by L. P. Holmes
III
Buck was introduced to the crew over the evening meal in the grub shack. At Buck’s previous request, Sundown had not included the information that the foremanship of the ranch had changed hands. Buck had decided that could wait until they were all gathered in the privacy of the bunkhouse, later in the evening. For, if there were to be any objections to the new boss, Buck wanted to argue them out there, not in the grub shack where there were dishes and other equipment to break.
Buck knew that he was the object of a somewhat furtive scrutiny by most of the ranch hands, and he used the opportunity of the meal to make his own estimate of the others. He soon decided that Sundown Sloan had judged the cowpunchers pretty closely to right.
Red Scudder was the strongest personality of the lot. He was a big, gaunt, rawboned fellow with a stubborn, fighting jaw, cold blue eyes, and a flaming shock of hair. Handled right, Scudder would be a friend worthwhile.
Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia were of a type common in the frontier towns Buck had known west of the Madrigals. Rough, hard-faced, calculating, with capabilities for waywardness greater than those of industry and faithfulness to their trust.
The rest were pretty much everyday cowpunchers, reacting readily to the right kind of leadership. Jiggs Maloney was a comical little Irishman, and he and Shorty Razee, the youngest of all of them, were the clowns of the outfit.
* * * * *
Buck did not go immediately to the bunkhouse. Instead he smoked a cigarette and wandered thoughtfully around the patio of the ranch house, where the night air was heavy and fragrant with the incense of the flowers.
His thoughts turned to Donna Carleton. He smiled a little bitterly. Funny how women disliked him. He did not know why. But they did—and Donna Carleton was no exception. Was it his reputation, built up unreasonably by lesser men, careless with their tongues? Perhaps that had something to do with it.
On his part, Buck had always admired the right sort of women. His tongue had never been facile enough to tell any of them so, however. Because of this inability to say the right thing in the right way to any of them, coupled with their own immediate aversion for him, Buck had passed them all by, leaving the conquest of them to luckier—or unluckier men—than himself. Not that there was no romance in him—no hunger for the realities of life. There was—plenty of it. But the shyness that he felt did not show and the hard, masterful, almost callous mask he had built about himself seemed to awaken a strange resentment in the opposite sex. It was as though they realized immediately that here was a man who they could never master, never gentle, influence, or control.
There was a stone seat in one corner of the patio, where the shadows were deep, and here Buck rested, aloof and lonely. He crumpled the butt of his cigarette and rolled another. But he did not light it, for a nearby door had opened.
He saw Donna Carleton standing there, etched against the light within like a slender shadow. She stepped out into the patio, closing the door behind her. Instantly she caught the lingering tang of tobacco smoke from Buck’s dead cigarette. She looked about alertly.
“Curly!” she called softly. “You here already?”
Buck stirred. “Sorry,” he drawled. “This is English. I didn’t mean to intrude. But I like flowers. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I hung around a bit. But as you’re expectin’ company … I’ll drift along.”
Donna was startled and a little angry. Startled because she was somehow afraid of Buck English; angry because she had carelessly announced the fact that she was expecting a visit from Curly Whipple, for whom Buck English had previously shown he held nothing but a sardonic contempt. For a moment her temper was close to the surface. Then her common sense took command.
“Of course,” she announced lightly. “There is no reason why you should apologize for your presence. As foreman, the run of the ranch is yours. It is I who am intruding.”
She turned as though to go back into the house, but Buck forestalled her.
He spoke words that were as startling to him as they were to Donna.
“Don’t go. Can’t we be a little more friendly? You don’t seem to have much use for me, but we’re bound to have to see considerable of one another here at the ranch, and there ain’t any sense in us sidlin’ around each other like a pair of strange bulldogs. There’s plenty of room on this bench for the two of us.”
Donna laughed as she seated herself.
“You astound me, Mister English. I can’t conceive of you being interested in the company of a woman … not after what I’ve heard. I’m afraid this rather shows you up as a faker. Your self-sufficiency isn’t altogether satisfactory, is it? You know what loneliness is, after all.”
“I reckon,” he said gravely. “Yeah … I know what loneliness is. No man knows it better than I do. When your uncle offered me this job it kind of opened a new view on life to me. I wanna make it stick. The lone wolf travels fast and far … but he never knows the comforts of a den. Maybe you won’t believe it … but I’m human.”
She began to see him in a new light. Somehow he seemed wistful—almost pathetic in his isolation. Her tone changed.
“I like you so much better … this way,” she said quietly.
Instantly she was panicky. Those words had slipped out before she knew it.
“Thanks,” he said, a trifle huskily. “You’ve no idea how much that means to me. You see … women have always shied off around me. Seems like they felt I was sort of an animal … a dangerous beast … a killin’ machine or some fool thing. That’s always hurt me some, though, before now, I’ve never admitted it. Not that I was particularly interested in women. I wasn’t. But it got me to feelin’ that maybe they were right. And that certainly didn’t help my constitution any. If you’ll just keep on bein’ friendly to me … it’ll sure help a lot.”
Donna tried to laugh lightly, but the laugh was just a little shaky. For of a sudden she realized that this cold-faced young cowpuncher was a strange and powerful personality. There was an arresting beauty about him, a beauty of soul, rather than of flesh. He had lived apart from the pack, trod his own trails, followed his own visions. Men might hate him—but she understood they could not help respecting him. They might hate him because they feared him, but they saluted him for his indomitable courage, his unflinching power of purpose, his deadliness in conflict. And yet, despite this, there was a boyish wistfulness about him—a timid, shy hunger for the warmth of friendship.
“I am wondering …” Donna started to say softly, but then she hesitated when she realized she was starting to tremble. Finally she decided to blurt it out. “I am wondering if you have ever spoken this way to anyone else. I don’t believe you ever have.”
“No,” he answered, taken aback by his ability to talk so openly with her. “I never have.”
“Then I am particularly honored. And I shall respect your confidence. Also, we shall be friends … Buck.”
She sensed him start, at her use of his name.
He stood up, lean and tall. “I’ll be driftin’ now,” he said. “I wanna hang on to this … before somethin’ happens to spoil it.”
At that moment came the sound of thudding hoofs, approaching through the night. They came close, changed to a trot, then ceased altogether. Spur chains clashed softly and the figure of a rider stepped into the patio.
It was Curly Whipple.
“I should’ve left before,” Buck said softly, in a voice that had gone flat and repressed again. “This sure does spoil everythin’.”
Donna caught his arm. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
He laughed harshly. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyway. And the fool ethics of man keep him from talkin’ about some things.”
He tried to pull away, but Donna would not let go. Angry perversity gripped her.
She called out: “Curly! Here I am … over at the bench. I want you to meet a friend of mi
ne.”
Whipple crossed to them, a lean, smoothly moving bulk in the darkness. “Sorry I was late, Donna,” he explained.
“But I met Buzz and Pete headin’ for town and I stopped to chew the rag with ’em for a while. Oh-h!” His voice hardened slightly. “It’s a gentleman friend, is it?”
“Yes,” said Donna sharply. “Meet Buck English, Curly.”
Whipple was like a man thunderstruck. He stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders hunched, his hands dangling suggestively.
Buck laughed. “Careful, Whipple,” he drawled icily. “There’s a lady present. and I left my guns down in the bunkhouse. I reckon I oughta say I’m pleased to meet you. But I won’t … ’cause I’m not. Besides, we’ve met before … haven’t we, Whipple? A long time back.”
For a moment Whipple was inarticulate. Then his words came harshly. “Buck English! What you doin’ here?”
“If it’ll interest you … and it probably will … you as well as Slonicker and Canole. I’m the new foreman of this spread. Miss Donna and me have just been admirin’ the night and the smell of the flowers. But three’s a crowd. And seein’ that you and Miss Donna got a previous date, I’ll amble along.”
This time Donna could not keep her grasp on his arm. His free hand settled upon her wrist like a band of flexible steel, lifting her grip free, gentle yet inexorable. Then he was gone.
To Donna Carleton it seemed as though the night had turned cold. The velvety gloom of the patio was oppressive, threatening. For the stark, abysmal hate that flashed between these two men had held the breath of death about it somehow.
Whipple was still hunched, staring at the spot where Buck had disappeared. His breath came gustily—between set, snarling teeth. He was muttering something, scalding curses it sounded like to Donna.
“How long has that hombre been around this ranch?” he demanded harshly.
Donna moved a little apart from him, her chin up.
“I don’t care for your tone, Curly Whipple,” she declared crisply. “Unless you can change it … I’ll say good night.”
Whipple put forth a detaining hand.
“Wait,” he blurted. “Sorry, Donna. I beg your pardon. But him … Buck English … seein’ him here kind of upset me.”
“Why should it?”
Whipple drew a deep breath. “It startles you, don’t it … when you run face to face with a rattler? If you reach out your hand to shake with someone and find out that that someone is a rabid coyote, you’re bound to be surprised, ain’t you? And he says he’s the new foreman here. That can’t be so, Donna.”
“But it is so,” she answered stiffly. “Uncle Jack hired him today. And I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Curly Whipple. He doesn’t strike me as being anything poisonous or unclean. He’s different, yes … vastly different than any man I’ve ever met. How do you know he is what you claim? Where have you known him before?”
The darkness hid the film of wariness that veiled Whipple’s eyes.
“I knew him over past the Madrigals. The men over there, that truly know him, would cut their own throats before they’d put him in charge of their ranch. Gawd! Your Uncle Jack must be crazy.”
Despite herself, Donna knew a vague doubt of Buck English. Certainly Whipple’s words and tone seemed sincere enough—and convincing. And only a great hate, or great fear or feeling of utter repulsion could have affected Whipple as the meeting had. In all fairness Donna considered the fact that she had known Curly Whipple a great deal longer than she had known Buck English. And Curly had always seemed nice enough—likable, happy-go-lucky, and considerate.
On the other hand, Buck English was cold, reserved, deep, and unreadable. From others she had heard hints of his reputation, his ferocity, his ability and will to kill. Perhaps his attitude as they had talked there in the patio was nothing more than a pose after all. Yet, there had been wistfulness …
More in defense of her uncle’s judgment than anything else, Donna held her ground.
“I find it hard to truly believe all that, Curly,” she said. “Uncle Jack is nobody’s fool. He has faith and trust in Buck English.”
Whipple shrugged in restless anger. “All men make mistakes. It won’t be long before you find that your uncle has made a big one. Well … I’ve got to be driftin’. I just dropped in for a hello. I’ll be seein’ you. Adios!”
Donna did not try and hold him. The abruptness of his leaving was not at all in accord with his usual habit. It was all quite obvious that the presence of Buck English in a position of authority at the Red Mesa Ranch had a disturbing effect on Curly Whipple, which had driven all thought of romance from his mind.
He was either very much afraid, or the news was of such importance that he was in a wild hurry to broadcast it. In either event, Donna knew that she could never look upon Curly Whipple in the same light of friendship she had previously held for him.
IV
Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia did not arrive back from town until nearly noon of the following day. Their faces clearly showed that they had put in a wild night of drinking. Their eyes were bloodshot, their features bloated.
Buck English was down at the cavvy corral when they rode up. As they dismounted he sauntered over to them. Neither Layton nor Vanalia paid any attention to him. But Buck thrust his way before them, building a deft cigarette.
“Kind of late gettin’ back on the job, ain’t you, boys?” he drawled quietly.
Layton grunted, but Vanalia cursed savagely. “Who the hell wants to know?”
“I do,” snapped Buck, the chill in his eyes deepening. “I’m runnin’ this spread now. And I’m here to tell you that if you want to keep on ridin’ for this layout, you’re gonna hit the ball and earn your wages. After quittin’ time on Saturday nights, up until work time starts Monday mornin’ … your time is your own. But Jack Carleton ain’t payin’ you wages to go on sprees in the middle of the week. Don’t let it happen again. I’m tellin’ you somethin’.”
“Is that so?” sneered Vanalia. “Well, let me tell you somethin’, feller. Over past the Madrigals you mighta been hell a-wheelin’. But here you’re just a wise young jasper tryin’ to show some new authority. So I’m announcin’ it don’t get by a bit with Buzz and me.”
Buck smiled grimly. “You feel the same way about it, Layton?”
“Yeah,” growled Buzz. “I feel the same way about it.”
“Bueno. You’re both fired. Pack your war bags and hit the trail. I’ll give you a note on your time. Take it to Jack Carleton and he’ll pay you off. That’s all.”
The two recalcitrants were honestly amazed. They had had their own way about the ranch for so long that this new order of things rather knocked their feet from under them for a moment.
But their astonishment was only momentary. Vanalia cursed again and went on unsaddling. Layton followed suit.
“It’ll take a better man than you to fire us,” rasped Vanalia. “Don’t push us too far or we’ll knock the kinks outta you.”
Buck shrugged, inhaled deeply, and tossed his cigarette aside. Then he went into action like a tiger on the kill. Layton was the closest and Buck knocked him flat with the first punch. He went right on over Layton’s falling body, catapulting into the squat, powerful Vanalia with both fists pumping.
Vanalia drew his gun, but Buck was too close to him. His gun hand was knocked aside and a terrific, lifting blow caught the ranch hand squarely under the heart. Vanalia gasped and sagged, his knees bending. A flailing fist crashed home to his face, driving him still farther back—half blinding him. He tried to get some distance between himself and this human catapult—distance to swing his own powerful fists. But he never had a chance to get set. That thudding tattoo of driving punches never stopped for a second. He began to flounder unsteadily. A whistling right hook bounced off the angle of his sullen jaw and he went down, sliding through the dust
on his shoulders.
A yell of warning sounded behind Buck. He whirled, just in time to see Buzz Layton lift himself on one elbow, steadying his gun for a center shot.
Buck did not have his guns on him and it looked bad. He tensed for a leap at Layton, but a big, redheaded thunderbolt beat him to it.
It was Red Scudder, who had run out of the saddle shed at the first sound of conflict. Now he was clear in the air, pouncing like a great cat. He slammed down on Layton just as the latter pulled the trigger. The bullet flicked the loose folds of Buck’s neckerchief as it passed. But then a big, freckled fist rose and fell like a club, and Layton went limp once more.
Red secured Layton’s gun and got to his feet. Buck was busy punching the cartridges from Vanalia’s weapon. This done, he walked over to Red, his hand outstretched.
“Much obliged, Red,” he said simply. “I owe you one for that.”
Red shrugged and grinned, as their hands met. “That was a dirty trick Buzz tried,” he drawled. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Besides, those two jaspers just got somethin’ that’s been comin’ to ’em for a long time. They’ve been overdue for a lickin’ for far too long.”
Buck handed Vanalia’s gun to Red. “Hang on to both those hoglegs until these jaspers are ready to leave. I’ll go look over the books and see how much time they got comin’. If they get obstreperous, peel ’em again.”
* * * * *
The foreman’s office was a tiny, end room beside the opening into the patio.
Buck had just finished figuring out the time of the two cowpunchers, when Donna Carleton stepped through the door. She was a little pale—but defiant.
“I … I saw that fight,” she announced. “Was it necessary?”
“I figured it was,” answered Buck quietly. “I fired ’em and they sorta boiled over. I had to show ’em who was boss.”
“But they had done nothing to be fired for.”