Chapter Eight
SUDDEN had just finished tightening the girth on Midnight’s saddle. He looked quickly over his shoulder to see if Dave was coming up the street from the livery stable with Grace Tate’s horse. There was no sign of his friend, so with a shrug Green prepared to mount and ride down the street to meet him. He had his left foot in the stirrup when a rasping voice stopped him.
‘Fine horse.’
Sudden looked around to see Zachary Barclay, leaning casually against one of the uprights supporting the verandah roof. The Box B owner’s dour visage gave no hint of the fires raging within him.
Sudden nodded, and swung into the saddle.
‘I’ll give yu a hundred dollars for him.’
‘Nope,’ replied Green. ‘He ain’t for sale.’
Several loungers outside Dutchy’s had heard Barclay’s offer and the Slash 8 man’s refusal. Three or four of them drifted nearer to hear the exchange better.
‘Two hundred,’ insisted Barclay, his face darkening, and when Green again shook his head, ‘Three.’
The word had spread rapidly into the saloon, and a small crowd was forming. Their eyes flicked from the mounted cowboy to the burly figure of Barclay, and they hung breathlessly on Sudden’s reply to the fantastic offer the owner of the Box B had made. Even in a country where good horseflesh was money on the hoof, three hundred dollars was a lot to pay. Not a few of the onlookers sighed with envy, thinking of just how many shots of Dutchy’s red-eye such a fortune would buy.
‘I thought the Slash 8 was short on ready cash,’ one muttered to his friend. The man addressed shook his head impatiently to tell his friend to be quiet and tuned back to hear Green’s reply. When Green shook his head once more, a sound not unlike a sigh escaped the onlookers.
‘Four hundred, then, damn yu!’ snapped Barclay. ‘That’s more than yu an’ the horse together are worth!’
One or two of those watching noticed the change in the Slash 8 ramrod’s expression as Barclay uttered these words. Green’s lips tightened, and a wintry look was in his eyes.
‘I told yu,’ said Sudden coldly. ‘The horse ain’t for sale.’
Barclay frowned. This wasn’t going the way he had intended it to. His half-formed idea had been to demonstrate—to himself as much as to anyone else-that he was still powerful; to make the Slash 8 man look small by showing Hanging Rock that Zachary Barclay could pay whatever he wanted when he wanted something. Money was as a rule a much more humbling weapon than fists or guns, and its failure to work on the Slash 8 man puzzled Barclay. He had offered the man well over half a year’s top wages; there were few who would have refused such an offer, no matter how attached they were to their mount.
‘Name yore own price, then,’ he cried. ‘I aim to have that horse.’
Sudden regarded Barclay sourly for a moment, and then, as if coming to a decision, slid out of the saddle to the ground. Barclay experienced a flush of relief. Evidently it had been just a question of more money—it usually was. They always had their price.
‘Yo’re sellin’, then,’ he cried triumphantly.
‘Not exactly,’ said the Slash 8 man. Barclay’s expression of triumph turned to one of bewilderment as the cowboy, holding the reins in his hand, told him, ‘I’ll make yu an offer. If yu can ride him for five minutes, he’s yores—free.’
This surprising counter offer aroused a buzz of comment among the spectators, for it was a sporting one, and Barclay, hearing it, knew he could not back down. He regarded the horse carefully. Thinking rapidly, he recalled that it had not even given a self-respecting buck, as most cow-ponies do, when Green had stepped into the saddle. That meant it was trained, well-trained. Was it also trained to buck? He doubted it: no cowboy working on the range had the time or the inclination to own or train at trick horse, and this was a working mount. In addition, his rapid inspection showed him that Green’s horse was indeed a magnificent animal—a mount fit for a king. The simile pleased him, and with an expansive gesture, he stepped forward.
‘Yo’re on, Green!’ he laughed. ‘But Zack Barclay accepts gifts from no man. When I ride him, I’ll pay yu what I offered.’
‘First catch yore hare,’ was the cutting reply, and again
Barclay felt that pang of misgiving that had plagued him ever since he had spoken his first words to the saturnine ramrod of the Slash 8.
Sudden handed Barclay the reins and stepped aside. Immediately, the crowd—swollen now by a goodly number of Hanging Rock’s citizenry—began to exchange bets.
‘Five dollars says he gets the hoss!’ yelled one man, and was immediately swamped with bets and counter—bets as Hanging Rock’s gambling—conscious fraternity put their money up. Speculation was high as Barclay took the reins from Sudden’s hand, and proceeded to set his foot in the stirrup. He had no sooner placed himself alongside the horse, however, when the animal whirled, teeth bared, and a vicious snap missed Barclay’s arm by a fraction of an inch. With a curse, the big man jumped hastily back, casting a venomous glance at the unperturbed Green. A snicker of laughter trailed from the crowd. ‘Two to one Barclay gives the hoss back!’ offered one wag.
A flush of crimson stained Barclay’s face and neck as these words reached his ears, and with a lightness not normally to be expected in so big a man, he sprang into the saddle and clapped his feet into the stirrups in one swift movement. A gasp of admiration escaped the watchers, so perfectly coordinated were the big man’s movements, but hardly had the sound escaped their lips when the black stallion squealed with rage and instantly became a fury of activity. Up into the air it leaped, once, twice, thrice, in as many seconds, coming down on legs as rigid as tempered steel, twisting and arching its body from side to side in mid-air, never allowing the rider on its back to recover from one shock to the next. In moments, Barclay’s left foot was out of its stirrup, then his right, and finally, within seconds, it was over. The big man reeled backwards, legs horizontal with the ground, and as the stallion again sunfished violently into the air, Barclay flew out of the saddle and fell like a sack of sand. The enraged stallion whirled around, rearing high, eyes rolling and flailing hoofs ready to strike the puny man-thing lying beneath it when its owner, shedding the air of indolence with which he had viewed the unequal contest between man and beast, sprang forward. With a word, he brought the mighty stallion down to a standstill, and then, talking quietly close to its ear, led the horse back to the hitching rail, the muscles along its flanks and haunches still flickering nervously. The crowd parted rapidly to give the horse plenty of room at the rail, and in the stunned silence not one pair of eyes looked at Barclay.
The owner of the Box B lay where he had fallen. Nobody came to help him. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, and his face was as white as death. Slowly, like an aged man, he got to his feet. Smeared with dust and blood, he stood stock still, rigid with hatred. Then, with a curse, his face changed to that of a fiend, the tableau broke, and his hand darted towards his shoulder, emerging with a deadly, snub· nosed little Derringer from the concealed holster. His intention was plain: he was going to kill both the horse and its owner. The Slash 8 man’s broad back was still towards him, and Barclay’s finger tightened on the trigger as blind hatred shook his frame.
‘Drop it!’
The cold, deadly warning of the words cut into Barclay’s demented brain like a knife, and he wheeled to find himself looking straight into the muzzle of Dave Haynes’ forty-five. The cowboy had come upon the scene unobserved, leading Grace Tate’s horse. Divining the big man’s intention, he had slipped behind him. Barclay controlled himself with an effort that cost him dear, for black rage boiled inside him like molten lava.
‘Aw,’ chided Dave. ‘I was hopin’ yu’d make a play so I could drop yu.’
Green had turned now, and taken three steps to face the burly rancher.
‘Damn yu!’ cried Barclay, ‘I’ll give yu a thousand for the horse, if it’s only to shoot it!’
‘Yo’re a mi
ghty pore loser, Barclay.’ was Green’s contemptuous comment. ‘Get outa my way: I don’t want to tread on yu.’
Without another glance at the discomfited Barclay, Sudden turned and swung into the saddle. Barclay cursed as the black stallion received its master’s weight without even flickering an ear, and watched the two men as they rode across the wide dusty street to the hotel. Only then did Barclay realize that the a brawl had taken place in full view of the hotel, outside which Grace Tate was standing even now. Had she seen it? Even if she had not, that old Irish shrew would rejoice in telling her; Barclay knew that Mrs. Mulvaney was no friend of his.
As they crossed towards the hotel, Dave asked his companion, ‘Yu aimin’ to commit sooicide, turnin’ yore back on a side-winder like Barclay?’
Green’s face was serious. ‘Dave, I’m thankin’ yu—’
‘An’ I’m tellin’ yu not to,’ interrupted his friend. ‘Call her quits, if yu wanta. Me, I’m sorry I didn’t blow out that poison-toad’s light anyway.’
‘Now that wouldn’t have been sensible,’ suggested Sudden with a grin. ‘We already got enough trouble with Her Majesty, without yu go an’ exterminate her best friend in these parts.’
‘Yu really figger she believes everythin’ Barclay told her, Jim?’ queried Dave. ‘She seems—well—too nice—’
‘Ask her yoreself,’ Green suggested. ‘She shore ain’t gonna be talkin’ none to me on the way to the Slash 8.’
He dropped back slightly to allow Dave to present the horse for Grace Tate to mount. He watched his young friend’s eager face with keen eyes warmed by friendliness. ‘So that’s the way she blows, huh? Well, I’m hopin’ things’ll go yore way, Dave.’
Across the street, Zachary Barclay had gained a measure of control over himself. He began to brush the dirt off his clothes, and with a wry smile forced on to his face, turned to the onlookers.
‘Well, gents, I don’t often blow my top, but I done her good today.’ He walked towards the door of Dutchy’s saloon, still slapping dust off his clothes. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t often take a drink here, neither. But I reckon that after eatin’ half the dust in Hangin’ Rock, I shore ain’t about to walk down to Diego’s.’ He turned to those men still standing outside the saloon, and with an expansive gesture, said, ‘If yu boys are half as thirsty as I am, yu’ll be needin’ some irrigatin’, too. I’m settin’ ’em up for everybody. Drinks on Zack Barclay!’
This proposal was greeted with a rush to the long mahogany bar in the cool saloon, and shortly afterwards, a second and a third round of drinks established Barclay as a regular sport who, even if he’d lost his wool a mite, had taken his medicine pretty well. And Barclay, basking in the admiration of these hangers-on, soon felt considerably better about his display and what he was now convinced had been sheer bad luck in losing his stirrups so early in the battle with the stallion.
At the other end of the bar, however, away from Barclay and his back-slapping sycophants, Dutchy was in conversation with one or two others who remembered only too clearly the look on Barclay’s face when he had pulled his gun with seemingly every intention of shooting Green where he stood.
‘He would have let him have it right in the back,’ said one man.
‘Lucky for Green his sidekick was around,’ added another.
‘Lucky for Zack,’ said the first. ‘If he hadda shot at the horse first, that fella Green would’ve drilled him shore. He looks to me like a man who knows how to handle that kind o’ trouble. Them guns o’ his ain’t purely ornamental.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ muttered Burkhart, swabbing his beloved bar. ‘I hope very much that you are right. For Barclay will never forgive being made to look foolish.’
Chapter Nine
Two days after her arrival at the Slash 8, Grace Tate was beginning to feel as though she had some slight idea of the way that the ranch was run. She was also finding, to her surprise, that the day-to-day affairs of the ranch interested her, and the very country itself, with its soft pale pink mornings, the cool minty perfume of the sagebrush, and the glorious, multi-colored, constantly awe-inspiring sunsets were fast making her forget the cities she had left back East, She had to admit- although only to herself: she would never have revealed her feelings—that Green was efficient. He showed her how everything worked, what it cost, why it was being done, in language that was simple enough for her to understand but never gave her the feeling that she was being talked down to. The men obviously liked him; indeed, David—she blushed slightly as she said his name to herself—obviously worshipped the man. Yet she had never heard Green once so much as raise his voice, nor get involved in any kind of argument about how things should be done. Nevertheless, Green’s control over her destiny irked the girl. Shortly after their first arrival at the Slash 8, he had told her briefly of his promise to her father, of the deed executed and sent to judge Pringle in South Bend. The thought that she could not keep her tentative bargain with Barclay had in one way dismayed her, and yet in another, she felt relieved that the decision was out of her hands. Grace Tate was not, however, a girl for long periods of indecision, and thus it happened that the foreman, working down at the corral one morning, turned to find Cookie regarding him thoughtfully.
‘The lady boss wants a word with yu, Jim,’ he announced.
Sudden found the girl waiting in the big living room. She looked pale, and the dark shadows beneath her eyes brought it suddenly home to him that she had been under severe strain during these past days. He cursed himself for his thoughtlessness, and resolved to arrange for Dave to get her out of the house and into the fresh air as soon as possible.
‘I’ve been looking through my father’s papers, Green,’ she told Sudden. ‘You seem to have taken care of everything that was outstanding.’
‘I hope so, ma’am. That’s what yore Pa asked me to do.’
‘I found a letter addressed to me,’ she told him. Her voice trembled as she fought for self-control. ‘It said … I should go to see Judge Pringle in South Bend as soon as I could find time.’
‘He’s the gent yore Pa mentioned to me—like I told yu,’ Green said. ‘I guess maybe he has some information about yore comin’ into ownership o’ the Slash 8.’
‘Judge Pringle was a dear friend of my father’s for many years,’ Grace Tate said. ‘I want to ride over there and see him. Will you get a horse ready, please?’
To her chagrin, Green displayed not an atom of curiosity regarding her reasons for wanting to visit the judge. He merely said, ‘Yu can’t ride there on yore own.’ Hoping that he was about to offer to ride as her escort, Grace framed a withering retort, but again Green disappointed her. ‘Do yu good to get some fresh air. Dave can ride with yu.’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I must tell you, Green, that I find this present situation intolerable. I don’t like to be in the position of having to ask a complete stranger for every penny that I spend.’
‘Shucks, ma’am,’ expostulated the foreman, ‘Yu can do anythin’ yu want. I ain’t interferin’ in yore personal affairs—it’s only ranch business that concerns me. Why—yu needin’ somethin’?’
Grace shook her head. Womanlike, she had no particular reason for finding Green’s stewardship of the Slash 8 irksome, and in all honesty, admitted to herself that were it not for the conditions of his appointment, she would have been perfectly satisfied to let him run her ranch. As it was, however-she made a frustrated sound. .
‘I’ll get the hoss an’ warn Dave,’ offered Green, leaving the room. Outside, he allowed a faint grin to cross his face. ‘Ain’t makin’ any progress in the popularity stakes,’ he told himself.
‘Now I’m the wicked guardian who won’t let her buy any pretties, even if she don’t want ’em. Huh!—wimmin!’
In short order, a saddled horse was brought to the verandah, and Dave Haynes led the way down to the trail which followed the river towards Thunder Ravine and South Bend. At first, the young cowboy kept a respectable distance from hi
s employer, until Grace, growing tired of the monotony of the plains and her own company, requested him to ride alongside her. It occurred to her that Haynes might be able to tell her more than her taciturn foreman about the situation in the—valley, and in truth, she found herself attracted by Dave’s honest, open appearance. Dave seemed to have little of the built-in shyness with which-so many cowpunchers were afflicted in the presence of women. After some idle small talk, she asked him about Green.
‘He’s a fine feller,’ was the enthusiastic reply, and upon its heels followed an account of the events of the day when Dave and Green had climbed the mesa. Dave told the story without embroidery, but emphasizing Green’s role; he liked this girl and he wanted her to like his friend. His efforts, however, fell upon stony ground.
‘He still looks like a professional gunfighter to me,’ Grace said coldly.
‘Aw, shucks, ma’am, beggin’ yore pardon, but yu wouldn’t know a professional gunfighter from a gopher-hole. That’s just somethin’ somebody told yu. I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t true—just that labels is sometimes justa mite misleadin’. Personally, I don’t reckon Jim is a gunman—he ain’t got that killer streak. Just the same, I reckon anyone pullin’ a gun on him would probably find hisself a mite late.’
He went on to talk to her about some of the famous gunfighters of the times; of Wild Bill Hickok, who had tamed Hays and Abilene, of Wyatt Earp at Dodge City, of Sudden, who had cleaned up Hatchett’s Folly; he told her of trail towns and gold towns and the men who had brought law and order into them, armed only with their own courage and their speed on the draw.
‘There’s some places yet, pockets where the law ain’t reached,’ he went on, ‘or it ain’t up to much, like Hangin’ Rock. Places like that, a man has to carry his law on his hip. Me, I’m a peaceable man, but I like to know I got the means to protect myself.’
Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) Page 10
