the Man from the Broken Hills (1975)

by L'amour, Louis - Talon-Chantry

"No, pa. I've picked my man. I'm going to marry Roger Balch."

  "RogerBalch ?" His voice was a shade louder. "I thought his pa was figurin' on him marrying that Timberly girl."

  Her voice was cold, a shade ugly. "That will change, Pa. Believe me, that will change."

  "Roger Balch?" His tone was thoughtful. "Why, Barby, I hadn't given that a thought. Roger Balch ... of all things!"

  Back at the herd I watched Ben Roper ride off with my thanks, and then I started around the bunch. Most of them were laying down, settled down to rest until their midnight stretch.

  Yet my thoughts kept going back to that talk I'd overheard. Not that anybody had said anything wrong, but it was the tone I detected ... or thought I detected ... in their voices.

  I'd have sworn that Roger Balch had told her he was through with her, and that was the reason she had wanted me to kill him. Now she had changed her mind and was going to marry him.

  Now just what did that mean?

  Riding night-herd when things are quiet is a mighty easy time for thinking. It's almighty still out there and the cows are companions enough. You just set your horse, letting the natural habit of your mind listen and notice anything wrong with the herd, and then your thoughts go where they will.

  Barby Ann, mad clean through, wanted me to kill Roger Balch. Yet now she told her father she was going to marry him?

  A cover-up? Or a change of mind? Or ... and the thought chilled me ... had she thought of death for somebody else?

  Like Ann Timberly ...

  Chapter 17

  Joe Hinge sat his horse and looked at us. There were Ben Roper, Tony Fuentes and me, all mounted and ready to go, and it not daybreak yet.

  "Take it easy," Joe advised. "Don't run no cattle. Roust out what you find of Stirrup-Iron or Spur and get them back here. Steer clear of Tory Benton or any of that outfit. He'll be on the prod, maybe. Talon thinks they'll lay off, and we got to hope he's right, but don't you boys scatter out more'n you have to. Three quick shots, and you come together."

  "Where?"

  "Right where we first met up with Talon the first time. Right there. But if you have to, hole up and make a fight of it. You boys are all grown men, and you know what you have to do. Do it easy as you can an' get out. We don't want trouble if we can help it. First place, it don't make no sense. Second place, we're outnumbered and outgunned."

  He paused. "Not that we can't fight. We can. I rode with Jeb Stuart. Fuentes grew up fightin' and Ben, here, he was in the Sixth Cavalry. If need be, we can do our share."

  I glanced at Ben. "Sixth Cavalry? Ever run into a long-geared Tennessee boy named William Tell Sackett?"

  He laughed. "I should smile. Right out of the mountains and didn't know from nothin', but he sure could shoot!"

  "He's a cousin of mine."

  Ben Roper glanced at me. "I'll be damned. You're cousin to Tell? I figured Talon for a French name."

  "It is. My ma was a Sackett."

  We rode out, not talking. We had a few miles to go before we reached the Balch and Saddler range, but their riders could be anywhere about and we hoped to see them first.

  It was short-grass country, with scattered patches of mesquite. We spotted a few cattle, most of them Balch and Saddler. We were coming up a cliff from the lowlands when we saw three riders coming toward us. One of them was Ingerman, another was Tory Benton, and the third was Roger Balch.

  "Ride easy now!" Hinge warned. Then he added, angrily, "Just our luck to have that young hothead along!"

  We pulled up and let them come to us. I reined my horse off to one side a mite, and Fuentes did the same. Roger was in the lead. "Where the hell d' you think you're goin'?" he demanded.

  "Roundin' up cattle," Hinge said. "We're after anything with a Stirrup-Iron or a Spur brand."

  "You were told there were none around!" Roger said. "Now back off and get out of here!"

  "A few weeks back," I said quietly, "I saw Stirrup-Iron and Spur cattle up yonder. Those are the ones we want, and nothing else."

  He turned on me. "You're Talon, I take it. I've heard of you." He looked again. "At the social! You were the one bought the box!"

  "I've been around," I said.

  "All right," he said, "now move. Or we move you!"

  "If I were you," I said quietly, "I'd talk to my pa first. Last time I talked to him, he didn't have any objections to us rounding up cattle."

  "Get off!" he said. Then the gist of my comment seemed to reach him. "You talked to Pa? When was this?"

  "Few days back, over east of here. Seemed like we understood each other. Had a right friendly talk. Somehow I don't think he'd like trouble where there need be none."

  Tory Benton broke in, roughly. "Hell, Rog, let me take him! What's all this talk for? I thought you said we were going to run them off?"

  Hinge spoke quietly. "There's no need for trouble here. All we want is to drive our cattle off your range, just as your boys will want to drive some of yours off ours."

  "Unless you want to make an even swap," Roper suggested. "You keep what you've got of ours, and we'll keep what we've got of yours."

  "The hell with that!" Roger declared. "How do we know how many head you've got?"

  "The same way we know how many you've got," Roper said.

  Tory Benton was edging off to one side. There was a gnawing tension in him, a kind of driving eagerness to prove himself. "You told 'em to go, Rog," he said suddenly. "Let's make 'em!"

  Roger Balch was uncertain. The mention of his father having a talk with me disturbed him. Arrogant he might be, and troublehunting he might be, but none of the trouble he hunted was with his father.

  What might have happened I didn't know. My own pistol was resting easy in its holster and my rifle was in its scabbard. I was dividing my attention between Tory Benton and Roger, when suddenly Ingerman spoke. "Hold it up. Here comes Balch."

  My eyes never left Benton, but I could hear horses approaching ... more than one.

  Balch rode up, two riders with him. "Pa? This man says you and him had an understanding. That he can gather cattle."

  Balch glanced at me. "What else did he tell you?"

  "Nothin' else."

  Balch reined his horse around. "Gather your cattle," he said to me, "but don't mess around. I don't want my stuff all spooked."

  "Thanks," I said, and rode right past Benton.

  "Another time," he said.

  "Anytime," I replied.

  The wind was picking up and turning cool. We rode on, found some Stirrup-Iron stock and began working the mesquite to round out the cattle.

  We scattered, working carefully through a couple of square miles of rough, broken country. We saw many Balch and Saddler cattle, of course, but by nightfall we had thirty-seven head of Spur and nine of Stirrup-Iron. We bunched them in a canyon and built us a fire. By that time it was downright cold, a real Texas norther blowing.

  For three days of cold, miserable weather we worked that corner of the range, collars turned up, bandanas over our faces except for Joe, whose hat had no chin strap. He tied his bandana over his hat to keep it from blowing away.

  There was a good bit of mesquite wood in that canyon, and toward each nightfall we'd gather more to keep the fire going. Long ago somebody had grubbed out nearly an acre, probably figuring on building a house, and the roots lay piled nearby.

  On the third day, Balch came riding with Ingerman. He looked over our cattle. "I'm going to cut them," he said.

  I was standing at the fire, warming my hands. "Have at it," I said.

  He needed little time to scan that herd. He rode through it several times and around it, then came up to the fire. "There's coffee," I said. "We're running short of grub."

  "Send you some?" he offered.

  "No, we've about got it. We'll drive 'em out come daylight."

  "You made you a good gather." He glanced up at me. "No young stuff."

  "No." I was squatting by the fire. "Balch, I'm going to take a few days off and do some s
nooping around, southeast of here."

  "You'll lose your hair. I lost a rider down thataway maybe a year back ... a good man, too. Feller named Tom Witt. Rode off there, huntin' strays, he said. I never seen him again but his horse showed up, blood all over the saddle. It rained about then and we found no trail."

  "Balch," I said, "you've got you some gunhands. Ingerman is good ... one of the best ... but somebody needs to ride herd on Benton."

  "Rog will do it."

  I took a swallow of coffee and made no comment. He looked at me as if expecting something, but I'd nothing to say. "You lay off, Talon. Just lay off. Benton's a good boy even if he is a little anxious."

  The dregs of my coffee I tossed on the ground. Then I stood up. "Well, he carries a gun. When a man straps one on, he accepts responsibility for his actions. All I want you to understand is that his trouble is Benton trouble, and it need not be Balch trouble."

  "He rides for me."

  "Then put a rein on him," I said, a little more sharply. "If you hadn't come right then, somebody would be dead by now. Maybe several somebodies. You've got a son, and a man carries a lot of pride in a son."

  "Rog can take care of himself." Balch looked up at me. "Don't tangle with him, Talon. He'll tear you apart. He's small, but he's fast and he's strong."

  "All right," I said.

  He got to his feet and mounted up. Then he turned, started to say something, and rode away. He was a hard man, a very hard man, but a lonely one. He was a man who believed the world had built a wall around him, and he was eternally battering at it to make breaches, never understanding that the wall was of his own building.

  We moved our cattle out, come daybreak, having close to two hundred head, mostly Spur. It was spitting cold rain when we came up to the high ground. It looked level as a floor, but I knew it wasn't, for there were canyons cut into the earth, some of them two hundred feet deep. There would be cattle in some of them.

  Hinge was no fool. "Talon, you an' Fuentes work the nearest canyons, start 'em downcountry, or if there's a way, bring 'em here. Ben an' me will stay by." And then he added, "Might be an attempt to stampede the stock, so we want to be on hand."

  It was something I had not considered, but Roger Balch or Tory Benton might do just that. Purely as an annoyance, if nothing else.

  We rode out over the plain until the nearest canyon split the earth wide open ahead of us. There was no warning. We were riding and suddenly there it was--a crack several hundred yards across. In the bottom there was green grass, some mesquite, even a cottonwood or two. And there were cattle.

  Scouting the rim, we found a steep slide that stock had been using. With my horse almost on his haunches, we slid down and moved toward the cattle. There was Indian writing on some of the rocks, and I was wishing for time to look around. Fuentes glanced at the writing, then at me.

  "Old," he said. "Very old."

  "You read that stuff?"

  He shrugged. "A little." He glanced at me. "My grandmother was Comanche, but this was not their writing. It is older, much older."

  He spotted a big Stirrup-Iron steer and started him moving. The steer didn't want to go, putting his head down at me. He had forward-pointing horns, looking sharp as needles, but I rode right at him, and after a moment he broke and turned away, switching his tail in irritation. There was a nice little pocket of our stuff here, and by the time we'd come out at the canyon mouth some three miles below, we had thirty-odd head, mostly big stuff, well-fleshed.

  We opened out on a flat scattered with mesquite. There were a few cattle, and with Fuentes holding and moving what we had, I rode off to check the brands. This was Balch and Saddler stuff, with a few of the major's. I cut out a four-year-old and started it toward the herd, my horse working nicely. It was a good cutting horse with a lot of cow savvy, which made the job easier. Riding that horse, the most I had to do was sit up there and look proud.

  Yet I didn't like it. We were now a good five miles from Hinge and Roper, and we should be working together. Pushing a few head, I rejoined our bunch. "You know how to get up there?" I asked.

  He pointed toward what looked like a long unbroken wall of the mesa. "See that white point of rock? Back of that. It's an easy way up."

  We started the bunch, and while he kept them moving, I rode wide, checking on brands, finding none of our stock. Suddenly, half-hidden by a clump of mes-quite, I came on a small fire. A thin trail of smoke was lifting but the coals were black, only a few charred ends showing a thin tracery of glowing red.

  Nearby, the earth was torn up and I knew the signs. Somebody had thrown and branded a steer. There was a spattering of blood from the castration, and the earth had been chewed up by kicking hoofs.

  I was turning away from the fire when I glimpsed something else--a place where a rifle with two prongs on its butt plate had been standing, tipped against a fork of a mesquite.

  Tony was not far off, and I gave him a call. He cantered over. I showed him what there was, including the mark left by the rifle.

  "I want to see that brand, Tony," I told him.

  He nodded, and we left the herd standing while we rode swiftly around, checking every brand for a fresh one. No such brand appeared. Tony reined in alongside me. Taking off his sombrero, he shook the weight of water from it. "This one is smart, Milo. He drove it away ... maybe miles from where it was branded."

  I'd been thinking the same thing, and had been watching for tracks, but saw none.

  We started on with the cattle. Was the man who branded that critter a rustler? A cowhand slapping his boss's brand on a maverick? It was no youngster, but a full-grown animal that he had cut and branded ... A bull that was making trouble?

  More than anything, I wanted to go looking. But Hinge and Roper were up on the mesa holding cattle, and we had more to drive to them so reluctantly I turned away. Meanwhile I tried to remember if I'd seen anybody with that kind of a rifle.

  There were a sight of different gun types around in those days, and I could recall four or five I'd seen with those points on the butt plate, set so's they'd kind of fit against the shoulder. A Sharps of one model was fixed that way, and there was a Ballard, too. And some of the James Brown Kentucky rifles.

  "You know a man with a rifle like that?" I asked Tony.

  Fuentes shook his head. "Not that I recall, amigo. I have seen such rifles, but not here."

  We were turning our cattle to climb the mesa when we heard a shot.

  It was sharp and clear in the afternoon air, a single, flat-hard report, and an echo, racketing against the rock walls. Leaving the herd, I jumped my horse past it and scrambled for the rim. As I topped out, I saw our herd scattered a little, heard a pound of hoofs and saw a horse racing away in the distance, a wild whoop trailing back.

  A second shot, close by, and I saw Joe Hinge sprawled on the ground, saw him trying to rise, then slip back down. Roper, rifle in hand, came running. I took one glance after the fleeting rider, then raced up to the cattle and dropped from the saddle.

  Joe Hinge looked up at me. "Tory Benton! Damn it, I never was fast with a gun!"

  Chapter 18

  "Ben? What happened?"

  He stared at me, his face flushed with anger and shame. "Why, damn it! I went over the rocks, yonder. Wasn't aimin' to be gone more'n a minute, but that dirty coyote must've been holed up somewheres, watchin'."

  Ben shook his head. "Soon's I was out of sight he come up. I heard the sound of his horse and figured it was you or Fuentes. Next thing there was shootin'. Only thing I heard him say was, 'If they're buffaloed, I'm not! I'll show 'em!' And then the shot."

  "Was it Benton?"

  "It was his voice. I didn't get back in time to see more'n his back, but he was ridin' that blaze-faced sorrel he rode when we saw him before. I took a shot, but he was too far off and movin' too fast."

  Fuentes was on his knees beside Hinge, plugging the hole and trying to make him easier. Fuentes was a good hand with a wound-I saw that right away.

&
nbsp; "Ben, we need a wagon. You want to go for it?"

  "Yeah." Roper turned toward his horse, standing a few yards off. "Damn it, I had no business leavin' him. Hell, I--"

  "Forget it, Ben. Hinge is a grown man. He's the boss here. Nobody needed to stand guard over him."

  "I'll kill him!" Roper said vehemently.

  "Don't butt up against him, Ben. It isn't worth it. Tory's fast ... If you do go after him, remember this. He's too fast for his own good ... He doesn't take time. If it comes to a shooting between you, make your first shot count. I've seen his kind, and with them the fast draw is everything. Seven times out of ten his first bullet goes right into the dust in front of his target. Just make sure he doesn't get a second shot."

  "The hell with him!"

  "Leave him to time, Ben. His kind never lasts long. Now how about that wagon?"

  When Ben was gone, we moved Joe to a place slightly below the level of the prairie. Then, with slabs from the edge of the mesa, I built a screen to wall off the wind. We covered him over with his saddle blanket, and then we waited.

  "One damn hothead," Fuentes said irritably. "He'll get some good men killed, blowing off like that."

  "Let's make sure it isn't Joe," I said, scanning the horizon.

  Unless I was mistaken, Tory Benton would ride right on back and make his brag about what he'd done. That he had beaten Joe Hinge to the draw and killed him ... Well, Joe was going to live! He had to live! Yet it was a long way to the ranch and a long way back with a wagon. I swore bitterly.

  Yet I had an idea what would happen. Tory would go back and tell his story. If Balch was smart, he would fire Benton on the spot. But there was another chance that some of his men would be for cleaning house, finishing what they had started before we had a chance to retaliate. For that reason, I had stayed with Hinge and Fuentes rather than going for the wagon myself.

  Going to my horse, I shucked my Winchester. Tony glanced at me, but offered no comment. Nor was any needed. He knew as well as I what might happen, and I think Ben Roper did too.

  Gathering a few sticks, I prepared a fire for the night, glancing from time to time over the rim at the canyon below. If we were just down there ... Any place but this mesa top, with small concealment and no shelter.