by Dean Owen
“Ed, we’re going to have trouble at roundup. I feel it. Ward is going to try and widen the chasm between Stallart and me. This business of Mrs. Stallart and—” Rim broke off, feeling disgust that Stallart would believe such vicious gossip.
“I’ve knowed Stallart a lot longer than you have, Rim,” Ed Rule said quietly, after looking around to make sure that no one was within earshot. The men were riding out, some of them instructed by Rim to make a wide circle and see if they could note any unusual activity on the part of their nearest neighbor, Eric Ward.
“Stallart was married before,” Ed Rule said.
Rim looked around at the old cook. “I didn’t know that.”
“Some girl in Kansas. He never talked much about it. But a time or two he got kind of heavy with whisky and he unburdened himself, so to speak. He caught this wife of his with somebody else and there was a killing.”
“Who was the man?”
“Stallart never told me. When he sobered up he made me swear I’d never say nothing about it. But I figure you ought to know, Rim. Maybe you can understand now why Stallart is so all-fired easy to sway with talk about you and Marcy.”
“Everything in Stallart’s life seems to point back to Kansas. He knew Jellick there.”
“I told you what I know about that, Rim.” Ed Rule shook his gray head. “Stallart had bad luck with one marriage. A thing like that primes a man to look for the worst in a woman, if somebody is nudging him just right.”
“A man has tough luck with a horse,” Rim said. “It doesn’t mean he’s going to be afoot for the rest of his life just because one horse went bad on him.”
“There’s hell shapin’ up, Rim. I got a bad feeling about it.”
“So have I.”
CHAPTER SIX
Rim took three men and rode up on ridges to see if he could see any of T’s riders. But they saw nothing. In this country it was customary for one rancher to notify another concerning roundup camps to be established. Only Sabers, to the west of Anchor had sent over a rep to say that if it was all right with Stallart and Rim Bolden, first camp would be on the West Fork of the Gila.
Rim had seen no objection to that and asked Stallart for his opinion. Stallart grunted something and stalked away. Rim told the Sabers rep that he would be there with his crew at the designated time.
Today Rim was on the way back to Anchor headquarters after his fruitless scouting expedition when one of the men, Rupe Simpson, swung his horse over to Rim’s dun. Simpson had been chewing a ropy cigar for the past hour.
“I’m plumb outa fire, Rim,” he said, his long sunburned face smiling. “Could you give me the loan of a match?”
Rim was staring down through a dense thicket of jack-pines. His dun’s ears were twitching and he felt a sudden tenseness in the air. The other two men were slightly ahead and to Rim’s right. They rode with stirrups touching, and their conversation concerned the talent Daisy would import from Mesilla and Paso for the week or so following roundup when everyone sort of relaxed.
Simpson leaned close to take the match Rim held out for him. Rim was watching the trees ahead. Simpson said, “Thanks,” and the ears of Rim’s dun twitched again.
Simpson struck the match on the worn underside of his saddlehorn and at that moment, Rim said, “Watch it, boys.”
He didn’t know why he voiced the warning, save that his nerves were keyed up. If you spooked every time your horse showed a twitching at the ears you could dismounted half the time with a rifle in your hands. Because it could be a bob cat in the trees, or a bear, or just a saddle bum that could cause a horse to be jumpy.
When Rim spoke Simpson looked up to see why he had voiced the warning. The match was flaming and the heat scorched the tips of his fingers. Swearing, he involuntarily dropped the match. It struck the right foreleg of Rim’s dun. The horse leaped, all four hoofs off the ground. Its tail swung around, sideswiping Simpson’s bay. Simpson, leaning far over in the saddle, was forced to grab the horn to keep from being spilled.
Rim was fighting down his dun, looking back at Simpson. He saw the bridge of Simpson’s nose explode in that moment. Saw a flying splinter of white bone no larger than the end of a man’s little finger. And then as Simpson was falling, there came the crash of a heavy rifle from some point deep in the jackpines ahead. Simpson’s bay lunged frantically and its rider went sideways out of the saddle, the right foot caught solidly in the stirrup. As Rim drew his rifle, the bay cut crazily across his dun’s nose, sending the horse into another fit of bucking.
“Take cover!” Rim was yelling, but the other two men didn’t have to be told. They broke their horses apart, dragging up rifles from saddle boots.
They began firing indiscriminately into the jackpines. With his dun at last under control, Rim sat in his saddle, scanning the trees.
He swallowed and his throat was suddenly sand-dry. “Save your shells!” he cautioned the men. No more shots came from the trees. He signaled the two men and they drove in spurs and quickly reached the shelter of some large boulders at the base of a brushy hill.
The bay horse was still running and as it made a wide swing, the foot of its rider became dislodged. Simpson rolled loosely.
“Get the horse,” Rim ordered. Then, rifle in hand, he rode slowly into the trees. The hoofbeats of a running horse came to him faintly. At last he found where the ambusher had stood. The prints of the two boots were large. He saw where the man had swung into the saddle and ridden quickly to the north. He followed the tracks for a quarter of a mile; tracks made by a big horse, carrying a big man. The tracks led toward broken country where it would be hard to trail. One ambush a day was enough, and he had no intention of running into a second.
When he rode back he was drenched with sweat. He peered down at Simpson who looked now like a dusty torn sack of clothing. Rim never got used to a sight like this. A boyhood in Texas where death was as common as Sunday, four years of war had never conditioned him. There was no way at all to identify the man on the ground if they hadn’t known who he was. The face was gone, scraped on hard ground and rock.
The man bending over Simpson’s body was white about the mouth. He was a kid, Charlie Daws, the youngest hand at Anchor, next to Willie Temple, Marcy’s brother. “He’s dead,” the kid said, awed.
“Dead before he hit the ground,” Rim said. He put a hand to his face, feeling his strong bony nose against the palm of his hand. There but for the grace of God—
“Who done it?” Charlie Daws asked in a shaking voice.
“A big man on a big horse,” Rim said and hoped the younger man didn’t notice the tremor in his voice. It was the same as it had been in the war. You led your men, and even though you wanted to turn to the nearest bush and empty your guts because of the things you’d seen, you had to act tough. You had to act as if one man dead or a hundred made no difference. You were in a fight and if the men felt you as their leader were frightened, what would it do to their morale?
“You mean Jellick done this?” the second man said. He was Tom Niles, a swarthy man with a scar that made a white cross on his right cheek.
“Jellick had nothin’ against Simpson,” Charlie Daws said. “He only—”
“It’s only a guess about Jellick,” Rim said, putting ice in his voice. “But a good one. He wasn’t shooting at Simpson. He was shooting at me.” Rim looked toward the trees. Green branches stirred quietly in the breeze that had come up. It was hard to realize that deep in that greenery had lurked a rifleman with death in his sights.
Charlie Daws looked angry. “You don’t seem to give much of a damn whether Simpson is dead or not.”
“Listen, kid,” Rim said. “It’s over and done. Thing to do now is to get back to headquarters.”
They came in at sundown with the body of Simpson slung over the back of the bay he had ridden out that morning. By lantern light they had a second funeral.<
br />
Stallart said, when the brief ceremony was over, “How the hell do you know it was Jellick?” And when Rim told his partner about the tracks, Stallart said, “That don’t mean nothing. Maybe some fella was packing a grudge for Simpson. Card game, or a woman or anything—”
“You don’t want me going after Jellick, is that it?”
“I never said that,” Stallart muttered. “But good God, Rim, you got to have proof.”
“If I killed Jellick,” Rim said quietly, “then you’d no longer have him on your back.”
Stallart had started for the house where lamplight spilled from the windows and touched the hoof-packed yard. He swung back. “What’d you mean by that?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Jellick wouldn’t be around to hold it over you,” Rim said. “Whatever it was that you did back in Kansas.”
Stallart made a low, strangling sound in his throat. And Rim was on his guard, half-expecting the man to lash out with a heavy fist. But the steam seemed to suddenly go out of Stallart. He dropped his hands. “Stay away from Jellick. It’s my doings and I’ll handle it in my own way.”
“Your way may not be the right one. Simpson was our man. He’s dead. You going to let them get away with that?”
“We got a sheriff, haven’t we?” Stallart snapped.
“Yes, we have. I’ll go into town tomorrow and have a talk with him.”
“If you’re going to town,” Stallart said angrily, “you can drive in that woman. She’s stayed here too long as it is.”
Since the unfortunate night when Ellamae had appeared at the ranch Stallart always referred to her as that woman.
In the morning Rim had the wagon driven up to the cookshack by one of the hands. Then with belted gun, and rifle and shotgun lashed in boots tied to the seat braces, Rim called for Ellamae. She came out of the house, wearing the cloak and the bonnet. The cloak fit her loosely now. Without a word she climbed into the wagon. Marcy came out, her dark eyes worried.
“Good-by, Ellamae,” she said. “Write to me.”
“I’ll pay you back, Marcy,” Ellamae said, without looking at her. “Every cent.”
Marcy looked quickly around the yard, her eyes concerned. “Please. I told you never to let on. I don’t want—”
“You don’t want your fine husband to know you gave me a few dollars,” Ellamae said, her lips curling. “Don’t worry.”
“Good luck, Ellamae.”
“One thing he can’t take from me,” the girl said bitterly. “My name. It’s Stallart, the same as his. I’m going to make him proud of the name. Real proud.”
She blew her nose as Rim drove her out. “Uncle Bert could’ve taken me when I was a kid. When my father died. But he didn’t. He left me in Joplin with that woman he called Aunt Rosie. I never had a chance to be anything decent, Rim.”
“Most of us never had much of a chance. But most of us make out one way or another.”
“There’s never been a woman who’s suffered like me.”
“I remember a woman in Atlanta. Raped by a bunch of drunken soldiers. She said, ‘Rim, when the war is over I’ll make a new life.’ And she did.”
“I don’t believe you.” She clenched her small hands. He could see the faint down on her cheeks. “When I felt my baby coming I wanted to be something good. I—I thought maybe even you’d marry me. Although I suppose that was the craziest thing a woman could ever think.”
“I don’t love you, Ellamae. If I did it might not make any difference—about the baby. I don’t know. A man never knows those things until he’s faced with it.”
They went the rest of the way in silence. In LaVentana he cramped the wagon against a hitchrail and tied the team. “I’ll buy you a stage ticket if you’ll tell me where you’re going.”
Ellamae gave him a frozen smile. “I don’t intend to go anywhere. I’ll stay here. Right in LaVentana.”
Without a backward glance she swept into the lobby of the hotel, her skirts raising a small cloud of dust.
Rim shrugged. Well, it was none of his affair. As he had all along he felt sorry for her. But she wasn’t going to gain anything if she tried to get back at her Uncle Bert. Better that she take the money Marcy had given her and try to make a fresh start. He knew the folly of vengeance. He’d tried to live with it in Texas after the war, but he grew tired of those men whose lives were dedicated to the reliving of the war, saying if this hadn’t happened, or that happened, or the damned British, or Lee not being where he should have been or Pickett making his senseless infantry charge when any fool knew that if you put a horse under a man he was twice as formidable. On and on—Wait till next year, boys. There’ll be another rebellion, wait and see. This one’ll be a success—
Rim walked down to the sheriff’s office. He found Sheriff Jared Dort shaping a piece of clay into an Indian head. It was a fairly good job, Rim had to admit. Dort looked around, his hands dripping from the tin basin he had been dipping them in.
“Surprised to see you in town, Bolden,” Dort grunted. “Ain’t you boys started roundup yet?”
Rim leaned against a table the sheriff used as his desk. “I’ve got something important to talk about.”
“Well, talk ahead,” Dort grumbled. He kept fussing with the nose of the clay head he was working on.
“I watched a man’s nose splintered under a rifle shell yesterday,” Rim said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jared Dort’s back stiffened. “Who got shot?”
Rim swallowed his irritation. Dort didn’t afford him a spare glance even. Since coming here last year Rim had sensed the sheriff’s unfriendliness, but had been unable to find a basis for it.
Rim told about the shooting of Simpson. He described the sign he had found where the ambusher had fired his shot and then ridden off. Still Dort said nothing. He knew Dort had fought for the South, so this couldn’t be the reason for his evident dislike.
“I’ll stake my life that it was Meade Jellick,” Rim said. “Trying for me. But he got Simpson by mistake.”
“You got proof?” Dort dipped his hands in the tin basin and then began pressing his fingers into the soft clay.
“I just told you my proof,” Rim said, trying to hold himself in.
“You call a few tracks proof?”
“It’s good enough for me.”
“Ain’t good enough for me,” the sheriff retorted. “So don’t take up my time.”
“Yes, I can see you’re busy.” Rim waved impatiently at the clay head. “But unless I’m mistaken we pay you for keeping the peace. Not for fooling with clay—”
Sheriff Dort looked around. He had a square face. His eyes under a brushy slope of brows were set deep in his skull. His hair as well as his mustache needed trimming. They said he had failed as a miner and rancher before somehow managing to get himself elected sheriff.
“You come in town the other day and you mess up one of our leading citizens,” Dort said. “Eric Ward, I’m talkin’ about. Now you come to me with some story about Meade Jellick killing one of your men.”
“I can see I’m wasting my time.”
“No, you’re wasting my time!” Sheriff Dort snapped. “Hold on there, Bolden!”
Rim had started for the door. Now he looked around, waiting. Dort came up slowly, wiping his clay-smeared fingers on a dirty towel.
“You talk about proof,” Dort said. “You goddam Texans don’t know what proof means.”
“So that’s why you hate my guts. Because I’m from Texas.”
“Lemme tell you about proof,” Dort said. “When the war was two years done my brother—my kid brother—got away from some damn blue bellies that had him took prisoner. He was in his underwear and he stole a suit from a ranch house. He was trying to get back to his own side. But some of you goddam Texans full of Chisos Whisky, got him. They said he was a spy because he didn’
t have his uniform. They said they didn’t need no proof. And they hung my kid brother. I been saving myself a hate for any Texan I seen from that day on. You see how I feel, Bolden?”
“I’m sorry about your brother. A lot of things happened in the war—”
“I wear this badge and I do what the job calls for. If you come in here with a witness that seen one man kill another I’ll go after the killer. Don’t come in here and tell me that just because you seen sign of a big hoss and a big man you got proof. Your goddam Texas proof don’t mean a damn to me.”
“There’s going to be trouble hereabout, Dort,” Rim said. “I just thought I’d let you know about it.”
“You cut too wide a circle,” the sheriff warned, shaking a moist forefinger, “and I’ll get me the same kind of a Texas rope that killed my brother.”
“I’m a property owner here, Dort. I help pay your salary. I’m not going to be pushed by anybody, understand?”
“You speaking for Bert Stallart or just yourself?”
“Both of us.”
“Well, I wonder about that.” Dort picked at a piece of clay stuck to his jaw. “A lot of folks never could figure why Bert Stallart would take you in as a partner.”
“That’s Stallart’s business—and mine!”
Rim walked out. Even though the spring sun was warm he felt as if he’d been drenched with ice water. He didn’t even go to the saloon for a drink. He bought a bottle at the store, then drove for Anchor. Outside town he uncorked the bottle and took a long pull. He felt that this had been a very bad day. It had been a very bad two weeks, when you stopped to think about it. Everything seemed to go to hell from the moment Ellamae Stallart, heavy with child, stepped out of the stage coach in LaVentana.
Five miles along the road he saw a horseman angling for the road. The rider, on a gray, cut down from some aspens growing close to the hills. Without taking his eyes from the rider Rim reached down and with one hand freed his rifle from the boot lashed to the seat brace. Then he recognized the rider. It was Tut Tyler.
