by Nelson Nye
The kid, studying Farraday, filled a tin at the tailgate, got himself a scald of java and hunkered down beside the fire. Grete felt the girl’s regard, but kept his glance on the cook, now viciously scraping at his ovens with a fire hook. Grete said to the kid, “Thought there was two of you out with those horses.”
“Rip’s got his eats with him.”
It occurred to Grete he would be a heap smarter to get this deal down on paper but he was leery of mentioning this lest the girl, perhaps already regretting it, make of the suggestion an excuse to back out. He watched her get up and drop her things in the wreck pan. He looked away when she wheeled, ignoring her approach.
“Could I bother you a moment?”
He said ungraciously, “What is it?”
“Come over to the wagon.”
She took his arm when they got into the dark. This bothered him too. He resented the ease with which she made him aware of her. She felt his antagonism and stopped, stepping back from him. She fetched a crackle of paper from a pocket of her riding skirt. “We might as well do this right while we’re at it.”
The paper was folded around the stub of a pencil. He took it into the light, the twist of a smile tugging his lips as he read. It was his side of the bargain, making over half the ranch in exchange for half the stock and the rights vested in him as trail boss. He masked his elation, appearing to hesitate. Coming back, he said, “And the part I’m to keep?” She held it out and they swapped. “Was it a steal you ran from,” he said, “or a killing?”
Her chin came up. “I don’t recall asking you.”
He felt it go into him, gaff, shaft, and haul rope. Whatever else she might be this girl was no fool. He glared, halfway hating her. “What’s that kid doing here?”
“Weren’t you ever his age?”
He had no patience with sentiment. “I must have been loco to tie myself up with this kind of outfit!” He looked at her bitterly, catching dead-on the frozen stare she sent back to him.
“I don’t care what you think — what you’ve been, even. But there is one thing I won’t tolerate from you and that’s treachery!”
It brought him up short.
He thought in that moment to catch a flutter of hoofs, but with the wind pirootin’ round and her paying no attention he supposed he must have imagined it. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Stein’s Pass.”
“What about it?”
“I heard what you said.” Her eyes were on him narrowly. “How else do you propose to get through those mountains?”
He reckoned again to be hearing that faint plop of hoof sound and twisted his head without adding to his knowledge. He swung back to her. “You hear anything?”
“Let’s stay with the steer we’ve got hold of.”
The sound came to Farraday plainly then, nearer now, almost up to the camp, but the freight of anger and suspicion in her tone dragged his caution away from it. “There’s a trail,” he said, “through from Animas —”
“Forty miles out of our way,” she said flatly.
“For an outsider, by God, you’ve got some mighty queer savvy.”
Her chin tipped up. “Wait over there,” she called, lifting her voice. “I’ll be through here directly.” Her eyes came back to Grete. “What is there at Stein’s you’re so scared to face up to?”
Farraday reddened. “Not scared,” he said. “It just don’t make sense —”
“Then I’ll see if we can’t find some!” She brushed past him sort of panting and went, half-running, toward the fire.
Farraday, tramping after her, was riled enough to taste it when the shape of the horse drawn up by the wagon turned out to be Idaho. Grete heard her say to the man as he stepped into the firelight, “Is there any good reason for avoiding Stein’s Pass?”
The gunfighter, hunching thin shoulders, gave Farraday a battered grin. “Ain’t never heard of none,” he said through puffy lips. “But then I ain’t never rode for Swallerfork, neither.”
Sary’s glance, bitterly furious, lashed from one to the other. “I didn’t ask for riddles!”
“Why, ma’am, there’s no riddle here. Mister Farraday’s got his own nest to feather.” The narrow amber-flecked stare swept over Grete with a wicked maliciousness. “You can’t buy his kind. He’ll use you as long as it suits his ends, then find some prettier, younger woman —”
Grete went for the man in one slashing leap. The horse threw its head up, sidling, snorting, the flames flinging out a skittering light from the barrel of the pistol nakedly focused on Grete’s chest.
Idaho’s eyes jeered openly now. Underneath his thumb the hammer came up. “Put those hands on me, bucko, whenever you’re a mind to.”
The threat of the gun held Farraday rooted but the strain showed through the thin slant of his cheeks. Incredibly then he laughed at the man, a shocking sound in that brittle quiet. “Believe me,” he said, eyes granite hard, “if there was any real point to it that gun wouldn’t stop me.”
Strangely Idaho appeared to accept this.
He had the advantage, of course, of looking into Grete’s face, a thing the girl could not do, being off to one side. Her glance swept them both with a cold disdain. “We’ll go by Stein’s.”
“They’ll go,” Grete said, “the way I tell them to go.” He turned his back on her wrath. “Get those horses strung out.” He waved the gunfighter away. “You there, kid, hitch up —”
“Barney, stay where you are,” Sary Hollis cried furiously. “If we’ve got business at Stein’s we’re going there! Irv, did you locate those buyers?”
Trailing her stare Farraday saw the man then. Back where broad shadows helped cloak his motionless presence he stood with gripped reins against a roan horse like something straight out of Scripture. There was that patriarchal look to his still face, that peculiar blend of vision and authority, of assurance in adversity which comes of righteous suffering.
His name was Irv French. Grete, on Crotton’s orders, had chased the sonofabitch out of the country for running his brands on other men’s cattle.
FOUR
“Yes,” French said, “I’ve lined up four.”
A sigh came out of Grete too deep for words.
He had played in hard luck from the start of this deal and now to be saddled with a joker like French seemed almost more than a man could take. “Slick” was the name folks had found for Irv French and that he was still above ground attested to its accuracy. He could twist truth around to where you’d pick black for white, and not only pick it but pass it on for gospel. He could do things… Hell! It was plain enough now where the girl had got her slant. He was slicker than slobbers — give the devil his due. Not even King Crotton had been able to catch him out.
Farraday said to the girl, “This one of your outfit?”
“Mr. French kindly offered —”
“I’ll be he did!” Grete’s mouth was tight. “He’s the helpingest gent you will ever run into. By God, you sure pick ‘em!”
A resentful defiance burned into her look and anger boiled up through her cheeks like a fever. Aroused she was handsome in a wild sort of way that got its teeth in old hungers. Grete said irascibly: “You got any idea what you’ve let this drive in for?”
“I don’t care for your tone. If you’re implying Mr. French is a crook, I don’t believe it.”
“There you are, Irv — a real testimonial. Given by a woman of unimpeachable antecedents.” Farraday’s look held a biting contempt.
Sary’s eyes turned black. French brought his fullpaunched shape out of the shadows, the roan horse ambling along at his heels like a dog. There was a half-smiling negligence about this old man’s movements, a contained tolerance of expression, that made Grete’s words sound cheap and childish. “Getting kicked off Swallowfork must have soured your outlook, Farraday.”
Farraday’s bitter eyes found the girl. “So it was Irv put the notion of Stein’s into your bonnet. You got any more cute surpris
es tucked away up your sleeve?”
“No sense taking your spleen out on her.”
That was French. Grete ignored him. “You believe that bull about four buyers?”
Her chin came up. “It will be easy enough to prove.”
“Sure. Be easy, all right. Easy as dropping out of sight in a bog hole.”
“No point scaring her with Bill,” French said. “Even if he was there I’d have no trouble doing business —”
“Save your breath. You won’t be doing any with him this trip. That stock isn’t going anywhere near Stein’s.”
The chunky Ben drifted up and put a shoulder against the wagon.
Sary cracked her knuckles. “May I say something?”
Grete, swallowing the bile that rose up in him, said, “Go ahead.” He caught the fire-honed glint of Idaho’s eyes and got ready for trouble.
The girl said, “This Bill, apparently, is some sort of outlaw?”
“You’re learning fast.”
“Well… But if Mr. French can do business with him —”
“Anyone can do business with him. If they don’t mind being paid off with bullets.”
The glint of the gunfighter’s eyes, shifting, sharpened. But French, smiling, shrugged and said lightly, “Bill ain’t much different than anyone else —”
“He don’t have two heads, if that’s what you mean.”
French didn’t let Grete’s sarcasm throw him. He grinned at the girl. “Your friend Farraday don’t like him, being politically tethered where the grass, come spring, doesn’t get above his ankles — Lord, I don’t blame him. If I was in his fix I wouldn’t care for Bill either.”
“He’s talking about Curly Bill,” Grete said grimly, and saw Idaho stiffen. Sary looked confused. Ben pulled his shoulder away from the wagon, walked around back of Idaho, and stopped. “What kind of fix is that?” he said.
“Well…” French sighed. He pushed out his lips and looked around as though embarrassed. “I didn’t suppose it was any secret he’s been lifting other folks’ cattle.” His glance found the girl’s. “He was ramrod at Swallowfork till Crotton got onto him — no telling how much he got away with while he had the crew out scouring the country, trying to cover up by making out it was me. Someway Bill got his signals crossed — he was getting rid of the stuff, splitting with Grete here whatever it fetched. A message from Bill was delivered to Crotton. Your friend,” French grinned, “barely got out.”
It never occurred to Farraday a denial to anything so preposterous was called for until he saw Sary’s eyes. That same drawn-away kind of look was on the rest of them. He was branded, and nothing he might say after this would change their minds.
The girl’s eyes went through him like the steel points of daggers. “You said something about grass…” She was looking at French. “Am I to understand his ranch —”
It was the brightening lift of French’s rolled-back stare that pulled Grete into an awareness of danger. This wasn’t the worst the man could do. The lack of Sary’s trust would make things harder but it wasn’t catastrophic. She was running from something herself and probably still figured to use him. But if this pious bastard told her…
“Farraday’s?” French said, and Grete knew it was coming. The rustler was broadening his jowls for a chuckle when a pistol appeared in Grete’s hand. “You yap any more and you’ll do it through gunsmoke.”
Ben settled back with his eyes big as slop buckets. Idaho was caught with both arms on his saddlefork. Cook, bent from the waist, was braced to pick up an oven and French, after those lies, was not about to invite judgment. Only the girl showed animation. Her eyes, widely alert, had picked up the glint of the pistol, and a kind of pleased astonishment was breaking across the look of them.
Grete took a peek at Idaho. “Get the stock lined out for Animas.”
Ben started a protest. Grete shook his head at him. “We’re moving soon as cook gets hitched. Give the old gaffer a hand, kid.”
He still had his gun on the rustler’s middle when French, eyeing Sary, declared with a show of pained reluctance, “If Farraday’s giving the orders — if you’re not going through Stein’s, I may as well sever my arrangement with you now.”
“Try it,” Grete said, “and you’ll have something else severed. I’m going to need every man we’ve got on this drive. Ben —” he called sharply, “you’ll ride with Miz’ Hollis; make sure you’ve got plenty of shells for that rifle. French, you’ll ride with cook — go help him rustle those pans. Rest of this outfit will stay with the horses.”
Idaho wheeled his bronc and rode off. Ben looked after him, sullenly scowling.
“You think I’m crippled?” French said, baring his teeth.
“You damn well will be if I have to tell you again.”
• • •
There was no trouble that night.
They camped three hours in Animas Valley. Grete, pulling the gear off his horse, said abruptly, “You might as well swap that bed for a lantern, French. We’re all going on nighthawk — catch up some fresh mounts.”
There were too many wild horses on this part of the range to risk losing stock when close-herding would prevent it. Ben and French did a heap of grumbling. Sary climbed into her wagon without comment.
After a cold breakfast in the gray light of dawn, Farraday announced, “We’ll be leaving these wagons. You can pack cook’s supplies on some of those mares, but load the teams first and don’t overdo it.”
“What’s the big idea?” Ben demanded, glowering.
“If you don’t want your bones scattered over this prairie, quit jawing and get busy.”
When Hollis didn’t move — others had stiffened in their tracks to peer around at him — Grete put down the saddle he had just picked up. The quick wicked swing of his probing stare drove all expression from their faces. “We’re in this together. You may as well make the best of it.”
He stood a moment considering them, looking sharpest at Idaho, then rummaging French. These were the ones he could look to for trouble, French for his detention, Idaho for loss of face, for his aches and bruises and whatever had made him jump Grete in the first place.
“Like I said, we’re leaving the wagons. Right where they are, pointed south. You and the kid, French, can help Patch pack — I’ll cut out a few of the ruggedest mares for you. Idaho will cut out a score for Miz’ Hollis who will hold them off to one side till I’m ready. You and Idaho, Ben, will get the rest headed north —”
“North!” Sary stared. “But I thought you said…”
“That was before I knew about French. We’ve got Curly Bill breathing down our necks now. When we don’t show up for that bait Irv put out Bill’s liable to start hunting. You can’t outrun him. We’re going to try to outfox him — you better hope that we do.”
He was particularly watching French and the gunfighter but it was Ben had the hell in his neck this morning. “Cold grub, no sleep, now this,” he snarled. “I think, by hell, you’re fixin’ to run off with the whole goddamn band!”
“Think what you want, just do what I tell you. And do it right away.”
He watched them move off, aware that nothing had been settled, knowing what little chance there was really of succeeding in outfoxing the king of all foxes. Curly Bill knew this country like the palm of his hand. He’d have no trouble getting men. Tomorrow — next day at the latest — at least one batch of ruffians would be prowling every route.
Sary touched Grete’s elbow. Before she could get her thought into words, cook came up with an affronted look still riding the gullies of his ridgy cheeks. “Could be Bill’s really after these broncs. If that’s so we’d have a heap better chance if you wasn’t mixed into this, bucko.”
That was French’s poison talking. Grete said bluntly, “You’d have no chance at all. They’d have you boxed —”
“But if we can’t outrun them,” Sary said, “why leave the wagons?”
“I’m not anxious to draw any map for Bill
. We’ve got to move fast or we’ll be caught in the open. We’re gone ducks, believe me, if Bill’s whole push comes down on us.”
“What I said,” the cook growled, “but if we got rid of you —”
“Patch, hush,” Sary said, and Grete could see that she was following him. “You’re hoping to lose our sign in the tracks of this wild stuff, or at any rate confuse them. But how will you keep them from spotting our dust?”
“Couldn’t around here — that’s why I want to get moving. He may not get after us before tomorrow or next day; he’ll be expecting Irv to bring you over through Stein’s. By then, if we’re lucky, we could be out of his reach. We’re going north into malpais — be no sign for him there. If we can mix him up here we might get through to Willcox.”
“That’s good?” she said.
“It will be damned good if we can do it.” Grete sighed. “He’s got a front to keep up of being honest over there.”
They looked at each other through a moment of silence. Impatience stirred her shoulders and color came guiltily to turn her away. She swung up onto the horse the kid had readied for her and rode off toward the mares left by Idaho. Grete watched the look of her against gray sky and, disquieted by the run of his thoughts, came around to find cook about set to go. The teams were packed and the mares, pawing restively, were nickering and squealing after the stock pushed ahead. “You’re going to have trouble with that stud,” Patch prophesied. “He ain’t going to like havin’ these mares split up.”
“That’s Idaho’s problem, and Ben’s,” Grete said, darkly studying the slyness he found in French’s stare. “If there’s anything wearing shoes in this bunch, I want them pulled off — right away. We can’t hide these horses in the tracks of wild stuff if we’re putting down shoe sign. Kid, you stick with me,” he said, and waved the others away.
He watched them pull out into the dust of the main bunch and all this while, on top of everything else, flight of time kept him worrying bitter thoughts of King Crotton. By pushing north into malpais he was adding more miles to the staggering distance already between them, miles he couldn’t afford but would have to someway put under their hoofs if he would save these Shilohs for his ruckus with Swallowfork. If he could have dealt with French’s buyers — but the man had no buyers. There was just Curly Bill who had never been known to pay for anything larger than a five cent glass of beer. Bill took what he wanted, stifling protests with bullets. The back trails were strewn with bones of damned fools.
