for sale to the Army, and when the stampede was over the cattle were grazing around a cienaga in the Sulphur Springs Valley, and it was there he established the Sierra Bonita Ranch. Hooker started it; others had followed. All this was known to every child in the street, and Catlow was so obviously a cattleman.
Cordelia would not have been likely to hear any of the stories about him, Bijah decided, nor would her father, for that matter. Moss Burton worked over his saddles, boots, and bridles, paying little attention to gossip; he ate his meals at home, and did not frequent the saloons.
As Bijah played, idly strumming the guitar, his thoughts turned to the venture that lay ahead. There were twelve men in his outfit, and several of them were strangers, but they had been selected with as much care as possible. Bijah knew very well what lay before him. He possessed a sharp, intelligent brain, and he was using it in this.
Every detail had been planned. Not only the move south and the taking of the money, but the escape. This, he felt sure, would be the crux of the whole thing. With any kind of luck, they could reach their destination unseen and, if all went well, take the gold. Their great danger lay in their escape, and to this he had given most of his thinking.
If they were captured during their attempt on the gold they would probably be shot; otherwise they would rot in a Mexican jail. The courts were slow, and nobody would be in a hurry to try a bunch of gringos who had come into Mexico looking for trouble.
His band of men had one thing in common: all spoke Spanish, Mexican-style, and all could pass as Mexicans. This would help during the ride south if they were seen, which Catlow hoped would not happen.
One member of his outfit was a half-breed Tarahumara Indian who knew all the secret water holes and rock tanks, places known only to wild animals and wilder Indians. Catlow and his men would avoid the main trails, avoid the Apaches as well, and reach the heart of Sonora unseen.
Not one of the men he had selected was known for having a loose tongue; nevertheless he had told them only a part of his plan. The escape route he kept to himself, and only the two involved knew about his cattle deal.
Impulsive he might be, but Abijah Catlow had done the most careful planning for this big strike. He was going to make this one and get out ... and then to Oregon and the cattle business.
It was after ten o'clock when he left the Burton house, and he took the precaution of having Cordelia take the lamp into the kitchen before he left by the front door.
When he reached the house where he was living, Old Man Merridew was loafing at the door. "Marshal's inside ... wants to talk."
Ben Cowan was sitting in the rocker in the dark, and Bijah removed the chimney from the lamp and touched a match to the wick. He replaced the chimney and looked across the lamp, the light throwing highlights and shadows on his strongly boned face.
"You goin' to pull me in?"
"No," Ben replied. "I just came with a friendly word of advice."
Bijah chuckled. "What else did I ever get from you, Ben? What is it now?"
"Miller ... you've made an enemy there, and the man's dangerous."
"Him? Small potatoes. I ain't beggin' trouble, but if he wants it he can have it."
"Don't low-rate him. He's worse than Giles."
"Him?" Catlow repeated skeptically. "Miller? You're loco."
"I know him. I followed him here from New Mexico. The man's a wolf. He'll wait a year, two years if necessary. He's a hater, Bijah. You and me were never that, and a hater is a tough man to beat."
"That all you came for?"
"It's a plenty. Did you ever know me to shy from shadows? I know the man."
Catlow sat down and rolled a smoke. "All right. If you say he's that bad, I'll put my money on it."
"I'm going to take him in, but I want him where nobody will get hurt if there's shooting. I can wait, too."
Bijah sat down on the bed and pulled off first one boot and then the other. He sat there,
Cordelia would not have been likely to hear any of the stories about him, Bijah decided, nor would her father, for that matter. Moss Burton worked over his saddles, boots, and bridles, paying little attention to gossip; he ate his meals at home, and did not frequent the saloons.
As Bijah played, idly strumming the guitar, his thoughts turned to the venture that lay ahead. There were twelve men in his outfit, and several of them were strangers, but they had been selected with as much care as possible. Bijah knew very well what lay before him. He possessed a sharp, intelligent brain, and he was using it in this.
Every detail had been planned. Not only the move south and the taking of the money, but the escape. This, he felt sure, would be the crux of the whole thing. With any kind of luck, they could reach their destination unseen and, if all went well, take the gold. Their great danger lay in their escape, and to this he had given most of his thinking.
If they were captured during their attempt on the gold they would probably be shot; otherwise they would rot in a Mexican jail. The courts were slow, and nobody would be in a hurry to try a bunch of gringos who had come into Mexico looking for trouble.
His band of men had one thing in common: all spoke Spanish, Mexican-style, and all could pass as Mexicans. This would help during the ride south if they were seen, which Catlow hoped would not happen.
One member of his outfit was a half-breed Tarahumara Indian who knew all the secret water holes and rock tanks, places known only to wild animals and wilder Indians. Catlow and his men would avoid the main trails, avoid the Apaches as well, and reach the heart of Sonora unseen.
Not one of the men he had selected was known for having a loose tongue; nevertheless he had told them only a part of his plan. The escape route he kept to himself, and only the two involved knew about his cattle deal.
Impulsive he might be, but Abijah Catlow had done the most careful planning for this big strike. He was going to make this one and get out ... and then to Oregon and the cattle business.
It was after ten o'clock when he left the Burton house, and he took the precaution of having Cordelia take the lamp into the kitchen before he left by the front door.
When he reached the house where he was living, Old Man Merridew was loafing at the door. "Marshal's inside ... wants to talk."
Ben Cowan was sitting in the rocker in the dark, and Bijah removed the chimney from the lamp and touched a match to the wick. He replaced the chimney and looked across the lamp, the light throwing highlights and shadows on his strongly boned face.
"You goin' to pull me in?"
"No," Ben replied. "I just came with a friendly word of advice."
Bijah chuckled. "What else did I ever get from you, Ben? What is it now?"
"Miller ... you've made an enemy there, and the man's dangerous."
"Him? Small potatoes. I ain't beggin' trouble, but if he wants it he can have it."
"Don't low-rate him. He's worse than Giles."
"Him?" Catlow repeated skeptically. "Miller? You're loco."
"I know him. I followed him here from New Mexico. The man's a wolf. He'll wait a year, two years if necessary. He's a hater, Bijah. You and me were never that, and a hater is a tough man to beat."
"That all you came for?"
"It's a plenty. Did you ever know me to shy from shadows? I know the man."
Catlow sat down and rolled a smoke. "All right. If you say he's that bad, I'll put my money on it."
"I'm going to take him in, but I want him where nobody will get hurt if there's shooting. I can wait, too."
Bijah sat down on the bed and pulled off first one boot and then the other. He sat there,
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