Blood on the Moon

by Luke Short

  He was aware now that the talk had died down, and he moved slowly across to the door.

  Halfway across he heard a shout that he couldn’t mistake.

  “Here’s Tate!”

  Tate Riling? What would a Blockhouse man be doing mouthing that name, except to curse it? Jim was puzzled, and he listened.

  “Tate! Tate! Careful how you come up!”

  There it was again, this time from the street. Jim moved over to the door, puzzled, and opened it gently. Through the crack of the door, past the corner of the adjoining barn, he could see two men—one of them the phony Tate Riling—talking animatedly, gesturing with a gun to a man Jim couldn’t see.

  Jim gauged his chances and stepped outside. The big man hadn’t seen him. He moved swiftly across to the barn and in the sheltering wedge of darkness worked up to the corner of the barn. The talk out there came into focus. He heard: “…and wanted a job ridin’ for us. But he saw how it shaped up and made the first play.”

  “Then get him, get him!”

  It was Tate Riling’s voice; Jim couldn’t mistake it. He didn’t understand this, yet he did understand that these men were looking to Tate for orders, and he was safe.

  He stepped out from the corner of the barn. The boy saw him first and yelled, “There he is!”

  Jim stood motionless on the outer fringe of the lantern light. They wheeled and split, lifting their guns, and then he was looking at Tate Riling.

  “Jim Garry!”

  The words exploded from the lips of Tate Riling like an oath, and then his booming laugh lifted into the night. He was a massive man, tall, with tremendous shoulders, built solid, with great thick hands and long arms. The lantern on the ground lighted his face from below, giving it a depth of jaw that almost hid his neck. Close-cropped pale hair that burred out even at the temples widened a face that was long jawed and had a quality almost mastifflike. He just missed being ugly, with a nose that was broad with thick volutes, but the humor in his face saved it. He smiled often, as now, and it hinted at the tremendous vitality and drive of the man. He would command or die; everything about him suggested boldness. Only his eyes, quick and a burning blue, held the reserve of a slyness and cunning that Jim knew.

  Riling turned to the men. “That’s Jim Garry, dammit—the man I sent for! He’s no range detective.”

  He strode over and grabbed Jim’s hand and almost mashed it in his grip and flung an arm over Jim’s shoulder. He said, “What went wrong, Jim? Who started this?”

  Jim said thinly, “Ask these buckaroos, Tate.”

  The men at the end of the alley now came up. They were all here, along with a couple more that had come with Tate. There was a wicked dislike in their faces as they eyed him.

  But it took Milo Sweet to voice it. He said suspiciously, “If that’s Garry what was he doin’ at the Blockhouse?”

  So they’d seen him go into Lufton’s place and thought him a Lufton hand. Jim almost smiled at that, thinking how simple it would be to put things to rights. A couple of spoken sentences and it would be clear. Yet some cross-grained stubbornness held him silent. He didn’t like these men, not even if he was going to work among them.

  “Blockhouse?” Riling echoed. “Jim went into Blockhouse?”

  “I seen him,” Sweet said.

  Riling looked at Jim now, and Jim’s face was bland, faintly curious. “That’s right,” Jim said. “I delivered a note from him to his women. What about it?”

  Riling scowled. “But Blockhouse is the outfit that’s tryin’ to run us out of the country.”

  “Am I supposed to know that?” Jim countered.

  And then Riling’s face broke into his brash, friendly grin. “Why, hell, no, Jim. I’d forgot.” He turned to the crew. “I never wrote Jim about our fight. I told him I needed him and to come up, and I never mentioned Blockhouse. So quit chewin’ leather, boys, and go in and get a drink. Me and Jim will be with you in a little while.”

  When the crew had drifted into the Bella Union through the back door Riling regarded Jim with an amused affection. “Same old Jim. When lightning strikes you’re there.”

  “Wasn’t a fair test,” Jim drawled, but he grinned too.

  Riling took him by the arm and they turned up the alley, and Riling asked questions about the journey, and Jim knew Riling was glad to see him. Jim answered and then inquired about Riling’s affairs. He didn’t get an answer immediately.

  They were at the mouth of the alley now, and Riling paused. Across the street was Sun Dust’s hotel, the Basin House, and Riling contemplated it thoughtfully.

  “How am I doing?” he asked, echoing Jim’s question. “I won’t tell you; I’ll show you, Jim.” He pointed to the hotel. “We’ll go over there, and you sign for a room and we’ll go up. I’ve got a piece of business to do.”

  Jim was curious now, but he knew Riling wouldn’t talk until he was ready. They went into the lobby of the Basin, and Jim signed the register at the desk under the stairs and was given a key. Several men were idling in the lobby chairs, but neither Riling nor Jim paid them much attention.

  Upstairs Jim unlocked the door to his room and went in and lighted the lamp. Riling, however, stood in the doorway, looking down the corridor. Presently Jim saw him lift an arm and wave and then step back into the room, a faint smile on his bold face.

  Soon there came a knock on the door, and a man stepped quickly into the room, closing the door behind him. He turned, and when he saw Jim a look of petulance crossed his face.

  He was one of the lobby sitters downstairs, Jim remembered, and was curious. He was the sort of man that Riling, or any man who worked with cattle and horses, would take an instinctive dislike to. Of medium size with a comfortable paunch, he wore the old-fashioned frock coat and flowing tie of a politician. His watery blue eyes were close set to a narrow nose, and his full pursed lips were cherry red in a sallow face. He wore his sparse sandy hair long at the back, and he wore a full black Stetson that was wide brimmed and well brushed. He was carrying a small black valise, which he did not put down.

  There was a faint note of amusement in Riling’s voice as he said, “Jim, this is Mr. Jacob Pindalest, the United States agent for Ute Indians over on the reservation.”

  Jim put out his hand, and Pindalest tentatively gave his. His hand was soft and damp, and he looked curiously at Riling, waiting for an explanation of Jim’s presence. There was a sour whisky reek about him.

  “This is Garry, my partner,” Riling said.

  “Partner? You didn’t tell me you had a partner, Riling.”

  “I am now.”

  Pindalest looked distressed. “Before we go on I’d like to have it understood how he’ll figure in this.”

  “You mean money,” Riling said dryly. “I’ll share with him, so you don’t need to worry, Pindalest.”

  The agent seemed relieved. He came over and put the valise on the table and said, looking obliquely at Jim, “There’s the—uh—item we were discussing the other day, Riling. I think you’ll find it satisfactory.”

  “Gold eagles are usually satisfactory, aren’t they?” Riling asked dryly. He was amused by the pompous circumspection of the agent, and now he smiled openly. “I told you Garry is my partner, Pindalest. What I know he knows.”

  “To be sure,” Pindalest said. He was uneasy now, and when Jim shoved a chair toward him he shook his head nervously. “No, I can’t stay, thank you. I must be going.”

  “Scared?” Riling asked.

  Pindalest flushed. “I am merely being cautious, Riling. If we were discovered together our whole plan might be jeopardized.”

  “That’s right,” Riling said. “Now all you have to do is sit back and wait for me to swing it.”

  “Exactly. I’m counting on you.”

  “And on your money too,” Riling observed. He put out his hand and Pindalest took it.

  “Good luck,” the agent said. “If you need my help let me know.” He shook hands with Jim and then went out, first peering
up and down the corridor to make sure he wasn’t seen.

  When he was gone Riling looked at Jim and made a wry face. “That,” he said, “is our partner, Jim. He’s a cross between a rabbit and a very timid snake.”

  He went over to the valise and hefted it and said, “And that is our working capital—courtesy of the United States government.”

  Jim was frowning, not understanding, and Riling laughed. “Sit down and listen to a story.”

  They rolled smokes, and then Riling jerked his thumb at the black bag. “There’s ten thousand dollars in there, Jim. With it I’m going to buy twenty-five hundred head of Lufton’s Texas beef at a little over three dollars a head.” He grinned. “Cheap enough, isn’t it?”

  “Too cheap,” Jim said, puzzled. “Where’s the catch?”

  “There isn’t any.” Riling put a foot on the chair and shoved his hat off the back of his forehead. “You met Lufton, you say?”

  Jim nodded. “Camped with him last night.”

  “Did he tell you he was shovin’ his beef across the Massacre River into Massacre Basin here?”

  “That’s right. Said the Indian agent had refused his beef, framed a whisky-peddling charge against him, and then denied him reservation graze.”

  “True. Did he tell you that the army from Fort Liggett has orders to seize all his beef that’s still on the reservation by the first of November?”

  “No,” Jim said.

  Riling smiled. “Well, that’s the layout, Jim—the neatest scheme a man ever rigged—and I’m proud of it. It’s my own.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Just this. I’ve organized these nesters—a dozen of ’em—to fight any move Lufton makes to shove his herd across the Massacre into the Basin. They’re mad and they’ll fight, because they figure they’re fightin’ for their range. They’re not; they’re fightin’ for me. Because if they can keep Lufton out of the Basin he won’t have any graze for his herd after November first. He’ll have no range to move on to. And if he’s caught on the reservation on the deadline, his herd is seized by the army at Pindalest’s request. So what does he do?”

  “Sell?”

  “To me. Cheap, because he’d rather get a little money for the stuff than lose it all to the army.” He paused. “Once I’ve got ’em, I sell them to Pindalest for less money than the government contracted to pay Lufton in the beginning.”

  “And how much is that?” Jim drawled.

  Riling laughed softly and said, “These are the figures. The government contracted to pay Lufton through Pindalest over a hundred thousand for the herd. The money is banked here in Sun Dust. But Pindalest refused the herd. So when the deadline comes I take this ten thousand that Pindalest advances me and buy the herd from Lufton. I sell them back to Pindalest for sixty thousand.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “I make fifty thousand, and Pindalest makes the difference between sixty thousand and a hundred thousand, or forty thousand.” He paused. “And your share of that, Jim, is twenty thousand, two fifths of my loot. Did I lie to you in my letter?”

  Jim was silent a moment, considering this, and then he asked idly, “What do I do to earn it?”

  “Fight,” Riling said bluntly. “Lufton’s tough. These nesters aren’t. You’ll make up the difference.”

  Jim stared thoughtfully at Riling. This scheme was like him, daring and bold and unscrupulous. He’d organized his small army into a weapon with which he could blackmail Lufton. There was a wry admiration in Jim for Tate’s scheme, and he thought of the money. It was more money than he’d ever seen, and earning it wouldn’t be hard.

  “Well?” Riling said.

  “Why not?” Jim murmured.

  Riling grunted with satisfaction and picked up the valise and tucked it under his big arm. “Your first job,” he said, “is to get on the good side of these nesters. You better start now. So come along.”

  They went out into Sun Dust’s main street and into the Bella Union. The nester crew was loafing idly, waiting for Riling. Jim understood then how completely Riling had done his job. He’d won their loyalty enough to be undisputed leader.

  Riling put the valise on the bar and said to the bartender, “Lock that up in the safe, Barney.”

  The bartender took it, and Riling turned to go back to the men.

  “Wait a minute,” Barney said. He reached down under the bar and brought up a rock, around which was tied a note. He handed it to Tate.

  “Someone fired that through the back window during the ruckus,” he said.

  Jim had a sudden memory of Carol Lufton riding past him and flinging something through the saloon’s rear window. He watched Tate unfold the note and read it and saw the slow smile that came over his face.

  Riling went back to the table and said, “Saddle up, boys. I know where Lufton’s crossing tonight.”

  Milo Sweet came over and said, “How do you know?”

  Tate grinned good-naturedly and handed him the note. “I know the writing. Saddle up.”

  Jim knew then the reason for Tate’s confidence in his eventual success. Carol Lufton was willing to betray her father to him.

  Chapter Three

  Amy Lufton Rose before daybreak, threw a wrap around her and padded in bare feet out to the kitchen to light the lamp and make a fire in the big range. There was a chill in the air, and when she looked out the kitchen window toward the mountains she could see golden sunlight touching the very tops of the distant Braves. It was a melancholy sunrise, as all fall ones are, with their promise of winter coming. When the wood began to snap in the range it was more cheerful, and Amy put on a kettle of water.

  Afterward she started back down the long corridor toward her room. Passing the door of Carol’s room, she debated whether or not to waken her now. This day would tell them if Blockhouse could force its way across the Massacre in the face of the fighting nesters. Already it was decided, for they had made their drive in the night at Ripple Ford up by the Chimney Rocks. That’s all Amy knew, learning it through her father’s brief note to them yesterday, and she was tense and excited.

  She’d slept little the night before, so that she had heard Carol come in late. She stood irresolute for a moment outside the door, slim in her worn wrap, her arms folded across her breasts. Her attitude was solemn, her face grave, pensive, faintly excited. It was a slim face, serene for the moment, and her full, wide mouth was almost smiling in mockery. Carol always hated to get up early, yet today was a day she must.

  Amy opened the door and stepped into the dark room and walked slowly toward the bed where Carol was sleeping. Amy put a hand on Carol’s shoulder, and Carol roused, shook it off and buried her head deeper in the blankets.

  “Roll out, Red,” Amy said mockingly. That name usually roused Carol fighting.

  Carol opened her eyes and closed them again and said, “My lord, it’s the middle of the night. Go away.”

  “But we’re riding.”

  “I’m not,” Carol said.

  Amy sat down on the bed and said, “Remember what day it is?”

  Carol lazily opened her eyes to regard Amy thoughtfully. “No.”

  “Dad either crossed the Massacre last night or didn’t. Don’t you want to know which?”

  Carol sat up in bed with an abruptness that made Amy smile. “I’d forgotten!”

  “Then hurry.”

  Amy left her dressing and went back to her own room. It was small, simply furnished, with a kind of happy-go-lucky and not-too-neat carelessness about it. She dressed in yesterday’s levis and shirt, ran a comb through her thick light hair without looking into the mirror and went back to the kitchen.

  When Carol came out, sleepy eyed and dressed in a divided skirt and corduroy jacket, breakfast was ready.

  Carol tasted her coffee and then looked at her sister. “Over your sulk, baby?”

  “I feel fine,” Amy said.

  “But you can’t forget it.”

  Amy countered with a show of spirit. “Could you, if you’d been shot a
t?”

  Carol didn’t answer her question but said slowly, “I wonder who he was?”

  “Somebody riding through,” Amy said bitterly. “He wouldn’t have dared to do it if he were staying around here.”

  Carol put down her cup and laughed. “You didn’t like him, baby? He stood up to you as if you were pointing a potato masher at him.”

  Two spots of color showed at Amy’s cheekbones. Carol, watching her, felt a sudden rush of love for her, mingled with a feeling of self-pity. She called Amy “baby” with a kind of mocking irony that wasn’t explained by the two years’ difference in their ages. It was because Amy was so impetuous and wild and untamed, like a young and unbroken horse. Amy was twenty-four and yet she hardly understood the obligations of womanhood, had never known what it was to love a man or to suffer because of him. In her motherless childhood she had been more boy than girl, and in her womanhood she was still like that, Carol thought. Her generosities were magnificent; her angers were rages, her manner as simple and direct as a man’s. Men adored her and loved her, and Amy neither welcomed it nor understood it. Carol, with that dark intuitive knowledge of a desirable woman wise in the ways of love and men, knew there was heartbreak ahead for Amy. It made her feel old and exasperated.

  “Darling, if you shoot at some men they’ll shoot at you,” she said simply. “Guns aren’t playthings—not in these times.”

  “It’s not that,” Amy said angrily. “It was—well, the humiliation, I guess.”

  “Then don’t be such a perfect spitfire,” Carol said crossly. “Come on and finish your breakfast.”

  Amy said, “In a minute,” rose, went to the door and whistled shrilly through her teeth. A halloo at a far corral answered her, and Amy shouted, “Saddle up two, Ted!”

  Carol winced, yet there was something so natural in Amy’s act that it was laughable. Amy finished her coffee standing, seized her Stetson from the peg behind the door and went out.

  Carol cleared the few dishes off the table. Her hand was unsteady, and she paused by the table and shut her eyes, fighting for control of herself. Now that she was alone, bit by bit the appalling knowledge of what she had done last night came to her. Last night she had made her choice. The Bible said for a woman to cleave to her man, and Tate was her man—or would be, when this mess was over. She had betrayed her father, but for what reason? So that she and Tate, once they were married, could be secure in the knowledge that their little piece of range and their few cattle would support them. It wasn’t as if her father would miss it, for Carol believed him wealthy. Last night, then, Carol had made her choice. She would go with Tate.