by Ray Hogan
Hooking a leg over the saddle horn, he stared out over the land now beginning to shimmer with the steadily rising heat. There was no doubt in his mind: they had seen him, and they were doing everything possible to lose him. Something had forced them to change their minds.
He wasted no effort endeavoring to figure out what such might be, gave his consideration instead to wondering where they could have gone. Had they mentioned any destination during the time he was in their camp? He could recall none. They had been low on grub. It was logical to assume they’d head for the nearest town.
Shawn picked his mind for some knowledge of the country. Was Taos near? He seemed to recall that it was pretty far north and somewhat west of that particular area. Santa Fe? The old settlement that marked the end of the Trail was due west, he was certain …They could be going there.
Las Vegas. It dawned on him suddenly. Las Vegas was a good, live town, he’d heard, and it lay well this side of Santa Fe. Since it was closer, they undoubtedly would make for it. Immediately he settled into his saddle and pulled away from the creek, aiming the chestnut for a long bank of low buttes in the distance. He had no idea how far away the town would be—sixty, seventy miles, possibly more. But it didn’t matter; that’s where the outlaws would go.
He’d have to ignore Underwood’s ranch and the possibility of finding Ben there, for the time being. Starbuck shook his head in irritation. He didn’t like the thought of passing up the opportunity, but on the other hand another day or two could hardly make any difference. Underwood’s trail boss was not likely to disappear in that short a time.
He reached the bluffs and began a slow climb up a steep wash to the crest. No grass grew here. The sterile, rock-studded ground afforded life only for a scattering of globular clumps of snakeweed and yellow-flowered groundsel, little else.
The chestnut found the grade difficult. Halfway up Shawn dismounted and went on foot, leading the big horse with a slack rein so that he could pick his own way. They crested the rugged formation, came onto a flat, halted. A dozen yards back from the rim, a rider slouched in his saddle, sweat-stained hat brushed to the back of his head, watching their arrival with lazy interest.
“Howdy,” he said, shifting to one side. “All that racket you was making, I figured maybe a whole passel of mustangs was coming up the draw.”
Starbuck swung onto the gelding, rode forward. “Hard climb,” he commented.
“Can’t fault you there. , . . You know where you’re at, friend?”
“New Mexico—not much else. It make a difference?”
“Some. This here’s Underwood range. We’re a mite touchy about strangers riding across it, and plenty interested in where they’re going.”
A stir of surprise moved Shawn. “Was looking for the Underwood place. Didn’t know I found it.”
The old puncher plucked at his tobacco-stained moustache. “You got business with Sam?”
“In a way. Aim to ask about a man working for him. First off, however, I’ve got to catch up with three jaspers who owe me. Figure they came this direction. You see them?”
The older man eyed Starbuck shrewdly. “Owe you, eh? No, ain’t seen nobody this morning but you.”
“Likely heading for Las Vegas. It on west of us?”
“Vegas? Weil, sort of. A bit south, maybe. This fellow you’re aiming to ask Sam Underwood about—what’s his name?”
“Ben Starbuck, but he’ll be going by something else.”
“Starbuck sure ain’t familiar. Best thing you can do is forget Sam, talk to Tom Gage. He’s ramrodding the outfit. Does all the hiring and firing.”
Shawn nodded. “Obliged. I’ll drop back and see him after I’ve taken care of this other business in—”
“If you’re aiming to go to Vegas, you’ll be riding right by the ranch. Road cuts across Underwood’s property.”
That was a bit of good luck. Starbuck said: “Fine. How’s the quickest way to get there?”
The puncher twisted around, spat a stream of brown juice at a nearby rock, and pointed to a dark, cone-shaped hill in the distance.
“Just you set your sights on that. You’ll run smack-dab into Underwood’s.”
Shawn thanked the man and rode on. He was beginning to feel hunger now and considered briefly the idea of halting, brewing himself some coffee and eating the last of his supplies. But the prospect of soon reaching the Underwood ranch, meeting with the man who could be Ben, washed all thought of that away. He could hold out.
Close onto midday, with the sun bearing down full strength, he reached the end of the mesa across which he was riding and looked down into a broad, green swale. A cluster of well-kept buildings surrounded by large trees lay in exact center. This would be Underwood’s.
Spurring the chestnut, he came off the plateau, followed out a narrow arroyo and entered a clearly defined road that led up to the gate. He cut into the yard, angling toward a long, barracks-type structure that lay to the right and somewhat beyond the main house. That would be the crew’s quarters, and if Gage, the foreman, was around and not on the range, he most likely would be found there.
Passing to the right of the first building, Shawn glanced to the corrals ahead, noted the several horses lazing in the sun. At that moment a door slammed, drew his attention. A thin, elderly man stiffly erect, with a sharp face and thick moustache, came from a side entrance of the house, advanced to the center of the yard, and halted. Either Underwood or Tom Gage, Shawn guessed.
Veering the chestnut, Starbuck angled toward the older man, conscious of a cold, hostile scrutiny from small, intensely blue eyes. Pulling to a halt before him, Shawn started to speak but was silenced by a question.
“You another one of them looking for Sam?”
There was impatience in the voice. This would be Gage, Shawn decided, and irritated for some reason.
“Looking mostly for you,” he began, and then his jaw clamped shut as the bunkhouse screen door opened and three men moved into the yard. He forgot everything else in a sudden surge of anger as he instantly spurred the gelding forward; he leaped from the saddle in a low dive for the man in the center of the trio—Brock.
Four
Starbuck’s outstretched arms wrapped around Brock while he was still in mid-air. They went down in a driving wedge, bowling Rufe over as they collided with him. Rutter shouted a curse, springing back beyond reach of the struggling men.
Brock, on the bottom, took the brunt of the fall. Wind gushed from his mouth and his eyes rolled wildly. Shawn, jerking aside, bounded to his feet. Seizing the gasping man by the shirtfront, he yanked him upright, knocked him sprawling with a hard blow to the chin.
Rufe muttered something, closed in from behind. Shawn pivoted fast, fell into a cocked stance. He jabbed with his left, rocked the big man off balance, and then in the smooth, lightning-fast manner that Hiram Starbuck had taught him, crossed with a whistling right.
Starbuck’s balled fist caught the outlaw flush on the jaw. Rufe stalled, a surprised look filling his eyes while the muscles of his face sagged. His mouth fell open, and taking an uncertain step backwards, he went down.
Shawn spun back to Pete. A fist met him before he had completely turned, jarred him to his heels. He shook off the effects of the blow, lowered his head and moved into the spinning dust stirred up by their scuffling boots. Pete Brock was a confidently grinning, half-crouched shape awaiting him.
Almost instinctively Shawn dropped into the stance he’d been taught: arms forward and crooked at the elbows, fists knotted. Pete’s grin widened.
“A real fancy Dan, eh!” he said, and lunged through the haze.
Starbuck took a slanting step forward, met the rush with a stiff left, again brought over a hard right. Both blows landed high on the outlaw’s head, had little good results. Pete, still grinning, turned, moved in, arms churning.
Shawn ignored the obvious attempt at confusing him, feinted left, dodged to the right and suddenly hammered two stinging blows to the man’s face.
Brock hesitated, frowned. He appeared puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand where the hard-knuckled fists had come from. Shawn watched him narrowly, circled slowly. He slid a glance at Rufe, on his feet, sagged against the wall of the bunkhouse; the man was rubbing at his jaw in a dazed fashion. It was clear he no longer had any interest in the proceedings.
Rutter stood back well out of the way, watching it all with cold, speculative eyes. A bit to his left Tom Gage, hanging onto the reins of the chestnut, was looking on with frank pleasure.
Starbuck, the anger within him now satisfied in pure physical violence, abruptly danced in and flicked Brock on the face with a sliding blow that drew blood. He tapped the outlaw again, lightly, below an eye, brought an immediate welt, followed that with a cross that cracked like a muleskinner’s whip when it landed. Pete yelled in rage and lunged forward.
Shawn blocked the charge with an outstretched left, swiftly complemented that with a solid right. Pete halted abruptly, eyes rolling to the back of his head. He caught himself, raised his arms, came on. Again Shawn landed that vicious combination. The other man’s knees quivered. His hands dropped heavily to his sides. His head sagged forward, and sinking quietly, he sprawled full length in the dust.
Breathing hard, Starbuck threw a look to Rufe and then to Rutter. Neither seemed inclined to pursue the fight. Stepping back, he recovered his pistol from where it had dropped, thrust it into his waistband. Again touching Rutter and Rufe with his eyes, he crossed to where Brock lay.
Nudging Brock with his toe, he straightened him out to where he was flat on his back. Reaching down, Shawn tripped the tongue of the buckle, and pulled the belt free. Hanging it over his shoulder, he dug into Brock’s pockets, drew out a handful of loose coins. Assuming that all belonged to him, he thrust them into his own pocket and turned to face Rutter and Rufe.
“Which one of you slugged me from behind?”
Rutter’s eyes narrowed. “You got your goddam belt back—and your money. Don’t press your luck—leave it at that.”
“Not about to,” Starbuck said tightly. “It you?”
The red-haired man shook his head. “Wasn’t even there,” he murmured.
Shawn’s pressing gaze shifted to Rufe. “Leaves you.”
‘‘Leaves me,” the big man said, and reached for his pistol.
In a single stride Starbuck was on him. With a sweep of his right hand he knocked the weapon to the ground. He caught the man by the arm, swung him half about, smashed a balled fist into his belly. Rufe grunted, doubled over. Instantly a fist thudded into his chin. He straightened up, fell back against the side of the bunkhouse.
From the tail of his eye Shawn saw Rutter drop into a crouch as his hand darted for the pistol on his hip. With a quick, half-turn Starbuck came about, his left hand gripping the forty-five, holding it level on his opponent.
Rutter’s fingers had closed about his weapon, stalled. Somewhere a door opened and closed in the heat-filled hush. Starbuck, his gaze never shifting from Rutter, rode out the dragging moments.
“What’s it to be?” he asked, finally.
Rutter shrugged, allowed his hand to slide off the butt of his pistol. Shawn relaxed slowly, aware now that there were others in the yard watching besides Tom Gage. A well-dressed man was approaching in short, quick strides. Two of the hired help had paused near a corral, and another, pitchfork across his shoulder, was standing in the doorway of the barn. The faces of two women, one young, were at a window of the main house. . . .
“Supposing you both forget about them irons,” the old foreman drawled. “You got some shooting to do, get off the place.”
Rutter swung his attention to Gage, raked him with a contemptuous glance, and moved toward Rufe. Starbuck, breathing easier, shook off the tension that gripped him with a stir of his shoulders, crossed to the chestnut. He nodded crisply to the older man.
“Obliged,” he said, taking the gelding’s leathers. “Didn’t aim to start a—”
“Just what the hell’s going on here?” It was the well-dressed man who had apparently come from the main house. He was slim, business-like, somewhere in his forties. He had graying hair and close-set, dark eyes. This would be Sam Underwood.
Gage nodded genially. “Well, Sam, seems that them friends of yourn must’ve jumped this young fellow, took some of his belongings—that belt he’s holding and a bit of cash. He was just getting it back.”
The rancher frowned. “You know I don’t stand for brawling on my place, Tom—”
“Sure, I know it. But that young rimrocker’s sort of all-of-a-sudden-like in his acting. Wasn’t nothing I could do about it.”
“He a friend of yours?”
“Ain’t never seen him before.”
Underwood’s eyes swept Shawn coolly, appraisingly, and moved on to Rutter and Rufe who were now helping Pete Brock to his feet.
“Mr. Underwood,” Shawn said, “my name’s Starbuck. Fight was no fault of your foreman’s. Rode in to ask—”
The rancher lifted his hand, brushed Shawn aside and moved toward the three defeated men. He pointed to a horse trough near the corrals, and then with a jerk of his head to Rutter, strode across the yard to where a circular bench had been built around the trunk of a large cottonwood tree.
Starbuck watched the man for a moment, and then drawing his pistol, brushed the dust from it, tested its action. Digging into his saddlebags, he withdrew the holster, slid the belt into the fold, and strapped it about his waist. Dropping the weapon into its leather pocket, he again looked to Gage.
“Sorry about the ruckus. When I rode in had other things on my mind—then I saw them.”
“Forget it. Was what I told Sam somewheres close to the truth?”
“Is the truth. Ran into them back in the hills late yesterday. They came at me later in the night—when I was asleep. Rufe—the big one—hit me from behind while I was talking to Brock. Then they robbed me.”
“Expect you’ve cured them of trying that again—on you, anyway,” Gage observed drily, and then shook his head. “Seeing you take on all them three at once, put me in mind of a mustang I roped up Montana way—big and strong and feared of nothing—a real rimrocker, he was.”
Shawn grinned. “Reckon this is the first time I’ve ever been called a horse, but I take it you mean it kindly.” He glanced toward the bench. Rufe and Pete, both dripping from dousing themselves in the trough, had joined Underwood and Rutter.
“They work here?”
“No, sir!” Gage snapped. “Strangers to me. Rode in a couple hours back, looking for Sam. Friends of his, they claimed, and I guess they are from the way they’re talking. Say—that there was about the fanciest job of cutting a man down to size I ever seen! Where’d you learn to use your fists like that?”
“My pa,” Shawn replied, taking the edge of the belt buckle between his fingers and tipping it so the older man could see it better. “He was real good at it. Could have been a champion, I guess if my ma had let him.”
“Well, he sure taught you good. Once seen one of them boxing matches. Over in Fort Worth. Black fellow and his manager, touring the country. From England, they was. Picked himself out the biggest man in the saloon and dang nigh beat him to death.”
Starbuck nodded. “Pa always said a man’s fists could be deadlier than a gun, if they were used right.”
“Amen,” Gage said. He cocked his head to one side. “Appears to me you’ve learned how to use both.”
Shawn’s thick brows pulled together in a frown. “I’m no gunhawk, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you move around a lot, you learn a lot. Things sort of happen to you and you measure up or run. Don’t like running.”
“See what you mean,” Gage said thoughtfully. “Just riding through?”
“Not exactly. Was trying to explain that to Mr. Underwood when he walked off. Came here looking for a man—one working for you.”
“There’s a plenty of them doing that. What’s his name?”
S
hawn Starbuck grinned wryly, knowing beforehand the reaction he would get when he answered the question. It was an old, familiar procedure.
“I don’t rightly know,” he said.
Five
Sam Underwood had been gone when Rutter and the others had arrived. He’d ridden out early that morning to have a look at his south range and, incidentally, to drop by for a few minutes’ chat with Greg Cryden who owned the spread below him. Cryden had been in the country for a long time, was well thought of and his influence in political matters was extensive.
Amy Underwood had met Sam at the door when he returned. Her flaccid, colorless features were drawn with concern and there was a troubled look in her eyes. They were her sole claim to beauty, large, dark and soft as those of a deer—and they were the only thing about her that hadn’t changed since the day of their marriage.
“They came after you rode off,” she had said. “Told me they were old friends of yours from the war. They acted as though I should invite them in, but I didn’t like their looks and told them to wait in the bunkhouse. Who are they, Samuel? Something about them gives me the chills.”
He had shrugged off her distress, but within him a dread had sprung alive as facets of his past stirred in the shadowy recesses of his mind. Was it Guy Rutter and Brock and Rufe Mysak—and Billy Gault? Three men, Amy had said. Someone was missing. Which one? What did they want?
But he had smiled, assured Amy that everything was all right. It wouldn’t do to show alarm in her presence. She never dreamed he could be other than what he had always professed to be—an honest, hard-working, successful rancher well on his way to becoming governor of the Territory.
The same applied to Holly. In the eyes of his stepdaughter, he represented the utmost, a man who could do no wrong—the epitome of what a husband and father should be. To shatter her illusions would break her heart. Maybe he was upsetting himself over nothing, if, indeed, it was Rutter and the rest of the bunch from the Old Fifth Ohio—and he couldn’t be sure of that until he got a look at them. Even if it were them, they could just be riding through, heard he was there, stopped to pass the time of day. Hope rose within him.
