by Wick Evans
"That's no affair of yours, Dawes. Now I'll ask you one, and your answer better be the right one. Why didn't you ride with Bill? I never see him any more without you looking like his shadow. And where have you been all afternoon?"
"I don't like your tone much, friend."
"You'll like it even less if I have to ask you again."
"You doubting my word, Kirby?"
"Your word isn't any better than your reputation, and that isn't worth anything. And if you ever speak to me again, remember that only my friends call me Kirby." He swung to the ground, walked up to Dawes and seized him by the front of the shirt, lifting him until the man stood on his toes.
"This is the last time. Why aren't you with Bill?"
Dawes tried to bluster, then thought better of it. "I was drunk," he replied sullenly. "I was sleeping it off when Bill took some of the crew in town to celebrate."
Kirby thrust him back against the porch railing. "Get out of my way; I'll see who's inside." Dawes' hand made an almost involuntary movement toward his hip as Kirby turned his back. Josh spoke quietly. "Do that, Hub. Go ahead and pull that gun. I ain't killed me a snake since last summer."
Kirby came back out on the porch. "There's no one here but a couple of drunks," he said disgustedly. "Place smells like a brewery." He stopped and looked Dawes up and down.
"Remember this, Hub. You ever set foot on Wagon again where one of us can see you, and you better have a gun in your fist. We don't like your smell." He deliberately shouldered him aside. "And that includes your outfit."
Hub found his voice. "Bill ain't gonna like that kind of talk."
"I'll soon find out how he likes it. We're riding to town right now, and I intend to give him the same warning. One of these days soon we'll come calling on you, Dawes. Any cows running loose on your place better have the right brand—old brands."
Once again Dawes tried to bluster. "You come out to my place, you'd better bring plenty help. Me and the boys can hardly wait for your call. Bring your whole crew."
"That's an idea, Hub. That's an idea."
Half a dozen ponies, all bearing Lazy B mark, stood at the hitchrack before the Nugget as Wagon rode into town. Only the saloon and the livery stable showed lights; the rest of Streeter was celebrating the holiday.
Joe was watching the door when they entered, having caught the sound of their boots on the wooden sidewalk. "Merry Christmas, gents," he said with a false cheerfulness belied by the furrow of worry crossing his genial countenance. "Belly up and have one on the house."
"And a Merry Christmas to you," Kirby answered for his group, his eyes taking in the saloon's other patrons. Bill stood at the bar, flanked by five riders. Three of them Kirby had known all his life. They were range bums, cowhands who drifted from one job to another; men who would think nothing of hazing someone's steers or heating a running iron in a small hidden fire. The appearance of the two strangers proclaimed their calling as if each had worn a placard across his soiled shirt. One was a dark, dour man, well past middle age. The other looked like a mere boy until one got a look at his face. His hair, showing ragged beneath a battered Stetson, was almost white, dirty white. His eyelashes were the same color, and his eyes were flat and dull, nearly opaque.
These must be the gunhawks Josh told me Bill hired, he thought. He felt a chill as he returned the unwinking stare of the youngest gunman. "We'll take that drink in just a minute, Joe," he said. "First, though, I've got business with Bill."
Bill had his back to the room. He pivoted slowly, his elbows on the bar, boot heel hooked over the rail. His face was flushed, his eyes glittering with liquor and hate.
"Well, well, brother mine. You feeling the Christmas spirit? I thought you and I weren't on speaking terms. Now you want to talk business. Don't tell me you want to sell Wagon," he sneered.
Kirby studied his florid face. "You know Wagon isn't for sale to you," he said coldly. "But I'm beginning to understand where you're getting money to make such offers."
Bill's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I like what you're implying, brother dear."
"I don't care a hoot what you like. Maybe the truth hurts."
"Get on with your business, Kirby. I'm in no mood to take any of your guff."
Kirby was watching the young gunman, who had moved slightly away from the bar and was standing with his right hand hooked into his gunbelt, his feet wide apart. The older stranger hadn't moved, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that Josh was watching his every move.
"Here it is, Bill. And you won't like it. Early this winter someone rustled more than two hundred head of prime Wagon beef from the river flats. Five days later you sold about two hundred more steers than you owned. They were all re-branded Lazy B. I'm not saying that you hazed my cows across the river personally, but I'm saying that you sold more cows than you had left from the split. Where did you get 'em?"
Despite the import of Kirby's words, fighting talk on the range, something like honest surprise crossed Bill's face before it was supplanted by rage. "That's shootin' talk, Kirby, but I'm letting you go for a minute. I don't know a darn thing about your cows. The ones I sold were what was left of the herd Muddy left me, no more."
"Did you ship your stuff from Galeyville?"
"Yeah, I did. Or rather, I ordered it shipped from there. I wasn't along; Hub Dawes made the drive for me. I've got a paper to prove it."
"You're going to find another paper in your mailbox tomorrow. You're going to get a bill for two hundred head of prime beef at the market at the time of the sale. I'll give you just ten days to pay up. If I don't get the money, I'm going to take you to court, and I'm going to tie up Lazy B so tight you won't even be able to draw your breath."
Bill stared at him in astonishment. "By gosh, I believe you're serious. You've just accused me of rustling."
Kirby shook his head. "No, just of selling rustled beef… my beef."
Bill's trigger-like temper flared. "You send me a bill and I'll make you eat it!"
Kirby stopped his roar. "I didn't finish. Three times someone has tried to bushwack me. Maybe you didn't fire the shots, but it looks like you were behind them. If it happens again, I'm coming to Lazy B with my crew to wipe you out. In case I stop a bullet, Josh will be glad to handle the chore for me. You asked for war; now you've got it. Only it will be out in the open, not from behind a tree or through a hotel room window. And I don't give a darn if it starts right now."
Bill was livid. "Why not? There ain't no man alive can call me a rustler and bushwacker and live to brag about it… not even you!"
Kirby had been watching the pale-eyed young gunman. His Colt crashed at Bill's move, hut he wasn't aiming at his brother. Bill slumped to the floor. Kirby watched in astonishment. He had seen his bullet thud into the chest of the young gunman an instant before the latter's gun had cleared leather. The older stranger was stretched on the floor, a bullet hole between his eyes. Kirby turned to see Josh's wavering gun covering the rest of the Lazy B crew. It finally dawned on him that Joe had accounted for Bill. He was leaning over the bar, peering down at Bill's prostrate figure.
"Hope I didn't bean him too hard," he worried. He still held the loaded end of a pool cue, the weapon that had taken Bill out of the fight. Kirby breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that his brother was alive. His sigh was echoed gustily by Lon Peters.
"Danged if I ever saw anything like it," said the sheriff. "Even on Christmas you have to kill people. I told the old lady as soon as I seen you ride in that there was goin' to be a shootin'." The sheriff took a deep breath. "Joe, that billiard shot you made on Bill's head was about as pretty as anything I ever saw. I guess you know you saved his life. I'm beginnin' to wonder if it was worth it. Well, it looks like Christmas is over for the undertaker."
Kirby looked at Bill's crew. "You heard what I told your boss. The same goes for you. Don't let me catch you on Wagon property. Right now, if I were you, I'd get my boss out of here."
The sheriff sighed again
. "And right out of town. The gunplay for this Christmas is over. If I find any one of you in town in an hour, I'll open up a cell."
The sheriff followed the punchers as they got Bill to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him through the door. He paused and looked at Kirby.
"Maybe you and your crew better ride out, too. I'd feel easier if you was headin' for home. I'll be comin' out to see you sometime tomorrow. Reckon there won't be no trouble about those gunslicks, except for buryin' them, but I'm plumb curious about the rustled cows you was mentionin'. About the time I got interested in what you were sayin', the danged guns goin' off made me miss the endin'."
"We'll get going, Lon. It'll be all right to have a drink with Joe, won't it?"
The sheriff chuckled. "That was sure a pretty billiard shot Joe made. I wouldn't have missed it for anything."
CHAPTER NINE
Sheriff Lon Peters was an early riser. Some said it was because he had to get out of his house, away from his wife's constant scolding. Those who really knew were aware that her scolding meant nothing, that it was only a cover for the deep affection she felt for her salty spouse… an affection he returned with interest. Like his wife, he was ashamed to show it. The only evidence of his devotion was his constant reference to "the old lady" or "that woman."
He rode in to Wagon the next morning while Kirby and Jen were having breakfast, before Josh had given the bunkhouse crew their orders for the day.
"Mornin', folks." He sighed as he pushed open the kitchen door without the formality of knocking first. "Reckon I will have a cup of coffee, now that you've asked me." He watched while Maria filled his cup and placed cream and sugar within his reach. "If my old lady could make coffee like Maria's, I'd marry her. Think she uses what's left in the pot for furniture polish."
Jen, who knew Lon's wife was famous for her cooking, laughed. "I'm going to tell her you said that the very next time I see her," she told him. "She'll be glad to know what you think of her cooking."
"Me and my big mouth." He sighed. "Well, my term of office will be up soon. Guess no one will miss me much if I ride on out of the state. There sure won't be any place for me in town if the old woman hears I said that."
Kirby joined in their laughter, but his eyes were troubled. "Is this an official visit, Lon?"
The sheriff let out a gusty breath. "Yes and no, boy. I stopped by to tell you that I don't look for no trouble about those two hombres got shot up last night. They was known gunmen, and I never did cotton to the idea of hired killers struttin' around the streets of my town. There'll have to be an inquest, but I know Doc Williams will agree they got what was comin' to 'em, seein' as how I was a witness to the shootin'." His face broke into one of his rare smiles. "I wouldn't have missed seein' Joe use that pool cue for a new double eagle. But maybe you'd better be in town this afternoon about two o'clock, just for the record. I ought to be back by then."
"You riding somewhere, Lon? It's a long time until two o'clock."
Lon let out his familiar sigh. "Thought maybe I'd pay a little visit to Dawes' spread. Been curious about that layout for a long time. 'Course I would have another cup of Maria's coffee before I go… was I pressed."
Maria filled all their cups, and the conversation became general until the sheriff ambled out to his horse, the heavy Colt slapping his bony thigh. Kirby's eyes were troubled.
Jen asked a question: "Was there more shooting last night?" Maria stopped work clearing away the table and waited for the answer.
Kirby refused to meet her eyes. "Yes, there was, Jen. But this time you aren't a part of it."
"Did Bill…?"
"No, Bill didn't stop a bullet. But a couple of his hired gunmen are ready for Boot Hill. That was what Lon was talking about."
Jen's voice came from far away. "It's all a part of what I tried to say yesterday. It won't work, Kirby. It just isn't meant for us. Every time you went to town there'd be trouble… gun trouble. I just couldn't stand waiting here at Wagon, never knowing when they'd bring you home tied across your horse. When is it going to end? How will it all end—when both you and Bill are dead? I told you I wanted all of you, a whole man. Maybe I'm selfish… even weak. But I want you, not a bullet-ridden body."
Kirby looked at her, his eyes mirroring hurt and despair. "Maybe you're right, Jen. But I ask you to think of this: I didn't start the trouble! I never wanted to fight. But if I didn't fight for what I think is right, you wouldn't want me then either. No woman would. I'd be a man without self-respect, a man hiding behind a woman's skirts." His voice was very low. "Ma waited here many times while Dad was out fighting for Wagon. I don't believe she ever complained, and I reckon she loved Dad as much as any woman ever loved a man."
Jen caught her breath, her eyes filling with tears.
"You had a right to say that. I guess I'm not as strong as Ma was. But I ask you to remember that she had her man a long time before he ever had to ride out and leave her with fear and dread for company. I just couldn't do it, Kirby. I couldn't marry you, knowing that you might have to leave me, even on our wedding night."
Kirby said nothing for a long time; he looked at her almost as if she were a stranger. Gently he said at last, "Maria will help you get your things together. I'll be ready to take you to town when you're packed." He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, closing the door carefully behind him.
Jen turned to Maria, tears streaming down her face. "I love him, Maria. Can't you see that? Doesn't he know that's why I have to go?"
Maria's dark eyes showed nothing. She made no move to offer comfort, to take the girl into her arms as Jen expected. "Maybe you don't love him enough!" was all she offered. "I'll get your suitcases."
She left Jen standing in a room which had suddenly become unfamiliar, although it was a room she had known all her life. She would never visit the big kitchen again. Kirby's gentle voice and the stiffness of Maria's back as she walked out told her that. I've burned my bridges, she thought. And I know I'm right, even if they don't understand. Maybe I've lost Kirby, but I haven't lost a husband. She walked slowly to her room.
An hour later she finished packing the few things Maria had brought from town. She stood, feeling very lonely, in the big bedroom she had known since girlhood. She was leaving a part of herself in that bedroom, a part of her life that was infinitely precious. She squared her shoulders and, her heart a cold lump in her breast, walked out and closed the heavy oak door.
Maria was back in the kitchen when she went through. She didn't look up or stop what she was doing as Jen paused expectantly, then sadly closed the door behind her. Kirby appeared in the entrance to the shed when she walked across the yard.
"Ready, Josh," he called, and in a few moments the old foreman came from the stable, leading three saddled ponies. Kirby helped her mount without a word and Josh didn't even glance in her direction as they trotted across the muddy yard. Her pony wanted to pitch a bit, and she was glad of the attention she had to give her mount. It was something to do to avoid meeting Kirby's eyes.
"Our whole cavvy needs riding," he said. "This weather none of 'em have been worked enough to get the ginger out of 'em."
"How is the filly this morning?" she asked, grateful for something to say.
"Manuel says that she's going to be all right. He's going to have Miguel keep walking her every day. That way she may not have a stiff shoulder." He grinned ruefully. "Right now he's giving her more attention than I'd get if I were to break a leg." He paused in thought. "I'll have her brought to town as soon as Manuel thinks she's well enough."
Jen shook her head. "Don't do that, Kirby. I've no place to keep her except the livery, and I probably won't do any riding until spring. She'll be better off with Manuel to look out for her. Maybe this spring…" Her voice died away as she realized that for her there wouldn't be any spring except some black letters on a calendar.
"Whatever you say… she belongs to you," Kirby answered.
She was about to say that nothing at Wagon belo
nged to her any more, but decided not to add to the hurt she saw far back in his eyes.
The rest of the trip into Streeter was made in silence. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been a gay ride. There was one long stretch of trail, where the snow had melted, where she and Kirby would have raced… under Josh's disapproving eyes. She knew that Kirby, too, remembered those wild rides they had shared. But they trotted into the hills in silence. Josh gave his close attention to something between his horse's ears and didn't speak throughout the trip, which was unusual even for the taciturn foreman.
He dropped out of the little procession as they passed the Nugget; Kirby rode on with Jen to the little white cottage. He tied their horses to the fence and carried her things inside.
"It's cold in here," he said as he unlocked the door. "Would you like me to build a fire?"
Jen knew that there was no fire that would warm the coldness building up around her heart. "No, thanks. It will give me something to do."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. Well, I've got to meet Josh. We have to try and find some hay and…" His excuse fell lamely in the cold stale air of the parlor.
"Kirby!" She held out her hands imploringly. "I can't help feeling the way I do. Won't you please try to understand?"
He made no move to touch her. "I understand, Jen. A person has to do what he thinks is right. You know how I feel, too." He walked swiftly to the door, knowing that if he stayed he would take her into his arms. "Remember this, Jen, no matter what happens. When Ma and Muddy were here you were a part of Wagon. That hasn't changed any. If you have need of me or anyone at Wagon, you have only to send us word." He tried a smile that didn't quite come off. "I'll be seeing you."
The door closed, and in a few moments she could hear him as he rode away, leading her horse. She covered her face with her hands and let the flood of tears she had been holding back break forth.
CHAPTER TEN
Fine, hard pellets of ice that looked like tapioca but stung their faces like shot peppered Wagon's boss and his foreman all the way back to Wagon. With the collars of their sheepskin coats turned up over their ears, they rode in silent discomfort.
