High Desert

by Wayne D. Overholser

  “Are you going to draw a picture of me?” she asked.

  “No. Just store one in my memory. You’re Buck’s girl.”

  Quick pleasure stirred her face, then she looked away. “No, not Buck’s girl. I’m doing this because you asked me. I thought you knew that.”

  Again they rode in silence until they reached the poplars in front of the Carrick cabin, and Morgan, stepping down, reached up and helped her from the saddle. Jim Carrick loomed in the doorway, his face set.

  “Come in, Miss Royce,” he said in a dry, precise voice. “Buck’s expectin’ you.”

  Morgan put her horse away and waited until Jim called him to dinner. He couldn’t guess what had been said and he didn’t ask, but there was a look on Buck’s lean face that should have told Jim what Morgan already knew.

  Jim and Morgan left for the meeting shortly after they ate, riding northwest across the valley so that they cut between the lake and the barren Alkali Flats.

  The sun, its roundness unmarred by clouds, dropped into the western sky, and the wind, cooled by the high Cascades, touched them briefly and ran on, stirring the bunchgrass with its passage. To the south, Clancy Peak was a sharp triangle marking the skyline. The smell of the air was clean and sharp, a good smell rich with sage, a smell Murdo Morgan had almost forgotten, and a hunger to live his life out in the valley struck at him.

  For a time, he harbored a thought he was afraid to explore. He could have Peg Royce.

  “Not many Turkey Track cows in the flat,” Carrick said suddenly. “Clancy keeps ’em down in the winter, but his riders have been shovin’ ’em to the ranch the last two, three weeks. Reckon he’s brandin’ now.”

  “How soon will he start them for the marsh?” asked Morgan.

  “Any time. He’ll take a while to get ’em there. Too much snow to take ’em up yet, I reckon. More snow last winter than any year since I’ve been here.”

  But Morgan’s mind was not on Broad Clancy’s cattle. “You think the nesters’ll come tonight?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Sure. They’ll come to hear what you’ve got to say, or to see Blazer beat you to death. These boys have the notion that if they lick anybody who comes in, they can hold their places.” Carrick cocked his head at the sun. “Let’s kick up a fire and eat. A man can’t fight on an empty stomach.”

  “How far yet?” Morgan asked.

  “A mile or so. No sense hurryin’. You want all the boys there to see you handle Blazer.” Carrick reined up and looked directly at Morgan. “You done wrong, friend, and so did I. We shouldn’t have left that girl with Buck.”

  Morgan let it go without argument.

  They built a fire and cooked supper. Then they waited until the sun was behind the Sunset Mountains and dust flowed across the desert and laid its purple hue upon it. A quietness came with the twilight, a quietness that worked into a man’s mind and called up a thousand thoughts and images and dreams.

  Morgan gave no thought to the fight with Blazer. It was immediate, a little dirty job that had to be done before he could do the big job. He let his thoughts range ahead to the families that would be making their homes here in Paradise Valley.

  Rising at last, Morgan tossed his cigarette stub into the fire and kicked it out. “Let’s ride,” he said.

  Carrick had been squatting on the other side of the coals, face dark and preoccupied, and Morgan knew he had not shaken Peg Royce out of his mind. “All right,” Carrick said.

  Mounting, they swung around a rock finger that extended into the valley from the rimrock and saw the red tongue of Blazer’s fire.

  “Got a good light,” Carrick growled. “Like to put on a show.”

  Blazer had built his fire in front of his cabin. As Morgan pulled up, he saw that the cabin was set hard against the cliff and was built of stone. Blazer, he thought, had an eye more for defense than for home comfort.

  “Hello!” Carrick called.

  There were a dozen men hunkered in a circle around the fire. Tom Carrick was withdrawn from the others and squatting by himself, eyes watchful, jaws working steadily on his quid.

  A big man rose and made a slow turn. He said: “Light,” his tone heavy with hostility.

  Carrick and Morgan dismounted and came into the firelight. Carrick introduced Morgan to each man, holding Blazer back till the last, a gesture of contempt that all understood. When at last Carrick called Blazer by name, Morgan’s eyes locked with the big man’s, and he made a quick appraisal of him.

  Arch Blazer was as tall as Morgan and heavier-bodied. His neck was short, his ears small and set tightly against his skull. His yellow eyes were reddened by dust and sun and wind. He stood with shoulders hunched forward, hands fisting and opening, his wicked temper showing on his dark face.

  “So you’re the company man we heard was comin’ to kick us out of our homes,” Blazer growled. “You ain’t goin’ to do it, Morgan. You try it and I’ll stomp your insides out!”

  IX

  Quickly Morgan made a study of the circle of men, thinking how well Jim Carrick had called it. A raggle-taggle outfit if he had ever seen one, scared and ragged and dirty. Hiding out from the law and picking up a precarious living from their farms, a living supplemented by deer and antelope and perhaps an occasional Turkey Track beef.

  “You know how the valley is held,” Morgan said. “Some of you are living on government land, and maybe you’ve filed on it right and proper. If that’s the case I’ve got work to offer you and good wages. If you’re on company land, I’ve got the same work to offer you and a proposition.”

  “We don’t want no proposition,” Blazer snarled. “All we want is to be let alone. We ain’t leavin’ our homes so some cussed land company can sell ’em, when the company stole the land in the first place.”

  Again, Morgan let it go, ignoring Blazer and keeping his eyes on the nesters.

  “I’m the company,” he said distinctly. “The offer I make now goes. It ain’t a case of some fat rooster back East in a plush chair going over my head. By the First of September there’ll be thousands of settlers here in the valley. If you men will help me feed ’em, haul water for ’em, and fetch horse feed, I’ll hand you a deed to your land the day the sale is finished. No red tape. No monkey business. How about it?”

  Blazer wheeled, a great hand motioning toward Morgan.

  “Don’t believe this lyin’ son. How do we know who he is or whether he’ll keep his word?”

  “I believe him,” Jim Carrick said. “I’m done kowtowin’ to Broad Clancy. If Morgan puts this land sale over, it’ll bust the Turkey Track, and that’s plenty of reason for me.”

  Blazer whirled on Carrick. “You always was soft as mush, Jim!” he bellowed. “I say to run this smooth-talkin’ son out of the valley. I’ll plug the first man who sets foot on my land and claims he bought it from the company.”

  “Then you’ll be hanging for killing,” Morgan said quietly.

  Blazer threw back his great head and laughed. “Hangin’, he says, for killin’. You won’t be around to see it, bucko. You won’t even be around. I’m goin’ to bust you up. I’ll teach the company to send in a long-tongued rooster like you, lyin’ about ownin’ it yourself.”

  Morgan jerked off his gun belt and handed it to Carrick.

  “All right, Blazer. I never look for a fight, but if it comes, I’ll finish it.”

  Again Blazer laughed, deep and scornful. “You’ll never finish this one, bucko. I’ll have my fun and I’ll still be here when your friend Carrick is diggin’ a hole for you.”

  “If you want fun, here’s some,” Morgan said, and came at the man fast, right fist cracking him hard on the mouth.

  It was Arch Blazer’s way to bluff as far as he could, to scare a man and make him back up before a crowd and half win the fight before it started. He had never had a man bring the fight to him. Surprise and Morg
an’s blow half stunned him for an instant. He retreated a step. Morgan, catching him on the jaw with another short, wicked right, knocked him flat on his back.

  “Boot him!” Jim Carrick called exuberantly.

  From the other side of the fire Tom Carrick watched with cool pleasure, for he had long hated Blazer, but knew that he was not the man to do what Murdo Morgan had just done. The others came closer, silent and watchful, swinging which ever way the fight swung.

  Blazer bounced up, a strangled curse breaking out of his bruised mouth. He drove at Morgan and struck him a hard blow on the chest. Morgan wheeled and let the weight of Blazer’s charge carry him by. He was on the big man then. For an instant Blazer was off balance. Morgan ripped through his guard, punching him with rights and lefts, the big head weaving from one side to the other.

  Blazer clubbed a fist at Morgan’s face and closed with him, swinging a fist into his middle. Morgan was hurt. He threw his weight hard against Blazer, cracking him in the ribs, turned sideward as Blazer rammed a knee at his stomach. Catching the man’s leg, he dumped him into the hot coals at the edge of the fire.

  Blazer screamed and rolled clear. He came to his feet again and rammed at Morgan, but he was slower this time. The heart had gone out of his fight.

  Sensing that this was the moment, Morgan came in for the kill. His fists, ringing on Blazer’s head, flattened the man’s nose and closed an eye. He saw the blood, tasted his own, felt the jar of each blow run up his forearm and wondered what held the nester up. Then, for no reason that he could understand, Blazer’s knees became rubber and he curled to the ground.

  Morgan stepped back, thinking Blazer was out, and instantly knew he had made a mistake, for Blazer had rolled away from the fire and had drawn a gun. Another gun spoke, the bullet kicking up dirt a foot from Blazer’s hand.

  “You’re fightin’ him fair!” Tom Carrick’s angry voice cut across the space between them. “Curse you for a dirty polecat!”

  Blazer dropped his gun. He squalled, “I’ll get you Carricks for backin’....” Blazer didn’t finish. Morgan fell on him, knees hard on the big man’s ribs, grabbed a handful of hair, and twisted Blazer’s head so that the fellow’s chin was a clear target. Morgan swung his right, the sound of the blow a meaty thud of bone on bone.

  He raised his fist to strike again, heard Jim Carrick call — “That done it, Morgan!” — and knew that Carrick was right.

  He rose, a boot toe digging into Blazer’s ribs, but there was no stirring left in the man.

  “Thanks, Tom,” Morgan said. He wiped a hand across his bloody, sweaty face, not realizing until then how much he had been hurt. “You boys heard my proposition. You interested?”

  “Sure,” one of them said without enthusiasm.

  Some nodded, others stood staring at Blazer as if unable to believe they had seen him beaten.

  “All right. If you carry out your end of the bargain, you’ll get the deeds to your land.” Morgan took his gun belt from Carrick and buckled it around him. “Blazer will never get a chance to pull another gun on me when I don’t have mine. Tell him that when he’s in shape to listen. Tell him he’d better start smoking his iron the next time he sees me ’cause I’ll sure be smoking mine.”

  Morgan lurched to his horse and painfully eased into saddle. He rode around the finger of rock and presently the Carricks caught him.

  “That’s one of the things I wanted to see,” Tom said jubilantly. “Blazer’s run over everybody ever since he’s been here.”

  “What about the others?”

  Tom laughed shortly. “Blazer’ll tuck his tail and run. He won’t want to swap smoke with you, and, with him gone, the rest will be mighty happy haulin’ your horse feed and water.”

  Jim Carrick shook his head. “I ain’t sure about that, Tom. Not with Pete Royce around.”

  “I don’t think I feel like riding back, Jim,” Morgan said.

  “There’s a spring down here a piece. We’ll camp there.”

  After they had made camp and Morgan lay with his head on his saddle, he gave voice to a question that had been nagging his mind.

  “Some men just like to fight, but I’m not sure about Blazer. The proposition I offered him was fair. Why would he jump me thataway?”

  “He’s just an ornery cuss,” Tom said.

  “Might be more to it,” Jim Carrick said. “He’s plumb thick with Royce.”

  Presently the run of horses came to them.

  “Some of the boys going home,” Morgan murmured.

  “I’ll see,” Tom said, and, mounting, rode away.

  “Can’t set still,” Jim growled. “Had ants in his pants ever since he could walk. Ridin’ most of the time. Knows more about what goes on than anybody else in the valley.”

  Morgan closed his eyes. There was no understanding how a man like Jim Carrick could have Tom for a son, but Tom was not one to change.

  Morgan and Jim Carrick breakfasted at dawn and reached the Carrick place by midmorning.

  “Go on in,” Carrick said as Morgan dismounted. “I’ll put the horses away.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Morgan said.

  They walked into the cabin together. Peg was sitting by the bed, reading. She looked up when she saw them, carefully closed the book, and rose.

  “How you feel, Son?” Jim asked.

  “Fine.” Buck grinned at Peg. “She’s the right medicine for a man.”

  Peg wasn’t listening. Her eyes were on Morgan, concern in them. “You had trouble?” she asked.

  “He licked Blazer,” Jim Carrick said. “That’s all.”

  Peg picked up the scarf she had worn around her head. “I’ll be going.”

  “Thanks,” Jim said carefully. “I’ll saddle up for you.”

  “You’ll come back?” Buck asked in a low tone.

  “Sure, I’ll be back,” Peg said easily, and left the cabin with Jim Carrick.

  Morgan idled in the doorway, shoulder blades pressed against the jamb, feeling the soreness that would be days leaving him. He watched Peg mount and wave to him. He raised his hat and nodded, unsmiling. He was thinking again that he could have Peg Royce, and panic was in him with the rush of knowledge that he wanted her.

  “Morgan!” Buck called.

  Morgan walked to the bed and sat down. “Want me to read to you?”

  “I told you she was poison,” Buck said harshly. “I said she was a fever that got into your blood. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Why?”

  “You ain’t foolin’ me no more’n a little. You’re playin’ smart, goin’ after her and all, but you ain’t foolin’ me.”

  “What in thunderation are you talking about?” Morgan demanded sharply.

  “You know all right.” Buck’s fists clenched above the blanket. “I saw the way she looked at you. I’m tellin’ you, Morgan. Let her alone or I’ll kill you!”

  X

  Peg Royce did not sleep the night she returned from the Carrick place. Her lean-to room held the day’s heat with grim tenacity; the smell of her straw tick was musty and stifling. She lay on her back, motionless, staring at the black ceiling. Tomorrow would be another day, the same routine, the same frustrations, the empty sagebrush miles all around, choking her, imprisoning her, walling her in from the world she had seen in her dreams. The staccato beat of her clock marked the slow passage of the minutes, while the gray ashes of discontent piled high in her mind.

  Daylight wiped out the darkness in the corners of her room. Royce was gone. She didn’t know where. He was gone when she had come home the day before. It was that way most of the time, one of the few things for which she could be thankful.

  She should get up and build the fire. Feed the chickens. Milk the cow. Water the horses. Cook breakfast. She would get a cursing if Royce came home and found her in bed. Maybe more.

 
Anger smoldered in her. No, nothing more. She’d had the last beating she would take from him. She reached under her pillow and pulled out the small pistol she kept there. No, she would never take another beating from Pete Royce.

  She should get up, she told herself. She sat on the edge of her bed, took off her nightgown, and lay back. No hurry. What was waiting to be done could keep on waiting. If Royce didn’t like it, he could stay home and take care of it himself.

  The sun laid a pattern of black and gold across her bed. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at her slim body. She might as well be a squaw. She had her choice of a cocky scrawny-faced kid who wanted her, but had never offered her the Clancy name, and Buck Carrick who had planned to kidnap her and take to Prineville to marry him, a nester whose father didn’t even own the land they lived on.

  Then she thought of Murdo Morgan. But then she had been thinking of Murdo Morgan all night.

  Peg had never really known another woman. Her mother was a vague blurred memory. There were a few nester women below the north rim. Dowdy women broken to the daily labor of this land, women for whom the flame of life had gone out long ago. Then there was Auntie Jones in town and Jewell Clancy, who had left her strictly alone.

  There had been men around as long as she could remember. All of them but Ed Cole had run to a type. Like Arch Blazer. Tough and dirty and smelling of whiskey and horses and tobacco and stale sweat. Men who had wanted to paw her, men that even Pete Royce did not trust with her.

  She knew men, knew the urging of their desires. She had never met a man she could not have had if she had wanted him, even Ed Cole, until Murdo Morgan had ridden into the valley.

  She had heard men talk lightly about love as if it were the same as desire. Probably it was with most men she had known. It would not be with Morgan, but what did he want in a woman that she did not have or could not give him?