Over on the Dry Side (7 page)

Herds them days was big…hundreds of horses runnin' together, maybe sometimes thousands, and some fine stock among 'em. That surely couldn't last. Horse-hunters was always weedin' out the best breedin' stock for themselves.

Next day, I give some serious study to Owen Chantry. He was a hard man who'd rode some rough trails, and he shaped up like trouble. Still, the day he nailed that gent's hand he could have killed him…an' some would say he should.

I said it. He looked at me sharply. “I should have, Doby. I'm just a damn fool sometimes. I should have killed him. Because somebody will sure enough have it to do.”

Then when we were alone outside, he said, “That was a nice thing you did, Doby. Leaving the flowers.”

Well, I blushed. I never figured him knowing anying about it. “I found the pot, an'…well. I figured she was a lonely woman.…”

“It was a nice thing to do.” He paused a moment, looking westward across the wild, broken land. “When you ride, Doby, make sure you carry a gun and keep your eyes open. That's a bad outfit up there.”

“Maybe,” I said.

He shot me a glance. “You think otherwise?”

“Maybe they'll get friendly, like.…They're
her
folks.”

“They're not blood-kin.”

“Ain't no matter. I ain't anxious to shoot nobody.”

He just looked at me again and walked away to the end of the porch. All I could think of was riding to the mountains again. I was wishful of meeting up with that woman…that girl. I wanted to see for myself.

We didn't have much to say, come breakfast. Chantry talked with Pa about bringin' some good cattle into the country. On the dry side of the mountains like we were, there wasn't much water, but still, there was enough so cattle could drink, and the forage was pretty good stock feed.

Same time I was thinkin' of that girl I was also thinkin' of that golden treasure Chantry had told us Mowatt believed was there. Owen Chantry took it light, but maybe he was just tryin' to talk us out of lookin'. Somebody'd gone to a whole lot of trouble if it was just a little thing. Didn't make sense to me that a growed-up man would set that much store by anything but gold or jewels, like.

Seemed to me a mighty silly thing that a man would risk his life to save a little old book, maybe nobody but a schoolmarm would put a value on. There just had to be gold up yonder.

A thought came to me, but I put it quick away. A thought that maybe my dream was replacing the golden-haired girl with a golden treasure of coins and such. But I paid no mind to the thought. I'd not even seen that girl yet, and I'd not believe Chantry 'til I did.

Right that minute I didn't care much for him. He was a sharp, hard man, I figgered, with reasons of his own for what he done. And seen close up that black suit of his was worn on the cuffs, and the boots he polished nigh ever' night, they were far from new.

Not that Pa and me had better. But he set himself up so high.

“What was her name?” I asked him again. I recalled her name. It was a dream name that was downright pretty.

“Marny Fox. She's Irish, Doby,” he said, “or part Irish. They don't much like the Irish back east. Too many of us were poor when we came. But this is a good land and we will earn a place for ourselves.”

“I heard Pa speak of how hard it was. Why do folks have to be like that, Mr. Chantry?”

“It's the way of the world. Across the sea, every man has a place he fills, and it's a hard and long thing to break free from it.

“We have to earn our place, Doby, just like all the others. There's no special sun that shines on any man, regardless of religion, philosophy, or the color of his skin. There's no reason why any man should expect a special dispensation from pope or president. In this country, more than any other, you have to make your mark. You're not going to be treated like something special until you are.

“Some men become outlaws. They can't make a living honestly, so they try to do it by force and strength. But everything is against them, and they cannot win.”

“A man has to have some schoolin',” I said.

“It helps. Every book is a school in itself. Each one can teach you something. But you can learn a lot by observation. The most skillful trader I ever knew, a man who started as a pack-peddler—he was Irish, too—became a mighty big man in business, and he couldn't write his own name until he was over forty.

“By the time he was fifty he could speak four languages and write as good a letter as any man.…He was a wealthy man before he was able to write.”

“If you know so much, why ain't you done better?” I demanded, rudely. “I don't see you sportin' no pocketful of gold, an' you're out here at the bobtail end of creation with nothin' but a horse.”

He looked at me and his eyes were almighty cold. “I haven't done well, Doby, because I've been following a will-o'-the-wisp. Someday I'll find out what it really was.” He paused a moment. “Your comment is just. I know what can be done, but I haven't done it. Perhaps there were too many rivers I wanted to cross, too many canyons I hadn't followed, too many towns with dusty streets down which I hadn't ridden.

“The trouble is with wandering that after a bit a man looks around and the horizons are still there. There are nameless canyons and rivers still unknown to man. But a mortal man is suddenly old. The dream is there still, but rheumatism and weakening strength rob him of the chance to go farther.

“See me five years from now, Doby…or ten.”

Well, I just looked at him. He wasn't payin' me no mind, just lookin' off across the country, thinkin' his own thoughts. Me, I had thoughts of my own.

Then Chantry walked out to his horse. Whenever he had thinkin' to do, he curried his horse, fussed over it. You'd think that black was a baby. Yet he cared for the packhorse just about as well.

I went inside. Pa was settin' by the fire. “Pa, you think he's speakin' the truth?”

“Who?” Pa was startled. “You mean Chantry? Course he is!”

“But maybe they had reason to kill his brother, if they done it.”

“We done found the body, son. And I know 'bout Mowatt and his outfit. I heard.”

“You
heard
. Ain't you always told me not to b'lieve all I heard?”

“You had trouble with 'em first, Doby.”

Well, that kind of backed me up in a corner. It was true. They'd been mighty rough with me. So I just said, “That don't prove nothin'.” It was a feeble answer and I knowed it.

W
E NEEDED POLES for fencing if we were growin' any garden, so daybreak next day I packed me a lump and taken off for the hills to cut aspens.

Aspens grow tall and slim. Just right for making a fence quick, usin' them as rails. I taken an ax and when I fetched up to the nearest grove I got down and set to.

Sixteen ain't many years, but I was strong and I'd used an ax good, and I made the blade bite deep an' fast. By noon I'd cut enough poles for the best part of a day. I looped a half hitch and a timber hitch to 'em, took a turn around the saddle horn, and dragged the poles out to where I could get at 'em when I come with the team.

I dragged the first bunch, then the second. That done, I taken my horse to the creek, and when he'd had himself a drink I picketed him on the good feed there was where I'd been cuttin' aspens, and then I set down by the stream and opened my lump.

It looked like a lump, too, the bread all squeezed up and out of shape, but it tasted almighty good.

When I finished eatin', I hunted 'round for wild raspberries but they was skimpy and small. In a good year they'd be plenty of 'em around, if a body got to them before the bears and birds. But I found a few dozen and started to turn back to my horse when I seen something move out of the tail of my eye.

My rifle was on my saddle so I just squatted down at the edge of the trees, hopin' I hadn't been seen.

By that time it'd been the best part of an hour since I'd been choppin' trees. So there'd been no sound from me that a body could hear more'n a few feet off.

Lookin' up to where I'd seen that movement, I set still an' waited.

The mountain sloped up under that cloak of aspens to the very foot of that great red wall that was the rampart below the mountain cabin. The cabin itself was across the canyon and more than a mile…maybe two mile off. Lookin' over a canyon that way, distance can fool a man.

Mountain air, specially over here on the dry side, is almighty clear and I could see somethin' movin' at the base of the red wall. He might be atop a rock slide. That was a place I'd never had cause to go, and I didn't know for sure…but he was alongside the rampart.

Now my eyesight is good, and blinkin' my eyes a couple times, I set to lookin' off to one side a little and, sure enough, I saw that movement again. Something was movin' along the base of that cliff, for sure. And while I set and watched, that somebody—or something—moved along the base of the wall and finally disappeared. I set there a-waitin', but whatever it was was gone.

Now I studied on what I'd seen. It might have been a animal, but it looked otherwise to me. I believed it was a man, or a man on a horse, and whoever it was might have been lookin' for a way to the top.

If a body could find a way up that cliff, he could save himself several miles of ridin' to and from…an hour or more each way. And it struck me then that whoever I'd seen was him…Owen Chantry.

He was huntin' a quick, easy way to the top.

Well, why not? I could just as well do that my own self. Settin' back where I was.…Well, I pulled back fifty yards from where I'd been an' set down on a stump. Then I gave study to that red wall.

Most places it was so sheer a man would have to be a sure-enough mountain climber to scale it. But there were a couple notches on the south side of the mesa that looked right promisin'. Chantry'd been workin' north along the west face when I seen him, and when he disappeared.

I looked at the sun. Too late. I'd have to hightail it for home to get there 'fore sundown, 'cause I had to go down to the river canyon and up the other side, and I wasn't wishful of tryin' it after dark. It was a right spooky ride down and up in the daylight. Even ridin' a good mountain horse like I had.

Tomorrow…tomorrow I'd have to hitch up the team and come after them poles. Once up here I'd picket the team and head for the red wall.

Right then I had a worried time. What right did I have to go traipsin' off? Pa was doin' his share, and it was up to me to do mine. He needed them poles. He needed the team, and he needed me and my time. We had our work cut out for us.

Still, how long would it take? An hour, maybe two. I picked up my ax and stuff and headed for the canyon.

What if I picketed the team an' a mountain lion come down on 'em? Or a bear? Course, most times bears won't kill livestock, not unless they done it before or need to eat.

We couldn't afford to lose that team, not even one of 'em.

The bottom of the canyon was dark when I got there, but the top was still gold with sunshine. That trail was a hair-raiser. But it would've been more scary if it hadn't been for part of the slopes bein' timbered.

I fetched to the bottom. It was dark down there, only water shinin' like silver. We splashed through and started up to the crest. A third of the way up I stopped to let my horse catch wind, and I turned in the saddle and looked back.

I seen nothin', but I heard splashin' in the water, then a hoof clicked on stone.

Me, I touched a heel to my horse an' we started on. I didn't know what was back there, and I wanted to make no effort to find out. This was a plumb spooky place, and even if it was just one man, I wanted no gunfight on that hairline trail.

When I topped out on the crest, I put a spur to that gelding an' lit out for home. It wasn't far, but I let my horse go. Goin' home, that was the fastest horse. I never seen a horse had more love for home and the stable than that one. He lit out for home like he had fire under his tail.

The house light sure looked good! I rode into the yard, slid off that horse, and led him into the stable. Pa come to the door.

“Dry that horse off, boy, an' git in here. Supper's on the table.”

When I taken my riggin' off, I went to throw it over the partition and there was Owen Chantry's black. I hung up my saddle and spoke soft to the black, and put a hand on it.

Wiped off, yes. Curried a mite, yes.…But the skin was damp. I was sure the skin was damp.

When I come through the door, Chantry was settin' at the table with Pa. He looked up and smiled, and that made me sore. Who did he think he was? And how did he beat me gettin' home? Maybe it wasn't him.

Then I was wondering. Who was it out there? Who followed me up that canyon trail?

Chapter 7

O
WEN CHANTRY WAS restless, irritable. What he wanted was something to read, but the Kernohans were not readers. There was only a copy of the
Iliad
, which had belonged to his brother. Which was odd, for Clive had always been a reader.

“Kernohan,” Owen said suddenly, “weren't there any books here when you came? Clive was a man who liked reading. I would have expected him to have some books.”

“Books? Oh, sure! There's a-plenty. We boxed 'em up an' stored 'em in the loft. They was takin' up space and collectin' dust, so we just put 'em up there.

“Me, I never did learn to read much, an' Doby here, he's mostly innerested in horses an' guns.”

“If you don't mind,” Chantry said, “I'll look those books over. Might be something to read.”

“He'p yourself. I looked through a few of 'em but there ain't much there that makes much sense to me. Books by them Greeks, histories an' such. Nothin' that would he'p a man work land.”