‘Take it down by the creek, then,’ said George.
‘All right. Let’s go.’ Pete turned and tramped out of the house. George gave Riley an apologetic look and shrugged. He seemed surprised that Riley didn’t look scared. Riley walked out into the night and George followed. Pete was walking ahead of them, headed for the first creek. When they reached the creek, he was waiting there on a flat piece of ground.
Pete demanded: ‘How’d you want it? Knives or guns?’
That stopped Riley short. He hadn’t given a thought to weapons. College-trained, he thought of a fight in terms of fists. Guns and knives meant the possibility of being killed and of killing. He recoiled from the thought.
‘Fists,’ he said.
Pete sounded astonished.
‘Fists,’ he said. ‘I never fought with fists in my life. What kind of a fight is that?’
Riley said: ‘You’ll find out, won’t you?’
Pete laughed. Suddenly, he liked the idea. This gently reared boy was soft. He’d take him apart with his bare hands. The thought appealed to him.
‘Keno,’ he said.
George said: ‘Shuck your guns, boy. An’ I don’t want any gougin’. ‘
Pete said: ‘You the referee?’
‘Right.’
‘Just remember the referee can git his neck broke, too.’
Riley took off his jacket and unbuckled his gun-belt. He wasn’t scared as he had been when guns and knives had been mentioned. He had been taught by a professional how to use his fists. He squared up to Pete who laughed and said: ‘Look at that now—ain’t that fancy?’
George said: ‘Git on with it.’
Pete gave a great shout, lowered his head and charged.
Riley sidestepped, Pete missed him by a mile, tripped and measured his length full on the ground. The yell was cut short as he bit dirt. He got to his feet swearing foully and with some skill. He stood staring at Riley’s dim form in the moonlight and charged again. Riley rode back from the attack, drove two fast lefts in under the heart and snapped over a right for the head. He caught Pete high on the head and staggered him. The cowhand stood panting, unable to believe that he had not thrown the other over and trampled on him.
Pete said: ‘I’m goin’ to kill you.’
‘You’d better get on with it then,’ Riley said calmly.
Pete came on again, this time showing a little caution. Riley danced around him, lightly on his toes, darting out that cultivated left, stinging Pete with three jabs to the face. Blood showed darkly on the cowhand’s face. He backed up and Riley followed, jabbing to the body and coming over with that deadly right. This time, Pete went down under the rain of well-placed blows. George expected Riley to go in with the boot, but the boy merely stood back and waited for Pete to get up. Pete and George looked at him in open astonishment.
‘What’s the matter?’ Pete demanded. ‘You had enough?’
‘I was letting you get up.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s the rules.’
Pete got to his feet, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand and said: ‘There ain’t no rules, sonny.’
George thought that Riley looked a little shocked in the moonlight.
Pete advanced. Riley took up his pugilist’s pose, left fist forward in the classic position, right arm crooked so that his stomach, chest and face were protected. George couldn’t quite understand why because he didn’t see Pete using his fists. Pete now kicked Riley hard on his left knee. Riley let out a yell and dropped his guard. Pete kicked him in the crotch. Riley doubled up in agony and it looked like Pete kicked him in the face. Wherever Pete kicked him, Riley went down as if he had been pole-axed. He lay squirming on the ground making noises like a man in great pain.
Pete gave a little laugh of savage delight and jumped forward to put the boot in. Had the kick landed there is little doubt that some of Riley’s ribs would have been cracked. However, to the astonishment of both Pete and the watching George, Pete’s right ankle was gripped by a pair of strong hands, Riley rose to one knee and Pete hit the ground so hard that the wind went out of him making a sound like a dying church organ. While he was lying there, Riley got slowly and painfully to his feet, took two short strides toward Pete’s almost inert body and dropped with both knees on his belly. The last remaining ounce of breath went out of Pete.
Riley got to his feet, backed up a yard or two and stood holding his groins. His face was all twisted up with pain.
George said: ‘I reckon that just about makes it quits.’
Riley said: ‘You keep out of this, Storm.’
Pete whispered: ‘I’m goin’ to kill this yeller-livered bastard with my own bare hands.’ He tried to get to his feet and didn’t have much success.
Riley said: ‘You’re going to crawl, Hasso. And while you’re doing it, you’re going to be spitting your teeth out and begging for mercy.’
Pete rolled over and rose to his hands and knees, saying in a whimpering snarl: ‘Listen to girlie.’
‘I’ll give you girlie if you can get on your feet,’ Riley informed him.
Slowly Pete rose to his feet.
Riley danced in and punched him one-two with two fast lefts to the nose. Blood streamed afresh. Pete staggered back. But he didn’t go far. He shook his head to clear it and advanced slowly and with determination. Pete gave him a couple of more jabs to the face and a right under the heart, but he could not stop that slow and sure advance. Pete grabbed the front of his shirt with both his hands and brought his knee up. Riley howled. Still gripping the shirt, Pete lugged Riley toward him and butted him in the face.
Riley started walking backward.
George called: ‘Look out.’
Riley said: ‘I beg your pardon,’ turned and stepped off into the creek.
He landed with a very loud splash.
‘What do you know about that?’ Pete said in wonder. He and George walked to the edge of the creek and watched Riley floundering about in the water. He was saying incoherent things. Pete said with the air of a man making a great discovery: ‘I could drown the bastard.’
He climbed down the bank and waded into the shallows.
George said: ‘I think you both had enough.’
Pete told him what he could go do to himself. George got mad and told him to watch his fool tongue or he’d kick his butt from there to Denver. Pete laughed with his mashed mouth and said that was all right with him if he wanted to try it when he was through with the college boy. He caught Riley by the hair and shoved his head under. Riley fought like a hooked fish. George started down the bank, somewhat alarmed. But he need not have been. The next instant, Riley seemed to rear up out of the water and then Pete was down. The spray hit George.
Pete got to his feet and reached for Riley who hit him hard in the belly. Pete doubled up and Riley lifted him from his feet with an upper cut that must have been heard over at the house. Pete arched backward and went under with a great deal of noise.
Riley walked out of the shallows and mounted the bank.
George said: ‘You had enough. The pair of you.’
Riley said: ‘I’ve had enough, Storm, if Hasso doesn’t come out of the water.’
Pete came out of the water very slowly. He climbed the bank even more slowly. He and Riley stood dripping there, panting for breath and eyeing each other.
Suddenly, Pete ran at Riley with his head down. He got Brack’s boy clean amidships and Brack’s boy went down over the bank and back into the water again. The noises that came up to the two above were rather like a whale with indigestion. Then Riley rose to his feet, cascading water and climbed the bank again. When he reached the top, Pete tried to kick him in the face, but again Riley caught his foot and put him on his back.
He tried to drop his knees into Pete’s belly again, but this time the cowhand rolled and Riley missed. They both lay down on the ground near complete exhaustion.
When they rose slowly to their feet, George said: ‘AH ri
ght, you’ve had your fun, now I’m stopping this.’
‘You go to hell,’ said Riley.
‘I hate to agree with college boy,’ said Pete, ‘but you do just that.’ He started forward. George tried to bar his way. Pete barged into George and drove him back at Riley who clipped him smartly on the right temple. The referee staggered from the fight and collapsed on the ground. The two combatants met. Riley hit Pete once with a blow that would not have felled an infant; Pete tried to butt him in the face. Then they leaned on each other. George staggered to his feet, got between them and forced them apart. They turned on him as one man and he backed off.
A voice said: ‘All right, boys, we’ll call it quits.’
They all turned. Will Storm stood there in the moonlight.
‘Good grief, pa,’ George said in surprise, ‘how’d you git here.’
‘I reckon they heard you up to Denver,’ Will said. ‘I said let the two young fools kill each other, but the women’re soft-hearted and they asked me to only let you batter each other senseless.’
‘I had him just about to crawl, boss,’ Pete said indistinctly.
Will said coldly: ‘You look as if you don’t have the strength to crawl yourself.’
‘One more left-right, Mr. Storm,’ Riley said, holding his crotch, ‘and he’d have been out for the count.’
Will nodded sagely.
‘It was a purty good fight, boys, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘Now it finishes. And it won’t start again while you’re on Lazy S. Hear? Shake hands.’
Pete looked aghast.
‘I’d take my time rather’n do that,’ he said.
‘I’d count my fingers after I did it,’ Riley said.
Will said: ‘College boy fought well, didn’t he, Pete?’
Pete thought about that and finally nodded begrudgingly and said: ‘Sure. He done purty well considerin’. First off, that fancy stuff sure had me buffaloed.’
‘And the ignorant cowhand, Riley,’ said Will, ‘he gave you a good fight?’
‘Surely,’ said Riley. ‘He doesn’t know a single rule, but he proved he can fight.’
‘In short, boys, you both proved you have sand. Right?’
‘I reckon,’ said Pete.
‘I guess,’ said Riley.
‘Now shake hands before I bang your fool thick heads together.’
Pete gave a battered grin. He stuck out his hand. Riley followed suit. They shook.
‘Now,’ said Will, ‘clean up and get some sleep. I have another sound outa you two colts tonight an’ I’ll throw you to Mrs. Storm.’
They nodded. Will turned and walked away. George followed him. The two gladiators looked at one another and walked after them, side by side. They walked very slowly.
When they were inside their sleeping quarters, they looked at each other.
‘You’d best clean up that face,’ Riley said. ‘You get dirt in those cuts and you could have a bad time.’
Pete shrugged and said: ‘I been cut before. Hey, it was a lulu, wasn’t it? Hey, George, wasn’t it a lulu.’
George said: ‘I was neutral and you both struck me. You wait. Tomorrow I ain’t neutral, so you two sneaky bastards had best look out.’
Riley said: ‘Let’s get this straight. Why did you fight me, Pete?’
Pete thought about that for a while. Then he said: ‘I didn’t like the way you looked at Miss Kate, if you must know.’
George said: ‘You’re talking about my sister.’
They both said together: ‘You keep out of this.’
Riley said: ‘I’ll look at her any way I like. I intend to marry her.’
‘What?’ shouted George.
‘You’re wastin’ your time, Rile,’ said Pete. ‘She can’t marry two men. It ain’t legal. An’ I made up my mind to marry her myself.’
‘Since when?’ roared George.
‘Since the minute I set eyes on her last year.’
‘Does she know about this?’
‘Nary a thing.’
‘Did you ought to ask her first?’
‘All in good time. What makes you think she’d marry a dude who don’t know one end of a cow from the other, Rile?’ Pete demanded.
‘And what makes you think she’d marry a broken-down cowhand?’ Riley enquired with as much force.
George said: ‘My sister ain’t marryin’ neither of you two fools. She has too much sense.’
‘Broken-down cowhand, is it?’ Pete said. ‘What do you have to offer, Rile? Your old man throwed you out, didn’t he? You got so much to offer?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Riley. ‘But I shall make my way.’
‘You’d best make it damn quick,’ George put in. ‘Every man in the country wants to marry Kate.’
‘Anybody gits between me and my intended,’ Pete said through his teeth, ‘an’ you’ll be plantin’ him.’
‘That goes for me too,’ said Riley.
‘You see,’ George said, ever the peacemaker. ‘You two have one thing in common.’
‘You’re right,’ said Riley, ‘we do.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pete, ‘you can say that again.’
Riley said: ‘I don’t intend standing here talking all night. You needn’t think this is finished, Hasso. I’ll knock your teeth down your throat before I’m through. No girl’d look at a man with no teeth.’
Pete said: ‘A Hasso without no teeth is worth two Bracks with a full set.’
‘Will you two shut up and get some sleep?’ George wailed.
‘All right,’ said Riley. ‘But don’t fool yourself this thing is finished. Because it isn’t.’
‘You bet it ain’t,’ said Pete. ‘For my part it ain’t even started.’
They heaved off their boots and retired to their blankets. Neither was sorry to rest himself. They both ached. They both knew they’d had a fight.
Before he slept, Riley thought: That Hasso isn’t good enough for her. She’d never marry him. I reckon even dad would be won over by her, even if she is a Storm.
Pete thought: Kate’s a cow-country girl. She wouldn’t take up with a dude like that Riley Brack. Naw, she’ll take a shine to a tough ridin’ man. Like me, for instance.
Chapter Nine
Mort Cromby found the excitement mounting in him. He liked to hunt and kill things. The ultimate was to hunt and kill a man. To track down and kill a man with a reputation like that of Mart Storm would make him peerless in the world of the gun.
He awoke in the dawn on the shoulder of the hill, knowing that their quarry could not be too far ahead of them now. And for once there was no idea of food in his mind. Straightway, he came from his sleep and concentrated his mind on the task before him. He knew that it would take all his skill and all Wells’ cunning to cut their quarry down. It was a professional challenge and he rose to meet it.
He rose from his blankets and nudged his companion with an urgent toe. Wells, true to form, came out of his sleep with a gun in his hand.
‘Let’s go,’ Cromby said.
The older man blinked in the cold light.
‘Aw, Jesus,’ he said.
He put his gun down and wearily rubbed his eyes. The younger man had caught up the horses and saddled them ready by the time Wells was prepared to tie his bedroll behind the cantle. They stepped into the saddle and set off north without a word, Cromby in front, eyes on the sign they were following.
He didn’t cover a couple of hundred yards before he stopped.
‘What the hell,’ he said.
Wells rode up to join him. He looked around. He came wide-awake now. He touched his horse with iron and rode a circle, eyes down, searching the ground. When he rejoined Wells, he went off at a tangent, going west.
When he came back to Cromby again, he said: ‘Indians is my guess. They jumped Storm.’
Cromby yelped.
‘You mean they killed him? You mean he’s been tooken right from under our nose?’
‘I ain’t sure, but I reckon not.’ Wel
ls’ eyes were still fixed on the ground. He gave an exclamation of surprise and dismounted hurriedly, striding to a spot a few yards from his horse. ‘For crissake, lookut this.’
The boy dismounted and joined him. He turned a puzzled face to his partner.
‘A woman?’ he said. ‘A white woman? It don’t seem possible.’
‘Add it all up, ‘Wells said. ‘How’s this sound? Storm’s ridin’ along and he hears shots. See, yonder, he changed direction sudden like. He sees this woman being took by the Indians. He goes to the rescue. Runs the Abergoins off. She loses her horse. He mounts her on his spare. Then they head on west. Maybe she has folks in that direction. Maybe she’s jest goin’ along with him for the comp’ny. Come on.’
They mounted and rode down the shoulder and found that they were on the edge of a shelf. They didn’t have to look for a way down, for the horses’ tracks showed them the way plainly.
‘Now we go real careful,’ Wells said. ‘Maybe they’re in camps someplace around here.’
Cromby found he was sweating. He didn’t like that. He wanted to be a cold hard killer. He certainly had the makings. They went on into the trees. They lost the sign a couple of times, but after casting around they found them again without too much trouble.
‘Boy,’ said Wells, ‘we play this right an’ he’s ourn.’
Cromby wet his dry lips.
They covered another couple of miles before Wells halted and held up his hand. Cromby drew reign alongside him.
‘I smell fire,’ Wells said.
Cromby sniffed and couldn’t smell a thing. Maybe he had a cold in the head.
‘They must be mighty close,’ he said.
‘We don’t know it’s them,’ Wells reminded him.
They dismounted and tied their horses. Wells whispered that they’d stay together or they’d be shooting each other in this kind of country. They drew their rifles from their saddleboots checked their loads and started working their way through the brush and trees.
Chapter Ten
Burt Ransome didn’t like it. For a number of reasons and one was that he wasn’t what might be called a riding sheriff. In short, his butt was taking a beating from the saddle, his legs were stiff and his back was aching; the heat was playing hell with him and he kept thinking of schooners of cold beer. But there was enough iron in the man and fear of the mighty Ed Brack to keep him goading Pete Yewdley, the tracker, into leading him to his quarry.
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