Her father had allowed her to furnish the room as she chose. There was a big double bed with a silken canopy, chests of drawers with pictures arranged on top, frilly curtains, ornaments, polished wood walls, a thick carpet on the floor, a closet full of clothes. On the bedside table stood a picture of her mother, taken the year she died. It was a room which could have belonged to a debutante in Chicago or New York. In this room she had sat by her window all night long, thinking of the day Martin Hardcastle had proposed to her. It was to this room she had come when it ended ...
Tracy took a key from a small porcelain jar on the vanity table, then she crouched to unlock the bottom drawer of the bureau. Taking a framed picture out, she rose and placed it before the mirror. The dark, serious, handsome face of Martin Hardcastle looked at her, gravely.
Tracy stood back from the picture, chin high, emotion straining her full breasts against the material of her dark green dress.
“Well, Martin, are you sorry now that your precious brother is dead and gone ...?” The smile that worked at her red lips was cruel. “Of course you’re sorry, Martin ... for you loved only Barlow and the ranch, didn’t you? Yes, that was all you ever loved. And now Barlow is gone and you only have the Shotgun ...” Her voice went low. “But not for long, Martin ... not for long ...”
She moved to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. Her thoughts travelled back over the past months. How clever and lucky she had been! Running that little herd onto the Shotgun that first night had been clever; it had sown the seeds that had blossomed into the range war. But it had been luck when Barlow Hardcastle had become involved with rustlers. That had whipped the war into full fury. It had been clever of her to go down to Carrington and secure the services of evil-faced Trogg Denver. Bad luck had come when Benedict had slipped away from the Golden Hoof last night to witness the ambush and hunt Denver down. She shivered a little when she considered what the consequences might have been if Denver had been taken alive. But her luck had held and Denver was dead, his secret gone with him. Of course it had been clever of her to come up with the lie about her hotel room being robbed in Carrington. She had seen suspicion in Duke’s handsome face as he produced her pearls, but she’d seen it fade and die in the face of her calm and poise. He was clever, too, but not nearly as clever as she. Nobody was as clever as Tracy, least of all Martin ...
Her thoughts focused on Martin Hardcastle again. Poor Martin, stunned by his brother’s death—and in debt to the National Deposit Bank, and relying so heavily on selling his beef to Strom Jackson, the cattle buyer from Carrington. And how unlucky for Martin that she had heard about his commitment to the bank just that afternoon from her father, who was a close friend and drinking companion of banker Hoke Jodie.
Until she’d heard that Hardcastle was in deep with the bank, she had had no clear idea of how she might destroy the Shotgun and complete her long-planned vengeance by taking from Martin the two things he loved. She’d hoped the war might have brought Martin to his knees, but it hadn’t worked out that way. But now that she knew he’d have a successful sale when the boats arrived, her next move was clear. She must see to it that Martin did not find a market for his beef. She didn’t know exactly how she would do this yet, but she had supreme confidence in her ability to come up with a plan and see it realized ...
Voices drifted up from the yard now. Gazing down, she saw Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict standing by the end of the gallery near the tank stand. She smiled again. Poor Hank. Captivating that giant Texan had been almost too easy. He was so trusting and naive She would be able to count on him when the time came, of that she had no doubt.
But Duke Benedict? She wasn’t so sure about him. Duke didn’t really trust her; he was much smarter than her father, Martin and everybody else. But she needed him, too, and when the time came, she felt sure she could count on him, if for no other reason than the fact that he was Brazos’ friend ... and Brazos was in the palm of her hand ...
She turned slowly and moved back to the bureau and the picture; She wondered if Martin might have the faintest inkling that all the pain and trouble he had endured over the past two months had stemmed from her. She almost wished he did know, so he would suffer all the more. Perhaps, when it was all over, with his brother dead and cold in the grave, and the Shotgun no longer his, he might at last begin to suspect the truth.
But of course by then it would be too late ...
Yellow river water sluiced against the dark hull of the paddle boat that chugged its way laboriously upstream through the Whiplock River’s narrows at Medicine Bend. The River Princess was the most powerful boat operating on the river, and needed to be to handle the task imposed upon her today. Behind the Princess, linked by stout ropes, were five broad, flat-bottomed cattle barges strung out in a line.
The cattle boats had been coming up the Whiplock from Carrington in the last week of November for several years now, ever since cattle buyer Strom Jackson had taken over as the supplier of beef to Fort Hook. Prior to that, the Box Butte County cattlemen had driven their stock across the Whetstones to Carrington each autumn, a grueling journey that had run the prime condition off every beast. An ex-army man who believed that nothing was too good for the boys in blue, Jackson had conceived the idea of the annual cattle boat flotilla as a method of shipping the stock to Fort Hook in prime condition. It had been good for both the army and the Box Butte ranchers who received a far higher price for their beef.
The burly ex-army captain was seated in the prow of the River Princess as the boat emerged from the narrows and travelled faster as the river widened. On the decks behind him, his men were mingling with the passengers, whiling away the time playing cards and soaking up the sunshine. Idly watching his men, Jackson was thinking how close he’d come this year to cancelling the expedition to Sunsmoke altogether. There was always keen rivalry among the cattlemen here when he arrived to select his cattle, and he’d feared that the range war between the Shotgun and Golden Hoof could flare up again were he to show preference for the beef of one ranch over another. But he’d received assurances by mail from both Kilraine and Hardcastle that they had declared a truce—and that had been good enough for him.
Jackson turned to look ahead and see the tip of Red Butte showing beyond the hills to the east. Red Butte was the halfway mark, and the hardest haul was behind them. Barring unforeseen circumstances, they would dock at Sunsmoke tomorrow night. He wondered if Jenny Diver still sang at the Wagon Wheel. He hoped so, for Strom Jackson was a man who believed wholeheartedly in mixing business with pleasure.
He smiled. Dear, mercenary little Jenny.
Erskine Getty was cold.
He’d been cold at sundown, and the temperature on the Golden Hoof-Shotgun border where he was keeping night watch, had been dropping steadily ever since. The little gunman paced up and down before his solitary fire. His hands were tucked under his arms and he was stamping his feet on the rocks. He realized that this was part of earning his hundred a month and keep, but what bothered him was the feeling that it was unnecessary. Since the shootout at the Five Mile, things had been tombstone-quiet around Box Butte. Anybody with half an eye could see the trouble had finally burned itself out. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was across at the Five Mile with the herd. At least a man would have company there, instead of gaunt trees, frozen rocks and a wind that cut to the bone.
The little gunman saw that the fire was going down so he went scouting for wood. He was returning to the fire with his arms loaded when he heard the distinct sound of a hoof against rock from below.
The wood went one way and Getty went the other—six-gun in his fist. He wasn’t due to be relieved until midnight so he wasn’t expecting company.
Crouched behind a deadfall log, looking over his gun-sights, he saw the dim shape of a horse and rider emerge from the gloom fifty yards distant—coming directly towards him. No longer conscious of the cold, the gunman had his mouth open ready to shout a challenge, when he recognized the rider from the glint o
f starlight on burnished auburn hair.
Tracy Kilraine.
The gunman’s astonishment showed plainly as he jumped to his feet and stepped into the fire glow.
“Miss Tracy! What brings you out here this time of night?”
She rode up smiling and checked her pony by the fire. “I was just restless, Erskine. I rode out to the Five Mile, then I thought of you out here all alone and thought I might come across and keep you company for a while.”
Erskine Getty almost tripped over himself in his eagerness to help her down. He’d long believed that the beautiful Tracy regarded him in much the same light as she might something small and unpleasant that had crawled from under a rock.
“That’s mighty white of you, Miss Tracy,” he beamed. “Can I fix you some coffee?”
“Coffee would be nice, Erskine.”
The gunman dropped to his haunches to shove the battered coffee pot into the coals. He was so eager that he burned his fingers. He started to swear, but remembered his company and stuck his fingers in his mouth instead. Then he lifted the lid of the mug to make sure there was enough water. He was starting to turn when something smashed into his back with an incredible force that belted the breath from his lungs.
He dimly heard the sound of the shot as he fell across the fire. Another bullet tore into his body with sledgehammer force and then darkness rushed down to engulf him.
The ash on Duke Benedict’s cigar was almost an inch long, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hank Brazos, one leg hooked over the arm of a frail chair that seemed in danger of collapsing under his weight, was building a cigarette one-handed. Both men were dust-coated and trail-grimed, having just returned to the Golden Hoof from the Shotgun Ranch. Tracy Kilraine stood with her back to the fire, looking at her father who was pouring whisky at the liquor cabinet. The cool autumn night pressed against the windows of the study and they could hear the wind chattering in the bare branches of the tree outside as Ethan Kilraine spoke:
“I’m not sure I understand, Duke. You’re saying you believe Getty was not killed by somebody from the Shotgun?”
Benedict nodded. It was the following night, and he and Brazos had spent the entire day investigating the slaying of Erskine Getty on the border of the two ranches. From the start, something about the murder had struck them as odd, and they’d insisted on conducting their own investigation, at the same time persuading Kilraine not to unleash his forces against the Shotgun Ranch.
Benedict said, “Getty was a small-timer, but he was no fool. Brazos and I have ridden with him and we know he was a man who always kept himself sharp. Getty wouldn’t have let Shotgun men come in on him like that and backshoot him. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Murder seldom does, does it, Duke?” Tracy challenged.
The girl and her father looked grim. Shocked by the callous killing of Erskine Getty, Ethan Kilraine wanted to lash back at Shotgun with all the force at his command, and he’d been surprised to discover that his daughter felt the same way. They had been discussing the wisdom of attacking the Shotgun herd at Jimcrack Flats and scattering Shotgun cattle to the four winds, when Benedict and Brazos had returned. Were they to stampede the herd, the Shotgun men would not be able to get the cattle together and drive them into Sunsmoke to catch the beef boats. Hardcastle would be ruined.
“Hardcastle swears he knew nothin’ about Getty, Tracy,” Brazos drawled, cigarette smoke drifting past his face. “He even stuck to his story with a gun in his belly.”
“How strange,” the girl said with heavy irony. “I would have thought he would have confessed everything.”
“Tracy’s right, of course, boys,” Kilraine said. “What else would the man do but lie?”
“If he did, he’s a remarkably accomplished liar,” Benedict stated.
“Martin is also a remarkably accomplished killer and rogue,” Tracy said. “Look, perhaps this is not really any business of mine. As a woman, I know it’s supposed to be my place to sit back and let the men take care of matters like this. But I feel so strongly about what happened last night that I simply must have my say. Duke, you and Hank have worked with us and lived with us for some time. You know that all we want is peace, yet the killing and the violence goes on. Why? There can be only one reason. Martin doesn’t want peace. He hates me and he will stop at nothing to get back at me. Every time we think the war is over, something happens to start it all over again. Like you, I believed it was finished this time ... but now they’ve murdered Erskine Getty. Just one man killed where there have been many before, but his death drove home one terrible fact to me. We’re never going to be able to live in peace while Martin Hardcastle rules the Shotgun. Please tell me if I am wrong. Please tell me if there is another way other than making certain Martin does not have the Shotgun any longer?”
There was silence when she finished. Brazos broke it by saying:
“You’re suggestin’ we hit that herd like your pa suggested a spell back, Tracy?”
“I am. I hate violence and bloodshed, but I see no other way—unless we’re to live in terror of the Shotgun forever.”
“I agree,” Kilraine said grimly. “I’m sorry, boys, but I believe Martin had Getty killed despite your doubts. If we prevent Hardcastle from getting his cattle to Sunsmoke, he faces financial ruin. He’d be forced to sell out. He’d no longer be able to afford to hire killers to make our lives a misery.”
Hank Brazos sighed, got to his feet and stretched his powerful body. “Mebbe what they say makes sense, Yank.”
“Oh, Hank, I knew we could count on you,” Tracy said fervently. She paused, then, “And I hope we can count on you, too, Duke?”
Benedict stared at Brazos. “You’re making a mistake, Reb.”
Brazos turned his head as Tracy crossed to him and placed a hand on his arm. Then he looked at Benedict. “It’s one way of finishin’ it, once and for all, Yank.”
Benedict shook his dark head slowly. “No.”
“But damn it all, Yank ...” Brazos began. But the girl cut him off:
“Please, Hank ... I think I understand Duke’s reservations, but I’m sure I can persuade him to change his mind. Father, would you and Hank mind leaving Duke and me alone for a few minutes?”
“There’s nothing you can say to me that you can’t say in front of them, Tracy,” Benedict protested.
“Please,” Tracy said, “surely a few minutes is little enough to ask.”
Kilraine nodded and headed for the door. Brazos hesitated, his blue eyes going over them both. Then he shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Nine
When Friends Fall Out
Tracy stood for a long time with her back to Benedict, then she turned slowly and smiled up at him, as if they shared a rich secret.
“I think it’s time we were honest with each other, don’t you, Duke?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.
She rested her hands on his chest. “I think you know. I saw it in your eyes the moment we met, Duke. I could see how you felt about me ... well, I felt it, too. We’re so much alike. We enjoy the same things, we think the same. I could tell you were attracted to me just as I was to you, and when you turned cold towards me, I was hurt at first, but then I understood. You’re afraid of ties, aren’t you, Duke? You like to be free and untrammeled, and that’s why you’ve avoided me. But what you don’t realize is that’s exactly how I feel myself. I wouldn’t tie you down, Duke, I swear it. We could have fun together, you and I. And you know it, don’t you?”
Benedict moved back a pace. “Perhaps there’s something in what you say, Tracy,” he murmured. “It’s possible that we’d go well together indeed, but what about Brazos?”
“What about him?”
“You’ve made a fuss over him. He thinks you’re something special.”
“Of course he does. All men do. But let’s be frank, Duke. Hank is hardly the answer to a maiden’s prayer, is he? Oh, he’s big and strong and very
gentle, but we both know that he’s just a simple Texas cowhand.”
She drew closer to him. There was a smoldering quality in her green eyes. Benedict was aware of the fragrance of her body, the deep V between her breasts, all the allure of her—just as he was meant to.
“You and I, Duke,” she murmured. “It could be that way if you want it ...”
He smiled coldly. “But there will be a price, won’t there, Tracy? There’s always a price. Our getting together is obviously conditional upon my staying here and riding against the Shotgun. Am I right?”
“Is that so much to ask, Duke? After all, you are a gunfighter.”
“True. But this raid on Shotgun sounds a little heavy-handed to me. I know you see it merely as a way of crushing Hardcastle, and I suppose it could work. But perhaps I see it another way. Your main concern is that the war should finish permanently. Now, Brazos and I have seen a great deal of Hardcastle, enough for him to know we mean everything we say. What if we went to him and spelled it out in clear language ... that if the peace is broken again, whether now or in six months’ time, Brazos and I would settle with him personally. I think he’d buy that, Tracy. In fact, I’m sure he would.”
“No!” she snapped quickly. Too quickly. She swung away from him. “I—I mean ...”
“You mean that sort of a settlement isn’t good enough, don’t you? You don’t just want Hardcastle at peace with Golden Hoof—you want him destroyed ... don’t you, Tracy?”
She tried to hold back her fury, but faded. “Yes!” she hissed, whirling to face him. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Benedict’s eyes were deep. “Why?”
Tracy brought herself under control with an effort. “That is no concern of yours, Duke Benedict.”
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