the Empty Land (1969) Page 5

  The sun was warm and he had been dozing slightly when some minor noise natural to his surroundings caused his eyes to open. All was quiet around him, but far down the length of Spring Valley he could see a tiny cloud of dust and the black speck that meant a horseman. His glasses were strong but the rider was too far away to be identified. Matt watched for several minutes, speculating on that rider.

  Harry Meadows had ridden in that direction. So far as Coburn was aware, there was no one else off there, and the speed of this rider implied a definite destination and the necessity for quick arrival If the rider was not going to see Meadows, he was of no importance to Coburn. But if he was riding to see him, it must be to tell him of the gold shipment and the fact that Matt was to ride shotgun. So the way to look at it was to take it for granted that he was heading for Meadows' camp.

  The question was, who was the rider, and where had he come from? It was not yet ten o'clock in the morning. The Voice was not due on the street for another hour or two at the earliest Newton Clyde would not say anything about Mates plans, and Felton was neither a talkative man nor a miser. Anyway, there had not been time for the news to spread, nor for a rider to come this far.

  Moreover, no one from Confusion would have a horse still capable of that speed after the long ride from town. Either the rider had gotten a fresh home from the Rafter IS, or he had started from there.

  After a while, Matt Coburn ate his lunch. He had not lived as long as he had without realizing the fallacy of jumping to conclusions. He ate slowly, chewing each bite with appreciation for the flavor of the beef and bread, the taste of the doughnuts. Then he washed it down with water from his canteen.

  Finally he got up, tightened the cinch on the appaloosa, checked his rifle, and replaced it in the scabbard. He had never wished to ride shotgun or run a tough town again, but it was the mention of Dandy Burke that had won him over.

  Four years before, near Frenchman's Station, Harry Meadows, his brother Archie, and two others had attempted to stop a stage driven by Burke. They had killed the shotgun messenger at the first fire, and Burke had caught up the shotgun and had let Archie Meadows take both barrels in the chest. Then he had escaped with the coach. Harry Meadows had sworn to get Burke, but everybody who knew Harry Meadows at all knew he would not do it until the time was right. To really get Burke you had to take his coach away from him, and then kill him.

  It was dusk when Matt Coburn rode into Confusion. He did not ride through the town, but came in over the ridge and went first to Newton Clyde's office. Fife was there, as well as Felton.

  Sturd." Coburn held out his hand to the newspaper publisher. "Nobody's killed you yet, I see."

  "Nor you." Fife handed him a copy of the sheet announcing the stage run. "I gave you some good billing. Right at the top of the sheet."

  "Thanks," Matt said dryly. didn't need that'

  "It was my idea," Clyde said. "I figured it might scare off the small fry."

  "It won't scare Meadows, and he knows. He had the word before noon today.'

  They looked at each other. "How could that be?" Felton asked. The paper wasn't on the street until nearly two this afternoon."

  "He knows." Coburn explained about the rider he had seen, and his own reasoning." Joss?" Clyde was incredulous. "You mean he's gone back?"

  "I called no names, nor will I." Coburn was emphatic. "I have no idea who was at the Rafter last night, or who rode out of there this morning. I only know that Meadows knows, if he wants to do something about it."

  "Do you think he will? Isn't he afraid of your Coburn smiled without humor. "He's not afraid of me, or of anybody, but Harry Meadows is a careful man. I don't think he will buck the odds. There will be other gold shipments. Sure, he wants Dandy's scalp, and he wants fifty thousand dollars, but there will be other times when Dandy is less ready and when I am not riding shotgun."

  "How about the marshal's job?" Clyde asked.

  "No. I'll take your shipment to Carson, and that's the end of it. I'm going to buy some cattle and start my own outfit."

  Newton Clyde had taken space in a building put up by Gage, using it for both office and living quarters, and he suggested now, "I have a spare cot, Matt, if you want to bed down there. I'd feel safer. The gold is on the premises."

  "All right," Matt said.

  When he left the meeting Matt walked out into the street. Removing his hat, he wiped the hatband, thinking as he did so that all these towns sounded alike, and they were alike. He knew what was happening down there now, knew what would happen in the hours to come. Even the faces were the same, although some of the names had changed; the cast was an old one, and familiar to him. He had been a part of that cast too many times; he had walked just such streets as these, sometimes as the law, sometimes as a drifter.

  He was a different man now, less patient than he had been, and that was a danger both to himself and to others. Once such towns had been a challenge. He had come into them to bring law and order, but too many of them had only imagined that was what they wanted, and all too often he had discovered that even those who hired him became his enemies. They wanted the money that would be spent, without the turbulence that came with it. The buffalo hunters, the cattle drivers, the prospectors, and the miners were free spenders, but they accompanied their spending with the release of exuberant spirits that started with shouts and raucous laughter and too much whiskey, and often ended in gunfire.

  Fife came out to stand beside him. For a minute or two neither man spoke, and then it was Fife who said, "She's a doozer, Matt, she's a rip-snortin' doozer! There's eight to ten ready killers down there, and twice that many murderers, and on top of that there's the lads who like it rough. You'll find a lot of old friends down there." "Not many, Sturd. A man in my line of work doesn't have too many friends."

  "You should have friends. You've made a dozen towns decent to live in."

  "But not for their kind. They like them rough, Sturd. I used to think I did."

  The stars were out. Up at Discovery there were lights. Felton and his partners were working a night shift. The Treasure Vault was also working, and there were a couple of men busy at the Slum Bucket.

  Nathan Bly's down there, Matt. He killed a man a couple of days ago who'd accused him of cheating."

  "He asked for it, then. Nathan Bly never cheated anybody."

  "He's fast, Matt. Quicker on the shoot than he used to be, and he doesn't go as far with them.*

  So Bly was losing his patience, too? Was it that, or had they both become killers? Had they, somewhere along the line, lost their perspective? Had the ability to kill become a willingness to kill?

  "What about Thompson?" he asked.

  'Ala, now. There's a bad one, Matt. He's mean, he's vicious and low-down. But he's fast. He drinks a lot, but he shoots just as straight when he's drunk. And many a time he acts the drunk when he's cold sober. He likes it, Matt. He makes his brag that the man doesn't live who can stand face to face to him with either fists or guns. I'd say he weighs about two hundred and sixty, and not over five to ten pounds of it blubber. Over at Eureka he smashed Tim Sullivan down, then put the boots to him. Crippled him for life.

  "He made his reputation whipping loggers up in Oregon. He was a river man until he found he could live easier with a fist and a gun. They say he's killed twenty men. Cut that in half, if you're talking gun or knife battles, but he killed one man with his fists.

  "And Peggoty Gorman is almost as bad. He's a sandbagger or a knife man, does his work in an alley. He used to be an acrobat in the old country, but they shipped him out for murder."

  Leaving Fife chewing on the stub of a cigar and listening to the town, Matt went into Clyde's quarters and pulled off his boots, then hung up his gunbelt, the butt of his gun close at hand.

  The last thing he remembered was the muttering of some drunken miners as they wandered past the building. Clyde was already asleep.

  It was cold and dark when he awoke. He lay perfectly still for a few minutes. The
town was quiet. There were no sounds in the room except for the breathing of the Wells Fargo man. Matt struck a match, and shielding it with his hand, glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of five o'clock.

  He swung his feet to the floor, and dressed swiftly and silently. Then he went into the next room, and having lighted the coal-oil lamp, he shaved and combed his hair carefully. Taking his hat, he stepped out into the darkness of predawn.

  The stage was already standing in the street and he helped Burke hook up the trace chains.

  Dandy Burke was a slender man of thirty-odd. He was smoking the stub of a cigar when he came around the lead team. "Are you ready for this?" he asked.

  `Ready as I'll ever be. I could use some coffee, though." "Come on over. Felton's up, and Dan Cohan just took the pot off the fire."

  Four men stood around nursing cups and looking as if sleep was still in them that the coffee had not warmed away.

  "Shotgun." Felton pointed.

  I've got my own," Matt said.

  Burke picked it up. T11 take that I've seen the time I wanted one."

  Matt Coburn let his eyes take in the group. Felton, Cohan, Zeller, and Newton Clyde, who had come over while Matt was helping Burke with the team. Clyde was a good man these Wells Fargo men always were, and they were in every new camp, ready to ship gold before there was even a post office.

  Matt's eyes dropped to the cases on the floor. These in addition to the cases across the street? 'Well be carrying more than fifty thousand, then," he said, indicating them. Felton looked at him. "An even hundred thousand: he said, "if their figures match ours."

  Matt took a deep breath. If Harry Meadows knew there was that much he would take the gamble, Matt Coburn or no.

  "We hit a pocket," Cohan said. "We lifted one nugget that weighed nine pounds, and we hit some thick seams just loaded with it"

  You could not keep a thing like that quiet, and Matt knew it. He saw Dandy Burke's face. The Irishman looked grim.

  "I made a bargain," Matt said quietly, "but Dandy ought to have more money."

  "He's getting fifty," Felton said somewhat testily.

  "Did you ever sit up on that box holding the lines on some half-broke broncs while you're getting shot at? If I'd known there was that much gold rd never have agreed to the price. Once the story gets out, every thief in the country will be riding."

  "All right," Felton agreed reluctantly. Matt Coburn turned abruptly and went outside. For the first time he was really worried. Fifty thousand was a lot of gold but twice that much? And the story of the big nugget would surely get out. There was excitement in such a story, and there was challenge.

  Dandy Burke came outside. "Thanks," he said. "That was decent of you."

  "You've got it coming," Matt said. "You'll earn it." "Let's have some more coffee."

  While they were drinking the coffee Matt saw some people coming up the street two men and a woman. The woman was not with the men, but walked slightly behind them.

  Holding the cup in his hands, he watched them. The men were strangers. One was a stocky, wide-shouldered, bearded man with quick movements and a tough, capable look about him. The other man was slender, better dressed, but not a gambler, Matt decided, and probably not a businessman.

  The woman was scarcely more than a girl, young but with no wide-eyed innocence about her. She was dressed very well for the time and place, and wore no make-up. She carried only a carpetbag.

  Newton Clyde came out, followed by Cohan and Felton. "Passengers?" Matt inquired quietly, over his cup. "There will be four," Clyde said. "Matt Coburn, meet Charlie Kearns" this was the stocky, bearded man "and Peter Dunning."

  The girl had halted, well behind the others, but Clyde made no move to introduce her until the two men had acknowledged the introductions and gone inside for coffee.

  "Matt," Clyde said quietly, "this is Madge Healy."

  The girl's eyes were on his face, awaiting a reaction, but Matt's smile was casual and friendly. "Howdy, ma'am." He held his hat in his hand. "I hope you won't mind a rough ride."

  Her chin lifted slightly and she looked straight into his eyes. "I have had some rough rides, Mr. Coburn. I think I can stay with you."

  "You know,* he said gently, "I think you could, at that Would you like some coffee?"

  "Yes, please.'

  He went inside and took a clean cup from the shelf. The men were standing about, most of them silent. It was a cold morning, they had only just gotten out of bed, and they did not feel talkative.

  He took the coffee outside "It's hot," he warned. "Be careful."

  `Thank you."

  He put his hat on and stood beside her as she sipped the coffee. "If there is anything you want," he said, "just tap on the underside of the roof. I'll hear you."

  "I will be all right" She hesitated ever so little, and then said, "Mr. Coburn, you are a gentleman."

  He made no reply, and she looked up to see his eyes were on the man who was walking up the street The fourth passenger.

  He was a lean, wiry man wearing a black coat and a tied-down gun. He carried a blanket roll in his left hand, which he tossed to the stage-top. Only then did he turn to face them, looking first at Matt, then at Madge Healy. He had deep, sunken eyes, and thin brows on a narrow face. When he looked at Matt, the gaze straight but the eyes curiously unalive, Matt was reminded of a snake he had once seen at close quarters. The man's clothing was new, a store-bought outfit still showing the creases of the packing case. Only the gun was not new. It was a gun that showed much use.

  "You drivin7' he asked.

  "No, Dandy Burke is driving. He's inside right now." The man turned away, and when he had gone inside the girl said, "Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "That is Pike Sides, the Cherry Creek gunman." 'Thanks."

  Matt knew something about him. He was from West Virginia by way of Texas and Old Mexico. He had killed a man in Chihuahua, another in Durango. He had been involved briefly in the Lincoln County War, had been involved in a shooting in Vernal, Utah, and had killed a man in Pioche and another at Silver Reef. He was occasionally a gambler, and his gun was for hire. Burke came out and lit the lamp on the near side of the coach.

  "I wouldn't do that, Dandy," Matt said quietly. "Anyway, it will be light soon."

  Kearns and Dunning emerged from the shack and mounted the step to the coach. Matt helped Madge Healy in, then stepped to the door and took his shotgun from under his slicker. He carried the slicker out, too, holding under it a gunbelt loaded with shotgun shells. Pike Sides came out, glancing from the shotgun to Matt Coburn. "You the or bull o' the woods around here?" he asked.

  "Just a hired hand," Matt replied carelessly. "If I hold this shotgun while I ride they give me a free trip."

  Sides grinned, but said nothing and mounted to the stage. Dandy Burke glanced at Clyde. "All right, boys. Let her go."

  Burke swung up and Matt Coburn followed. Matt looked down at the little crowd around the shack that doubled as a stage station Felton, Cohan and Zeller, Buckwalter, Gage, Clyde. He lifted a hand and Burke cracked his whip and the horses leaned into the harness. The stage went down the rocky street, swung into the trail, and headed for the main trail at Cowboy Pass. Matt held his shotgun between his knees and lighted a cigar.

  "You think Madge is leaving?" Burke asked. "Is she pulling her freight?"

  Matt considered the question, then shook his head. "I doubt it. She's held on for a while, and she's game. Game as they come."

  "You think she did it?"

  "No. But I wouldn't have blamed her."

  "He was a skunk."

  Dandy Burke popped his whip over the heads of the leaders and the team straightened out to run. They swung into Cowboy Pass just where it emerged into Snake Valley. The land opened wide before them, the trail showing across the dusty plain toward the far-off, towering mountains of the Snake Range.

  As the team lined out on the trail, Matt pointed ahead. "Stay with it, Dandy. Don't make the turn."<
br />
  "The best trail is south of here."

  "I know it. The trail west is good enough when it's dry, and it's dry now. I scouted it a few days ago."

  Matt Coburn rolled his cigar into the corner of his mouth and, still holding the shotgun between his knees, he could reach the belt of shotgun shells around his waist under his coat. He had a handful of shells bulging each pocket. They were for Indians, like the rifle at his feet. With outlaws it was one or two shots as a rule, and he had them or they had him. So far they had never had him.

  Dint devils danced on the valley floor. Over there near Jeff Davis Peak, the tallest peak in the range, was Sacramento Pass. The pass was the first danger, now that they had avoided skirting the hills to the south.

  'Take it fast across the valley, ease up at the foot of the mountains. We're going to change homes at Silver Creek."

  Burke glanced at him. "They'll be expecting us at the station."

  "I know it."

  The team was a good one. He had six head of broncs, half broken but full of guts and ready to run their hearts out.

  Matt Coburn turned and looked back the way they had come, then let his eyes turn toward the main trail, the way they should have come. There was no dust yet.

  You had to give them time. He knew they would be coming soon.

  Chapter 7

  Freeman Dorset was frightened. It was a feeling he would have admitted to no one, not even to himself. He had acted, as always, on an impulse.

  He considered himself a dangerous man. He was a good shot, and he carried himself with a good deal of dash and swagger. He had practiced with a gun until he was fast exceptionally fast, he believed.

  Wherever he went, when there was talk of gunfighters and gunmen it was Hickok, Courtright, Wes Harden, and Billy the Kid who were talked of. But among those who knew the mining-camp country there was more talk of Langford Peel, John Bull, Jim Levy, Calvin Bell, or Matt Coburn. Always, always, Matt Coburn.

  Dorset had taken the job riding for Rafter reluctantly. It was beneath him to be just a rider, earning thirty dollars a month. He was a gun-hand, a gun for hire. When he realized that Coburn was to get a hundred dollars for riding to Carson City, he was astounded.