“Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a job. Mr. Wilmott, who lives in Prescott, owns the store but entrusts the running of it completely to me. Right now the profits don’t justify hiring another employee.”
“That’s all right, Noah,” Sam said. “I don’t think I was cut out to work in a store, anyway.”
“That’s true. It takes a certain, ah, type such as me, doesn’t it?”
Thinking that he had offended the man, Sam started to apologize, but Reilly smiled and waved it away.
“No, no, I’m perfectly aware that I’m not the adventurous, swashbuckling sort,” he said. “I think most of the time people are foolish to try to be something they aren’t, so I’m perfectly content to clerk in a store. It’s what I’m cut out for.”
“Well, that’s one way to look at it,” Sam said. He shook his head. “I don’t see how you stay as skinny as you do, eating at Mrs. McCormick’s.”
Reilly grinned.
“The dear lady
Now that the sun was up, Flat Rock was coming to life.
Or at least as much life as this sleepy little settlement usually exhibited. A few pedestrians moved along the boardwalks, a couple of men on horseback made their way slowly along the street, and a wagon was parked in front of the general store.
The doors of the livery stable were open, and that gave Sam an idea. He said, “I’ll see you later, Noah,” and walked over to Pedro Garralaga’s place.
The stableman was inside, tending to the animals in his charge. At this hour the heat of the day hadn’t started to build up yet, so inside the barn it was cool and shadowy.
Garralaga said, “Buenos dias, Senor Two Wolves. You are out and about early this morning.”
“I thought I’d go for a ride before the day gets too hot,” Sam said.
“A ride? Where?” Garralaga made a gesture that took in their surroundings. “What’s there to see around here?”
“You never know. A man never stumbles over anything interesting if he doesn’t look around.”
Garralaga grunted.
“There’s not much anywhere in the Four Corners that’s interesting. But suit yourself. You want me to saddle your horse?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
Sam’s horse tossed its head and nuzzled his shoulder. He put his saddle on the animal, noting what a good job Garralaga had done on the repairs, and led the horse out into the aisle in the center of the barn.
As he did, he passed the stalls where the mounts belonging to Stovepipe Stewart and Wilbur Coleman were kept. He’d halfway expected to run into the mysterious cowboys by now, since they seemed to turn up wherever he was, but so far he hadn’t seen any sign of them.
Obviously they were still in town, though, since their horses were here.
Sam said so long to Garralaga and rode out of Flat Rock, heading south. He had only the vaguest idea of where the Devil’s Pitchfork Ranch was, but he knew it lay south of the settlement.
If he had told anyone he was heading for John Henry Boyd’s spread, they probably would have advised him that he was loco. Boyd, Lowry, and the rest of the Devil’s Pitchfork bunch had shady reputations to begin with, and now they were all stirred up because they believed the Navajo had killed two of their men and rustled fifty head of cattle.
Sam didn’t believe that, but he knew he was running a risk by riding on Boyd’s range. If any of Boyd’s men caught a glimpse of his coppery skin, they would probably shoot first and then figure out who he was.
This trip served two purposes, though. Sam didn’t want Caballo Rojo’s people being blamed for something they didn’t do. If the army was drawn into this, it would only make the trouble worse. The best way to avoid that was to find out what had really happened to the rustled cattle.
Also, Sam was still trying to draw out the men who had attacked him and Matt. He couldn’t give them a much more tempting target than this.
Of course, that meant he was risking his life, but he thought it was worth the gamble. He hoped so, anyway.
If nothing else, the landscape was spectacular in its stark beauty. Dark, rugged mesas thrust up imposingly from the flat land around them, as did towering spires of red sandstone. Ranges of rocky hills bordered vast sweeps of empty ground. Cliffs jutted up and ran for miles. Colors faded from brown to tan to red to black. It was almost like being in an alien world devoid of life, Sam thought.
But here and there, pockets of life did exist. Canyons cut into the hills and cliffs, and in their shaded reaches, springs bubbled up, allowing hardy grass and stunted trees to grow. Higher up in the mountains, the slopes were dark with pine and juniper. This was a hard land, but it would support people who knew how to use it.
The Navajo possessed that knowledge. It was part of their heritage, going back centuries.
Most white men didn’t know how to use the land the way it was, Sam reflected. What they knew was how to
In truth, Sam didn’t know which way was better. But there had to be a land somewhere that would finally defeat the ingenuity of the white men.
