Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF Page A

boys from the B Bar B rarely came this far.
    Wind moved across the lonely mesa, the junipers stirred. I drew up, standing in the half shade of the tree and looking ahead. The mesa seemed empty, yet I had a sudden feeling of being observed. For a long time I listened, but no sound came across the silences.
    The buckskin walked on, almost of his own volition. Another trail intersected, a more traveled trail. Both led in the direction I was now taking.
    There was no sound but the footfalls of my horse, the lonely creak of the saddle, and once, far off, the cry of an eagle. A rabbit bounded up and away bouncing like a tufted rubber ball.
    The mesa broke off sharply and before me lay a green valley not unlike Cottonwood Wash, but far wilder and more remote. Towering rock walls skirted it, and a dark-mouthed canyon opened wide into the valley. The trail down from the mesa led from bench to bench with easy swings and switchbacks, and I descended, riding more warily.
    Twice antelope appeared in the distance and once a deer. There were tracks of cattle, but few were in evidence.
    The wild country to the east, on my left, was exciting to see. A vast maze of winding canyons and broken ledges, of towering spires and massive battlements. It was a land unexplored and unknown, and greatly tempting to an itching foot.
    A click of a drawn-back hammer stopped me in my tracks. Buck stood perfectly still, his ears up, and I kept both hands on the pommel.
    â€œGoin’ somewhar, stranger?”
    The voice seemed to come from a clump of boulders at the edge of a hay meadow, but there was nobody in sight.
    â€œI’m looking for the boss of the B Bar B.”
    â€œWhat might you want with him?”
    â€œBusiness talk. I’m friendly.”
    The chuckle was dry. “Ever see a man covered by two Spencers who wasn’t friendly?”
    The next was a girl’s voice. “Who you ridin’ fo’?”
    â€œI’m Matt Brennan, half-owner of the Two-Bar.”
    â€œYou could be lyin’.”
    â€œDo I see the boss?”
    â€œI reckon.”
    A tall boy of eighteen stepped from the rocks. Lean and loose-limbed, he looked tough and wise beyond his years. He carried his Spencer as if it was part of him. He motioned with his head to indicate a trail into the wide canyon.
    Light steps came from somewhere behind him as he walked the buckskin forward. He did not turn in the saddle and kept his hands in sight.
    The old man of the tribe was standing in front of a stone house built like a fort. Tall as his sons who stood beside him, he was straight as a lodge-pole pine.
    To right and left, built back near the rock walls, were stables and other buildings. The hard-packed earth was swept clean, the horses were curried, and all the buildings were in good shape. Whatever else the Benaras family might be, they were workers.
    The old man looked me over without expression. Then he took the pipe from his lean jaws.
    â€œGet down an’ set.”
    Inside, the house was as neat as on the outside. The floors were freshly scrubbed, as was the table. Nor was there anything makeshift about it. The house and furniture had been put together by skillful hands, each article shaped with care and affection.
    A stout, motherly-looking woman put out cups and poured coffee. A girl in a neat cotton dress brought home-baked bread and home-made butter to the table. Then she put out a pot of honey.
    â€œOur own bees.” Old Bob Benaras stared from under shaggy brows. He looked like a patriarch right out of the Bible.
    He watched me as I talked, smoking quietly. I ate a slice of bread, and did not spare the butter and honey. He watched with approval, and the girl brought a tall glass filled with creamy milk.
    â€œWe’ve some fat stock,” I told him, “but we can’t make a drive. What I would like is to trade the grown cattle to you, even up, for some of your young stuff.”
    I drank half the milk and put the glass