by Ray Tassin
"You're not leaving here until we get this straightened out," Wainright shouted.
"Who is going to stop me, Wainright? This bunch of gutless wonders?" He gestured toward the crowd. "Or a one-armed fancy pants who wouldn't know the truth if it hit him in the head?"
Wainright flushed deeply. Immediately Danner regretted the remark. Despite his dislike for Wainright, he felt shame wash over him.
Blind fury showed in the eyes of Wainright, but he made no move to stop Danner. And the crowd of people split apart to permit Danner to walk through unmolested. But he felt somehow less of a man for the remark about Wainright's missing arm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fence repairing required muscles Danner hadn't used in years. Six days of setting posts and stapling barbed wire left him stiff and sore and in a savage mood. The seventh day began soon after dawn. He loaded the posthole digger in the back of the wagon, then added four spools of wire, while McDaniel harnessed the team. Danner heaved the fifth spool into the wagon and the barbs raked his belly. He cursed softly. McDaniel grinned at him, then chuckled.
"You'll live over it."
"I doubt it," Danner growled.
"We should be able to finish up that last stretch of fence today and start helping Lona with the house repairs tomorrow."
Danner attacked the job with a vengeance, setting the pace for both of them, and the last of the fence repairing was completed by noon. As usual, Lona had ridden over during the morning and had lunch ready when they returned to the house. McDaniel took the wagon on to the barn.
Danner brushed her cheek with a kiss, then bent over the washbasin that rested on a shelf nailed to the outside wall of the house. Lona handed him a towel and he rubbed his face and arms briskly.
"If you keep coming over here every day and leaving Olie a cold lunch, he's going to be coming after me with a shotgun." Danner smiled, rolling down his sleeves.
"A shotgun might not be such a bad idea," she answered, not without irony. "It might speed up our wedding date."
"Finding the fourth man in the Spaulding robbery would speed it up a lot quicker." Looking into the sliver of mirror tacked to the wall, he dampened his close-cropped black hair and smoothed it back.
"Is that really it, Jeff? Or is your interest in Melinda Richfield greater than you care to admit?"
Faint anger ruffled Danner, but he dried his hands before he turned to face her. She seemed defiant, even a little angry.
"We can go into town this afternoon and get married if you want to."
"Why?" Lona murmured. She tossed her head, sending long strands of yellow hair over her shoulder. "Why, all of a sudden? Because I've badgered you, or because you really want to get married right now?"
She's damned hard to please, Danner thought with exasperation. "I want whatever it takes to make you happy," he told her.
The look of defeat spreading across her face told Danner he had failed to give her the answer she wanted. But whatever that answer was would remain her secret now; he heard McDaniel approaching, whistling loudly.
The meal was a silent and uneasy affair. McDaniel made several futile attempts at conversation. He complimented Lona on the new lace curtains she had put up that morning. Her thanks were remote. She didn't speak to Danner again until she was in her buggy and ready to leave for home. He detected no trace of anger in her voice.
"Tomorrow is Saturday. Are you going to town?"
"Hadn't thought about it," Danner said.
"You should. Harvest will soon be here and there's to be a meeting of all the grangers at the hotel. They want to discuss ways of preventing Browder from cheating them on weigh-ins this year."
"Who invited me?" Danner couldn't hide the irony he felt.
A faint flush tinted Lona's cheeks. "I just did."
"Olie know you were going to?"
She hesitated before nodding, so Danner knew she must have had a devil of a row with Olie before he agreed—and Olie didn't lose an argument very often. Maybe that's why she is so touchy today, Danner thought. She bent over the side of the buggy and kissed him lightly, then snapped the reins to send the buggy northward toward home.
"Hey," McDaniel shouted from the south end of the house. "I'm ready to start painting. Want to help me?"
"Not particularly," Danner returned dryly. "But I will."
"Good enough," McDaniel grinned.
Good enough for you maybe, Danner thought, but not half good enough for a man who ought to be out trying to find a pin-fire pistol—and the man who owns it. Reluctantly, he picked up a brush and began painting.
They finished the south end of the house by mid-afternoon, and McDaniel moved around to the back. Danner carried the five gallon can around to the front, filled his gallon bucket and resumed the drudgery. Fumes from the paint started an itching in his nose, soon followed by fits of sneezing. Then he spilled the nearly-full gallon can and cursed softly while he tried to wipe the paint from his boots. He was still wiping when he heard a horse trot into the yard. He looked up at Melinda Richfield sitting silently in her side-saddle, a hint of amusement touching her lips.
"Are you painting yourself or the house, Mr. Danner?"
Danner felt a foolish grin reach his mouth. He dropped his brush into the now empty paint can, wiped his hands on the legs of his Levi's, and assisted Melinda from the saddle.
"You're a long way from Richfield."
"I often take long rides."
"Alone?"
She nodded gravely. "Shouldn't I?"
Danner shrugged. She moved over to sit on the edge of the porch, adjusting her fashionable riding skirt. Danner leaned against a post, filling his pipe, then stared at Melinda while she gazed at the waving wheat field. A beautiful woman, he thought, and a cold one. At times. Strangely she didn't seem out of place on the porch of the crude farm house, nor did she seem aware of her surroundings. Now he wondered why she was here, and she seemed to sense his thoughts.
"I rode out here to tell you I'm sorry things didn't work out between you and Mr. Wainright."
Danner saw no need to answer. He puffed silently on his pipe. She noticed the pipe, but didn't frown at it as she used to do.
"I wish there were something I could do to make it up to you," she said with less coldness than she had used at any time since the Colonel's death. "I mean, Father's will—"
"The Colonel paid me well for four years," Danner interrupted. "You owe me nothing."
"I can't help but feel—"
"Forget it."
The abruptness seemed to anger her and a hardness returned to her face. "I'm trying to apologize for the way I've treated you—for my doubts and suspicions—but you are not making it easy for me."
"And just what great event has happened to change your mind about me?"
Her cheeks darkened slightly at the irony. "Nothing. It's just—well," and she gestured defensively, "I keep thinking of how father felt about you."
Danner tapped the dottle from his pipe. Melinda stood up, crossed her arms over her ample breasts and moved to the south end of the porch. Danner remained against the post, admiring her shapeliness, wondering about her apparent frankness. Then she retraced her steps to stand near him, the porch level putting her lips on the same level as his eyes. He stared at the full lips until she spoke again.
"I don't think you should come to Richfield for a couple of weeks."
"Why?"
"There have been several warehouse robberies, and an express-car holdup since you quit the railroad."
Danner lifted his shoulders. "How does that concern a wheat farmer?"
"A rash of robberies so soon after you quit the line plus the suspicion over that Spaulding affair has started tongues wagging worse than ever."
"I see," Danner said. Involuntarily his stare returned to her full lips and she seemed to sway a little closer to him. Without thinking, he pulled her against his chest and kissed her, gently at first, then fully and demandingly. She resisted, submitted for a long moment, then began pushing agai
nst his chest and finally broke away, breathing heavily. With the back of her hand she rubbed her lips, looking at him wide-eyed, visibly shaken.
Fire from the kiss clung to his lips, burning them. Danner felt shame wash over him. In the future Lona would have at least grounds for her lack of trust, he thought savagely.
"You deliberately invited that," he said hoarsely.
"Yes." She flushed, dropping her gaze. "I guess I did."
"Why?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I'll see to it that it doesn't happen again." She had regained her composure now, except for a faint coloring on her cheeks. "I'll have to be going if I'm to get back to town before dark." She hurried over to her horse, then looked back over her shoulder.
"You will stay out of Richfield for a while?"
There's more to this than she has mentioned, Danner thought. He moved toward her, watching every facial movement for a possible answer.
"I have business in town both tonight and tomorrow," he answered.
Melinda's hands tightened into tiny fists. "I just told you what—" and she dropped her hands stiffly to her sides. "If you do go, someone will say something that will start trouble. As long as you live, people will always think of you as Colonel Richfield's special agent. He must share the blame for anything you do, or are accused of doing."
The truth shall be known, Danner thought, recalling a quotation he had read somewhere. It had been mostly concern for her father's good reputation that had brought her out here, and very little desire to make amends for her past attitude toward him. He flipped his hat to the back of his head.
"A man can't avoid trouble by hiding from it."
Anger stained her cheeks with color. "You certainly can't avoid it any other way unless you really want to do so."
She grabbed the curved horn of the sidesaddle and pulled herself up into riding position before he could move over to help her.
"I really need to make those two trips into town," Danner told her. "But I can skip the trip tonight if you will deliver a message to the telegrapher for me."
She nodded assent.
Danner entered the house and rummaged through his gear until he found some paper and a stub pencil. Then he scribbled out a telegram to the grain elevator in Junction City. He returned to Melinda, handing the folded sheet up to her.
"Give this to the telegrapher on duty and ask him to send it. Tell him I'll pay for it tomorrow when I pick up the answer."
Melinda glanced at the folded sheet without opening it, then darted a quick look at him as she tucked the paper into a tiny pocket in her jacket.
"If you read it," Danner said, "don't repeat it to anyone."
She flinched as if he had slapped her, pulled the reins sharply and galloped from the yard. Danner watched her ride out of sight, softly cursing his own sharp tongue.
CHAPTER EIGHT
McDaniel argued with Danner all the way to Richfield, insisting that they attend the meeting of the grangers.
"Billy, you're as mule-headed as a woman," Danner concluded as they reached the outskirts of town.
McDaniel displayed no humor, just an inflexible stubbornness. "Browder has been short-weighing grangers for years, stealing at least a fourth of their crop with those crooked scales of his. We've got to stick with the others if we are to beat him."
"I can't see it that way," Danner shook his head. "We can work out our own solution and let the others take care of themselves. In fact, most of them probably would prefer that I stay out of their plans."
"We must stick together," McDaniel repeated doggedly.
"You try to do a favor for other folks and they'll kick you in the teeth," Danner warned.
"Jeff, you ought to feel a little more kindly toward folks—meet them halfway, work with them on common problems."
"Sure," Danner grated. "I have a lot of reason to feel kindly toward my fellow man."
They reined in at the Trading Center and McDaniel twisted in the saddle. "Would you go to the meeting just as a personal favor to me?"
Danner sat idly in the saddle, studying the likable big Irishman. Then he shrugged with resignation. "All right, Billy. I'll go with you, but if any of those hardheads pop off—" He broke off, remembering his scene with Melinda. He stepped down out of the saddle and roughly knotted the reins around the rail. "Forget it. I guess if I'm fool enough to stay around here, I'll just have to try to avoid trouble."
"Thanks, Jeff." Billy's voice sounded grateful as he, too, quit the saddle.
The Trading Center consisted of a market place for produce, located at Danner's far left, a corral for horse trading at his far right, and a collection of farm machinery in front of him. Danner idled by the horses while McDaniel bargained with the Swede who operated the center. Just behind them stood a row of new machines that were supposed to cut wheat and bind it into stalks, both in the same operation. They were the first such machines this far west, McDaniel had told him. J. K. Case wheat thrashers lay scattered about. Renting such fancy equipment would come high, Danner thought.
Looking west along the main street Danner observed the town beginning to fill up with Saturday shoppers. Straight across from the Trading Center stood Browder's sprawling granary.
Danner felt the muscles along his back tighten as the black-clad Tuso swaggered out of the granary office and moved west along the far side of the street. Filled with a runt's need to prove himself as tough as any, Tuso deliberately bumped into an overall-clad farmer coming out of the hardware store across the way. The farmer pulled back, glaring, but made no motion toward Tuso. Then Tuso laughed at him, his great barrel chest swelling, and swaggered on down the street. He repeated the bumping process on a ranch hand who was coming out of the Silver Dollar Saloon, with much the same results. Idly, Danner watched him, wondering how long it would be until Tuso finally decided to try him.
Then Danner remembered the telegram Melinda had brought in for him. The reply should be here by now. Glancing around, he found McDaniel still bargaining with the Swede. Danner mounted and rode to the depot. He inquired about the telegram, and the telegrapher who had replaced McDaniel handed it to him with a thinly veiled animosity. Ignoring him, Danner stuck the yellow sheet of paper in his pocket, paid for both messages, then returned to the Trading Center. He arrived in time to see Billy shaking hands with the Swede, indicating that a bargain had been reached. But McDaniel continued to talk animatedly, so Danner eased out of the saddle and unfolded the telegram. He hurried through the message, then read it again. Satisfied, he returned it to his pocket. McDaniel interrupted his thoughts.
"They'll start harvesting our crop Monday," he said, his face glowing with satisfaction. "And the thrashers will be out two weeks later."
Danner nodded approval and they mounted. McDaniel pulled a heavy railroad watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it.
"The meeting will be starting soon. Do you want to go on down to the hotel?"
"Might as well," Danner said, and they drifted along the street. The hotel liveryman smiled at McDaniel when he took his reins, but his mouth hardened when he recognized Danner. He took the reins from Danner without a word.
About a dozen rough-clad farmers clustered in the lobby of the hotel. All glared silently as Danner moved toward the banquet hall where the meeting was to be held. For a moment anger brushed him, but the dead ashes of anger from too many other snubs furnished very little fuel for a new fire.
Rows of chairs facing a raised platform crowded the room. Danner followed McDaniel to the far right corner of the room and sat down at the end of the front row. He twisted his chair around just enough to see each man coming through the door. Grangers drifted in, filling chairs, and Danner inspected each one covertly. Only four wore gun belts, none of which sheathed pin-fire revolvers. The closest anyone sat to Danner and McDaniel was three seats away.
The buzz of idle chatter grew louder with each new arrival. Pipe smoke soon clouded the air. One sturdily built granger moved his chair closer to a window
so he could spit tobacco juice outside.
McDaniel turned toward Danner, his voice low. "Do you think anyone will know a way to make Browder give us an honest weigh-in?"
"Nope," Danner answered. "But it doesn't matter. I know a way you and I can beat him."
McDaniel's eyes widened with interest and he leaned over eagerly. "What is it?"
A sudden stillness settled over the hall before Danner could reply. Down the center aisle came Olie Swensen wiping his hairless head with a crumpled bandanna. Several grangers along the aisle spoke to him, but he only nodded grumpily and lumbered on to the platform. All eyes were trained on him as he stepped behind a table and rapped his knuckles on the plank top to gain their attention.
"You all know why we are here," Olie began. "We have reason to believe—no, I'll put it stronger than that. We know that we haven't been getting an honest weigh-in at the Browder granary. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
A rumbling of sound swelled from the hall and Olie rapped violently until it subsided. Glowering, he said, "Let's have your ideas one at a time. You first, Mr. Gustafson."
An ancient stringbean stood up and spoke haltingly for several minutes on the need for doing something, but he offered no solution. Several others voiced equally fruitless opinions. The head of the Andersen clan even suggested that Browder be lynched. Danner slumped in his chair, feeling annoyance at this waste of time. He heard the morning westbound clang in from Junction City and wished he could climb aboard for the trip on west. He could almost smell the smoke and steam and creosote and felt a longing something like homesickness.
Olie shouted for order then, bringing Danner's attention back to the meeting.
"Since no one else has a solution," Olie thundered, "I'll offer one. I think we should build our own granary—a co-operative that we will own and operate, sharing the profits."
Instant approval came from the grangers, followed by another wrangle about how to best accomplish the proposal. A pair of sober questions came from a bearded patriarch who spoke without taking his curved-stem pipe from his mouth.
