“There wasn’t any harm in it, Pa!” protested Billy. “Mr. Wilcox just showed me how slick he is with a gun, shot this here coin right out of the air!”
“Go down to the corrals and help the others,” Tom cut in sternly.
The words seemed to slap the boy. Losing all his enthusiasm in the blink of an eye, he nodded. “Yes, Pa.” He walked off, head down.
“You can’t punish the boy,” said Wilcox. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have indulged him.”
“But you did,” said Calhoun. “You let him see all the glamour associated with your business.”
Wilcox’s eyes went hard. “Oh no,” he said softly. “That I did not do.”
Calhoun let the air go through his nostrils. “Well, I can see you’ve on the mend. If you’re well enough to shoot—”
“—I’m well enough to be on my way,” said Wilcox. “Sure.”
“I’d appreciate it. Billy’s at that age when he needs someone to look up to. A stuffy old rancher like me isn’t exciting enough for that. But you … ”
“I’ll get my stuff together, be moving on.”
“Running, more like,” said Tom.
The hardness in Wilcox’s eyes turned cold and dangerous. “Say that again, mister.”
“You’re running from something. I’d like to know what that something is.”
Wilcox opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. “You know something, Calhoun. I’m gonna pretend that you’re not trying to stick your nose into my business. I’m gonna pretend you’re just showing concern for a man you helped nurse back to health. That means it’s your lucky day.”
“It’s your lucky day,” Calhoun replied levelly. “See, I’m not sticking my nose into your business just for the heck of, Wilcox. The reason I want to know what it is you’re running from, is to see if there’s any way I can help you.”
Chapter Six
Although his father had told him to go help the men building the new corral, Billy decided to visit his mother’s grave on top of the hill instead. He stood there in the shade of the three oak trees and tried to calm down, because his father’s harsh words had hurt him more than he would ever confess.
The ranch seemed to be far away at the moment. He took his hat off and looked at the iron fence surrounding the grave. He had been a little boy when his mother had died here at Rancho Bravo during a Comanche attack, but the memories were still vivid and he remembered them all too well. The period immediately following his mother’s death had been rough indeed …
An errant breeze stirred the trees and did something to temper the midday heat. With it came the feeling of being watched. And when he turned, he saw his father striding up the hill toward him.
“I knew I’d find you here,” Tom called when he was close enough. His tone now was soft, understanding.
“I figured I’d just pay my respects to ma and then go on down—”
“That’s okay. But I know your mother wouldn’t want to see any ill-feelin’ between us. And I guess there is a little, after the way I spoke to you down below.”
Billy couldn’t deny it. “You didn’t have to treat me like a kid,” he replied. “’Specially in front of Mr. Wilcox. I didn’t do anythin’ wrong. I only watched while he—”
“—while he showed you just what a glamorous thing it is to be a gunfighter.”
“No!”
“What did he tell you, then?”
“That it … that life … it was hell.”
“And did you believe him?”
“I believed that he believed it.”
“But you didn’t?”
The boy made no reply.
“Ever since you brought Wilcox in, you’ve been racin’ around like a wild mustang, son. I saw how you looked at his gun, the admiration in your eyes when he shot that coin right out of the air. No matter what Wilcox says to the contrary, you still think the life of a gunman would be a high one, don’t you, Billy? A lot better than the life you live here, on the ranch.”
Again Billy said, “No!”
But his denial sounded empty.
“Your mother wanted better for you than that you should live the life of a wanderer, selling his gun for one dirty job or another, carryin’ the weight of all the challengers he ever beat on his shoulders—and his conscience. It might seem like an excitin’ life, especially when compared to the hard life you have here. But there’s a future for you here, Billy. Ain’t no future in following in Sam Wilcox’s footsteps.”
“Maybe so,” Billy murmured. “Or maybe that’s somethin’ I need to find out for myself.”
“Wilcox is already lost, Billy,” said his father. “The day he reaches the end of his bloody trail is coming, maybe sooner than anyone thinks. He’s fighting against his own destiny, but he’ll never leave that life and try to settle down. It’s just not in him, no matter how much he might think he wants it.”
“You’re judging him, and yet you don’t even know him.”
“I’m judging him based on experience, Billy. Experience you don’t have yet. That man’s trouble. He hasn’t told us the whole truth of his circumstances yet, and I doubt that he will, lessen he’s forced to. But maybe John’ll tell us more when he gets back from San Angelo.”
He reached out and wrapped a big arm around Billy’s shoulders. “You and me – we always stick together, right?”
He knew his son well enough to see that Billy agreed.
“Jay needs a man down at the corral,” he continued.
Billy nodded. “On my way,” he said.
San Angelo and nearby Fort Concho were located in direct neighborhood of the Goodnight-Loving-Trail and the Western Trail. Only a couple of miles away from the area lay the Chisholm trail, which the Rancho Bravo outfit had had used a couple of months earlier to drive a herd of cattle up to Abilene, Kansas.
The center of San Angelo was the Baptist church, and from there numerous buildings had spread in each direction. The marshal’s office was located on one of the bigger streets.
John Calhoun and Rio Shayne approached San Angelo from the southwest, with the Rancho Bravo supply wagon rattling along in their wake. On their way in they passed Burt Worman’s wood store and finally drew rein outside Growan’s general store, where an elderly man with an apron was sweeping the entrance to his store. He looked up at the newcomers.
“Hello John!” he greeted, and offered Rio and the wagon driver each a friendly nod. “Hot as all hell, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” John agreed. He took a list from his vest pocket and passed it down to the storekeeper. “Be obliged if you can fill this for us.”
“Of course.” He inspected the list. “Give me about an hour.”
“Sure. No rush.”
Leaving Rio and the wagon driver to help with the loading, John stabled his horse at the first livery barn he came to and then went directly to the marshal’s office.
Marshal Tate Clayburn looked up from behind his desk as John entered. Ice blue studied the rancher’s son. Clayburn was a distant, seemingly unfriendly man. But that was just his way. He figured the law had to maintain a certain distance from the folks it served, and so he tried never to get any closer to the citizens who paid his wages than he had to.
Clayburn was nearly six feet tall and had graying hair on his temples. His moustache had the same color and underlined the impression that he was a man largely without humor. “John,” he greeted shortly. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Everything okay at Rancho Bravo?”
“Sure.”
“But … ?”
“We’ve got a visitor staying with us right now, Tate,” John replied. “Man name of Sam Wilcox. He was shot up—seems someone tried to bushwhack him and almost made a pretty neat job of it. We dug the bullet out, and he’s on the men now … but I’d like to know a bit more about him, maybe figure out why anyone should want him dead.”
“Sam Wilcox is a sonofabitch,” Tate said bluntly. “Where he goes, trouble follows. If someone tried to kill him �
�� well, I’m not entirely surprised. He’s made more than his fair share of enemies over the years.”
“Is he wanted for anything?”
“Nope. That’s the thing about Wilcox. He cuts up rough, but he never breaks the law. Leastways not directly.”
“So the law doesn’t have any quarrel with him?”
“No. He hurt bad?”
“No.”
“Well, get him off your land as soon as you can, John. Man like that attracts men just like him … and we don’t want that kind in these parts.” He thought briefly, then said, “Tell you what. I’ll come on out to Rancho Bravo. Nothing official. But maybe if Wilcox sees my badge, it’ll convince him to get clear of the county, and take his problems with him, sooner rather than later.”
“Thanks, Tate. Appreciate it.”
Chapter Seven
There were now four customers in the Glory Saloon. Rio Shayne, with nothing more to do until the supplies were ready for loading, had been the first. As he stood at the large oak bar, sipping at a glass of beer, three more entered the shadowed room. They chose a table down at the far end and put their heads together in deep conversation. Every so often one of them threw a glance in his direction.
They were all dressed in long dusters, and had the disheveled appearance of men who had been long on the trail. The only things that looked clean were their holsters and guns. They carried their weapons low on their hips and left no doubt that they knew how and when to use them.
Rio had no idea why they had come to San Angelo. But their presence here, now, and their interest in him, made him suspect a link with Sam Wilcox.
He had just made up his mind to finish his beer and then go report his misgivings to John when one of the strangers called, “Hey, cowpuncher – you know these parts?”
The way the man pronounced Rio’s profession made it sounded like an insult. But Rio stayed calm, turned around slowly and regarded the three men at the table. The more he saw of them, the more cautious he behaved.
The speaker was tall and slim. Greasy hair fell nearly into his eyes, and his stubbled face was cold and brutal. The one on his left was much younger – about Billy’s age. A faded derby hat covered his wheat-colored hair. The third man was stocky and broad-shouldered. He reminded Rio of a dangerous animal that was only waiting for the right moment to attack.
The man with the greasy hair tried it again.
“You deaf, cowpuncher? I just ast you a question.”
The barkeep stopped cleaning the wooden surface. His face showed the creeping fear, but he remained behind the bar. Motionless.
“I heard what you said,” answered Rio. “Yep, I know these parts. What can I do for you?”
Rio’s eyes met the eyes of the greasy-haired man.
“We’re looking for someone,” said the young man in the derby hat. “Feller name of Wilcox.”
“Never heard of him,” Rio replied, but his momentary hesitation had betrayed him.
“This cowpuncher’s told us a lie, Gordon,” said the stocky man. “I seen the flickering in his eyes. I’d take a bet that he knows Wilcox.”
“You’re right,” added the man called Gordon. “Okay, cowpuncher. You’ve got one last chance to tell us the truth. After that you’ll have a hard time with us.”
“I told you,” said Rio. “I don’t know the name, don’t know the man. Hell, I’m not even from San Angelo.”
“Where are you from, then?” demanded Gordon.
Rio drew a breath. “I don’t see as how that’s any of your damn’ business.”
Gordon’s face showed his anger. The feeling was reflected clearly in his companions. Then Gordon addressed the barkeep.
“Hey, Fatty. Who is this cowboy, and where does he hail from?”
The barkeeper was sweating. He had never been a hero, and this situation was too much for him. “Name’s Rio Shayne,” he stammered. “Works on a ranch called Rancho Bravo, which belongs to Tom Calhoun – out in the brasada...”
He could not meet Rio’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Rio ignored him, eyes Gordon and his cronies instead. “All right. Now you know my name and where you can find me. Satisfied?”
“Will be,” said Gordon. “When you tell us all about Sam Wilcox.”
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Rio said as casually as he could manage.
Just then John Calhoun appeared in the batwing doorway.
“Trouble here, Rio?” he asked.
“Not anymore,” Rio replied, and moved across to stand beside him friend.
“What’s been going on?” asked John.
Rio tried to make light of it. “These here fellers are looking for someone name of … what was it you call him? Wilcox. I said I’d never heard of the man and these here men pretty much called me a liar.”
“You mean to say you ain’t lyin’?” asked Gordon. “Listen up, the pair of you. Sam Wilcox is wanted for murder, and we’ve been hired by the grievin’ father of his victim to bring him in.”
“To bring him in?” asked John. “Or to kill him?”
“What does that matter to you?”
“Nothing much. Like Rio just said, we don’t even know the man. But even if we did, we wouldn’t hand him over to trail-scum like you. Now, we’re leaving. And you’d do well to do some leaving of your own—by which I mean leaving us alone.”
Gordon grinned. The expression was feral and unpleasant. “I’d like to know your name, mister,” he growled. “’Cause I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
“The name’s John Calhoun,” came the answer. “My dad owns Rancho Bravo. You’re not welcome out there, so best you steer well clear, otherwise you’ll have to take the consequences.”
The other man just laughed.
“Your threats don’t scare me none, Mister John Calhoun. When you get back home,” he said, “you tell your pappy that Gordon Kelly an’ his friends’ll be payin’ him a visit tomorrow mornin’.”
And he was still laughing even after John and Rio had left the saloon.
The afternoon heat was a burden for the cowboys, but they carried out their work regardless. Jay Durango was on the way to the corrals when he spotted Sam Wilcox, who was standing not far away from the forge. He seemed to be lost in thought, because he didn’t see Jay angle towards him. Only when he stopped a few inches away, did Wilcox turn around and acknowledge him.
“Oh it’s you,” he said with a grin. “I expected Billy or his father.”
Jay said, “From what I hear, you’ve been told to stay away from Billy, right?”
Wilcox eyed him with suspicion. “You don’t miss much.”
“I try not to.”
“I’ll just bet you do,” said Wilcox.
Jay stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re like me, Mr. Durango—if that’s your real name. Oh, you might not make your livin’ from the gun anymore, but you did, once … didn’t you? I can tell.”
“How can you tell that? Second sight?”
“The way you move, the way you hold yourself. Just like me.”
“Well,” said Jay, “that’s your opinion. Can’t help the way I move or hold myself, I guess.” He went a step closer, dropped his voice. “Don’t go fillin’ Billy’s head with nonsense, Wilcox, else you’ll have me to answer for.”
“I’m not,” Wilcox replied. “I wouldn’t. And you know why as well as me. Because it ain’t no life for a man to pursue. There’s no future in it, nothing save death, and dying. Either seeing it, or suffering it. That’s why you got out of it, am I right?”
“All I’m sayin’ is leave Billy alone. And make dust as soon as you can.”
“I plan to. Promised Mr. Calhoun I’d be gone by the end of today.”
“That’s good. We don’t need your sort around—”
He bit off as he saw a wagon and two riders coming in. “That’s John and Rio, just comin’ back from San Angelo.” He threw a glance at Wilcox. “Wonder i
f they’ve heard any news.”
“About me?” asked Wilcox.
Jay only shrugged and walked away.
The riders and their wagon passed through the mighty wooden entrance gate with the buffalo skull on its top. Rio greeted his companion Gus, who had stood watch in the tower since early morning and had already seen them coming in from a distance.
Rio and John reined their horses before the well, saw Durango coming and waited for him to reach them. John Calhoun spotted Wilcox, watching them from his spot near the forge, seeming to wait for whatever happened next.
“Any trouble?” asked Jay, when he was close enough.
John shook his head, but kept his voice pitched low. “No, I guess not. But there might be. Do me a favor, Jay—round up Billy and Pa. I think we need to talk.”
Wilcox watched Durango turn away and go in search of his boss. Instinct told him something was wrong, and the knowledge leeched the blood from his face.
Chapter Eight
Tom Calhoun stood before the fireplace, waiting to see what came next.
At last he broke the heavy silence. “Wilcox,” he said, “you heard what John just told us. Now I expect some answers from you. Straight ones.”
When Wilcox made no reply John turned away from the window, where he had been surveying the ranch, and asked, “Who is this man Gordon Kelly?”
Billy watched Wilcox closely.
“You’re right,” the gunfighter said finally. “You’ve taken me in and patched me up. Reckon I do owe you some answers. If I could, I’d have kept you out of this, but it looks as if you’re involved now whether you want to be or not.”
He fell silent again, then began his tale. And as he spoke, so all the events of the past came back to him, as real and vivid as the here and now.
Indio Plains had grown fast over the last three years. The town, which was located in the northern part of the Texas Panhandle, still showed its Spanish origins. Though Anglos and Mexicans now shared the town, there still existed an invisible barrier. Another barrier also existed between the two nationalities, which had its beginnings in the Battle of the Alamo, more than thirty years ago. It boiled beneath the surface, and violence was a steady part of the town’s daily business.
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