Dust lifted from the trail as they walked their horses away. Defeat hung heavy upon their shoulders. “You’ve won.”
Tanneman shook his head. “Banning would have gambled if you were not here.”
One week … He was stalling for his letter to reach Dan Cooper, stalling because he did not want to kill again.
Tanneman was worried by the tall, cool-eyed young woman who rode beside him back to town. What was her interest in this? Who was she, anyway? What was she doing here?
The town knew and the town waited. Rud Pickett was coming in … Banning’s hands would get Tanneman. The showdown would be something to see.
Tanneman was used to waiting. Trouble had been his way of life.
On the second day, four Banning riders appeared and entered the saloon. Bill Tanneman followed them in and ordered a drink. The riders felt his presence and knew why * he was there. They respected him for it. He was letting them know that if they wanted him, he would not be hard to find.
The fifth day dawned. It was hot, dry, brittle. The heat, left a metallic taste in the mouth, and there was no wind. Sweat broke out at the slightest move, yet men remained indoors despite the heat. When they appeared briefly on the street it was to hurry.
At noon, Tom Banning rode into town with fifteen men at his back. They left their horses at the corral and loitered along the streets, smoking idly.
Tanneman heard of their arrival and ordered another cup of coffee. Kate Ryerson brought it to him, and Penny watched him, her lips tight and colorless.
He pushed back his chair. Betty got up quickly. “Where are you going, Uncle Bill? Can I come?”
“Not this time.” He touched her hair with his hand. “You stay with Penny.”
It was the first time he had used her name, and when he looked up she was smiling at him. He turned quickly away and went out, swearing at himself.
He had to do this job, but he no longer looked forward to it. Once out in the still heat none of his old daring returned, the challenge, the urge to look death in the eye and laugh. How long had it been since he had felt that? That old love of a fight for a fight’s sake. What happened to it? To love a fight as he had, one had to accept death, and that was something he found he could no longer do. Bill Tanneman knew what he had to do and he was ready, but he no longer enjoyed it. AH he could do was put on a good show.
Every eye saw him, every eye knew. This was Bill Tanneman, almost a living legend. Nobody wanted to be in his shoes now, yet all envied him a little. Each one wished that he could step out into a street of enemies with that air, and look as formidable as he looked now.
Tom Banning waited in the saloon. Rud Pickett was beside him. They could have guessed to the instant when Tanneman appeared on the street. And then his shadow darkened the door.
Outside there was movement, the stir of many boots as Banning men converged on the saloon.
Bill Tanneman faced them, faced Banning and Pickett, as they turned from the bar. He was utterly calm, utterly still. Only his eyes moved, alert, watchful. These two men and a dozen more. Would the dozen fight if Banning and his gunman were dead? If they did, Tanneman would surely follow them into the grave. A grim smile tightened across his teeth.
“Here it i s, Tom,” Tanneman said quietly, “and I see you’re hiding behind a hired gun to the last.”
Rud Pickett moved out a little from the bar. He was going to draw. He was going to draw now … only he didn’t. He looked into the cold gray eyes of Bill Tanneman and the seconds ticked by.
“Any time, Rud.”
That was it. Now … only he was frozen. He wanted to draw, he intended to draw … but he did not draw.
There was a stir at the door and a tall white-mustached man stepped into the room. His voice was sharp. “Stop this right now!”
Sweat broke out on Rud’s face. Hesitantly, his eyes wide and on Tanneman’s face, he stepped back. He started to turn and saw the contempt on the bartender’s face. Banning did not look at him.
The man with the white mustache walked to the bar between Tanneman and Banning. “I’m Judge Dan Cooper,” he said. “We’ll settle this without guns.”
Tom Banning cleared his throat. He was white and shaken. Slowly, Cooper began to explain. The old days were gone. Banning would face a court in the capitol. Cooper . suggested that if Banning were to do as Tanneman had asked he would recommend some leniency to the court, but like it or not Banning would stand trial for murder. “The sheriff’ll have to come down to make the arrest,” Cooper said. “You can try to run away if you want, but I figure with”* all you got you’ll try to fight it out in court.”
Banning walked from the room. Rud Pickett was on the steps. Banning did not pause. “You’re fired,” he said, and walked on.
Rud Pickett stared at him, then turned and stumbled off the steps. The sun was not on his shoulders as he walked slowly away up the street. He was not thinking, he was not feeling, he was just walking away.
The batwing doors opened and Penny came in. “Bill? You’re all right?”
The tension was slowly going out of the big man. “I’m all right. I’m going up to my room, get myself a long night’s sleep. I’d … I’d like to see you tomorrow, maybe go riding, if you would.”
“I’d enjoy that. You just let me know when, Bill.” He smiled a tired smile and turned toward the stairs.
Thoughtfully Cooper looked from one to the other. “He’s been a lot of things, Penny, but he’s a good man. I’ve always known that.”
“So do I,” she replied seriously. “I knew it when I first saw him with Betty … and I knew he was my man.”
The next morning the sound of curses and hammering echoed back from the quiet hills. Fifteen tough cowhands were hard at work on Betty Towne’s new six-room house.
RUSTLER ROUNDUP
CHAPTER I
Judge Gardner Collins sat in his usual chair on the porch. The morning sunshine was warm and lazy, and it felt good just to be sitting, half awake and half asleep. Yet it was time Doc Finerty came up the street so they could cross over to Mother Boyle’s for coffee.
Powis came out of his barbershop and sat down on the step. “Nice morning,” he said. Then, glancing up the”” street and across, he nodded toward the black horse tied at the hitching rail in front of the stage station. “I see Finn Mahone’s in town.”
The judge nodded. “Rode in about an hour after daybreak. Reckon he’s got another package at the stage station.”
“What’s he getting in those packages?” Powis wondered. “He gets more than anybody around here.”
“Books, I reckon. He reads a lot.”
Powis nodded. “I guess so.” He looked around at the judge and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Seen anything more of Miss Kastelle?”
“Remy?” The judge let the front legs of his chair down.
“Uh-huh. She was in yesterday asking me if I’d heard if Brewster or Mclnnis were in town.”
“I’ve lost some myself,” Collins said. “Too many. But Pete Miller says he can’t find any sign of them, and nobody else seems to.”
“You know, Judge,” Powis said thoughtfully, “one time two or three years back I cut hair for a trapper. He was passing through on the stage, an’ stopped overnight. He told me he trapped in this country twenty years ago. Said there was some of the most beautiful valleys back behind the Highbinders anybody ever saw.”
“Back in the Highbinders, was it?” Judge Collins stared thoughtfully at the distant, purple mountains. “That’s Finn Mahone’s country.”
“That’s right,” Powis said.
Judge Collins looked down the street for Doc Finerty. He scowled to himself, only too aware of what Powis was hinting. The vanishing cattle had to go somewhere. If there were pastures back in the Highbinders, it would be a good place for them to be hidden, and where they could stay hidden for years.
That could only mean Finn Mahone.
When he looked around again, he was pleased to
see Doc Finerty had rounded the corner by the Longhorn Saloon and was cutting across the street toward him. The judge got up and strolled out to meet him and they both turned toward Mother Boyle’s.
Doc Finerty was five inches shorter than Judge Gardner Collins’s lean six feet one inch. He was square built, but like many short, broad men he was quick moving and was never seen walking slow when by himself. He and the judge had been friends ever since they first met, some fifteen years before.
Finerty was an excellent surgeon and a better doctor than would have been expected in a western town like Laird. In the hit-and-miss manner of the frontier country, he practiced dentistry as well.
Judge Collins had studied law after leaving college, reading in the office of a frontier lawyer in Missouri. Twice, back in Kansas, he had been elected justice of the peace. In Laird his duties were diverse and interesting. He was the local magistrate. He married those interested, registered land titles and brands, and acted as a notary and general legal advisor.
There were five men in Laird who had considerable academic education. Aside from Judge Collins and Doc Finerty there were Pierce Logan, the town’s mayor and one of the biggest ranchers; Dean Armstrong, editor and publisher of The Branding Iron; and Garfield Otis, who was, to put it less than mildly, a bum.
“I’m worried, Doc,” the judge said, over their coffee. “Powis was hinting again that Finn Mahone might be rustling.”
“You think he is?”
“No. Do you?”
“I doubt it. Still, you know how it is out here. Any-* thing could be possible. He does have a good deal of money. More than he would be expected to have, taking it easy like he does.”
“If it was me,” Doc said, “I’d look the other way. I’d look around that bunch up around Sonntag’s place.”
“They are pretty bad, all right.” Judge Collins looked down at his coffee. “Dean was telling me that Byrn Sonntag killed a man over to Rico last week.”
“Another?” Doc Finerty asked. “That’s three he’s killed this year. What was it you heard?”
“Dean didn’t get much. He met the stage and Calkins told him. Said the man drew, but Sonntag killed him. Two shots, right through the heart.”
“He’s bad. Montana Kerr and Banty Hull are little better. Miller says he can’t go after them unless they do something he knows about. If you ask me, he doesn’t want to.”
Finerty finished his cup. “I don’t know as I blame him. If he did we’d need another marshal.”
The door opened and they both looked up. The man who stepped in was so big he filled the door. His hair was long and hung around his ears, and he wore rugged outdoor clothing that, while used, was reasonably clean and of the best manufacture.
He took off his hat as he entered, and they noted the bullet hole in the flat brim of the gray Stetson. His two guns were worn with their butts reversed for a cross draw, for easier access while riding and to accommodate their long barrels.
“Hi, Doc! How are you, Judge?” He sat d own beside them.
“Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!” Doc said. “I’m afraid you’ll never give me any business.”
Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong, handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. “I came very near cashing in for good.” He gestured at the bullet hole. “That happened a few days ago over in the Highbinders.”
“I didn’t think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?” the judge asked.
“No idea. It wasn’t quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster place on the other side of Rawhide.”
“Accident?” Finerty asked.
Mahone grinned. “Does it look like it? No, I think I came on someone who didn’t want to be seen. I took out. Me, I’m not mad at anybody.”
The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. “Who owns that black stallion out here?”
“I do,” Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He had never seen Remy Kastelle before. He had not even heard of her.
She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.
He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.
“I’d like to buy him!” she said. “What’s your price?”
Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness. “I have no price,” he said, “and the horse is not for sale.” A trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” she said, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”
“Not for five thousand,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t, sell that horse any more … any more than your father would sell you.”
She smiled at that. “He might … if the price was right,” she said. “It might be a relief to him!”
She brushed on by him and sat down beside Judge Collins.
“Judge,” she said, “what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?”
There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. “I doubt it, ma’am. He’s too lazy. Rustlin’ cows is awfully hot work.”
“They’ve been rustling cows at night,” Remy declared. “If you were from around here you would know that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said mildly, “I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a runnin’ iron or a cinch ring.
Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands a little with a burn here, an’ more there.”
Finn Mahone got up. He said, “Ma’am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers in this country, I’d do it with a pen and ink.”
He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.
Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. “Well! Who was that?” she demanded.
“That was Finn Mahone,” Doc Finerty said gently.
“Oh!” Remy Kastelle’s ears reddened.
“Who?” The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall man, as tall as Mahone or Judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five, but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.
Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird River country but two years, and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and he knew men.
“Finn Mahone,” Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest. “Know him?”
“Probably not,” Dowd said. “He live around here?”
“No, back in the Highbinders. I’ve never seen his place, myself. They call it Crystal Valley. It’s a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place.” He nodded to Remy.
“Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?” Collins continued. “Well, the route to his place lies up that Notch. I’ve heard it said that no man should travel that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn’t know it. It’s said to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking about it, and he can tell you things … but that trail would make your hair stand on end.”
“He come down here often?” Dowd asked carefully.
“No. Not often. I’ve known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place is closer to Rico.”
“Name sounded familiar,” Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. “Are you ready to go, ma’am?”
“Mr. Dowd,” Remy said, her eyes flashing, “I want that black stallion Mahone rides. That’s the finest horse I e
ver saw!”
“Miss Kastelle,” Finerty said, “don’t get an idea Mahone’s any ordinary cowhand or rancher. He’s not. “If he said he wouldn’t sell that horse, he meant it. Money means nothing to him.”
Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out.” “Doc, I’ve got an idea Dowd knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?”
“Uh-huh.” Doc lit a cigar. “Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He’s been here more than a year, too. Gettin’ on for two years. And he has a sight of money.”
“Now don’t you be getting like Powis!” Judge Collins exclaimed. “I like the man. He’s quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees it. I don’t blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn’t a better one in the country!”
Finn Mahone strode up the street to the Emporium. “Four boxes of forty-four rimfire,” he said.
He watched while Harran got down the shells, but his mind was far away. He was remembering the girl. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman like that. Women of any kind were scarce in this country. For a moment, he stood staring at the shells, then he ordered a few other things, and gathering them up, went out to the black horse. Making a neat pack of them, he lashed them on behind the saddle. Then he turned and started across the street.
He worried there was going to be trouble. He could feel it building up all around him. He knew there were stories being told about him, and there was that hole in his hat. There was little animosity yet, but it would come. If they ever got back into the Highbinders and saw how many cattle he had, all hell would break loose.
Stopping for a moment in the sunlight in front of the Longhorn, he finished his cigarette. “Mahone?”
He turned.
Garfield Otis was a thin man, not tall, with a scholar’s face. He had been a teacher once, a graduate of a world-famous university, a writer of intelligent but unread papers on the Battles of Belarius and the struggle for power in France during the Middle Ages. Now he was a hanger-on around barrooms, drunk much of the time, kept alive by a few odd jobs and the charity of friends.
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