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The Saturday Evening Post
February 2-23, 1959
Vol. 229, Issues 31-34
Custom eBook created by
Jerry eBooks
October 2019
He took note of the shape of the country, storing in his mind the landmarks and bearings that might possibly prove useful to a stranger, as the stage bore him toward the town of San Rafael. At the age of thirty-two, James McKay had learned that some harbors were easier to enter than to leave—not that he had any reason to expect trouble here. No mission could have been more peaceful than his. Nevertheless, he was conscious of being in a strange land that had a formidable reputation back East, and it did no harm to be prepared.
Then the town was in sight ahead—in this open country you could pick up your landfalls almost as soon as at sea—and he knew a return of the almost unbearable sense of expectation that had been his companion throughout the trip. Nevertheless, part of his mind was still busy cataloguing his surroundings into the mental chart he was forming of this part of Texas.
Far to the north and east, he knew, would be the Indian Territory; far to the north and west would be the desert area known as the Staked Plains, or in Spanish, the Llano Estacado. Judging by the geographical names, Spanish had figured prominently in Texas history, about which McKay, a Marylander, was not as well informed as he would have liked to be. It never hurt to know as much as possible about any land you were going to visit, and the fact that Texas had been legally part of the Union again for nearly a decade did not make it any the less a foreign country to a seafaring man from Baltimore. But the past six months had been busy ones for McKay and there had been little time for research. He knew that despite the barren appearance of the landscape, cattle were supposed to do well out here. The men of the region were supposed to grow seven feet tall and cheerfully slaughtered each other at the drop of a hat without interference by the law of the land.
Like all legends of faraway places, this one might have become a trifle exaggerated in its journey to civilization; nevertheless, McKay thought wryly, it seemed like a desolate place for a man to come to get married, and if any proof of his love and devotion was needed, the simple fact that he was here ought to suffice. They entered the outskirts of the town, pulling an end to his reflections fur the moment.
San Rafael turned out to be one of the random collections of sun-baked frame-and-clay buildings that passed for communities in this part of the world. A few tired trees, presumably the cottonwoods of which he had heard back East, gave a scanty ration of shade along the street. The stage pulled up in front of the hotel, a two-story, false-front structure with a wide porch, or veranda. The first thing McKay noted as he disembarked with the other passengers was that, except for a slim, dusky youth wearing a tremendous hat who had come running out to hold the horses, there was no one here to greet them.
McKay stood for a moment beside the coach, disappointment sharp in his throat. He told himself reasonably that distances were great out here, the stage kept only a vague and unpredictable schedule; and women were notoriously lacking in punctuality. Nevertheless, after nearly two thousand miles of journeying, he found it an undeniable blow to be standing there alone. He grimaced and turned to receive his luggage from the driver.
“Better get inside the hotel, mister,” the driver said. “Something’s wrong here, ain’t enough people around. Me. I’m getting my team and passengers out of here, not to mention my own hide.”
He swung away and began to herd the passengers back into the coach. Having expected a meal at this stop, they obeyed reluctantly; only the driver’s threat to go off and leave them to wait for the next stage through, two days hence, finally cowed them. Then the coach lurched into motion. The wind blew the dust away, leaving the street empty In view of the driver’s warning, its emptiness now seemed a little menacing. McKay picked up his valise and his carpetbag, walked across the veranda and entered the hotel.
The people inside—there were half a dozen of them—looked at him with thinly veiled curiosity as he paused to kick the door shut behind him. He could see himself briefly through their eyes; a young man of medium height who looked smaller than his actual size because of the solid width of his shoulders. He had a way, he knew, of planting his feet firmly apart, as if he had spent a good part of his life balancing himself on platforms less predictable in their motion than the floor on which he now stood. He was wearing a dark suit of good quality, and a round, dark bowler hat that gave his clean-shaven face a stubborn and pugnacious look belied by thin lines of humor about the eyes. They probably, he reflected, found the hard hat ridiculous; not, he defended himself, that it wasn’t a quite respectable hat, and one he had worn frequently at home.
There was that first moment of inspection and judgment; then all the occupants or the hold lobby—if the dingy room could be so culled—became elaborately unconcerned with the newcomer. McKay set his bags down by the door and walked over to the desk. A large woman wearing a checked gingham dress and an apron was behind the desk.
He said. “I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the Terrill place. I think it’s called the Ladder Ranch.”
“Ladder’s quite a piece out of town, young man. They expecting you?”
“Well,” he said dryly, “I thought they were, but I see no sign of it.”
The woman looked at him for a moment in an appraising manner. “I reckon you’ll be the young feller’s going to marry Miss Pat Terrill.”
“If she hasn’t changed her mind.”
“McKay’s the name, then? Well, you just sit yourself down and wait, Mr. McKay. There’s a little trouble here in town at the moment; that’s why Ladder hasn’t anybody here to meet you. But don’t you go taking off across the plains all by yourself, hear? It’s a mighty big country, Mr. McKay, and easy to get lost in.”
“Thank you,” McKay said politely.
He hesitated, but instinct warned him that to ask questions about the nature of the local disturbance would merely brand him as an inquisitive tenderfoot, and he turned away, found a chair and busied himself lighting a short pipe with a well-bitten stem. Presently one of the men on the nearby sofa rose and went to the front door; he looked out cautiously first, then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. After a while he returned.
“They’re still in the cantina,” he reported, sitting down again. “Young Mike and Shorty are getting pretty drunk. I’ve got five says it’s Mike makes his play first; he’s young and reckless.”
“Shorty ain’t so very even-tempered,” the other man on the sofa said. “He ain’t going to stand for being pushed too far.”
“He’d better stand it.” said a man who was looking out the window, without turning his head, “Either of those boys makes a play in there and they’ll both come out feet first. That’s just what Hannesey’s bunch is working for. Old Rufus wants a fight, but he don’t want the blame for starting it. If one of those Ladder hands goes off half-cocked——”
He stopped and drew the curtain back to look up the street. “Well, here comes Steve Leech and the rest of the Ladder crew,” he said. “This ought to be a right lively afternoon.”
McKay smoked his pipe, listening in silence. Some of the references were not quite clear to him, but he decided that a number of men in the employ of a person known as Hannesey or “Old Rufus”, had two employees of the Ladder ranch cornered in a cantina—obviously a local drinking place of some kind—and were plying them with liquor and trying to devil them into “ma
king a play”—apparently a local term for starting a fight. Already there was the sound of many horses in the street. Then footsteps crossed the veranda and the door opened.
The man who came in was younger than McKay by several years. He was taller by a head, narrowly built; and he had a long, bronzed face, sandy hair and blue eyes. Except for the eyes, that had a pale, calculating look, he was a picturesque and handsome figure, he wore a fine pair of boots, a big hat, and a revolver in a holster the bottom of which was secured to his thigh by a leather thong, and he carried a repeating rifle in the crook of his right arm. His glance swept the room briefly, paused on McKay, and went on to find the woman at the desk.
“What happened, ma?” he asked. “They waited for the stage a while after you pulled out this morning. It didn’t come. Miss Pat went back to visit with the schoolteacher a while longer. They were to tell her when the coach was in sight. The boys decided they had time for a quick one up the street. Half a dozen of Hannesey’s riders came in and started setting up drinks for them. It would have been an insult to refuse, I sent the boy to tell Miss Pat; and I ain’t no ma of yours, Steve Leech, thank the Lord for small blessings and large ones.”
“How many are there now?”
“No more. Six or seven.”
“Is young Hannesey with them?”
“Buck? No, haven’t seen either the boy or his pa in town.”
“Then it’s a cinch. Thanks, ma.” He swung around abruptly to look at McKay. “If your name’s McKay, there’s a buckboard outside for you. The broncs’ve had some of the steam run out of them, so I reckon you can handle them. Go back up the street, take the second turn to the right and stop at the only house that’s got a fence and a gate. Miss Terrill’s waiting for you there. Make it quick; there’s like to be a little lead flying in a couple of minutes.”
McKay nodded, rose and started toward the door.
Steve Leech’s voice said drawlingly, “That’s a hell of a hat to bring to this country, friend. You don’t watch out, some drunk cowboy’s going to shoot it off your head just in fun, like.”
McKay looked over his shoulder. Leech’s voice had been light enough, and there was even an attempt at a pleasant grin on his face, but there was no mistaking the dislike in the blue eyes.
McKay said gravely, “I thank you for the warning.” Then, since the offer seemed to be indicated, he said, “If you need any help, and somebody is willing to lend me a weapon, preferably a rifle——”
The taller man laughed. “Don’t be a hero, Mr. McKay. This is no place for greenhorns. Run along.”
McKay shrugged his shoulders, picked up the two bags by the door, and went out to the light wagon. He drove away without looking back, and swung into the side street that had been described to him. The fence and the gate were easy to locate, being painted white. A tall girl with thick fair hair came running from the house as he pulled up in front. Although he liked to consider himself an unemotional man, and one strongly opposed to public displays of affection, McKay found himself vaulting from the seat of the wagon like a boy and striking the white gate out of his path with a violence that threatened the hinges; then he had her in his arms. It was some time before he became aware that they were embracing practically on a public thoroughfare in broad daylight. He released her with some embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said. “I didn’t mean to compromise you before the neighbors.”
She laughed delightedly at this, and took his hand and led him into the house, where she turned quickly to face him again; and they repeated the kiss at greater length and leisure.
“Oh, darling, darling!” she breathed at last. “It’s been so long! You don’t know how long it’s been!”
“Don’t I?”
“If I’d known how I was going to miss you, I’d never have let you send me home!” she said. “How could you do it?”
“It’s something I’ve wondered myself,” he said.
“There have been times I was positive you weren’t actually coming, in spite of your letters.” she confessed. “Times when I—thought you’d taken this way to—to get rid of me.”
He grinned. “There have been times I wasn’t sure you’d still have me when I did come.” He stepped back to look at her. “Six months haven’t changed your mind, Patricia?”
“Do I act as if they had, Jim?”
She smiled at him, lifting her hands to her slightly disordered hair. He watched her tuck the vagrant strands away. She was quite as tall as he, a slender and imperious figure with that crown of fair hair. It had startled him to discover that the same girl could look so remote and lovely at one moment, and be so warm and impulsive the next. During the year she had spent there, she had scandalized all of Baltimore with her unconventional behavior, he had heard of the willful beauty from Texas long before he met her; and he had not expected to like her, being a fairly restrained and conservative person himself.
Which showed, he reflected, how little faith a man could put in premonitions.
“Oh, don’t study me so critically, darling!” she protested, laughing. “I look perfectly awful. I know. Here I came into town early last night, just so I could have a good night’s sleep and be fresh and beautiful for you this morning. And then the stage was late and a couple of fool cowboys went and got themselves in trouble until I had to jump in the buckboard and drive like a crazy woman to bring back the rest of the crew.”
“I know,” he said. “I heard about it at the hotel.”
She glanced in that direction. “Do you know what happened? If that bunch of saloon hard cases of the Hanneseys’ has hurt any of our boys, I declare I’ll get my rifle out of the wagon and go shoot them up myself!”
“I don’t know what happened,” McKay said. “I didn’t stay around to find out.” After a moment, the girl looked at him quickly and, he thought, a little oddly, as if struck by a sudden doubt. “I offered my services, my dear,” he said. “A gentleman named Leech allowed as how he needed no help from greenhorns.”
Patricia flushed minutely, “I’m sorry, Jim. I should have known, Steve didn’t mean any harm, I’m sure.” The mood of the reunion had been marred by that little flicker of doubt, and both of them knew it. Patricia laughed quickly. “Well, Julie Maragon’s hiding in the bedroom to give us privacy, I think we can let her out now, don’t you? You’ll like her, she’s a real sweet person. All the school children adore her . . . Julie,” she called, “you can come out now! I’ve finished kissing him, for the moment!”
There was a stir in the next room; presently the door opened and a young woman of medium height came out. She had dark hair put up in a rather plain and uncompromising way and she wore a wool skirt and a white shirtwaist. McKay noticed that there were freckles on her face; otherwise the face was in no way remarkable.
Patricia said, with playful formality, “Miss Maragon, allow me to present Mr. McKay. Julie, this is Jim. I want you to entertain him while I finish packing my things; if we don’t get started soon, we won’t get to the ranch until practically midnight.” She glanced toward the door. “I do wish Steve would come and let us know everything’s all right. I won’t be a minute, darling.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, leaving them standing there. The smaller girl laughed softly. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she? You’re a very lucky man, Mr. McKay. Please sit down.”
He sat down on the small, unyielding sofa and watched Julie Maragon seat herself in a chair facing him. He was aware that he made a somewhat stiff and ridiculous figure sitting there with the bowler hat on his knees, but there was always a kind of awkwardness between a single woman and a man who, committed elsewhere, could have no serious interest in her. Nevertheless, she was Patricia’s friend, and he made an effort to be agreeable.
“Is this your home, Miss Maragon?” he asked. “It seems like a very pleasant place.”
“It’ll do,” the girl said.
“Do you come from this part of the country?”
She smi
led. “My grandfather was the first man to run cattle this far north in Texas, Mr. McKay. He had a ranch here when the Comanches were still a serious problem—in fact, they caught my parents away from the house when I was a baby and killed them both. Gramps went after the Indians with a bunch of men and came back with seven scalps.” After a moment, she said, “It was a fierce country in those days. Mr. McKay.”
He said dryly, “It’s not exactly peaceful right now, I gather. Maybe you can tell me what’s behind this trouble.”
“Why,” she said, “the situation is very simple. When Gramps settled here, naturally he picked the best spot for grass and water at the junction of Big Muddy Creek and the Rio Puerco. That’s about forty miles west of here. Later, Major Terrill moved in to the north along the river, and still later the Hanneseys started running cattle along the edge of the broken country to the south—there was some question as to whose cattle, but the question was never answered. Both of the new ranches were actually on range Gramps had been using, but it was free range then and he was getting old and losing interest in the cattle business, so he didn’t object as long as they left him alone on Big Muddy, which they did. But when he died, three years ago, he could see what was coming; and I knew that a woman had no business in the middle of a mess like that. So I sold off what little stock we had left and paid off our few remaining hands and moved into town to teach school—the county gave me the job out of respect for Gramps’ memory. So now Ladder and the Hannesey outfit are fighting for the use or Big Muddy, and it’s been a standoff for three years.”
McKay frowned. “I don’t quite understand the legal position, Miss Maragon. This land under dispute used to belong to your grandfather. To whom does it belong now?”
The girl laughed. “Out here, land and water—don’t forget the water; nobody in Texas does—belongs to whoever can take and hold it.”
He said, a little impatiently, “But certainly before a man like your grandfather put up houses and barns he assured himself of some kind of title to the land he was building on, at least.”
Ambush at Blanco Canyon Page 1