Dodge."

  Haney took a deep breath and then continued his story.

  "Well, I've been studying this situation quite a spell," he said. "An old buffalo hunter and occasional trapper was in this country once, and he told me about it when I was a kid. It struck me as a place I'd like to live, so I planned accordingly. I learned all I could about it, rode for outfits oftentimes just because some puncher on the spread had worked over here. Then I ran into Vin Carter. He was born here. He told me all about it, and I got more from him than from any of them. While I was riding north with a herd of cattle, Emmett Chubb moved in, picked a fight with the kid, and killed him. And I think Walt Pogue paid him to do it!"

  "So it goes further than the fact that I'm range hungry, and I'll admit I am. I want my own spread. But Vin rode with me and we fought sandstorms and blizzards together from Texas to Montana and back. So I'm a man on the prod. Before I get through I'll own me a ranch in this country, a nice ranch with nice buildings, and then I'll get a wife and settle down."

  Scott's eyes glinted. "It's a big order, son! Gosh, if I was twenty years younger, I'd throw in with you! I sure would!"

  "There's no man I'd want more, Scotty, but this is my fight, and I'll make it alone. You can stake me to eating money, if you want, and I'll need some forty-fours."

  The older man nodded assent. "You can have them, an' willin'. Have you got a plan?"

  Haney nodded. "It's already started. I've filed on Thousand Springs."

  Scott came off his chair, his face a mask of incredulity. "You what?"

  "I filed a claim, an' I've staked her out and started to prove up." Ross was smiling over his coffee, enjoying Scott's astonishment.

  "But, man! That's sheer suicide! That's right in the middle of Chalk's best range! That waterhole is worth a fortune! A dozen fortunes! That's what half the fighting is about!"

  "I know it." Haney was calm. "I knew that before I came in here. That palouse of mine never moved a step until I had my plan of action all staked out. And I bought the Bullhorn."

  This time astonishment was beyond the storekeeper. "How could you buy it? Gov'ment land, ain't it?"

  "No. That's what they all seem to think. Even Vin Carter thought so, but it was part of a Spanish grant. I found that out by checking through some old records. So I hunted up a Mexican down in the Big Bend country who owned it. I bought it from him, bought three hundred acres, taking in the whole Bullhorn headquarters spread, the waterhole, and the cliffs in back of it. That includes most of that valley where Pogue cuts his meadow hay."

  "Well, I'm forever bushed! If that don't beat all!" Scott tapped thoughtfully with his pipe bowl. Then he looked up. "What about Hitson Spring?"

  "That's another thing I want to talk to you about. You own it."

  "I do, eh? How did you come to think that?"

  "Met an old sidewinder down in Laredo named Smite Emmons. He was pretty drunk one night, and he told me how foolish you were to file claim on that land. Said you could have bought it from the Indians just as cheap."

  Scott chuckled. "I did. I bought it from the Indians, too. Believe me, son, nobody around here knows that. It would be a death sentence!"

  "Then sell it to me. I'll give you my note for five thousand right now."

  "Your note, eh?" Scott chuckled. "Son, you'd better get killed. It will be cheaper to bury you than pay up." He tapped his pipe bowl again. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll take your note for five hundred and the fun of watching what happens."

  Solemnly, Ross Haney wrote out a note and handed it to Scott. The old man chuckled as he read it.

  I hereby agree to pay on or before the 15 th of March, 1877, to Westbrook Scott, the sum of five hundred dollars and the fun of watching what happens for the 160 acres of land known as Hitson Spring.

  "All right, son! Sign her up! I'll get you the deed!"

  Chapter III

  Uneasy Town

  When Ross had pocketed the two papers-the deed from the government to Scott and deeded over to him, and the skin deed from the Co- manches-the old man sat up and reached for the coffeepot.

  "You know what you've done? You've now got a claim on the three best sources of water in Ruby Valley, the only three that are surefire all the year around. And what will they do when they find out? They'll kill you!"

  "They won't find out for a while. I'm not talking until the fight's been taken out of them."

  "What about your claim stakes at Thousand Springs?"

  "Buried. Iron stakes, and driven deep into the ground. There's sod and grass over the top."

  "What about proving up?"

  "That, too. You know how that spring operates? Actually, it is one great big spring back inside the mountain flowing out through the rocky face of the cliff in hundreds of tiny rivulets. Well, atop the mesa there is a good piece of land that falls into my claim, and back in the woods there is some land I can plow. I've already broken that land, smoothed her out, and put in a crop. I've got a trail to the top of that mesa, and a stone house built up there. I'm ip business, Scotty!"

  Scott looked at him and shook his head. Then he pushed back from the table and getting up, went into the store. When he returned he had several boxes of shells.

  "In the mornin' come around and stock up," he suggested. "You better make you a cache or two with an extra gun here and there and some extra ammunition. Maybe a little grub. Be good insurance, and son, you'll need it."

  "That's good advice. I'll do it, an' you keep track of the expense. I'll settle every cent of it when this is over."

  With money in his pocket he walked around the store and crossed the street to the Bit and Bridle. The bartender glanced at him and then put a bottle and a glass in front of him. He was a short man, very thick and fat, but after a glance at the corded forearms, Ross was very doubtful about it all being fat.

  A couple of lazy-talking cowhands held down the opposite end of the bar, and there was a poker game in progress at a table. Several other men sat around on chairs. They were the usual nondescript crowd of the cow trails.

  He poured his drink and had just taken it between his thumb and fingers when the bat- wing doors thrust open and he heard the click of heels behind him. He neither turned nor looked around. The amber liquid in t
he glass held his attention. He had never been a drinking man, taking only occasional shots, and he was not going to drink much tonight.

  The footsteps halted abreast of him, and a quick, clipped voice said in very precise words, "Are you the chap who owns that fast horse, the one with the black forequarters and the white over the loin and hips?"

  He glanced around, turning his head without moving his body. There was no need for anyone to tell him that this was Bob Vernon. He was a tall, clean-limbed young man who was like her in that imperious lift to his chin, unlike her in his quick, decisive manner.

  "There's spots, egg-shaped black spots over the white," said Haney. "That the one you mean?"

  "My sister is outside. She wants to speak to you."

  "I don't want to speak to her. You can tell her that." He turned his attention to his drink.

  What happened then happened so fast it caught him off balance. A hand grasped him by the shoulder and spun him around in a grip of iron, and he was conscious of being surprised at the strength in that slim hand. Bob Vernon was staring at him, his eyes blazing.

  "I said my sister wanted to speak to you!"

  "And I said I didn't want to speak to her." Ross Haney's voice was slow paced and even. "Now take your hand off me, and don't ever lay a hand on me again!"

  Bob Vernon was a man who had never backed down for anyone. From the East he had come into the cow country of Ruby Valley and made a place for himself by energy, decision, and his own youthful strength. Yet he had never met a man such as he faced now. As he looked into the hazel eyes of the stranger he felt something turn over away deep inside him. It was as though he had parted the brush and looked into the face of a lion.

  Vernon dropped his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid your manner made me forgetful. My sister can't come into a place like this."

  The two men measured each other, and the suddenly alert audience in the Bit and Bridle let their eyes go from Vernon to the stranger. Bob Vernon they knew well enough to know he was afraid of nothing that walked. They also knew his normal manner was polite to a degree rarely encountered in the West, where manners were inclined to be brusque, friendly, and lacking in formality. Yet there was something else between these two now. As one man they seemed to sense the same intangible something that had touched Bob Vernon.