He dropped his hand. "I'm sorry. My sister can't come into a place like this."
The two men measured each other, and the suddenly alert audience in the Bit and Bridle let their eyes go from Tom Venable to the stranger. Tom they knew well enough to know he was afraid of nothing that walked. They also knew his normal manner was polite to a degree rarely encountered in the west, where manners were apt to be brusque and friendly, but lacking in formality. Yet something else was happening now. There was something intangible between these two, and the men sensed the sudden hesitation in Venable, a wariness that made them look again, very carefully, at the stranger.
The bat-wing doors parted suddenly, and Dixie Venable stepped into the room.
First, Canavan was aware of shock that such a girl would come into such a place, and secondly of shame that he had been the cause. Then he felt admiration for her courage.
Beautiful in a gray tailored riding outfit, her head lifted proudly, she crossed the room and walked up to Canavan, her face very stiff, her eyes bright.
Bill Canavan was aware that never in his life had he looked into eyes so fine, so filled with feeling.
"Sir," and her voice could be heard clearly in the silent room, "I do not know what your name may be, but I have come to pay you your money. Your horse beat Flame today, and beat her fairly. I regret the way I acted, but it was such a shock to have Flame beaten that I behaved very rudely and then allowed you to leave without being paid. You won fairly, and I am very sorry."
She paused only a moment, then added; "However, if you would like to run your horse against Flame again, I'll double the bet."
"Thank you, Miss Venable," Canavan bowed slightly, from the hips. It was only your comment about my horse that made me run him at all. As no doubt know, horses have feelings, and I couldn't allow you to make a slighting remark about my horse, not right to his face, thataway."
Her eyes were on his and suddenly they crinkled at the corners and her lips rippled with a little smile, "Now, if you'll allow me-was He took her arm and escorted her from the room. Inside they heard a burst of applause, and he smiled as he held her stirrup for her. She swung to the saddle, and he looked up at her.
"I am sorry you had to go in there, but your brother was kind of abrupt"
"That's quite all right," she said quickly, almost too quickly. "Now our business is complete."
Tom Venable had come out of the saloon. And during their brief exchange he had stood back, listening.
Now he, too, mounted and they rode away.
Canavan turned back to the saloon and almost ran into a tall, carefully dressed man who had come up behind him. A man equally as large as Pogue.
Pale blue eyes looked out from a handsome, perfectly cut face of city white. The man was trim, neat and precise, and only the guns at his hips struck a discordant note. A pair of guns that gave every indication of use.
That," said the tall man gesturing after Dixie Venable, "is a staked claim."
Bill Canavan was irritated. Men who were bigger than he was always irritated him anyway, if their attitude was aggressive. "It is?" His tone was cutting.
"If you think you can stake a claim on any woman, you've got a lot to learn."
Canavan shoved by him toward the doors of the saloon.
Behind him the voice said, "But that one's staked.
You hear me?"
Soledad by night was a thin scattering of lights along the dark river of the street. Music from the tinny piano in the Bit and Bridle drifted along the street and into the darkness beyond, and with it came the lazy voice of someone singing a cow-camp song.
Bill Canavan stood for a few minutes on the edge of the boardwalk, let himself forget all he had been thinking about, and just soaked in the night, the melancholy music, and the softness of the lights on the dusty street. He realized suddenly and with greater clarity than ever before that he was a lonely man, a drifting man with no ties, no sense of belonging to anything. And there had been more than enough of that. He wanted to stop, to settle down, to start grazing his own cows, looking out over his own broad fields. He wanted to go to sleep in the same house every night Turning, he walked up the street toward the two story frame hotel, his mind unable to free itself from the vision that was Dixie Venable.
For the first time, the person who was to share that ranch house he planned for had a face.
Until now there had been only a vague Somebody in his mind, no definite features, nothing that could be recognized. Now, after meeting Dixie Venable, he knew there could be but one woman in that house he hoped to build.
He smiled wryly as he thought of such a woman sharing his life. How could he think of such a girl marrying a drifting cowhand? And what would her reaction be when she discovered he was Bill Canavan?
Not that the name meant very much, for it did not, except in certain quarters where fighting men gathered.
Stories about him had drifted across the country, as such stories did. He had no notoriety as a gunfighter, but he was known as a tough, capable man who had survived much hard fighting.
He was completely aware of the situation in the Valley, for he had taken months to learn all the details before ever entering the country. Once his intentions became known, he would be facing trouble, really serious trouble. Yet at first he doubted if they would worry much about a lone man with ambitions.
Pogue had already sensed enough of what he was to offer him a job, but even Pogue, once it was realized what Canavan had done, would have no choice but to buy him out, run him out or kill him.
Or they could move out themselves, and neither Pogue nor Reynolds was the type of man to back up.
The truth of the matter was, he was already holding the reins, and all their fighting would be so much shadow boxing if he survived.
Land was of no value without water, and he who controlled the water controlled the land. Longhorns could graze a day or two from water, walking in for a drink only occasionally, if water was scarce. The vegetation they ate gave them enough moisture to get along, although they preferred to drink every day or twice a day.
He had no plan to take sides in the fight that was brewing, yet what was he to do about the Venables?
Until today they had been but names to him. And now, suddenly, Dixie Venable was no longer just a name, and his feelings were involved.
He stopped in front of the hotel and shook his head like an old bull. He could not afford sentiment He had planned for no such complication. He would be a free agent, coming in and watching the rivals kill each other off, then stepping in holding all the aces.
It had been a good plan. It was still a good plan, if he could just forget Dixie Venable.
Yet even as he considered avoiding her, driving toward his goal with no interest but victory, he knew he would not do it Just to the degree that he was interested in her, so his strength was weakened. And to win the fight he was in called for complete concentration, and no involvement of feeling with anyone.
His thinking nettled him even as it amused him, for he viewed himself with a kind of wry, ironic humor, seeing himself always with more clarity than others saw him.
Thinking back over the day, he knew he had moved forward a little. He had arrived. He had met Scott and set up a valuable relationship, and he had taken the measure of at least one of the participants in the fight. Also, he had found out that Emmett Chubb was in the country.
That was, perhaps, most important of all. For he would not want Chubb to see him first, and without warning. That small edge might mean the difference.
He had been sure in his own mind that Chubb worked for Pogue, but now it developed that he worked for Reynolds. Had he always been there? Or had he switched sides? Was that why Pogue wanted him killed, a thousand dollars" worth?
His thoughts turned to the Venables. Tom was all man. And whatever Pogue and Reynolds were thinking, Tom Venable would be no soft touch.
Easterner he might be, but he was a solid citizen and the sort of man who would
get tougher as the situation did.
What of the cowhands who Scott implied were loyal to Levitt rather than Venable? These men must be considered too, for he must be aware of all the conflicting elements in the Valley.
Now he realized who the big man outside the Bit and Bridle had been. Carter had mentioned him, but with some uncertainty for he was new in the Valley then and an unknown quantity. But the man who claimed to have staked a claim on Dixie Venable was Star Levitt. How?
With that instinctive awareness an just a man has for such things, Bill Canavan turned into it, could be no friendship between Levitt and himself.
Nor would there have been had there been no Dixie Venable.
And Star Levitt, he knew, was a dangerous man.
Chapter IV
The hotel was a long building of rooms, a large but empty lobby with a buffalo's head on the wall behind the desk, a couple of leather settees and several leather chairs. Adjoining the lobby was a restaurant; and feeling like another cup of coffee, his eyes went to the restaurant. Then he walked up to the desk.
He dropped his war-bag, and a young man standing in an inner doorway walked to the desk and turned the register around. "Room?" His was a pleasant smile.
"The best you've got," Canavan said, smiling back.
The clerk shrugged. "Sorry, but they are all equally bad, although reasonably clean. Take fifteen, at the end of the hall. You'll be closer to the well"
"Pump?"
"What do you think this is? New York? It's a rope and bucket well but it's been almost a year since we hauled the dead man out The water should be pure enough by now."
"Depends on who he was," Canavan said. He gave the clerk a thoughtful look. "Where you from, New York?"
"New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Richmond and London ... and now, Soledad."
"You've been around." Canavan signed his name.
"How's the food?"
"Good. Very good, in fact, and the prettiest waitress west of the Mississippi."
"Yeah? And if she's like the other girls around here, she's probably a staked claim. I had a big gent with a white hat inform me tonight that at least one girl was a staked claim, and to lay off."
The clerk gave him a quick, shrewd glance. "Star Levitt?"
"I figured so."
"If he meant the lady you had the race with today, I'd say he was doing more hoping than otherwise.
Dixie Venable is not an easy claim to stake."
The clerk turned the register around and looked at the signature. Bill Canavan, El Paso.
He held out his hand. "Glad to meet you, Bill My name's Allen Kinney." He glanced at the name again. "Bill Canavan ... now I've heard that name somewhere.
"It's funny about names and towns. Canavan from El Paso. Now you might be from Del Rio or Eagle Pass or Laredo. You might have come from Uvalde or Deadwood or Cheyenne.
"What happened in El Paso? Or wherever you come from? Men drift without reason sometimes, but usually there is a reason, a woman, gun trouble, or whatever. Sometimes the law is behind them, or an outlaw just a jump or two ahead of them.
Occasionally, of course, men move just to be moving, just for a change of scene. But you, now, I'd say you had a reason to come to Soledad." were "Let's drink some coffee," Canavan invited. "And see if that waitress is as pretty as you say."
"You won't think so," Kinney said, shaking his head, "you won't think so at all. You've just seen Dixie Venable. After her, all women seem washed out ... until you get over her."
"I don't plan on it."
Kinney led the way into the restaurant and dropped into a chair. "That, my friend, is a large order.
Miss Venable usually handles such situations with neatness and dispatch. She is always pleasant, never familiar."
"This is different." Canavan looked up. And with a sudden excitement, he knew what he was going to say, knew he should not say it, but said it nonetheless.
"I'm going to marry her."
Allen Kinney smiled tolerantly. "Have you told her? Does she know your intentions are honorable?
Does she even know you have intentions?" He shook his head, amused but thoughtful. "That's no small task you have laid out for yourself."
The waitress came to their table with a coffee pot. She was a slender, very pretty girl with red hair, a few freckles and a certain bubbling good humor that was infectious.
"May," Kinney said, "I want you to meet Mr.
Bill Canavan. He says he is going to marry Dixie Venable."
Canavan felt his ears growing red, and he cursed himself for a fool for ever saying such a thing in the first place. It had been startled from him by the sudden realization that he intended to do just that.
"What?" May was startled. "Another one?"
Bill Canavan looked up and put his hand over hers. "No, May. The one."
Their eyes held for an instant and her laughter faded. "You know," she said seriously, "you just might."
She took their orders and left. Kinney shook his head thoughtfully. "You have made an impression. I think May believed you. Now if you can do as well with Miss Venable, you'll be on your way."
The street door opened and two men came into the room. One of the men was big, with sloping shoulders. And as he caught sight of Canavan his eyes narrowed as if with recognition. The other man was shorter, thicker, but obviously a hard-case.
With a queer sort of premonition Canavan guessed these men were from the Venable ranch, riders who already knew of Bill Canavan's presence and were more than casually interested.
These could be men working for Star Levitt, and as such they merited study. Yet their type was familiar to anyone who rode the wild country. Many a cowhand has slapped a brand on a maverick when he needed a little drinking money, but these were men who rode the outlaw trail.
These were men who rode with their guns for hire. But they were not simply warriors who fought as did the clansmen of Scotland for their lairds, or for the men who paid their wages. These were men who were ready for crooked money of any kind. He had known such men before, faced their kind in many places, and he knew they recognized him for what he was. These were not feudal retainers. But men never fought a battle but for themselves or the hope of gain.
They had scarcely seated themselves when the door opened a second time, shoved hard this time, and two more men entered. The first was a short, stocky man who walked with a peculiar, jerky lift to his knees. He walked now, right over to Canavan.
"You're Bill Canavan?" he said abruptly.
"I've got a job for you! You start tomorrow morning! Hundred a month an' food! Plenty of horses! I'm Charlie Reynolds of the CR, and my place is just outside of town in that big grove of cottonwoods. Old place.
You won't have any trouble finding it." He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. "Need any money now?"
"Sorry, I'm not looking for a job."
"What's that? Not looking for a job? At a hundred a month? When the average range-hand is makin' thirty?"
"I said I didn't want a job."
"Ah?" The genial light had gone from his eyes, leaving them mean and cruel. "So that's it. You've gone to work for Pogue."
"No, I don't work for Pogue. I don't work for any man. I ride my own trails."
Reynolds stared hard at him, and Canavan guessed he was a man who expected to be feared.
"Listen, my friend, and listen well. In these hills and in this valley there are two sides, and only two sides, those for Reynolds and those against him. If you do not work for me, I shall regard you as an enemy!
Canavan shrugged. "That's your funeral, Reynolds, but from all I hear you've enough enemies without making any more. Also, from what I hear you deserve them."
"What?" Reynolds had turned away but now he took a step back. "Don't sass me, Canavan!"
The lean, whip-bodied man beside him interfered.
"Let me handle this, Uncle Charlie," he said gently. "Let me talk to this man."
Canavan shifted his attention. The youn
ger man had a lantern jaw and unusually long gray eyes.
The eyes had a flatness to them that puzzled and warned him.
"My name is Sydney Berdue. I am foreman for Mr. Reynolds." He stepped closer to where Canavan sat in his chair. "Maybe you'd like to tell me why he deserves his enemies."
Canavan's blunt features were innocent of expression, his eyes faintly curious but steady and aware.
"Sure, I'd be glad to," he said, "if Mr.
Reynolds wishes."
"You're talkin. Now tell us."
"Charlie Reynolds came west from Missouri right after the war with Mexico. He located in Santa Fe for a while, but when the wagon trains started along the Overland Trail he went north and began selling guns to the Indians."
Reynolds's face went white, then flushed with anger. "That's not true!"
Canavan's words were sharp. "Don't make me kill you, Reynolds, although you damned well deserve it. Every word I say is true and can be documented.
You yourself took part in wagon-train raids, and you collected your share of the white scalps. You got out of there with a good deal of loot, and met a man in Julesburg who wanted to come out here and go to ranching. He knew nothing of your crooked background"
Berdue went for his gun, but Canavan was expecting it When the Reynolds foreman stepped closer, he had come beyond Canavan's outstretched feet. Canavan hooked a toe behind Berdue's ankle, jerked hard and at the same moment stiff-armed him with an open hand.
Berdue hit the floor with a crash and his gun went off into the ceiling. From the room overhead there was a startled shout and a sound of bare feet hitting the floor.
Canavan kicked the gun from Berdue's hand, then swept it up.
"Get up, Berdue! Reynolds, get over there against the wall. You, too, Berdue.
White-faced, hatred burning in his eyes, Reynolds backed to the wall Behind him, the room was slowly filling with onlookers. "Now," Canavan said, I'll finish what I started. And remember, you asked for it.
"You asked why I thought you deserved your enemies. I started by telling about the people you murdered along the wagon trails, and the money you made from selling guns to the Indians. And now I'll tell you about the man you met in Julesburg."
Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) Page 3
