‘But surely,’ the girl argued, ‘all differences cannot be settled with guns? Surely sometimes sane men can sit down and come to a sensible solution without spilling blood?’
Dave was just nodding in agreement when, without warning, a whirring rattle sounded by the side of the trail, and Grace’s mount shied violently, all but unseating the girl. Her horrified eyes espied the reason for her mount’s panic: there, by the side of the road, poised to strike, was a huge rattler. Even as her mind encompassed the deadly threat of those flickering fangs, a shot rang out from beside her, and the reptile’s head disappeared, while the thrashing body was carried bodily back into the brush by the force of the bullet. Grace turned to see Dave holstering his smoking six-gun, his normally friendly eyes slitted and cold. The look was quickly replaced by his crinkling smile, and he led her pony back on to the trail.
‘Yu was sayin’ that sensible men can allus sit down an’ talk things over,’ he said, as though nothing had happened. His calm voice soothed the girl’s jumpy nerves, and she marveled at his iron control. ‘However: some folks is like that rattler back there. Poison mean. Yu can’t discuss nothin’ with them; they don’t give yu no time, an’ they ain’t interested in bein’ reasonable. Yu get reasonable with a rattler an’ yu wind up dead. There’s only one course o’ action left open.’ He patted the holstered revolver, and the girl shuddered as she recalled the terrible swiftness with which this smiling young man at her side had meted out death to the threatening reptile by the roadside.
‘Mr. Barclay was telling me about some of the things which have been happening in Sweetwater Valley,’ Grace began, after a short silence.
‘Funny, that,’ Dave commented.
‘What’s funny?’ Grace frowned.
‘Me talkin’ about rattlers led yu into talkin’ about Barclay. What yu might call a natural progression.’ His normally handsome face was twisted into a scowl. ‘Miss Grace, take my advice an’ don’t believe anythin’ Zack Barclay told yu. He’s so crooked that when he dies they’re goin’ to have to screw him into the ground.’
‘He told me that these mysterious Shadows are behind most of the troubles,’ Grace persisted. ‘Why hasn’t anyone tracked them down?’
‘Well there’s two answers to that question, ma’am. Yu can take yore pick. First, there’s Sheriff Brady’s opinion that the Shadows have got a hideout in the hills so well hid that it would take an army to find it; or yu have the other school o’ thought—to which I subscribe, and so did yore Pa and so does Jim—that them hombres are what you might call a figment o’ the imagination.’
‘But how can they be?’ gasped Grace. ‘Surely they have been seen many times? Mr. Barclay told me they had robbed the bank at Hanging Rock!’
‘That they did,’ replied the cowboy, ‘an’ they’re supposed to have done pretty nearly everythin’ that’s happened around these parts, includin’—beggin’ yore pardon, ma’am—ambushin’ yore Daddy and Jim Green. But when yu think about her, she don’t ring true,’ he finished.
Grace’s face mirrored her curiosity, and the cowboy went on to explain, ticking off points on his fingers. ‘One: how come the Shadows knowed when yore Pa and Green was leavin’ town? Two: How come everythin’ they’ve done—apart from robbin’ the bank—has been a direct help to Barclay? Three: how can they vanish every time without trace? An’ four: why haven’t they given Zack Barclay any trouble?’
‘Oh, come now, David,’ interrupted the girl. ‘You are making the facts fit the theory, instead of the other way around. Are you seriously suggesting that Barclay is in league with these bandits?’
‘Suggestin’ he—heck! I’m sayin’ it!’
‘But that’s silly when he has the money to buy whatever he wants without any need to resort to violence.’
‘Then answer me this,’ asked the cowboy. ‘Just what do the Shadows want?’
Grace fell silent, for indeed, this was a problem to which she had given much thought. If the Shadows had murdered her father as Barclay had suggested, what had been their motive? Revenge? Revenge for what? Why had they attacked the Slash 8 at all, or any of the other ranches? Could it really be to enable Barclay to buy the ranches that had been abandoned? Barclay said he could have bought them anyway. He had said his ranch was too big, too strong, for any outlaw, band to dare to mount an attack upon, but if the Shadows were working for some other, obscure purpose, why had they not attacked the Box B?—rumor had it that they were a large band. She could not answer Dave’s question—indeed, he could not answer it himself; Deep in thought, the two rode in silence through the towering ravine between Thunder Mesa and the river, where the trail narrowed to only a few yards in width. Here, her voice half-lost in the swirli.ng noise of the rushing river, Grace spoke again.
‘Green told me he was going to sell some cattle in South Bend,’ she shouted. ‘Surely he can’t be thinking of bringing a herd through here?’ She gestured at the narrow trail and the towering walls of rock above them.
‘Well, short o’ carryin’ them on his back across Thunder
Mesa, I can’t think of any other way he could take ’em,’ replied Dave jauntily, although in truth the girl’s question echoed his own thoughts as they rode through the canyon. Bringing a herd through here would be dangerous at any time; if there was trouble of any sort, it could be nothing short of suicidal for all concerned.
‘I hope he knows what he is doing,’ she said. Dave spoke more reassuringly than he felt.
‘Don’t yu worry none, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘Jim knows what he’s doin’. If he says he’s takin’ a herd through to South Bend, he’ll take it there, hell or high water.’
Grace Tate did not answer this remark. In fact, she did not speak again until, half an hour later, they were in the main street of the little town of South Bend. A virtual replica of Hanging Rock, it differed from that place mainly in the bigger proportion of houses, rows of which lined the hills behind the town. Many of the miners who worked on Thunder Mesa had their homes there; South Bend was far less a cattle town than its nearest neighbor. Though both Dave and Grace had visited South Bend before, neither had any real knowledge of its layout, but an inquiry to a passerby elicited information as to the whereabouts of Judge Pringle’s house. The man goggled at Grace Tate as if she were an angel fallen down from heaven, and Dave noticed many heads turn to follow the pretty young girl as she rode proudly down the street.
Judge Pringle’s house was a small frame building with an ell roof, painted white and green; it lay on the far side of the town just off the road which led, eventually, to Las Crucas.
The Judge, whose title was a genuine one and not a courtesy title such as was often found in the West, turned out to be an elderly man of about sixty-live. His tall, stooped frame and pale blue eyes spoke of many hours spent poring over the small print in legal tomes under uncertain light; but his voice was strong, his face rugged and kindly, and his jaw still jutted with determination. His hair was as white as snow. ‘
‘So you’re George’s daughter? he said, when Grace introduced herself. ‘You favor your mother. My, how time flies. The last time I saw you, you had pigtails down to here and freckles all over your face.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear of your father’s death, my dear. He wrote to me just before … it happened, you know?
‘Yes, I know,’ Grace told him. ‘That’s really the reason I am here. My father left me a note saying that I must come and see you.’
‘Correct,’ the Judge said. ‘Grace, there are a number of things I want to talk to you about, not the least of them being the running of your affairs. Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable? My housekeeper can bring us some coffee.’
Dave waited until Grace was seated, and then retreated towards the door.
‘I’ll jest meander down the street, ma’am,’ he offered, ‘an’ come back in about an hour. Yu an’ the judge has got a lot to talk about in private, I’m thinkin’.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ he told her. ‘The situation is relatively simple. Your father sent me what is called in law a power of attorney. That entitles me to handle all his affairs as I see fit, hinging upon two stipulations which your father made. One was that the young man named James Green, in whose abilities your father expressed the greatest confidence, runs all the day-to-day activities of the ranch; and secondly, that you should inherit full title to and control of the Slash 8 upon your twenty-first birthday. Which, I understand, will be in three months’ time.’
Grace nodded affirmatively, and the lawyer continued, ‘Your father’s letter contained information about James Green which I am not at liberty to reveal to you at this time. Suffice it to say that I have made certain inquiries about the young man, and you need have no fear of either his ability or his trustworthiness. I will tell you that one of his references was Governor Bleke of Arizona. The recommendation of a man like Bleke is all the information I need. In view of that, I had no hesitation in allowing Green to continue as foreman of the Slash 8. Had there been any doubt in my mind, or any fear that your father had been hoodwinked, I would have sought an injunction against Green in the Territorial courts. In view of the fact that there is no such doubt, I have executed your father’s will in accordance with his wishes.’ The old man smiled faintly. ‘You must forgive me if I sound like a lawyer, my dear.’
Grace smiled in return, while on her right Dave glowed with the knowledge of his friend’s good standing. Now that her suspicions that she could not take control of the ranch from Green were confirmed, Grace Tate felt piqued, yet at the same time, relieved.
‘So, in effect,’ the old judge was saying, ‘I become your guardian for the next three months—a duty which I am honored to undertake.’
‘Thank you, Judge,’ said the girl. ‘I am correct, then, in saying that I have no power whatsoever at the Slash 8?’
‘Oh, goodness gracious, no, my dear,’ replied the Judge, ‘such is anything but the case. You may do entirely as you wish. You have a generous allowance, and all the freedom you wish. All I ask—and I ask, mark you, not order—is that whenever possible you inform Green of your intentions?
‘And if I wished to sell the Slash 8 and go back East?’
‘Then you could do so—after you are twenty one. Surely no reasonable purchaser would balk at waiting for three months?’
‘Yes,’ persisted Grace, ‘but if I wanted to sell now?’
‘I am afraid I would have to ask Green’s recommendation for such a course of action, my dear. I know little about the running of a ranch, and I’d take the opinion of an expert. I’m sure Green would accept my advice about matters legal in the same spirit.’
The old judge’s tone was kindly, but Grace knew from his words that the lawyer was phrasing his reply in such a way only to avoid hurting her feelings. At the same time, he was forestalling her next question, which would have been to ask whether she could dismiss Green. Her frown deepened.
‘It looks very much as though I must suffer Sweetwater Valley and Mr. Green for three months whether I like it or not,’ she sighed.
The judge looked surprised. ‘Has Green given you any trouble?’
‘I don’t like him,’ Grace spoke bluntly, ‘any more than I like the valley. He acts as though he owns the Slash 8.’
‘In a manner of speaking, that is how things should be. If he did not then he would be failing in his duty; until you attain your majority, my dear, I am holding Green responsible for every cent of the Slash 8’s value. He must act as though he owns it—in every way.’
Seeing Grace’s downcast expression, the lawyer tried to reassure her. ‘My dear, I think you ought to give yourself a chance. You have only been here a short while, and much has happened. Surely, you must realize you could not run the ranch yourself, even if you had control.’
Grace had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that this was true, but she said half-defiantly, ‘But then I wouldn’t need to. Mr. Barclay has already offered to buy the Slash 8 at any fair price I care to name. It seemed to me that selling the ranch would have brought all the troubles in the valley to an end.’
‘Obviously neither your father nor Green thought so, Grace,’ the old man told her. ‘Your father wrote at some length about Mr. Barclay.’ His tone indicated that none of what her father had written had been complimentary to Barclay, and that Pringle himself seemed to entertain no high opinion of the owner of the Box B. Grace realized that her visit to South Bend had been fruitless, and stood up to leave; Pringle misinterpreted her woebegone expression.
‘Please don’t be upset,’ he said. ‘Your first concern is to clear your mortgage with the bank at Hanging Rock. Then you will be financially free, and you can better assess whether you want to sell out or stay. I take it that Green has some plans to raise the money to pay off your debts?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, absently, ‘he’s going to sell some cattle?
‘Good,’ nodded the judge. ‘Let Green run the ranch, my dear. In a few months, if Mr. Barclay still wants it and you still feel as you do now, there will be nothing to stop you selling the Slash 8.’
With a promise to come back soon and see him again, the young woman and her escort left South Bend and retraced their trail towards the Slash 8.
During the ride, Dave found that he had a very preoccupied companion, and their conversations were desultory to the point of taciturnity. Grace had plenty to think about, and so did Dave. As they rode along, Grace Tate reviewed her situation. She had set out that morning hoping that her talk with the Judge would reveal some means whereby she could exert her authority over Green and set him in his place, instead of which, her father’s friend had made her realize more fully her helplessness. Mainly, of course, her visit to South Bend had been a gesture of youthful revolt—and it had fizzled out. She grew hot as she thought of this cool, confident man who controlled both her property and herself, and resolved to give him no more help than was absolutely necessary. The powerful figure of Zachary Barclay intruded upon her thoughts, and Grace resolved to discuss her problems with him when he came to visit her at the Slash 8.
The next morning, as he had previously promised, the owner of the Box B appeared on the trail leading up from the river to the Slash 8. Sudden and Dave were down by the corral finishing mending some bridles, and the young cowboy’s eyes narrowed as he identified the approaching rider.
‘Zack Barclay!’ he spat. ‘It shore riles me to see that hydrophoby skunk ridin’ up here bold as brass.’
‘He’s here by Royal invitation—Her Majesty asked him,’
Sudden reminded his friend. ‘I’m takin’ it he ain’t favored the Slash 8 with a visit afore?’
‘Never!’ snapped Dave, then added, ‘An’ it ain’t no favor, either!’
The owner of the Box B came to a stop in a flurry of dust. He was a striking figure in his well-tailored black suit, a pearly-grey Stetson on his head. His horse was a fine one, although streaks of blood along its flanks indicated that the rider had used his spurs cruelly on the unfortunate beast. To the surprise of both men he came towards them smiling. ‘Green,’ he began, ‘I wanted a word with you.’
‘Yu got it,’ said Sudden without expression. ‘Fire away.’
‘I reckon I owe yu an apology for what happened in Hangin’ Rock the other day,’ Barclay said. ‘I want to say I’m sorry for lettin’ my temper nm away like that.’
Sudden ignored the extended hand, and anger flushed Barclay’s face.
‘Yu was about to plug me in the back,’ Sudden reminded him, mildly. ‘Yu expect to have me forgive and forget it?’
The big rancher kept a tight rein on his temper. There was a lot more at stake than this fool’s insulting demeanor—he could be deal
t with later. He swallowed his rage, and said, ‘I want yu to at least allow me to tell yu I made a mistake.’
‘I’m told,’ Green said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Now look here,’ Barclay snapped, ‘I’m not accustomed to bein’ spoken to like this—’
‘Then start learnin’, if yu plan to visit the Slash 8,’ Dave chimed in coldly. ‘Yu’re here on sufferance, an’ that’s all. If it was up to me, I’d run yu off the place on a rail.’
‘I don’t have to listen to that kinda talk from yu, cowboy!’ glared Barclay. Dave snorted in contempt. ‘Yo’re right,’ he said.
‘Yu ain’t nailed to the floor, are yu?’
‘Why, yu whippersnapper . . .’ growled Barclay, forgetting his good intentions as a murderous rage flooded his body. He started to dismount, but Sudden’s cold voice stopped him in the act.
‘Stay there, Barclay,’ he ordered. ‘Yu ain’t had any luck backin’ down the Slash 8 so far, an’ now wouldn’t be a good time to try it again.’ He jerked his head slightly to indicate to Barclay that Grace Tate had just stepped on to the verandah of the ranch, having heard their voices from inside.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Mr. Barclay had arrived?’ she called.
‘I only got here a moment ago, my dear,’ Barclay called back, all traces of his rage disappearing from his voice. ‘I’ll come right up.’
With a final, poisonous glance at the two men by the corral, he walked his horse up to the house.
‘Well, I reckon that clears the air, some,’ Dave breathed.
‘Some,’ agreed Sudden. ‘But I’d still like to know what friend Barclay has on his mind. He shore ain’t visitin’ the Slash 8 because he likes our purty faces.’
‘Wal, if yore purty face was the only reason to come to the Slash 8, I reckon I’d a’ left myself by now,’ Dave smiled.
‘Yeah,’ replied Sudden, ‘but it ain’t my purty face yo’re interested in, is it?’ This shaft was rewarded by a sudden flush around the neighborhood of his friend’s ears, and Dave took a swipe with his hat at his foreman’s head. Moving nimbly out of the path of Dave’s flailing hand, Sudden asked plaintively, ‘Did I say somethin’?’
Sudden--Strikes Back (A Sudden Western #1) Page 11
