“We’ve got four workin’ cowhands now, Val,” Pa said, “and a grubline rider who drifted in a few days ago huntin’ you.”
“Me?”
“Calls himself Tensleep. Said he had word for you.” Pa Bucklin paused to chew on his steak, and then added, “Looks like a right tough man.”
“He’s an outlaw, Pa, but he’s been a good friend to me. I met him when I was five,” he added, “and I’ve seen him around since. After supper I’d better hear what he has to say. He isn’t given to talking through his hat.”
“He’s a good hand. He’s turned out for work every day since he came, and he works fast and steady. I’d say he’s as good a man with stock as I ever did see.”
“Does he want a job?”
“Ain’t said. I’d say he’s been up the trail and over the mountain, and he’d like to light an’ keep his feet under the table for a spell.”
Then Bucklin looked sharply at him. “You figurin’ on stayin’ a while? We’ve made provision. You’ve got a separate wing of the house for your ownself. The girls furnished it, so if you have complaint, speak to them.”
“I … I’m not sure.” Val looked over at Boston, then turned his eyes away. “I would like to stay, but there is much I have to do. And I don’t know yet what I want my life to be. Or where I want to live.”
“You got call to be restless, never staying put all your born days.”
Val told them then of the places he’d seen, of the men and the women, of the gowns and the wine and the music, and the world beyond the rim of the hills out there, beyond the cap-rock and beyond the Brazos. He told of the work he had done, of the loneliness, and of Van Clevern; and then, of Myra.
After talking a long time he got up from the table, and the girls cleared the dishes away. He said to Pa, “I’d better go see Tensleep.”
It was cool out on the dark veranda. He went down the steps to the yard, and he could see the rectangles of light from the bunkhouse windows and the glow of a cigarette from the stoop. He started across the hard-packed earth, listening to the pleasant sound of the horses feeding in the corral, and when he turned once to look back at the big house and its windows, he heard the sound of male voices, then laughter from the girls.
He strolled toward the bunkhouse and said, “Tensleep?”
“He’s in yonder, a-waitin’ for you. He spotted you the minute you skylined yourself up on the ridge.” Then he added, “I’m Waco.”
“Val Darrant. Glad to meet you, Waco.”
He opened the door and stepped into the bunkhouse. There were bunks for eight men, three of them empty of bedclothes. The men inside looked up, and two of them then returned to their checker game, while another watched. Tensleep was lying on his bunk, but he sat up and swung his boots to the floor.
“Howdy, Val. I come a fur piece, a-huntin’ you.” He took up his hat, and they went outside, walking to the corral.
Val was thinking: He’s thinner … older … and if anything, tougher.
At the corral, Tensleep turned to him. “Boy, you in any kinda trouble? Anything I can take off your back?”
“No. Nothing.”
“You sure?” He could feel Tensleep’s eyes on him.
“Somebody shot at me. I’m carrying a scratch on my shoulder. Either he figured me for dead, or was scared off when Boston Bucklin rode up. Anyway he ran off. I think it was Thursty Pike.”
“Him? He’d be likely to do that. I heard he was in Tascosa.”
“I saw him there. He left town.”
Tensleep chuckled. “He did if he was smart. Boy, you made yourself a name with Chip Hardesty. They’re still talkin’ about it.”
“I don’t want the name. What’s on your mind, Tensleep?”
“The Pinks,” he said, “they’re huntin’ you. And when they hunt you they find you.”
“The Pinks?” Val’s mind was a momentary blank, then it came to him: the Pinkertons. But why would they be hunting him?
“Well,” he said, “it’s not for anything I’ve done. But somebody must want to find me.” He studied the idea, and could think of no one. He had been in touch with Bricker. Van Clevern was dead. There was no one … no one at all. He said as much, but Tensleep snorted.
“Don’t you believe it. Somebody wants you almighty bad. They’ve had men a-huntin’ you up and down the country, and that costs money. I never knew even Wells Fargo to spend so much. I got wind of it, and put some feelers out.” He looked up at Val. “I got friends, you know—I hear things. You done wrong to some woman?”
“No.”
“Well, the way the story goes, it’s a woman huntin’ you.”
Myra …
She had the money, and she might know of him. She might want to find him … but for what?
“It might be Myra,” he said.
Tensleep stiffened. “Boy, you watch your step. That ain’t no woman, that’s a rattler. She’s pure poison.”
He was silent for a moment. “Myra! I never gave a thought to her. I ain’t seen or heard of her in years.”
“She’s been back east,” Val said. “She’s made a mint of money and a name for herself.”
“I bet you,” Tensleep muttered. “Watch yourself, boy. I wouldn’t trust her a foot.” He paused. “Whatever became of that fancy man of hers?”
“He’s dead … accident.”
“I’ll bet,” Tensleep said cynically. “He knew where the body was buried—all the bodies. If she’s big, she can’t afford him.” Tensleep dug in his pocket for the makings and built himself a smoke. “And she can’t afford you, neither. Look, boy, if you saw anything of Van, she’ll figure he told you some things about her.
“Van was always a pretty good man,” he went on. “He hadn’t no more backbone than so much spaghetti, but he always had a ready hand if a man was on his uppers. I figured him for a straight one … there was no thief in him … trouble was, she had him wrapped around her little finger. He was roped and hogtied by that woman.”
Long after Val was back in the wing of the house the girls had prepared for him, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Of course, Tensleep was right. Van had been murdered. It was all too pat. And now she—or somebody—had the Pinkertons looking for him. The Pinks might be strikebreakers, they might be strong-arm men, but so far as he knew they weren’t killers. However, once he was located, there were other men who could handle that.
Perhaps that shot today? No … that was Pike. He was sure of that in his own mind. He also knew that Pike would still be around.
His thoughts went back to Tensleep, and the end of their conversation. The old outlaw had said, “Boy, I like this place. I’m riding the grubline here, but—well—I sure enough care for it. If they’d take me on, I’d hang up my saddle.”
“They like you, Tensleep,” Val had said, “and they like your work. I’ll speak to Pa Bucklin.”
“Thanks.” Tensleep had thrust out his hand. “Boy, that there cabin in the snow is a long time back, ain’t it? An’ Will Reilly, and all?”
“And Henry Sonnenberg,” Val added.
“Yeah—there’s him, all right,” Tensleep said. “Boy, you want I should go get him? I could find him. I was never afraid of Henry—he was never up to taking me on. My hand may not be as steady, but if you want—”
“Forget it. He killed Will Reilly … he and Thursty Pike are still left. I want them myself. And I want Sonnenberg most of all.”
At last his eyes closed, and he slept. On the far ridge above the ranch a lone rider stopped and looked down at the spread below him. He sat there a long time before he rode away … but his day would come.
Chapter Nineteen
At daybreak Boston rode away from the ranch and headed south. It was a sixteen-mile ride she had ahead of her, but when she made up her mind to do something she was not one to waste time.
She was crossing the creek below the ranch when she saw the tracks, and drew up. This w
as not one of the ranch horses, for she knew every hoof on the place. This was a strange horse, with a long, swinging gait, and the tracks were fresh, probably not more than four or five hours old. She thought of the man who had shot at Val, but at present she would not consider this—she had to go ahead with her errand.
She reached the Winslow place well before noon, and rode into the ranch yard and swung down. Melissa Winslow came out on the porch to greet her. “Boston! Of all people! Do come in!”
Boston went up the steps, spurs jingling. “Mel, I need your help.”
“My help? You?” Melissa smiled. “I would have believed you were the one person in the world who would never need help from anyone.”
“I want to be a lady.”
Melissa glanced at her again. “I never knew you when you weren’t. What’s all this about?”
“Valentine Darrant. I’m in love with him.”
“You mean he’s come back? After all this time?”
“He has, and he’s … he’s just wonderful.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that about any man. But do you mean he has complained? He doesn’t like you? The man’s obviously a fool.”
“I think he likes me. I really believe he does; but Mel, I’m too rough. He didn’t say that, I’m saying it. I want to know how to act like a lady, how to talk, how to eat the proper way … I want to know it all.”
“You must be in love,” Mel said. “All that for just one man?”
“Yes.” Boston sat up eagerly. “Mel, it’s got to be fast. I’ll work at it. You know I can. He’ll be going east again and I wouldn’t want him to think he had to be ashamed of me. You’ve lived in the East. You grew up there. I’ve never lived anywhere except on a ranch, and Ma died when I was so young. Will you help me?”
“Of course.” She looked at Boston again. “But I hate to spoil you. There are a lot of ladies, but I never knew anyone like you. You’re the only one of your kind, Boston. I shudder to think what you’d do to the men if you weren’t a good girl.”
“Don’t call me that. It sounds so … so prissy.”
Before the long day was over, Melissa was sure of two things: Boston was instinctively a lady, and she was also a natural actress, graceful and easy, with an ear attuned to the proper usage of words.
Val had slept late that morning, awakening to a painful shoulder, and a stiffness, especially in his right leg, that hampered his movements. Breakfast time was long past, but Betsy brought his and sat down with him.
“Where’s Boston?” he asked.
“She left a note. She rode off this morning before daylight and she’ll be gone overnight and tomorrow.”
Val had a distinct feeling of disappointment, but he only said, “I hope she hasn’t gone far. I think the man who shot at me may still be around.”
“She went to Melissa Winslow’s place. They have a small outfit about a few hours’ ride from here. He’s English.” She added, “Mel is a Virginia girl who went to school in London. That was where she met David.”
He was in no mood for riding, nor for looking over the ranch. After breakfast he sat on the veranda and looked out over the valley, mentally reviewing his situation. Nothing about it looked particularly favorable.
He should have faced Pike in Tascosa. He should have forced him to draw, and killed him. As it was, the man was free to shoot whenever he chose, and Val must be on guard every hour of the day and night. That Pike would ride on out of the country he did not believe for one moment. The man was vindictive, and dangerous. He would wait … The worst of it was, he might be trapped by one of the Bucklins, forcing them into a shootout.
Throughout the day, Val worked the fingers of his right hand. They were limber enough, but the shoulder was stiff, and there was no ease in his movements, and no speed. Meanwhile, he could not help but notice how well kept the ranch was. The buildings had been painted, the gates all worked easily, and what stock he could see was in good shape.
A third of this was his, but though he had provided the money that made the difference, there was here no work of his hands, no planning of his brain. This was the work of others, for which he could take no credit.
He shifted in his chair. He was nothing but an aimless drifter; he was not even as much as Will had been, who was a gambler, admitted it, and enjoyed it—enjoyed it, at least, until he met Princess Louise.
What had become of her? And of Prince Pavel? At the thought of Pavel he felt coldness take hold of him. He would never forget that day on the outskirts of Innsbruck when Pavel had tried to whip Will Reilly.
Yet in the end it was Pavel who had triumphed. His money and his hatred had reached where he could not, dared not. Henry Sonnenberg was only the tool. The killer was Pavel.
“I think I will go to Europe,” he said aloud.
“Boston will be disappointed, Val,” Betsy said. She had come up to him quietly. “Why to Europe?”
“I’ve some unfinished business over there,” he said. “There’s a man I must see.”
“You haven’t told me how you liked your part of the house,” she said. “We spent a lot of time planning it, thinking about it.”
He was ashamed. “I’ve been preoccupied,” he said. “Will you show me through?”
He struggled to his feet, swung his stiff leg around and limped after her.
There were three rooms in the east wing of the house—a small but comfortable living room, a bedroom, and a bath. The walls of the living room, which he had not entered until now, were lined with books. He crossed the room to look at them.
“You were always reading,” Betsy said, “and you mentioned several of the books you liked, and sometimes when you wrote to us you mentioned what you were doing, so we asked Mel and David to help us.”
He saw there Scott’s Marmion, Volney’s Ruins of Empire, The Life of Sir Walter Scott, by Lockhart, Hypatia, by Kingsley … and there were works by Plato, Hume, Locke, Berkeley, Spinoza, and Voltaire, and a shelf of the poets.
“You must thank Mrs. Winslow for me,” he said. “And I want to thank you and Boston.”
It was an easy, comfortable room, unlike the crowded, overdone rooms of so many eastern homes he had seen. It was closer in style to the rather bare rooms of the Spanish ranches in California.
When Betsy had gone into the other part of the house, Val browsed through the books, taking them one by one from the shelves. A few of them he had read, most of them he had not, but all were books he had wanted to read.
He heard the door from the veranda open, and took a book from the shelf, turning as he did so.
Thurston Pike was standing there, gun in hand. “Got my horse right here,” he said, “an’ I’m goin’ to kill you, mister, an’ nobody the wiser.”
As he finished speaking, he fired, and the impact of the bullet, fired at a distance of not more than a dozen feet, knocked Val back against the bookshelves, but he drew from his waistband as he fell back, and fired as his shoulders braced against the bookshelves. He felt the impact of another bullet, but Pike was going down as Val shot the second time.
The door burst open and Betsy stood there, a rifle in her hands. Thurston Pike was on his back in the doorway, half in, and half out.
Val was staring at the book in his hand. He had taken it from a shelf, had turned, and the thick, leather-bound book had taken both bullets, aimed directly at his heart. Neither bullet had gone more than two-thirds of the way through the book.
He glanced at the title. It was Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. “You know, Bets,” he said, “I was never able to get through this book myself.”
Chapter Twenty
Myra Fossett sat behind her desk and looked across at Mr. Pinkerton, “You have news for me?”
“Yes … from several sources. First, the young man, Mr. Valentine Darrant. He is now in Texas, and we discover he is part owner of a ranch there. It comprises some sixty thousand acres of range land.”
“They own this land?”
“No, ma’am, actually it is government land, but they own the water holes. You understand this gives them—”
“I do understand. I know all about water holes and water rights, Mr. Pinkerton. What else?”
“There was an attempt to kill him by a gunman, a notorious killer named Thurston Pike. He did not succeed.”
“What happened? Get to the point, please.”
“Young Mr. Darrant was surprised in his library by the killer. Pike seems to have fired twice, Mr. Darrant also. Mr. Darrant’s bullets found their mark.”
Pike, was it? She remembered him, remembered him as a customer of one of her girls far away in Idaho. He had been a tough, dangerous man even then. Evidently her son could take care of himself.
“What led to the fight?”
“We checked into that. It seems Mr. Darrant was reared by a gambler, a man named Will Reilly.”
Of course. Will Reilly had been a friend of Van’s, but no friend of hers. She felt a little pang when she thought of him, for Will Reilly was the one man who had really interested her. As a matter of fact, she hated men; she used them and got rid of them, but Will had never so much as given her the time of day.
Pinkerton had turned a leaf in his notebook. “This Reilly was the target of a reward offer … not by the law, by some private party.” Pinkerton looked up at her as he said this, and she smiled cynically.
“Don’t worry yourself. I know nothing of that.”
“Of course. I did not for the moment—”
“You’re a damned liar, Pinkerton. Now get on with it.”
“There were three men—Thurston Pike, Chip Hardesty, and Henry Sonnenberg. They ambushed him, caught him coming out of a lighted door.”
He paused. “The first two are no longer with us. Mr. Darrant seems to have killed them both.”
“And Sonnenberg?”
“I know a good deal of him in another connection, and we have him on our wanted list. He killed a Wells Fargo guard a year or two ago, and there have been other—”
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