“Corn?” Simpson shook his head. “We’ve no corn.”
“You have corn for the freighters’ stock and corn for the stage horses. Give my horse corn.”
Sabre had a sharp ring of authority in his voice, and before he realized it, Simpson was giving the big roan his corn. He thought about it and stared after Sabre. The tall rider was walking away, a light, long step, easy and free, on the balls of his feet. And he carried two guns, low hung and tied down.
Simpson stared, then shrugged. “A bad one,” he muttered. “Wish he’d kill Sid Trumbull!”
Matt Sabre pushed into the door of the Yellowjacket and dropped his saddlebags to the floor. Then he strode to the bar. “What have you got, man? Anything but rye?”
“What’s the matter? Ain’t rye good enough for you?” Hobbs was sore himself. No man should work so many hours on feet like his.
“Have you brandy? Or some Irish whiskey?”
Hobbs stared. “Mister, where do you think you are? New York?”
“That’s all right, Hobbs. I like a man who knows what he likes. Give him some of my cognac.”
Matt Sabre turned and glanced at the speaker. He was a tall man, immaculate in black broadcloth, with blond hair slightly wavy and a rosy complexion. He might have been thirty or older. He wore a pistol on his left side, high up.
“Thanks,” Sabre said briefly. “There’s nothing better than cognac on a wet night.”
“My name is McCarran. I run the PM outfit, east of here. Northeast, to be exact.”
Sabre nodded. “My name is Sabre. I run no outfit, but I’m looking for one. Where’s the Pivotrock?”
He was a good poker player, men said. His eyes were fast from using guns, and so he saw the sudden glint and the quick caution in Prince McCarran’s eyes.
“The Pivotrock? Why, that’s a stream over in the Mogollons. There’s an outfit over there, all right. A one-horse affair. Why do you ask?”
Sabre cut him off short. “Business with them.”
“I see. Well, you’ll find it a lonely ride. There’s trouble up that way now, some sort of a cattle war.”
Matt Sabre tasted his drink. It was good cognac. In fact, it was the best, and he had found none west of New Orleans.
McCarran, his name was. He knew something, too. Curtin had asked him to help his widow. Was the Pivotrock outfit in the war? He decided against asking McCarran, and they talked quietly of the rain and of cattle, then of cognac. “You never acquired a taste for cognac in the West. May I ask where?”
“Paris,” Sabre replied, “Marseilles, Fez, and Marrakesh.”
“You’ve been around, then. Well, that’s not uncommon.” The blond man pointed toward a heavy-shouldered young man who slept with his head on his arms. “See that chap? Calls himself Camp Gordon. He’s a Cambridge man, quotes the classics when he’s drunk—which is over half the time—and is one of the best cowhands in the country when he’s sober.
“Keys over there, playing the piano, studied in Weimar. He knew Strauss, in Vienna, before he wrote ‘The Blue Danube.’ There’s all sorts of men in the West, from belted earls and remittance men to vagabond scum from all corners of the world. They are here a few weeks, and they talk the lingo like veterans. Some of the biggest ranches in the West are owned by Englishmen.”
Prince McCarran talked to him a few minutes longer, but he learned nothing. Sabre was not evasive, but somehow he gave out no information about himself or his mission. McCarran walked away very thoughtfully. Later, after Matt Sabre was gone, Sid Trumbull came in.
“Sabre?” Trumbull shook his head. “Never heard of him. Keys might know. He knows about ever’body. What’s he want on the Pivotrock?”
LYING ON HIS back in bed, Matt Sabre stared up into the darkness and listened to the rain on the window and on the roof. It rattled hard, skeleton fingers against the glass, and he turned restlessly in his bed, frowning as he recalled that quick, guarded expression in the eyes of Prince McCarran.
Who was McCarran, and what did he know? Had Curtin’s request that he help his wife been merely the natural request of a dying man, or had he felt that there was a definite need of help? Was something wrong here?
He went to sleep vowing to deliver the money and ride away. Yet even as his eyes closed the last time, he knew he would not do it if there was trouble.
It was still raining, but no longer pouring, when he awakened. He dressed swiftly and checked his guns, his mind taking up his problems where they had been left the previous night.
Camp Gordon, his face puffy from too much drinking and too sound a sleep, staggered down the stairs after him. He grinned woefully at Sabre. “I guess I really hung one on last night,” he said. “What I need is to get out of town.”
They ate breakfast together, and Gordon’s eyes sharpened suddenly at Matt’s query of directions to the Pivotrock. “You’ll not want to go there, man. Since Curtin ran out they’ve got their backs to the wall. They are through! Leave it to Galusha Reed for that.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“Reed claims title to the Pivotrock. Bill Curtin’s old man bought it from a Mex who had it from a land grant. Then he made a deal with the Apaches, which seemed to cinch his title. Trouble was, Galusha Reed shows up with a prior claim. He says Fernandez had no grant. That his man Sonoma had a prior one. Old Man Curtin was killed when he fell from his buckboard, and young Billy couldn’t stand the gaff. He blew town after Tony Sikes buffaloed him.”
“What about his wife?”
Gordon shook his head, then shrugged. Doubt and worry struggled on his face. “She’s a fine girl, Jenny Curtin is. The salt of the earth. It’s too bad Curtin hadn’t a tenth of her nerve. She’ll stick, and she swears she’ll fight.”
“Has she any men?”
“Two. An old man who was with her father-in-law and a half-breed Apache they call Rado. It used to be Silerado.”
Thinking it over, Sabre decided there was much left to be explained. Where had the five thousand dollars come from? Had Billy really run out, or had he gone away to get money to put up a battle? And how did he get it?
“I’m going out.” Sabre got to his feet. “I’ll have a talk with her.”
“Don’t take a job there. She hasn’t a chance!” Gordon said grimly. “You’d do well to stay away.”
“I like fights when one side doesn’t have a chance,” Matt replied lightly. “Maybe I will ask for a job. A man’s got to die sometime, and what better time than fighting when the odds are against him?”
“I like to win,” Gordon said flatly. “I like at least a chance.”
Matt Sabre leaned over the table, aware that Prince McCarran had moved up behind Gordon, and that a big man with a star was standing near him. “If I decide to go to work for her”—Sabre’s voice was easy, confident—“then you’d better join us. Our side will win.”
“Look here, you!” The man wearing the star, Sid Trumbull, stepped forward. “You either stay in town or get down the trail! There’s trouble enough in the Mogollons. Stay out of there.”
Matt looked up. “You’re telling me?” His voice cracked like a whip. “You’re town marshal, Trumbull, not a United States marshal or a sheriff, and if you were a sheriff, it wouldn’t matter. It is out of this county. Now suppose you back up and don’t step into conversations unless you’re invited.”
Trumbull’s head lowered, and his face flushed red. Then he stepped around the table, his eyes narrow and mean. “Listen, you!” His voice was thick with fury. “No two-by-twice cowpoke tells me—!”
“Trumbull”—Sabre spoke evenly—“you’re asking for it. You aren’t acting in line of duty now. You’re picking trouble, and the fact that you’re marshal won’t protect you.”
“Protect me?” His fury exploded. “Protect me? Why, you—!”
Trumbull lunged around the table, but Matt side-stepped swiftly and kicked a chair into the marshal’s path. Enraged, Sid Trumbull had no chance to avoid it and fell headlong, bloodying h
is palms on the slivery floor.
Kicking the chair away, he lunged to his feet, and Matt stood facing him, smiling. Camp Gordon was grinning, and Hobbs was leaning his forearms on the bar, watching with relish.
Trumbull stared at his torn palms, then lifted his eyes to Sabre’s. Then he started forward, and suddenly, in midstride, his hand swept for his gun.
Sabre palmed his Colt, and the gun barked even as it lifted. Stunned, Sid Trumbull stared at his numbed hand. His gun had been knocked spinning, and the .44 slug, hitting the trigger guard, had gone by to rip off the end of Sid’s little finger. Dumbly, he stared at the slow drip of blood.
Prince McCarran and Gordon were only two of those who stared, not at the marshal, but at Matt Sabre.
“You throw that gun mighty fast, stranger,” McCarran said. “Who are you, anyway? There aren’t a half-dozen men in the country who can throw a gun that fast. I know most of them by sight.”
Sabre’s eyes glinted coldly. “No? Well, you know another one now. Call it seven men.” He spun on his heel and strode from the room. All eyes followed him.
COYOTE TROUBLE
Matt Sabre’s roan headed up Shirt Tail Creek, crossed Bloody Basin and Skeleton Ridge, and made the Verde in the vicinity of the hot springs. He bedded down that night in a corner of a cliff near Hardscrabble Creek. It was late when he turned in, and he had lit no fire.
He had chosen his position well, for behind him the cliff towered, and on his left there was a steep hillside that sloped away toward Hardscrabble Creek. He was almost at the foot of Hardscrabble Mesa, with the rising ground of Deadman Mesa before him. The ground in front sloped away to the creek, and there was plenty of dry wood. The overhang of the cliff protected it from the rain.
Matt Sabre came suddenly awake. For an instant, he lay very still. The sky had cleared, and as he lay on his side, he could see the stars. He judged that it was past midnight. Why he had awakened he could not guess, but he saw that the roan was nearer, and the big gelding had his head up and ears pricked.
“Careful, boy!” Sabre warned.
Sliding out of his bedroll, he drew on his boots and got to his feet. Feeling out in the darkness, he drew his Winchester near.
He was sitting in absolute blackness due to the cliff’s overhang. He knew the boulders and the clumps of cedar were added concealment. The roan would be lost against the blackness of the cliff, but from where he sat, he could see some thirty yards of the creek bank and some open ground.
There was subdued movement below and whispering voices. Then silence. Leaving his rifle, Sabre belted on his guns and slid quietly out of the overhang and into the cedars.
After a moment, he heard the sound of movement, and then a low voice: “He can’t be far! They said he came this way, and he left the main trail after Fossil Creek.”
There were two of them. He waited, standing there among the cedars, his eyes hard and his muscles poised and ready. They were fools. Did they think he was that easy?
He had fought Apaches and Kiowas, and he had fought the Tauregs in the Sahara and the Riffs in the Atlas Mountains. He saw them then, saw their dark figures moving up the hill, outlined against the pale gravel of the slope.
That hard, bitter thing inside him broke loose, and he could not stand still. He could not wait. They would find the roan, and then they would not leave until they had him. It was now or never. He stepped out, quickly, silently.
“Looking for somebody?”
They wheeled, and he saw the starlight on a pistol barrel and heard the flat, husky cough of his own gun. One went down, coughing and gasping. The other staggered, then turned and started off in a stumbling run, moaning half in fright, half in pain. He stood there, trying to follow the man, but he lost him in the brush.
He turned back to the fellow on the ground but did not go near him. He circled wide instead, returning to his horse. He quieted his roan, then lay down. In a few minutes, he was dozing.
Daybreak found him standing over the body. The roan was already saddled for the trail. It was one of the two he had seen in Silver City, a lean, dark-faced man with deep lines in his cheeks and a few gray hairs at the temples. There was an old scar, deep and red, over his eye.
Sabre knelt and went through his pockets, taking a few letters and some papers. He stuffed them into his own pockets, then mounted. Riding warily, he started up the creek. He rode with his Winchester across his saddle, ready for whatever came. Nothing did.
The morning drew on, the air warm and still after the rain. A fly buzzed around his ears, and he whipped it away with his hat. The roan had a long-striding, space-eating walk. It moved out swiftly and surely toward the far purple ranges, dipping down through grassy meadows lined with pines and aspens, with here and there the whispering leaves of a tall cottonwood.
It was a land to dream about, a land perfect for the grazing of either cattle or sheep, a land for a man to live in. Ahead and on his left he could see the towering Mogollon Rim, and it was beyond this rim, up on the plateau, that he would find the Pivotrock. He skirted a grove of rustling aspen and looked down a long valley.
For the first time, he saw cattle—fat, contented cattle, fat from the rich grass of these bottomlands. Once, far off, he glimpsed a rider, but he made no effort to draw near, wanting only to find the trail to the Pivotrock.
A wide-mouthed canyon opened from the northeast, and he turned the roan and started up the creek that ran down it. Now he was climbing, and from the look of the country, he would climb nearly three thousand feet to reach the rim. Yet he had been told there was a trail ahead, and he pushed on.
The final eight hundred feet to the rim was by a switch-back trail that had him climbing steadily, yet the air on the plateau atop the rim was amazingly fresh and clear. He pushed on, seeing a few scattered cattle, and then he saw a crude wooden sign by the narrow trail. It read:
PIVOTROCK…1 MILE
The house was low and sprawling, lying on a flat-topped knoll with the long barns and sheds built on three sides of a square. The open side faced the rim and the trail up which he was riding. There were cottonwood, pine, and fir backing up the buildings. He could see the late afternoon sunlight glistening on the coats of the saddlestock in the corral.
An old man stepped from the stable with a carbine in his hands. “All right, stranger. You stop where you are. What you want here?”
Matt Sabre grinned. Lifting his hand carefully, he pushed back his flat-brimmed hat. “Huntin’ Mrs. Jenny Curtin,” he said. “I’ve got news.” He hesitated. “Of her husband.”
The carbine muzzle lowered. “Of him? What news would there be of him?”
“Not good news,” Sabre told him. “He’s dead.”
Surprisingly, the old man seemed relieved. “Light,” he said briefly. “I reckon we figured he was dead. How’d it happen?”
Sabre hesitated. “He picked a fight in a saloon in El Paso, then drew too slow.”
“He was never fast.” The old man studied him. “My name’s Tom Judson. Now, you sure didn’t come all the way here from El Paso to tell us Billy was dead. What did you come for?”
“I’ll tell Mrs. Curtin that. However, they tell me down the road you’ve been with her a long time, so you might as well know. I brought her some money. Bill Curtin gave it to me on his death bed; asked me to bring it to her. It’s five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand?” Judson stared. “Reckon Bill must have set some store by you to trust you with it. Know him long?”
Sabre shook his head. “Only a few minutes. A dying man hasn’t much choice.”
A door slammed up at the house, and they both turned. A slender girl was walking toward them, and the sunlight caught the red in her hair. She wore a simple cotton dress, but her figure was trim and neat. Ahead of her dashed a boy who might have been five or six. He lunged at Sabre, then slid to a stop and stared up at him, then at his guns.
“Howdy, old-timer!” Sabre said, smiling. “Where’s your spurs?”
The boy was startled and shy. He drew back, surprised at the question. “I—I’ve got no spurs!”
“What? A cowhand without spurs? We’ll have to fix that.” He looked up. “How are you, Mrs. Curtin? I’m Mathurin Sabre, Matt for short. I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you.”
Her face paled a little, but her chin lifted. “Will you come to the house, Mr. Sabre? Tom, put his horse in the corral, will you?”
The living room of the ranchhouse was spacious and cool. There were Navajo rugs upon the floor, and the chairs and the divan were beautifully tanned cowhide. He glanced around appreciatively, enjoying the coolness after his hot ride in the Arizona sun, like the naturalness of this girl, standing in the home she had created.
She faced him abruptly. “Perhaps you’d better tell me now; there’s no use pretending or putting a bold face on it when I have to be told.”
As quickly and quietly as possible, he explained. When he was finished, her face was white and still. “I—I was afraid of this. When he rode away, I knew he would never come back. You see, he thought—he believed he had failed me, failed his father.”
Matt drew the oilskin packet from his pocket. “He sent you this. He said it was five thousand dollars. He said to give it to you.”
She took it, staring at the package, and tears welled into her eyes. “Yes.” Her voice was so low that Matt scarcely heard it. “He would do this. He probably felt it was all he could do for me, for us. You see”—Jenny Curtin’s eyes lifted—“we’re in a fight, and a bad one. This is war money.
“I—guess Billy thought—well, he was no fighter himself, and this might help, might compensate. You’re probably wondering about all this.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not. And maybe I’d better go out with the boys now. You’ll want to be alone.”
“Wait!” Her fingers caught his sleeve. “I want you to know, since you were with him when he died, and you have come all this way to help us. There was no trouble with Billy and me. It was—well, he thought he was a coward. He thought he had failed me.
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