Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

“He ain’t very talkative,” Nate said, walking toward them, “and he’s damned ill-tempered. I asked him what we ought to do about them two gunslingers. You know what he said? He said ‘roast the bastards,’ begging your pardon, Meg.”

  “Nate, I think he’s right,” she replied. “We should roast the bastards.”

  Nate’s silence spoke his disapproval and horror at her remarks.

  “Dan,” Megan called, “where are you?”

  “Over here,” he said. His voice was soft, but steady.

  Charlie’s hand closed gently around her arm. “This way, Miss Megan,” he said as he led her in the direction of Dan’s voice. “Would you like to sit down, ma’am?” Charlie asked when they neared Dan.

  “Yes, I would, Charlie, thank you.”

  The cowhand helped her down to a pine-needle cushioned spot on the slope, and she positioned herself Indian-style there. She heard Dan’s back brush against the loose ponderosa bark. He was no more than three or four feet to her left.

  “Uh, Mr. McClure,” Charlie stammered, “about them two pieces of buzzard bait out there in the yard, me and Nate can put ‘em a few inches under if you’d like.”

  “I don’t want them buried on my land,” Dan said.

  “Well, I reckon we could tote them over to the Bar G.”

  “I don’t want them buried there either,” Dan said.

  “Then you’re really fixin’ to burn them up?”

  “I was thinking about it, but no, I think we ought to send them home.”

  “Home?”

  “To the Diamond D.”

  “I see . . . I guess,” Charlie said.

  “You’ll probably find their horses in the trees north of what’s left of the barn. If you would, I’d like you and Nate to haul the bodies to Caleb Salway’s. Explain what happened and ask him to spread the word. See if he can spare a few hands to ride out to the Diamond D with you. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble in the daylight, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few extra guns. Just drop them off at the main gate. I think Dunkirk and Sutherly will get the message.”

  “Well, I guess we can do that all right . . . if it’s okay with Miss Megan.”

  “I’d like you to do what he asked,” she said.

  “Well, then we’ll tend to it right away.”

  “And something else, Charlie,” Dan said.

  “Tell Cal I want each captain in the Cattlemen’s Association to have a patrol ready to ride. Let’s see . . . not tomorrow night. The next night. I’ll be in touch with the particulars.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. McClure.” Then he added, “But if me and Nate head for Salway’s, how’s Miss Megan going to get home?”

  “I’ll ride Pirate, of course. I rode him over here. Now get going.”

  Megan could hear the booted foot of Charlie’s lame leg scraping on the rocky ground as he hobbled away. “Come on, Nate,” Charlie said, “we got work to do.”

  Nate did not reply, but she heard him fall in behind the old man. As the sound of their feet faded away, Megan spoke. “I’m sorry, Dan,” she said, “about everything. Especially your paintings.”

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the Bar G last night if you had their horses?”

  “There wasn’t anything anybody could do. I needed some thinking time.”

  She noted the ragged edge in his voice now. “Did you save anything?”

  “One painting. A portrait . . . Sol’s. It was near the door. I intended to bring it over to the Bar G. It’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, it belongs in your home. At the Bar G . . . or wherever you’re at.”

  “But I can’t even see it.”

  “Not now. But maybe you will someday. The important thing is that you’ll know it’s there.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “I want you to have it.”

  “Then I accept it. Thank you,” she said.

  She was deeply moved by his gift, but somehow she felt he would be uncomfortable with an overt display of gratitude on her part. Then she felt a rough blistered hand close over hers, and she tensed and pulled her hand back reflexively before she relaxed and let him take it gently in his. He scooted away from the tree, and she felt his arm brush against her cotton shirt as he moved closer to her. He smelled of smoke and sweat, but she savored it for it was another way for her to know him—form an image of him—with her remaining senses. She did not speak, for she sensed somehow that all he wanted now was her nearness and her touch. And that she would gladly give him.

  Nearly a half hour passed by her estimate before he spoke. “I owe you a horse,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The mare. The strawberry roan. I had to shoot her. She was wounded in the gunfight. You can have the horse I left at your place in trade, if you like. I don’t have a horse left here; they all died in the fire. For that matter, outside of raw land, everything I own is on me. Not much to show for thirty-two years, is it?”

  “Some people never have that much. Besides, you’ve got talent . . . your mind. You can rebuild the house; stay at the Bar G till you do. Then you can paint again. There’s got to be a market for work like yours.”

  “I thought you weren’t so sure about my work,” Dan said.

  “I am now. I’ll help you sell it if you like.”

  “I’d like that. I hate business details.”

  “Dan, do you know what would really gall old Dunkirk?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you start rebuilding your house right away. There hasn’t been a place rebuilt yet that they’ve destroyed. It would be a way of letting them know that they’re finished getting their way by violence. It would be like slapping the old man’s face with a glove.” She paused. “You aren’t giving up, are you? You are going to stay?” She had tossed him a challenge. If she knew Dan McClure, he would pick it up.

  “Well, I hadn’t thought about it one way or another, but the idea of leaving hadn’t even crossed my mind. I always had planned to replace the house; I need a studio with proper lighting.”

  “And you need a gallery to display your work. If people come here to buy your paintings, you can’t have them strung out all over the floor. You don’t want people tromping through your studio.”

  “Well, I doubt if anyone will come clear out in the Pine Ridge to buy my work. I’ll have to take my paintings to a showing in Omaha, St. Louis, maybe back East at first. In a few years, the railroad will be going through Medicine Hill; people will be able to get here easier then.”

  “By that time, you’ll have a reputation. We’ll make them come here to buy your paintings.”

  “We?”

  She hesitated. “Well, you said you wanted me to handle the sale of your paintings, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s right, I did.”

  “You’re an artist and an engineer. You should be able to plan a beautiful home. Something that fits in the Pine Ridge. Not like that monstrosity of Dunkirk’s.”

  “You don’t like it either.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I do have some ideas,” Dan said, “but I don’t have the money to put them into action.”

  “You said your section’s free and clear, and you’ve got your half interest in the land that Sol left us. You could borrow the money. Not in Medicine Hill, maybe, but in Ogallala. Dad did most of his banking in Ogallala because Dunkirk controlled the bank here. Your ranch would retire most of the debt, and you wouldn’t have to borrow that much anyway. Think about it. The lumber’s right here on your ranch, and there’s a small sawmill a few miles west of Medicine Hill. We’ve got pockets of granite and limestone on Sol’s land for stone if you want it.”

  “And labor?”

  “How do you think most of the homes and buildings got built out here? Barn raisings, that’s how. When you’re ready to go, the neighbors will swarm in here like bees after clover. If you don’t waste any time, you could have your new house and
a barn, too, by winter.”

  “You make it sound so damned easy.”

  “It is. Try it. I dare you. You’ll see.”

  He released her hand, and she felt his fingers gently touch her cheek as he turned her face toward his and tilted her chin upward. She knew that he was going to kiss her, just as she knew she would not resist. And when his lips touched hers, her own hand went to his cheek, caressing the stubble there for just a moment before he pulled his head away. His kiss had been soft, almost polite, but it had left her weak and warm, kindling a passion she had never felt before.

  Dan seemed to retreat within himself again as they sat there silently. Was he sorry he had kissed her? Should she speak? Had she already said too much?

  Finally Dan spoke. “I’ll have to ride out and talk to Cal and the other ranchers tomorrow. And I’ve got a new house to plan. But before I take that on—”

  “You’re coming back with me to the Bar G for now,” Megan said. “You need some rest. You can catch some sleep in Dad’s old room . . . it gets the south breeze . . . after you eat some breakfast. And Dan—”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “You sounded like a jackass when you were mumbling about paying for the dead roan.”

  “What? Oh yeah, I guess I did. But speaking of horses, your pinto’s the only transportation we’ve got.”

  “She can carry us both if we go slow . . . and if you don’t mind riding double,” Megan said.

  “I’ll try to endure it.”

  23

  DAN SAT ASTRIDE the coyote dun stallion hidden in the dark shadows of the pine that rimmed the clearing. Here he was to rendezvous with the men who had been hand-picked by the Association’s captains to ride with him on his mission to the Diamond D. He had asked for fifteen men, top hands who could handle their guns as well as ride. The guns were insurance; they wouldn’t need them tonight if all went as planned.

  The stallion snorted and tossed his head nervously, and Dan felt the horse tense beneath him. The dun’s ears perked forward and Dan knew someone or something was working up the valley toward the clearing. Megan had insisted he take the stallion, a spirited, strong-willed animal that had run wild with a Wyoming herd before its capture. The Bar G had been unable to break the horse to the discipline and trustworthiness required of a cow pony, but it had not objected to stud service and according to Megan, had sired several crops of rangy, thickly muscled colts that were the talk of the Pine Ridge. The big animal was neither dwarfed nor intimidated by Dan’s size and in spite of the animal’s contrary ways, as Megan had predicted, Dan had taken an instant liking to the horse. Maybe it was because they were so much alike, he mused. Independent, freedom-loving, lusty.

  “Take it easy, Atlas,” Dan whispered as the horse reared slightly and danced uneasily. “Easy, boy.”

  It was Megan, she had confided, who had named the stallion for the titan of Greek mythology, but only Ben Grant, her learned teacher, understood the significance of the name. The hands just called the horse “the big stud.”

  Atlas’s senses had not betrayed him. Dan could hear the soft thump of hooves against the ground, the crackling of dry twigs and underbrush, and the hushed voices of riders winding their way through the dense ponderosa. They moved cautiously into the clearing; some rode alone and others came in pairs. And as they caught sight of Dan, they reined in their horses and stood there waiting and watching, silently, their faces glowing in the moonlight like ghost riders in the night. Dan scrutinized the riders while they waited for the others to arrive. It was an eerie scene, somehow, the strange effect produced by the gray shadows that wavered with the breeze in the shimmering, silvery light cast by the moon which was half-hidden by a feather cloud cover.

  Ghost riders. Dan tried to fix the image in his mind, attempted to breathe in the mood before he lost it. He had the title, the characters and the scene, and the colors . . . if he could hold them until he had a chance to paint them. He planted the picture in his mind with the thought he would resurrect it later.

  Finally a single rider emerged from the trees. Unlike the others who sat slouched in their saddles, he rode erect and cocky. He passed through the other riders without so much as a pause and headed for Dan. He knew it was Tom Powell before he saw the man’s face.

  “Good evening, Tom,” Dan said amicably.

  “McClure.”

  He had not won Powell over, but if the man could keep a cool head, Dan had a hunch he would be handy to have around in a gun battle, or any other kind of fight, for that matter.

  “Is everybody here?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t see anybody from Salway’s bunch,” Powell answered.

  “They’re covering the signal hills,” Dan said. “And Cal’s supposed to have two patrols out just in case there’s trouble down the valley.”

  “What in the hell’s this all about anyhow? I’ll be damned if I like being kept in the dark about things. It makes a man feel like he’s not trusted.”

  “We’re going to pay a call on the Diamond D tonight.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Probably not,” Dan said as he nudged his stallion past Powell and moved across the clearing to where the other cowhands had been watching him and Powell curiously. Tom Powell fell in behind. “We’ve got work cut out for us tonight, men,” Dan said as he rode in close. “I want to pay a call on the Dunkirk mansion.” The cowboys looked at each other quizzically.

  “You mean we’re going to burn them out?” one man asked.

  “No, we’re going to let them know we can burn them out. I want to go on the Dunkirk place, get past their sentries, and deliver a personal message that the Diamond D is safe only as long as we’re willing to let it be. So far, the damage has been inflicted on his neighbors. Maybe when Dunkirk sees it can work two ways, he’ll look at things differently.”

  “If we’re going to risk our balls riding in there,” Powell growled, “then we’d just as well do some real damage. Burn the place down, maybe string up a few no-goods.”

  Dan heard a rumble of assent from the riders. “Your suggestion involves murder,” Dan said. “Burning down the place would be just as wrong. Either way, we’d be breaking the law.”

  “That doesn’t seem to bother Dunkirk none,” Powell said. “And what law are you talking about? The only law around here is Dunkirk’s. I say it’s time we make some laws of our own.”

  “I’m not saying that it won’t come to violence,” Dan said, “but if it does, our small ranches will be burned out, too. More men will be killed. Maybe women and children.”

  “It’s coming to that sooner or later anyhow,” Powell countered.

  “Maybe not. If we can show them tonight that the ranchers are organized and united, Dunkirk might give this another thought. If nothing else, maybe we’ll learn something.”

  “Such as what?”

  Dan ignored the question and turned to the other men. “When we formed the Association, it was agreed I’d call the shots. Any man who isn’t willing to ride to the Diamond D with that understanding can ride out now. I don’t want you with me if you can’t take orders.”

  All eyes focused on Dan, but no one rode away from the group. “Good,” Dan said. “Now, we’re going to split up into two groups. Half of you will come with me right down the road and through the main gate. The other half will go with Tom Powell.”

  24

  A BALL OF fire exploded in the meadow west of the Dunkirk ranch buildings and then another to the east. It was the signal that Tom Powell had cut through the barbed wire and worked his way to the vicinity of the Dunkirk house. And they had done it without firing a shot.

  “Let’s ride,” Dan called to the fidgety riders who waited in a grove of swaying aspen just off the road. He reined the stallion onto the dirt road, and the others fell in behind as they headed towards the Diamond D at an even, unhurried gallop.

  As they approached the gate, the two Dunkirk riders whose eyes had been fixed on the co
mmotion near the ranch house swung their attention back to the road and the riders who bore down on them. One raised his Winchester to fire, when Dan called out, “Don’t be a fool. You’re outnumbered. Open the gate and get out of the way.” The second cowhand moved for the gate; the other shrugged, lowered his rifle and edged his horse off the road. Dan tipped his low-brimmed hat as they rode through the open gate and moved down the road toward the house. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the two sentries were staying put, apparently dumbfounded, as they watched the unexpected visitors file past.

  One of the Tumbling T riders, a stocky, seasoned cowboy, pulled even with Dan. “How’d you know they wouldn’t blow your head off?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” Dan said. “But an Army colonel told me once you can win seventy-five percent of your fights by sheer gall. Just scare the hell out of your enemy, and you can win a lot of your battles without lifting a gun. They call it psychology. It’s a whole new science developing in Europe and the East. Think about it. Put yourself where those men were. There’s some kind of ruckus being raised at the ranch house, then suddenly a bunch of gun slinging riders come charging down the road brazen as hell. Unless you’re looking to be a martyr, you’re going to think twice about gunplay. A hired gun or cowboy isn’t going to be all that anxious to take a bullet.”

  “Yeah, that sure enough makes sense. That colonel of yours sounds like a smart man.”

  “His name was Custer.”

  “What? Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Fan out when we reach the ranch yard,” Dan called to the men. “Stay in the shadows if you can.” As they galloped into the yard, Dan caught sight of Tom Powell mounted on his black gelding near one corner of the front veranda of the house.

  “You took long enough,” Powell said as Dan separated from the other riders and moved toward Powell.

  “You didn’t leave anything for us to do,” Dan said.

  Powell smiled smugly. He was pleased with himself, and he should be. He had done a good job.

  “We’ve got both doors of the bunkhouse covered,” Powell said. “Anybody steps out, they’ll get a gut full of lead. They’ll stay put unless we push it.”