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

Wildhorse Mesa is a spring, and around it some ancient cottonwoods offer their shade. Once deer had come here to drink, but they came no longer, for in the shade of the trees there was now a combination store, stage stop, and saloon owned by “Honey” Chavez.
    When he first came to the country Chavez had made a business of robbing the desert bees and selling their honey in the settlements, hence the nickname.
    The store building was eighty feet long and twenty feet wide. It was built of adobe, and facing it across what was humorously called the “plaza” was another building almost identical in size which was a bunkhouse carrying a faded sign:
BEDS—Two Bits
.
    Honey Chavez was fat, sloppy, and nondescript, but there was little going on which he did not know about, for he was a man who listened well and found means to profit by the information he gathered. Despite his appearance, he was a man who had many times proved his courage against the Apaches, although usually he was on friendly terms with them. Lacking most of the virtues, Honey Chavez had one very necessary one—he knew when not to talk.
    From the porch in front of the store there was a good view both up and down the trail, while behind the place was a towering mountain that closed off all approach. In front of the place and across the trail the desert stretched away into almost endless distance before reaching some haunting blue hills, far, far away.
    Considine led the small cavalcade into the plaza, where they dismounted and tied their horses. Chavez was standing in his doorway, scratching his fat stomach and watching them. “Getting close to Obaro, ain’t you?”
    Considine ignored him. Everybody knew about his relationship with Pete Runyon, and what could be expected if he returned to Obaro.
    He glanced up the trail. There was no sign of Dave Spanyer and his daughter. He stared that way, almost hopefully. She had been quite a girl. And that old man of hers—he was a tough old man, a very tough old man, but they should not be riding through Apache country alone.
    Dutch stopped beside him. “Don’t worry about them, Considine. That old man is no fool.”
    “You saw those tracks.”
    “He’ll see them, too.”
    The Kiowa led the horse to the trough for water, then to the corral. Considine watched him gloomily. The Kiowa was lucky, for he never seemed to think about things or to have any worries beyond the moment—but that might be an illusion.
    “The trouble with me is,” Considine said aloud, “I think too much.”
    Dutch nodded his big head. “You’re the best in this business, Considine, but you ain’t cut out for it. I never knew a man who was less cut out for it. To me this comes natural and easy, but not to you. The very thing that makes you good at this business shows you don’t belong in it. You’ve got an instinct to watch out for the other fellow…you don’t care how much grief you shoulder yourself as long as you can keep others out of trouble. That’s why you plan so carefully. That’s why you’re worrying about Spanyer and his girl now.”
    “Maybe.”
    Perhaps it was true, yet if so, his presence here was a contradiction, for his only reason for being here would be that bank in Obaro. The only obvious reason…Part of it was that everything about Obaro rankled, and it was not only Pete Runyon and the girl he’d married—it was the town, all of them.
    He glanced around at Chavez. “You been to town lately?”
    “Two weeks ago…maybe three.”
    “You’d better go in and have a look around.”
    Chavez rubbed his fat hands on his pants and shifted his eyes uneasily. In a way, he was afraid of Considine, for the big, quiet man was very sure of himself, and was known to be a dangerous man with a gun. But Chavez was afraid of Runyon, too.
    Chavez did business with the wild bunch. Any outlaw could stop off here, buy supplies, pick up information, and never worry about anything being said. It was a safe place—as safe as any