Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) Read Free Page A

from the stoop and walked over to me, looking up at my swollen and bloody face with a kind of awed wonder.
    â€œSo he found you, then. He always hears when anyone comes near me, and this always happens. You see, Matt, it is not so simple a thing to marry Moira Maclaren.” There seemed almost a note of regret in her voice.
    â€œAnd now you’re leaving?” she said.
    â€œI’ll be back for you…and to give Morgan Park a beating.”
    Now her voice was cool, shaded with contempt. “You boast—all you have done is talk and take a beating!”
    That made me grin, and the grinning hurt my face. “It’s a bad beginning, isn’t it?”
    She stood there watching as I rode away down the street.
    Throughout the night I rode into wilder and wilder country. I was like a dog hunting a hole in which to die, but I’d no thought of dying, only of living and finding Morgan Park again.
    Through the long night I rode, my skull pounding, my aching body heavy with weariness, my face swollen and shapeless. Great canyon walls towered above me, and I drank of their coolness. Then I emerged on a high plateau where a long wind stole softly across the open levels fresh with sage and sego lilies.
    Vaguely I knew the land into which I rode was a lost and lonely land inhabited by few, and those few were men who did not welcome visitors.
    At daylight I found myself in a long canyon where tall pines grew. There was a stream talking somewhere under the trees, and, turning from the game trail I had followed, I walked my buckskin through knee-high grass and flowers and into the pines. It smelled good there, and I was glad to be alone in the wilderness which is the source of all strength.
    There beside the stream I bedded down, opening my soogan and spreading it in the half sunlight and shade, and then I picketed my horse and at last crept to my blankets and relaxed with a great sigh. And then I slept.
    It was midafternoon when my eyes opened again. There was no sound but the stream and the wind in the tall pines, a far-off, lonely sound. Downstream a beaver splashed, and in the trees a magpie chattered, fussing at a squirrel.
    I was alone.…With small sticks I built a fire and heated water, and when it was hot I bathed my face with careful hands, and while I did it I thought of the man who had whipped me.
    It was true he had slugged me without warning, then had pinned me down so I’d have no chance to escape from his great weight. But I had to admit I’d been whipped soundly. Yet I wanted to go back. This was not a matter for guns. This man I must whip with my bare hands.
    But there was much else to consider. From all I had learned, the Two-Bar was the key to the situation, and it had been my idea to join forces with Ball, the man who was stubborn enough to face up to two strong outfits. I’d long had an urge for lost causes, and a feeling for men strong enough to stand alone. If Ball would have my help…
    To the west of where I waited was a gigantic cliff rising sheer from the grassy meadow. Trees skirted the meadow, and to the east a stream flowed along one side, where the pines gave way to sycamore and a few pin oak.
    Twice I saw deer moving among the trees. Lying in wait near the water, I finally got my shot and dropped a young buck.
    For two days I ate, slept, and let the stream flow by. My side ceased to pain except when a sudden movement jerked it, but it remained stiff and sore to the touch. The discoloration around my eyes and on one cheekbone changed color and some of the swelling went down. After two days I could wait no longer. Mounting the buckskin, I turned him toward the Two-Bar.
    A noontime sun was darkening the buckskin with sweat when I turned into Cottonwood Wash.
    There was green grass here, and there were trees and water. The walls of the Wash were high and the trees towered until their tops were level with them, occasional cattle I saw looked fat and lazy.
    For an