Driftin' (Shad Cain Book 3) Read online

  Chapter 4

  Everywhere I looked there was something to see. My eyes never got tired of looking at that beautiful land. I rode on the beach where I could, and the two critters were having as much fun as I was. That buckskin would wade out, and try to race the waves back in. He wasn’t always successful… we took a few soaking. Dog was having the time of his life running along the beach and exploring everything that was washed up on the shore. He got a few unhappy surprises by sticking his nose too close. But Dog was smart enough not to make the same mistakes three times. Some of those overgrown crawdads had some real fine pinchers.

  It was rugged and beautiful, with jagged rocks taking all the ocean could give them with a crash and foam spraying in all directions. It was something to see, hear, feel, and smell. It had something for almost all a person’s senses.

  When we weren’t on the beach, we were up above the cliffs on the trail. Riding up there, I could still see, hear, and smell the ocean. But I could see more of it and I could also see the tawny colored hills to my left. They looked as if they were made of so many cougar pelts, and beyond them I could see the coastal mountains… A sight to see.

  There were a few fishing villages scattered along the coast but not many, and there were almost no travelers on the path. That lack of human voices and vices didn’t bother me much. I did most of my talking to Dog anyway, and if he wasn’t interested in what I was saying, I’d discuss it with Bud… No, I didn’t find a lot of people to be any kind of necessity. Folks were all right in small quantities. I especially liked folks who didn’t feel the need to keep a conversation running because they were uncomfortable with silence.

  One of those little fishing villages was at a place they called Morro Bay. I stopped at a little cantina for a bite to eat and a beer or two. Dog followed me in and laid down just inside the door. I got the usual once over by those assembled there. I was used to it, having been in many many different cantinas and saloons. It rarely amounted to much. Now and then some knot head would take exception to me or to Dog, but that always got worked out one way or another… sometimes without a loss of blood.

  In that particular cantina most of the patrons went right back to what they were doing soon enough. But one oldish Mexican fella sat looking at Dog and sipping his clear liquid drink. I had a hunch, he wasn’t drinking water. What he was drinking wasn’t any of my affair, but if he had a problem with my dog, then it would become my affair.

  He didn’t look to be much of a threat, for Dog or me, but a stranger having trouble with an old local could be a problem. I could very easy find myself neck deep in an angry crowd. Right then I was thankful to be close to the door and a fast horse just outside.

  “Señor, ees the dog for sale?” he asked,

  Breathing a sigh of relief I said, “No my friend, I’d sell my saddle before I sell my dog, and I don’t much relish ridin’ bareback.”

  He sighed and motioned me over to his table. I picked up my beer and motioned the bartender to send my food over when it was ready. The old fella introduced himself as Juan Infante.

  “Señor, I had a dog just like heem, so I know you do not wish to sell. But I no longer herd sheep, so I would have no use for heem anyway.” Then he laughed at his own predicament. But a dog like that one ees a treasure to have.”

  I told him that he was mostly a treasure except when he got mixed up with a polecat, then he was something else. He laughed again. The bartender brought my meal and I asked him to bring us each another drink. “And would you pour a beer in a bowl for my dog over there?”

  “But… that’s a tough lookin’ dog… does he bite?”

  “Trust me… If you’re carryin’ a beer to him, he won’t bite you. He might lick you to death, but he won’t bite you.”

  I ate and listened to the talk of Juan Infante as he looked at Dog. He had been a sheepman up in the hills to the east until he fell and broke his hip. “I laid there for two days until they found me.” He said his dog stayed with him and kept the sheep together the whole time. “While I was helpless in bed, Ferdinand Lacy one of Glazer’s hombres shot the dog… He said the dog attack heem… Now I live with my son and hees family… a fisherman…. Bah!

  “That’s too bad.” I said. “I’m afraid I’d be out scalp huntin’ if somebody shot Dog.”

  One thing led to another, and I asked him where this all took place. He told me it was over to the east past Bakersfield up against the mountains. The name Bakersfield rang bell in my head… Where had I heard of that before? Then it hit me. Ben Blue had told me that Max Bell and his wife had bought a ranch somewhere near Bakersfield, California. It wouldn’t be friendly not to drop by and say howdy when I was so close.

  “Señor Infante, is there a place up north of Bakersfield where three streams come together to form a river?”

  He looked at me kinda out of the corner of his eye and said, “Si…. There is such a place… Why would you ask?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve got an old friend living in that part of the country, and I’d like to drop in and say “how do” to him.

  He still looked at me with some kind of suspicion and said, “I know many people in that place. I know heem perhaps. What is hees name?”

  “Max Bell,” I said, “We pushed a bunch of cattle up the Goodnight Loving trail together a few years back.”

  His suspicious nature disappeared and a smile spread across his face. “Si, I know Señor Max…” his voice tailed off on what I would call trouble.

  “What is it? What’s the problem? Are Max and Isadora all right?”

  “There is trouble in the valley below the mountains where the big trees grow. Ed Glazer has moved in and wants the whole valley for himself. He has many hombres, both Califorios and Gringos. They are not men who work with la lariat. They do their work with guns.”

  “Maybe I need to mosey on up that way and see if Max could use a hand… You think you could tell me how to get up there without going through Bakersfield? I’m not much of a city feller.”

  Juan Infante gave me directions, and I thanked him, but I didn’t stick around to chat. We’d been just taking our time coming down the coast at a snail’s pace with no place to go and in no hurry to get there. But things suddenly seemed to be just a bit more urgent.

  Max Bell wasn’t a long time friend. In fact I’d only ridden with him for a few months, but we packed a lot into those few months. The only things we had in common were our mutual friend, Ben Blue, and the hard working cowhands we had to bury along the way.* See Ace High

  But he was a good man… one you could depend on when you needed a good man. He may not need or want any help, but I kinda thought I’d offer anyway. Ol’ Juan had told me to go a little southeast to the town of San Luis Obispo and then northeast toward Bakersfield. But I was to skirt Bakersfield with its six or seven hundred citizens. Mercy… there ain’t that many people in all of Montana, unless you took in half of Wyoming.

  I had spent a good three weeks just coming down the coast, but in that time I had soaked up a lot of beauty… a different beauty than I had been used to but sure nice to look at. Now I was going into a different country with a different kind of beauty.

  The trail was a good one to San Luis Obispo and I made it there in time for supper at a small inn. It wasn’t a regular saloon and it wasn’t a regular hotel, but it was kinda like a bit of both. The man in charge called it an inn and that was good enough for me. He was a foreign man and he said that was the way they did it in Europe.

  There was a stable out back and I told the boy to give the buckskin some extra grain because he was going to be needing it. Dog bunked in the stable with the horses. He didn’t seem to mind, especially when I brought him some scraps from the kitchen.

  It seemed the others there were all travelers like myself. The local folks visited the local saloons. I asked the owner about the trail to Bakersfield, and he said it was a good one, but it would take a good three days to get there.

  “Well,” I said, “I ain’t e
xactly goin’ to Bakersfield… in fact I’d just as soon slip by it without goin’ into it.”

  “You are… dodging, monsieur?” he asked as he gave me a concerned look.

  “Oh it ain’t nothin’ like that… but I have a friend up where the big trees grow who may need some help… and I just don’t like big cities or even big towns.” He accepted that and went on about his work.

  I had finished my supper and was relaxing and sipping my beer, when a fella I’d seen at the bar came up to my table.

  He stood across the table and said, “You headed for the three rivers country?”

  “I reckon.” Was all I said not inviting him to sit. I didn’t like his look and I wasn’t eager to have a conversation and have to look at him while I done it. He had the look of a coyote… sneaky and not to be trusted. I figured I’d have to shoot him before I finished my beer if he sat down.

  “Thought so… you got the look… You goin’ up prospectin’ or you already got a job waitin’?” He went on talking as he reached for the chair. “I already got a job with Glazer waitin’ for me. Maybe we can ride the rest of the…” He nearly fell as I kicked the chair away.

  As he regained his balance he spun and his hand swept to his hip. But the little click of a hammer being pulled back must have sounded like a whip crack because he yanked his hand away. I’d had my pistol laying on the table under a napkin, and when I decided to be rude, I took it in hand.

  “I don’t sell my gun like a whore sells her favors. I especially wouldn’t sell it to somebody like Ed Glazer who hires his fightin’ done. I’m mighty particular about who I work for and who sits at my table.”

  He stepped back a few paces and said, “You win this round, Buckskin man, but we’ll see each other again.” With that he turned and walked back to the bar. I have to hand it to him though, he never looked back once. He was either bold or too stupid to think someone could shoot him in the back.

  ~~~~~ o ~~~~~

  I rode out right after a good solid breakfast. I learned from the innkeeper that all those who worked there were members of his family, and that they had come from France. I know there wasn’t much in the world prettier than listening to them talk among themselves. And some of his older daughters were right pretty without saying a thing. I’d known some French trappers back in the old days, and they didn’t talk near that pretty.

  Putting the town of San Luis Obispo behind me, I moved into the San Joaquin Valley. It was pretty country with heavily timbered hills. It wasn’t as exciting as the rugged coast, but it was pleasant to look at and to ride through. But I was in a strange country and I couldn’t be a pilgrim gawking at the landscape. I had already made one enemy hereabouts, and since I didn’t see him at breakfast, I could only assume he was on the trail ahead of me.

  I was conscious not to let myself be skylined on ridges or to find myself in a place where I would be easy pickins for someone under cover.

  As the trail worked its way through the hills and valleys, I kept an eye on my horse’s ears, but I mostly watched Dog. I didn’t ignore my own senses and my natural distrust of practically everything. We were coming out of the higher of the hills and down into the valley. Up ahead the valley opened up, and a fine sight it was too.

  Off to the south on my right, the valley spread out in about a thousand shades of green… more or less. There were also a few shades of brown and gray. To my left the forest continued for maybe another mile or so, until it thinned and ended at the tail end of a ridge. The trail stayed within the shaded edge. It seemed to hug the forested side to take benefit of the shade.

  Dog was a good twenty or so yards ahead when he stopped, looked off into the woods, and waited. I gave Bud a nudge and we closed the distance in a few seconds. Sure enough someone had left the trail and headed off through the long grass and up into the pines. Now why in the world would someone leave a nice comfortable trail to go up on the pine covered hillside and scramble over rocks and deadfalls? That didn’t even take into account getting whacked in the face by branches. Of course folks will do the damndest things for no reason at all.

  I knew the world was full of them that are often called eccentric and led by whims. But somehow I didn’t think this was caused by a sudden attack of the whimsies, so I followed whoever it was into the woodland. Dog took the point and I followed leading my horse. I could cover that much ground afoot as fast as I could on Bud, and I wouldn’t have to spit out any pinecones.

  Working through the pines we covered the distance in about a half an hour, of course that was just a guess. I found where he had left his horse, so I didn’t figure he’d be too far away. Now I may have been all wrong, and this hombre just liked to sit in the woods and watch folks go by on the trail. But somehow I couldn’t convince myself of that.

  So I left my two pals and crept closer, and then I smelled the cigarette smoke and a cough… guess he hadn’t heard that smokin’ was bad for a person. Running my eyes over the area I was able to see a puff of smoke coming from behind a brush cloaked pile of rocks. The problem I was facing was, he was in some rocks, and I couldn’t get at him without exposing myself to his fire before I could get into a position to do him harm.

  I had the advantage of higher ground and the element of surprise, but he would be hard to flush unless I could make his position impossible to hold. I could burn him out, but I’d probably burn a couple thousand acres in the process. Fire in any wooded area of the west is a risky business. I heard there was plenty of rain up around Oregon, but the rest of us were always seemed to be a little wanting.

  I’d read in a story book once in school about some knights were trying to storm a castle and they used a big sling kinda thing to throw big boulders into the castle. They knocked down the walls and raised a real ruckus inside. I didn’t have a sling machine, but I had a good left arm and plenty of ammunition. So I picked up a rock about the size of an apple and tossed it to where the smoke was coming from.

  That rock hit the boulder a little short of the smoke and bounced right where he should have been sitting.

  Chapter 5

  “What the hell!” was what I heard, but I was too busy to answer. I was using two hands to chunk one about the size of a cantaloupe or a muskmelon, depending who’s throwing it. That’s when the cussing really started in earnest. I wasn’t about to let up, so I flung another melon sized rock and took cover.

  He came up still cussing and laced the air above me with lead. It was my friend from the night before, so I wouldn’t have to apologize to anyone. I just flung another apple sized stone his way… another naughty word ensued. So I tossed another.

  “What the hell you want, Mister?”

  “Oh a cold beer and a purty woman to sit on my knee would be nice… Oh… you mean what do I want from you? Well you’re the one who was settin’ up to bushwhack me, and I’m tryin’ to keep that from workin’ out for you.”

  “Mister, you ain’t got the makins’ to be a good hired gun. You left a trail that a blind goat could follow when you left the trail, and you picked the most obvious place on the west coast of America to set up an ambush. And there you sat sending up smoke signals to give me your exact location.”

  “I’m willin’ to send you back home to mama in one piece, and you can thank your God everyday for turnin’ you around and givin’ you another chance… or I can bury you in a shallow grave almost as easy… your choice.”

  Well the cussin’ commenced again, and I went to chuckin’ more rocks down on him. But this time when he sprung up to shoot, I put one right through the brisket. His arms flew outward, and his colt flew off into the woods as he fell back into the rocks.

  He was still breathing when I got to him, but he was out cold. I figured he cracked his head on those rocks when he fell. There wasn’t much I could do for him but wait for him to cash out. He wanted to kill me, but I’d wait for him anyway. I went through his things to see if there was any identification. There wasn’t much there, except a letter from a girl in Arizona. I d
idn’t read it… none of my business. But it was addressed to Bob Reese in Los Angeles. There was a little money, which I put everything in his saddle bag and turned his horse loose.

  I built a small fire and made some coffee while I waited. About an hour later he came around and started mumbling. I waited for him to start making sense before I said anything. Finally he moaned and said, “I think you killed me, mister ‘cause I can’t feel nothin’ from the waist on down.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Reese, if that’s your name, you’re not likely to make it. You’re shot all the way through, and you lost a lot of blood… Why’d you try to waylay me?”

  He looked at me like he was trying to remember something then he said, “I didn’t want to have to deal with you later on. You’ve got the look… take a lot of killin’… nothin’ personal. Underestimated you.”

  A spasm caught him, and he winced with pain and did some groaning. He passed out shortly after that, and an hour later he was gone without waking again. I covered him with rocks and dirt before I put out the fire and left. Some people just seem to make boneheaded decisions.

  I’d lost a little time, but I’d make that up if Dog can keep up. We were still two days from Bakersfield and another two days up to the three rivers country. I just wished I’d known there was trouble earlier. I could have headed that way as soon as I got off the train instead of lollygagging along the water that way. But I couldn’t change that, and I couldn’t know what was going on. It was just plain luck that I found out when I did.

  Max Bell was about as tough an hombre as you’re likely to find, and there wasn’t much bend in him. Usually, that’s a good thing and something to be admired, but sometimes a person has to have some options. And with a crowd like what Glazer was putting together, standing toe to toe and slugging it out may not be the best option.

  But then I didn’t really know what Bell was holding. He’d been a gambler when he fell in with the trail drive, so he took a hand with a rope just for the company. There was no telling what kind of hand he was holding. He could have a private army of his own to match Glazers, but somehow I doubted it.