Radigan and North to the Rails (2-Book Bundle)

CHAPTER 1

THE DRIVING RAIN drew a sullen, metallic curtain across the fading afternoon, and beneath his horse’s hoofs the earth was soggy with this rain and that of the rains that had gone before. Hunching his big shoulders under the slicker, Tom Radigan was thinking of the warm cabin and the hot coffee that awaited him when he glimpsed the trail across the meadow.

A walking man will kick the grass down in the direction of travel, but a horse with the swinging movements of its hoofs will knock the grass down so it points in the direction from which it has come. What Tom Radigan saw was the trail of a ridden horse that had come down from the lonely hills to the southwest and headed into even lonelier hills beyond his ranch house.

Squinting from under his dripping hat brim in the direction the trail pointed he saw nothing—only a trail that crossed the knee-high grass of the meadow and disappeared into the hills beyond.

Now what in thunderation, he said aloud, would anybody want back in there on a day like this?

Or on any other day, for that matter.

In a world in which most things have a reason, Radigan was disturbed. Northern New Mexico in the 1870s was not a place where men rode for pleasure, and especially not in a driving rain on the heels of several days of driving rain; nor was there anywhere to go in that direction other than the bluff back of the ranch.

Nor was it a riderless horse, for a wandering horse does not move in a straight line nor at the pace this horse had traveled.

Ordinarily, Radigan would not have seen the trail for this was not a route he usually chose, but for the past months he had been moving stock into a remote area known locally as the Valle de San Antonio, a well-watered valley nearly twenty miles from his home ranch.

Three days ago he had driven a dozen head of cattle to augment the herd already there, and had remained long enough to trap and kill two mountain lions who had begun poaching on his herd—and he had also killed a cinnamon bear. There were now three hundred and some head of cattle in the upper valley.

Returning, he found this trail, which could scarcely be more than an hour old.

Whoever had made the trail had chosen a route that could not have been accidental; no casual rider would have come that way, but only someone who did not wish to be seen. There were easier ways and more direct routes.

Tom Radigan’s R-Bar outfit was remote, hidden back in the hills far from any accepted route of travel. He worked his range alone but for one hand, a half-breed Delaware who had once scouted for the Army and was known as John Child.

Nothing about that trail or the direction of travel made sense, and Tom Radigan was a man who was disturbed by the illogical.

Coming out of the draw where the meadow lay he looked across the fairly wide sweep of Canyon Guadalupe and over the gradually rising bench beyond it toward the ranch. During a momentary lull in the rain the ranch buildings and the trees around them were plainly visible, for the ranch was almost three miles away but a thousand feet higher than his present position.

Uneasily, he studied the ranch, and then bit by bit he surveyed the intervening country. The route of the strange rider led across the hills to the north and west, but mostly to the west.

Nothing in his life gave him reason for a sense of security, nor had he ever been a reckless man, nor one given to taking unnecessary chances. He had, even as a boy, often been accused by the more foolhardy of being afraid to take chances, and the very idea of taking a risk that was not demanded by circumstances was repugnant to him. Yet much of his life had been lived where caution was the price of survival, and being the man he was, he had survived. He did not take chances, but had helped to bury men who did.

So now he took none. He rode slowly, utilizing every bit of terrain that offered cover or concealment, and avoiding his usual route by swinging south of a rocky promontory by a way that ran parallel to the trail.

The problem of the strange rider was disturbing, yet approaching the ranch with care he saw no one. A thin trail of smoke lifted from the chimney, but there was no other movement, and there should have been. Riding in from behind the stables and corrals, Radigan drew up and surveyed the situation with care.

Behind the ranch house which faced him across the clearing, the mesa towered five hundred feet above the low buildings and their surrounding trees. At the base of the mesa Tom Radigan had found that most precious of ranching commodities—water. And he had found plenty of it.

A dozen springs flowed from cracks and caves in the lower wall of the mesa to gather in a pool at its base, and from the pool a small stream trickled off down the mountain to lose itself in Vache Creek some distance from the ranch. Before the water left his own immediate ranch yard Radigan turned it aside to irrigate a small home garden as well as several acres of alfalfa, the first planted anywhere around of which he knew. Leaving the garden and the alfalfa the remaining water trickled into a series of small pools where his stock came to water.

A wanderer and a prowler of the back country, Radigan had come upon an ancient Indian trail that led him to this place. There were no signs of life but wild animals, and a few arrowheads of a kind used by no Indians of the time. There had been no tracks, no evidence of any human visit, so here Tom Radigan built his cabin and corrals. Later, he drove in a small herd of cattle, forty head of cows and two good bulls. He brought with him four mules and three saddle ponies, a small remuda which he augmented by capturing wild horses in the breaks of the mountains to the north where all was utter wilderness for many miles.

It was knowledge of that wilderness which now made him cautious. A man on the dodge running to one of the three or four outlaw settlements reported to exist up there would not have chosen this route, either. Nothing about that rider made any kind of sense—unless he had an enemy of whom he was not aware.

Tom Radigan was a tall, quiet man who rarely smiled except around the eyes, and who talked little but listened well. His was a disconcertingly direct gaze in times of trouble, and men who faced him at such times found that gaze unnerving and upsetting to sudden action. At least such reports had come from three men… two others had been in no condition to volunteer any information.

Under the slicker he wore a blue Army shirt faded from many washings and wool pants tucked into Spanish boots. Belted low he wore a Colt six-shooter, and there was enough ammunition in his belt.

Out of Illinois by way of Texas, Tom Radigan was one with those others from Illinois who were to make their mark in the Western country such as Wild Bill Hickok and Long-Hair Jim Courtright. A man with a liking for solitude and a desire to build something stronger than a stack of chips, Radigan had looked for just such a place as he had found here, and he had been careful to choose an area where he was not likely to be disturbed by neighbors.

In the four years at the ranch under the mesa his herds had increased by breeding and purchase. He sold none of his original stock but managed a living and some buying money by trapping and washing gold. The trapping was good in the winters, and the deposits of gold were thin, but the gold was nearly all pure profit for a man with a rifle and a steady hand could live well on the upper range of the Nacimientos and Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Tom Radigan was a considering man. He took his time to study things out, and he was never one to come to quick decisions or solutions. He took his time now.

Four years of comparative quiet had not lulled his sharpness of sense—his hunting alone would have kept that alive—nor had it made him less wary. There were many reasons why a strange rider might come up the Canyon Guadalupe, but none of which he could think for coming over the rugged mountains to the east of it… unless he wanted to approach without being seen. And if he wanted not to be seen he wanted not to be seen by Tom Radigan or his one ranch hand.

A welcoming man, Tom Radigan could think of no reason why anybody should avoid him unless it was an enemy or someone who planned to do him harm.

He sat his saddle for fifteen minutes in partial concealment, his every sense warning him of trouble.

The rain had begun again, but a slower rain now, blotting out the landscape and bringing a chill to the evening. The altitude was 8,700 feet and winter was closing in.

The rain could turn to snow at any time, and the forest to the north would be closed to any traveler. His route to the settlements below was only occasionally closed, and it was downhill all the way, yet most travel would be ended with the first good fall of snow.

He scowled, watching the house, the hills, the forest and the mesa rim.

If an enemy or some chance thief who needed supplies and a fresh horse wanted to kill him that thief would be watching the trail up which he had not come. The yard before the barn was visible only from the rim of the mesa and the talus slope behind the house. But his approach was safe until within a step or two of the barn door, and if he moved with care…

The gelding stamped impatiently and Tom Radigan swung down and opened his slicker, moving his Colt into an easier position. Then, remaining on the side of the gelding that kept the horse between himself and any marksman on the talus slope, he went around and into the stable.

His first thought was for the horse. Stripping off the saddle and bridle, he rubbed the animal down with a piece of sacking, his mind turning over all the possible facets of the situation. He was probably being a fool; the rider might have been someone lost and searching for shelter.

Yet there was no sound from the house, and John Child did not appear, as he usually did. It was the half-breed’s custom to stroll out from the house, help him with the horse and exchange gossip about the activities of the day.

Through the partly opened door he studied the house. By this time it would be dark inside and John would have lighted a lamp … you’d never catch John Child moving around in a dark house of his own free will.

Yet John’s horse was in his stall, and his saddle in its proper place. So why had not John come to greet him, and why wasn’t the light lit?

He might have walked away afoot, but that was unlike John who never walked farther than from the house to the corral or stable. He might be inside the house and sick or injured… the only alternative was that John was trying to warn him of something.

A warning of what?

The situation at the ranch now seemed part of the sequence of affairs begun with the strange trail across the meadow. Never a trusting man, Tom Radigan had lived by taking care, and if someone were in the house waiting for him they would be apt to have the light going to make the situation as normal as possible. And the mud around the door had few tracks… he studied those tracks again.

Somebody had come out and gone back. The steps from the house were even and regular until the fourth step which was skidded sharply in the slippery mud, and the returning steps were longer. Whoever had come out of the door had started toward the barn, had wheeled and sprang back for the house.

It was very quiet. There was no sound but the falling rain.

Nothing in the house could have made John Child turn and rush back so suddenly so it had to be something outside.

So then: there was nothing in the barn to frighten John, nor was there cover for an enemy to the east and northeast. There was cover from the southwest, the way Radigan had come, but Radigan had seen no tracks there.

That left two possible places and one so remote as to be out of the question, but the second place tied in with that unknown rider.

Nobody could have shot at John from the rim of the mesa because nobody knew the way up there but John and himself, but a shot fired from the talus slope back of the house would have found a target at just about the point where John had wheeled and dashed back into the house.

All right, that was it, then. Somebody was or had been on that talus slope behind the house, and that somebody might still be there waiting for a shot at John or himself the instant one of them appeared in the open yard. Approaching from the southwest as he had, Radigan would not have been visible from the slope, not until he had been right by the barn door. Nor would he be visible again until his second or third step out of the barn.

Radigan could wait where he was until it was full dark, which might be no more than a half hour, or he could go now and risk a shot.

Whoever had fired that shot—if there had been a shot—undoubtedly wanted to kill him and not John Child, or he wanted both of them.

Yet this was purely supposition. Nothing at all might be wrong.

Nothing in his life had given him reason to take chances. From Illinois he had gone to Kansas where he served his apprenticeship as a military man with General Lane during the bloody fighting in that border state, and from there he had gone to Sante Fe as a freighter, surviving two savage Indian attacks. For two bloody years he had fought Comanches in Texas. It was the sort of conditioning to make a man careful.

He was reasonably sure there had been trouble, and even at this moment John might be lying inside the house badly hurt. It would do Radigan no good to get himself killed trying to help him, and the surest way to help John was to eliminate the danger.

Drawing back inside the barn he squatted on his heels and lighted a cigarette. If a man were to hide on that slope there were a dozen possible places, but none of them would conceal a horse.

So the sniper’s horse would be hidden down in the trees on the lower hill, and somewhere east of the ranch. There was no cover directly east of the ranch yard, but around the corner of the hill there were scattered clumps of trees and brush, and then lower down, thick forest. The rifleman had hidden his horse somewhere down the slope and then had crawled up in the talus where he could cover the ranch yard.

Within the hour it would be completely dark.

After dark there would be no reason for anyone to wait up on that slope for there would be nothing to see. Therefore the hidden man would return to his horse and ride off somewhere to give up or await a better chance the following day.

Not even a mouse trusts himself to one hole only, and Radigan was no mouse. In the side of the barn that formed one wall of the corral there was another door made of sawed logs that was perfectly fitted and left for emergencies. He had never used that door since it had been built, but now he did.

Easing himself out that door, which was invisible from any place the watcher could be, he went down the slope behind the barn and into the trees. On a run, he began to circle the ranch area to get where a horse might be concealed. Pausing for breath in a clump of trees he told himself he was a fool—the half-breed had probably gone off somewhere.

But where? His horse was in the barn, it was raining, there was no reason of which he could think for Child to leave the house… and where had that strange rider disappeared to?

A watcher on that slope, if he wished to kill from ambush, must have his horse close in case something went wrong, which left four possible places of concealment. One was a wash where the runoff from the slope had cut a deep gash in the earth, another was a nest of boulders, the third a patch of brush, and the fourth a notch in the rocky face a hundred feet down from the bench on which the ranch stood. That notch could give easy access to the talus slope, and a horse waiting below it would provide a fast escape.

Rain fell steadily, and a slight wind stirred the leaves, whipping cold rain down his neck. He held his rifle muzzle down beneath his slicker, from which he had slipped an arm to hold the Winchester, as he worked his way to a new vantage point.

It was almost dark and at any moment the man might be returning to his horse. Every step Radigan took was now a danger, and he made no move without checking the terrain before it.

Far up the slope, a stone rattled.

Darting across a small open space he reached the nest of boulders, but there was no horse, no tracks. There was little time, and as the crack in the rock seemed the most likely place, he tried it next.

Rain whispered on the leaves, the world was gray and black now, shaded by rain and the coming of night.

He paused in the shadow of a boulder, his feet on the sand of a gradual slope. He worked his way through the trees, and the ground was soggy beneath his boots. Raindrops felt his cheeks with blind, questing fingers … the black trunks of the trees were like iron bars against the gray of gathering pools.

Alert, nostrils distended, every sense reaching into the night, testing the air for what it held, he waited, and there was no sound. Walking on, he rounded the corner of a rocky promontory and saw the horse.

Standing head down, partly sheltered by the overhang, it waited.

He had been right, then.

He stood close beside a sentinel pine, holding his body to merge with the blackness of the trunk. It was dark now.

Rain talked to the leaves. No bird moved—birds and rabbits were wise enough to take shelter when it rained. The horse stood disconsolate in the rain, and the rocks were black and wet.

It was cold… he relaxed his grip on the gun action and shifted his hold. The crack in the rock merged its blackness with the surrounding dark so he could scarcely distinguish the opening, but the horse shifted its feet and the saddle glistened wetly.

A boot scraped on stone, a pebble cascaded among the rocks.

Delicately, Radigan tilted the Winchester barrel up to meet his left hand. He held the gun at hip level, ready to lift it for a quick shot.

There was a moment of silence, then a boot crunched on sand. A dark figure moved the shadows in the mouth of the rock, and in the moment before the man reached the horse, Radigan said, You looking for somebody?

The man twisted and the flat stab of fire thrust toward him from the darkness and the rain, crossing the heavier sound of his Winchester, firing almost of its own volition, an instant late. He felt the shock of the bullet as it hit the tree beside him and spattered his face with tiny fragments of bark.

He fired a second time, realizing as he did so that the other man was fast, and a dead shot. Without warning more than his words the man had wheeled and fired… he saw the man’s body crumpling to the sand and the horse shy back, snorting. Tom Radigan moved a bit more behind the tree and waited.

He was not about to run up to a man shot down, or seemingly shot down. He waited without movement, listening to the slow whisper of falling rain: there was no other sound.

The horse blew through his nostrils, not liking the smell of gun smoke. A wind stirred the corner of Radigan’s slicker.

The shot was a dart of red flame and a smashing concussion. A finger tugged at the slicker and Radigan fired, levered the Winchester and fired again into the dark bulk of the body.

Silence again, and rain. It was dark, but his eyes were accustomed and he could make out the body against the gray sand.

He waited, feeling sure the man was dead… this time he was dead.

Who had he killed? What was the man doing here, far from any other ranch or town? How had he even known about this place? In the four years since Radigan came to the bench above the Vache there had been no more than a half-dozen visitors.

The man had come to kill, or else he would not have fired so suddenly at a strange voice speaking from the darkness. And he had been a man skilled in the use of arms, arriving by a route he must have known or to which he must have been well guided.

The minutes dragged, and Radigan waited. Many times the first man to move was the first to die, and he had learned patience. After a while there was a short, convulsive sigh and a boot toe scraping in the sand. The man was dead.

Radigan moved to another tree, his rifle held ready for another shot.

Near the white palm of an outflung hand Radigan saw the wet shine of a pistol barrel. He came from behind the tree and walked toward the body. The tied horse, not liking the mingled smell of powder smoke and blood, backed off, snorting softly.

Easy, boy. Easy now.

The horse quieted, reassured by the calm voice. Radigan had a way with animals—they trusted him. Even the bad ones seemed to buck under him merely to uphold their reputations, but with no heart in it.

Radigan prodded the body with his toe, rifle held for a shot, and when there was no move he turned the body so the face lay white under the dripping sky.

Squatting near the body, Radigan felt for a pulse and found none. Spreading his slicker, he struck a match under its shelter, and looked at the dead face, mouth slightly open, eyes wide to the rain.

Young—not more than twenty-one or -two. A narrow face with a hard mouth and thin lips, a forehead too high. The holster was slung low and tied fast.

Lifting the body, Radigan draped him over his saddle, then retrieved the rifle and pistol and leading the horse he walked back to the barn.

As he entered the yard the door opened and John Child stepped out with a lantern.

Child took the dead man’s head in his grip and turned the face to the light. Know him?

No… do you?

No, I don’t. Something familiar there, though.

Radigan noticed a small patch of bandage on Child’s skull and indicated it with his eyes. He hit you?

Burned me. I had your coat on. He looked at Radigan across the darkness. What’s the matter, Tom? What’s wrong?

Damned if I know. He explained about the tracks that came over the hills far from any trail, indicating the man had come with purpose in mind, using a way that would avoid the chance of being seen. Somebody hunting me, John. Or you.

Child considered that. You, he said finally. My enemies are dead. He looked at the body. Bury him in the morning?

No. I’m a curious man, John. A wanting-to-know sort of man. I’m going to leave him tied across that saddle and turn the horse loose.

There was a moment of silence while the rain fell, and then Child muttered, Damn! There was wonder and satisfaction in his tone. I’d not have thought of that.

Maybe, just maybe it’ll work. The horse might be borrowed or rented, but it might be his own. In any case, that horse is likely to go home. Or maybe to where it was fed and stabled last.

You’ll do, Child said. You’d have made a fine Indian, Tom.

He studied the body, noting the four bullet holes. He was a tough man.

And fast, Radigan said. He was fast and he was good. He was awful good. Two shots in the dark, one hit the tree I stood against, the other nicked my raincoat. This was a man knew his business, John. He was a man hired for the job. I’m guessing.

Who?

That was the question, of course. From time to time a wandering man made enemies, but none that mattered and none who would come this far off their trail to hunt him down. It made no kind of sense, just none at all.

He swore suddenly. John, we’re a couple of children. Give me that lantern.

He held the light up to the brand. It was a Half-Circle T—no brand he had ever head of. Then he pulled the dead man’s coat loose and searched the pockets, but there was only a little money, no wallet, no letters. Yet the man had come from somewhere and behind his coming there was a reason.

Tom. Child waited a moment while the time ran and the rain fell. His voice was very serious. Tom, you be careful. Whoever wants you took no chances on leaving evidence. He’s clean. No identification. They took no chances of him being caught or killed.

They didn’t think about the horse.

No, but the horse is strange around here. That’s no brand we know.

No, but this horse was fed somewhere, watered somewhere. This here is a grain-kept horse, and I’m gambling this man has been around a day or two, studying the lay of the land, and his horse might go back to where he was fed.

In the morning?

Now. We’ll let him start now, and in the morning I’ll trail him down. Radigan indicated the sky. Look—the rain is breaking. The tracks will still be there.

Leading the horse to the trail south he slapped him hard across the rump, and stood while the horse jumped away and then trotted off down the trail, the dark bulk of the dead man in the saddle. They watched him and listened until they could no longer hear the slowing clop-clop of the horse’s hoofs. Without words they turned and went into the house and Tom Radigan suddenly realized he was tired, dead tired.

Coffee’s on. It’ll be stronger than hell.

What else?

Beans, beef…what d’you expect?

Child put down the lantern and lighted a coal-oil lamp. Radigan hung his hat and slicker on wooden pegs driven into the wall and glanced toward the fire. He had been thinking about that fire for a long time.

The room was long with a huge fireplace on one side, and a beamed, low ceiling that cleared Tom Radigan’s head by no more than a few inches. It was a frontier room, but somehow more pleasant.

There had been a lot of years when he had thought of a place like this. It lacked a woman’s touch, but it was strongly built and comfortable, built to last as Radigan had planned it during the long nights on night herd. It had a view down the valley, and was built for strength and a good defense, for there was always a chance of needing that in a strong new country where men did not readily settle into the ways of law. But there were windows with wide, deep sills, windows that would someday carry plants… geraniums, maybe. And there was an inside pump, good for defense, of course, but good also for a woman. It would save her steps and time. It was a rare thing in this country to have an inside pump.

Got myself a couple of cats, Radigan commented.

Lose any stock?

Over a time, maybe four or five head. These lions were latecomers, I figure. But no lion ever had any sense. Got them both in the same trap, just reset it. Caught them in the same place on successive nights. Never do that to a wolf.

John Child was a square-shouldered man, dark and strong-boned, a man who looked as if he were hewn from oak. The Indian in him was strong, but the white man in him had made him painstaking in his work. He dished up the food, steaming from the fire, and then poured coffee. You set up to the table, Tom. You’re about done in.

Radigan rolled up his sleeves revealing the white skin of powerful forearms, the brown of his hands resembling gloves by comparison. He bathed carefully, working up a good lather with the homemade soap. He washed his face, digging his soapy finger into his ears, then dampened a towel and went behind his ears and finally combed out his stiff brown-red hair. And all the while he was thinking, backtracking himself across the days to find some clue to the unknown dead man and the why of his coming to the ranch on the Vache.

He dropped into a chair almost too tired to eat. In the past few days he had ridden more than a hundred miles, rounding up cattle, moving them to new range, cleaning water holes, branding a few late calves, then trapping lions and killing a cinnamon bear.

Forgot, he said, there’s bear meat on the saddle.

It’ll keep in this weather.

Ever eat lion?

Sure, many a time. Best meat there is. First time I heard that from a white man was from Kit Carson, down to Lucien Maxwell’s place, but the mountain men favored it above anything else.

Child filled his own cup and sat down. Don’t you gorge yourself. There’s more.

You make a pie?

No.

Radigan lifted his head and scented the air. Bear sign?

Figured you’d smell ’em first off. When you didn’t I knew you were tired. Ma used to make doughnuts when I was a youngster and when I’d come from school I’d catch that smell, even if it had been hours old.

You get me some, John. You ain’t much for work, but I’d keep you on just for making bear sign. I never saw your beat.

Time was I’ve been kept making bear sign for three days without letup, make ’em by the dishpan full, and none left at the end. Men ride miles to get a handful of bear sign.

They were silent, busy with their food and thoughts. Only Radigan was eating, however. After a few minutes he asked, You eat?

Sure. I’d started out to feed the stock when that feller nicked me. First off I was of a mind to go scalp huntin’, but he had me nailed down so I ate… first thing I was taught was to sleep whenever there was time and to eat when there was food.

John Child went to the deep cupboard and brought back a plate of doughnuts. Dig in boy. There’s a plenty.

John… who d’you reckon he was?

Gunman, that’s for sure. Trigger tied back on his gun. And a mighty fine rifle. He’s got to be a hired killer.

Tom Radigan took down his rifle and went to work cleaning it. As he worked he occasionally ate bear sign and drank coffee.

It had been too good to last. He owned seven hundred head of cattle, and a nice bunch of mustangs. He had spread his cattle around through the mountain meadows where there was good water and good grass, and from time to time he shifted his small herds to new areas where the grass was still long. The winters were vicious, and the snow drifted deep in most of the canyons. It was a brutal struggle to keep the herds alive but there were areas where the wind swept the grass free of snow, and there were protected valleys where little snow gathered. There had been natural increase, and several times he bought cattle from movers. As there were no other ranches close by and the remote valleys restricted the wandering, the task of handling the cattle was a small one.

Radigan’s progress had been steady, and in another year he would make his first drive to market. His income from trapping was sufficient to pay Child his wages and to put by a little, and from the first he had taken time out occasionally to wash out a little gold from the streams. None of them carried much, but to a man whose wants were simple it was enough.

The ranch on the Vache had been no sudden thing. From the first he had made up his mind to look for just the place he wanted, and when he found it his plans were well made and he was ready for the hard work they