High Desert

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Now, picturing his tall, hard-muscled body, his black hair and high-boned face, the powder-gray eyes that seemed to look beyond the limits of ordinary men’s vision, she felt an undefined longing that she had never felt before. She asked herself if it was love, and suddenly regretted what she had said to him about holding the winning hand on the last deal.

  Outside, a rooster crowed, a harsh sound that brought her upright in bed. She shook her black hair out of her eyes, slid into her worn slippers, and went into the other room. She built a fire, pumped water into the coffee pot, and set it on the front of the stove. The pine kindling was exploding with dry crackling pops when she went back into her room.

  She sat down in front of her dressing table and began combing her hair. She had made her table as she had made everything else in her room except the mirror on the wall that gave back a waxy image of her face.

  Her dressing table had been a huge goods box. She had built shelves into it, papered the inside with red wallpaper, and covered the top with a flounce of print. She had made the rag rug that covered her floor. It was hers, all of it, a sanctuary where Pete Royce let her alone unless he had work for her to do.

  She combed her hair sleekly back from her forehead and tied it with a red ribbon. She dressed then, slowly, and was buttoning the last button when she heard horses. She ran out of her room, a wild hope in her that it would be Morgan. But it was Pete Royce. A moment later she recognized the man with him. Ed Cole.

  Peg was slicing bacon when they came in. She had the table set, the coffee boiling, and Cole stopped in the doorway, sniffing.

  “Say, that smells good, Pete,” Cole said. “This girl of yours is getting smarter all the time.”

  “Gettin’ lazier, you mean,” Royce grunted. “Ridin’ at night. Wantin’ to sleep all day. I’ll have to tan her with a blacksnake so she won’t forget who’s boss around here.”

  Peg wheeled, balancing the razor-sharp hunting knife in her hand. “I’ve told you, Royce. I’m telling you again. You lay a hand on me and I’ll kill you.”

  Royce dropped into a chair. “See how it is, Ed? The mountain men had the right idea. Marry a squaw and lodgepole her when she got out of hand.”

  He was under average height, a stocky man with shiny blue eyes set close together astride a flat nose that had been smashed under another’s fist years before. He leaned back in his chair and, drawing a cigar from his pocket, slid it between dark teeth.

  “A wildin’, this filly,” he remarked. “Why don’t you marry her, Ed?”

  Cole came across the room to where Peg stood at the table.

  “You’re lovelier every time I see you,” he said. “You know your dad’s suggestion isn’t bad. How about going back with me? You’ll like San Francisco.”

  “Royce said something about you marrying me,” she said pointedly. “Is this a proposal?”

  His smile was a quick, amused curve of his lips. “Of course, but it depends on breakfast. I’m hungry enough to eat a curly wolf.”

  “You can nibble on your fingers till I get the bacon cooked,” she said.

  “Couldn’t do that. I’m no cannibal.”

  He went back to sit across from Royce. Peg moved around the table so that she could watch him while she stirred up the biscuits. At thirty-five Cole was the most handsome, perfectly-mannered man she had ever known. She had been attracted by him when he had been in the valley before. He had tried to kiss her once, and she had slapped him. She had never been sure why, and she didn’t know what she would do if he tried again.

  His eyes were blue, and as guileless as a child’s. His hair was light brown and curly, his teeth white and perfect when he smiled. But Peg Royce understood him. He played his own sharp game. He had not said anything about taking her to San Francisco the other time he was here. He had his reasons now, or he wouldn’t have made the offer.

  Peg slid the pan of biscuits into the oven and, straightening, scratched her chin, leaving a daub of flour on it. It was her chance. Cole needed Royce and she could force a bargain from Cole. San Francisco. The city of dreams. Why not?

  But after breakfast Cole came to her and slid an arm around her.

  “About this San Francisco deal,” he murmured. “I’ve got to get right back, and I need you here. If I took you now, I wouldn’t have time to show you the town.”

  “In other words, you don’t want me to go.” She jerked away from him and moved around the table. “That’s fair enough. I didn’t say I would go.”

  He stroked his pointed, carefully trimmed mustache, his smile confident. “You didn’t say so, but you would. Any woman would.”

  “You’re bragging,” she murmured. “Why not take Jewell Clancy?”

  “She’s not as charming as you are. I take only charming women to San Francisco.” He laid a pile of gold coins on the table. “Let’s not lose sight of the reason I want you to stay here. I’m no gambler, Peg. I’m going to crack Murdo Morgan, and I want it a sure thing.”

  “She can’t do nothin’ I can’t,” Pete Royce said. He picked up the cigar he had been smoking before breakfast and lighted it again. “No use payin’ her good money. She’ll just blow it on duds.”

  “Your daughter has capacities you aren’t aware of, my friend.” Cole brought his eyes back to Peg’s face. “Pete tells me you’ve met Morgan. He’s been riding with a lot of luck. If that lasts, I’ll need you.”

  “He’s got to the end of his luck,” Royce said darkly. “He’ll never lick Arch Blazer again.”

  Peg took a sharp breath. So, they knew about the fight. Cole was worried, or he wouldn’t be piling gold on the table in front of her.

  “Blazer won’t give him another chance,” Cole said. “When we see Clancy today, I have a notion old Broad will do the job for us.” He picked up the gold coins and dropped them again. “Like the sound of that, sweetheart?”

  “What do I do to earn it?” she asked.

  “You’re my ace in the hole. Suppose Clancy doesn’t do the job? Or things don’t work right for your dad to stop Morgan’s clock? That’s where you step in. You’re persuasive, honey. You could wangle anything out of friend Morgan or even talk him into a foolish move.”

  “Like what?”

  Cole shrugged. “Your dad or Blazer might want to know where he’ll be at a certain time. Might even knock him on the head and throw him into the tules for the hogs. How’s that, Pete?”

  Royce chuckled. “It’s a good idea.”

  “How about it, sweetheart?” Cole was watching her closely.

  “I couldn’t wangle anything out of Morgan,” she said.

  “You can get anything out of any man if you try,” he said impatiently. “Can I depend on you?”

  “Certainly. And when it’s over?”

  “San Francisco. I’ll have the most charming girl in the city.”

  She stood in the doorway as they mounted and rode west to Irish Bend, the gold clutched in her hand. Cole had kissed her again and this time she hadn’t slapped him. He was playing his game and she was playing hers.

  “I didn’t tell you what you could depend on, did I, Mister Cole?” she said softly.

  * * * * *

  Murdo Morgan stayed at Carrick’s until Buck was out of danger. The day he left, young Carrick was sitting on the porch, thin and filled with self-pity, his uncut hair shaggy long. It would be weeks before he was himself, but there was no more need for Morgan here, and he was beginning to feel the pressure of time.

  Jim Carrick watched Morgan saddle his black, more solemnly visaged than usual.

  “Tom rode off again this mornin’,” he said. “He’s goin’ to find the trouble he’s lookin’ for if he keeps at it.”

  Morgan nodded. Tom was all right. It was Buck who worried Morgan. Peg hadn’t been back after that one time. The truth was gnawing at Buck with terrible tenacity.

&n
bsp; “Tom can take care of himself,” Morgan said, as he led his horse to the trough. “I ain’t sure Buck can.”

  “I ain’t neither,” Jim said dully. “If it was any other girl.... Oh, shucks, I ain’t goin’ after her again. You hear?”

  “Going after her doesn’t change anything,” Morgan observed.

  “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “I’m aimin’ to see Broad Clancy first thing. I’ve got to get this business lined out so there won’t be any trouble when the settlers start rolling in.”

  “Take more’n words to change Clancy’s way of seein’ things.”

  Morgan stepped into saddle. Jim Carrick was right, but if there was fighting to be done, it had better be done now.

  “Thanks for giving me a hand, Jim,” he said.

  “It was you that give me a hand. If you hadn’t sat up with Buck, I don’t know how I’d made out. Tom wasn’t no help.”

  “You gave me more of a hand than you figured,” Morgan said somberly. “You’re the balance wheel in the valley, Jim. I’m counting on you. So long.” Morgan reined his black toward the road.

  “Take care of yourself, son!” he heard Jim call after him.

  Then sourness was born in Morgan. He raised a hand in farewell to Buck, but young Carrick made no answering gesture. Jealousy stamped a festering bitterness on his face.

  Morgan wouldn’t stop at the Royce cabin. He would ride on. Peg was Buck’s girl. But when Morgan passed the Royce place, he saw Peg working in the yard. Coming to the road, she waved to him, and, despite his promise to himself, he reined over to her.

  “It’s my friend Murdo,” she said. “Come in.”

  He lifted his hat, eyes on her. She had a firm curved body and a sort of straightforward daring that he liked. She stirred him now as she always did when he was with her.

  “Howdy, Peg,” he said soberly.

  She studied him a moment, a smile striking at the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t, he thought, as confident a smile as she had given him before. Something had happened to her, softening her.

  “I’ve got a pot of coffee on the stove, Murdo. Come in. Royce isn’t around.” She seemed to sense instantly that she had said the wrong thing. “I don’t mean you’re afraid of him. He’s just a nuisance.”

  He shouldn’t go in. She was Buck Carrick’s girl. He couldn’t forget that. But he did go in and, as he drank the coffee, another thought struck him. Buck said she was his girl, but it wasn’t Peg’s idea. There was no mistaking what she was trying to tell him.

  He finished his coffee and shook his head when she reached for the pot. “I’ve got to be riding,” he said.

  “Ed Cole was here the other day,” she said suddenly.

  “Cole!” He stared at her, surprised that Cole was in the valley. “Does he know I’m here?”

  She said: “Yes.” Her face held an expression he didn’t understand.

  “Why didn’t he see me?” Morgan asked.

  “I guess he didn’t want to.”

  Anger touched him. “I’d want to see a friend if I was this far from home.”

  “Friend?” She laughed shortly. Then, seeing his face, she shut her lips against what she had meant to say.

  “Sure,” he said. “I knew him in Colorado before I ever had a notion I’d own half the road grant.”

  He automatically reached for tobacco and paper and twisted a cigarette, puzzling over Cole’s reason for being here. The Citizens’ Bank had no interest in the grant unless Morgan failed to repay his loan within the specified time. But if Cole had come only out of friendship, he wouldn’t have left without seeing him.

  Walking around the stove, Peg stopped near Morgan. There was a new expression in her dark eyes as if something had disturbed her.

  “I know what you’re up against better than you do, Murdo,” she said softly, “but there isn’t much I can do except to tell you to ride on while you’re still alive.”

  “I won’t do that,” he said roughly.

  “I know.” She laid a hand on his arm, making a soft pressure there. She was watching him closely, as if wondering what she should say. “There is something else, Murdo. Don’t trust anyone. They’re all against you.”

  The cold cigarette dangled from a corner of his mouth. He fished a match from his pocket, but he didn’t bring it to life. He held it there, half lifted in front of him, his mind trying to pierce the veil behind which she had hidden her thoughts.

  “A man’s got to trust somebody,” he said. “You can’t live alone.”

  She had told him all she would. A quick smile flowed across her face, warm and compelling. Her hand on his arm was soft.

  “You wouldn’t have to live alone, Murdo.”

  He dropped the match and tore the cigarette from his mouth. Gripping her shoulders, he jerked her to him and kissed her, her lips turning up to meet his. They were warm lips, filling him with ancient man hunger, the same as they had filled Buck Carrick and Rip Clancy. He let her go, the thought of the other two filling his mind with gray distaste.

  She didn’t move back. Her arms were around his neck, her lips parted. He saw that she was pleased with what she had done.

  “That was what I meant, Murdo,” she murmured.

  “You’ve had your fun,” he said roughly. “I guess that was what you wanted.” He wheeled away from her and strode out of the cabin and across the yard to his horse.

  She ran after him, suddenly fearful. “Murdo, didn’t it mean anything to you?”

  He didn’t answer until he was in the saddle.

  “Yeah, it meant something,” he said then. “Made me think of what Buck said.”

  “What was that?”

  “That you’re a fever in a man’s blood if he looks at you twice. I made that mistake. One look should have been enough.”

  “Murdo, this is different. I never promised Buck.”

  You’re his life,” Morgan said soberly. “I’ve learned to know him pretty well the last few days. Why don’t you go back and see him?”

  “All right,” she said. “I will, because you’ve asked me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Morgan lifted his Stetson and rode on toward Irish Bend, a vague unease in him. She was going to see Buck because Murdo Morgan had asked her to. That left him in her debt and that was not the way he wanted it.

  XI

  The empty miles dropped behind. The lake and the tule-carpeted swamp were lost behind a ridge. A band of horses broke across the road and thundered on through the sage and rabbitbrush toward the pine hills to the south.

  Morgan was hardly conscious of them. His thoughts were a tumbling white-frothed stream within him. Peg had wanted to tell him something, then had been afraid to say it, but when he tried to concentrate upon it, the memory of her kiss ripped through the pattern of his thoughts.

  It was nearly noon when Morgan reached town. He racked his horse in front of the store, his gaze sweeping the street. It was the first time he had been in Irish Bend since the day he had come to the valley, but it was entirely different. Then the Turkey Track outfit had been in town.

  Now Irish Bend was almost empty. A single horse stood in front of the Elite Saloon, head down, dozing in the sun. A short-legged dog padded down the middle of the street, ears proudly erect as if the town were his by conquest instead of default.

  Turning into the store, Morgan asked for a pencil and sheet of paper. The storeman eyed him a moment speculatively before he slid a stubby pencil and a torn fragment of wrapping paper across the counter.

  “That’ll do if you ain’t fussy,” he said, his tone intentionally hostile.

  Morgan drew a knife from his pocket and whittled a sharper point to the pencil. “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “It’s always this way when the Turkey Track ain’t in town,” the storeman said. “T
he boys are winding up branding today. Reckon they’ll be heading out for the high country. Be plumb quiet till they get back.”

  “Maybe not.” Morgan began writing. “You’ll have more business this fall than you ever had. Better get stocked up.”

  The man snorted, started to say something, then shut his mouth with a click of his ill-fitting store teeth. He held his silence until Morgan spoke.

  “Hang this up where folks can see it.”

  “The devil I will!”

  “I said hang it up.” Morgan grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and jerked him against the counter. “This has been Broad Clancy’s town, but it ain’t going to be for much longer. I want that paper hung up.”

  “I’ll hang it.” The storeman turned the paper and read:

  The Cascade and Paradise Land Company announces an auction of its land beginning September First. Stockmen and settlers desiring to secure title to the company land they have been squatting on are advised to contact Murdo Morgan while he is in the valley.

  Murdo Morgan

  Cascade and Paradise Land Company

  The storeman lifted his eyes to Morgan. “If they’re going to contact you, friend, they’ll sure have to hurry ’cause you won’t be around much longer.”

  “That so?” drawled Morgan.

  “You’ll ride out or you’ll get run out.”

  “Let me do the worrying, friend.” Morgan shrugged. “Where you going to hang this paper?”

  Growling, the storekeeper picked it up and jabbed it over a nail behind the tobacco counter.

  “This is one place they all come.” Morgan nodded. “Is there a lawman in town?”

  The storeman’s laugh was a contemptuous snort. “You wanting some protection?”

  “You’ll need the protection if you keep trying to be smart,” Morgan said angrily. “It doesn’t fit you, mister.”

  Humor faded from the man’s eyes as if it had been slapped out of him. Fear touched him, narrowing his eyes, and bringing the self-hatred it does to a man when the veneer of his toughness has been stripped from him.