• • •
Returning from Coe’s place, Brad and Olaf passed near Olafs homestead. Brad went on, though it was getting late, following a direct line from Olafs holdings westward. He had an idea that he wanted to check.
Stopping on the edge of the timber where Olaf had blazed trees to mark his west line, Brad pointed a long finger. “You see what I do?” he asked.
Olaf relaxed a little on his horse and peered in the direction Brad indicated. “Yah,” he replied in a puzzled voice. “Creek.”
Running along a flat between Olafs timber and a rocky bluff was a deep-gullied creek. There was not much water in it, but the height of the sides and the width of the bottom told a plain story. As Brad pieced it out, at one time a lot of water had come down here.
Brad pointed again. “The other side of that bluff is Quarks’ reservoir.” He saw the lack of comprehension on Olaf’s broad face. “I’ll bet,” Brad added, “this is why Quarles tried to run you out of the country. You’re too close to his water system for comfort.”
Understanding and excitement crossed Olaf’s countenance. “One day I run my line,” he said. “A man with a gun stopped me.”
Brad listened attentively as Olaf described the incident, and then he followed up the line of blazed trees northward. The ridges angled slightly here, and within a hundred yards the trees ended in a jumble of giant boulders. The deep-bedded creek had swung away from them, but here it had swung back so that the homestead line cut cross it. They kept going, following the creek bed in a long curve as the horses picked their way carefully over the rocks. Finally, Olaf pointed to a stake. “Corner,” he said.
Brad looked back, trying to sight due south. Because of the great masses of rock and a hill in the way, they had come the last two hundred yards in an arc rather than along the line. But, drawing the line with his eye back to the point where they had left it, he saw where the trouble lay.
He turned to Olaf with a wide grin. “No wonder a man with a gun turned you back. Your west line cuts right down the middle of that meadow where Quarles starts the water into his reservoir. He wants you out of the country for good!”
“Yah?” Olaf questioned.
“Sure,” Brad said excitedly. “You got no more right to all the water than he has. But once you file that homestead and come back to prove it up, you can keep him off there. You could fill in his ditch and turn the feeder creeks back where they belong.” He paused. “How’d you run that line, Olaf?”
“Compass,” Olaf said.
Brad remembered that Olaf had been mate on a sailing ship. If he knew navigation, he would know how to run a simple line like this. “That,” he said, “clears up a lot of things.”
He worked the horses down to the meadow, and tried to get an approximate position there as to where Olaf’s line ran. He had about figured out that Olaf owned the east third of the meadow, when the sound of a hoof on rock jerked his head up.
In a moment, two riders burst through the lower end of the meadow, pushed across the place heavy with seepage, and headed straight for him and Olaf. Brad recognized the great bulk of Ike Quarles, and with him was Newt. When they got within speaking distance, Brad had his rifle in plain sight across his saddle horn.
“The drifter!” Quarles said.
“I’m about through drifting,” Brad said slowly. “I was thinking about taking up a homestead.”
Quarles sat very still in the saddle, both hands clenching the reins tightly. Newt, at his side, stirred. But a low word from Quarles held him back.
“Not here you don’t,” Quarles said.
Brad had made his statement as much to get a rise out of Quarles as anything else. Now he saw the possibilities of his own talk. “Why not?” he demanded. “It’s government land. Why, I could drain this meadow, and both me and Olaf would have some mighty good hayfields.”
Quarles spoke quietly, without emphasis, but the very lack of it sent a cold warning along Brad’s spine. “Not here,” he said. He shifted his weight, the saddle creaking protestingly. “There’s plenty of land down below for both you and the Swede. Take that, and stay out of these mountains.”
“That an order?” Brad asked.
“An order!”
Brad’s voice was still cool. “Like the one Biddle tried to give me this morning?”
“Biddle’s a fool. I’ll make you the same proposition with better terms.” Quarles’ calculating gaze measured Brad, seeking a chink in his armor.
“I never liked to work for a loser,” Brad answered. “I’ll stick with the Split S.”
He could see it hit Quarles, doubling his caution. Quarles would be smart enough to know Brad was not the kind to make an idle boast. He would think Brad had a plan. And that was what he should think.
Quarles stirred again and reined his horse around. “You’re through here, Jordan. Get out while you can.”
“Like Parker did?” Brad asked mockingly.
Quarles raked his spurs hard against his horse and rode off, taking Newt with him. Brad watched until they were out of sight. Quarles had left easily enough, but only because he held the upper hand for the moment. Brad put his gun in the boot. Because Quarles had backed away didn’t mean he was through. Brad knew his kind. Quarles would never be through until he destroyed everyone opposing him — or destroyed himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN THE WEEKS that followed Brad grew restless. Olaf took the waiting philosophically, spending the time in improving his homestead. Brad helped him, though he had no genuine liking for that kind of work. But it was something to pass the time, and now that was what seemed to matter.
Finally he rode to the Split S. Quarles was being altogether too quiet to suit him. Even though Quarles was a shrewd, careful man, who walked the tightrope of the law, he was not the kind to take the taunts Brad had flung at him.
Bluntly Brad pointed out to June Grant that the silence coming from the Double Q was unnatural. He was afraid there was more behind it than just caution. “Quarles,” he told her, “might be needing time to help him out. If that’s it, then we ought to hit him before he’s ready.”
“I’ve spoken to Dave,” she said. The frown of worry Brad had noticed before was deeper than ever. “In a thing like this there can’t be more than one boss. He’s hired to do it, and so I’ll go along as he says.”
“And I’ll go along with you as I promised,” Brad said.
“Not if you feel otherwise,” she returned.
He made no answer, though the temptation was great. His promise was as strong as his inner loyalties. If that needed explaining to her, let someone else do it.
“I’m staying,” was all he said.
The relief she felt was plain on her face. He could not see why, when she was so keyed up with waiting and watching her hay shrivel before her eyes, she would be so patient with Arden. But he had agreed to abide by what she said.
“We have to let him make the first move,” she explained. “As Dave says, the Split S must be in the clear when this is over. We’ll have no one say that I started a range war.”
Fine, Brad thought, but maybe there wouldn’t be any Split S to say it about. But all he said was, “Send for me when you’re ready.”
He rode back slowly, refusing her invitation to eat with them. It was growing dusky as he followed the flats toward the far end where a sharp trail led up to Olaf’s meadow and on to his house.
June Grant, he felt, was putting too much trust in Arden’s judgment. And yet what else could she do? A woman alone needed a man to turn to and, outside of Jim Parker, there seemed to be no one but Arden. She had explained to Brad that Parker was in no position to do anything. He was new to this kind of country, unfamiliar with guns and fighting, and there was little chance that he would get anything but a bullet for his pains. He had wanted to help her, she admitted, but her fear of his getting hurt had forced him into a promise of waiting.
As Brad came to the sharp trail rising through the timber, he turned hi
s mind to riding. It was darkening here under the trees, and the palomino needed what help he could get to make the steep, rocky pitches.
Finally Brad came to Olaf’s field and the last of the daylight eased the strain somewhat. He was nearly across it when he heard a sharp, keening cry of anger from the direction of the cabin. He reined in the horse and squinted that way. But the gloom and the trees hid everything from sight. He put the horse in motion, going in at a steady run.
When he was nearly to the end of the field, a bullet whined out of the darkness ahead and nicked the grass near him. He reined the horse to the left, making a zigzagging trail until he hit the edge of the timber on the west side. A second bullet missed, and then he was out of sight in the trees.
Without slowing, reckless of the dark now, he sent the horse along a narrow deer trail. Tree branches reached out, slapping them both, but Brad paid no attention. He could visualize what had happened, and anger welled in him. They had waited until he was gone and then closed in on Olaf.
He reached the clearing around the cabin, the horse moving cautiously now, his hoofs padded by the forest duff. Brad left the saddle, ground-reining the palomino, and slipped forward on foot. He could hear men not far away, and the harsh voice of Newt rose in an order.
“Watch for him! Watch for him!”
Brad slipped up behind the bole of a thick cedar. There in front of the cabin were four horses. Someone spoke from inside the cabin, and Newt answered from the doorway. That meant two men were prowling outside. Brad left the shelter of the tree, and at that instant Newt saw him.
Brad fired, but his angle was bad, and Newt was in the shadow of the building. He heard his bullet thud into wood. Newt’s answering shot buried itself in a tree near him. Brad charged, seeking a clearer aim. He felt a root under his foot and he pitched forward off balance. The movement saved his life as a rifle butt crashed down from behind, aiming for the space where his head had been, and driving with numbing force into his shoulder.
He kept on going, face into the dirt, his gun flying from his hand. When he tried to twist as he fell, the rifle butt came down again, catching him above the ear. The sensation of warm blackness enfolded him. He reached up to push it away, but he had no strength, and he had to stop fighting.
He awakened with a ringing head and the feel of icy water on his face. He was in the cabin, half propped in his own bunk. He saw Olaf across the way, his round, usually good-humored face bleeding from half a dozen bruising blows, and one eye closing rapidly.
By the door the lanky cowboy Clip stood with a gun. One shoulder was still bandaged, but there was no mistaking the way he juggled the gun in his good hand. He was not too shot up to use it. On the other side of the room stood a man with a rifle. He was a wizened, bow-legged man that Brad had never seen before. But he had seen the stamp that was on all his kind, and Brad knew that here there would be no mercy.
Newt and a fourth man stood near Brad. Newt had the water dipper in his hand. In his eyes there was the pale desire of one born to cruelty. “He’s awake,” he said.
Brad put both hands tentatively on the edge of the bunk. The pain went up his right shoulder, but he could stand it. Blinking his eyes to force away the last of the dizziness, he threw himself forward. From the other bunk he caught a blur of movement as Olaf, beaten as he was, tried to throw himself off the bunk. There was a rafter-shaking crash as he fell to the packed earth floor.
Brad thought that his quickness was still in him. But with absurd ease Newt stepped aside, letting him go by. With a low laugh Newt brought the dipper down across the back of Brad’s neck. Brad lit on Olaf’s out-stretched body with one shoulder, rolled, and came groggily to his knees.
Newt’s eyes gleamed again and he dropped the dipper, stepping in. Brad got to his feet and swung. Newt missed stepping aside, and the force of the blow sent him reeling against the man nearby. Brad charged and a foot came out, tripping him and sending him to the floor again. Newt’s laugh had changed to a curse as he drove the toe of his boot against Brad’s ribs.
Brad shook his head and tried to get up again. He made it to his knees when Newt’s foot again caught him. He felt the hardness of heavy leather against his chin — and then the smothering blackness once more.
Again they brought him around, and this time Newt took no chances. Brad was propped against the wall, his arms roped, and Newt went deliberately to work.
“You’re leaving, you hear, you? You and the Swede are leaving.” Newt was laughing again as his fists methodically worked over Brad’s face. From the floor Olaf groaned and struggled almost to his feet before the lanky cowhand walked over and contemptuously kicked him down again.
“You drifters know only one kind of talk,” Newt said savagely. “This!” And his knee drove up brutally. Brad managed to turn, taking it on the hip instead of in the groin. He sucked in a breath and sent blood and spittle into Newt’s face.
Brad kicked forward, putting his back against the wall, and driving his head into Newt’s belly. He had the satisfaction of hearing a grunt of pain. And then Newt was down under him. Brad tried to beat the man with his head, throwing it until he felt as if his neck would snap.
“Get him off!” Newt yelled.
A hand got Brad by the collar and jerked. Newt came up swearing and lashed out with his fist. Brad felt the blow on his mouth, and he spat again. Newt threw a leg, tripping him, and, as he fell, Newt kicked a third time. Brad felt his ribs give, and then all breath, all consciousness, left him.
This time when he came around the rough jolting of a horse beat at his bruised body. The ropes were still on him, with others holding him in the saddle. After a few minutes he found strength enough to look around. Olaf was roped in the same manner on his little bay. On either side of them the Double Q men rode easily. Ahead Brad could see nothing, but when he turned his neck, he caught a glimpse of the town lights behind. The pain of movement was too intense and his head dropped forward.
It was too great an effort to open his eyes, and so he kept them shut, sensing where they were by the coolness of the air and the pitch of the road underneath. He knew when they came to the summit of Knothole Gap, and he knew when they had started down the other side.
A short distance down, Newt’s voice came briefly, “Quirt ’em the rest of the way!”
The palomino jerked forward as rein ends slashed his rump. Brad opened his eyes now to see the pitching darkness ahead blur into his face. The palomino was surefooted and, despite his fright, kept his balance. Brad tried to talk and succeeded only in forcing out a croak. But after a time he got control of his voice, and the horse slowed under the familiar sounds.
Finally he had the animal halted, and he slumped in the saddle, unable to move. He listened for sounds from above, but all he could hear was the scrabble of hoofs below. Olaf, he thought, and wondered how long the rickety bay pony could last.
He urged the palomino on then, using his knees to direct it Indian fashion. Where the gap met the main wagon road, he found Olaf and the bay. The horse was spent, head hanging, unable to travel farther. Olaf sagged in the saddle like a great mound of earth. But when Brad rode up, his voice was clear.
“They beat me, Brad. I got you beat, too.”
“We’re not beat,” Brad said. The pent-up rage of what had happened blurred his voice. “Once we get loose we’re not beat, Olaf.”
He went to work with what strength he could muster, shifting the the ropes, seeking a way of loosening them. But Newt was a clever man with a hitch, he discovered, and the more he worked the tighter they got. Olaf had no better luck. And finally Brad was forced to stop.
“Can that horse go at all?”
“I’ll try,” Olaf said. He sounded as if he were growing weaker.
“Use your knees,” Brad directed. He worked the palomino behind the bay and, finally, the smaller horse started under their combined efforts. Slowly, doggedly, they got it going up the long grade to the top of the gap.
More than once Brad
thought the bay was completely done, but from somewhere it mustered strength enough to pull the grades, until at last as dawn cracked the eastern darkness, they stopped in front of Tim Teehan’s place.
Brad shouted, but his voice was drowned in the sound of water running into the basin. He shouted again, and Olaf’s bellow joined him. He kept shouting until his throat seemed scoured raw, and at last there was a light through a window and the door came open.
Tim Teehan came out holding a lantern high. When he saw the two men, angry sounds burst out of him. “Double Q!” he said bitterly.
“Double Q,” Brad managed to answer. He felt Teehan’s hesitation. “If you’re afraid of them, just cut us loose.”
A tall woman in a flowing wrapper came out to stand beside Teehan in the lantern light. Her gasp ran over Brad and Olaf. “The poor boys! And you stand there, Tim Teehan!”
“Double Q did it, Molly.”
“Double Q be damned!” she cried. “Go get a knife, you old fool!”
Brad smiled faintly and slumped forward. He would have pitched from the saddle had not the ropes held him tightly.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BRAD STRUGGLED BACK to warm sunlight and a feeling of lassitude fighting against the aches in his body. He opened his eyes and saw Olaf seated in a chair near him, smoking his foul pipe. Olafs face looked like a ripe, bruised peach.
“We made it,” Brad said.
“Yah,” Olaf answered. His smile came as he saw that his friend was awake. “The lady says all right.” The smile left him, and Brad saw something in the round face that had not been there before. Bitterness had come to Olaf and it had hardened him visibly.
The tall woman Brad remembered opened the door and bustled in. She carried a basin of warm water and, when she saw Brad was awake, she set it down and went to him. She was more than tall. She was huge. She would have made three of Tim Teehan with some left to spare. But for all that she moved gracefully, and when she touched his sore body her fingers were gentle.
There was the lilt of Ireland in her voice when she spoke. “And how might you be feeling now?”
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