His head throbbed as if being pounded by a hammer. His shirt was torn to shreds, his heavy duck pants ripped. Somewhere along the way he had lost his boots. The wide gun belt was still buckled about his waist, but his gun and his bowie knife were gone.
In an agony of pain he drifted in and out of consciousness. One time during the night, he awakened to the sound of a voice—his own, calling Jenny’s name. He didn’t dare move. Movement meant pain. When awake, he fought to keep panic at bay.
Downriver some five miles, a rider pulled up to listen. He heard no sound except for the ripple of water and the occasional whisper of the wind in the pines. He could almost feel the silence pushing at him. Overhead the stars were disappearing behind a drifting cloud. Then saddle leather creaked as the tired horse began moving again. The roan needed rest as he did.
A few towns back he had run into an acquaintance who told him a sallow-faced man with lean cheeks and thin graying hair had come through there asking about him. When he was told the man wore a long white duster, the description had immediately rung a bell. It was Crocker, a hired gun who worked for whoever paid his price. He had heard that the killer was shrewd, tough and dangerous. And he played by no rules other than his own. He was reluctant to think Crocker was after him to kill him, but there was always the chance.
Could it be that old man Ashley was angered because he hadn’t courted his feather-headed daughter and would want him dead for that? He’d given the rancher a full day’s work for his pay. He’d even given him a month’s notice when he left his employ.
That simpering little twit had been the subject of many bunkhouse remarks, especially on washday when she would hang a string of her underdrawers on the line facing the cookshack. He had not spent any more time than was absolutely necessary at the ranch that last month because Clara followed him like a shadow. A time or two she had burst into loud sobs. It had been as embarrassing as hell. The other hands had ribbed him unmercifully.
He rode cautiously into Sweetwater. He had to be careful. With a man like Crocker, there wasn’t much leg room between the quick and those who hadn’t been quite quick enough. Small clouds of dust swirled around his roan’s feet as he went toward the saloon that boasted: DRINKS and EATS.
He crossed the porch and looked into the saloon over the pair of swinging doors. Seven or eight men lounged around, and a bartender wiped glasses. He scanned the faces carefully. Crocker wasn’t among them.
As he flung back the doors and walked in, people turned to stare at the wide-shouldered man with blunt, bronzed features and sharp blue-black eyes. Taller than most men at six-foot-two in his stocking feet and more with his boots on, he was accustomed to folks giving him second looks.
“Howdy, McCall. What’ll ya have?”
“Grub. What ya got?”
“How hungry are ya?”
“Hungry enough to eat the ass outta a skunk.”
“I’ll get ya a slab of meat and some eggs.” The bartender went to the end of the bar and yelled into the back room. “Throw a steak in the pan for McCall and cook ’im a half dozen eggs.” He slid a wet cloth along the bar on the way back. “Want somethin’ to wet yore whistle while yo’re waitin’?”
“Beer.”
Gradually, McCall became aware of the lack of sound. The place had grown quiet as a tomb. He turned and stood with his back to the bar. Four men in range clothes sat at one table. The two at a second table appeared to be merchants. Two others had walked out while he was talking to the bartender. The four he had noticed first were giving him the once-over. One of them, a swarthy faced man, grinned at him, but not in a friendly way.
A big man with a flat round face and florid complexion murmured to the Mexican who responded with a snicker. Cold, ice-blue eyes fastened on McCall. Being able to read men like some folk read a newspaper, he knew this man was trouble even before he spoke.
“Ya been doin’ a mite of night-ridin’ ain’t ya, McCall?”
“Is there a law against it?” He turned his back, downed his drink and waited for a refill.
“I’m talkin’ to ya, mister.”
McCall placed another coin on the counter and watched the man in the mirror over the bar.
“Talk if you’re bound to. Some fellers just naturally got the runnin’ off at the mouth.”
“Don’t turn yore back when I’m talkin’ to ya!”
“You got it wrong, flap-jaw. You’re not talkin’ to me. You’re yappin’ ’cause ya don’t know no better.”
With the beer in his hand, McCall headed for a table at the end of the room. As he neared the table where the four men sat, the big man’s foot shot out. McCall stumbled. After the frustration of the past few days, being harassed by this loudmouthed blowhard was too much. He flung his beer in the man’s face.
“If you’re itchin’ for a fight, you got one.”
The bully came up out of the chair with a roar.
“Ya … shit-eatin’ sonofabitch!”
“Nobody calls me that!”
McCall dropped his glass and hit him. The man was almost his same height and somewhat heavier. McCall had been in enough barroom fights to know that the first punch counted for a lot. His right fist smashed the man in the nose, and the left fist came up under his chin, throwing his head back.
Blood spurted.
The man clawed for his gun. McCall grabbed his belt, pulled him forward, then threw him back over the table as people scrambled to get out of the way. The chair the bully landed on broke apart. He hit the floor with a thud and came up roaring like a bull, his face splotchy with rage.
McCall hit him in the mouth with one fist, and with the other came around and clobbered him on the ear. It was a blow meant to stun, and it did. The man stood swaying on spraddled legs like a pole-axed steer too stubborn to fall. McCall hammered his belly with both fists, then stretched him out on the plank flooring with a well-placed blow on the chin.
“Anybody takin’ up this peckerneck’s fight?”
“Wasn’t our fight.”
“My mother was not a bitch!” McCall said to the upturned bloody face on the floor. “Next time you see me call me Mister McCall.”
He picked up the heavy glass he had dropped, set it on the bar and tossed out a couple of coins. “For the broken chair.”
“Here’s a refill on the house.” The barkeep shoved a full glass of beer across the bar.
“Obliged.”
McCall went to a table near the door and sat down. Soon he was joined by one of the men who had sat at the table with the bully.
“Take my advice, mister. Get on your horse and ride out of town. That’s one mean sonofabitch you whipped.”
“He might be mean, but he wasn’t so tough. I could’ve whipped him with one hand tied behind my back.”
“He ain’t knowin’ what fair is.”
“Armstrong,” the barkeep yelled. “Get that tub a guts outta my saloon. He’s caused enough trouble.”
“I’ve warned ya. It’s all I can do,” Armstrong continued in a low voice. “Hartog is mean—killer-mean. Brags that he’s never lost a barroom fight.”
“Well, ya can put a lie to that.”
“He won’t let it go. Reason he started in on ya was he thinks ya was with the Murphy girl when she shot him in the back.”
“Is that right?”
“I was with Hartog when he killed her pa. I don’t go along with shootin’ a man down, and can’t blame the girl none. He’s the meanest with womenfolk I ever knowed. Crazy-mean. Ya’d better tell that girl to steer clear of him. He’ll pleasure himself on ’er, then kill ’er.”
“This Hartog sounds like a real nice fellow.”
“Señor, give me a hand.” The Mexican was trying to get Hartog off the floor.
The bartender stepped from behind the bar and threw a bucket of water on the unconscious man. Hartog sat up, dazed and confused.
“Get him outta here,” the bartender ordered.
“Ya ain’t better get hard-nosed ’
bout it,” the Mexican snarled. “Hartog’ll take care a that feller, and come fer you.”
“Let him come. I’ll be waitin’ with my old buffalo gun.”
After the two men led Hartog out through the swinging doors, the barkeep spoke to the fourth man who had been sitting at the table when the fight started.
“Where do you fit in this, Pud?”
“I ain’t fittin’ in with them fellers a’tall, Oscar. They ain’t friends of mine. Armstrong ain’t a bad sort. Hartog’s pure poison, and that speckled pup that’s latched onto Hartog ain’t got ’nuff brains to pour piss outta his boots.”
Pud Harris had not been pleased when he had returned from the store to be told to keep an eye on Havelshell’s men. He didn’t like the agent and he didn’t like the men he hired. But Pud’s boss wanted to know what they were up to, and he was the man who paid Pud’s wages.
Hartog had picked on the wrong man when he started pushing McCall. Pud had seen McCall around once or twice and he seemed to be a decent sort. But tonight he had a short fuse and wasn’t to be messed with. Hartog got what he had coming.
The bartender rested elbows on the bar. “Somethin’s fishy about Hartog killin’ that nester. Don’t make sense that a man with his girl and his ma beside him would draw down on three armed men. I’m thinkin’ that Hartog is a low-down dirty skunk.”
One of the two merchants spoke up. “We need a lawman if we’re going to have a law-abiding town, or Sweetwater will be easy pickin’s for bullies like that Hartog.”
“That’s what Reverend Longfellow told us Sunday at church meeting,” the other merchant said.
“I ain’t knowin’ who we’d get.” The bartender placed a double-barreled shotgun on the bar. “Meantime, I’m keepin’ this handy.”
McCall ate his steak and eggs, and listened to the conversation. Suddenly he was dead tired. The long ride and the short fight had been too much for a man who had had little sleep for the last three nights. He longed for a bed, but he still had to take his horse to the livery before he could find one at the hotel.
He slapped his hat on his head, stepped around the man mopping the floor and went to the bar. He fished in his pocket for money to pay for his meal.
“Sorry about the fracas.”
“Hartog’s been spoilin’ for a fight for a couple of days. Glad you obliged him.”
“Who’s he work for?”
“Havelshell, I reckon.” Oscar gave another swipe at the bar with his wet cloth. “Stayin’ in town tonight, McCall?”
“If they’ve got a bed at the hotel.”
“Melva’ll have one. If she ain’t, she’ll let ya share hers.”
“I’m too tired even for that.” McCall grinned at the good-natured bartender.
“Hell! Ya must be plumb frazzled out!” Oscar scooped up the coins from the counter. “Keep an eye out for Hartog and that sneaky little Mexican. It ain’t likely that they’ll forget ‘bout this little set-to.”
Chapter Fourteen
Travor McCall chuckled as he rode out of town the next morning. The black-haired girl with the light blue eyes was something. He’d bet his bottom dollar that she’d not back down to anything or anybody. At first her mouth had dropped when he winked at her, then it snapped shut and her eyes shot daggers at him. Surely one with her looks had been winked at before.
It could be that they knew Trell, which was unlikely because when the liveryman told him the teacher was in town buying out the store, he’d said she’d only been in the territory for a short time. But if they had met, it was no wonder she was surprised. Winking at a woman was definitely something his brother would not do.
He made an attempt to banish the women from his mind and concentrated on being alert even though he was reasonably sure that Crocker had not reached Sweetwater. The saloon was the best source of information in any town. The bartender would have told him if a stranger had been there asking about a McCall.
Travor’s thoughts kept returning to the black-haired girl. He realized suddenly and with greater clarity than ever before that he was a lonely man, a drifting man with no ties except to his brother and Mara Shannon and Pack, who had their own lives. He suddenly yearned to belong to a woman as Pack belonged, as his friend Sam Sparks belonged to his wife, Emily. Travor wanted to stop drifting, to settle down, break his own horses, brand his own cows. He wanted to look out over his own land and sleep in the same bed every night.
Thank God for Trell. While he’d been flitting from one place to the other, Trell had stayed tight and held their place together. He was back now to stay. And Trell no longer had to shoulder the whole load. As soon as he could get this business with Crocker settled, he just might visit that black-haired girl and see if she was as interesting as she looked.
When Travor rode into the yard of the Double T Ranch, Joe was coming out of the ranch house. He had met the cowboy one time a year ago. Trell seemed to like him, think he was trustworthy.
“Trell, for God’s sake where’ve ya been. Yore horse come in a little bit ago. I already sent Curtis out lookin’ fer ya and was just goin’ myself.”
Travor frowned and stepped from his horse. “I’m Travor. I met you about a year ago. What’s this about Trell?”
“Godamighty! I’d a swore—”
“Yeah. Now what’s this about Trell?”
“Well,” Joe swiped his hand across his mouth. “Trell went to Forest City yesterday morning. Said for sure he’d be back in the afternoon to help sort the mares. He hasn’t come back yet. Curtis found his horse, still saddled, ’bout a half mile from here. The horse was on his way back to the ranch.”
“Any blood on the saddle?”
“I looked for some. It was clean. He had a package in his saddlebag so I figure whatever happened happened on the way back from Forest City.”
“Any strangers been around? Have you seen a man in a white duster?”
“No. Curtis said a big man and a Mexican crossed the river yesterday afternoon.”
“Headin’ which way?”
“Toward Sweetwater.”
A girl came out of the house with a big smile on her face.
“I told Joe not to worry none. Ya’d come home.”
Joe held his hand out to her. “Honeybunch, it ain’t Trell. ’Member I tol’ ya Trell had a brother that looked just like him. This here is Travor. Him and Trell is look-alike twins. This is my wife, Una May.”
“Howdy. Oh, I thought sure … ya was Trell.”
“Howdy, ma’am.” Travor’s eyes traveled from one worried face to the other. “Did Trell say why he was going to Forest City?”
“I think it was to post some letters.”
“Why not Sweetwater? It’s closer.”
“I not be knowin’ that.” Joe rubbed a hand over his worried face. “Una May’s kept some vittles ready for Trell … when he came. I just had a bite.”
“Then I’ll eat, get a fresh horse and go down the river trail to Forest City.” Travor began unsaddling his horse. “Stay here with your wife, Joe, and keep your eyes peeled for a man in a white duster or that big galoot and the Mexican. I had a set-to with him last night in town. He thought I was Trell.”
“Now that I think about it, I come onto a feller camped out by the river ’bout a month ago. He had one of them long coats. Wasn’t wearing it, but I saw it hangin’ on a branch a dryin’. Feller was bald on top, but had a spot a hair just about his forehead and around his ears. Nice feller. We jawed a little. He said he was just passin’ through.”
Travor had stopped unsaddling and listened with interest.
“Did he ask about me?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him that this was the McCall ranch?”
“Yeah. Seems like I did.”
“His name is Crocker. He’s a hired killer. I have reason to think he’s looking for me. He may have found Trell, but I don’t think so … yet. He was a few towns behind me. It’s more likely that Trell ran into Hartog and the Mexican.”
<
br /> “That’d mean Trell spent the night in Forest City. He said he’d be back in the afternoon.”
“Does he spend the night in town often?” Even as he asked Travor remembered the hotel woman saying something about he’d not spent the night there before.
“He’s not stayed all night in town since I worked here. He did stay away all night a couple weeks ago. He helped bury a nester and put out a grass fire on Stoney Creek Ranch. A day or two ago he took a milch cow over to Stoney Creek.”
“Would he have gone back over there?”
“Naw. If he’d been goin’ there or stayin’ in Forest City, he’d not a told me he’d be back in the afternoon to help with the mares. He knows we’re behind with the work here.” Joe was clearly distressed.
“If Crocker comes back, hole up in the bunkhouse or barn and don’t come out. He’d think no more of shootin’ you down than steppin’ on an ant if he wanted to lie in wait for me.”
By the time Travor had finished eating, Joe had saddled a horse, and had also strapped on a gun belt.
“He don’t look like much. Fact is he’s ugly as a mud pie,” Joe said when he saw Travor eyeing the big gray horse with black-spotted hindquarters. “But he’ll take ya to hell and back, that is, if he likes ya. He’ll do anythin’ fer Trell; thought he’d do the same for you.”
Travor approached the horse head-on. The big animal rolled his eyes and jerked his head. Talking to him gently, Travor put out a hand. At first the gray bared his teeth, then gradually, Travor was allowed to rub his nose.
“Guess he’s taken to ya. He’d bite my hand off if I tried that.”
“What’s the nearest town east of here?”
“Big Piney, but Trell’s not said anythin’ ’bout bein’ there.”
“When Curtis comes back, tell him to look around over at Orphan Butte. Trell might have gone there to check on his mustangs and somehow got thrown.”
“That sorrel wouldn’t’a left him if he was in sight or sound.”
Travor mounted the horse and didn’t speak again until after the animal stopped dancing in place and settled down.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll scout the trail from here to Forest City and try to find out when he left there. Joe, keep your wife out of sight if Hartog and that Mexican show up here. I hear he’s crazy-mean where women are concerned.”
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