BOUND SOUTH

The day promised to be fine as Joe Breedlove mounted and swung out of Prairieville. He had breakfasted well, there was money in his belt, and a sound animal carried him. It was late October; rose flame spread all along the eastern rim and the air was clear, thin and sparkling. Down in the brakes the trees glowed yellow and crimson. The ridges, wet by a recent rain, showed a verdant tinge. It was a morning to make a man heady with the surge of his blood and the expansion of his spirits.

Even so, Joe Breedlove rode off in a pensive state of mind. He had seen an old and chosen friend married the day before. Married and settled on a ranch. And, while rejoicing at his comrade’s luck, he saw the finger of destiny point him out henceforth as a lone rider, a solitary wanderer. Hereafter he would sit beside the night fire alone, watch the distant stars alone. Once he would not have minded, for early youth has a way of being self-sufficient. Joe, going along his thirties, felt the need of friends. It was the way he was built.

He rode with a smile on his lean face, the smile of a man who looked at the world with shrewd and tolerant eyes, of one who loved life but was never for a moment fooled by it. That, as a matter of fact, was the substance of Joe Breedlove; his was the nature to make allowances for all frail and mortal things, asking in return very little for himself. He was quite tall and ridden down to hard, slender muscle. His features were broad, generous; and his hair, where it showed beneath the Stetson, had a silver color that made him seem older than he was.

Thus he rode onward, busied with his thoughts and with the signs about him. It was a rugged, barren land as it reached southward, and to the casual observer nothing much met the eye. But to Joe Breedlove, versed in the country, it was an unfolding story. Here a lobo crossed the trail, his pads broad and plain in the dust. Alongside were the flanking prints of accompanying pilot coyotes. Twenty yards to the left he caught a flash of coiled orange and black under a sage bush. High overhead and farther along a buzzard wheeled in a steady circle, the sign it had sighted carrion on the ground. Joe watched the bird as he traveled, a kind of impersonal curiosity in his mind. But he would presently have forgotten it had he not quite of a sudden arrived at a wide flurry of hoofprints cutting athwart the trail. A cavalcade of men, traveling fast, had come out of the left ridge not long before and aimed straight for the rugged land farther west.

Breedlove studied these prints at some length, a kind of soft chuckle in his throat. “Six—eight men in a hellbent hurry. Now what you suppose? Minions o’ the law or gents escapin’ the wrath o’ justice? Not that it makes any difference, but it might be profitable to know.”

He didn’t know this country, but stray report indicated it was somewhat tough. Down at the southern end of the valley there was a town called Canyon and the name of it was a byword as much as five hundred miles northward where men in jest often said, “I’m goin’ to kill me a sheriff some day an’ go to Canyon.” The theory rightly or wrongly being that this act was a necessary qualification to citizenship in the place.

Joe Breedlove lifted his eyes again to the buzzard which by now had dropped lower and traversed a narrower circle. He wasn’t certain, but he thought dust still hung over the cavalcade’s trail in the west. Again the chuckle welled up. He swung his horse to the left, aiming at the buzzard’s mark. “They say trouble comes to a fella that’s got trouble in his heart. Well, pony, we’re as pure of conscience as the driftin’ snow. Nev’less we ain’t goin’ no place so lessee what’s over there. It might be interestin’.”

To the left he traveled, threading gullies, climbing the ridge’s side. Stony pockets lined the ridge, ringed here and there by stunted pines. As he came beneath the buzzard’s arc he took great care not to appear stealthy, slowing the pony and whistling the mournful bars of some old song. Likewise he kept well up on the ridge where he might be seen, and although his glance absorbed everything he appeared to be half asleep in the saddle.

“Buzzards,” he opined casually, “ain’t nowise healthy animals, but they tell a lot.” Then he straightened a little. He had arrived at another of the depressions. In its bottom was a dead paint horse, saddle and gear stripped from it. But it hadn’t been dead long and Joe Breedlove, looking across the rim to where the pines bunched together, nodded his silvered head ever so slightly. He dropped into the depression and from the saddle read a plain, commonplace tale. The animal had broken its leg in a gopher hole and had been put away with a bullet. Breedlove raised his head to the pines and spoke aloud.

“If you got me covered up there, jes’ forget it. I ain’t after yore skelp. Plenty to do watchin’ my own.”

And he rolled himself a cigarette, waiting. Several moments passed. Then the brush rustled and a man came from concealment, sliding down the slope, gun in his fist. He was a thin, undersized bundle of nerves with a fiery, impatient face. It was far from a handsome face, yet it bore no apparent depravity or wickedness. Breedlove, placidly smoking, set the man down as just another of those bantams who were forever bridling at injustice. Apparently the fellow had a gambler’s spirit, for after a cursory glance toward Breedlove he dropped his gun into the holster, shoved his hat back over a jet black cowlick and began to swear in melodious, flowing syllables. Even a bullwhacker would have acknowledged the artistry, the complete adequacy of that cursing. Breedlove smiled in benevolent, approving interest.

“Some men,” he remarked, “are shore born with the gift. Nothin’ lubricates the soul like a little well-chosen profanity.”

“Was yuh ever in Canyon?” asked the stranger in a high-pitched voice.

“No,” admitted Breedlove, “I’m from the north. But I was rapidly vergin’ tords that point.”

The small one made expressive gesture with his hands. “Stay away, stay away, brother. Nineveh an’ Tyre—they don’t compete. Nossir, they don’t nowise compete with Canyon. A sink o’ iniquity, a stinkin’ hog waller, a condemned blotch o’ scurvy on nature’s benign countenance.” He looked at Breedlove almost meekly. “Amigo, I ain’t tongue-tied, but I’d shore have to improvise on the English langwidge to name an’ classify that Siwash smellin’, snake-belly crawlin’, festerin’ heap o’ boards what——”

“Ample,” interposed Breedlove. “Plumb ample. I would gather Canyon had done you some great wrong.”

The small man’s voice had a way of breaking and rising to falsetto in anger or excitement. It squeaked now like a pair of rusty hinges. “Wrong? Did yuh say wrong, amigo? Huh, what it done to me was a-plenty!” He kicked at the loose stones with his feet, adding somberly, “But I guess I did a few things m’self. Did yuh see a passel o’ beetle-faced gents sashayin’ acrost the landscape down yonder?”

“I saw tracks cuttin’ westward about two miles.”

The wiry one looked gloomily at his horse. “Uhuh. They’re a-follerin’ a dead trail I laid down. Me, I’d been out of this stagnatin’ country, by now, if the paint hoss hadn’t struck a hole an’ sent me to hell and gone on my coco.” He squatted down and laid a brown hand on the animal’s neck. “He shore was a good hoss, too.”

Something inside Breedlove grew warm and friendly. He announced, through a ring of smoke, “Name’s Joe Breedlove. Bound south. Nothin’ in p’ticular. Jes’ a-travelin’.”

“I dunno what they took me for,” muttered the small one, rising on his haunches. “I was a-mindin’ my own fool business, which ain’t usual for me, but nev’less I was readin’ my own hole cards. Thunder, but trouble jus’ popped up like a gusher comin’ in! Out goes the lights an’ bang goes the furniture. Well, when a man ain’t wanted he’d orter have sense enough to depart. Which was what I proceeded to do even if the dang’ fools tried to impede my progress.”

“Some towns is mos’ unusually clannish thataway. It takes a can opener to get in an’ a crowbar to get out.”

“Uhuh,” said the wiry one. He flashed a sidewise glance at Breedlove. There was something about this tall, serene man that inspired trust. It may have been the directness of his glance or it may have been the shrewd yet unsoured humor hovering in the corners of his broad mouth. At any rate, he invited confidence. The small one announced solemnly that it had been his aim and intent to hit for the Box U and find work with the beef roundup. Men, he added, called him “Indigo” Bowers.

Silence for a moment. Then Breedlove stretched forward his right hand and they shook. “All right, Indigo.”

“All right, Joe.”

The formalities were completed, a rough and ready partnership formed. Indigo studied the sweep of the valley through the trees. “What would you do,” he inquired casually, “if a tin horn sport insinuated yuh was holdin’ more aces than the law required? Yuh a-knowin’ all the time this gent had a sleeve full o’ said aces an’ was jus’ tryin’ to initiate an argument for private purposes?”

Breedlove studied the matter at full length, likewise watching the valley below. “I believe I’d enter some sorta protest to the management. Nobody’s got a call to be ill-mannered.”

Indigo seized upon this with a show of eagerness, as if it had justified his acts. “That’s jus’ exactly what I did. But I didn’t kill the guy. Nossir, I aimed high an’ to one side. If he died it was because of his own weak constitution an’ none o’ my fault. Why should they blame me because some gent went into an argument with impaired health?” Then his manner and tone changed. “You skin out of here, Joe. Them bloodhounds are back-trackin’. They’ll reach here in no time.”

Breedlove also had seen the dust cloud growing out of the west. He slipped from the saddle and motioned to Indigo. “Hop aboard. Skin out. When the storm’s blown over come back.”

“Hell, no,” objected Indigo. “Those guys ain’t civil.”

“They don’t know me from Adam,” said Breedlove. “I’ll say you ambushed me and took my horse. Hit over toward that broken top and I’ll steer ’em north.”

Indigo gave Breedlove one quick glance and swung up. “All right. But I’ll have an eye on ’em. If I see you bein’ led off in chains, I’ll turn this country to cinders.”

“A soft answer,” smiled Breedlove, “punctures many a bloated temper.”

“Mebbe so,” was Indigo’s dubious reply. “I ain’t never tried it.” Then he was up the hollow and out of sight. Breedlove moved half along the slope, buried his gun beneath a flat rock and settled back to smoke in peace.

The posse came upon him somewhat sooner than he had expected. In fact it was just three cigarettes later that he heard a rustling noise to his rear and an abrupt command to elevate his elbows. He complied, though not in silence.

“Pull in yore neck,” he advised the unseen gentleman. “Can’t a man study nature without interruption?”

Men dropped into the depression from various angles. Indigo Bowers had called them beetle-faced and it would have been difficult for Joe Breedlove to have improved on the term. Foremost among these pursuers was one who had a pair of excessively bowed props and a bull voice. He aimed a question at Breedlove in a conversational tone, yet the echo of it fled among the trees and filtered down toward the valley.

“Where’s the leetle sawed-off runt with the trouble-huntin’ face?”

“I wish I knew,” murmured Breedlove, rolling still another smoke. He jerked a hand to the north. “Last I saw he was foggin’ up thataway. If you find him jes’ kindly return my horse which he appropriated.”

They were not to be easily convinced, these fellows. Breedlove saw it in the manner they studied him. “What brought you this way anyhow?” demanded the full voiced one.

“I come from Prairieville,” explained Breedlove in a mild tone. “Saw a buzzard circlin’ over here an’ thought I’d investigate. I walks myself into a trap.”

“Well,” ruminated another, “that ain’t no lie. I saw that buzzard. Didn’t I tell you, Ike? We should a’ left that damn trail an’ hit here first.”

“Was the gent badly wanted?” asked Breedlove.

“He shot an’ killed the best stud dealer in the county, brother. It ain’t a thing to whistle off. No, it ain’t. North, yuh say?”

“Uhuh.”

They collected in a group and filed toward the top of the bowl. “Say,” demanded Breedlove, “where’s the nearest rancho? I got to get another horse.”

“Cloverleaf—three miles south.” Then something seemed to strike the leader and he turned, bringing the whole crowd to a halt. “You don’t seem very doggone put out about it. Looks like a trick to me.”

“Shucks,” grinned Breedlove, “all the snortin’ an’ pawin’ in the world won’t do no good. I ain’t worryin’ none. You boys’ll get that horse for me, and the gun likewise which he took. I’ll collect ’em in Canyon tonight. Treat the horse gentle.”

It was not so much the words he said, but the manner in which he issued them, soothingly, authoritatively. They disappeared over the bowl and in a moment he heard them riding away. Nor did he bother to rise and watch them immediately. Not until the sinking sun found him out and made that particular haven uncomfortably hot did he move. Casually, he strode upward and swept the little stand of pines. Satisfied, he sought another spot and waited until he heard hoofs drumming. Indigo swept to view riding the borrowed animal and leading another. Quite in silence as if this were only a minor detail of the day’s chores, the two of them went about their business. Indigo saddled his new horse, tarried a moment to look at the dead animal and pressed his lips tightly together, avoiding Breedlove’s eyes.

“Shore a good pony,” he grumbled. “If this brute’s half as saddlewise, I’m lucky.”

Away they traveled, and it was a little curious the way the leadership seemed to fall quietly upon the tall, serene man’s shoulders. Indigo merely said, “Now where, Joe?” and fell to meditation.

“When in doubt,” reflected Breedlove, “lead for the stummick. We’ll aim straight tords Canyon, I reckon. What’s on yore mind?”

“Me? Oh, I’m headin’ for the Box U like I said an’ get me a job. Where you goin’?”

“Bound south,” and there was a trailing note of lonesomeness in it. Indigo looked sharply at his new partner.

“Mebbe there’d be two jobs at the Box U,” said he gruffly.

“I misdoubt I could put a mind to work right now. I’m an old horse, needin’ some open range for a spell.”

An interval of silence. The sun sank and the world for a time was ablaze on the western summits. Then a swirling blue dusk enveloped them and the autumn chill nipped their bones. Indigo seemed to be feeding on his injuries. He swore in lilting, honey syllables. “I’d shore like to level that town right down to the grass roots. Thunder, they’s a lot of hog fat hombres there which I’d like to send squealin’ for shelter.”

Breedlove chuckled. “Spunky cuss, ain’t you?”

“Me? Say, Joe, it’s shore funny how I ram my smeller into trouble. Allus been thataway. But I shore can’t stand to have rannies pulled on me.”

“Providence,” mused Breedlove, “has a way o’ takin’ care o’ all that.”

“Providence has shorely been squattin’ on me the las’ two days,” grunted Indigo.

“Well, Providence has got to sit an’ rest sometimes,” agreed Breedlove. “But she rises again. She rises an’ the world shines bright.”

“Now ain’t that restful,” murmured Indigo. There was irony in it but it was the kind of irony covering admiration. Thereafter no more was said until the glimmering lights of a town met them. They had traversed a ridge, climbing higher and higher. The valley on their right puckered together and dived into the narrow recesses of a hill and in a little while they discovered themselves looking directly down on the house tops of Canyon. Canyon the wayward and the headstrong. Joe Breedlove studied it, his chin resting on shirt front. Indigo stirred, saying with no great enthusiasm, “Well, amigo, I guess I’ll strike east from here. Box U thataway, jus’ acrost the State line.”

“Ain’t had nothin’ to eat, have you?” interposed Breedlove.

“No, shore not. You make a cold camp here while I go down an’ rustle a little grub.”

“Say, yuh can’t walk them premises peaceable,” objected Indigo. “They’d spot yuh. The posse is mebbe back by now. And I don’t misdoubt but what the rancher I got this hoss offen has come in with his yarn. Yore gummed up with the same sheep dip I am now.”

“Well, I don’t believe the posse has got back. They seemed out for blood an’ bent on ridin’ till they found you. Anyhow, I don’t owe this town money and I eat my supper regardless of ary barrel-bellied star toter. Should worst come to worst, I can talk ’em peaceable.”

“Yuh got a lot to learn about Canyon,” prophesied Indigo. “I’m waitin’ here, then. Should I hear trouble, I’ll fog after yuh.”

“Trouble,” philosophized Joe Breedlove, “is a delusion which only the wicked fear. Hang to your vest buttons, Indigo. I’ll tote back some chuck.”

He started down the trail but returned to dismount. “I’ll leave the horse here. Safer if the sheriff, or whatever he is, should pop in.” And he vanished in the shadows.

It was a steep pitch and let him down quite abruptly to one end of the solitary street through the town and the canyon. It was like all other cowtowns in its essential features, yet since it had its back to the hills it drew many queer characters, many fugitive characters into its confines. Breedlove noted them here and there as he marched straight upon the restaurant; noted, too, that although the evening was young, considerable noise drifted from the half-dozen saloons on either side of the street.

At the same moment he was inspecting his surroundings, others were inspecting him from odd corners. He was a cowpuncher in every muscle and gesture, yet a cowpuncher without a horse, a circumstance bound to attract curiosity. He felt this scrutiny and as he slid to a stool and ordered a double order of steak he understood the justness of Indigo’s comment. Lawless Canyon might be; nevertheless the town seemed to scan its guests with something more than casual attention.

“Takes a can opener to get in an’ a crowbar to get out,” he murmured much later when the weary and slightly acid lady of the establishment slid sundry platters toward him.

“What was that?” asked the lady, sharply.

“Merely remarkin’ that this shore was a han’some piece of cow,” he hastened to assure her. Such a thing as a napkin failed to exist but a month-old paper lay within reach and he took this, making a huge sandwich of the extra steak and several pieces of bread. He wrapped it well, noting the lady’s furrowed brow upon him. “I’ll be a long ways from here by breakfast,” he explained.

She lifted one scornful shoulder. “Another gent hidin’ out. Say, there’s more men up in those hills than down here. What’s your shyness?”

He winked expressively, laid a dollar on the counter and gathered his sandwich. Still she seemed unsatisfied. And when he had finished his meal and was about to go, he dropped his voice low. “Lady, breathe it to no livin’ soul. I’m the man that struck Billy Patterson!”

“Kill him?” she asked, matter of fact.