“Seen any riders up your way?”
Regan had gone back to working on the sorrel. He accepted the question and thought about it. “Not many,” he said, at last. “A few strangers.”
“They’ve been coming here, too. There’s a couple of them inside now. Burr Fulton and Bill Hefferman.”
Dan Regan slapped the sorrel on the hip and wiped his hands. “I’ve heard of them. They used to waste around down to Weaver.”
“Having a daughter like mine is a bad thing out here,” Meadows told him, the worry plain in his voice. “These men worry me.”
“She looks fit to hold her own,” Dan commented mildly.
Meadows looked at him. “You don’t know Fulton. He’s a lawless man; so are they all. They know what’s happening. The word’s gone out.”
“What word?” Dan asked sharply.
Meadows shrugged. “Can’t you see? The Slash B runs this country, always has. The Slash B was the law. Before Billings’s time this was outlaw country, wild and rough, and the outlaws did what they wanted. Then Cash Billings came in and made law where there was none. He had an outfit of hardcase riders and when anybody overstepped what Billings thought was proper, the man was shot, or ordered out of the country. They made a few mistakes, but they had order. It was safe.”
“The country’s building up now. There’s a sheriff.”
Meadows spat his disgust. “Bah! Colmer’s afraid of his shadow. Fulton ordered him out of the saloon over at the Crossing the other night and he went like a whipped dog.”
“What about the Slash B? Has it lost its authority?”
“You don’t hear much, up there in the hills. The Slash B is through, finished. Cash is a sick man, and that nephew of his is a weakling. The foreman is drunk half the time, and the old crowd is drifting away. That’s why the wolves are coming. They know there’s no bull moose for this herd. They want to start cutting it for their own profit.”
Meadows nodded toward the house. “Where do Fulton and Hefferman get their money? They spend it free enough, but never do a pat of work. They sell Slash B cows, that’s how. I wish somebody could talk to Cash. He doesn’t know. He lives alone in that big house, and he hears nothing but what they tell him.”
Meadows walked off toward the house and Dan Regan stood there in the darkening barn and brushed off his clothes. This was not quite new to him. He had known some of it, but not that it had grown so bad. Maybe if he went to Cash Billings … No, that would never do. Cash knew he had a lion hunter, but he didn’t know he was Dan Regan, which was just as well.
Regan was a lean young man, as accustomed to walking as riding. He understood the woods and trails, knew cattle and lions. He was killing a lot of the latter. He walked on up to the house and into the big dining room where they fed the stage passengers and any chance travelers following the route. The table was empty except for a fat-faced drummer with a wing collar, and the two riders Lew Meadows had mentioned.
Burr Fulton was a lean whip of a man, as tall as Regan but not so broad. Hefferman was beefy, a heavy-shouldered man with thick-lidded eyes and a wide, almost flat, red face. He looked as tough and brutal as Regan knew him to be. Neither of them looked up to see who had entered. They did not care. They were men riding a good thing, and they knew it.
Dan Regan had seen this thing happen before. He had seen big outfits lose their power. He had seen the wolves cut in and rip the herds to bits, taunting the impotent outfit that had once wielded power, and rustling its herds without retaliation. It was always the big herds, the strong outfits, that went down the hardest.
He seated himself on the bench some distance away from the others, and after a minute Jenny Meadows came in and brought his dinner. He glanced up and their eyes met quickly, and Jenny looked hastily away, a little color coming into her cheeks.
It had been a month since she had seen this man, but she hadn’t forgotten a thing about him, remembering the lean strength of his face, the way his dark hair curled behind his ears, and the way his broad shoulders swelled the flannel of his shirt.
She put his food down, then hesitated. “Coffee?”
“Milk, if you’ve got it. I never get any up in the mountains.”
Hefferman heard the word and glanced over at him.
“Milk,” he said to Fulton. “He drinks milk.”
Burr laughed. “He’s from the Slash B. I think they all drink milk these days!”
Regan felt his ears burning and some dark, uneasy warmth stirring in his chest. He did not look up, but continued to eat. Meadows was standing in the door and overheard Fulton’s comment. Now he sat down across the table from Regan and poured a cup of coffee.
“Meadows,” Fulton said, looking up, “do you use Slash B beef? Best around here, and I hear it can be had cheap.”
“I have my own cows,” Meadows replied stiffly. He was a somber man, gray-haired and thin. Never a fighter, he had a stern, unyielding sense of justice and a willingness to battle if pushed. He had lived safely here, in the shadow of the Slash B.
“Might as well buy some of their beef,” Hefferman boomed. “Everybody else is!”
Jenny returned and put a glass of milk in front of Regan. Her own face was burning, for the remarks had been audible in the kitchen, and she knew they were deliberately trying to make trouble. It irritated her that Regan took no offense and she was ashamed for him.
Moreover, she was sure that Dan Regan had come to the stage station to see her. Remembering the impression he had made the first time, she also remembered his eyes on her, and how they had made her feel. He was, she knew, the first man who had awakened within her the sense of being female, of being a woman. It was a new sensation, and an exciting one.
The supplies he had bought on his last trip were enough for another month at least, yet he had come back now. Knowing he came to see her, and remembering the excitement he had roused in her on his last trip, she regarded him somewhat as her own. It displeased her to see him sit quietly before the taunts of the two badlands riders.
Meadows was thinking similar thoughts. Jenny worried him. It was bad enough to have a daughter to rear on the frontier, worse when she had no mother. He hated to think of her leaving him, yet he knew when she married it would be a distinct relief. His ideas on women were strict, dogmatic, and old-fashioned, yet he was aware that nature takes little note of the rules of men. Still, the malpais country offered little in the way of eligible males.
He was aware of the dark good looks of Burr Fulton, and that such a man might appear dashing and exciting to a girl like Jenny. Dan Regan’s first visit to the stage station had arrested his notice as it had Jenny’s, for here was a tall, fine-looking man with a steady way about him and a good job, even if it was with the declining Slash B.
Meadows wanted no trouble around his place, and yet, like Jenny, he was irritated that Regan took no offense at the ragging Fulton and Hefferman were giving him.
Burr looked up suddenly at Jenny.
“Dance over to Rock Springs next week. Want to ride over with me?”
“No,” Jenny replied, “I don’t want to ride anywhere with a man who makes a living by stealing other men’s beef!”
Fulton’s face flushed with angry blood and he half rose to his feet. “If you were a man,” he said, “I’d kill you for that!” He remained hard. “Might as well come,” he said. “You’ll at least be going with a man who could protect you. I don’t drink milk!”
“It might be better if you did!” she retorted.
After a few minutes, with a few more sarcastic remarks, the two got up and went outside, mounted, and rode away. After they were gone the silence was thick in the room. Dan Regan stared gloomily at his milk, aware of Meadows’s irritation and Jenny’s obvious displeasure.
He looked up, finally. “That was what I came down for, Jenny. I want to take you to that dance.”
She turned on him, and her face was stiff. Her chin lifted. “I’d not want to go with you,” she said bitterly. “You
’d be afraid to stand up for a girl! You won’t even stand up for your own rights! I thought you were a man!”
The moment the angry words were out, she would have given anything not to have said them. She hesitated, instantly contrite. Dan Regan took one more swallow of milk and got up. Coolly, but with his face pale and his eyes grim, he picked up his hat.
“I reckon that settles that,” he said quietly, “and I’ll be riding on.”
Jenny took an impulsive step toward him, not finding the words to stop him, but his back was turned. Only at the door did he turn.
“What did you want?” he asked coldly. “A killing? For so little? Is a man’s life so small a thing to you?”
She stared at the door, appalled. Then her eyes went to her father’s.
“But, Dad! He—it wouldn’t have meant a killing!”
Meadows looked up, realization in his eyes. “It might, Jenny. It might, at that.”
It was young Tom Newton who took her to the dance. A handsome boy he was, a year younger than she, and a rider for the Slash B. Yet the moment she walked through the door of the Rock Springs school she sensed the subtle difference in the atmosphere. The same people were there, but now a queer restraint seemed to sit upon them. The reason was not hard to see. Burr Fulton was there, with Bill Hefferman and some dozen other hardcase riders, all outside men, all tough, and all drinking.
Yet the affair started well, and it was not until after three dances that she glanced toward the door and saw Dan Regan. There was a subtle difference about him, too, and for a moment she could not place it, and then she saw. He was wearing two guns. It was the first time she had ever seen him with anything but a rifle, yet he wore the guns naturally, easily.
He wore a dark broadcloth suit that somehow suited him better than she would have believed. He did not wear it with the stiff, dressed-up manner of most western men, but with the ease of one long accustomed to such clothes. The change was good, she decided, for he managed to look not only perfectly at ease, but completely the gentleman.
As the evening wore on, the Fulton riders grew more boisterous. Hefferman walked out on the floor and took a girl from another man by the simple procedure of shoving the man away. White-faced, the girl danced with him, and when the dance was over, she and her friend left. Others began to drift away, and somberly, Dan Regan watched them go.
Jenny Meadows was perfectly aware it was time she left, but Dan had made no effort to come to her, nor to request a dance. Disappointed, and more than a little angry, she delayed even after Tom Newton began to urge her to leave with him.
Once, early in the evening, she had danced with Burr Fulton. He had teased her a little, but his behavior had been all she could have asked. Now he came to her again, his face flushed with drinking.
“Let’s dance!” he said, grinning at her.
She was frightened at the lurking deviltry in his eyes, and she could see the temper riding him. Fulton was a reckless man, a man known to be ugly when drinking—and dangerous. She hesitated, and Newton spoke up quietly. “She has this dance with me, Burr.”
Fulton stared insolently at Newton, and Jenny felt a rising sense of panic.
“You mean she did!” he said. “She has this dance with me, now!”
Newton’s face paled, but he stood his ground. “I’m sorry, Burr. She dances with me this time. Another time, perhaps.”
“This time.” Burr Fulton’s attention was centered on Newton now. “This time she dances with me. You take a walk or get your horse and ride home. I’ll take care of her!”
She turned quickly to Newton. “We’d better go, Tom. We should have gone long ago.”
Fulton’s eyes turned to her then, and the taunting violence in them shocked her. “You stay until I get through with you!” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you home tomorrow!”
Tom Newton’s fist swung. It was a nice try, but Burr had been looking for it, hoping for it. He knocked the punch down and kicked Newton in the stomach. With a grunt, the boy fell to the floor, his face twisted with pain.
Suddenly Dan Regan had stepped between Jenny and Fulton. “That was a dirty trick, Burr,” said Regan. “You didn’t have to kick him. Now you and your boys had better go home, you’re spoiling a good dance, and insulting women.”
Fulton’s face tightened. “Why, you lily-livered skunk, I’ll kill—!”
The words stopped, for he was looking into a six-gun, and then he realized that the gun had been in Dan Regan’s hands.
“So? A sure-thing operator, aren’t you?” he sneered. “Walk up to a man with a gun in your hand! Don’t take no chances, do you? Holster that gun and give me a fair shake! I’ll kill you then! I’ll shoot you like a dog!”
“You talk too much!” Regan said, disgust in his voice. “Take your coyote pack and trail out of here. Move now!”
His eyes ugly, Fulton turned his back on Dan and walked away. The dance broke up quietly. Regan stood alone and watched them go. Nobody came near him, nobody spoke to him, not even Jenny Meadows. Bitterly, he watched them go, knowing in his heart how they felt. He was afraid to give a man an even break, he came up with the drop on Fulton … he wouldn’t take a chance.
All of them were glad that Fulton had been stopped before something more ugly happened, but this was not the way of the West. You faced a man, and you gave him an even break.
Dan Regan did not stop at the stage station on his way back to the hills. He just kept going until the high timber closed around him and his sorrel was soft-footing it over thick pine needles toward the cabin on the bench above Hidden Lake.
“We’d better forget her, Red,” he told the sorrel. “She thinks we’re yellow. And so do the rest of them.”
Rumors came to him by occasional passing prospectors or hunters.
Rustlers were harrying the Slash B by day and by night. The herds were decimated. Two of the Slash B riders had been shot. When the foreman had threatened reprisals, Burr Fulton had ridden right up to the Slash B bunkhouse, dragged the man from his bunk, and whipped him soundly. When the punchers had wanted to round up the gang, their frightened foreman had refused permission. What had begun as a series of raids on the Slash B had grown until almost a reign of terror existed in the malpais.
Three of the hands quit. Drifting out of the country, they stopped at Regan’s cabin.
“Had enough!” Curly Bowne said with disgust. “I never worked for a white-feathered outfit, and I never will! If they’d turned us loose we could have cleaned out that bunch, but young Bud Billings is afraid of his shadow. The old man is sick, and Anse Wiley, the foreman, is plenty buffaloed now.”
“Stick around,” Regan told them. “No use you boys riding out of the country. There’s plenty of grub here, and you can hole up and help me hunt lions for a few days. I’ve been sort of thinking about going down to talk to old Cash, myself.”
Webb looked at him cynically. “Heard you had a run-in with Burr,” he suggested.
Curly Bowne and Jim Webb studied their boot toes. Dan knew they were awaiting his reply. These men had always liked him, but nobody in the malpais knew much about Regan. He was just the Slash B lion hunter. The story they had heard about the dance did not show him up too well.
“I had a few words with him,” Regan said calmly. “He dared me to holster my gun, said he’d kill me if I gave him an even break.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“No.” Regan’s voice was flat. “I’ve no use for killing unless forced to it, and there were women and old folks around. Anyway it wouldn’t have been an even break for Burr. He never saw the day he could throw a gun with me.”
He said it so calmly, in such a completely matter-of-fact tone that it didn’t sound like boasting. Curly looked at him thoughtfully.
“Why don’t you go down and see the old man?” he suggested then. “We’ll hold on here for you.”
Dan Regan rode by way of the stage station trail and arrived there at sundown once more. Jenny was putting food on the ta
ble when he went in, and her father glanced up at him.
“Howdy, Dan,” Meadows said grimly. “Reckon you can say good-bye to us now. We’re leaving!”
Regan twisted his hat in his fingers, avoiding Jenny’s eyes.
“Scared out?” he asked.
Jenny’s old irritation with him surfaced once more.
“If I were you I’d not talk about being scared!” she said scornfully.
He glanced at her without expression. “All right,” he said quietly.
“Or anything else!” she flashed.
“Did I say I was?” he asked gently.
Her face flamed and she whipped around and walked from the room, her chin high.
“Jenny’s sort of upset lately,” Meadows commented. “Don’t seem like herself.”
“Burr been around?”
“Every night. That Bill Hefferman, too. He’s a mean one, he is.”
“I’ll be ridin’ on, I reckon,” Dan said. “Got to go over to the Slash B.”
“Drawin’ your time? They all quittin’?”
“No,” Dan Regan said quietly. “I’m applying for a job. I want Anse Wiley’s job—ramroddin’ the Slash B.”
Meadows stared. “You’re crazy!” he said. “Plumb crazy! That outfit would run you out of the country or kill you! Burr Fulton has Wiley so buffaloed he doesn’t know which end is up!”
The door slammed open and Bill Hefferman came in. “Coffee!” he roared. “Give me some coffee!” He grabbed Meadows by the collar and shoved him toward the kitchen just as Jenny appeared in the door, her eyes wide and startled. “Get me some coffee!”
“You make too much noise,” Regan said, looking up at him. He sat on a seat against the wall, his arms folded.
Hefferman turned his big head and stared. He was a giant of a man. When he saw who it was he sneered.
“You? Don’t even open your yap at me, cat hunter! I don’t like you, and I’d like nothing better than to smash your face in!”
“Get out,” Regan said, unmoving. “Get out and don’t come back until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll meet you here then, and if you want trouble, I’ll whip you—bare-handed!”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 30
