by T. T. Flynn
When the last man was gone, Waggoman rode his own way alone into the morning which blurred relentlessly in front of his eyes. Before night, he knew, word of all this would have spread far over the range. It would raise consternation, soul-searching, and apprehension. That much, Waggoman thought coldly, was left him. He had wanted peace and he had lost Dave. Soon now all his sight would be gone. When that was upon him, he meant to have no regrets about Dave.
In that unyielding thought was escape from grief. The new, gnawing loneliness could be cheated by driving body and mind as he had in the younger years. So he had decided before sleeping last night.
When the day ended, not all the men had returned from the far circles they were riding. Tired himself, Waggoman slept soundly. The next day he rode out once more, and at sunset he sat loosely, wearily in the old bullhide chair on the office porch and watched the crew straggle in once more on tired horses.
One man had ridden far north to Turkey Creek, and had found a Barb yearling brush-penned in a small pocket canyon near a homesteader’s meager adobe which swarmed with children.
Waggoman listened in silence to the man’s hopeful report. His comment lacked rancor.
“Probably been cooking our meat since they settled there. Let the young’uns eat this steer, too. They probably need it.” And to his man’s crestfallen look, Waggoman dryly added, “It’ll be the first five-hundred-dollar steer that hungry sod-man ever butchered.”
Elation brightened the man’s face. Waggoman’s faintly cynical gaze watched him swagger toward the bunk house. This would fire the rest of the crew to stiffer search.
Vic Hansbro was not back for supper. Waggoman ate leisurely and sat on the top office step afterward, smoking a cigar, thinking of how he’d almost fired Vic. And now the big foreman’s bullying ruthlessness was an asset, as it had been long ago.
Blue-black shadows and the first thin night chill were deepening when Hansbro finally rode in and dismounted at the steps.
“Any luck?” Waggoman inquired perfunctorily. And when Hansbro growled, “Looks so,” Waggoman came instantly attentive.
“Rustling—or about Dave?”
“Both, I reckon.”
Waggoman got to his feet on the steps and tossed the cigar away. It bounced red sparks on the ground and the steps creaked as he came down, tall and coldly demanding in front of Hansbro.
“Let’s have it, Vic.”
Hansbro stood big and massive and almost sullenly defiant behind the black beard. “You won’t like it, Alec.”
“I’ll judge that.”
“Well, I had a hunch. An’ I was right. It’s Half-Moon, Alec. No tellin’ how long they been at our young stuff. Makes it pretty plain, too, don’t it, that they got Dave?”
Hard disappointment sharpened Waggoman’s rejection of the idea.
“You’re trying too hard, Vic. Kate Canaday never rustled from anyone, let alone Barb. And she’d never have had Dave harmed.”
Hansbro’s wide shoulders hunched stubbornly. “I c’n prove it, Alec. Fire me if I’m wrong. I’ll take you to the rustled stuff an’ show you.”
Mechanically Waggoman groped in his coat pocket for another cigar. Vic, dead certain like this, was usually right. And even grudging admission of that fact was enough to send derision howling and mocking through the long corridors of memory. Kate’s enmity had never abated; she had always made that plain. But to strike finally at Dave—at Dave—
Waggoman’s voice sounded thin to his own ears. “Well then, Vic, prove it in the morning. And I’ll want Quigby along. Send a man for him to night.”
“That damn’ dep’ty won’t do much,” Hansbro grumbled.
“Get him!” Waggoman ordered in abruptly furious harshness. “I’ll decide what will be done!”
For two days now reports had reached Half-Moon that armed Barb riders were ranging wide and arrogantly. Last night Will Lockhart had dropped off to sleep pondering Alec Waggoman’s intentions.
Now, after breakfast this morning, with his bandaged hand cradled in a black-cloth neck sling, Will walked thoughtfully from the Half-Moon bunk-house toward the saddle shed, and Waggoman and Barb were still on his mind.
The armed Barb crew had not yet invaded Half-Moon land. Last night Kate Canaday had said bluntly, “There ain’t a way to guess what Alec’s up to. But I know the old bull; he’s throwin’ dust an’ spoilin’ for trouble. We’d best sit tight an’ watch.”
Will came to an interested halt now as the sun-drenched ranch yard echoed with the bell-toned challenge of Old Roy, the gaunt, wise red-bone hound who dominated Kate’s other dogs. A premonition of trouble caught Will as he watched the other hounds follow clamoring out of the yard.
This was an early hour for visitors. The blazing sunrise only now was probing cottony night mists clotting the great folds and canyons below South Peak. The after-breakfast clatter of pans and dishes still came from the squat log cookshack. Part of the crew had ridden off scant minutes ago. Will gazed after the dogs and thought of Charley Yuill.
Yesterday Charley had ridden in to report that Frank Darrah apparently had dropped all interest in the stone powder house which possibly held the rifle shipment from New Orleans. And Charley’s warning had been blunt.
“Watch yourself, Cap’n. They’re sayin’ in Coronado you might have shot young Waggoman after all. You had the reason.”
That, too, Will thought darkly now, was part of the increasing frustration over Frank Darrah. The coldly patient search for a man or men who had sold guns to the Apaches had seemed rewarded in Roxton Springs. But now, by locking the rifle shipment in his powder house and doing nothing, Darrah was quite safe.
Also, Darrah’s swiftly nearing marriage to Barbara Kirby probably occupied his time. Will found dismal comfort in the thought. There was a kind of obscene mockery in the knowledge that Darrah would someday control all of fabulous Barb, and have all of Barbara Kirby, too.
Will bent his head, listening. He could hear faintly now the distant, hammering roll of bunched horses in full run. In moments they came into sight on the ranch road, lifting dust. And the leader, tall and erect on a gray horse, was all Will’s sense of trouble had expected.
He stood with tightening wariness as the headlong rush thundered into the ranch yard. Barb men on fine Barb horses. Every man heavily armed. And none of them more menacing than the tall, white-mustached old man who led them.
Alec Waggoman’s coat was tied behind his saddle. Black hatbrim had an arrogant up-tilt in front. And in some subtle way the man had changed.
That thought struck Will with foreboding. In Coronado, Alec Waggoman had been a deliberate man, slow-moving. In this crisp sunrise today, Waggoman led his armed crew with a driving belligerency. He sat the galloping gray horse with the grim élan of a younger man.
Kate Canaday emerged hurriedly from the long ranch house of thick logs, and Will wondered if Kate, too, would see this change in Waggoman.
The running gray horse was hard-reined to a stamping halt in front of Kate. The thundering rush of the other riders brought up sharply and quieted as Will’s long strides headed to Kate. He heard her vigorous challenge.
“You ain’t welcome here, Alec! An’ twice that fer the whiskered bully-boy you keep as foreman. Get that bunch of hard-cases off Half-Moon land!”
Vic Hansbro had reined up behind Waggoman. He ignored Kate. Waggoman pulled off his black hat. His voice was clipped and thrusting.
“Kate, I’m told your Half-Moon iron has been run on Barb sleepers, longears, and mavericks.”
Sleepers were calves which rustlers had earmarked and would brand after weaning. Longears were unbranded calves ready to wean. Mavericks had weaned themselves and were still unbranded after calf roundup. The curtly blunt accusation made Will’s temper stir.
And he had never seen Kate swell like this, seeming to grow bigger, taller under her upsweep of graying pompadour. Kate’s brown dress was plain, her broad, weathered face even plainer. But one forgot all that, Wil
l thought admiringly, before the big woman’s swelling, wrathful dignity. And her booming reply.
“It’s a low-down lie, ye white-horned old scrimshank, an’ well you know it!”
“Tom Quigby’s here to see,” was the curt retort. “Come along, if you’re interested.”
Kate’s formidable bosom swelled mightily as she breathed deeply. Scarlet outrage was flooding her broad face. Blazing dignity choked in her reply.
“I ain’t sure what you’re schemin’, you snake-natured old mossy-horn stuffed with bile an’ conceit! But you never was righter, Alec, me boy! I’m comin’! We’re all comin’! Wait’ll we get saddled!”
Chapter Twenty-one
Kate stalked back into the house, and Alec Waggoman lounged powerfully in the saddle, estimating Will. His comment was brusk. “Lockhart, I’m wondering about you, too.”
“And I’m wondering,” Will said evenly, “about you. A man who can’t tell a lady from a cow thief must be blind.” He was mildly startled by the quick fury which blazed on the craggy face, and as quickly receded under iron control.
Waggoman reined away and Will headed toward the horse corrals, reflecting soberly on that blazing surge of emotion. In Waggoman, deep and hidden, must lurk the genesis of Dave’s wild temper. Waggoman, too, Will guessed, was capable of destructive rages.
Kate had hastily donned a divided riding-skirt of gray wool. Will watched with new approval as the big woman’s muscular bulk stepped capably into the saddle. Under a man’s broad gray hat, Kate’s face was grim as she rode to Waggoman.
“Now, ye misguided old gas-bag, show me rustlin’.”
The Half-Moon crew rode together, six of them, twice outnumbered and more by the Barb crew. Vic Hansbro galloped ahead. Quigby, the lanky deputy, reined over to Will and they trailed the others.
Quigby’s remark was laconic. “What about it?” Will shrugged, and Quigby’s glance was sharp. “A lot of folks, Lockhart, are uncertain about you.”
“Are you?”
“It adds up.” Quigby’s tone was dry. “You were jailed over a killing in Roxton Springs, had a feud with Barb an’ Hansbro, had a reason to shoot Dave Waggoman—And your gun, not Dave’s, was missing from the body.” Quigby spat and pushed up his hat. “Can you blame folks for thinkin’ you might have circled fast, killed Dave, an’ then quirted hard enough to reach Half-Moon when Miss Kirby said you did?”
“So?”
“If you’d run for it, I’d have been after you. But you didn’t run.” Quigby rode thoughtfully for a moment. ‘My idea, Lockhart, is you’re too cagey to have lifted just your gun off of Dave.”
In dry irony Will said, “Thanks.”
“But somebody did,” Quigby reminded. “That’n won’t be safe from Alec Waggoman until Dave’s murder is hung on someone.”
“Me, for instance?”
“Who else?”
“I’ve been wondering,” Will admitted. He rode his thoughtful moment, too, before saying, “I’m new to Half-Moon—but I assume I know a lady. What’s behind this bluff about rustling?”
Quigby was not comfortable about it. “Waggoman sent for me. I’ve never heard he’d bluff about rustlin’.”
“We’ll see,” was all Will could say.
Vic Hansbro was guiding them through the lower shin oak and cedar toward the high shoulders of South Peak. They reached the tall, murmuring pines where deep needle duff muffled their passing. They ascended a small, twisting canyon with forested sides and a lean run of clear water tumbling between bottom rocks coated with green moss and blotches of silver-gray lichen.
In a small valley still higher, the sheer side rocks were banded in colorful yellows and reds. Another climbing trail carried them up through tall, silent spruce, and here Will noted how the strung-out riders had gone silent, also.
The same restraint leaned Quigby’s leathery face. Every man, Will decided, was increasingly aware that this might be the explosive climax between Barb and Half-Moon—between Kate Canaday and Alec Waggoman.
They rode out of the shadowy spruce into a wide belt of mountain meadow, golden with sunlight, dotted with grazing cattle. Ahead and higher was the great bald hogback over which Will had ridden into the upper valley of Chinaman Creek.
Memory of that meeting with Dave Waggoman ran tight along Will’s nerves. His aching hand in the neck sling warned increasingly now that Barb—all of Barb—was dangerous.
The riders were bunching up again. Will rode ahead, near Kate Canaday and Alec Waggoman. Vic Hansbro, out in front, was sharply scanning the Half-Moon cattle. Hansbro’s abruptly lifted arm and halted horse stopped everyone.
“Fitz!” Hansbro called back, and when Fitz spurred out from the Barb crew, Hansbro pointed ahead and down the meadow slope a little, where seven or eight Half-Moon steers warily watched this intrusion.
“Couple of long yearlin’s in that bunch have got left ears cropped just a mite,” Hansbro said bruskly. “Rope me one.”
Grinning now, a short thin man remarkably dexterous with his loop, as Will well knew, Fitz shook out his coiled rope and rode leisurely down the slope below the uncertain steers. Slowly Fitz circled, angling upslope beyond the gradually alarming steers.
Hansbro gave another order. “Charley! If he busts ’em this way, get that other crop-ear.”
The steers started a nervous walk downslope, and Fitz spurred at them. The steers bunched and swerved back toward the waiting riders. The spurred run of Charley’s black horse put danger there and the steers scattered in panic.
Fitz’s loop snaked out low, heeling his victim by a hind leg and dropping it heavily. As Fitz slipped nimbly from the saddle and ran along his taut rope, Charley’s loop circled the neck of a second steer and jerked it into a slamming fall.
Fitz’s horse was braced against the taut rope and Fitz was sitting on the helpless steer’s head, grinning broadly, when Hansbro, Waggoman, and Kate rode to the spot and dismounted. All the other men rode close in an intent semicircle.
Hansbro drew a glinting knife blade from a leather sheath on his hip. The steer was clearly branded Half-Moon on the left hip. Even now a close look was needed to see the slightly cropped tip of the left ear. The beast’s right ear was boldly mutilated with Half-Moon’s full half-crop and underslit. And not even Kate, by the perplexed look on her broad face, could see anything amiss here. Her gusty indignation demanded, “What’s wrong with that critter?”
Hansbro drew the knife blade across the callused heel of his palm. He looked confident, he sounded confident and relishing as he spoke to Waggoman.
“Last year I had an idea our range tally was short some. I couldn’t find out why, so I baited some of the calf crop.”
Will saw Kate’s lips press hard together. Every eye was watching Hansbro kneel beside the steer’s head. The man’s big left hand worked down the loose skin under the neck. His satisfied grunt was audible. With the knife’s sharp edge, Hansbro expertly cut a fold of the loose skin. His thick, blunt forefinger worked inside the opening and slid out a small metallic object. Hansbro stood up, rubbed the object against his leg, and held it out.
“When I banked this two-bits in the neck here, this was an unbranded Barb calf,” Hansbro growled. “Looks like a Half-Moon yearlin’ now.”
Kate had a stunned look. She started to speak, then glanced at Will. Her blue, shrewd eyes were dark with a kind of pain and puzzlement. Kate turned and called to her men, gazing blankly from their horses, “Any of you know about this?”
They did not, and to Alec Waggoman Kate said with an obvious effort, “Alec, I ain’t got any idea.”
Waggoman had taken the coin in silence. He looked tall and frigidly aloof as he handed it to Kate. His order to Hansbro was colorless. “Show me another.”
It’s there, Will guessed as he moved with the others to the steer Charley had downed. Quigby stepped close to Hansbro and intently watched each movement of the huge man’s hands. And in these wire-taut moments, a warning sense struck Will that something
else was happening. Old habits of army training swung his attention from Hansbro to the semicircle of mounted men. And he saw the reason for his vague unease.
Casually, unnoticed, the Barb crew had been reining among the Half-Moon riders. Hansbro’s satisfied growl said, “Here’s another two-bits,” and Will lifted his voice in sharp warning.
“Half-Moon! Keep together!”
Barb men now bracketed each Half-Moon man. Hansbro’s quick shout, “Now, Barb!” followed Will’s warning. The startled Half-Moon men found themselves covered by drawn guns.
Will moved swiftly to one side despite a Colt’s sighted on him by the nearest rider. Charley, still sitting on the rope steer’s head, was covering Quigby with a long-barreled forty-five.
Quigby glared at the weapon and bit out with confident authority of his law badge, “Put that up! I’m taking charge here!”
Alec Waggoman dropped the second coin in his coat pocket. He turned slowly and looked directly into Kate’s distressed face, and Will held his breath.
Even in Coronado, escorting his son’s body, that tall old man had not looked like this. The brief élan of youth had passed. He looked old. The hooded stare resting on Kate held detestation. He spoke slowly, bitterly.
“Hating all these years—Spiteful—And now thieving—”
Quigby’s anger broke in roughly. “Waggoman! Hold your men!”
Waggoman replied without turning his head. “Your gun will be shot out of your hand, Quigby.” A great anger deep in the man worked visibly against iron control. His voice shook slightly as he spoke again to Kate. “Maybe Dave, too—This is the end, Kate.” And a terrible, repressed, matter-of-factness filled the order to Hansbro. “Take their guns.” He walked to his horse and hauled heavily into the saddle.
Kate had a white, drawn look as she spoke to her men. “Don’t fight ’em, boys.”
The Half-Moon men were being disarmed as Will walked to Waggoman’s gray horse. He was not aware his lean, sun-blackened indolence was wire-hard with challenge. But inside he felt that way as he looked up at Waggoman.
