by Short, Luke;
He dropped down into Signal in midmorning, the sun warm on his back. The street was mired in a soupy mud churned up by the morning’s traffic of wagons, and its rank earth smell was pleasant.
Passing the hotel, Frank glanced at it, and he thought immediately of Walt Shipley. He’d put him away without any trouble at all, he reflected contentedly, and Nash was up next. He hadn’t figured how, yet, but it would come.
Reining up in front of Jim Crew’s office, he dismounted. Such as it was, these three cramped buildings in a row opposite the Special constituted Signal County’s courthouse. The sheriff’s office and jail occupied the corner building that used to be Armistead’s saddle shop; the clerk’s office and files occupied the one adjoining, and the Land Commissioner’s office the last. These were the only buildings on that side of the street, and abutted the canyon slope.
Frank stepped into Jim Crew’s office and found it empty. On the narrow boardwalk again, he considered the rest of his business here. He had already stepped out into the mud, intending to cross the street, when he paused. He’d almost forgotten what he came for.
He stepped back up on the sidewalk and went past the clerk’s office and turned into the Land Commissioner’s office. It was a big room, three-quarters empty, furnished with a desk, a brass spittoon, a chair, and a table loaded with curling maps. The shirt-sleeved clerk sat with his feet on the desk top, his swivel chair tilted far back, and he was studying some correspondence.
Frank tramped in, kicking the mud off his boots at the door, and said, “Mornin’, Hildegarde.”
The clerk came to his feet and said, “How are you, Frank?” He was an elderly man, and there was a deference in his tone that Frank did not miss.
Frank said with heavy jocularity, “Get out your maps, Hildegarde. I’m about to become a landowner.”
Hildegarde laughed. “You ain’t gettin’ religion, are you, Frank? I thought you figured the homestead law was a pretty sorry mess.”
“I do, except when I need it,” Frank said truly.
Hildegarde, chuckling, moved over to the table and rummaged around the maps.
“I got a line camp a mile east of the road that crosses the Ridge. Gimme a look at it.”
Hildegarde looked closely at him, was about to speak, and then did not. He spread out the map, checked the range and township number, and stood aside.
Frank leaned both hands on it, a blunt finger tracing the road to the ridge, then moving over and stopping. “Right there,” Frank said. “I’m goin’ to homestead that section.”
“I don’t reckon you are,” Hildegarde said slowly.
Frank looked up, puzzlement in his broad face. “No?”
“You can see it outlined there in black ink,” Hildegarde said. “It was filed on this morning.”
Frank slowly came erect, his bold eyes on Hildegarde. “Who filed on it?”
“Fella name of Nash. Dave Nash.”
A swift rage boiled up in Frank’s eyes. “Why, damn you, Hildegarde, that’s my land!”
“You filed on it?”
“I’ve got a line camp on it.”
Hildegarde shook his head and said slyly, “That’s too bad, Frank. That there was public domain. All you had to do was file and prove up, and it was yours. But you always figured it was a piece of foolishness.”
“That’s my land,” Frank reiterated flatly. “Nobody takes it from me.”
“You try and keep it and you’ll have a U.S. Marshal to answer to,” Hildegarde said smugly.
Frank looked down at the map again, but it had curled up. He gave it a savage bat with his hand and started past Hildegarde. Suddenly he hauled up and said angrily, “Let me see that again.”
Hildegarde patiently picked it up and spread it out, and Frank leaned over it. This time his finger traveled over the ridge and he read the contours that marked the low elevations of the east side of the Bench. “This section here,” he said, jabbing his finger on it. “I want to file on it.” It was the location of Walt Shipley’s Circle 66, and Frank looked up at the clerk. Hildegarde was shaking his head.
“No can do,” Hildegarde said. “I ain’t marked it yet this morning, but I got a file on that, too, at the same time. Fella name of Schell.”
Frank turned without a word and stalked out. At the door, he halted and called back, “To prove up on a homestead, you’ve got to live on it, don’t you?”
“Yes sir,” Hildegarde said. “You got to—”
But Frank was gone. He went down to his horse, mounted, jerked his horse around so savagely that it reared and almost threw him, and then took the grade out of town.
Rose Leland got up from the table close to her window and went outside and watched Frank until she was sure he had taken the grade. Then she came back inside and slowly closed the door and leaned against it. Dave hadn’t told her this would happen, but she had known it would. She knew it even as Dave and Bill, over breakfast coffee in her kitchen, had told of what had happened on the Bench, and of their plans to file this morning as soon as the Land Office was open.
And here it was. Rose walked slowly across the room and stopped suddenly in front of the wire dressmaker’s dummy on which the blue silk Dave had given her was draped. Sight of that seemed to make up her mind, and she got her hat. Hastily, she let down her hair, which she had pinned up off the back of her neck, tidied it, and put on her hat. Her dress was not a street dress, but at the moment she did not care.
Locking the shop behind her, she picked her way across the muddy street and turned up it. She saw Jim Crew leave the Land Office, walk to his corner and turn into his own office.
Rose slowed her pace now. Faced with the immediate results of her decision, she was hesitant. But it was only for a moment; she kept thinking of that silk on the dressmaker’s dummy in her shop, and knew that she was going to pay her debt.
Jim Crew was seated in the wired barrel chair in his small office, that still held the good smell of leather from the old saddle shop. His chill eyes were gazing absently at the yellowed reward dodgers on the wall behind the desk, and when he shuttled his glance to her there was a moment when he did not recognize her. Then he came to his feet swiftly, and said gently, “Hello, lady,” and smiled his faint, distant smile.
Rose sat down in the chair beside his desk. “You just came from the Land Office, Jim?”
Crew nodded, and said in his dry voice, “I’ve been tryin’ to make sense out of it.”
Rose told him then of what had passed on the Bench, and as she talked Crew’s gaze seemed to turn inward and the corners of his straight mouth thinned imperceptibly. When Rose was finished, Crew didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she heard him sigh.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly.
“Frank Ivey. Not because I’m a woman, either.”
“No,” Crew agreed.
Rose waited for him to say more, and he did not, and Rose said, “Dave and Bill Schell are headed for Relief to buy cattle. They won’t be there.”
Crew nodded, and murmured, as if to himself, “Hell hath no fury,” and ceased talking, leaving his quotation unfinished.
“That’s not quite right,” Rose said.
“No, Connie turned on the wrong man. But she’s turned—and God help her.” He rose now and asked idly, “What do you think Frank will do?”
“I don’t know. I know one thing, though. Dave was wrong when he said Frank would stop short of pulling a marshal in here. He’ll get that line camp back if he has to fight two armies.”
Crew really smiled then, and it was a fond, sad smile. “You know more about a man than he does about himself, Rose.”
“I had seven brothers,” Rose said, with a faint, dry humor.
Crew went over to the nail where his hat was hanging. “You know so much, Rose, what do you know about Dave Nash?”
“Nothing that would help you.”
“Are his hands clean?” Jim asked quietly.
“Yes. I’d be willing to bet,” Rose
answered slowly, and, looking searchingly at Crew she asked, “Why, Jim?”
Crew took down his soft Stetson and turned it in his hand. “Bill Schell,” he said idly, “is trouble. I like him, mind you, but he’s trouble. Curley Fanstock lives to get even with Frank Ivey. Bailey is Injun. I wouldn’t kick a dead Injun in the face let alone a live one. Who else did he hire?”
“Tom Peebles.”
“He’s a beauty,” Jim murmured. “Every mouthful of beef he’s eaten in four years is Bell beef. That,” he finished, “is what is called a hardcase crew, Rose. Every man in it would shoot Frank Ivey in the back.”
“Dave won’t let them.”
“He better not,” Crew said gently. “That’s what I mean.”
Rose came to her feet now, and Jim Crew still watched her, his pale eyes curious.
“You like him, don’t you, Rose,” he said, and it was not a question, but a statement of fact.
Rose nodded. “So do you.”
“Yeah,” Jim Crew said slowly, and his eyes were sharp once more. “Trouble is, most of the men I’ve liked in my lifetime are dead.”
Rose knew what he meant, and did not answer. She stepped out and waited for Jim to close the door and walk up with her to the livery, where he kept his horse. And while she was waiting she saw Burch Nellis, in apron and shirt sleeves, standing in the doorway of the Special.
Jim Crew, seeing him too, observed dryly, “Burch don’t miss much, does he?”
“I don’t care,” Rose answered truthfully.
7
Connie, with the help of Curley Fanstock, had the shed cleaned of its gear by midmorning. She stood in the doorway surveying the room, noting the wide cracks in the floor planking and its gentle tilt downhill. This room, with its single small window, was to be her room, and she would probably share it with Josefa too. When she thought of her own room at D Bar she had to smile a little, but it was only for a moment. She turned to Curley, who was standing in the sun, wiping his bald head with a not-too-clean neckerchief.
“Go see if the water’s hot, Curley.”
“You aim to wash this place?” Curley asked skeptically.
“I suppose,” Connie answered wearily. “At least I can scald a few spiders.”
As Curley cut across toward the bunkhouse, he glanced out across the sun-drenched flats toward the Federals. He halted abruptly then, and squinted his eyes for a moment, and afterwards called over his shoulder, “Callers, ma’am.”
Connie turned now and looked out. Presently she saw the outline of several horsemen traveling in a bunch toward them.
Curley made a move toward the house, and Connie said peremptorily, “No gun, Curley. That won’t do any good.”
“You goin’ to let ’em take it back?”
“They can’t,” Connie said. “It’s filed on by this time. Just go about your business.”
Curley grunted and stayed where he was. Connie rolled the sleeves of her work dress down and automatically smoothed her skirt before she thought of what she was doing. It made her a little angry then to think she had even unconsciously tried to make herself look nice for Frank Ivey. For it would be Frank, she knew, and for a moment she was not quite sure of her position. Bailey and Tom Peebles had ridden over to gather up what Circle 66 horses they could find, serenely confident of Dave Nash’s wisdom, and she was alone, except for Curley. Dave had pointed out, and both Connie and Bill agreed with him, that any move against them after the land had been filed on would draw legal action. That meant, of course, that Jim Crew would side with them against Ivey.
As the riders drew closer, Connie moved out in front of the shack and Curley drifted up to put his shoulder against its corner.
It was Frank, all right, with four of his crew. He rode at the head of them, blocky and solid in the saddle. They reined up some yards from Connie, and Frank dismounted, as did the others. He looked about him before he glanced at Connie and touched his hat.
“Where’s Dave Nash, Connie?” he asked.
“Riding. How do you like my new place?” Connie countered. She didn’t trouble to hide the malice in her voice, but Frank seemed not to notice it.
“I didn’t know I’d sold it,” he answered.
“It’s not exactly an even trade, but it has its points,” Connie said.
A noise up the ridge behind the house made Connie turn, then. She saw three horsemen, Bell hands, putting their horses carefully down the slope, which was still slippery from last night’s rain, and she turned to Frank again. “Call them in. Curley and I are alone.”
“That’s a new way to hold a place you’ve stolen,” Frank said dryly.
“It doesn’t have to be held. We let the law do that.”
“So I heard.”
Connie suppressed a start. Somehow, she hadn’t been prepared for this; she had been looking forward with pleasure to seeing Frank’s face when the news of the filing was broken to him.
“Then get them off,” Connie said sharply. “Yourself, too.”
One of the riders came around the corner of the house beside Curley and halted. Frank called, “Bring Curley over, Virg. He’ll have to do.”
“To hell with you,” Curley said quietly.
The rider freed a foot from the stirrup, pulled his horse over and kicked Curley in the back. Curley sprawled off balance, slipped in the mud, and came up wheeling. He looked up into the barrel of big Virg Lea’s gun. It had happened swiftly and silently, and now all was quiet again.
Curley slowly turned his head to look at Connie, and he said bleakly, “You want me to go about my business, ma’am?”
Frank watched the other two riders move around the end of the bunkhouse, dismount and go inside.
Connie felt a sudden panic, and she said fiercely to Frank, “Get them out of there, Frank, or so help me I’ll swear out a warrant against the lot of you!”
“Sure you will,” Frank said, and he lifted his voice and called, “Bring him over, I said.”
Curley came of his own accord now, and halted sullenly behind Connie. The two riders came out of the bunkhouse, silently shook their heads, and moved in behind Curley.
Frank surveyed Connie with his bold, bright eyes now, and he said, “You’re smart, Connie. That homestead idea was good. We can’t move you off.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“I don’t reckon we’ll have to,” Frank said heavily. “You can’t work an outfit with no crew, can you?”
“I’ve got one.”
“You won’t have,” Frank murmured. He turned his hot gaze on Curley. “Curley, you’re through here. Don’t show up again.” He looked over at brawny Virg Lea and said, “All right, boys.”
Two men behind Curley grabbed his arms, and Virg Lea sent a smashing blow into Curley’s face. Curley swore passionately and struggled to get free, and Virg hit him again, twice, as hard as he could swing.
Connie, shocked into action, lunged for Virg, and Frank grabbed her arm and yanked her back.
And then Virg went to work. He slugged at Curley’s face, at his chest, at his midriff, and his feet were planted wide so that he could get leverage in his blows. Curley, his arms pinned behind him, struggled furiously to free himself, turning his head to avoid the blows. His face was bleeding now, and he grunted under the impact of each new blow.
But Virg Lea went about it with a methodical savagery. He slugged Curley’s belly until Curley’s head came down in an unconscious jackknife, and then Virg drove uppercuts into Curley’s face. Curley made a stolid, silent stand for a half minute, and then his knees buckled. The two men supporting him, however, did not let him drop, and Virg started in again.
Connie, horrified, turned to Frank. “Make them stop! Make them stop!”
Frank only smiled thinly, and Connie turned away, burying her face in her hands. The sound of Virg’s fists smacking the bloody pulp that had been Curley’s face came to her with the sickening regularity of a pendulum. That sound and Virg’s grunting as he swung.
It went on and on, and Connie covered her ears and shut her eyes. Presently, she felt the earth tremble a little and whirled. They had dropped Curley; he lay on his back, his face a pulpy mass of raw flesh, his shirt torn and drenched with bright blood. Virg Lea stood over him now and kicked his face time and again. His shirt too was covered with Curley’s spattered blood, and his face held a tight viciousness. And then, when he was tired, he stopped.
Connie looked up from Curley to the other men, and they would not look at her. Now that the thing was done, they moved uneasily, covertly watching Frank, the shame of it plain in their faces.
Connie moved toward Curley, and Frank hauled her roughly around by her arm. His face was cold and wicked with anger, and he said levelly, “That’s what any man will get that works for you, Connie. Tell Dave Nash that.”
“You devil!” Connie said bitterly. “You cruel devil, Frank Ivey!”
“Any man that works for you,” Frank repeated.
He let her go then, and turned to his horse. The rest of the crew, still silent, broke and sought their horses, and they still would not look at her.
Connie came slowly over to Curley and knelt beside him. She wanted more than anything else to be sick, and she looked away from that mashed face until her queasiness left her. The Bell crew rode off, still silent. One man, Connie saw, turned to look at them briefly.
Connie got a grip on herself. She put her hand on Curley’s wrist and found a faint pulse beating. She did not see how a man could live after that beating, but Curley was alive. She went into the house and got a cloth and put it over Curley’s face, and then set about dragging him into the bunkhouse. It took her many minutes, with frequent rests, and her anger now was a live thing, giving her strength.
Once she had him in the bunkhouse, she maneuvered him into the bunk, and then set about cleaning him up. This was the worst; his face was cut to a soft, purple pulp, and she could not find his nose. His eyes, mercifully, were hidden in the torn flesh, and one eyebrow was gone. Some deep stubborn will within her kept her at it, with hot water and clean cloths. Finally, she had done all she could for his face. She stripped his shirt off then, and was cleaning his bruised and livid shoulders and chest when she heard a horse outside.
