Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) Read Free Page B

along the bottomland. Rafe heard the gallop of a horse behind him and reined in, turning. Tex Brisco rode up alongside.
    “We should be about there, Rafe,” he said, digging in his pocket for the makings. “Tell me about that business again, will you?”
    Rafe nodded. “Rodney’s brand was one he bought from an hombre named Shafter Mason. It was the Bar M. He had two thousand acres in Long Valley that he bought from Red Cloud, paid him good for it, and he was runnin’ cattle on that, and some four thousand acres outside the valley. His cabin was built in the entrance to Crazy Man Canyon.
    “He borrowed money from, and mortgaged the land to, a man named Bruce Barkow. Barkow’s a big cattleman down here, tied in with three or four others. He has several gunmen workin’ for him, and Rodney never trusted him, but he was the only man around who could loan him the money he needed.”
    “What’s your plan?” Brisco asked, his eyes following the cattle.
    “Tex, I haven’t got one. I couldn’t plan until I saw the lay of the land. The first thing will be to find Mrs. Rodney and her daughter, and from them, learn what the situation is. Then we can go to work. In the meantime, I aim to sell these cattle and hunt up Red Cloud.”
    “That’ll be tough,” Tex suggested. “There’s been some Injun trouble, and he’s a Sioux. Mostly, they’re on the prod right now.”
    “I can’t help it, Tex,” Rafe said. “I’ve got to see him, tell him I have the deed, and explain so’s he’ll understand. He might turn out to be a good friend, and he would certainly make a bad enemy.”
    “There may be some question about these cattle,” Tex suggested drily.
    “What of it?” Rafe shrugged. “They are all strays. We culled them out of canyons where no white man has been in years, and slapped our own brand on ’em. We’ve driven them two hundred miles, so nobody here has any claim on them. Whoever started cattle where we found these left the country a long time ago. You remember what that old trapper told us?”
    “Yeah,” Tex agreed. “Our claim’s good enough.” He glanced again at the brand and then looked curiously at Rafe. “Man, why didn’t you tell me your old man owned the C Bar? My uncle rode for ’em a while! I heard a lot about ’em! When you said to put the C Bar on these cattle you could have knocked me down with an ax! Why, Uncle Joe used to tell me all about the C Bar outfit! The old man had a son who was a ringtailed terror as a kid. Slick with a gun…. Say!” Tex Brisco stared at Rafe. “You wouldn’t be the same one, would you?”
    “I’m afraid I am,” Rafe said. “For a kid I was too slick with a gun. Had a run-in with some old enemies of Dad’s, and when it was over, I hightailed for Mexico.”
    “Heard about it.”
    Tex turned his sorrel out in a tight circle to cut a steer back into the herd, and they moved on.
    Rafe Caradec rode warily, with an eye on the country. This was all Indian country, and the Sioux and Cheyennes had been hunting trouble ever since Custer had ridden into the Black Hills, which was the heart of the Indian country and almost sacred to the plains tribes. This was the near end of Long Valley, where Rodney’s range had begun. It could be no more than a few miles to Crazy Man Canyon and his cabin.
    Rafe touched a spur to the dun and cantered toward the head of the drive. There were three hundred head of cattle in this bunch, and when the old trapper had told him about them, curiosity had impelled him to have a look. In the green bottom of several adjoining canyons these cattle, remnants of a herd brought into the country several years before, had looked fat and fine.
    It had been brutal, bitter work, but he and Tex had rounded up and branded the cattle. Then they had hired two drifting cowhands to help them with the drive.
    He passed the man riding point and headed for the strip of trees where Crazy Man Creek curved out of the canyon and turned in a long