“I cannot. I have been paid.”
“There are other ways to make a living and you have chosen the wrong one. I am offering you your last chance. Get out.”
“I gave my word. I took their money.”
Kettleman had seemed almost negligent. “When you are ready, then.”
The gambler stepped back quickly, overturning bis chair. “If you say I cheat,” he said loudly, “you are a liar!” And he grasped his gun.
Everybody saw him grasp the gun, everybody saw him start to draw it, and then he started coughing and there was blood on his shirt, blood dribbling down his chin, and on his face the realization of death.
Kettleman leaned over him. He looked down at the gambler and knew this man was only a step away from the man he was himself. “I didn’t want to kill you,” he said. “Who hired you?”
“Your wife,” the gambler said. “And her father.”
Kettleman realized then that he had known something like this would happen. He started to rise but the gambler caught his wrist. “I must know. Who are you?”
Kettleman hesitated. For the first time since that night he spoke of it. “I was the kid at The Crossing.”
“God!” The gambler was excited. He started to rise, began to speak, and then he died.
Kettleman turned away. “I saw it, sir.” The speaker was a man powerful in the state government. “You had to do it.”
Seeing an acquaintance, Kettleman said, “I am sorry for this. Will you see that he is buried well? I will pay.”
At the estate in Virginia he wasted no time. He changed clothes, repacked his bags, and caught the ride with the peddler he knew would be coming through. He also knew it would be months before the peddler came that way again.
From a distant town he took a stage, and then a train.
By the time they discovered his absence, he would be safely in the hideout in New Mexico.
It was very cold. He sat up in his blankets and put fuel on the fire.
His thoughts returned to the girl on the train. She had been singularly self-possessed, with a quiet beauty not easily forgotten.
Thinking of her made him remember his own wife, and he was amazed at how gullible he had been. His life had not fitted him for living with people. As a predatory creature he had been successful, as a human being he was a failure. He had invited no friendships and offered none.
He had entered business as he had life, to fight with fang and claw. Cool, ruthless, intelligent, he subordinated everything to success, and confided in no one, prepared to protect himself at all times, and to attack, always attack.
He had moved swiftly but with the sharp attention of a chess player, leaving nothing to chance. Nor had he ever attacked twice in the same way. He had developed an information service of office boys, messengers, waiters, cleaning women. They listened and reported to him, and he used the information.
It was a time of gamblers, a period of financial manipulation when fortunes were made and lost overnight. Mining, railroads and shipping, land speculation and industry — he had a hand in them all, shifting positions quickly, negotiating behind the scenes, working eighteen to twenty hours a day for days on end.
There had been periods of vague disquiet when the yearning within him reached out toward the warmth of others, but he fought down the impulse, stifling it. Occasionally, with subordinates or strangers, he had done some sudden, impulsive kindness, and was always ashamed of the lapse.
Of his early years he had only vague recollections. The one real thing in those years had been Flint.
That he had been found beside the burned-out wagon train, he knew. There were vague recollections of a woman crying, and of a man and woman who bickered and drank constantly. She had been kind to him when sober, maudlin when drinking, and there were times when she forgot all about him and he went hungry.
When he was four he heard the shot that destroyed the only world he knew. He had gone into the next room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, to find the woman sprawled on the floor. He had often seen her like that, but this time there was blood on her back and side. Then people had come and taken him away.
After that he lived two years on a dry farm where there was little to eat and a losing battle was fought against big cattlemen. One day the farmers, fighting their own brutal struggle to survive, abandoned him on the street of a town.
He was sitting there at daybreak, shivering with the long night’s chill, when a cold-eyed man in a buffalo coat rode into town, went past him, then turned back.
He remembered the cold, gray eyes, the unshaven jaw, and the questions the man asked. He had answered directly and simply, the only way he knew. The man had leaned down and lifted him to the saddle, and down the street in an all-night saloon and stage station, the man bought him a bowl of hot stew and crackers. He was sure he had never eaten anything that tasted so good. He had eaten, then fallen asleep.
When he awakened he was on the saddle in front of the man. They rode for several days, always by the least-traveled trails.
The man took him to a house in a city and left him there with a woman. The next morning, Flint was gone.
The woman was kind, and she took him to a school where he was admitted. He remained there for eight years.
The studies were hard. The other students complained often. But for the first time he slept in a decent bed and had regular meals. He dreaded the day when he might have to leave, and somehow he got the idea that if he failed as a student he would be taken out of school.
When he was ten he made two discoveries at the same time, the first was the library, and the second was that the teachers at the school were curious about him. He found that by reading in the library he could anticipate lessons and find background for the essays the teachers constantly demanded. In this way he discovered the wonderful world of books.
The other students came from wealthy or well-to-do homes, but his tuition came from a variety of Western towns. He was asked many probing questions, but replied to none of them.
During the long days of riding before they reached the house of the woman, Flint had taught him things that remained in his mind and, he now realized, had shaped his entire life.
“Never let them know how you feel or what you are thinking. If they know how you feel they know how to hurt you, and if they hurt you once, they will try again.”
“Don’t trust anybody, not even me. To trust is a weakness. It ain’t necessarily that folks are bad, but they are weak or afraid. Be strong. Be your own man. Go your own way, but whatever you do, don’t go cross-ways of other folks’ beliefs.”
“Keep your knowledge to yourself. Never offer information to anybody. Don’t let people realize how much you know, and above all, study men. All your life there will be men who will try to keep you from getting where you’re going, some out of hatred, some out of cussedness or inefficiency.”
When the day came that the headmaster sent for him he fought down his panic. The headmaster was a severe, cold New England man. “We will be sorry to lose you,” he said. “You have been an excellent student. As of now you have a better education than many of our business and political leaders. See that you use it.” The headmaster paused briefly. “You came to us under peculiar circumstances, recommended by people whom we respect. We know nothing of your family.”
For the boy there had been no vacations. When others went to their homes, he had stayed at school, sitting for days alone in the library, reading.
“I would continue to read, if I were you. Books are friends that will never fail you. You are going into a hard world. Remember this: honor is most important, that, and a good name. Keep your self-respect.”
“You lack, I believe, an essential to happiness. You do not understand kindness.” The headmaster shuffled papers on his desk. “I know that because I have never understood it myself, and it is a serious fault which I was long in appreciating. I hope it takes you less long.”
From his desk the headmaster took an envel
ope. “This was enclosed in the letter which terminated your schooling.”
Kettleman did not open the letter until he was alone. It was brief and to the point.
You was settin on the street when I seen you, and you was hungry. I fed you. Figgered a boy needed schoolin, so I sent you. Ever year I paid. You are old enough to make out. I got nothing more for you.
Come to Abilene if you want.
Flint
Five twenty-dollar bills were enclosed. He packed his clothes and, with nothing better to do, went to Abilene.
There was no one there named Flint.
After several days of inquiring he met a bartender who gave him a careful look and then suggested he stick around.
At school he had learned to ride, for it had been a school for young gentlemen. He got a job riding herd on some cattle, fattening for the market. It was not cow-punching, just keeping the cattle from drifting. The others were cowhands, however, so he learned a good deal.
After three months the cattle were sold. He went to work in a livery stable. He was there when Flint came.
The wind moaned in the pines. He replenished the fire, and lay back in his blankets again. The boughs bent above him, the fire crackled, and far off a horse’s hoofs drummed. The coals glowed red and pulsing. Looking up through the pines he could see a single star.
He could be no more than thirty miles from Flint’s hideout in the malpais.
He awakened sharply, every sense alert. He heard a distant shout, and then a reply so close he jumped from his blankets.
“He can’t be far! Search the trees!”
Swiftly he drew on his boots and swung the gun belt around his lean hips, then shrugged into the sheepskin. There was no time to eliminate signs of his presence here, so he simply faded back into the deeper shadows, taking the shotgun with him.
Brush crashed. A rider pushed through, then another.
“Hell! That ain’t his fire! He had no time!”
“Somebody waitin’ for him, maybe.”
“Whoever it was” — the second rider’s voice was sharp with command — “had no business on this range. Throw that bed on the fire.”
Kettleman stepped from the shadows, the shotgun ready in his hands. “The blankets are mine.” Without taking his eyes from the riders he threw a handful of brush on the fire, which blazed up. “And if he lays a hand on that bed, I’ll blow you out of your saddle.”
“Who the devil are you?” The older man’s tone was harsh. “What are you doing here?”
“Minding my own business. See that you do the same.”
“You’re on my range. That makes your being here my business. Get off this range, and get off now.”
“Like hell.”
The man called Kettleman felt a hard, bitter joy mounting within him. So he was going to die. Why die in bed when he could go out with a gun in his hand? He could cheat them all now, and go as Flint had gone, in a blaze of gunfire.
“When you say this is your range, you lie in your teeth. This is railroad land, owned, deeded, and surveyed. Now understand this: I don’t give a damn who you are, and like it here. You can start shooting and I’ll spread you all over that saddle.”
He felt the shock of his words hitting them, and knew they were taken aback, as in their place he would have been, by his fury. The fact that he held a shotgun on them at less than twenty paces was an added factor.
“You’re mighty sudden, friend.” The man in command held himself carefully, aware that he faced real trouble, and sensing something irrational in the sharpness of the counter-attack. “Who are you?”
“I’m a man who likes his sleep, and you come hooting and hollering over the hills like a pack of crazy men. I take it you’re hunting somebody, but with all that noise he’s probably bidden so well you couldn’t find him anyway. You act like a lot of brainless tender-feet”
“That’s hard talk, for a stranger.”
“There’s nothing strange about this shotgun. It can get almighty familiar.”
“I’ve twenty men down below. What about them?”
“Only twenty? They make noise enough for eighty. Why, I’d have a half dozen of them down before they knew what they were up against, and the rest of them would quit as soon as they knew you weren’t around to pay them for fighting.”
A voice called through the trees. “Boss? Are you all right?”
“Tell them to go about their business,” Kettleman said. “And then you do the same.”
The rider turned his head. “Beat it, Sam. I’ll be along in a minute. Everything is all right.”
He turned back to Kettleman. “There’s something here I don’t understand. What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Not a damned thing. Not a single damned thing.”
The rider dismounted, then turned to his companion. “Bud, you ride along and help the others. I’ll meet you at White Rock.”
Bud hesitated. “It’s all right, Bud, there will be no trouble with this man. Never tackle a man who doesn’t care whether he lives or not. He will always have an edge on you.”
He was short, with square shoulders, prematurely gray hair, and he wore a mustache. His hard, dark eyes studied Kettleman with care.
Obviously puzzled, he glanced around the camp, seeking some clue. His eyes found the big game rifle. “That’s quite a weapon. Must be hard to get ammunition though.”
“I load my own.”
“I see.” The rancher got out a cigar and lighted it. “A man with a rifle like that — well, if he was a good enough shot, he could make himself a lot of money.”
Kettleman was bored. Daylight was not far off and he badly needed rest. Talk of money irritated him, anyway. He could buy this rancher and give him away and never miss what it cost, and how much could it help him now?
“My name is Nugent. I’m a cattleman.”
“All right.”
Nugent was accustomed to respect and Kettleman’s impatience angered him. Wind stirred the flames, and he added a few sticks. Poking at the fire gave him time to think. There had to be a reason for the man’s presence. No cowhand could afford such weapons. The rifle alone must have cost several hundred dollars.
“You said something about this being railroad land.”
Nugent was fishing now, and Kettleman smiled to himself. Experts had tried to get information from him.
He shrugged. “At least half the land along any railroad right of way is railroad land, isn’t it?”
Nugent was not satisfied. He had a suspicion the man was amused by him, and such a thought was unbearable. He treated Nugent like an inferior. Nugent was not accustomed to being so treated and did not like it. The flat-heeled boots did not go with cow country, and the man’s clothing showed little wear.
“I never knew a man who did not want something.”
“You are looking at one.”
Nugent got to his feet and Kettleman arose too. “I don’t like a man who takes a crowd when he goes hunting.”
Really angry, Nugent replied shortly, “Even the law does it.”
“You are not the law. I think a man who can’t do his own hunting is a coward.”
Nugent’s face went white, and with an effort he fought down the urge to reach for a gun. But he was no gunfighter, and knew it.
“My advice to you is to clear out. We don’t take to hard-talking strangers.”
Deliberately, Kettleman yawned. “Get the hell out of here. I want to sleep.”
Unable to think of a reply that might not get him killed, Nugent walked to his horse and mounted.
‘I’ll see you later,” Nugent said when he was in the saddle. “If I didn’t have a squatter to chase, I’d — “
“Squatter?” Kettleman smiled at him. “Why, you’re only a squatter yourself. You don’t own a foot of range. You came in here a few years ago and started running a few cattle on land that doesn’t belong to you. Now of a sudden you are talking of squatters. You’re a pompous little man with a bellyful
of importance. Now get out of here.”
Blind with fury, Nugent wheeled his horse and rode away, spurring the animal madly. By the Almighty! He would get his hands and come back, and …
Something went over him like a dash of ice-cold rain.
How did this stranger know all that? Who was he?
Kettleman rolled his bed swiftly, slung his haversack and blanket roll and, picking up his shotgun and rifle, he started along the ridge. It was still some time until daybreak, but if Nugent did come back he had no desire to be caught sleeping, and the rancher was mad enough to gather his crew and return.
Thomas S. Nugent. He knew the name from the files. Before building the railroad they had made a study of ranchers in the area to gauge the amount of shipping there would be to handle their cattle and what supplies they might require. There was not a ranch in the area about which he was uninformed. Because of the proximity to Flint’s old hideout, he had paid particular attention to the vicinity.
It was faintly gray in the east when he climbed out of the hollow and started across country.
He was heavily loaded for the long walk that lay before him, but his illness seemed to have taken little toll of his strength as yet. He had always been strong, and even in New York he had been active, with regular workouts in the gym, a good bit of walking, and hunting trips to Virginia or over in New Jersey.
He had been walking only a short distance when he found the hunted man.
Chapter 2
NANCY KERRIGAN opened her eyes as the train slowed for a stop, and watched the stockyards flip past the windows like the spots on a riffled deck of cards. It was good to be home, despite the trouble she brought with her.
The straw-haired man was on his feet, and when he glanced back along the car she noticed the pockmarks on his cheeks and a tiny white scar above one eyebrow. He was very tall, and the way in which he flipped the gun belt around his hips spoke of long practice.
She had never seen this man before but she had lived too long in the West not to know his kind. Since the Lincoln County war and the Land-Grant fights there had been many of his kind in New Mexico, and now there were rumors of trouble building in the Tonto Basin of Arizona.
Flint Page 2
