The Overlanders

by Nelson Nye

Sary rose, slipping into her jacket. There was something here that she wasn’t quite getting. She searched his face. “Is there a quarantine — something I might not know about?”

  “No. Nothing like that. You’d have been stopped anyway if you had come through Stein’s. Brands’ll have to be looked at. Just a routine check,” he said, smiling.

  She followed him out, not at all reassured. On the street she said, “I’ve got a horse at the livery…”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, and swung into the saddle.

  • • •

  Flat on his back with all the breath jarred out of him, Grete Farraday watched the man gather himself. For what seemed an eternity he lay in a kind of drugged stupor. It was the fright in the kid’s voice suddenly crying “Boss — boss!” that jerked Grete out of his paralysis. Desperately he twisted, digging his boots in, knowing he hadn’t any time to get his legs up.

  Rip’s weight plummeted into him, smashing him back, but the blade instead of skewering him passed through the slack of his shirt, going into the ground like a picket pin, holding him so that he was not at once able to twist himself free. He pounded Rip’s head, battered his kidneys. The man got a forearm wedged across Grete’s throat.

  Farraday forced a knee up, arching his back. Rip’s weight slid a little but he had one leg still flung across Grete, trying off-balance to get enough purchase to wrench his knife out of the ground. Grete sought that wrist, clamping down on it, at the same time succeeding in getting his other knee up. Rip’s weight slid some more.

  Only the upper portion of him now held Grete down. Grete, half-strangled from the pressure of Rip’s arm, tried again to dislodge him and, failing, flung up both legs and got one wedged between them. Sweat-drenched, gasping, he pushed outward and downward, tearing Rip away from him, tipping the man over, breaking Rip’s grip on the knife.

  Grete tore loose of it and rolled, coming onto his feet just as Rip scrambled up. They were both breathing raggedly. Rip, still running on rage, slammed into him, striking, snarling, striking again. Those were punishing blows and Grete, giving ground, felt every one of them.

  He shook his head, trying to find the man. Something out of nowhere cracked him hard across the nose, numbing the whole inside of his face. Then he saw Rip and smashed him on both sides of the neck. The man swayed groggily. Grete drove a knee full into Rip’s belly.

  The man’s chin came down like a blacksmith’s apron. As he stumbled forward Grete hit him twice more. The man reeled away with his mouth sprung wide, going wabble-kneed round in a kind of half-circle. He grabbed his face in both hands, collapsing into the dust.

  The violence of the fight was still a wickedness in Grete’s stare. His head felt about to burst loose from his shoulders. Before he could speak, Barney Olds, coming around Frijoles, caught a glimpse of Ben Hollis queerly peering toward town. The kid, following that glance, discovered an approaching pair of horsebackers. He stared hard at these two. He said, “Company comin’.”

  Something uneasy in the sound of it pulled Grete’s head around. He recognized both of them. Sary and Ed Stamper. Stamper was marshal of Willcox, a hard man to fool and an honest one. Grete wished now he had stopped in to see the man.

  He walked over to the water bucket and sluiced his face. He cuffed some of the dust off his clothes, stuffed in his shirt, and poured the rest of the water over Rip.

  The man groaned and spluttered. Grete nudged him with the toe of a boot. “Onto your feet —”

  “What the hell did you hit me with?”

  “Next time,” Grete said, “it’ll be an ax handle. Pick up that bucket and go fill it with water.” He sent a sharp look at Hollis, but Ben like the rest of them was eyeing the newcomers. Their hoof sound quit in a chorus of whinnyings. Grete swung around.

  “So you’ve come back,” Stamper said. “With a crew and a partner.”

  “You come all the way out here just to tell me that?”

  “I had to see it to believe it.” The marshal’s stare washed over the rest of them, considering the girl, going back to Grete’s face. “I gave you credit for better judgment.”

  A dark unruliness came into Grete’s look. The marshal still eyeing him, let the silence build up. Grete said coldly, “I know what I’m doing.”

  Stamper nodded. “Do these others?”

  “It’s not your concern.”

  Ben’s head came around. Idaho’s eyes took on a deeper and darker searching. The Mexican, Frijoles, cocked his soft-shining eyes inquiringly at Ben. The kid looked nervous.

  Sary’s voice bridged the uneasy quiet. “Mr. Farraday has my completest confidence. Whatever he believes we should do will be done.”

  “Why, ma’am,” the marshal said, “I am sure of that.”

  Grete smiled with his teeth but did not invite Stamper to get out of the saddle. The lawman, glancing around, said as though he were discussing the weather, “Whereabouts do these horses hail from?”

  Farraday stiffly watched the man. “Aren’t you kind of stepping out of your bailiwick, Marshal?”

  “Matter of opinion.”

  They considered each other, Farraday’s eyes angrily brightening. “A marshal’s right to ask questions does not extend beyond the limits of the town that pays his wages.”

  Stamper smiled. “Want to look at my credentials?”

  Farraday, sensing a trap, shook his head. “I just don’t like to see a woman pushed around.”

  “You know me better than that, Grete.”

  Farraday, trying to keep one eye on the crew, said, “This stock came out of Texas —” and was at once aware without glancing at the girl that she had given a different answer. It was in the thin grin that crept about Stamper’s eyes, in the way he quietly sat there, left hand idly playing with the reins.

  A pale rage sparkled in Grete’s stare.

  Stamper said, “I’ll take a look at them,” and was turning his mount when something about Grete’s stance pulled his face around. “Don’t be a fool!” he cried sharply.

  Farraday’s eyes were black as lamp soot. He had the look of a prodded tiger. He snatched up a halter shank off the ground and, stepping over to the horses Olds had fetched, wrassled it around the jaw of one. Ignoring the animal’s flattened ears he heaved himself up, curbing its action with the rope. He saw Rip slogging back with the bucket. Olds came up and handed him the pistol he hadn’t missed. Grete took a look at its barrel and shoved it into his holster and, bringing up his black stare, sent the horse after Stamper.

  All this while Ben had kept his mouth shut. Now he said to Olds, “Put my rig on that black.”

  Sary looked from him to Idaho, understanding with her woman’s intuition that each of these after his fashion coveted her. “Is this wise?”

  The gunfighter’s raw-red cheeks stayed unreadable. Olds, still unmoving, had his eyes fixed on Sary. Anger whipped into Ben’s handsome face. “Did you hear me!” he yelled.

  • • •

  Farraday, coming up to the stock with the marshal, growled, “What are you up to?”

  Stamper’s face swung about. “That’s one thing I don’t have to ask you.”

  “Never mind! This stock is no concern of yours —”

  “You better listen to me, Grete,” Stamper said to him. “The complexion of things around here is changing. I’m a deputy brand inspector now and there’s another at Stein’s as you would know if you’d come through there. I want to know why you didn’t.”

  Grete said more reasonably, “I had word Curly Bill might be looking for us there.”

  “Who tipped you off?”

  “Matter of fact it was French.”

  “French!” Stamper peered at him oddly.

  Farraday grinned. “He sure as hell didn’t aim to. Somebody had fed Miz’ Hollis a yarn that folks over here was purely crying for good horse stock. Somewhere French had latched onto her, claiming he would find her a buyer for the lot. He showed up the day after I had made my deal and allowed he had buyers line
d up at Stein’s.”

  “So you pointed ‘em north. Where’d Bill’s bunch hit you?”

  “Came down on us in that canyon east of Bowie. Ike Clanton, Hughes, and some more of that stripe.”

  Stamper stared at the horses, slowly circling the band. “Flyin’ H,” he said, pulling up to look closer. “That stud’s got class. Better mannered than most.” And then he said, “Texas brand…. The girl said New Mexico. You got any ideas about that?”

  “She came out of that country — that’s where I ran into her. Probably didn’t rightly catch your meaning.”

  The marshal, without comment, reached into his saddlebags. He fetched out a brand book and thumbed through its pages. “Here we are — Flyin’ H. Tate Hollis. Brady, Texas — that the one?”

  “Tate was her husband’s name.”

  “Was? Is he dead?”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  “What’d he die of?”

  “By God, Stamper! Why don’t you ask her!”

  “I probably will,” Stamper said, putting the book back. “Now I’ll tell you something, Farraday. Swallowfork ain’t got one friend in this country and, as Crotton’s ramrod these past four years, I guess you know about how popular you are.” He held up a hand. “All right, that don’t bother you. It don’t bother me, either, but when you flimflam a woman into —”

  “Stamper,” Grete snarled, jerking his chin up, “don’t say it!”

  “I’ll say it. I want this out in the open. I don’t want you claimin’ after it’s too late you didn’t catch my meanin’.”

  Watching Farraday, the marshal saw the unbridled leap of rage throwing its glare up into the desperate, affronted look of him, burning away the tie-ropes of his temper. All the wild and reckless pride of the man’s unbending nature was in the white flash of those suddenly bared teeth — all the aroused intolerance of an established way brought headlong up against the granite face of change. He was, Stamper thought, as adamant as Crotton. He had been raised in Crotton’s shadow, time and again bitterly shown that might made right; this doctrine had been nourished with every chapter of his experience. He had become too conversant with its grim rules to relish change; he meant to carve a place for himself by following Crotton’s footsteps.

  All of this Ed Stamper had previously suspected, sure of it when Farraday had filed on that best piece of Crotton’s vast unpatented range. He had seen it coming and now it was here. Farraday had learned Crotton’s lessons well. Swallowfork had sown the crop of fury about to be reaped and if Crotton was to die of it he would be getting no more than his just deserts; but, damnably, innocent men must die, for it was ever that way in a contest of strength. Others would be sucked into this feud, men on the fringes, other ranchers and squatters over whom King Crotton had ridden roughshod on his climb to empire, masterless men whose guns were for hire, the army of saddle tramps who had nothing to take into this fight but hate and who would seize this chance of coming out heeled. The marshal, a Texan, had seen feuds before. The entire region would suffer while a handful of men, made bold by their plunder, were fattening on misery; and who would remember those who fell by the way?

  “Be hell on the women an’ livestock,” he said. With his tone going rougher he mentioned the rest of it, the broken homes and the heartbreak, the men with families who would be pulled into it, those with old grudges, the dispossessed — “but I expect you’re countin’ on them.”

  Grete stayed silent, his face stony set, his look hard as agate. Stamper sighed. “Well, so be it.” He pulled his horse around and then swung back with his own gusty temper. “Just remember this, Farraday, when the widows an’ kids is plantin’ the dead ones. Their blood will be on your hands. You won’t ever get it off.”

  He saw that he was wasting his breath but he said: “There’s one other thing, this woman you’ve tied into this — what does she stand to get out of it? You’re usin’ her crew and her horses. What’ll she —”

  He broke off, skreaking around in the saddle to see Ben spurring up on the black, the girl following. Ben skidded the horse to a stop on its haunches. “That fellow,” he cried, flinging a hand square at Grete, “killed a man and I saw it — shot him down like a dog!”

  Stamper’s eyes fastened on Grete, moved narrowly back at his accuser. “What man?”

  Ben’s stare brightened with malice. “I think they called him French —”

  “He was a dog,” Stamper said, and departed.

  FOURTEEN

  They pulled out in the night and made a number of miles before going into camp under a grove of live oak where the dark was so thick a man could pretty near cut it. “No fire,” Grete said, “and no smoking till sunup. Two men on guard. If you see anything moving, knock it down.”

  The kid said thinly, “Is this Injun country?”

  “Still a few bucks prowling through these hills.”

  But it wasn’t Apaches Grete had on his mind. This was Swallowfork, and Crotton’s crew wasn’t likely to waste many words with outsiders.

  Farraday had been hard to get along with ever since the marshal’s visit and even after he’d rolled into his blankets his black thoughts stayed bitterly with him. Ben had been walking pretty soft since his rebuff from Ed Stamper, but he was one who had to be watched and that cross-grained wooden-legged cook was another.

  While the marshal was with him Patch had gone into town after the supplies Grete had sanctioned and an hour and ten minutes later, riding in to see what was keeping him, Farraday discovered cook hadn’t been to the store. He’d spent another twenty minutes picking up the deserter’s trail and the rest of that day catching up with the fellow and fetching him back. Grete knew the man would put a knife in him if he ever got the chance. And there was Rip and his broken bottle and Frijoles who looked to Ben for instruction. And any time now he might be up against Idaho. A hell of a prospect to go into a fight with.

  They were up at first daylight, wolfing down Patch’s chuck. Salt pork and whistleberries downed with java so black it left a stain on the cups. They were moving by six, and by eight half the mares were sore-footed and limping. Nothing to be done but cut the pace down to a snail’s crawl.

  Tempers turned ugly and at ten, in higher country, going into a loop to approach Texas Canyon, Sary dropped back to where Grete and Rip were eating dust in the drag. “Are you trying to avoid me?” she asked, crowding her horse in alongside Grete’s dun.

  He pushed on a few strides, dragging his rope and not answering. “Because if you are,” she said with eyes glinting, “I don’t like it. We’re equal partners in this. I want to know where we’re going. I want to know what your plans are.”

  “Is that all?” he said bleakly.

  “How much farther to your place is it?”

  “If these mares hadn’t gone lame we’d be there tonight — barring accidents.”

  She looked at him sharply. “What kind of accidents?”

  Grete shrugged. “Crotton’s got a tough crew and we’re on his range.” He remembered Rip then and raked a willful look at him. “Get up ahead,” he growled.

  Sary’s tone was insistent. “Isn’t Crotton the one you used to be boss for?” When he nodded she said, “Did we have to come this way?”

  “No. We could have spent three days swinging around to come in from the west. Wouldn’t have made any difference with him; we’d have still been on Swallowfork.”

  She looked at him grimly. “Our ranch is completely surrounded by Swallowfork?”

  The conversation annoyed him. It showed and he was aware that it showed. “That’s right,” he said, and looked past her, eyes narrowing. He reined his horse out around her and, putting steel to its flanks, tore off at a run toward where, ahead of the drive, a couple of strangers had appeared, accosting Idaho. The gunfighter’s lifted arm stopped the drive. Sary spurred after Grete, coming up with the group just as Ben pushed up on his black from where he had been riding swing. The newcomers turned wind-roughened faces, lifting scowling
eyes, their attention at once twisting back to Grete. Beard-stubbled and brush-clawed they looked, Sary thought, like a pair of starved saddle tramps. Even their animals had this pinched, gaunted look.

  “Alls I’m askin’,” the nearer, taller one growled, “is your intentions. You’ve rounded up a crew an’ you’ve got this jag of horses. Looks to me like you’re fixin’ to make a fight for that claim.”

  The other stranger nodded. This was a weedy slack-jawed man whose furtive eyes, a kind of washed-out gray, seemed unable to focus very long on anything. He rasped the jowls of his weak wrinkled face, bobbing his head again. “We’re all out of pocket to that sonofabitch — don’t be so damn standoffish. Hell, it’s all over town that you’re back to —”

  “Lally,” Farraday said, “turn that bonerack around and start making tracks.”

  Lally’s saddlemate said, “We’ve all got reasons whether you like ‘em or not. Seems to me the best deal is for all of us to put our guns in one pile. No sense in bein’ pigheaded. There’s enough short-enders hidin’ out in the brush —”

  “I don’t want your damned help! Now wheel that bronc and get out of here.”

  Sary, watching, saw a tide of ruddy color surge above the tall man’s open-throated collar. “What —” Ben began, and was cut off by Farraday’s snapped “Keep out of this!” Lally licked cracked lips in an excess of nervousness as Grete crowded the dun against the tall man’s trembling animal. “I won’t tell you again, Frobisher.”

  The tall man’s eyes sought out and found every one of them in slow and careful scrutiny before he yanked his horse around. But this was not enough. Spleen twisted his malicious face and he yelled back across a shoulder, “You’ve had your chance — don’t come cryin’ around me when you git hurt!”

  Sary watched them whip their bony mounts through the brush, dip into the wash, and clout away out of sight. Farraday tipped up his face toward the sun and gave Patch the sign that they would stop here for chuck. There were things in his look which confused and halfway frightened her; gnawed by doubt she watched him heavily come out of the saddle. He appeared to be of two minds and not satisfied with either. She watched the black sweep of his glance strike Rip. “Get up on that rim with your rifle!” His eyes found Olds. “Kid, you help cook.”