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  THERE WERE TOO MANY for Cohoon to have a chance of breaking through, and the men from behind were coming up fast. The impulse to stop, dismount, and, shooting carefully, take as many with him as he could, was very strong. With his father’s old Henry he could make a shambles of that charging mob.

  But into his mind came the sound of his father’s voice, saying: A man can always find a place to die; the trick is to find a place to keep on living.

  He reined around sharply and spurred hard. A bullet touched his sleeve and another kicked up dust behind him as he threw his weight forward to help his laboring horse up the steep bank. And now he heard the marshal’s voice ordering men to cut south and keep him penned in the rectangle formed by the bluff, the canyon and the road.

  He was boxed, he reflected grimly—but there was a hole in the box. True, it was a hole no sane man would try to use, but, a man who would spend five years in jail on the strength of a girl’s smile could hardly be considered sane.

  He turned his faltering horse toward the canyon’s rim and urged him over, heading for the furious river far below. He’d have plenty of time for revenge—if he survived.

  Other Gold Medal Books by Donald Hamilton

  ASSASSINS HAVE STARRY EYES

  LINE OF FIRE

  NIGHT WALKER

  TEXAS FEVER

  and in the Matt Helm series:

  DEATH OF A CITIZEN

  THE WRECKING CREW

  THE REMOVERS

  THE SILENCERS

  MURDERERS' ROW

  THE AMBUSHERS

  THE SHADOWERS

  THE RAVAGERS

  Copyright © 1956 by Donald Hamilton

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof.

  A shorter version of this work previously appeared in serial form in Collier s magazine.

  All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-4406-5091-8

  Fawcett Publications, Inc, Greenwich, Conn Member of American Book Publishers Council, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  MAD RIVER

  by Donald Hamilton

  A GOLD MEDAL BOOK

  1

  HE AWOKE at the bridge. The stage came to a full stop before venturing onto the long and narrow span. This, like the ore wagons they had passed along the road, was new to Boyd Cohoon. There had been no bridge here five years ago, and no one had written him of it.

  He pushed his hat out of his eyes and sat up, leaning forward to look out the side window. Old John Black's cable was still in place, he saw, far below and a quarter mile downstream. Despite the afternoon shadows, he could make out the dizzy switchbacks of the old road cut into the canyon wall on either side. The ferry was tied up at the south landing, looking water-logged and half-rotted already. The river swirled by it sullenly, yellow and creamy with sediment, the current gaining speed as it raced toward the narrow gorge below. Cohoon grimaced. Black's Ferry had become history in the time he had been away. He wondered how many other landmarks of his boyhood had changed or vanished.

  A protesting movement beside him caused him to straighten up quickly. "I beg your pardon, ma'am."

  The girl at his left said, "It's perfectly all right. Aside from a few broken ribs, I'm quite all right."

  He had made his apology; he did not speak again. He wanted to look back at the land south of the river—it was strange that he could have slept, passing it—but he would have had to inconvenience the girl by the window again, and there was, after all, little to be seen from the road. From what had been written him, it seemed there was not much left to look at, anyway, except the land itself, and that would wait. They were on solid ground now, climbing from the canyon's edge through the barren hills north of the river. Nothing had changed in here to amount to anything. There were some fresh rock slides, and once the driver stopped the stage and called down for someone to roll a large boulder out of the road, but that was the way it had always been along this stretch. As he and the man on his right responded to the call, Cohoon noted that neither of the two men in the opposite seat showed any inclination to help. They seemed disturbed by the halt, and moved apart to keep watch through the windows on either side. Cohoon had already marked the pair because they were heavily armed and because they had taken the whole seat for themselves and the large valise they seemed to cherish, rather than give up the extra room to the lady in the company. It was a fairly transparent situation, and one, Cohoon reflected, that a man in his position would do well to ignore.

  With the road clear again, they went on, following the same winding course as when he had been brought out this way in handcuffs five years ago. Perhaps the worst grades and had been somewhat gentled, but that was the extent of the change. They reached the top and started down through the clay 'hills; presently they were out on the flats. The dust and wind were worse out here. They always had been.

  The girl riding beside Cohoon spoke again. "You act as if you'd been here before."

  He hesitated, reluctant to be drawn into conversation, Then he said, "I was born here, ma'am."

  She looked surprised. "Oh, I thought—"

  She checked herself abruptly, and Cohoon saw that she was embarrassed. It was clear that she had taken stock of him early in the journey and classified him 'in her mind—by his unimpressive size, pale complexion, and by the cheap suit he was wearing—as not belonging to this country of large, tanned, and durably clad men.

  He found her embarrassment uncomfortable, and spoke, therefore, as if be had not noticed it. "My mother taught the first English-speaking school in this part of Arizona. There was no bridge at that time, and the road, such as it was, came in over a pass to the west of the one we used today, and crossed at a ford thirty miles downstream." To converse with a woman, after the time that had passed, was a disconcerting experience. He forced himself to ask politely, "Are you acquainted with the Territory, ma'am?"

  "No, I just know what I've been told. If I'd believed all of it, I'd have hesitated to make the trip." The girl smiled. "Maybe you can tell me the name of the river we just crossed."

  "Well, the Mexicans had it named after some saint or other," Cohoon said, "but the Indians call it Crazy River or Mad River. It's kind of a tough crossing, most places, and I reckon a few savages got themselves drowned there from time to time."

  "It looked as if there used to be a ferry of sorts down bee low the bridge."

  "Yes," Cohoon said. Speech was coming more readily now. "That was Black's Ferry. Wasn't supposed to be, too safe, in the old days."

  The girl said, "It certainly didn't look safe."

  "Oh, the ferry usually made it all right," Cohoon said. "But Old John Black was supposed to have a habit of shoving lone travelers over the side for whatever might be in their packs or saddlebags."

  "Is that true," the girl demanded, turning quickly to look at him, "or is it just another story?"

  Cohoon grinned. "Well, I used to know Willie Black, Old John's boy, but somehow I never did get around to asking him. We weren't exactly on friendly terms; my brother Jonathan shoved him overboard one day for a joke and he almost drowned before we got a rope on him and hauled him in. But certainly his dad never lacked money for hard liquor to the day of his death, although his family sometimes lacked food and clothing. On the other hand, no man who was swept down into the gorge ever climbed out to accuse him, nor did any bodies ever come out thirty miles below at Yellow Ford."

  The girl shook her head. "Well, I was warned it was a wild country, full of heat and dust and dangerous men. Tell me, what were those mountains we went through south of the river? I hope you don't mind answering all these questions?" "Not at all, ma'am. Those wer
e the Candelaria Mountains, and the land lying between them and the river, west of the road, is the Candelaria Grant, formerly owned by a Spanish family of that name.. It runs as far west as Yellow Ford."

  "Thirty miles?" the girl said. "That's quite a bit of land, isn't it?"

  "Not by standards, ma'am," Cohoon said. "And some of it's pretty broken country. But it does include some of the prettiest grazing land in the Territory, although you wouldn't guess it by what you can see from the road. You have to come at it from the west to really ..." He stopped, and cleared his throat. From talking too little, he was now coming to talk too much. It was hard to strike a proper balance, after five years. He went on, rather stiffly, "From the next rise, we ought to get a look at the Sombrero, if I remember rightly. It's kind of a local landmark. The town's a couple of miles this side of it, but hidden in a draw. There's the rock now," He pointed out the distant formation, a tremendous stone worn by wind and sand into a shape somewhat like that of a wide-brimmed hat, balanced upon a rock pinnacle over a hundred feet in height. After regarding it with interest, the girl raised her hands to her hair as if to prepare herself for the entry into town. Cohoon grinned at this. "Distances out here are deceiving, ma'am," he said gently, "We have a good two hours yet."

  The first thing he noted as they pulled into town was how greatly it had grown. Main Street was twice as long as it had been. There was a bank, a barbershop, a couple of new mercantile establishments, an assay office, and the office of some mining corporation, all housed in buildings that had a raw, new look. The town that Cohoon remembered had been characterized by the quiet colors of weathered boards and seasoned adobe: this town looked garish and unfriendly to him. The people, too, had changed. There were more of them —too many. They crowded the street and seemed in an unreasonable hurry. No one had ever hurried in the Sombrero he remembered.

  The changes gave Cohoon an unpleasant sense of having been left behind by time, an old man at twenty-four. The stage came to a halt in front of the hotel, which had added a wing and a coat of paint since he had last seen it. He got out and helped the girl descend, and guided her aside so that the two men with the large valise could pass. He noted that they were met by two others, also well-armed; and he heard the soft exchange of greetings.

  "No trouble?"

  "None. The General must be slipping. Just the same, I'll be glad to see it in the company safe."

  "Walk on ahead. We'll cover you from a ways back." This was none of his business, and Cohoon turned to the girl, using her in that moment as a kind of anchor to reality. Concentrating on being polite and helpful to her, he could delay briefly the full impact of the changes he was going to have to face. He did not want to look around to see if there was anyone in the crowd he recognized. Someone who had kept count of the days could have worked out the probable time of his arrival here; but he had sent no message ahead, and no one came forward to greet him now.

  "I'll help you with your things," he said, reaching for the small bag as the driver handed it down. But the girl stepped forward and reached it first.

  "Thank you just the same," she said. "If you'd just see that my trunk gets off—it's the little brown one up there—I'll send for it later. And if you'd tell me where I can find Miss Elizabeth Tomkins. The place is on Creek Lane, wherever that may be."

  There was a brief silence that involved not only Cohoon and the driver but several other men and a pair of women standing nearby, all of whom looked sharply at the girl before resuming their talk. The driver spat and turned away. Cohoon regarded the girl for a moment. She was fairly tall and nicely shaped, he saw, with brown hair, gray eyes, a straight nose, and a long, humorous mouth. She was conservatively dressed in a dark green traveling suit that had a fashionable look despite the ravages of the long, dusty journey.

  This was none of his business either, but the attitudes of the bystanders annoyed him; people were very quick to hurt and reject, as he had learned from experience. He reached for the bag she was holding and took it from her.

  "I'll show you the way, ma'am," he said.

  "It's not necessary. You've been very kind." There was a look of wry amusement, not entirely lacking in bitterness, in the girl's eyes, and he understood that she was fully aware of the situation.

  "Come on," he said impatiently, setting off across the street at a good pace, so that it took her a few seconds to catch up. They passed the familiar weathered front of Van Houck's trading post, that had at one time been the only building within a hundred miles—but that ' had been even before Cohoon's time. He turned right at the corner.

  "Creek Lane," he said, with a glance at his companion. "Miss Bessie's place is the one with the two-headed bird on it; I presume she's still doing business at the same address. Double Eagle. Don't let the tame look of the street deceive you. It's early yet."

  He stopped in front of the building, and held out the small valise, which She took. "Thank you," she said.

  "My pleasure."

  "It wasn't wise of you to help me," she said. "If you live here. They'll tear you apart for it. Charity is a word that sounds fine in church on Sunday, but this isn't Sunday," He grinned. "Ma'am, after five years in Yuma, I figure it's a little late to start worrying about what people are going to say."

  She had turned toward the door. Now she swung back, startled, and looked at him in silence for a moment. "Yuma? That's the Territorial Prison, isn't it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "What did you do, hold up a stagecoach?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She was a little taken aback by his ready assent. "Well, I wouldn't have guessed it to look at you," she said.

  Cohoon drawled, with a glance at the saloon door, wouldn't have guessed it to look at you, either, ma'am."

  The girl laughed, but when she spoke again there was a defensive hardness in her voice. "Well, some evening when you're not holding up stages, you can come around and hear me sing and have a drink on the house for your kindness. If you don't see me, ask for Nan Montoya. Mrs. Nan Montoya." She laughed again, and the hardness of the sound was tinged with bitterness. "Montoya is dead, if it matters; and I was never legally married to him, anyway."

  2

  THE SUN WAS OFF the street as he walked back the way he had come, but the baked dusty earth and the walls of the buildings he passed still radiated the heat of the day. At the corner of Main Street, he turned right. In this direction, the town soon ended in a scattering of shacks and adobe huts, beyond which the church stood on a small rise where the sun still shone, but this light faded before he reached the white gate. He stepped inside and made his way among the headstones on the hillside to a group of four graves.

  There had been only two the last time he had been here: that of his oldest brother, Stuart, who had been killed by a raiding party of Apaches when Cohoon was fourteen; and that of his mother, who had died two years later. Now there were two more, and he read the inscriptions: Jonathan Walker Cohoon, 1859-1885, and Ward Zachariah Cohoon, 1816-1885. It occurred to him, as a small surprise, that he had not until this moment known the date of his father's birth.

  He removed his hat and knelt awkwardly, feeling hypocritical in the act since he had not had much practice—particularly of late—in the niceties of religious observance. Yet some token of respect and love was necessary. He had never been close to his father, but he had admired and revered him, and envied the two older brothers who, in size, endurance, courage, and ability, had more closely lived up to the standards Ward Cohoon had set for his sons.

  Kneeling there, he felt as inadequate in the presence of the silent stone marker as he had always felt in the physical presence of the great, shaggy, buckskin-clad figure of the man who had been his father. He remembered clearly the fascinated horror with which, as a child, he had regarded the scalps that Ward Cohoon had carried at his belt until his wife finally persuaded him to lay them aside; he recalled his own frustration, and his father's impatience—and the open scorn of his brothers—as he tried time and aga
in to master to his fathers satisfaction whatever weapon had been selected for the day's practice. He had been his mother's best pupil, and his father's worst; and the ease with which Stuart and Jonathan picked up the knack of rifle, knife, and tomahawk—although they never did learn to read and write properly—had deepened Boyd Cohoon's awareness of his own inadequacy.

  Well, he reflected now, there was no sense in pretending to be something you weren't, and people were just going to have to get along with one Cohoon who stood and acted something less than seven feet tall. He rose and brushed off his knees, put his hat back on and stood for a moment looking at the four graves. Well, you're on your own now, my friend, he told himself, and turned and walked back into town.

  In front of Van Houck's store he paused; after a moment he went inside. The old bearded trader was at the back of the store, counting his receipts of the day in preparation for closeing up. Without looking up, he shook his head imperatively at Cohoon's approach, to indicate that he would lose count if he were interrupted. Cohoon leaned against the counter, waiting. Presently the old man closed the money box, raised his head, and peered at his visitor through steel-rimmed glasses. "Five years is a long time, Uncle Van," Cohoon said.

  "How's my credit? I need an outfit."

  Van Houck frowned briefly; then his eyes widened with recognition, and he came quickly around the counter to grasp Cohoon by the shoulders, almost shaking him.

  "My boy! I did not realize—" He pulled Cohoon toward the front of the store where the light was better. "Help yourself to anything you need, but first let me look at you. Ah, but it is a man now! Almost as big as your father... " His smile faded abruptly, and he looked up at the younger man. "Did you get my letter, in that place?"

  "Yes," Cohoon said. After a moment, he said, "You didn't write how it happened, Uncle Van."

  The old trader said, "It was like a stroke of lightning. I have grown soft, my boy. In the old days, one heard of friends and their families wiped out by the Apaches, and one said a prayer for their souls and checked the loading of the guns and the shutters for the windows. But these are less violent times, and to hear of your father dead, shot in the back within five miles of town, after all the places he had been.... It was like waking up one morning to find that the great rock out there had fallen from its pedestal. And when the men came back with the news that Jonathan and the cook had also been shot out at the ranch, and the house burned ..."