Novel 1962 - High Lonesome (v5.0) Read Free Page B

awareness by an ancient sense of danger, he lay perfectly still, listening.
    The moon was up, a half-moon partly hidden by foliage. At first he heard only water trickling, and then his ears identified the sound that had awakened him.
    Riders.…
    He sat up and pulled on his boots. “Lennie?”
    “I heard them, Pa.”
    By grabs, she was a girl! Never missed a trick. Well, he had never concealed the hard facts of life from her. She knew what danger was, and she had seen him kill one man…a man who had made an indecent remark to her. He was a brawny, hairy man, who made a brawny, hairy corpse because he had made such a remark, paying no attention to the grizzled wisp of a man at her side.
    “Get dressed and stand to the horses.”
    Lennie drew her skirt to her and wriggled into it under the blankets. She was dressed as quickly as he was, and was standing by the horses to keep them quiet.
    Dave Spanyer had a good view of the trail. For three hundred yards every inch of it could be covered from up here, but no posse had chased him in years, and he knew of no outlaws around who might know of this place.
    Four riders…
    They must have been traveling all night. There was something familiar about the way the second man sat his saddle, something about the bulk of his huge body.
    Dutch…and riding second. Any outfit Dutch rode with had to be solid, and any man who led Dutch anywhere would be quite a man.
    He watched them ride along the trail, and even in the moonlight he could see they rode better horses than any cowhand was likely to be riding. They were still some distance from the opening into the box canyon…were they coming here?
    If that was Dutch, he knew of this place. Were they coming here, or riding on toward Obaro?
    “We’ll saddle up,” he whispered to Lennie. He threw a saddle on the sorrel’s back and reached under the belly for the girth. He felt the sorrel swell his belly and tried to stop him. The sorrel whinnied—caught some vague smell of horse, no doubt, a smell carried on the wind. And the harm was done.
    He grabbed his rifle and crouched, waiting. It was quiet, too quiet. This was no job for one man, and Lennie, as if hearing his thought, slid her rifle from its scabbard and moved to the edge of the pocket.
    Considine stood among the rocks on one of the back trails that led to the pocket and watched the girl take her position. With her first move he had recognized her as a woman. Now, with the sky lightening with the coming day, he could see her more clearly. He stepped out into the open and she turned sharply with the rifle on him.
    “It’s all right, I’m friendly,” he said.
    “Not if I can help it!” she said. Nevertheless, he could see her eyes were bright with interest or excitement.
    Behind him he heard Dutch speak. “’Lo, Dave. Figured you had cashed in a long time ago.”
    Dutch turned his head. “Come on in, boys. I know this old rawhider.”
    Considine looked at the girl. She was a beauty, really a beauty. “Did you hear that?” he said. “We’re friends. Dutch knows your Pa.”
    “My Pa,” she replied shortly, “knows a lot of folks I wouldn’t mess with, so you walk in ahead of me and don’t cut up any or your friend will have a friend to bury.”
    Considine was tall, lean, and raw-boned. His dark features were blunt but warm, and when he smiled his face lighted up. He smiled now.
    “We’ll walk in together. How’ll that be?”
    Chapter 3
----
    H E’S ALL RIGHT,” Dutch said, looking past the girl’s head at Considine. “I rode with Spanyer.”
    Dutch gestured toward Considine. “Dave, meet Considine.”
    “Heard of him.” The wary old eyes glanced at Considine and then away. Then Spanyer indicated his daughter. “This here’s Lennie. She’s my daughter. We’re headin’ for Californy.”
    Dave Spanyer was a slope-shouldered man who looked older than his years, but he was weather-beaten and trail-wise, and obviously not a man to take lightly. Considine knew