And days passed, as days have a way of doing. That fine old trio from
Canyon City, Evans and Hasbrook and Kibbee, had returned home well
content after seeing the sign nailed to the tree in front of the Stag
Horn. It was painted in big black letters on a pine board; you could
read it across the street:
NOTICE
1. Steve Bordereau is on the run, wanted for murder and robbery.
2. Clark Murdo has been kicked out of town.
3. Men like them are invited to clear out of Sundown.
4. The jail door is busted. So no arrests will be made.
The town marshal was no longer in town. He went back straightway to his
new ranch; he hired a couple of extra men and was busy from daylight to
dark making improvements, building for the future, digging in for the
winter. He said:
“I like this country. I’ve moved around enough. I’m here as long as I
live.”
He looked over the old Harper ranch, one panhandle end of which cut in
between his own place and the King Cannon spread, and found it utterly
to his liking, with its rolling hills, its valley land and meadows, its
water in plenty supplied by Sundown Creek weaving a glinting, laughing
way across it. He opened negotiations with the absent owner, now
enjoying the sunset of his life under a shade tree down in Yuma. And at
times Jim Torrance, riding over these half-wild, half-tamed acres, met
a slim, sweet, eager girl also riding, and they rode together through
sunlight and shadow of days which were crisp and clean with October
merging into November, and which were days never to be forgotten,
subtly touched with green magic.
The Sam Peppers had returned home. Bill Yarbo had gone back to his own
ragged mountain ranch. At the King Cannon ranch Sally Dawn, with an
Indian woman as housekeeper and chaperon, had launched herself upon a
brave campaign of starting life over. She knew that the chances were
all against her; she dreaded the day when the old home would be hers
no longer, gone, through the trickery of Steve Bordereau, into his
hands or those of some consignee of his--anyhow, irretrievably gone
from hers. Still, since she loved the place so and was so young and
vital, there were times when her hopes were as strong and gay as a
flock of bluebirds. Because of their insistence, she kept on a purely
theoretical pay roll Curly Redmond and Dick Pardee and Dave Drennen.
They, like Jim Torrance and his men, were rebuilding.
Days shortened; flurries of rain came and were blown away, leaving the
freshly washed sky a wonderful blue; storms gathered and rumbled over
the mountains and painted the heights a dazzling white which was to
last until May, a good five or six months or longer; then the storm
clouds went where all things go, and there were again still, chill,
gloriously bright days, and nights that were velvet-black but sprinkled
with frosty brilliants.
The Stag Horn still ran full blast. A young man, bloodless looking
and thin and with the stamp of towns on him, came in one day and took
the place over. He had bought it, lock, stock and barrel, from Steve
Bordereau. Jim Torrance, news of this brought him by that carrier
pigeon of a gossip, Sam Pepper, rode into Sundown and in his official
capacity of town marshal had a heart-to-heart talk with Art Pilgrim,
the new owner.
“Where’d you see Bordereau?” asked Torrance.
Art Pilgrim’s slim white hands went up to his hollow chest, his thumbs
into the armholes of his flowered vest.
“Didn’t ever see him, Mr. Town Marshal,” he said.
“How come?” asked Torrance.
“Any business of yours?”
“Yes. You’re a new man here; if you’re on the up-and-up, you’ll last.
If you’re a Bordereau kind of man, and if you’re kicking in with him,
you won’t last.”
“I don’t know Bordereau. I never saw him. I don’t know anything about
him except that he owned this place and made it pay big money. He knew
about me the same way; I had my own saloon at Alamagordo. I had a
chance to sell and sold. My business with Bordereau was done through a
lawyer over there. That’s all I know.”
“Fair enough,” said Torrance, and got up to go. Over his shoulder he
said: “If you’ve got a good strong safe here, you better keep your
money in it. And you better go dig a hole somewhere and stick the safe
in it and cover it over.”
“Now, what’s that mean?”
“So long,” said Torrance.
Sam Pepper, living so near Torrance, was in and out at all hours, his
ear to the ground, his nose twitching to any breeze that might bear
even a hint of something. A queer sort of friendship sprang up between
the two; and a friendship also between Torrance and Lying Bill Yarbo
who, like Sam, dropped in frequently. The three were sitting on Jim’s
porch one evening, sampling fresh cider out of a jug that had been sent
over that day from the King Cannon apple orchard, when Sam blurted out:
“Looky here, Jim! You keep hanging on to the idea that we ain’t seen
the last of Steve Bordereau. What in tarnation makes you so sure?”
Torrance said promptly, “Bordereau is a gambler first, last and all the
time, isn’t he?”
“Sure. He’s a lot of other things, killer and highwayman and all round
crook, but the bottom of everything with him is that he’s a gambler.
But what about it?”
“A gambler always loses,” said Torrance. “Ever notice?”
Both Sam and Bill thought that over in a silence broken only by
gurglings now and then from the jug. They had known many a gambler in
their time, and had known many a big-time gambler to get into big money.
“A gambler always loses,” said Torrance. “I’ve noticed. I’ve never
known one of the breed yet to have enough money left to bury him when
he died. It’s like this with Steve Bordereau. He’s made himself a bit
of a stake, and when a gambler makes a stake, right away he’s got to
double it; he can’t quit any more than a booze hound can stop lapping
up his booze. He’s got Sally Dawn’s gold; he’s got what he made from
his stick-ups at the Yellow Pine, the Mountain City and the Rocky.
On top of that he got something out of Canyon City--but he’s not
forgetting that that night I had fifty thousand dollars tied to my
saddle strings, and it was his money--and he lost it. Think he’s going
to let that go? Having played in luck all this time, as he’s got to
figure it, think he’s going to quit? Give a man like that a winning
streak at poker or faro or at the wheel, is he going to stop? The
answer is, Hell no!”
“What about Murdo?” demanded Sam.
“That, I don’t know. I wanted him to get out of here alive, and he did.
I hoped he’d know where to find Bordereau and would kick in with him.
I hoped that they’d feel like maybe I owed ’em something, and that
they’d drop in some time to collect. And, talking about gambling, I’ll
bet either one of you two gents, or both of you, a forty dollar Stetson
against a bottle of beer that inside of ten days or two weeks we have
’em, or anyhow Bordereau, with us. Maybe tonight or tomorrow night or
the next.”
“Got a notion where he’s holing up, I suppose?” said Sam.
“No. Might be anywhere. Could be up in the hills yet; there’s not too
much snow. Could be within half a dozen miles of Sundown all the time;
could be a day’s ride away. Not any further than that, Sambo.”
“And you figure him to come down looking for you?” Sam sat back tighter
against the wall, and stared off in all directions into the gathering
dark and began rubbing his hands together as though to get them warm;
well, the evenings did grow cold now.
“That’s the way I figure it,” said Torrance.
“How many men you suppose he’s got with him by now, Jim?” asked Bill
Yarbo.
“Sam can tell you, Bill.”
“Me?” exclaimed Sam.
Torrance’s face looked stern in the flare of the match he lifted to
his cigarette, yet there was a humorous quirk coming and going at the
corner of his mouth.
“Sure,” he said. “You told me only a couple of days ago.”
“Me?” said Sam again. “You’re crazy, Jim.”
“You were saying how Sundown had been losing part of its population the
last few weeks. You mentioned the names of several men who used to hang
around the Stag Horn and who’ve gone on somewhere else lately--and you
said ‘Good riddance, anyhow,’ seeing the sort they were!”
“Why, shoot me down!” gasped Sam. “I never thought of that! You mean
all them boys has kicked in with Steve? Why, say! If you’re right he
must have eight or ten or a dozen boys with him altogether.”
Torrance stood up to go inside. “Getting cold out here,” he said.
“But listen!” said Sam. “If Steve Bordereau’s got all those hell
twisters with him-- Say, it’s quite a crowd! And what would he want so
many for?”
“Maybe he’s figuring on a good sized job of work,” said Torrance.
“Maybe he’s figuring on making his last play up here, then riding
hell-for-leather somewhere else. Anyhow there’s not a bank inside a
hundred miles that I haven’t sent word to that they better sleep with
one eye open; and whenever the stage carries a fat money box they’re
carrying two extra guards inside.”
Bill Yarbo said ponderously, “If you’re halfway right in your guess
work, Jim, here’s this to chaw on: Steve can still dodge around in the
mountains, what with the way the weather’s been, where a man’s as hard
to find as a flea on a long-haired pup. But come one good storm that
might blow along any day now, and he’d get himself plugged up where it
would take some getting out. What I mean is, if he’s set, like you say
you think he is, for another play, he’ll be making it right soon. It’ll
be right soon or not any this year, Jim.”
“Right soon, Bill,” said Jim.
* * * * *
A new trail, weaving among the little hills, threading through the
pines, came into being across the panhandle of the Harper place and
connected Jim Torrance’s ranch with Sally Dawn’s. Tonight, since it was
early when first Sam and then Bill rode away, Torrance rode that trail.
He said to himself: “That was mighty good cider. I’ll just ride by and
say thanks.”
But, about midway between his place and Sally Dawn’s, where the winding
trail went over a gentle knoll among both pines and big oaks, he saw
another rider coming to meet him. Wondering who it might be, he eased
himself sideways in the saddle, his right hand on the cantle close to
his hip. He was getting so he watched shadows of late; he had a feeling
in his bones it might pay him to do so.
It was Sally Dawn, riding alone.
“Right here,” said Torrance where they met on the top of the knoll,
“I’m going to build me my house--my real home. Think you’d like it?”
“This spot was made for a home,” said Sally Dawn. “It’s been waiting
for it thousands and thousands of years. Poor little lonely hilltop!”
“I can pump water up out of the creek,” said Torrance. “I can pipe it
here easy as downing a mug of cider. That was the best cider ever,
Sally Dawn.”
“Funny we met here; I was sort of restless tonight. Know what I was
going to do? You’ve never asked me to call on you, but I was doing it
anyhow.”
“That’s great. Come ahead.”
“Well--no. As long as I’ve had my visit with you, as long as you’ve
made your duty call--I love to ride at night.”
“I was coming over to thank you for the cider.-- Ever see a nice deep
pool, all shady in summertime, on top of a hill like this?”
“They don’t grow that way, do they?”
“Big enough and deep enough for a swim. And ducks always waddling into
it or out of it--”
“I know. White ducks with nice curly tails. And yellow bills and
feet--they keep them so nice and clean, don’t they?”
“Look here,” said Torrance, “I don’t like your riding off alone like
this after dark.”
“Mercy!” cried Sally Dawn. “Sounds like you’d lock me up in a dark
closet and make me go to bed without any supper if I didn’t mind you!”
“It’s Steve Bordereau,” said Torrance in dead earnest. “He hasn’t
finished down here. He’s got the toughest crowd with him that you
could think of. They’re headed this way before long, and I know it. I
wouldn’t want you running into them.”
It was too dark for them to see each other’s faces at all clearly, to
capture any play of expression, but he did see the liquid flash of her
eyes in the starlight as she turned slightly and lifted them to his.
“I don’t believe it,” she said presently. “He has gone for good. You
have just thought about him so much and for so many years--”
“No. It isn’t that. He is coming back. I don’t know that he will come
near you; but I don’t want to think of your running into that crowd
alone. Not at night, off in the woods like this. Remember what you did
to him once. Think he’s the sort to forget?”
They rode for an hour, well up to the benchland of the Harper place,
and they stopped many times and looked off across the wide acreage, and
he sketched for her his budding plans against the time when this was
all his, when his ranch and hers had a common boundary line.
... And somehow, though nothing quite direct was said about it, both
thought:
“Maybe someday the fence along that line will come down.”
* * * * *
By this time Jim Torrance had his bunk house fixed up so that his men,
three of them now, ate and slept there. He himself, though no one knew,
slept in the barn. He’d go to his house first, then after a while put
out his light, lock up and betake himself to a loft over the stalls
where his favorite horses were kept at night. It was his thought that
Steve Bordereau, did his path ever lead him anywhere near the ranch in
passing, might take off time to shoot a few finely bred horses, if he
didn’t find it handy to drive them off.
Lights in the bunk house were out by nine or ten o’clock. Torrance had
got into the habit of taking a nap in his own house; about two or three
in the morning he saddled and went for a ride; when he got back he went
to the barn for any more sleep he might have coming.
There were nights when a couple of hours of sleep were all that he
got, all that he wanted. With every passing hour he felt surer and
surer that not much longer did he have to wait; he thought the thing
over from every possible angle, dead set against letting himself
trick himself into the old pit of simply believing what he wanted to
believe; he thought of all that he knew of Steve Bordereau, one way and
another, and could see only the one logical conclusion--Bordereau was
coming back, and soon.
If Bordereau struck Sundown, thought Torrance, he’d strike where most
loot was to be had, and that was the Stag Horn where games ran high and
where the house made money hand over fist. Wouldn’t Bordereau know all
about that? And just where the money would be kept? And at just what
hour to strike?
One day Sam Pepper came nosing in, and had hardly had a drink--Sam
always favored a free drink--when he gave speech with the newest of
Sundown news.
“I just seen a feller,” said Sam, “that I ain’t clapped my peepers on
since Steve Bordereau played dead and buried pore old Doc Taylor. A
feller named LeSarge, Jake LeSarge.”
“Jake LeSarge? Who’s he? Tell me about him.”
“I can tell you plenty!” said Sam, and did.
LeSarge, if you’d take his word for it, was tougher than the plank
steaks they sold over to Joe’s Lunch Counter. Still a young feller,
maybe twenty-three-four, he had hung around Sundown off and on for ten
years. Always in trouble, always hell-raising. Quarrelsome. A cheap
skate, a tin-horn, as crooked as a dog’s hind leg--and a sort of pet of
Steve Bordereau’s. Two years ago he killed Larry McKibben, and Larry
was an up-and-up boy, well liked. LeSarge had skipped out, stayed away
six months or so, and had crept back under Bordereau’s wing. And a good
many things were said of him that nobody could prove--not nice things.
“And he’s back,” said Sam. “Me, I was wondering, if Steve has a gang
like you say, why Jake LeSarge ain’t one of ’em.”
Jim Torrance was more interested than Sam had hoped to find him.
“What’s this LeSarge doing in town now?” he asked. “Where’s he hanging
out?”
“He’s hanging around the Stag Horn. He’s buying drinks, free with
his money, which he ain’t always. I seen him making a play at the
Señorita--Florinda, you know. Looked like he was stuck on her, trying
to corner her, like maybe he’d like to go out and buy a dog collar that
would fit that white neck of hers. Outside all that, he wasn’t doing
much of anything I could see.”
Torrance tilted his chair back, his lean brown hands behind his head,
his eyes, with a sort of vacant look in them, going up to the cross
beams and smoky rafters above.
It was so long before he moved or spoke that Sam began to fidget. At
last, however, he kicked his chair back and stood up.
“All right, Sam,” he said. “Thanks for the tip-off. And now-- Well,
good night.”
“Hey!” cried Sam Pepper. But Jim Torrance was gone, off to the barn to
saddle and ride. And Sam Pepper couldn’t even be sure what direction
his ride was taking him, since Torrance cut straight across the road
into the pines and might have gone anywhere.
So he had to yell after the departing figure: “Hey, Jim! Where are you
going?”
And it just happened that this time Torrance answered him.
“Over to the King Cannon Ranch,” he said.
Only half a dozen words, not an outstanding word among them, but as
things were to happen those six words were fateful.