The Overlanders

by Nelson Nye

  “I’m going through with this,” Farraday said.

  “By God, you can’t! That bunch hits us now the way this stock’s spread out — Christ, man, use your head! That kid might do what you tell him, but the rest of these tramps —”

  “They can’t stand against the both of us.”

  “I told you about that!”

  “You’d let personal spite —”

  “Jesus God, man! You think it’ll help that girl to lose everything she’s got? Those mares…”

  The man’s bitter eyes, leaping past Grete, went pale and wide, sick as though a knife had chunked into him. “Quiet,” he growled. “She’s comin’.”

  “Are you stopping here?” Sary asked, pulling up.

  Grete with raised brows stared at Idaho.

  The girl, plainly worried, looked at both of them, sensing tension. Idaho said, “Tell this fool to turn around!”

  She considered Grete, her attention shifting to the gunfighter soberly. “I can’t do that. It was a part of our agreement he should give the orders —”

  “He’s give ‘em, girl. Look where we’re at!”

  A wind rushed down off the higher slopes and tugged at her shirtwaist, tumbling a lock of red hair across her cheek. She pushed it away, her eyes searching Grete.

  He brought the dun up a step, trying to make out what lay behind this look, turned suddenly restless, not sure of anything. A deeper color crept into her cheeks and the lock of hair fanned across them again. He bent to catch a surer look, what he saw unsettling him badly. Idaho bawled in unbridled fury, “Get this drive turned around! You don’t owe him a thing!”

  “Grete, tell me the truth. Do we have any chance?”

  He observed the contempt on the gunfighter’s face and was still so long she put the question again.

  There was a wicked gleam in Idaho’s stare, a kill-crazy hate glaring through the jealous rage that was destroying his control. Grete realized one further thing, that if it came to crossing guns with him the man would get his shot off first. Grete was also swayed by the look which the girl, without reservation, had so recently shown him. He fought his bitter thoughts, fought the cold paralysis settling over him. “Be pretty risky… but I believe we have.”

  “Why, you damned hypothecator!” Idaho yelled. “All you want is to get even with that sonofabitch! She’s the one that takes the risk — you got nothin’ to lose but your miserable life!” His hand dropped and spread above the grip of his pistol.

  “No!” Sary cried, ramming her horse in between them. Idaho had to use both hands to keep his rearing mount from going over. He clouted him viciously between the ears, laying into the horse with the butt of his quirt, hammering him down to a trembling stand.

  He looked about ready to try it on Grete. “We can’t make no fight with this stock spread to hell an’ gone!”

  “Nobody wants a fight,” Grete told Sary — “not here anyway, not now,” he said. He paid no attention to the gunfighter. In the man’s present mood Grete knew if they swapped glances there would be blood spilled. He saw the girl’s eyes change. “If we can keep them spread out, and if the crew —”

  But Idaho had to work off his spleen. “If!” he jeered, bony face thrust toward Grete. “If wishes was horses you’d have ‘em all!” He spat and looked back at Sary. “I’d as soon go up against Geronimo’s Apaches as to brace Crotton’s bunch with their warpaint on! You listen to me —”

  But she wanted to hear Grete. “You have a plan?”

  “Well… not a plan exactly.” Grete took in a deep breath. “If we keep on like we’re going they’ll ride us down one at a time. If we bunch up they bag the lot of us. What it boils down to —”

  “You want to give it up?” “It’s not that. I’m going on —” “Then let him go, an’ good riddance!” That was Idaho, swelled up like a toad.

  “There’s a way,” Grete said. “If it works we get our ranch.”

  “If there was a way,” the gunfighter snarled, “he’d of taken it. He’s workin’ up now to tell you we got to ditch the stock. By God, you turn ‘em loose it’s the last you’re goin’ to see of ‘em! Jesus God, ma’am, you let me —”

  Sary spoke to Grete. “Do what you have to do. Never mind the mares — I never had any real right to them anyway. Ben got Tate’s money. I got the bills. The bank and the merchants teamed up and got a judgment.” Her eyes met Grete’s straightly. “I was pretty bitter. The night before the sheriff was due Ben suggested we grab the mares and clear out. At the time it seemed like a good idea.” She brushed the hair away again. “Go ahead and cut loose of them if —”

  Idaho snapped. “Don’t talk like a fool! You earned them horses. You put up with plenty. Olds has told me all about Tate and what he done for that bastard — excusin’ your presence, ma’am. You got a right to anythin’ you can git outa this.” He glared malignantly at Grete. “I ain’t lettin’…”

  He wasn’t reaching the girl. Her eyes were still on Farraday. The courage and pride and trust Grete saw in them made him feel mighty small. The gaunt one had a right to be riled. It made Grete sick to think how he had used this girl, looking out for his own, whip-sawing all of them, caring for nothing but his plans for smashing Crotton. For the first time he paused, actually stopping, to wonder if he ought to go on with this thing. But it was kind of a passing thought at best. They were deep into land claimed by Swallowfork now. Crotton — even if they wanted to — would never let them go. Sometimes a man could bluff, but not here. Crotton knew where they were; if not, he damned soon would know. They’d have to duck bullets every inch of the way. He said as much. Idaho cursed. “You git them mares —”

  “Be still!” Sary said, and pushed her horse nearer Grete. She wondered if he truly understood how she felt. She wanted him to; there was only one thing in this world she wanted more. And that was to know how he felt, to be convinced that she was important to him. All the rest — the ranch, these horses, meant less than nothing; but she could not put the words in his mouth. “Well, Grete?”

  “I’m going on.”

  He might have said a lot more, perhaps he should have; but he was seeing some things clearer now. He had finally come face to face with himself and some of his discoveries were starkly disturbing. There was confusion inside him and the shock of broken images, a strange uncomforting humility laced with shards of doubt. He managed to keep this off his face but he could not saddle her or any woman with the responsibility for what he meant to do. “I’m going to try it,” he told Idaho.

  A gun jumped into the gaunt man’s hand.

  SIXTEEN

  They stared at each other, eyes bright and hard. The quiet had the feel of a watch wound too far.

  Sary’s cheeks turned white. She could not breathe. The hammer of the gun came back to full cock. Idaho softly said, “We’ll see…” and Patch, coming up, growled, “What’re we stopped for?”

  “Resting the mares,” Grete said through his teeth. “Break out some grub.”

  Cook saw the gun then. The lump bobbed in his throat. Sary, coolly knowing what chance she took, exactly backed her horse until her waist was between the gun’s muzzle and Grete’s chest. She said, “He’s not going to shoot,” and made her mouth smile for Patch. “Go along and get supper — and hurry it up, will you?”

  She reached out for Grete’s arm, pulling at its stiffness, feeling how furiously angry he’d become. She kept grim hold of him, fearfully turning, compelling him to turn, not giving him a chance to be quixotically foolish which she knew was what he felt bound to do, being a man and filled with purely crazy notions. Better to have him shamed than shot.

  She didn’t dare risk a look in Idaho’s direction but she did out of the corners of her eyes catch a glimpse of the ludicrously gaping face of Patch. She got Grete turned around but that was all — she couldn’t get him away from there. He grabbed the dun hard with both knees, anchoring the horse against the pull of her. She stopped too, rather than turn loose of him.

&nb
sp; She saw the swollen veins in his neck as he twisted his head to glare over a shoulder. She was suddenly frightened what he might say would trigger the gun in spite of everything. “Go on,” she cried bitterly, “get yourself killed! If your damned pride means —”

  “I’ll take care of my pride!” He said gruffly to cook, “When you go back pass the word to the boys to watch sharp for Swallowfork. They’re going to come down on us. First puff of gunsmoke I want the boys running. You got that?”

  Patch nodded.

  “Never mind the mares. I don’t want no one stopping to swap lead with that bunch. At the first sign of trouble light out and keep going.”

  Patch dubiously looked at the girl, then at Idaho. The gunfighter had scowlingly lowered his pistol. In spite of what Sary’s intervention must have done to him he began to show interest. His glance was sharp. “Let me git this straight. You’re wantin’ Crotton’s gunnies to figure the crew’s run out an’ took off for Texas?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Contempt came into the gaunt man’s look. “If I know them rats they’ll sure as hell do it.”

  “Not without you let them,” Grete said. “You been shooting off your jaw about Sary’s interests ever since I got into this deal. Put up or shut up.”

  The gunfighter’s cheeks showed a rawer red. His mouth tightened. But after a moment he tipped a curt nod and a grin wryly streaked across his scabbed lips. He shoved his gun back in leather. “What do you want ‘em to do?”

  Grete wasn’t sure at all how far he could trust the man. His eyes were too guarded to be certainly read. “Take them up the north slope quick as you’re out of Crotton’s sight and wait in the rocks beyond the rim till I come up with you.”

  Idaho’s eyes watched him, then shifted to Patch. “What the hell are you waitin’ for?”

  “I want a plain order —”

  “You got one. Git goin’.”

  Cook’s head swung to Grete. “You’re still wantin’ grub?”

  “I want to butcher a little time. Might as well be putting it away.”

  Patch turned his horse and rode off.

  “What about Sary?” the gunfighter asked.

  “She stays with the horses.” Grete saw the anger leaping through his cheeks. “She’ll be safe enough. I know this country and I know Crotton’s crew. They’re not going to bother any stranded woman. Crotton, so far as women are concerned…” He caught the skeptical climb of the gaunt man’s brows. “You can take my word for it.”

  Idaho’s lip started to lift but he flattened it out when he saw the girl take her hand off Grete’s arm. He picked up his reins, face inscrutable again. “What about the horses?”

  “They’re not going to run, the shape their feet are in. Anyway Crotton’s boss, Felix Stroat, ain’t the kind to play hell with a stock of top blood mares. He’ll take care of those e-quines fine as silk.”

  “That’s what you’re countin’ on?”

  “I’m putting a big stack on it.” Grete wheeled the dun, heading back; Sary, following, appeared now almost as wooden-faced as the gunfighter.

  Idaho moved his horse up beside Grete. “This Stroat a particular friend of yours?”

  Farraday looked at him coldly and laughed.

  “That’s no answer!” the gunfighter snarled.

  “If I was about to fall over he’d give me a push.”

  Idaho’s stare narrowed down. “Then he’ll be after us with everything he’s got.”

  “That’s why I’m dropping the mares. It would go against his grain to let that stock get so much as a hair mussed. Time he wakes up we’re going to be out of this jackpot.” Grete, swinging wide, cut over to say to Rip, “You understand what you’re to do when they hit?”

  The man glared at him, finally nodding.

  “All right. Go up there a ways where you can see around that bend. Not knowing how far we’ll have got with these mares, they’ll probably be coming right down the canyon. Just before they get within good killing range, let off that rifle and bust for the stock. That’s to suck them down here and to tip off our boys. You’ll have farther to run because you’re going to come pounding straight up to the mares — that’s to make sure they see what we’ve got here.”

  “When they comin’?”

  “They won’t be far away now. You see the rest of us fading, you let out a yell and come busting right after us. I’ll see that you draw double pay for today.”

  “I ain’t drawn no pay yet,” Rip scowled. “They been holdin’ it back to make sure we stick.” His look said that wouldn’t stop him if things got rough.

  Grete nodded and turned back, throwing a look overhead. It would have done no good to have promised the man more. Loyalty was something you just couldn’t buy. He looked down where the mares were cropping dried grass; in spite of everything, he thought, they made a mighty pretty sight. There were more foals now. He reckoned upwards of fifty. That brought out his tight grin.

  Sary had gone on — he caught occasional glimpses of her, moving among the mares and boulders, following Patch along the route toward the drag. Grete saw a thin curl of smoke where the kid was already pulling the packs off the work stock. Idaho was waiting.

  Grete slanched another thoughtful squint at the sun, heeled well over, throwing out longer, deeper shadows where rocks stood up in its path. In about another hour this particular stretch was going to be hard to see well in. Crotton would know this. So would Stroat. No telling if the pair were together. Crotton could be home. He could be perambulating about in town where folks could afterwards remember they had seen him.

  Idaho said, breaking into Grete’s conjectures, “What’d you mean, ‘time he finally wakes up’?”

  “Hmm? Oh — Stroat.” The sun struck up a little flash from Grete’s teeth. “They’ll be looking for us to run these horses up into the mountains to push them onto my claim. They don’t mean to let us — you can understand that. What you don’t know about is Stroat, the way he feels about livestock. So we drop these horses right into his lap; he hasn’t figured on that, it throws his whole schedule off. While he’s playing around with these mares and their foals we’re on our way to Crotton’s headquarters. Time he wakes up he’s got this stock on his hands. He can’t let go of them; he’ll have to split up his crew. We’ll be sitting behind walls time those buggers catch up with us.”

  The gunfighter said grudgingly, “All right. You’ve sold it to me. But that don’t change nothin’ else that’s between us.”

  The rash of Rip’s rifle flung its cascading echoes across the drive’s stopped sprawl from a hundred different rock faces. Its muzzle burst was a lurid flash through the gloom of piled-up shadows, driving Farraday, the girl, and the bony-faced gunfighter out of the wavering light from Patch’s fire. Those three were alone there, cook and Olds having gone up the line with hot food and java. This seemed to be working out just about the way Grete had figured; and now a wild racket of hoofs drumming toward them from where Rip had triggered the warning sent Grete and Idaho up into leather.

  The gunfighter’s yell tore off through the trumpeting call of the stallion and he whirled, holding his mount, as the crew thundered past with every evidence of panic. Grete saw gun flashes blossom where Rip had stood sentinel and saw the man, nearer, twist around to fire back.

  Leaning down, Grete hollered at the girl: “Remember! Stay right where you are! Patch some more wood on that fire so they can see you — act trapped, like you can’t find a horse — don’t know where to turn next.” Staring into her white face he had a moment of misgiving; then he pulled back into the saddle. “You’ll be all right,” he said gruffly, and spun the horse to find Rip, forty yards away, lashing his mount straight up the north slope.

  Idaho, back of Grete, cut loose without compunction, emptying his rifle, snarling when Rip kept going. The rocks hurled back the racket with a hundred raucous voices and the mares pretty near went crazy; Grete could see their black shapes — some with foals desperately t
rying to stay at their sides — rushing every which-way, neighing and squealing, some of them kicking. He saw one foal going end over end.

  Rip, bent low, suddenly topped out over the rim and muzzle lights winked through the roaring black as Grete, spurring away from the last touch of fireglow, caught up with the gunfighter’s cursing.

  “Never mind,” he called; “anyone’s liable to lose their head —”

  “Three of ‘em!” Idaho shouted. “Three is all that went by me! Rip makes four — where’s the other?”

  “You sure?”

  “By God you’ll see!”

  Grete, remembering the hating half-defiant way Rip had stared when he’d offered to double the man’s wages, knew the fellow had “rolled his cotton” as they’d have said back in Texas. And now there was another gone. Which of the remainder would show up to be counted? None of them probably if they could manage to get clear.

  The gunfighter yelled, “Want to turn up here?”

  Grete looked back and couldn’t even find the fire. “All right.” He cut the dun over. Putting him up that sharp incline he thought more than once to hear somebody back of them but didn’t see anything. He was glad he was using a double-girthed hull. Twisting around some of those slabs, the leathers skreaked and popped like pistols.

  When they rimmed out he pulled up, peering back. “What’s ailin’ you?” Idaho said. Grete held a hand up. Both of them listened but the men up ahead were making such a clatter going through rocks and brush Grete couldn’t be sure if he heard anything or not. The pitch looked black as a stack of stove lids. Squirming around he found the gleam of the fire, not bright like it had been, a huddle of horsebackers milling about it. He shook his head. “Nerves, I reckon.” It was a concession he normally would not have made.