Dark Canyon (1963) Read Online Free

your own, then. Shattuck won't sell. In fact, the Lazy S is in the market for more than they have."
    Riley indicated the money. "I'll be drawing against that. Take care of it."
    He walked out to the street, a rangy young man in shot-gun chaps, a faded maroon shirt, and a black hat. He paused on the street and gave it his sharp attention while appearing to be beating the dust from his clothes.
    With that brief study he located every place in town. He saw Strat Spooner loafing in front of the place called Hardcastle's, saw the buckboard coming down the street driven by a girl, saw the Mexican vaquero who rode beside her.
    Riley crossed the street toward the Emporium. He had categorized Spooner in that one brief glance. The man loafing in front of the saloon was probably a hired gunhand or an outlaw. Gaylord Riley had reason to know the type.
    Moreover, at a time when any employed cowhand would be hard at work, this man sat at his ease. He wore brand-new boots that must have cost twice what a cowhand could afford. As Riley crossed the street he was conscious of the man's attention, and knew the reason for it.
    Valenti came from the saloon and asked, "Who's he?"
    Riley, as he stepped up on the boardwalk in front of the store, heard the question.
    The sun lay warm upon the dust of the street, warm upon the buildings, the freshness of their lumber already fading snider the sun and wind. Gaylord Riley paused on the walk and looked around again. After all, this would be his town. Here he would come to market, and here he would get his mail-if any.
    He frowned, wondering if he could buy a newspaper anywhere in town. And then he saw the sign: The Rimrock Scout, All the News, Plenty of Opinions.
    Riley strolled down the street and opened the door. The hand press and the fonts of type-these were things of which he knew nothing. The weather-beaten man who walked up to the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth, smiled.
    "How are you, son? Huntin' news, or providin' it?"
    Riley chuckled. "Figured you might sell me a paper and let me browse through some back issues. Seems to me that's the best way to learn about a community."
    The newspaperman thrust out a hand. "Glad to know you're going to be one of us. I'm Sampson McCarty, editor, publisher, and printer. You're the first newcomer who has had sense enough to come in here and find out about the country. You help yourself."
    He waved toward a stack of newspapers on a shelf. "That's all there is-thirty-six weeks, thirty-six issues. Take all the time you like, come as often as you like."
    "I'm Gaylord Riley. I'm ranching over west." "That's rough, wild country," McCarty commented. "Not many even ride into that wilderness." "Suits me. I'll be runnin' cows, not visitin'." Riley took a handful of newspapers and sat down at a table. He sat where he could look out of the window, his back partly toward McCarty. The newspaper idea was one he had picked up from Jim Colburn. Colburn had discovered that you could get a good idea about how rich a bank was by studying the papers . . . and a good idea about how dangerous the law might be.
    McCarty saw at once that there was nothing haphazard about Riley's way of going over a newspaper. The first thing he did was run down the column of box advertisements to check the business and professional ads, making several notes as he went along.
    Next he scanned the column of local items each issue contained.
    McCarty, from his position in setting type, could see over Riley's shoulder, and as he knew every item it was easy to ascertain the reader's interests.
    The news story referring to the arrival of Shat-tuck's Herefords held Riley's attention; but when he came upon the story of Spooner's killing of Bill Banner, he paused to read the item with care. The next story at which he stopped was that of the holdup at Pagosa Springs-or rather, the attempted holdup. Two bandits had been wounded, and one of the outlaws was said to have been a member of the Colburn gang.
    He