Flint had no real stake in the fight, and his friendship with the Kerrigan girl must be scotched at once. Buckdun could take care of that.
Baldwin was pleased. He allowed himself ninety days to be in complete possession of three million acres.
He picked up his newspaper that had been delivered to his room and took it down to the restaurant. Harriman was in the midst of a fight with the Morgan-Vanderbilt interests, and Kettleman was expected to intervene. Baldwin stared at the name irritably. He had lost money on the Union Pacific stock deal, for he had attempted to follow Kettleman’s lead and had been caught short.
Kettleman had been a major stockholder and a director. He gained control of the Kansas Pacific and declared his intention of building another transcontinental railroad to rival the Union Pacific. Frantic at the thought of competition, the Union Pacific moved to buy Kansas Pacific stock. That stock was way below par, and when Kettleman sold he forced the Union Pacific to buy at par, and cleared ten million on the deal.
Port Baldwin learned from Kettleman’s father-in-law that Kettleman was buying Kansas Pacific stock. Rushing in, he bought Kansas Pacific himself, but the deal with Union Pacific was made secretly, and Kettleman had sold out before Baldwin knew it. The stock took a nose dive, and Baldwin was all but cleaned out.
Ten million! Baldwin rustled his paper angrily. Every time he thought of it, he was enraged. Lottie would have it all, someday, if she just outlived Kettleman.
How could Kettleman have killed that gambler? The man was notorious on the Mississippi riverboats, and had been hired several times for killings, each of which had gone off successfully. Baldwin had been careful not to be close by, yet from all accounts, the gambler had drawn his pistol and was about to shoot when Kettleman produced a gun as if by magic and killed him.
Baldwin had worried ever since the failure of the attempt. Kettleman had the reputation of a man who did not forget an injury, and it was whispered that the gambler had talked before he died. How much had he talked? That was the question.
Baldwin had seen a chance at a tidy profit. If Kettleman was killed there would be an immediate reaction on the market. Baldwin prepared for it — but lost again.
There was nothing to do now but wait and let Buckdun handle his part of it, and the cattle would do the rest.
Baldwin had never seen Kettleman. For that matter he had never seen Jay Gould or Commodore Vanderbilt, either. He had seen Harriman, a shrewd young man who would go far, and he knew Jim Fisk.
There was time. He was only forty years old and tremendously strong. In the twenty years since he had been a shoulder-striker for Tom Poole he had come a long way. The rest of them: Where were they? Dead or booze hounds, running games, or tending bar.
Jim Flint came into the room and sat down opposite Baldwin. His face was badly discolored and Baldwin heard murmurs. Not a soul among the twenty or so in the dining room did not know about that beating and how it had come about.
He felt his face growing red and it angered him. What did that fool Flint mean, coming into a hotel dining room? Porter Baldwin felt a slow anger growing within him. Buckdun was the only answer to this man.
Flint looked over at him and smiled a taunting smile.
“Hello, Port,” he said. “Some day you must try hitting me when my back is not turned.”
“I don’t brawl.”
“I think you’re yellow, Port. You hire your fighting done. But you know something, Port? I think you should go back to New York. If you don’t go now, you may never make it.”
Port Baldwin’s appetite was gone, and there seemed to be a chill in the room. It was strange he had not noticed it before.
Chapter 8
FLINT DID not finish his meal. Brief as was the exchange with Port Baldwin, it left him restless and irritable. He was aware that his whole manner had reverted to what it might have been had he remained in the West.
Outside the night was cool and the stars were out. He glanced to right and left along the street, feeling the old wariness returning.
During the years he had traveled with the first Flint, he had never been without this wariness, although he was never allowed in the vicinity of a killing, nor told exactly what his benefactor was doing. Always, he was left in some lonely spot to care for the horses. It was a good thing to have fresh horses where a man knew they would be.
He felt better after he had eaten. The pains did not bother him so much. Perhaps this was the onset of that feeling of well-being he had been told to expect when the end was drawing near.
He did not feel like a dying man. His mind accepted the verdict, but the blood in his veins flowed as always, and the night wind tasted as good. It was only when the pains came, and the retching, only when he found the blood on his lips that he could believe it with his body as well.
He crossed the walk and stepped into the saddle, turning downstreet. As he did so a man moved from the shadows not far away and started up the back stairs of the hotel. Flint recognized the tall, lean man from the train and, from talk he had overheard, he figured this would be Buckdun.
On impulse Flint turned his mare sharply and walked her to the foot of the stairs.
“Buckdun!”
The man turned warily. Dimly visible in the faint light from the hotel windows, he peered at Flint from under his hatbrim. Flint knew that his own face was equally invisible, although he sat plainly in the light from the front window of the hotel.
“Buckdun, leave the Kaybar alone. I am telling you now. I will not tell you again.”
Buckdun was a man who killed for money, and carefully, with no desire to risk himself. “I don’t know as I’ve heard of the Kaybar,” Buckdun replied. “Who might you be?”
“I am Flint.”
That name would mean more to Buckdun than the others, for he would know the legend and much of the fact around that name.
“I’d say you were a mite young. Seems to me Flint would be — well, maybe sixty years old now.”
“Maybe.” Flint turned his mare. “I think we understand each other, Buckdun. This is no challenge, just a piece of advice. I doubt if either of us really wants to fight the other.”
He walked the mare down the street and out of town.
Buckdun stood on the shadowed stairs and watched him go. How old had Flint been? The trail crew of the Three-X were supposed to have killed him in the fight at The Crossing, years ago. But no body ever was found. When the lights went on Flint was gone as well as the kid.
This might not be the original Flint, but if a man prepared for the worst he saved himself a lot of trouble.
When Buckdun shot Ed Flynn, he had him dead to rights till Flynn’s horse started acting up. It was the first time Buckdun had failed to make a kill. He was not a superstitious man, but there might be a sign in that failure. He had better leave Kaybar alone.
Buckdun went up the stairs to one of the hotel rooms. For an instant he stood inside the door, listening. He was sitting on the bed in the dark when Baldwin came in.
“You sent for me?” Buckdun said.
Baldwin took out a cigar, then offered one to Buckdun, who accepted it. “We have to move faster. I want Tom Nugent.”
“All right.”
“And I want a Kaybar rider. Choose your own. I want to scare that girl out of there.”
“No.”
Baldwin looked at him past the glow of a match.
“I’ve been warned off Kaybar by a man who seems to be interested there.”
“Flint? What does it matter? He isn’t important.”
“Now, that’s a question. Mr. Baldwin, there was a man in my business named Flint. That was some years back. That man was a marvel, Mr. Baldwin. Every job was clean and smooth.”
“He’s dead?”
Briefly, Buckdun outlined the events at The Crossing. “This might be the same man. If he is, and if he starts gunning, he could be a trouble.”
“Are you afraid?” Baldwin’s tone was sarcastic.
“I am a businessman, Mr. Baldwin, in a business where I cannot do a good job if I have to worry about my back. Whether there is any connection with the old Flint or not, this one is unpredictable, as you have reason to know.”
“All right, leave him to me.”
“Sure.” Buckdun got to his feet. “Mr. Baldwin, I’d lay off the Kaybar if I were you. He might start hunting, and you’d be a sitting duck.”
Baldwin started to make an angry reply, but Buckdun interrupted. “You have been standing in front of a lighted window for several minutes. If I had been hunting you, you’d be dead. I take a professional interest, and you ain’t used to a rifle country, Mr. Baldwin.”
“You take care of Nugent,” Baldwin replied sharply. “I will take care of myself.”
“All right. But you better pay me for that Flynn job, and my advance on Nugent”
“You don’t trust me?”
“This ain’t a trusting business, Mr. Baldwin. You don’t trust nobody. Especially if they stand in front of windows. I won’t get far, Mr. Baldwin, with a claim against your estate.”
Buckdun stepped out of the door when his money was paid, closing it so softly there was no sound. Baldwin listened for footsteps, but heard nothing. Taking off his coat and loosening his stiff collar, Baldwin propped a couple of pillows behind him and sat on the bed to think. Flint worried him. Buckdun’s odd manner worried him still more, but stirred his impatience, also.
****
FLINT TURNED the mare out to pasture. The big red horse was feeding close by. Flint held out sugar to him but the red horse would not take it from his fingers, although he accepted it from the flat rock within a yard of Flint.
The second piece the stallion took from his fingers, after stretching his nose toward the sugar several times. Later that afternoon Flint managed to get a hand on the stallion’s shoulder, talking to him gently. Still later he rubbed his back and scratched under his mane. Proximity and sugar were slowly winning him over.
That night Flint slept a sound sleep for the first time in months, and awakened thinking of Nancy Kerrigan and their long talks during his stay at the ranch.
He shaved, dressed in fresh clothing, and considered the situation. The thing to do was break Port Baldwin from the New York end. He thought for a minute, weighing possible allies in New York, the voting power of his stock, and other factors.
He saddled the mare, taking time out to pet the stallion, and even to pull himself half on to the red horse’s back. The stallion side-stepped a little, but seemed more concerned with getting more sugar than with objecting to the handling. He was quite sure he could ride the red stallion when he wanted to.
Leading the mare, Flint went down the outer passage through the lava, and was within a few yards of the trail when he heard voices. There were seven riders. They were Baldwin men.
Nothing lay in the direction they were taking but the Kaybar, unless they were going to Horse Springs, which was unlikely. Waiting a few minutes, he led the mare out, brushed away the tracks, and stepped into the leather.
The sky was tufted with bits of white cloud, the air was clear, and the sun was warm.
****
IN ALAMITOS, on that morning, Porter Baldwin was opening a land office, advertising for sale cattle ranches, dry farms, and town-site lots.
In New York, Lottie Kettleman had found out that her husband had disappeared.
****
NEAR THE lava beds Flint was trailing the seven Baldwin riders. They held to a tight bunch, riding slowly to stir no dust cloud. When they disappeared into the trees beyond North Plain, he took a direction diagonally away from them, but once under cover of the trees he turned north and rode swiftly to make up for time lost.
Their destination was now obvious. They were headed for the Kaybar headquarters. Flint could see the highest peak of the Zuni Mountains dead ahead, and knew that peak lay northwest from the Kaybar.
He thought of attempting to reach the ranch ahead of them, but doubted if the old mare would stand the run.
He rode with extreme care, holding his rifle across the saddle and ready for action. It was a custom-made rifle, built by a man who made weapons for the Grand Duke Alexis and others, and possessed extraordinary range and accuracy.
The Baldwin riders were holding close to the lava beds so he rode wide, using every bit of cover, and gained some ground. He was on the north slope of the Zuni Mountains when he came within sight of Kaybar, and glimpsed a dust cloud far away to the north indicating a second group of riders.
He stepped up his pace, cutting down the hillside and gaining a little ground by virtue of terrain. The riders along the lava beds started to trot their horses, and as if by prearrangement, those at the foot of the Zunis did also.
“All right, girl,” he said to the mare, “let’s see if you can run.”
He walked her out of the trees and started down the slope. He was at the apex of a triangle with riders coming up both sides toward him.
The mare started to trot. So far he had not been seen. Sensing his urgency, she began to go faster and faster. Now they were within sight of the ranch and on level ground. From behind he heard a shout, then a shot. The range was too great and he was not worried, but the mare stretched out and began to run.
At the ranch somebody ran into the yard and he saw sunlight on a rifle barrel. He talked to the mare and, glancing back, saw a rifle leveled. There was a dip in the ground off to the left. He swung over and dropped into it, hearing the bullet go by.
When he came out of the hollow he let the mare have her head and she started running all out, giving it everything she had. Old as she was, she was a fine horse and she loved to run.
Then the others broke from the brush and trees and, stretched out in a long line, swept down on the ranch, guns popping. Somebody fired from the ranch and then he was racing into the yard.
He swung an arm to indicate the attack was coming from all directions and then rode the mare to the stable and, dropping to the ground, ran back.
Johnny Otero was down behind a plank water trough, rifle ready, and Pete Gaddis came running from the bunkhouse carrying an extra cartridge belt.
Otero fired first and a gray horse running full tilt took a header, throwing its rider head over heels to the ground. The rider started to get up, and Otero fired again.
Riders rushed into the ranch yard and one man lifted a gun toward Otero. Flint fired his big game rifle and the man was lifted from the saddle and smashed to the ground. It was close range now. Dropping the rifle, he sprang into the open and emptied his six-shooter into the racing riders. Then he switched guns with a border shift, throwing the empty gun to his left hand, the loaded gun to his right, opening fire so swiftly there was almost no break in the sound.
Two saddles were emptied and a man riding away seemed to turn in the saddle and fall, his foot hanging in the stirrup.
The attack ended abruptly. Flames crackled up from a huge stack of hay. Otero had a bad burn across the top of his shoulder, but the defenders suffered no other injuries. Flint loaded his pistols and recovered his rifle.
At the stable he stripped the saddle from the mare and, taking a handful of hay, gave her a swift rubdown, then threw an old blanket over her. He put grain in the feed box and hay in the manger. He was coming out of the stall when pain seized him, knotting his stomach with agony. He doubled over, and caught the edge of the stall for support, then slid to his knees.
Johnny Otero stepped into the door. “Hey, did you get hit?”
Flint shook his head. Otero waited, uncertain, then backed out and went to the house. Slowly the attack passed. Flint pulled himself erect. He spat. There was blood on the hay.
He walked out of the barn, feeling weak and sick. He squinted his eyes against the sun and stood in the stable door for a minute, trying to fight his way back to composure.
Otero came from the bunkhouse carrying an extra rifle, a second pistol tucked into his waistband. He glanced curiously at Flint. “You all r
ight?” he asked.
“All right,” Flint said briefly.
“There’s more guns in the house,” Otero said.
There was a burst of firing from the west and two riders came at the ranch on a dead run.
“Hold your fire!” Otero yelled. “That’s Julius!”
Julius Bent dropped from the saddle in time to catch the other rider as he fell. The wounded man had been shot twice, through the leg, and through the chest.
Flint walked around the ranch yard, studying the situation. The place was in good shape as long as daylight held, but with the small number of men they had to defend it, night attack was sure to end in disaster. The attackers could close in under cover of darkness and fire the buildings, then shoot down the defenders as they emerged.
No help could be expected from the outside. If Baldwin had thought to guard the telegraph station it was doubtful if the territorial government would know of what was going on until the fight was over, and then Baldwin could say it was a fight between the big ranches and squatters.
The telegraph station …
Jim Flint paused in his pacing. The place to beat Baldwin was New York. The telegraph made it almost next door.
He went to the house. “We’ve got to get out of here, as soon as it’s dark,” he told Nancy.
Gaddis nodded agreement. “He’s right. They’ll burn this place tonight whether we are in it or not.”
Burn the ranch? Nancy looked slowly around her, scarcely able to imagine life without this house. She had grown up here. There were marks of her uncle and father all around. Yet she knew that what Flint and Gaddis said was true.
“We will need all the grub we can get together,” she said, “and pack horses. I doubt if they will expect us to run.”
“Where’ll we go?” Gaddis asked mildly.
“There is only one place,” Nancy said. “We will go to the Hole-in-the-Wall.” She turned to explain to Flint. “It’s a lava-walled pasture — twelve thousand acres of it. I doubt if any of Baldwin’s men know it exists.”
Flint Page 9
