by Ray Hogan
Dave Archer and the same group who had been with him earlier were now slouched against the bar, and as Shawn made his way up to the counter, Hash Knife’s ex-foreman paused in whatever he was saying and eyed the tall rider coldly.
“Good seeing you again,” Nate greeted, nodding and smiling. “Have any luck finding that brother of yours?”
“Not yet,” Starbuck replied and ordered himself a drink. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well.”
“About usual for this time of week,” the barman said. “Saturdays and Sundays—them’s our big nights.”
Shawn took up the shot glass Nate placed before him, had a swallow of the liquor. Artha detached herself from the card-sharp’s admirers, swaggered toward him.
“Well, if it ain’t my drifter friend!” she said breezily. “Figured when I seen you next it’d be in the calaboose.”
“Came close to going there,” Starbuck grinned and, at the woman’s questioning glance at his drink, motioned for Nate to pour her a portion also.
Artha downed the rye, cocked her head to one side and studied Shawn. “You’re a kind of puzzlement to me. You buy me drinks then don’t make a try at collecting.”
Nate laughed. “When you say that you’re admitting he’s the first gentleman you ever met—”
“Gentleman!” Dave Archer spat out the word as if it were hot. “He’s a dirty, job-stealing bastard, that’s what he is!”
Shawn wheeled slowly to face the man a few steps farther down the bar. Nate spoke up anxiously.
“Now, Dave, don’t go kicking up a ruckus—”
“The hell with you!” Archer snarled and hurled the glass he was holding at the saloon man. “Keep out of this!”
Nate caught the tumbler against his chest, swore into the abrupt stillness that fell across the room. Shawn tensed as he saw Archer’s palm riding the butt of the pistol on his hip. He flicked Artha with a glance.
“Best you move out of the way.”
Immediately the woman backed off. A man standing beside Archer caught at his shoulder. “Come on, Dave, let’s take a walk down to The Saddle—see what’s going on.”
Archer shook him off angrily, began to ease forward. Starbuck pulled a full step away from the bar.
“Either take your hand off that gun—or use it,” he said in a low voice.
Dave Archer halted, head slung forward on his bull-neck, eyes burning. Someone in the room upset a bottle. The crash of its fall was loud in the warm hush. Archer’s stare locked with that of Starbuck’s, held, dropped. A hard grin pulled at his mouth.
“Reckon I don’t need iron to learn you a lesson at that,” he said, sliding a glance at his friends now lined up somewhat apart from him and watching silently.
Shawn folded his arms across his chest. “Best thing you can do is go on about your business. We’ve got no quarrel.”
“The hell we ain’t! Was you that rooked me out of my job!”
Starbuck’s eyes flared slightly with surprise. He shook his head. “Had nothing to do with it.”
Archer jerked off his hat, slapped it down onto the counter. “You saying you’re not working for Hagerman?”
“No, happens I am, but—”
“Then you’re lying! I’m out a good job and you’re working for him. Not hard to add that up.
“You quit. Was all your own doing.”
“Sure ... sure, but ain’t it mighty goddam funny that on the day Price called me in on the carpet for a chewing, you show up.”
“Was just the way it worked out.”
“The hell! You saying Hagerman never sent for you? That knowing you’d show up today he called me in, raised so much Cain and such that he knew I’d quit so’s he could hire you on?”
Starbuck shrugged. “From what I’ve seen of Price Hagerman he’d not go to that much bother if he wanted to fire you. He’d plain tell you straight out you were through ... Nothing at all to what you’re bitching about.”
“You’re a goddam liar!” Archer shouted, and lunged.
Shawn took a hasty back step, caught a spur. He rocked against the bar, saved himself from going down by flinging an arm across its top, sagged as Archer’s fist smashed into his unprotected belly.
Dave’s friends yelled their delight, spread out to form a circle. Archer, grinning broadly, nodded confidently at them and swung again.
Starbuck, hanging against the counter, came to life suddenly. He threw up his left arm, neatly blocked the blow, sent a stinging right to Archer’s head. The foreman staggered back, surprise and pain blanking his features.
Shawn moved quickly into the center of the ring, getting clear of the counter. Hands at his sides he considered Dave Archer.
“No need for this—”
“The hell there ain’t,” the dark faced man ground out savagely and rushed forward again, hands swinging wildly.
Starbuck dropped instinctively into the stance old Hiram had taught him—elbows crooked, fists knotted and ready, one foot ahead of the other. As Dave drove in, he jabbed the man sharply with a left, smashed him hard on the nose with a right and danced lightly away.
Shouts went up in the saloon. A voice said: “He’s one of them fancy boxers!”
“Look at that belt he’s wearing ... Must be a champion or something.”
From his place behind the bar Nate shook his head. “Expect it would’ve been smarter for Dave if he’d used that gun of his’n.”
Archer, furious, heard none of it. He recovered his balance, pivoted, came surging in again. Shawn took a glancing blow on the shoulder, traded it for a straight shot at the man’s jaw. His balled fist missed as Archer slipped on something spilled on the floor. Before he could fade back, Dave’s arms were about his middle, locked tight.
Palms open, Starbuck clapped them sharply to the man’s ears. Archer howled, released his grip and staggered away. Shawn, temper within him rising, was upon him before he could recover. Driving a quick left into the belly, he followed with a right to the jaw, another left to Archer’s mouth that brought blood.
Scarcely breathing hard, he pulled off, moving lightly on his feet. The saloon was once more in silence as Dave came about, shuffling uncertainly. He seemed at a loss as to where he was or what he was doing. Abruptly he regained his bearings, halted, glared at Shawn.
Blood smeared his chin and lips. One eye was closing rapidly. He shook his head to clear it, swore deeply. Starbuck faced him from across the circle.
“I’m willing to call it quits if you are.”
“No, by God!” Archer rasped through his heavy breathing and moved in again, this time more cautiously.
Shawn easily sidestepped the advance, flicked Dave across the eyes with a stinging left, smashed him on the ear with a right that cracked loud when it landed. He was tiring of the senseless fight, was hoping to end it quickly now.
Archer reeled to one side, spun awkwardly, swung a wild, looping right. It caught Shawn going away, barely grazed him. Off balance, Dave stumbled forward. Starbuck seized the man by the shoulders, whirled him about, shoved him roughly into the arms of his friends.
“Here—look after him.”
Deliberately turning his back, Starbuck moved to the bar, nodded at the bottle Nate still held in his hand. Behind him Dave Archer, supported by a man on either side, stared after him with glazed eyes while a dull hate tore at his features.
“Damn you—I ain’t done yet! Not yet!”
Shawn took the glass of liquor the barman had poured, sipped it, shook his head. “You are for now. Maybe another time.”
“There’ll be another time—that’s for goddam sure!” Archer yelled. “Bet on it.”
“I’ll do that,” Starbuck said indifferently, and lifted his glass again.
Archer jerked free of the men at his shoulders, snatched up his hat. Pulling it on, he wheeled, headed for the door. Shawn came fully about to face Nate as a scattering of congratulations came from the crowd. Resting his elbows on the counter, he sighed.
“Glad that’s over with.”
He felt someone at his side, looked around. Artha said, “You want to come up to my room, I’ll doctor your hurts.”
Nate laughed loudly. “What hurts? Dave never touched him—hardly.” He wagged his head admiringly. “You sure are something with them fists of yours!”
Starbuck reached into his pocket for a coin to pay for his drinks. The saloon man pushed his hand away.
“No, sir! It’s on the house. Show was worth it.”
A chorus of agreement went up from the onlookers standing near. Shawn nodded, said, “Obliged ... Now I reckon I’d best be getting back.”
“To Hagerman’s? You working for him like Dave claims?”
“I am—but not as his foreman. That job’s still open, I expect.” He looked down at Artha.
“Appreciate your offer, but I’m fine.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Anytime—hurt or not, I’ll be waiting.”
“Be remembering that,” he replied and started to pull away.
Nate reached out, stayed him. Leaning forward he said, “Probably be smart was you to keep off the road going back to Hagerman’s.”
Shawn frowned. “That so?”
The saloon man bobbed his head. “Dave’s been kind of the kingpin around here, him being foreman of Hash Knife and such. You taking him down like you did ain’t going to set good with him. I sure wouldn’t make myself no easy target.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” Starbuck murmured, and moved on for the door.
Thirteen
The night was cool, the street deserted when Starbuck stepped into the open. He took a long stride to his right, removed himself from the silhouetting doorway and pulled up close against the front of The Chinaberry, and waited.
There was doubt in his mind that Dave Archer would go so far as to ambush him; it would be a witless move on the part of Hash Knife’s dismissed foreman since there actually was no ground for trouble between them. But he hardly knew Archer while Nate was well acquainted with the man, thus he felt it wise to heed the warning.
He stalled out two or three quiet minutes and when nothing happened crossed the remaining length of the porch. Activity within The Chinaberry had resumed—the plinking of the piano, the muted hubbub of conversation punctuated now and then by a laugh—all signifying that his encounter with Dave Archer was already on the way to being forgotten.
In the saddle he paused to throw his glance down the street toward the park where he had last seen Ron Hagerman. There was no sign of him and the girl, and he reckoned they were still somewhere among the deep shadows of the trees.
He gave some thought to the possibility that Archer could take out some of his vengeance on Ron, a Hagerman, and considered briefly seeking him out, warning him or perhaps even suggesting they ride back to the ranch together. After a moment he brushed the idea aside; Archer would not likely harm Ron—they had a common enemy in Price Hagerman.
Touching the sorrel with his rowels, Shawn cut around behind the buildings lining the street and followed out the narrow alley laying there until he reached the end of the settlement. Coming to that point amid the frantic barkings of several dogs, he then veered southwest until he came to a low run of sand hills that paralleled the road to Hash Knife and remained on that course until he had arrived at the ranch.
The house was in total darkness, he saw as he rode along the edge of the yard to the barn. A lamp glowed weakly in the windows of the center bunkhouse, left on for later comers, he supposed, or perhaps it was being used by one of the more studious hands reading a book or a magazine. Stabling the gelding, he paused at the water trough, washed his face and neck of the sweat crusted on his skin from the encounter with Archer, and then quietly made his way to his room.
He didn’t bother to light up, simply stripped down to his drawers and crawled into the bed. He was tired. It had been a long day, and despite Nate’s claim, there were a few sore places along his ribs where Dave Archer’s fists had smashed hard—or it could have been the effects of the bear-hug the man had sought to apply.
Throwing his arms wide, spreading his legs, he stretched, enjoying the feel of cool sheets, the softness of the mattress and yielding springs. It had been a good many years since he’d known such luxury, such comfort.
The door latch clicked softly. Instantly, Starbuck froze. He swore silently, recalling that his gun belt hung on the bedpost an arm’s length away. To get it he would have to rise, lunge forward. Tense, he waited.
A breath of perfume came to him. A faint rustling sounded and a vague shadow moved toward the bed. The springs squeaked quietly.
“I thought you’d never get back,” Rhoda’s voice said in mild protest.
Starbuck came out of the bed in a single bound. Snatching up his pants, he drew them on and crossed to the table. Lifting the chimney of the lamp standing upon it, he struck a match to the wick, replaced the glass cylinder and turned.
Rhoda, dressed only in a light gown, was smiling up at him. She had removed the robe she’d been wearing and dropped it into a chair. Hugging her knees, she shook her head.
“It would be smart to turn down that lamp, keep it dark in here.”
“Smart thing is for you to get out,” Shawn replied.
“Best we be quiet, too,” she continued, ignoring his words. “Pa still thinks of me as his unwed daughter whose honor needs defending. He hears us, you can expect to be looking at the muzzle of his shotgun.”
“Not a chance. You’re leaving—now.”
Rhoda made a small face, began to adjust her hair, smoothing out the thick folds that spread about her shoulders.
“You were gone a long time. Did you find out what you wanted to know about Ron?”
He shook his head. “About all I learned was he has a girl—one named Stell.”
“Oh, her—”
“Seems they’d like to get married only they can’t because of your pa. It true he won’t permit it or is Ron just telling her that to stall things off?”
“It’s true, all right. Pa won’t listen to it. Says Stell Converce is plain trash and if Ron can’t find quality to marry, he’ll have to stay single.”
One more reason for hate, Shawn thought.
“If I was Ron I’d tell Pa to go to hell. Stell’s not much, but then who is in this country? In the beginning everybody had to scratch for a start.”
Starbuck leaned back against the wall. “Don’t think she’s much interested in what Ron will get. Sounded more like she was in love with him.”
“I suppose she is. That mother of hers is in love, too—with the money Ron’ll have. Won’t hurt them to wait. Stell’s only sixteen ... Are you coming back to bed or do I have to come after you?”
“Neither one. You’re getting out of here—fast. I’m not about to get all mixed up in something I might not be able to stop.”
“Why stop anything? Pa’d give his right arm to have you in the family. Wants you ... well ... much as I do.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Rhoda. I’m not for you, not for any woman, in fact.”
“Why?”
“Ben—I’m not settling down until I find him. After that I can think about a wife and a home of my own.”
Rhoda’s shoulders stirred indifferently. “Forget about your brother. This estate you’re trying to settle won’t be but a drop in a rain barrel to what you’d get out of Hash Knife—and I’d come with it.”
“Mighty tempting, all right, only I couldn’t take it, or you, on that basis.”
“Why not?”
“If you don’t know then it would be a little hard for me to explain,” he said, and hoping to change the subject, added: “I’ve been thinking about Ron. There a chance you could be wrong about him—about him hiring a killer, I mean?”
Rhoda’s lips drew into a petulant line. “No, there’s not.”
“Was wondering if that friend of yours—Orly, I think you called him—maybe didn’t get it straight. He could have been mistaken i
n it being Ron.”
“There was no mistake—and he wouldn’t lie about it. What would he have to gain?”
“I don’t know. Just hard to believe your brother would pull a stunt like that.”
“You don’t know him. You’re judging him by yourself and this Ben you’re looking for. Not all families are like yours, close and loving. In some it’s a matter of everyone looking out for himself and the devil take the hindmost.”
“That the way you figure it ought to be?”
“Is it so wrong? I know what I want and how to get it. It was the same with Pa—still is. What he wants he goes after ... and gets. I take it from him, I guess.”
“Which leaves Ron for the devil.”
Rhoda shrugged, her soft white shoulders moving gracefully under their thin covering.
“Like somebody once said, that’s life.”
Shawn eyed her critically. “You’ve changed your thinking some.”
“How?”
“What happened to Hash Knife didn’t seem to interest you much before. Now you sound like you’re out to take it all.”
“That so strange? Happens I never had a reason to care about it before ... now I have.”
He gave her a hard smile. “If that reason’s me, best forget it.”
“You mean you’d not be interested in someday owning a place like this?”
“Sure. Be lying to you if I said I wouldn’t. Have to be under different circumstances, however.”
“What circumstances?”
“That what I got I came by it honestly, not by cheating somebody else.”
“Suits me,” Rhoda said airily. “Ron will get his share and I’ll take mine—a half interest. If I tell Pa what the deal is between us, he’ll jump at the chance to change his thinking. That way you’ll be coming by your share honestly. That ease your conscience?”
“It might, if I was interested—which I’m not.”
“Oh, I think you would be if you’d take a little time to consider.”
“No need. I know how I feel.”
“You only think you do. Go ahead, do some studying on it tomorrow ... and the next day. Right now, are you going to stand there against the wall the rest of the night, or are you turning down that lamp and getting back in this bed?”
