The grass of the backyard was parched and dry, the slivery and gray old steps were broken and creaked as I mounted them. I looked through the glass in the door and saw that the only man in the shop was the barber himself. Opening the door, I stepped in.
He glanced up, then got to his feet without interest and went behind the chair.
“Haircut an’ shave,” I told him, “I been out prospectin’.”
“Cowhand?”
“Yeah…an’ I’ll be glad to get back to it.”
He chuckled and went to work. “Missed all the fun,” he said. “Been lively around.”
“Yeah?”
Rollie Pinder was killed…never figured the man lived was fast enough. Some folks say it was the Benaras boys, but they use rifles. I figure it was that there Brennan feller.”
He snipped away steadily. Then he said, “We’ll never know, prob’ly. Dead now.”
“Brennan?”
“Uh-huh…folks say Rollie got some lead into him, seems like. They found blood sign.”
The chair was comfortable. I closed my eyes. It would be good to sleep, to rest. It had been a long time since I had slept in a bed. With the quiet drone of the barber’s voice, the comfort of the chair, I felt myself nodding.
“You’ll have to sit up, mister. Can’t cut your hair ’less you do.”
So I sat up, but when he lay the chair back to shave me, my eyes closed again, and my body relaxed into the comfort of the chair. A hot towel on my face felt good. I listened to the razor stropping, slapping leather. Slapping leather, as I might soon be doing.
Smiling and half asleep, I felt the lather working into my beard under the barber’s fingers. I was not quite asleep, not quiet awake. A rider went by in the street. The razor was sharp and it felt good on my face…I dozed.…
A hand shook my shoulder, shook it hard. My eyes opened into the anxious eyes of the barber.
“Look, mister, you better get out of here. Get out of town.”
“You know me?” My face was free of the beard now.
“Seen you once…at Mother O’Hara’s. You better go.”
The little rest had left me groggy. I got out of the chair and checked my guns. It was not a time to trust any man.
“Don’t want me killed here, is that it? Don’t want my blood on your floor?”
“That ain’t it. I got nothing against you. Never knowed who you was until you got rid of that beard. No, you just move out. You ain’t safe. That Pinder outfit…”
My fingers found the money in my pocket.
“Thanks,” I said. “I enjoyed the shave.”
Then I walked to the front door and looked down the street. Two men sat in front of the store. I put on my hat and lifting a hand to the barber, I stepped out.
It was only sixty feet to Mother O’Hara’s, but it was going to be a long walk.
Chapter 9
*
WALKING THAT SIXTY feet, I knew a dozen men might be waiting to kill me. Unconsciously, I guess a little swagger got into me. It isn’t every man who is hunted by a small army!
For an instant I paused by the window of Mother O’Hara’s and glanced in. Key Chapin was there, and Morgan Park. I could not see who else. Down the street all was quiet. If anyone had identified me they made no move, and the barber had not left his shop.
My hand turned the knob and I stepped in, closing the door behind me.
The smell of coffee was in the air, and the pleasant room was quiet. Morgan Park looked up and our eyes held across the room.
“Next time you won’t catch me with my hands down, Park.”
Before he could reply I drew back a corner of the bench and sat down, keeping my guns free for my hands. The pot was on the table and I filled a cup.
“Chapin, an item for the press. Something like this: Matt Brennan of the Two-Bar was in town Friday afternoon. Matt is recovering from bullet wounds incurred during a minor dispute with Rollie Pinder, but is returning to the Two-Bar to take up where he left off.”
“That will be news to Pinder.”
“Tell him to expect me. I’ll kill or see hung every man concerned in the killing of old man Ball.”
“You know them?”
All eyes were on me now, and Mrs. O’Hara stood in the door of her kitchen.
“I know them…all but one. When Ball was dying he named a man to me, only I’m not sure.”
“Who?” Chapin was leaning forward.
“Morgan Park,” I said.
The big man came to his feet with a lunge. His brown face was ugly. “That’s a lie!”
“It’s a dead man you’re calling a liar, not me. Ball might have meant that one of your riders was present. One was…a man named Lyell.”
“It’s a lie.” Morgan Park was hoarse. He looked down at Chapin, who had not moved. “I had nothing to do with it.”
This was the man who had struck me down without warning, who had held me helpless while he beat me brutally.
“If it’s true,” I told him, “I’ll kill you after I whip you.”
“Whip me?”
You could see the amazement in his eyes. He was a man shocked, not by my threat to kill, but by the idea that I, or any man, might whip him.
“Don’t be impatient. Your time will come. Right now I need more time to get my strength back.”
He sat down slowly and I picked up my cup. Chapin was watching us curiously, his eyes going from one to the other.
“Ever stop to think of something, Park?”
He looked at me, waiting.
“You hit me with your Sunday punch. Right on the chin. You didn’t knock me out. You sat on me and held my arms down with your knees and beat me…but you didn’t knock me out.”
He was staring at me, and if ever I saw hatred in a man’s eyes, it was in his at that moment. This was the first time the story of his beating of me had come out. Many believed it had happened in a fair fight…now they would know.
Also he was realizing that what I said was true. He had taken a full swing at my unprotected chin, and I had gone down, but not out. And he did not like the thought.
“Next time I’ll be ready.”
He got up abruptly and walked to the door. “Get out of here! Get out—or I’ll kill you!”
On that he opened the door and went out, yet if he was worried, I was too. The man was huge. I’d not realized his great size before. His wrists and hands were enormous. Nor was that all. The man had brains. This was something to which I’d not given much thought, but he was shrewd and cunning. He was no hot-head. His beating of me had been a carefully calculated thing.
Mother O’Hara brought me food and Key Chapin sat quietly drinking his coffee. Others came in and sat down, stealing covert glances at me.
Rud Maclaren came in, and Canaval was with him. They hesitated then took seats opposite me.
The food tasted good, and I was hungry. Maclaren was irritated by my presence, but I kept quiet, not wanting to bait the man. He irritated me too, but there was Moira to think of.
Already I was thinking ahead. That amphitheater where Moira had met me…it would handle quite a number of cattle. It was naturally fenced by the cliffs, and had plenty of water, grass, and shade. And, while it was off the beaten track, it would be good to leave some cattle there to fatten up. With a good, tough old range bull to keep off the varmints.
Some of the men finished eating, and got up and left. I knew that out on the street they would be talking…about how I’d eaten at the same table with Maclaren and Canaval, how I’d told off Morgan Park—and that I was looking for the killers of old man Ball.
Canaval finished his meal and sat back, rolling a smoke.
“How was it with Rollie?”
So I told him and he listened, smoking thoughtfully. He would fill in the blank spaces, he would see what happened in his mind’s eye.
“And now?”
“Back to the Two-Bar.”
Maclaren’s face mottled. He was a man easy to anger,
I could see that.
“Get out…you’ve no right to that ranch. Get out and stay out.”
“Sorry…I’m staying. Don’t let a little power swell your head, Maclaren. You can’t dictate to me. I’m staying…the Two-Bar is mine. I’ll keep it.
“Furthermore, I’d rather not have trouble with you. You are the father of the girl I’m going to marry.”
“I’ll see you in hell first!” This was what he had said to me before.
I got to my feet and put a coin on the table to pay for my meal. The shave and haircut, the meal and the rest had made me feel better. But I was still weak, and I tired fast.
Katie O’Hara was watching me, and as I turned toward the door she was smiling. It was good to see a friendly smile. Key Chapin had said nothing, just listened and waited.
Outside the door I looked carefully along the street. By now they would know I was in town. I saw no CP horses, but that meant nothing, so turning, I walked up the street, then went down the alley and to my horse.
There was a man waiting for me, sitting on the back steps of the barber shop. He had a face like an unhappy monkey and his head as bald as a bottle. He looked up at me.
“By the look of you, you’ll be Matt Brennan.”
His shoulders were as wide as those of Morgan Park himself, but he was inches shorter than I. He could not have been much over five feet tall, but he would weigh an easy two hundred pounds, and there was no fat on him. His neck was like a column of oak, his hands and wrists were massive.
“Katie O’Hara was tellin’ me you were needin’ a man at the Two-Bar. Now, I’m a handy sort. Gunsmith by trade, but a blacksmith, carpenter, holster, and a bit of anything you’ll need.”
“There’s a fight on.”
“The short end of a fight always appealed to me.”
“Did Katie O’Hara send you?”
“She did that, and she’d be takin’ it unkindly of me if I showed up without the job.”
“You’re Katie’s man, then?”
His eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid there’s no such. She’s a broth of a woman, that Katie.” He looked up at me. “Is it a job I have?”
“When I get the ranch back.”
“Then let’s be gettin’ it back.”
He led my horse and a mule from the stable. The mule was a zebra dun with a face full of sin and deviltry. He had a tow sack tied before the saddle, another behind. He got into the saddle and sat by while I mounted.
“My name is Brian Mulvaney, call me what you like.”
Two gun butts showed above his boot tops. He touched them, grinning wisely.
“These are the Neal Bootleg pistol, altered to suit my taste. The caliber is .35, and they shoot like the glory of God.”
“Now this,” and he drew from his waistband a gun that needed only wheels to make it an admirable piece of artillery, “this was a Mills .75. Took me two months’ work off and on, but I’ve converted her to a four-shot revolver. A fine gun.”
All of seventeen inches long, it looked fit to break a man’s wrist with recoil, but Mulvaney had the hands and wrists to handle it. Certainly, a man once blasted with such a cannon would never need a doctor.
Mulvaney was the sort of man to have on your side. I’d seen enough of men to know the quality of this one. He was a fighter…and no fool. As we rode, he told me he was a wrestler, Cornish style.
It would be good to have a man at my side, and a man I could leave behind me on the ranch when we did get it back. How that would be managed I did not know, but somehow, it had to be done.
Yet there was a weariness on me. There had been little sleep or rest in the days since first I’d come to Hattan’s Point, except during the sixteen days in the hills, and then I’d been recovering from a wound. And that wound had robbed me of strength I’d need in the days to come.
We scouted the Two-Bar as others had scouted it against me, and there were four horses in the corral. No brands were visible at this distance, and it did not matter. There was a log barricade that looked formidable, and obviously the men had been instructed to lay low and sit tight. They had seen us, and were waiting with their rifles. We saw the reflected light from a moving gun barrel, but we were out of range.
“It’ll be a job.”
Mulvaney put a hand on the sack in front of him. “What do you think I’ve got in the sack, laddie? I, who was a miner also?”
“Powder?”
“In sticks, no less. New-fangled, but good.”
He rode his mule behind some rocks and as we got down he took the sticks from the sack. “Unless it makes your head ache to handle powder, lend me a hand. We’ll cut these sticks in half.”
We cut several, slid a cap into each stick, and tied it to a chunk of rock.
Darkness was near. It was time to move. We had waited under cover, but the men behind the barricade knew we were here, and by now they were wondering what we were doing. Perhaps they had seen the tow sacks, and were puzzling over what they contained.
Carefully, we gathered up our bombs and slid over the rim. We were still a good distance from the edge of the barricade. Suddenly, with a lunge, I was running. I had spotted cover just ahead, but a man sprang up from behind the barrier and he snapped a quick shot just as I slid into shelter behind the rock.
Mulvaney was running too. Another shot sounded, bu then I rolled up to my knees and hurled the first bomb.
I’d lit the fuse hurriedly and the flying dynamite charge left a trail of sparks. Somebody let go with a wild yell, and then the bomb hit and exploded almost in the same instant.
Mulvaney’s first and my second followed, both of them in the air at once. Another explosion split the night apart and one man dove over the barricade and started running straight toward me. The others charged the corral. The man coming at me glimpsed me then and slid to a halt. He wheeled as if the devil was after him.
Four riders dashed from the corral and were gone.
Mulvaney got up from behind his rock and we walked to the corral. He was chuckling.
“They’d have stood until hell froze over for guns,” he said, “but that giant powder got ’em.”
Leaving Mulvaney, I returned for my horse and his mule. So again I was on the ranch.…
Standing there under the stars, I looked off toward town. They would go there first, or that was my guess. And that meant they would have a few drinks and it would be hours before another attack could be mounted. And Mulvaney had been right, of course. They would have fought it out with guns. The giant powder was frightening and different.
Walking back to the ranch yard, leading the horses, I met Mulvaney gathering wood.
“It’s a fine ranch,” he said thoughtfully, “and you’re a lucky man.”
“If I can hold it.”
“We’ll hold it,” he said quietly.
Chapter 10
*
WE HAD EATEN our noon meal on the following day when we saw a plume of dust. It seemed like one rider, at most not more than two.
Mulvaney got up unhurriedly and moved across to the log barricade and waited beside his rifle. He was not a man who grew greatly excited, and I liked him for that. Fighting is a cool-headed business.
Rolling a smoke, I watched that dust. It could mean anything or nothing.
No man likes to stand against odds, yet sometimes it is the only way. No man likes to face a greater power than himself, and especially when there are always the coattail hangers who will render lip service to anyone who seems to be top dog.
It brings a bitterness to a man, and especially when he is right.
Yet this morning I’d no need for worry. The rider came into view, coming at an easy lope. And it was Moira Maclaren.
We had worked all that morning clearing ground for the new house I was to build. Moira drew up and her eyes went to the cleared space and the rocks we’d hauled on a stone boat for the foundation.
The house would stand on a hill with the long sweep of Cottonwood Wash before it, shade
d by several huge cottonwoods and a sycamore or two.
“You must be careful. I think you had a visitor last night,” she said.
“A visitor?”
“Morgan Park came over this way.”
So he had been around, had he? And devilishly quiet or we would have heard him. It was a thing to be remembered, and Moira was right. We must be more careful.
“He’s a puzzling man, Moira. Who is he?”
“He doesn’t talk much about the past. I know he’s been in Philadelphia and New York. And he takes trips to Salt Lake or San Francisco occasionally.”
She swung down and looked around, seeing the barricade.
“Were the boys hurt?” I asked her.
“No…but they had a lot to say about you using dynamite.” She looked up at me. “Would you have minded if you had hurt them?”
“Who wants to hurt anybody? All I wanted was to get them out of here. Only, that Pinder crowd…I’d not be fussy in their case.”
We stood together near her horse, enjoying the warm sun, and looking down the Wash over the green grass where the cattle fed.
“It’s a nice view.”
“You’ll see it many times, from the house.”
She looked around at me. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
Before I could reply, she said thoughtfully, “You asked about Morgan Park. Be careful, Matt. I think he is utterly without scruples.”
There was more to come, and I waited. There was something about Morgan Park that bothered me. He was a handsome man as well as a strong one, and a man who might well appeal to women, yet from her manner I was beginning to believe that Moira had sensed about him the same thing I had.
“There was a young man, Arnold D’Arcy, out here from the east,” she said, “and I liked him. Knowing Morgan, I didn’t mention him when Morgan was around. Then one night he commented on him, and suggested it would be better for all concerned if the young man did not come back.”
She turned around and looked up at me. “Matt, when Morgan found out Arnold’s name he was frightened.”
“Frightened? Morgan?”
“Yes…and Arnold wasn’t a big man, or by any means dangerous. But Morgan began to ask questions. What was D’Arcy doing here? Had he been asking questions about anybody? Or mentioned looking for anyone?”
Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) Page 6
