Ride the Dark Trail (1972) (3 page)

"I taken a job keepin' house for Spud Tavis and his youngsters, only it turned out what Spud was hunting was a woman for himself and not a housekeeper. He got almighty mean, so I got into a buckboard and came into town."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen. Mister Logan," her voice lowered so only he could hear, "it may sound a hard thing, but if pa had to go I'm glad it was right then. Pa was going to sell something he knew to Flanner."

"About the Empty outfit?"

"Pa knew a way in. When we first came into this country we boarded a cowhand who'd worked for her. He got scared an' quit, buffaloed by Flanner's men, but before he left the country he told pa one night about a way he knew to come into the Empty outfit from behind.

"It was an Injun trail, and he come on it one time huntin' strays. It had been used a time or two, year ago. He found some sign of that, and he reckoned it was that gun-slinging kid of Talon's ... Milo."

"Milo Talon? He's kin to the old woman out yonder?"

"Son. There's another boy, too, only he went off to foreign parts. Seems they had kinfolk in Canada and France. This cowhand was quite a talker, and him an' pa had knowed each other back in West Virginny."

"Your pa knew about a trail into the back of the Empty? Did he ever tell Flanner?"

"I don't think so. He figured we had to pull out and we needed a road-stake. He figured he might get a hundred dollars for it, an' we could go on to Californy or Oregon, but pa never did have no luck. That horse dropped him an' he taken sick to his death."

"That cowhand, where did he go?"

She shrugged. "He taken out. That's six, eight months ago."

"What's your name, girl?"

'I'm Pennywell Farman."

"Pennywell, I've got no money to speak of. I can't send you nowhere, but we might get you to that Em Talon. She might like to have somebody to he'p out now and again."

"We'd never get in. She'll shoot you, mister. These folks been after her place, and she'll let nobody close."

My eyes taken a look around that room and nobody seemed to be paying us no mind. All the same, I knew they were trying to listen and that they hadn't forgotten us. Pennywell went to spooning soup, and I gave thought to the fix she was in.

Me, I was a drifting man, and there was nothing around here I wanted. Right now I was figuring on wintering in Brown's Hole. I had to get shut of this girl and leave her some place she'd be safe.

I'd no idea of taking Flanner's offer. That was just a mite of stalling to get trouble off my back until I could get my horse rested and a meal in me. Seemed our only chance was that old lady yonder.

"Pennywell, when that cowhand was a-talkin' to your pa, what were you doin'?"

"Sleeping."

"Now, Penny, if I'm to help you, you got to help me. I don't figure to get myself killed, and it might be you could help that old lady. Don't you recall what that cowhand said about that trail through the back?"

She gave me a long, thoughtful look. "I think you're a good man, Mister Logan, or I'd say nothing. I think maybe I could find that trail if you'd help."

Suddenly the outer door burst open and a big man stood framed in the doorway. Len Spivey turned to look, then began to grin.

"Lookin' for your girl, Spud? There she is ... with that stranger."

When that door opened I recognized trouble. That big man was surely on the prod and he came into the room like he figured to smash everything in sight. He was big, he was wet, and he was hoppin' mad.

"You, there! What d'you mean runnin' off with my rig? I got a notion to see you jailed for stealin' horses. You git up out o' there an' git back to the buckboard. Soon's I have a drink we'll be drivin' back home. What you need is a taste of the strap!"

"I quit!" Pennywell said firmly. "I went to care for your children, Spud Tavis, and to cook for them and you, but that was all, and you knowed it. You got no right to come after me thisaway!"

"By the Lord Harry, I'll show you what!"

"You heard the lady," I said mildly. "She's quit you. You're no kin to her an' you've got no rights in the matter, so leave her alone."

He reached for the girl and when he did I just kind of slapped his arm away. It caught him unexpected and spun him so's he had to take a step to keep balance.

He caught himself, his features flushed with anger, and turned on me. He had a big, thick, hairy fist and he drew it back to throw a punch, but as he stepped forward there was an instant when his foot was off the ground and I let go with a sweeping, sidewise move of my foot that swept his foot over and up. He staggered and fell, hitting the floor with a bump.

He got up fast, I'll give him that. For a man of his heft he was quick, and he came right at me.

Me, I never so much as moved from my chair, only hooked my toe around the leg of the chair at the end of the table. He taken a lunge at me and I kicked the chair into his path and he came down across it, all sprawled out.

"Something the matter?" I asked. "Seems like you're kind of unsteady."

He got up more slowly, but he let his hand close over one of the broken chair legs. "Better get back against the wall," I told Pennywell, "from here on this is going to get rough."

This time he was cautious. He came toward me slowly, gripping the club in his right hand; he raised it a mite more than shoulder high and poised to strike. But this time I was on my feet. He didn't know much about stick fighting and his one idea was to bash in my skull. He struck down and hard. Blocking the downcoming blow with my forearm, I slid my right hand under and over his arm to grasp my own wrist in an arm lock. I had him and there was never much mercy in me. I just slammed the pressure to him and his hand opened and dropped the club as he screamed.

He went over backwards to the floor and I released him and let him fall. I had almost broken his arm. I could have without no trouble. He was game and he got up. When he tried to swing with his injured arm I was suddenly tired of the whole thing. I hit him four inches above the belt buckle with my left, and then clobbered him on the ear with my right. He went down, his ear split apart, gasping for breath.

"A man that can't fight shouldn't try," I commented. "He's just lucky I didn't break his fool neck."

Taking Pennywell by the elbow, I went to the door. '"I'm taking this girl to a good home," I said, "but I'll be back."

Spud Tavis was slowly sitting up. "Tavis," I said, "you've got youngsters, Pennywell says. My advice is to go home an' take care of them. If you ever bother this young lady again, you'll answer to me. An' next time I won't play games."

The rain had wind behind it, lashing the boardwalk and the faces of the buildings. We slopped across to the livery stable, where I left Pennywell under the overhang and went in alone, gun in hand.

Nobody was there. I saddled up my horse, who looked almighty unhappy with me, and then mounted up. At the door I gave her a hand up and we went out and down the road. As we left I saw somebody standing on the edge of the walk, peering after me. Once out of sight and sound in the darkness we cut across a field, took a country lane, and headed for the mountains.

The trail began at a lightning-scarred pine and wound steeply up among the rocks, slick from rain and running water. After a climb of nearly half a mile we came to a huge boulder that hung over what was called a trail. It taken us nearly two hours to travel maybe a mile and a half of trail, and then we were riding smooth and in the woods a couple of thousand feet above the prairie.

Wet branches slapped at our faces and dripped water down our necks. Several times the horse slipped on the muddy trail. The horse I rode was bigger than most and powerful, but it was carrying double. After a while I got down and walked, leading the horse along.

"Logan Sackett," I said to myself, "you can get yourself into some mighty poor situations."

Here I was, slippin' an' sloppin' through a wet forest, headin' toward what might be a bullet in my fat skull, and all because of some no-account drifter's girl.

The house when I saw it looked almighty big, even from up on the mountain. It looked the way folks figure a ha'nted house might look like, standin' up there on its hill, peerin' out over the country around.

Behind it there was a long building, more'n likely a bunkhouse. There were a couple of barns, sheds, and some corrals. I could see light reflected from a water tank. It must have been quite an outfit when it was all together an' workin' right.

We walked and slid down the steep hill behind the house, and lookin' back I could see why nobody tried that way in, because it was rimmed around with cliffs two or three hundred feet high or mountains too steep for a horse to climb.

I led my horse inside a barn and stripped off the saddle. The barn was empty and smelled like it'd been empty a long time. Very carefully we crossed to the bunkhouse and I opened the door, stepped in, and struck a match. It was empty, too. No bedrolls, nothing.

A few old dried-out, worn-out boots, some odds and ends of harness and rope, a dusty coat hung from a nail.

We crossed the yard and went very easily up the back steps. The door opened under my hand, and we stepped in.

All was dark and still. The house had the musty smell of a place long closed. Lightning flashed revealing a kitchen storeroom. We tiptoed on through it, opening the door into the kitchen.

There was a fire in the kitchen range, and the smell of warmth and coffee was in the room.

The floor creaked ever so slightly as we crossed it. I could feel the skin crawl on the back of my neck, but I laid a hand on that door.

By rights we should have had a gun barrel stuck in our faces, but there hadn't been a sound. Was the old lady dead?

Gently I opened the door. Beyond was a big room, cavernous and dark. Lightning flashed and showed through the shuttered windows and the glass transom window over the door. And in that momentary flash I found myself looking across the room into the black muzzle of a big pistol. Behind it stood the old lady.

The flash, then darkness. "All right," her voice was steady, "I may be old but I have ears like a cat. If you so much as shift your feet I am going to fire, and mister, I can hit what I aim at."

"Yes, ma'am. I've a lady with me, ma'am."

"To the right of the door there is a lamp. There should still be a little coal oil in it. Take off the chimney, strike a match, and be mighty, mighty careful."

"Yes, ma'am. We're friendly, ma'am. We've just had a run-in with some folks down at the town."

Carefully I lifted off the lamp chimney, struck a match, and touched it to the wick. Then I replaced the chimney and the room was softly lit.

"Better stand clear of the light," she said quietly, "those no-accounts yonder shot two or three of them out for me."

"Yes, ma'am. My name is Logan Sackett, and this here girl is Pennywell Farman."

"Any kin to Deke Farman?"

"He was my father."

"Maybe he was a good father, but he was a shiftless, no-account cowhand. Never did earn his keep."

"That sounds like pa," Pennywell said mildly.

The hand that held the gun was steady as a rock. And it was no ordinary gun. It was one of those old-time Dragoon Colts that would blow a hole in a man big enough for your fist ... or mine.

"What are you doin' here?" the old lady asked.

"Ma'am, this young lady taken on to cook an' care for youngsters at the Tavis place. Spud Tavis made things bad for her, an' she run off an' fetched herself into town. She came to the Bon Ton huntin' the boss to ask for a job, and some of that crowd - Len Spivey for one - they talked kind of mean to her, ma'am. She needs a lady to set with, ma'am, and somebody who will teach her the things she should know. She's sixteen, and she's a good girl."

"Do you take me for a fool? Of course, she's a good girl. I can see that. What I want to know is what kind of a man are you? Are you fit company for her?"

"No, ma'am, I'm not. I'm mean, ma'am, meaner than a skunk, on'y I never figured to be comp'ny for her, only to bring her here. I'm fixin' to ride on, ma'am, soon's my horse is rested up."

"Ride on?" Her voice grew stronger. "Ride to where?"

"I don't rightly know, ma'am, just on. Just to ride on. I been a sight of places, worked at a whole lot of things. Was Milo Talon your son, ma'am?"

Suddenly the room was still. And then she said, "What do you know of Milo Talon?"

"Why, we met up down Chihuahua way, quite a spell back, only I understood his folks were all passed on."

"He was wrong, and I'm his ma. Where is Milo now?"

"Drifting I reckon. We drifted together, there for a while, and got ourselves in a shootin' match down Laredo way."

"Milo was always a hand. He was quick to shoot."

"Yes, ma'am, or I'd be dead. He seen 'em sneakin' up on us before I did an' he cut loose. Yes, ma'am, Milo Talon could shoot. He had said his brother was better than him."

"Barnabas? At targets, maybe, or with a rifle, but Barnabas was never up to Milo when it came to hoedown-an'-scrabble shootin'."

There was silence in the room. "Ma'am? There's coffee settin' yonder. Mightn't we have some?"