Under the circumstances they would not blame him, but if he held back now they would lose faith in his courage. Moreover, the inquest on this day had not gone well. He had planned to strike there, to carry it off with a high hand and deny the right of Macy or anyone to question his actions. Then the man Dolan had arrived with several hardcase riders, all armed. They had said nothing, but Dolan was obviously with the sheriff, which was surprising.
Moreover, despite the number of businessmen who had remained away, Bob Early had been there, and Doc Blaine as well, and their position had left no doubt. Autocratic as he might be, there was that something deep within Tetlow that made him respect the authority of leading citizens. They were his kind of men, he felt, and their prestige counted for more than the threat of Dolan’s guns.
Early himself had conducted the inquest. It had been sharp and direct. There were no witnesses except those for Havalik, but several witnesses were put on the stand who testified that Carson had never carried a gun. The possibility that he might have had one on that day remained and there was insufficient evidence to warrant holding Dee Havalik. Nevertheless, the weight of public opinion had made itself felt, and Tetlow was irritated by it.
Viewing the matter from the distance, he regretted the shooting of Carson not one whit. He regretted only that they had hesitated to ride roughshod over Carpenter, Marable and the lot of them. There was little that public opinion or anyone could do against the accomplished fact.
The first thing had been to find Kilkenny and wipe him out, and realizing that at once, two groups of Forty riders had been sent out to track him down and kill him. Moreover, Tetlow had been shrewd enough to let it be known that Kilkenny, or Trent as he knew him, had killed his son at Clifton’s.
So far the riders sent after him had not been heard from, but they were covering all trails and should find him without trouble. That they would kill on sight, or hang him if they caught him alive, had been their orders as well as their conviction. Bud had been the most popular of his sons with the rougher element.
Ben walked up to the fire and seated himself close to his father. For awhile he smoked in silence. “Dad, let’s drive on west. Let’s leave this place.”
When there was no answer, he steeled himself to go on. It took courage, for Ben Tetlow knew how his father hated weakness, and he also knew what must be going through his father’s mind tonight after the facing down he had taken in the streets of Horsehead.
“We’re buckin’ a stacked deck. There isn’t enough range here unless we take it all, and if we start fighting women and other settlers, we’re out of luck. They’ll band together against us.”
“If you ain’t got the guts for it, Ben,” Tetlow replied stiffly, “get out!”
“No,” Ben said quietly, “I’m staying. You’re my father and this is our outfit. I’m stickin’ even if I think you’re wrong, and I do think you are. That’s the trouble, Dad, you’re committing others to your policy. If you go down you take a lot of men down with you. Some of them mighty good men.”
“Leave him alone,” Phin spoke from the darkness. “Like he says, if you don’t like it, get out while the gettin’s good.”
Ben was silent, despair mounting in him. He had always entertained doubts of this business of riding roughshod over others, of insisting that their larger herd held inherent rights over all smaller herds and less powerful outfits. Yet there was no give in Leal Macy. The man would stand his ground until death, and for one, Ben was sure that Macy held the right stand.
Dolan was another. He knew how surprised he had been when Dolan showed, and how surprised his father had been. They had heard he was a leader or directing brain behind rustling and rustlers. They heard his place was a resort of the hardcase element, but the way the man stood and his looks belied that. Dolan was a fitting partner for Macy, and the two made a dangerous combination.
Ben had not thought much about Kilkenny. The fact that the man had killed his brother remained in his mind and for that reason he felt he should hate him, yet he could not bring himself to do so. He had the story from one of the older hands who had seen it all, and Bud had deliberately picked the fight, forced it when the man was ready to let it pass. And there had been no quarrel to precede it. Moreover, he felt drawn to the tall, quiet man with the brown face and the easy smile. He was, he appeared, a friendly man.
And then today in the street when he had called Ben’s father, he had seen a different personality. In a land where fighting men were the rule rather than the exception, where courage was admired and strength and agility to be looked up to, Kilkenny was a commanding figure. The man had stepped out into that street heedless of all the Forty riders and their threat of power. He had slashed his way through three of them with his bare hands and then faced down his father in such a way as Ben had never seen a man faced. Ben had the courage of his convictions and his convictions were strong enough, but he saw something indomitable in that single-handed stand against the whole Forty outfit.
He had seen something else that none of the others seemed to see. It had not been superior strength that won that fight of one against three. Nor had it even been the violence, shocking in itself, of his onslaught. It had been superior skill and strategy. Kilkenny had never wasted a move. He had known exactly what to do and how to do it. Such skill was no accident. This man was a trained, experienced fighting man.
Jared Tetlow got to his feet. “Phin?” he questioned his son’s wakefulness. At the grunted reply, he said, “Carpenter’s got range enough for maybe six hundred head. We’ve got six thousand here now and more comin’. Crowd that range with four thousand head come daylight. Understand? We’ll show this town how a Tetlow fights!”
Ben stared at the cold line of his father’s jaw. There was no yielding there. Quietly he retreated to his blankets where he lay long awake.
AT DAYLIGHT THE cattle were started. Deliberately, they hazed the cattle onto Carpenter’s range while the rancher stood helplessly watching from beside his wife. At this rate within a few days they would have him ruined; what grass they had not eaten would be trampled underfoot.
Sitting his big chestnut, Tetlow watched grimly. Then he called to Ben. “You!” he said. “You’ve no stomach for this, so ride back down the trail an’ tell them to push those cattle through fast! We’ll show ’em who’s going to run this here range!”
Havalik rode up beside him, his small face tightlipped with satisfaction.
“When those herds get here, an’ they should make it by the day after tomorrow, push them on the KR range,” he said, “we’ll have them out of there within the week!”
Riding east, Ben stared grimly at the skyline. Trust his father to think of the one way he could beat them. Nobody had legal authority to make him move his cattle. This was open range, and belonged to the government. No laws regulated it as yet, and even if they had, they could not operate fast enough to save these smaller men. His father could stand a loss if need be, these men could not. Even if his father was forced to move—which he would not be—the range would be ruined for most of the season. The grass would come back, but much of it would be so trampled and over-grazed that the range would be destroyed or injured. His father, with his great holdings and armed riders, could move on or take a loss. These small ranchers could not. Jared Tetlow would ride to power and victory behind a wall of thousands of cattle.
Carpenter stared gloomily at the thousands of cattle on his range. Desperate fury consumed him and his big fists knotted and balled iron hard. He wanted to fight, to strike out at something, at anything. But what could he do?
“We’d better leave the place,” his wife said quietly. “Let’s go up to the KR like that man said. Let’s go up there and get Marable an’ the Roots. Together maybe we can do something.”
“I’ll be damned if I will!” Carpenter flared. “Leave my place? Be driven off what’s rightfully mine? I will not!”
THE STORY OF the cattle drive reached the KR with the story of the challenge to
Tetlow issued in the streets of Horsehead. It was no garbled account, but was given concisely and definitely by Doc Blaine over lunch at the ranch house. Aside from Nita, only Jaime Brigo was there.
Blaine’s story started casually enough. “Lots of excitement in town. Fellow whipped three of the Forty hands in less than that many minutes and then called old Jared Tetlow to his face. Dared him at point blank range. I never saw such a thing.”
Brigo’s eyes were steady on Blaine’s face. The big Yaqui sensed what was coming.
Nita called Maria to pour some coffee. “He moved cattle on the Carpenter place this morning. He’ll ruin the man.”
“That seems to be the idea,” Blaine agreed. “Have you thought about yourself?”
“Of course. He can’t run as many cattle as he wants without my place.” Doc Blaine watched her as she talked. She seemed scarcely more than a girl, yet there was an assurance about her that puzzled him. He knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she had bought out a previous rancher for cash, had built here a ranch home that was far superior in every way to anything around, and she lived in the saddle, worked cattle herself and yet supervised a home that was the most perfect thing he had seen this side of a French chateau. “If he tries that, he will have trouble.”
“He has a lot of men.”
“And I have Jaime. And Cain Brockman and some others.”
“Is Brockman as tough as he looks?”
“Far tougher. I only knew one man who could handle him. Jaime might. I don’t know.”
“That fellow who faced down Tetlow,” Blaine mused, “he’s a drifting cowhand, and I think a gunfighter. There are rumors around that he was the man who killed young Bud Tetlow, but he seems like a good man. Why don’t you hire him?”
“I don’t think we’ll need anybody else,” Nita smiled, “but thanks just the same.”
“You’d better think it over,” Blaine insisted, “this man Trent—”
Her head came up sharply. “Who? Who did you say?”
Doc Blaine was surprised. “Why, Trent. At least, that’s the name he uses. You can’t tell about names, especially with drifters. They might use any name.”
Nita was looking accusingly at Brigo. “Is it…?” There was no need to repeat the question for she could see the answer in the Yaqui’s eyes and her heart began to pound. Unable to control herself, she came quickly to her feet, then, not wanting them to see her face, she turned quickly and walked to the window. “You…how long have you known?”
“The night before last. He came by here, and stopped outside.”
“You…you talked to him?”
“No. He did not see me. I don’t think he saw me.”
Blaine looked from one to the other. Too wise in the way of the world and women to be fooled, he could see that Nita Riordan was upset. This surprised and intrigued him, for he had never seen anything startle her before. She was annoyingly self-possessed, and Blaine had been puzzled and disturbed by that self-possession. It was something he was not accustomed to in women, and it disconcerted him.
“You know this man called Trent?”
“I…I don’t know. I think perhaps I do. I…we knew a man once who used that name.”
“What was his real name?”
She turned on him. “That, Doctor, is something he would have to tell you himself.” Then she remembered what the doctor had been saying, that this man had faced down Tetlow. Yes, she told herself, her heart pounding, that would be like Lance. He could never stand tyranny of any kind, and he would not hesitate because of numbers.
Lance…!
The thought of him disturbed her, and she stood staring out the window, remembering every line of his face. The way he smiled, the way the laugh wrinkles came faintly at the corners of his eyes, eyes long accustomed to squinting against desert suns. She remembered the quick way he walked, the strong brown hands, the way his green eyes could grow cold—although they had never grown cold when they looked at her.
She remembered that first day down in the Live Oak country, the day she had first seen him. She had looked across that room at him and suddenly they had seemed alone, as if only they remained in life and nothing else could or did exist. She had looked into his eyes and known this man wanted her, and had known that she wanted him, and they were right for each other and nothing else in the world would ever matter but him.
And now he was here again, close to her. He had been outside in the darkness, nearby. Had he known she was there? Had he been thinking of her? What had been his thoughts as he stood out there in the shadows, watching the lights? What time had it been? Had she been reading? Or getting ready for bed? Or already with her head upon the pillow?
“Jaime,” she turned swiftly, “I want to see him.”
The Yaqui looked at her and nodded. “Si, but to find him, who knows how? He is like the wind, and he leaves no trail.”
“Think, Jaime! Where would he be? Remember what he said? That you did not follow a trail on the ground unless you could also trail with the mind? You have to think as the man you follow thinks, then you know where to go. You know him, Jaime. Where would he be?”
The big Yaqui shrugged, but he was thinking. That was the way, of course. To follow him with the mind. It was like the deer—once you knew where he watered it was not hard to find where he slept and where he fed. It was the same with all game, and with men. They established patterns. Kilkenny had said that, and he had never forgotten, for Kilkenny could follow a trail where even an Apache would fail.
But to follow the trail of Lance Kilkenny was something else again, for he was one who knew how to think, and knowing that he followed men by their patterns of thought as well as by their tracks upon the sand, he would think in different ways at different times. That, too, he had told Brigo.
One possibility there was. He would want a place that was far off and lonely, difficult to find and easy to defend, a place where he might stand off his enemies if need be. Especially would he want such a place with the Tetlows to consider.
“I think—maybe I could find him,” he ventured. “I could try, but to be away from here now? It is not good.”
“Find him!” Nita insisted. “Tell him I must see him.”
“Perhaps there is another way,” Blaine ventured. “Wait until he comes back into town. He will come, you know, and I know from what Leal Macy said that he has offered to back him if he needs help. Dolan knows him also.” Blaine scowled thoughtfully. “Dolan might even know where he is. He would know if anybody does.”
“Jaime. Ride to town with the doctor. Find out if Dolan does know.”
Despite her anxiety it almost frightened her to think of seeing him again. She understood well enough his motives for leaving her as he had, and respected him for it even while she regretted it. That she was quite prepared to accept him despite what might happen he well knew. Yet the thought of seeing him again and the chance of losing him again frightened her. After his disappearance she had adjusted herself only after a long time, and doubted if she could go through it again.
Her childhood training, her father, all her background conditioned her to love for one man only. Moreover there was something inwardly fastidious about her that avoided the thought of any other man but this one.
“Let me go to Dolan,” Blaine suggested. “I know him. I’ll explain, and then you’ll have Brigo if trouble starts.”
Brigo waited, liking this idea better. He had cared for Nita since she was a child and resented the thought of leaving her at such a time. Kilkenny was the only man who came near her of whom he approved. More than fifty years of age, the Yaqui possessed the strength of a gorilla, the devotion of a dog, and the cunning of a wolf.
“All right,” Nita decided. “Tell him I need to see him.”
Doc Blaine got up from the table. Curiously he wondered how she had met the man who called himself Trent. Obviously the man had used the name before, but who was he?
AS HE STARTED back toward town in his buckboard he co
uld see cattle darkening the range where once Carpenter’s few cattle had grazed. How could a woman with so few hands hope to stand against Tetlow’s vast herds? There was no way to fight masses of cattle, for now Jared Tetlow had found the method that seemingly could not be stopped. He himself need attack nobody, for those cattle, bunched upon range too small to feed them, would break any man.
Nearing Whiskers Draw a man got up from the rocks. He had a field glass and a rifle. It was Cain Brockman.
“Howdy,” he grinned, slouching down to the trail. “Reckon we got a fight comin’.”
“You may get help.” Brockman had been with Nita a long time and might know. “Miss Riordan has asked me to get in touch with a man named Trent.”
Excitement broke over Brockman’s face. “You mean—” He broke off sharply. “Trent? Nobody I’d rather see right now.”
Blaine had gone no more than two miles further when another movement stopped him. A woman, bloody and half her clothing torn, stumbled down the draw, then fell. She was struggling to rise as he reached her side. She was not a young woman and she was obviously exhausted as well as badly hurt. It was Mrs. Carpenter.
“My God! What’s happened? Where’s Free?”
“Dead.” She was half dazed with grief and weariness. “Killed.”
“Shot?”
“They stampeded cattle through the yard. He’d gone for water to the well. He broke for the house but he didn’t get halfway before they ran him down.”
“And you?”
“Tried to help him. Steer knocked me down. I…I was going for the sheriff.”
He helped her into the buckboard and gave her a drink from his canteen. He wiped her face clean and gave her the best first aid treatment he could manage. “He was all I had,” she mumbled, only half conscious. “Without him it ain’t…it ain’t…”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Think what Free would have done. He was a brave, good man.”
After that she sat quietly until they reached town. He turned off at the outskirts and drove to Bob Early’s home.
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