The firelight flickered on our faces … Jolly was out on guard, the night was still. It is a lonely business when one fights alone, or almost alone. It is not easy to stand against the feelings of a community.
Bodie Miller would not rest with this. Canaval had been a big name where men talked of gunfighters and gunmen, and now he was down and might be dying. Bodie’s hatred of me would feed upon this triumph, it would fatten, and he would want a showdown.
There was little time. I must see Canaval if he was alive. I must talk to him. He must know of Slade and his gang, and what their presence implied.
Miller would not wait long to try to kill again. At any time we might meet, and win or lose, I might be out of the fight for weeks to come.
I would ride to the Boxed M. I would ride tonight.
Chapter Eighteen.
Key Chapin was dismounting at the veranda of the ranch house when I rode into the yard at the Boxed M. He turned toward me, then stopped. Fox was walking across the yard and in his hands he held a Winchester.
“Get off the place, Brennan!”
“I’ve got business here.”
“You get! You’re covered from the bunkhouse an’ the barn, so don’t start for a gun.”
“Don’t ride me, Fox. I won’t take it.”
The buckskin started on toward the house and Fox stepped back, hesitated, then started to lift his rifle. Although I wasn’t looking at him, I could sense that rifle coming up, and debated my chances, remembering those guns behind me.
“Fox!” It was Moira, her voice clear and cool. “Let the gentleman come up.”
Slowly the rifle lowered, and for an instant I drew rein, “I’m glad she stopped you, Fox. You’re too good a man to die.”
The sincerity in my voice must have registered, for he looked at me with a puzzled glance, then turned away toward the bunkhouse.
There was no welcome in Moira’s eyes. Her face was cool, composed.
“Was there something you wanted?”
“Is that my only welcome?”
Her glaze did not flicker or change. “Had you reason to expect more?”
“No, Moira. I guess I didn’t.”
The lines around her mouth softened a little, but she merely waited, looking at me.
“How’s Canaval?”
“Resting.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yes … but he will see no one.”
From the window Canaval’s voice carried to me. “Brennan, is that you? Come in, man!”
Moira hesitated, and for a minute I believed she would refuse to admit me. Then she stepped aside and I went in. She followed me, and Chapin came behind her.
Canaval’s appearance shocked me. He was drawn and thin, his eyes huge against the ghastly pallor of his face. His hand gripped mine hard.
“Watch that little demon, Matt! He’s fast! He had a bullet in me before my gun cleared. He’s a freak! Nerves all wrapped up tight, then lets go like a tight-coiled spring.”
He put a hand on my sleeve.
“Wanted to tell you. I found tracks not far from here. Tracks of a man carrying a heavy burden. Not your tracks. Big man … small feet.”
We were all thinking the same thing then. I could see it in Moira’s startled eyes. Morgan Park had small feet. Chapin let his breath out slowly.
“Brennan, I was going to ride over your way when I left here. A message for you. Picked up in Silver Reef yesterday.”
It was a telegram, still sealed. I ripped it open and read:
My brother unheard of in many months. Morgan Park answers description of Park Cantwell, wanted for murder and embezzlement of regimental funds. Coming west.
Leo d’Arcy,
Col., 12th cavalry.
Without comment I handed the message to Chapin, who read it aloud. Moira’s face paled, but she said nothing.
“I remember the case,” Chapin said. “Park Cantwell was a captain in the cavalry. He embezzled some twenty thousand dollars, and when faced with the charge, murdered his commanding officer and escaped. He was captured, then broke jail, and killed two more men getting away. He was last heard of five or six years ago in Mexico.”
“Any chance of a mistake?”
“I don’t think so.”
Chapin glanced down at the message. “May I have this? I’ll take it to Sheriff Tharp.”
“What is it Park and Booker want?” Canaval said.
“Lyell said Park wanted money, quick money. How he planned to get it … that’s the question.”
Moira had not looked at me. Several times I tried to catch her eye, but she avoided my glance. Whether or not she believed I had killed her father, she obviously wanted no part of me.
Canaval’s hoarse breathing was the only sound in the quiet room. Outside in the mesquite I could hear a cicada singing. It was hot and still.
Discouraged, I turned toward the door. Canaval stopped me.
“Where to now?”
Back to the Two-Bar? There was nothing there to be done now, and there were things to be done elsewhere. Then, suddenly, I knew where I was going. There was a thing that had to be done, and had to be done before I would feel that Icould face myself. It was a thing that must not be left undone.
“To see Morgan Park.”
Moira turned, her lips forming an unspoken protest.
“Don’t … I’ve seen him kill a man with his fists,” Chapin protested.
“He won’t kill me.”
“What is this?” Moira’s voice was scathing. “A cheap, childish desire for revenge? Or just talk? You’ve no right to go to town and start trouble! You’ve no reason to start a fight with Morgan Park just because he beat you once!”
“Protecting him?” My voice was not pleasant. I did not feel pleasant.
Did she, I wonder, actually love the man? Had I been that mistaken? The more I thought of that, the angrier I became.
“No! I’m not protecting him! From what I saw after the first fight, it is you who will need protection!”
She could have said nothing more likely to bring all my determination to the surface.
Her eyes were wide, her face white. For an instant we stared at each other, and then I turned on my heel and went out of the house, and the door slammed behind me.
Buck sensed my mood, and he was moving even as I gathered the reins. When my leg swung over the saddle he was already running.
So I would need protection, would I? Anger tore at me, and I swore bitterly as the buckskin leaned into the wind. Mad all the way through, I was eager for any kind of a fight, wanting to slash, to destroy.
And perhaps it was fortunate for me that I was in such a mood when I rounded a bend and rode right into the middle of Slade and his men.
They had not heard me. The shoulder of rock and the blowing wind kept the sound from them. Suddenly they were set upon by a charging rider who rode right into them, and even as their startled heads swung on their shoulders my horse smashed between two of the riders, sending both staggering for footing. As the buckskin struck Slade’s horse with his shoulder, I drew my gun and slashed out and down with the barrel. It caught the nearest rider over the ear and he went off his horse as if struck by lightning. Swinging around, I blasted the gun from the fist of another rider with a quick shot. Slade was fighting his maddened, frantic horse, and I leaned over and hit it a slap with my hat.
The horse gave a tremendous leap and started to run like a scared rabbit, with Slade fighting to stay in the saddle. He had lost a stirrup when my horse struck his and hadn’t recovered it. The last I saw of him was his running horse and a cloud of dust.
It all had happened in a split second. My advantage was that I had come upon them fighting mad and ready to strike out at anything, everything.
The fourth man had been maneuvering for a shot at me but was afraid to risk it for fear of hitting a companion in the whirling turmoil of men and horses. As I wheeled, we both fired and both missed. He tried to steady his horse. Buck did not l
ike any of it and was fighting to get away. I let him have his head, snapping a quick backward shot at the man in the saddle. It must have clipped his ear, for he ducked like a bee-stung farmer, and then Buck was laying them down on the trail for town.
Feeding shells into my gun, I let him go, feeling better for the action, ready for anything. The town loomed up and I raced my horse down the street and swung off, leaving him with the hostler to cool off and be rubbed down.
One look at me and Katie O’Hara knew I was spoiling for trouble.
“Morgan Park is in town,” she warned me. “Over at the saloon.”
It was all I wanted to know. Turning, I walked across the street. I was mad clear through stirred up by the action, and ready for more of it. I wanted the man who had struck me down without warning, and I wanted him badly. It was a job I had to do if I was going to be able to live with myself.
Morgan Park was there, all right. He was seated at a table with Jake Booker. Evidently, with Maclaren dead and Canaval shot down, they figured it was safe to come out in the open.
I wasted no time. “Booker,” I said, “you’re a no-account, sheep-stealin’ shyster, but I’ve heard you’re smart. You should be too smart to do business with a thief and a murderer.”
It caught them flat-footed, and before either could move I grabbed the table and swung it out of the way, and then I slapped Morgan Park across the face with my hat.
He came off his chair with an inarticulate roar and I met him with a left that flattened his lip against his teeth. Blood showered from the cut and I threw a right, high and hard.
It caught him on the chin and he stopped dead in his tracks.
He blinked, and then he came on. I doubt if the thought that he might be whipped had ever occurred to him. He rushed, swinging those huge, iron-like fists. One of them caught me on the skull and rang bells in my head. Another dug for my midsection, but my elbow blocked the blow. Turning, I took a high right over my shoulder, then threw him bodily into the bar rail.
He came up with a lunge and I nailed him with a left as he reached his feet. The blow spatted into his face with a wicked sound, and there was a line of red from the broken skin. He hit me with both hands then and I felt that old smoky taste in my mouth as I walked in, blasting with both fists.
He swung a right and I went under it with a hooked left to the belly, then rolled at the hips and drove my right to the same spot. He grunted and I tried to step back, but he was too fast and too strong. He moved in on me and I hit him a raking blow to the face before we clinched. His arms went around me but I dug my head under his chin and bowed my back. It stopped him, and we stood toe to toe, wrestling on our feet. He got his arms lower and heaved me high. I smashed him in the face with my right as he threw me.
Just as he let go I grabbed a handful of hair with my right hand and he screamed. We hit the floor together, and rolling over, I beat him to my feet.
There was a crowd around us now, but although they were yelling, I heard no sound. I walked in, weaving to miss his haymakers, but he jarred me with a right to the head, then a short left. He knocked me back against the bar and grabbed a bottle. He swung at my head, but I went under it and butted him in the chest. He went down, and my momentum carried me past him.
He sprang up and I hit him. He turned halfway around, and when he did I sprang to his shoulders and jammed both spurs into his thighs. He screamed with agony and ducked. I went over his head, landing on all fours, and he kicked me rolling.
Coming up, we circled. Both of us were wary now. My hot anger was gone. This was a fight for my life, and I could win only if I used every bit of wit and cunning I possessed.
His shirt was in ribbons. I’d never seen the man stripped before, and he had the chest and shoulders of a giant. He came at me and I nailed him with a left and then we stood swinging with both hands, toe to toe. His advantage in size and weight was more than balanced by my superior speed.
I circled, feinted, and when he swung, I smashed a right to his belly. An instant later I did it again. Then I threw a left to his battered features, and when his arms came up I smashed both hands to the body. Again and again I hit him in the stomach. He slowed, tried to set himself, but I knocked his left up and hit him in the solar plexus with a right. He grunted, and for the first time his knees sagged. Standing wide-legged, I pumped blows at his head and body as hard as I could swing. He tried to grab at me. Setting myself, I threw that right, high and hard.
My fist caught him on the side of the chin as he started to step in. He stopped, swayed, then fell, crashing through the swinging doors and rolling over to the edge of the porch, where he lay, sprawled out cold.
Turning from the door, I took the glass of whiskey somebody handed to me, and gulped it down. My heart was pounding and my body was glistening with sweat and blood. My breath came in great gasps and I sagged against the bar, trying to recover.
Somebody yelled something, and I turned. Morgan Park was standing there, his feet spread. As I turned, he hit me. It was flush on the chin and it felt like a blow from an axe. I fell back against the bar, my head spinning, and as I fought for consciousness, I stared down at his feet, amazed that such a huge man could have such small feet.
He hit me again and I went down, and then he kicked at my head with those deadly, narrow-toed boots. Only the roll of my head saved me as the kick glanced off my skull.
It was my turn to be down and out. Then somebody drenched me with a bucket of water and I sat up. It was Moira who had thrown the water.
I was too dazed to wonder how she came to be there, then somebody said, “There he is!” I saw Park standing there with his hands on his hips, leering at me through his broken lips.
We went for each other again and how we did it I’ll never know. Both of us had already taken a terrific beating. But I had to whip Morgan Park or kill him with my bare hands.
Toe to toe we slugged it out, then I took a quick step back and when he came after me, I nailed him with a right uppercut. He staggered, and I hit him again.
“Stop it, you crazy fools! Stop it or I’ll throw you both in jail!”
Sheriff Will Tharp stood in the door with a gun on us. His cold blue eyes meant what he said.
Around him were at least twenty men. Key Chapin was there … and Bodie Miller.
Park backed toward the door, then turned away. He looked punch drunk.
After that I spent an hour bathing my face in hot water. Then I went to the livery stable and crawled into the loft, taking with me a blanket and my rifle. I had worn my guns all along.
Outside somebody moved and murmured in the street. Below me the horses stamped and chomped their feed. Slowly, my exhausted muscles relaxed, my fists came unknotted, and I slept.
Chapter Nineteen.
When I awakened, bright sunlight was filtering through a couple of cracks in the roof, and I lay there, feeling soreness in every muscle. I watched the motes dancing in the stream of light and then rolled over. The loft was like an oven. Sitting up, I gingerly touched my face with my fingers. It was swollen and sore. Working my fingers to loosen them up, I heard a movement on the ladder. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Morgan Park staring at me. And I knew that I looked into the eyes of a man who was no longer sane.
He stood there, his head and shoulders visible above the loft floor, and I could see the hatred in his eyes. He made no move, just looked at me, and I knew then he had come to kill me.
I could have knocked him off the ladder. I could have cooled him, but I could not take that advantage. This was one man, sane or insane, whom I had to whip fairly or I would never be quite comfortable again. There was no reason in it. He had taken advantage of me … it was simply the way I felt.
Poised for instant movement, I knew I was in trouble. I knew now what enormous vitality that huge body held, and that he could move with amazing speed for his size.
When he came off the ladder, I got to my feet. When he moved I could see he was stiff, also. Yet I was in better s
hape. My workouts with Mulvaney had prepared me for this.
He did not rush me when he had his feet on the loft floor. He just stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at me. And the advantage was with him.
One side of the loft, where the ladder was, opened to the barn. A fall from there would cripple a man. The rest of the loft, except for a few square feet, was stacked with hay. With his size and weight, in these close quarters, the advantage was on his side.
My mouth was dry and I dearly wanted a drink. He faced me, and I knew at the instant when he was going to move. He came toward me, not fast, taking his time. Morgan Park had come for the kill.
He moved closer, and I struck out. He took the blow on his shoulder and kept coming in, forcing me back into the hay. Suddenly he lunged and swung. I rolled inside the punch but his weight knocked me back into the hay, for I could put no power into my punches.
With cold brutality he began to swing, his eyes lit up with sadistic delight. Lights exploded in my head, and then another punch hit me, and another.
Deliberately I slid down the side of the hay, and threw my weight against his legs. He staggered and, unable to reach me, backed off a step and swung his leg to lack. I threw my shoulder into him, and he fell back to the floor. Jumping past him, I grabbed a rope and slid down to the barn floor.
He turned and started down the ladder. Near the door I heard someone yell, “They’re at it again!” And then Morgan Park came for me.
Now it had to be ended, once and for all. Moving away from his first punch, I stabbed a left to his cut mouth, starting the blood again. He was slower than he had been yesterday, and the blood seemed to bother him. I feinted, then hit him solidly in the ribs. Rolling at the hips, I threw three solid punches to the midsection before he grabbed me, then I twisted away and hit him in the face.
He seemed puzzled. He wanted to kill, but I was being careful to avoid his hands. He swung, and I slipped inside the punch with a right to the chin.
He stopped, and I stepped in wide-legged and hit him with both fists on the chin, and he went down. I stepped back and allowed him to rise.
Silver Canyon (1956) Page 12
