by T. T. Flynn
"This fellow's to see you, Mister Clarkson!" Ike Blodgett called. "He don't savvy English. You'll have to handle him."
Jim Tennant put the cigarette between his lips and scratched a match with his thumbnail. Lindy Lou Merriman hadn't changed. A little older, like himself. And prettier for it, with a breath of the open range clean and heady about her. And her share of stubborn pride, like Bull Merriman, who'd known he was better than most men and shown it. But still Lindy Lou, whose clear voice and laughter had stayed with Jim through a thousand nights of strange faces and strange country.
Lindy Lou had paled. Her look was stunned, questioning. And when Ike Blodgett spoke, she swallowed and walked blindly past Jim's carefully blank look and out of the bank.
Henry Clarkson's eyes followed her out of sight before they went to the visitor.
Years back Clarkson's face had been broad and pink, with too many loud laughs always on tap when needed. Now the man was fat, puffy about the eyes, and the mouth was loose and greedy, as Lindy Lou walked out of the bank. Clarkson stood for a moment more in thought that made him smile with some inner satisfaction. Then he turned with a plump hand outstretched and a greeting in fair Spanish.
"Buenas tardes. What is it?"
"Senor Clarkson?"
"Yes."
I have to talk with you."
Clarkson's look suddenly narrowed. He started to say something, changed his mind, motioned to the office. "Come in and talk."
The wary scrutiny of the plaza idlers was in the banker's manner as they entered the office. "Do I know you?" Clarkson questioned.
Jim pulled off the big sombrero and bowed.
"Senor, I am Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio. To see you is one happy moment."
Clarkson motioned to a chair. "You reminded me of someone for a minute," he grunted. "He'd be about your age now if he hadn't been killed."
"Ah, so? A friend?"
"Not him. He was a killer and a thief and he was shot down rustling. What can I do for you, Senor"Clarksori s voice changed-"Antonio Ponchito. Are you the one they call Ponchito down in Chihuahua and Sonora?" He shifted into English. "You must be. That one's got a scar on his cheek, too."
"Si, senor Ponchito. You know Chihuahua and Sonora then? You know me?"
The desk chair creaked as Clarkson pulled it around and sat down heavily. His eyes had narrowed again.
"Maybe you want a job. I can always use a good gun hand if he'll take orders. Fifty a month and extra money when you earn it. How does that do?"
"Fifty pesos?" Jim chuckled. "Senor, I am worth more. Much more. I, Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio, am owner of much land, much cattle. I, too, have many men work for me."
"That way, is it?" Clarkson said. "My mistake. Maybe you've got some cattle to sell then? Must be that, eh, to bring you up this way?"
"Si, senor. Many cattle to sell ... I hope."
"The price has to be right when I buy."
"And no questions asked, senor, they say?"
Clarkson shrugged. "We'll talk about that later if you mean business. Where are your cattle? How many for sale?"
"We will see how many." Jim chuckled. "You, senor, can tell me about my cattle and my land. Oh, si. We own them together. I have bought from Senor Eduardo Riggins, in El Paso, one-third of this Ladrone Cattle Company. We own much cattle and land, you and I, amigo, eh?"
The fat face went expressionless as Henry Clarkson hunched in the desk chair. But his voice had a new edge.
"You bought out Riggins?" he questioned carefully.
"Si, senor."
"He wouldn't sell. Told me so."
"Ah, senor, to me he sell. You want the papers, no? A good lawyer made the papers. I have copies to show you. Here."
Clarkson read the documents his visitor handed over. He nodded and handed them back.
"Want to sell?"
"Why I sell? I have just bought. Senor, I have wanted the hacienda of my own. The cattle of my own. The men of my own. Now I have them. The lawyer comes to look at the books with me. We see what I buy, and then I, Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio, will help with everything. No?"
"I'll pay -a profit on your buy?"
"Ah, no ... not for one thousand profits, senor. Tomorrow you will have the books? There will be many questions to ask."
Clarkson stirred. From somewhere his smile came back and he shrugged indifferently.
"All right. If you won't sell, you won't sell. The books are out at the ranch. Ride out there and make yourself at home. I'm an easy man to get along with. We'll do all right."
"Gracias. Perhaps tomorrow, senor. There is much to do. I wish to see everything. I will be busy, no? Adios."
The tall stranger was whistling jauntily as he walked out of the bank, past Ike Blodgett's thin face peering through the grille work. Ike's voice was brittle to the bank president, standing in the open doorway.
"He looks like that Tennant boy. Jim Tennant. Remember him?"
"Tennant's dead and buried," Clarkson said brusquely. "I'm going out. Won't be back today."
In the next two hours San Angelo learned that Henry Clarkson had a new partner in the Ladrone Cattle Company. A partner for whom Clarkson hadn't asked and, it was said, didn't want.
Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio told it himself, in Spanish and broken English, celebrating from bar to bar, while his Mexican gold and silver bought drinks for any man who was dry.
Buckshot Bledsoe in scuffed rawhide coat and buckskin breeches showed up after the second round of drinks and stayed grimly in the growing crowd, watching, listening, frowning now and then with growing displeasure.
Red Carney took his share of drinks. He grinned thinly when the stranger showed the sombrero that his bullet had punctured, and spoke to him in Spanish.
Coly Johnson, one of Sheriff Lan Hanson's deputies, who understood Spanish, translated for Red. "He wants you workin' for the Ladrone outfit, Red. Says a man who can use a gun like you is a man after his own heart an' he wants you around. But not to shoot at his hat no more."
"Tell 'im he's hired a hand." Red grinned.
That made those within hearing laugh and it had to be explained to the stranger. Red Carney had been on the Ladrone payroll and Henry Clarkson had fired him.
The stranger laughed with the rest and said that Red was on the payroll again-this time for Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio.
"I'll buy the drinks on that when I draw my first pay," Red said humorously, and this time no one explained the laughter that followed.
Long before the last drink was bought in the final saloon around the plaza, Jim Tennant saw men he had known in the old days. Men who eyed this dark, scar-cheeked stranger from across the border with furtive interest and spoke to one another, Buckshot Bledsoe included. After the last round of drinks, the stranger saluted them with-"Adios, amigos"-and went off to the room he had hired in Joe Little's onestory adobe hotel on the corner of the plaza.
Fifteen minutes later Buckshot stopped outside the hotel room and heard a Mexican song inside. Buckshot was scowling as he tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered without knocking. He halted abruptly in midstep before the cold threat of a gun muzzle.
Shaving lather covered half of Jim Tennant's face. A razor was in his other hand. He spoke in Spanish, grinning as he motioned with the gun for the door to be closed.
"Enter, senor. Don Antonio Ponchito y Rio welcomes you."
"I'm glad to see you've got a little sense left anyway, havin' that gun ready," Buckshot blurted as he closed the door. "I knowed you was in town when Lindy Lou come by lookiri like a ghost an' said she'd seen a Mexican with a scar on his cheek who made her think of Jim Tennant." Buckshot glared. "What kinda foolishness is this?"
"You told her I was a fool?"
"I didn't tell her nothin'. I was ashamed to."
Jim chuckled as he put the gun by the crockery washbowl and answered in English.
"I wondered how long you'd go before busting out with it. In the Gunsight Bar you looked like something sour had lit in your whiske
rs and was tasting mighty bad."
"It ain't funny," Buckshot insisted. "What kinda fool trick is this, struttin' like a fiesta dude, an' tellin' the world you bought into partners with Clarkson? If it's a lie, Clarkson'll nail you quick fer it."
"It's gospel truth, amigo."
"Then it's a fool trick if I ever heerd or seen one," Buckshot said flatly. "Henry Clarkson wasn't in no hurry to get rid of old man Riggins. Things was running like he wanted. The old man didn't bother him none. Riggins couldn't even do nothing when Clarkson thieved most of the money the ranch made. And Riggins would've died or been killed off when Clarkson got around to it. Wasn't ary man in these parts, clean to El Paso, who'd 'ye throwed good money away by offering to buy the old man out."
"That's how Riggins seemed to figure when I talked to him in El Paso."
"So you really played the fool then? Give Riggins cash money? Where's your sense, boy? All them men takiri your drinks was laughiri at you. They knowed what a fool you was. They knowed Henry Clarkson'll git shut of you fast. While you was buyin' whiskey, they was layin' bets behind your back on how long you'd last. They figured old man Riggins was smart ... an' this Mex, Ponchito, was plenty of a fool, even if he could shoot like slick lightnin'. Red Carney laughed when you hired him for the Ladrone. Red knowed he'd never draw pay money."
Jim chuckled. "That'll be twice Red didn't read the sign right. He'll have to do better for his pay."
Buckshot looked his disgust. "You fooled me, Jim. I thought you was gonna ease back here an' do somethin' about Clarkson before he knowed what was happening. I figgered you was hard an 'woolly. I thought you was the man to help some of us git our heads down to Clarkson an' his gunmen. I figgered you was one last chance to git this range back to the folks who usta own an' run it."
Jim finished the shaving and nodded as he wiped the razor. "I know, Buckshot."
"An' here you show up like a Fourth o' July parade!" Buckshot exploded. "You fix it so Clarkson'll have to have you killed, quick an' sure. An' on top of that you made out to hire the crookedest, coldblooded, dirty-eyed snake anywhere along the border. Red Carney was too bad even fer Henry Clarkson."
Jim smiled as he reached for the towel.
"Red did sort of look tough and mean," he agreed. "But he called the cards on his shooting. Wasn't ashamed to come out second best. I cotton to a man who'll do that. Chances are he won't double-cross you to show how big he is. Hiring him'll make Clarkson show his hand that much faster."
"So you want to git killed fast?"
"I want Clarkson to make a move," asserted Jim. "He'll do it this way. He won't stand for a stranger riding in to help run things. He won't have another man asking questions and keeping an eye on his moves. And a Mexican at that."
"You bet he won't," Buckshot grunted. "An' buyin' drinks fer the town to celebrate only makes it worse."
Jim sat on the bed and grinned as he rolled a cigarette. "If I came back like I left, they'd start wondering fast if Jim Tennant was dead after all. A scar face don't change a man too much. They've already noticed I'm like Jim Tennant."
"More'n I thought they would," Buckskin admitted grudgingly.
"The law wanted Jim Tennant for rustling Ladrone and Hook'ri Ladder beef," Jim continued. "The sheriff takes orders from Henry Clarkson. If they had an idea I was back, the law'd jump to lock me up. I'd have to fight and run. Maybe I wouldn't get the chance. The sheriff might shoot first. If I made it, I'd have to jump back across the border or hide out."
Buckskin nodded agreement to that.
"As it is, they've all got something else to think about," Jim pointed out. "Clarkson's got a partner to get rid of now. He's got to make his move first. He's on the wrong side of the law this time and folks are watching."
"Clarkson don't care who's watching."
Jim's grin had a hard edge. "He'll think about it. He's not dealing from a stacked deck now. He's crowded out in the open where everyone can watch his hand. And he don't like it. Over at the bank he looked like he'd grabbed a hot iron and didn't know what to do about it."
"He'll know what to do ... an' he'll have it done! And what help'll you be dead to Lindy Lou, livin' out there on the dry bones of the Hook 'n' Ladder with only three hands workin' for her. The scrub beef that's left on Hook 'ri Ladder grass ain't worth a rustler's time. Borrowin' at the bank is all that's kept Lindy Lou an' the boys eatin' right. Fogey Wilson, Dan Coleman, an' old Rip Stevens has mighty near fergot what pay is. They're just stayin' around because it's Lindy Lou. Took Clarkson a long time ... but he's got the Hook 'n' Ladder where he wants it. If he can't have Bull's girl, he'll git Bull's land. And what'll all this foolishness do to help after you're killed?"
Jim reached for his gun belt, hanging on the bedpost.
"I don't mean to die," he said flatly. "Down there across the border I've just been drifting. Never could find what I wanted. Saved money but there was nothing I wanted to do with it. I was a fool but it ain't too late. I know what I want. A ranch like I started to build after I quit Bull Merriman. I've got a toehold now. There's a tally to settle with Clarkson ... and I'm close now where I can get at him."
"You mean where he can get at you," Buckshot said bluntly, but some of the opposition was gone from his voice. When you got as old at Buckshot, you noticed the little things. Like Jim Tennant's eyes. No longer triste, sad, as if the past had memories that persisted. The eyes had purpose now behind the grin as Jim holstered the six-shooter and reached for his hat.
"Clarkson'll have more chance than he ever gave anyone. Go get this Red Carney and tell him to ride out to the Ladrone with me tonight. Might as well keep crowding Clarkson's hand. I'll be at the livery barn getting a fresh horse."
Red Carney was openly sarcastic as he left the livery stable with Jim.
"I'm just fool enough to see what happens out at the Ladrone, mister."
"Bueno," Jim agreed.
"It ain't bueno to anyone but you," Red differed. "Damn it, I can't even handle your lingo, so's I can tell you how bad it is."
Long shadows were in the plaza just before sundown when they rode out of town. Buckshot Bledsoe came up from behind at a gallop and joined them.
"He hired me. Reckon I might as well tag along," the old man stated.
"That makes two of us crazy," retorted Red.
Jim spoke to Buckshot in Spanish. "Ride on back. We don't need you this trip."
"Your grandmother'll have whiskers before I do," Buckshot replied in the same language.
Red eyed them suspiciously. "What are you two palaverin' about?"
"He's tryin' to fire me."
"Maybe you're lucky."
"He hired me ... an" I'm stayin' hired," Buckshot said stubbornly.
Red shrugged. "You're sure a hog for trouble ... an' old enough to have better sense."
Jim said in Spanish. "Hear that? No sense. Better do like he says."
Buckshot ignored the advice, growling: "I never had no use fer a man who wouldn't belly up to his job after he took it on. I keep an eye on a feller I ain't sure'll do that."
Red grinned. "If I was suspicious, I'd say your eye was cut around on me."
"If the cinch fits you, buckle 'er on," Buckshot said grimly. "My eye is restless tonight. This young idjit is ridin' out to shake hands with the devil an' ain't got savvy enough to know what he's doin'. It's up to you an' me to ride herd on him."
Red grinned again. "You got the right idea. Tell Henry Clarkson you're lookin' out for him an' everything'll be all right."
Buckshot shifted to Spanish. "Just like I thought, Jim. He don't mean to help if he's needed. Likely he's planning to make a deal with Clarkson to help get you outta the way."
"Might be," conceded Jim.
"Send him back."
"I'd rather have him along to see what he's doing."
"What's the turkey talk about this time?" Red demanded.
"I give him advice an' he didn't have sense enough to take it," Buckshot said curtly. "The rest is your gu
ess."
"I ain't guessin'. I'm just ridin' to see what happens," Red said with a shrug.
They reached Ladrone land as the silver moon disk was pushing up in the east. A wolf howled faintly and far to the west where the Ladrone peaks loomed blackly in the moonlight.
"Too bad Clarkson don't howl like that when he's huntin'," Buckshot growled.
"Gettin' spooky?" Red jeered as he swung down to open the wire gate.
"I'll holler when I am."
"Who's that at the gate?" a voice shouted off to the right.
Red dropped the gate and jumped to his horse and the rifle in the saddle scabbard as riders came galloping toward them and reined up inside the Ladrone wire, three men, bulking darkly in the moonlight, with rifles out and ready.
"We're ridin' to see Clarkson," Red said with a trace of dry humor. "And if Clarkson ain't at the house, we'll stay anyway. This feller owns part of the Ladrone now. He'll be givin' orders, too. You got any idea of stoppin' him?"
"Nope. Clarkson said he might be along. Didn't say nothin' about anyone else though. Ain't that you, Red Carney?"
Red was enjoying himself. "It ain't no one else, Jack Black. There's Red an' Black on the Ladrone payroll again. I'm back with you. The new boss has hired me. And Buckshot Bledsoe, too. You got anything to say about it?"
Jack Black was a bearded, massive man. His muttered oath as he quieted his horse showed how he felt. But he growled: "Ride on. That's Clarkson's business."
The guards stayed by the gate, silent, watchful in the moonlight.
When they were out of hearing, Red chuckled. "Clarkson holds all the cards but Jack Black ain't sure how they're bein' dealt. It like to gagged him to let me by."
"We ain't out here to take up any of your old feudin'," Buckshot said acidly.
"I ain't either," Red denied. "But keep that eye of your'n cut around for Jack Black. Dutch Walker ramrods the outfit and sees that the cattle's lined up. But Jack Black ramrods the gun hands. Them three rannies wasn't loafin' there by the gate for nothing. Bet there was more of them near if they was needed. Better tell your boss."
"No use tellin' him anything," Buckshot growled. "If he had any savvy, the three of us wouldn't be out here this way."
