by Ray Hogan
“Like you said—there was a time,” the woman drawled, tucking the wisp of stray hair back into place again. “That ain’t now. He’s an old man, wore out... and living on what he used to be. The real law around here is our high and mighty Mr. Texas—and you know it.”
Nate smiled thinly. “Sure I know it—and so does Ira Blackburn. Which makes it all come out even, far as I can see.” He shifted his attention to Shawn. “Ain’t that the way it looks to you?”
“Don’t ring me in on it,” Starbuck said with a laugh. “Fm just passing through. Fact is, Fm moving on right now—for Hagerman’s. How do I get there?”
“Take the road east out of town, and keep riding. You’ll come to a post. There’s a board on it with Hagerman’s brand burned into it—the Hash Knife.”
“Ought to be a skull and crossbones,” Artha observed acidly.
“It’s the way he marks his range boundary. Got them posts around the place ever so often. Anyways, when you get to the marker, you’re about five miles from the ranch. Can spot it easy. Big layout built at the edge of a grove.”
Shawn nodded, took a step away from the bar. He was thinking about something the woman had said, and its evident relation to Blackburn’s attitude.
“There really somebody out to kill Hagerman—or was that just talk?”
Nate picked up Starbuck’s empty beer mug, began to scrub at the ring of moisture it had left. He slid a glance at the two men at the table. They had resumed their poker game.
“Word’s out that a killer’s been hired to gun him down.”
“Who’s behind it?”
“Ain’t nobody knows who. Lot of folks would like to see him dead, which sure ain’t no secret. He stepped on a lot of corns getting where he is.”
“Maybe most people don’t know who but I can give you a close guess—”
“Never mind, Artha,” the bartender cut in sternly. “Just you keep your guessing to yourself. One of these days your lip’s going to get you in a lot of trouble!”
The woman sniffed, jerked her head perfunctorily.
Shawn grinned at her, at Nate.
“Obliged to you both. Expect I’ll be seeing you later,” he said and moved for the doorway.
Three
Starbuck stepped out onto the saloon’s gallery, feeling the blast of heat as he faced the glare, and crossed to the hitch rack where his horse waited.
The sorrel was a fairly new mount to him. When he had ridden away from the Hebren Valley he had been astride a black that had belonged to an outlaw. Fearing the animal had been stolen, he handed it over to the first lawman he encountered and bought himself a mount he could ride without being afraid of getting himself strung up somewhere along the line as a horse thief.
Jerking the sorrel’s reins free, he looped them back about the animal’s long neck and swung onto the saddle. The leather was cook-stove hot. He flinched, swore softly and eased himself forward.
Glancing up to the front of the saloon, he read the aging sign nailed to its high front—THE CHINABERRY—assumed again that it took its name from the tall tree that grew alongside and cast its shade over the structure.
All was still quiet in Brasada, it appeared. He did note, however, two women who had braved the heat and were now standing under the porch roof of Peyton’s General Store at the end of the dusty lane engaged in earnest conversation. But no other person was in sight and the settlement, to all intents, was deserted—a ghost town of weathered buildings with sagging facades, streaky windows and a small, lonely church with a white steeple standing apart in an empty field.
He eased back into the saddle, found it now acceptable, and settled in comfortably. Motion in the doorway of The Chinaberry caught his eye as he cut the sorrel about. It was Artha. She had followed him to the entrance, stood with a hand raised in a farewell, a strange, stilled look on her painted face. From that distance her features appeared artificial and doll-like.
Shawn touched the brim of his hat and rode on, guiding the gelding into the middle of the street and pointing him for the road that struck eastward. When he passed the marshal’s office he gave it casual notice. The lawman’s quarters were empty, the door closed.
After what Artha and Nate had told him of the threat hanging over Price Hagerman, he had a better understanding of Blackburn’s attitude toward him. Any stranger riding into Brasada would be suspect. He reckoned if he’d been wearing the star he would have reacted in the same manner.
Hagerman would be a hard man to protect, he guessed, judging from what he had heard of the rancher, and he would have a legion of well earned enemies. He certainly didn’t envy Ira Blackburn his job.
Reaching the end of the street, Shawn veered the sorrel onto the right hand fork, casually noting as he did the distant, towering mountain peaks. All looked hazy and remote in the bright heat. The visible signs of a hot summer were everywhere—gray-brown grass thin as smoke, drooping chamisa, dusty trees; even the globular snakeweed, or turpentine bush as he’d heard it called in the area, seemed to be wilted.
He would try to avoid Price Hagerman, he decided. The son and daughter as well, if it was at all possible. From the sound of things and the hints that had lain in the words spoken by Artha and Nate, the Hagermans were a family best kept at a distance. There should really be no reason to encounter them. The foreman of Hash Knife was the logical man to seek out and put his questions to. In the past such had always proved the most effective plan.
He hadn’t remembered to ask the name of the foreman when he was in The Chinaberry.... No matter ... Somewhere along the way he’d undoubtedly run into one of Hagerman’s hired hands. He’d find out then.
Reaching up, he removed his hat, forearmed the sweat from his features. He could have stalled out a couple or more hours back in the saloon, waited for a cooler time to ride, but it hadn’t occurred to him. He shrugged. If it had he likely would have ruled against it. Whenever he was close to finding out something about Ben, an urgency within him pushed relentlessly, forced him to press on until he had the answer to his question, knew whether the object of his visit was his brother or not.
The possibility that he would find Ben at Hash Knife didn’t sound promising—if he were to draw conclusions from what Artha and Nate told him. They had given him no reason for hope at all and it seemed likely they should know, as Ben unquestionably would be at least an occasional patron of The Chinaberry.
As was always the trouble, he had so little to go on, so inadequate a description to give. And as for a name—Ben could be calling himself almost anything. That he had used Damon Friend was a certainty, but there was nothing to say he could not have dropped that for another. Such would be a sure bet if he had become aware of the fact that he was wanted in New Mexico under that name—for murder.
It had been more or less an accident, the sheriff had told Shawn, but it was a matter that would require Ben’s presence to clear it up. Starbuck had been fairly sure there would be certain circumstances surrounding the killing; Ben had been hot-headed and strong willed, but being a murderer was not in him.
At least Shawn didn’t think so. Every now and then he had to pause, however, and remind himself that the Ben of today was likely much changed from the Ben who had stalked out of the yard in Muskingum after a severe thrashing at the hands of old Hiram ten long years ago.
He could have hardened, become calloused, a far cry from the son of Clare and the brother he had known. But he expected change, and thus anticipating it made the search all the more difficult. It was as if he sought a stranger, and likely, when he found Ben, he would be a stranger.
If he found him.
Shawn shifted wearily on the saddle as he gave that thought. There was no if to it; he must find Ben, or absolute proof of his death, otherwise the small fortune and all hope of the future he envisioned for himself was lost. But could he pursue the search forever, become a penniless drifter, gradually aging, accumulating little other than experience? It was like chasing a rainbow and—
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Starbuck drew in the sorrel abruptly. The hard beat of a running horse somewhere behind him was like a hollow throb on the still air. It was a hot day for a man to gallop his mount, he thought, and immediately wondered why. At once he cut off the road and crossed quickly to a clump of tall brush pocketed in a shallow coulee.
Insects, hushed by his sudden approach, resumed their clacking. High overhead half a dozen buzzards, undisturbed by the movements of men, continued their slow, lowering circles, intent upon something that exhibited no motion well back in the hills.
Ignoring the harsh drive of the sun, Shawn fixed his eyes on the road. The rider, whoever he was, would first appear on the crest of a rise and then drop down into the broad swale he was presently crossing. He would be in view for a considerable distance.
At that moment the horseman broke into sight. Starbuck smiled grimly. At was Ira Blackburn. The lawman was bent forward on his saddle, sunlight glittering off his badge as he stared ahead.
At once he straightened, began to slacken the pace of the long-legged bay he was straddling. Features puzzled, he passed the brush where Shawn waited. It was evident he was searching for someone on the road.
It was for him, Starbuck realized. Blackburn had followed him from town at a distance, planning, no doubt, to keep an eye on him. The old marshal was still unconvinced that he was not the man sent to kill Price Hagerman.
Shawn smiled again, waited out the time until Blackburn had topped out the far edge of the swale and then returned to the road. Temper had risen within him. He didn’t enjoy the idea of being a suspected killer and of having a lawman dogging his tracks—and then he recalled his previous thoughts on the matter and guessed Blackburn should be excused for his zealousness.
When he reached the lower end of the hollow, he threw his glance as far down the dusty strip of trail as he could. There was no sign of the lawman, but the road now curved somewhat to the south and trees were becoming evident. It was likely Blackburn had disappeared into one of the small clusters or was hidden behind a bend.
Not far ahead he caught a glimpse of a post with a sign fastened to it, reckoned it was the marker Nate had mentioned. Halting before it he considered the insignia burned into the soft wood with a branding iron. A hash knife with a circle—therefore, the Circle Hash Knife. Apparently nobody bothered to quote the full brand, only the Hash Knife part.
It was a good way to declare a boundary, Starbuck thought, and rode on, smiling as he remembered what Artha had said the true marking should be.
In the distance he saw the broad patch of dark green that would be the grove where Hagerman had built his ranch houses. A fairly large slash of silver marked the presence of a river, and below it three smaller and widely separated ribbons indicated lesser creeks. Well beyond it all a high peak loomed up against the steel blue of the sky.
It would appear that Hagerman had placed his house and buildings at the upper edge of his range and had a mountain of his own in his backyard. It seemed fitting; a man such as Price Hagerman—Mr. Texas—could be expected to have a personal monument of towering grandeur.
The road descended fairly rapidly, the long slope slicing in and out patches of trees to fade, finally into the grove itself. It should be a lot cooler in the deep shade, Shawn thought as the sorrel entered the fringe. It would be a welcome change. It seemed to him he’d known nothing but blasting, withering heat from the day he’d ridden from the Rio Grande and—
The sorrel’s head came up sharply. He shied wildly to one side, catching Starbuck unawares, almost unseating him.
“Hold it right there!”
Anger rocked through Shawn as the hard edged words lashed at him. His hand, resting on the butt of the forty-five slung against his left hip, hung motionless for a long moment and then drifted slowly away as he looked into the muzzle of a pistol leveled at him. It was Marshal Ira Blackburn.
Four
The corners of Starbuck’s jaw whitened as he fought to curb the anger swelling within him. The lawman was allowing his sense of duty to carry him away.
“What the hell’s eating you, marshal?” he demanded, raising his arms slowly. “You know damned well I—”
“I don’t know nothing about you for sure, but I got me one mighty big hunch,” Blackburn cut in quietly. “Keep them hands up high.”
Sweat glistening on his face, the older man kneed his horse around, approached Shawn from the rear. Abruptly he jammed the muzzle of his weapon into Starbuck’s side. Then, reaching out, he lifted the tall rider’s pistol from its holster and pulled back.
“What I told you was the truth.”
“We’ll see,” Blackburn replied, thrusting Shawn’s forty-five under his waistband. “For my money, I’m saying you’re the killer we been looking for.”
Starbuck shook his head in exasperation. “And for mine, you’re loco—a plain fool.”
“Maybe ... Move out.”
Shawn had a quick recollection of the marshal’s small office and its accompanying jail back in Brasada. It would be like frying in Hades.
“No—”
Blackburn’s thumb drew back the tall hammer of the heavy caliber pistol he was holding. He waggled it promisingly.
“Don’t fret me, son. Just you head out for Hagerman’s. Aim to let him see you, tell me what I ought to do.”
Starbuck shrugged. That was better than being locked up—and if he could talk with Hagerman there was a good chance he could make the rancher see reason. Nobody could be as thick skulled as Ira Blackburn. Roweling the sorrel gently, he started the big gelding down the road.
“Yarn you’re a-telling is pretty thin,” the lawman said conversationally after they were under way. “Got to studying on it. Plain didn’t make no sense.”
“It’s the truth,” Shawn said in a patient voice. “Every last word of it.”
“Yeah—looking for a brother that you don’t know what he looks like or even what his name is ... A crock of bull if ever I—”
“Easy to prove. There a telegraph office around close?”
“Nope, not this side of San Angelo. Won’t be needing one anyway.”
“Seems I’m needing something to prove what I say.”
“It’ll be up to Hagerman. Aim to let him handle it.”
Shawn fell silent. It was useless to argue with the old lawman. His best chance for straightening out matters would lie with the rancher. Likely, Price Hagerman, despite the things he’d heard about him, would prove to be a reasonable man.
They continued on, now following a fairly good road that cut a direct line through the grove. It was pleasant in the shade and it would have been an agreeable passage under other circumstances.
A short time later they left the trees and came onto the flat where Hagerman’s ranch stood. Shawn stirred with admiration as he looked at the place—one much finer than he had expected to see. The house, a two-storied frame with a wide veranda and boasting large columns, was painted a clean white and reminded him of some of the homes he’d seen in the country of the lower Mississippi.
It was well protected by tall elms and sycamores with a scattering of cottonwoods and chinaberries. There were also several gingkos in evidence, all loaded with pale orange fruit. Beds of flowers bordered the porch and the windows of the ground floor were vivid with potted geraniums. A creek sparkled in the sunlight a short distance away.
There were a number of buildings on the far side of the clearing—barns, sheds, bunkhouses, a roofed lean-to under which carriages had been rolled. Beyond all this was a maze of corrals and holding pens. Strangely, there was no one to be seen, only a solitary horse standing at a hitch rack fronting a squat adobe hut to the right of the main house.
Likely it had been Hagerman’s original ranch house, Shawn thought.
“Pull up over there,” Blackburn ordered, pointing at the rack. “Hagerman’ll be in his office.”
Shawn veered the gelding in next to the dozing buckskin, waited. The lawman moved in beside him, careful
to keep his distance, and came stiffly off the saddle.
“All right, climb off.”
A door slapped loudly into the hot silence as Starbuck swung from the sorrel. He turned, looked toward the main house. A girl of about his own age, dark hair, full brows to match and with deep blue eyes was coming toward them. There was a strong beauty to her features, and the tight, bright yellow shirt, open at the neck, and the corded skirt she was wearing brought out the finer points of her figure to a planned perfection.... Hagerman’s daughter, no doubt.
She smiled at Blackburn, glanced at Shawn curiously. “Who’s this, marshal?”
“Howdy, Miss Rhoda,” the lawman answered. “Brought him out to see your pa. Says his name is Starbuck. I’ve got a feeling he’s the bird we’ve been watching out for.”
A stillness came over the girl as she considered Shawn more deliberately. “You mean he’s the—”
“The marshal’s wrong,” Starbuck cut in flatly. “I came here looking for my brother.”
“That’s what set me onto him—crazy story he’s telling about hunting a brother. No sense to it a’tall.”
Rhoda Hagerman moved up nearer to Starbuck. Her eyes, he noted, were so deep a blue as to be almost black. Despite the intense heat she appeared cool and there was a faint fragrance of perfume to her. Shawn grinned at the frank appraisal she gave him.
“It’s just the way I’ve told him, lady ... I don’t know anything about your pa—never heard of him before, in fact. And I sure didn’t come here to shoot him.”
“You don’t look like a killer—or sound like one either.”
Blackburn snorted his derision at her womanly logic. “How’s a killer supposed to look and talk?”
Rhoda shrugged. “Not like him, I’ll bet on that.”
“Well, we’ll let your pa decide. He around?”
The girl smiled wryly, nodded at the adobe hut. “All you need do is listen and you’ve got the answer to that.”
