by Ray Hogan
“Be fine,” he said noncommittally.
“I’d like it, too, Shawn,” Holly said and then quickly added, “That’s a strange name. Does it have some special meaning?”
“Indian. Short for Shawnee. Ma gave it to me. She once taught some Shawnee children. Took a fancy to it, I guess.”
“I like the sound of it. She must have been a wonderful person. What was your father like?”
A recollection of Hiram Starbuck rolled through Shawn’s mind, and unconsciously a stillness crept into his tone. “He was a good man. Maybe a bit on the rough side, but you had to be that way back in those days when he was getting started. Learned a lot from him—mostly how to look after myself.”
Holly’s face brightened at once. “Did he teach you to fight the way you were doing yesterday? Father said you were a boxer.”
He looked at her in surprise, then recalled the faces he’d seen in the ranch-house window. “Too bad you had to see that.”
“I’ve seen men fight before,” Holly said. “In Santa Fe—even here on the ranch when nobody knew I was around. I never saw anyone fight the way you did.”
“Pa was very good at it. Used to give exhibitions every Saturday back in Ohio. Men would drive in for miles just to see him put on a match.”
Holly sighed heavily. “You have the most interesting family—and life. I have—well, hardly anything.”
“Only a father who’s probably one of the biggest and most important men in the Territory of New Mexico,” Shawn said with a smile. “And on top of that—everything you want.”
“That’s still nothing when you come right down to it. For me, personally, I mean. Oh, I love the parties and the balls in Santa Fe and Vegas, and things like that, but I still—”
She let it hang there. Shawn gave her a sidelong glance, did not press her for a further explanation. It was best to not get involved in such matters—and besides, if she wanted to unload her troubles on him, it would be not at his insistence. Holly, however, didn’t realize how fortunate she was. He supposed that was normal. Most persons seemed never to understand how well off they were until something changed and it was too late to go back.
The crumbled walls of the pueblo were just ahead. Reaching the first scatter of rock and round-edged mud bricks, they slowly circled the perimeter, cut finally onto a narrow, beaten trail and made their way to the highest point. A few, half-buried wall remnants still remained to form the outline of separate rooms. There were signs of digging here and there. Shawn pointed to the nearest.
“You, or the prairie dogs?”
Holly laughed, swung off her sorrel. “Me. I spent a lot of time here—once.”
Shawn guided his horse to the top ledge, a point where red skinned sentinels had, no doubt, centuries ago maintained watch for hostile invaders.
Abruptly he halted. Four riders had pulled up in the shade of a small tree in a coulee a hundred yards or so distant. He recognized Sam Underwood instantly. And then, one by one, he picked out Guy Rutter, Mysak, and Pete Brock.
They appeared to be discussing something important, with Underwood slightly apart facing his friends and using his hands to emphasize his words. The three men were merely staring at him, listening. Finally Rutter shook his head, and motioning to Brock and Mysak, wheeled about and moved off toward the definite scar of a road that ran on into the west.
“We should get back ...”
Starbuck turned at once and swung the gelding back down the incline to where the girl was scuffing about with the toe of her boot.
“Expect so,” he said glancing at the sun. “Must be getting close to dinner time.”
His mind was not on what he was saying, was instead mulling over the angry scene he had just witnessed. No doubt an argument had been in progress—one Rutter and the others had won simply by riding off.
He started to mention the nearby presence of her father to Holly, thought better of it. If there was something wrong between Sam Underwood and his one-time fellow soldiers, it would be better to let him handle it. Setting the girl to worrying over the father she worshipped would be pointless.
He watched her mount, and then followed her down the trail to the flat where they cut north, heading for the long rise beyond which lay the ranch.
Holly was quiet on the return trip, holding her horse to a steady jog that allowed small opportunity for conversation. That she had something weighty on her mind was evident, however, and when they reached the ridge and were moving toward the bottom of the slope that ended near the ranch house, she suddenly faced Shawn.
“I—I meant what I said about you staying here. I’d like it very much, Shawn.”
He started to voice his regret, cushion his refusal with an explanation as to why that was impossible, but the girl veered away from him sharply, and spurring her long-legged sorrel, raced for the yard, giving him no chance to speak.
He watched her go, his thoughts suddenly dark and heavy. She couldn’t realize how much he would like to stay, should Sam Underwood make him an offer; but it was out of the question unless Henry Smith—
Starbuck cast that from his mind. Too many times hope had risen, only to be dashed to earth again when a man he felt certain would be Ben was not. He’d learned not to allow such hope to arise—only to wait and see. And never make far-reaching plans for the future.
Turning his horse into the yard, he angled toward the corral, seeing Manuel leading Holly’s sorrel into the barn as he crossed over. She was already inside the house, he supposed.
Halting, he stepped down, and immediately began to pull his gear from the chestnut. He heard the hard thud of boot heels behind him, and then Tom Gage’s voice.
“Have yourself a ride?”
Shawn nodded. “Went over to those Indian ruins.”
The foreman nodded and said, “The little gal used to spend a lot of time there, digging about. Many’s the time I had to go scouting after her for her ma. Reckon she had a kind of feeling for the place. Told me once—she weren’t no more’n a little button then, six maybe seven—the only friends she had was the people who used to live in that old pueblo. Seems to have took quite a shine to you.”
“Expect she’s curious, mostly. Same way folks like to look at a two-headed calf,” Starbuck said, throwing his gear over the top bar of the corral.
Gage cocked his head to one side. “Maybe.”
“Anyway,” Shawn said quietly, “that’s all it had better be. Underwood come in yet?”
“Rode in a few minutes ahead of you two. Said he’d put his friends to work on the north range. Set them to drifting some stock over onto new grass.”
Starbuck stared off across the low hills. When he had seen the rancher he was well south of the ranch—not north. And Rutter and the others certainly were not engaged in moving cattle. Again he reminded himself that it was no business of his, but he did voice one question.
“That road near the ruins. Looks fairly well traveled. Where’s it go?”
“Las Vegas. It’s the main one. Cuts across Sam’s land from the east. Come on, best we grab ourselves a bite to eat before the cook gets all worked up.”
Nine
The afternoon passed and Henry Smith put in no appearance. Shawn whiled away the hours helping Manuel, the hostler, in the stable, working with Sam Underwood’s prize horses, currying, brushing them vigorously, cleaning their hooves and generally performing all the small tasks he took pleasure in.
The rancher had a fine string of horses for the personal use of himself and his family: a matched team of whites to draw a gleaming black surrey, Holly’s sorrel, a bay for his own use, and another white that was Mrs. Underwood’s but which she now, according to Manuel, seldom rode.
Shawn had an easy, natural way with animals, and he enjoyed working with them. When darkness came and the cook announced the evening meal with a loud clanging on an iron bar hanging just outside the kitchen door, Underwood’s riding and driving stock never looked in better condition.
“If y
ou can spare yourself,” Tom Gage said from the doorway of the barn, “it’s time to be eating again.”
Starbuck grinned, washed up and went to the crew’s dining quarters with the foreman. When they had seated themselves at the long table, Gage glanced around and shrugged.
“Them friends of Sam’s ain’t showed up yet. Was they around this afternoon while I was gone?”
Shawn said, “Didn’t see them. Was in the barn most of the time, though.”
He could have gone further into the matter, told how he had seen Rutter, with Brock and Mysak, riding west on the Las Vegas road after their meeting with Underwood, but again he felt it was no business of his and so remained silent. If Gage pressed the subject, however, he would be forced to tell. He owed that much to the old man.
But he’d drop it there, not bother him with an accounting of his meeting with the three men that previous night, and a report of the ultimatum Guy Rutter had issued. He had decided that before and he’d stick with it. His problems were his own. If Rutter intended to make something of his presence at Underwood’s when they came face to face again, he’d handle it himself. Tom Gage had enough worries.
“Senor … ”
Starbuck, roused from his thoughts, turned to see a small Mexican boy at his elbow.
“The patron is send me to say he would talk with you.” A smile parted the young, dark face as he swung then to Gage. “You will also come, Senor Caporal.”
Tom squeezed the boy’s arm affectionately. “All right, Juanito. Well be there’s soon as we’re done.”
The youngster trotted off, disappearing into a hallway that apparently led deeper into the main house. Gage studied his coffee.
“Now, I wonder what Sam’s got squirming around in his mind?”
Starbuck grinned, resumed his meal. “Maybe he doesn’t like drifters going riding with his daughter.”
“Could be,” the foreman replied laconically.
When they had finished, Gage led the way—not through the corridor, but out into the yard and along a path that circled to the front of the house.
“Sam’s missus don’t allow the hired hands to go traipsing across her carpets no more,” he explained. “Was a time when it was fine with her, but since they got to be such biggity folks, we ain’t welcome inside. Sam’s even built hisself a office at the end of the front porch. That’s close as we can get to being under his roof. Amy Underwood’s a fine woman but she’s sure changed.”
“You’ve worked for Sam a long time?” Starbuck asked as they rounded the end of the structure and stepped up onto the wide gallery.
“Since he bought the place from Jud Higgins—right after he hit this country. Might say I sort of come with the land. Was Jud’s foreman, too.”
Underwood was seated behind a massive, carved desk when they entered his business quarters. It was a fairly large room and several lithographs and calendars hung on the walls in the company of the mounted head of a large mule deer. No carpet covered the floor but there were half a dozen or so comfortable cowhide chairs arranged to face the desk.
“Wanted to tell you,” Gage began before he was even seated, “them three yahoos you hired never showed up for supper. You reckon they’ve gone and got themselves lost?”
The rancher stirred, laid aside the sheaf of papers through which he was leafing. “Guess I forgot to mention it. Told them they could ride in to Vegas after they got that stock moved. Seems they felt like blowing off a little steam.”
“Damn it, Sam!” Gage exploded irritably. “You ought to tell a man when you do something like that. Can’t run a ranch with two of us giving orders.”
Starbuck listened, surprised at Underwood’s words. It had appeared from the hill that Rutter and the two men with him had made their own decision about visiting Las Vegas. And there was the additional fact that they had not been working, were far from the north range. Why would the rancher lie to his own foreman?
“Understand from my daughter, Starbuck, that you’re sort of taken with my place.”
Shawn became aware that the rancher was speaking to him. He nodded. “It’s a fine ranch, Mr. Underwood.”
“Call me Sam, same as everybody else. It took a lot of hard work to build it up—on my part and Tom’s, too. Owe him plenty.”
Some of the anger faded from the old foreman’s eyes. “Reckon we can stack the Sunrise brand up against the best of them seven days a week,” he said. “There something you wanted to talk about?”
Underwood opened a desk drawer and withdrew a box of cigars. He offered the container to Gage who selected one, eyed it appreciatively. Shawn declined. When he did smoke, which wasn’t often, he preferred a cigarette. The rancher chose a cigar for himself, settled back.
“Had it in mind to offer Starbuck a job,” he said. “Being my foreman, I naturally wanted you to set in on the talking.”
“Doing what?” Gage asked, frowning. “Sure’d like to have him around but we’ve got more cowhands than cows now, seems like.”
“Wasn’t exactly thinking of him as a cowhand.”
Gage’s frown deepened. He bit off the end of his stogie, searched about for a match. Shawn, mulling the rancher’s words through his mind, glanced out the window. Evidently Holly had used her persuasive powers on her father. He guessed he could use a job for a while but he wasn’t so sure it would be wise to accept one from Underwood—not with the girl around.
“Then what—”
The rancher leaned forward, features intent. “You know how things are shaping up for me, Tom. All this talk of the governor’s chair, and there’s a good chance I’ll be buying Ira Cameron out at the bank, taking over the whole shebang as sole owner.”
“Figured it’d come to that someday. Ira’s getting a mite old.”
“Means I’ve got to do a lot of running around and such. I need a good man—one I can trust to sort of be, well, my right hand. Like you are here on the ranch. I leave the running of it to you and never worry about it. Now I need the same sort of man to go with me—”
“A hired gun?” Starbuck asked quietly.
The rancher studied the still unlit end of his smoke. “I suppose you might put it that way—but you’d be more of my assistant. You’d have jobs to do, errands to run. Important at times that I get a message to certain men, maybe in Vegas, or maybe in Santa Fe. Sending it by stagecoach mail is too slow. You’d carry it personally. Be a hell of a lot faster and I’d know for sure it was getting delivered to the right party.
“I suppose there’d be some bodyguarding to it. Tom can tell you there’s times when I’m carrying quite a bit of money on me—times I’m out buying stock or picking up a piece of land—things like that. I’d sure feel easier having you along with me then. Seeing the way you handled yourself with Rutter and Pete and Rufe Mysak’s what gave me the idea. You be interested in that kind of a job?”
Starbuck shifted in his chair. “Done it before, but I’m not exactly interested in a job—leastwise not until I’ve talked to Henry Smith. After that I’ll know where I stand.”
“What’s Henry got to do with it?”
“Starbuck’s a-lookin’ for his brother,” Gage explained. “Ain’t seen him in ten year or better. Thinks maybe Henry’s him.”
Underwood stroked his closely shaved chin. “And if he is?”
Shawn said, “Means we’ve both got a long ride back to Ohio ahead of us.”
“If not?”
“I start looking again.”
The rancher smiled. “Then I don’t see how putting you to work for me would interfere much with your plans. You could stay on for two, three months while things are busy for me and until I could find another man to take your place. Then you could move on if you like. Man living the way you are probably has to stop every now and then to build up his cash, anyway.”
Shawn said, “You’re right.” He was more or less at that point now—but with Holly close by—running into her. . . .
“Pay’d be a hundred a month and found.
”
Starbuck swallowed. That was good money. Even if he worked only two or three months he’d have enough cash in his pockets to carry him on through winter. It was an offer he couldn’t afford to turn down; where Holly was concerned he’d just have to keep looking the other way, keep his mind on his job.
“It’s a deal. You’ve hired yourself a messenger boy, or whatever you want to call me. Want it understood, however, that if Henry Smith turns out to be my brother, it’s all off.”
“Fair enough,” Underwood said, slapping the top of his desk. “You can bunk down—”
“He’s staying in my cabin,” Gage broke in. “After that go around he had with your friends, I figured he’d best not be in the same room with them.”
“Good,” the rancher said, rising to show that the interview was at an end. “Don’t have anything particular for you to do at present, but hang around close, keep yourself available.”
Shawn extended his hand, shook that of the rancher. His thoughts flipped back to the incident near the Indian ruins.
“There anything I should know—maybe about somebody I ought to watch out for or keep an eye on?”
Sam Underwood wagged his head. “Not a soul. Guess you might say I’m everybody’s friend. I make a habit of keeping it that way.”
Ten
Starbuck and Tom Gage were standing in front of the wagon shed late the next morning when Guy Rutter, flanked by Brock and a dozing Rufe Mysak, rode in. Immediately, the old foreman, eyes burning, stepped out to meet them.
“Where the hell you been?” he demanded.
Mysak came awake with a start. Rutter, mouth set to a crooked line, shrugged. “I reckon we’re a mite late.”
“You’re damned right you are. You’re supposed to be working, same as the rest of the hands on this ranch.”
Brock rested his arms on the saddle horn. “Maybe Mr. Underwood forgot to tell you we was taking us a little ride into town.”
