“He means it!” Malloy hollered, and went at once and grasped Buck by the scruff of his neck. When Cody tried to stop him, he knocked the boy to the ground with a backhand that brought a cry from Hope, who ran to help him up.
“Don’t let them have the dog, Willis!” she cried.
“Shut your mouth, woman!” Malloy spat out roughly. He moved to where White Wolf stood and shoved the dog at him. “Take the dog,” he said grimly.
White Wolf laughed at Buck who was struggling in vain to get at the chief. The Indian said a word, and one of the younger warriors slipped from his horse and came to get Buck. He strode back and mounted his horse with ease, holding Buck securely in the crook of one arm.
“Let them have another steer,” Hope begged. “It’s Cody’s dog.”
“They’d take that deal,” Jacks said at once. “They’ll probably eat the dog anyway.” He hesitated, then added, “If it was my boy, I’d give ’em the steer.”
Malloy glared at him, then shook his head. “Plenty of dogs around. Tell ’em to get out.”
White Wolf had watched this with interest. When Jacks told him, “I’ll get your cows,” the Indian nodded and turned to go, but at that moment Cody broke loose from Hope and went hurtling across the space. He hit White Wolf with his fists flailing, and the Indian staggered back, anger in his eyes. Hope cried out, “Cody—!” and Jacks’ hand dropped to his revolver.
It was an explosive situation, but suddenly the big Indian laughed. He pulled Cody away, with one hand grasping the boy’s hair, and studied him. Cody kept trying to fight but could not get close enough. “I’ll kill you!” he was shouting, and even White Wolf knew what this meant from the boy’s tone and the fire in his eyes.
A laugh ran along the line of Indians, and one of them said something that amused White Wolf. He shoved the boy toward Jacks, who caught Cody and held him fast. “Good fighter,” White Wolf observed, obviously pleased by the scene. Then he said, “Give cow.”
Cody stopped fighting, his face red from the struggle. Hope was weeping, and at that moment Zane spoke up. “Mr. Malloy, give ’em the cow. I’ll work it out.”
Malloy glared at him. “You’ll work anyway!”
Zane drew himself up, his eyes filled with anger. “No, I won’t. I’ll run off and get a job. Let ’em have the cow.”
Malloy was seething with rage. He was a man who couldn’t stand to be crossed. “You keep your trap shut or I’ll wale ya!”
Zane looked at Cody, then without hesitation walked straight toward White Wolf. The Indian’s face instantly grew tense, for the boy had the Spencer in his hand. A sudden mutter ran along the line of Indians, but Zane was holding the rifle out. “The gun for the dog,” he said harshly.
White Wolf stared at the boy’s face, then nodded slowly. He took the rifle and said a word. The Indian holding Buck bent down and released the dog, who ran straight to Cody. White Wolf studied the boy carefully, then said, “We go now.”
Fred Gibson went along with the Indians to watch them butcher their cows. As they all disappeared over the ridge, Hope went quickly to Zane and put her arms around him, but he was stiff and unyielding as a tree. Cody came to say, “Zane—I won’t never forgit it—!”
Malloy glanced toward Jacks and couldn’t mistake the look of scorn he saw on the lean rider’s face. He couldn’t do anything about that, so he turned on Zane. “You fool kid! That Spencer was worth twenty curs like that!”
Zane stepped away from his sister and stood there, his eyes cold. “And one cur is worth twenty of you, Malloy!”
Willis Malloy took a step forward, an insane rage on his face, but a voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hold it there!” He looked around to see that Jacks had drawn his revolver and pulled the hammer back. Malloy froze in his tracks, caught by the threat in Jacks’ words. Taking a deep breath, he said, “If I’d have knowed it meant that much to you boys, I’d have let them have another cow.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Zane said. “You’re cheap and a liar, Malloy.”
“Get out of this camp!” Malloy yelled, his face crimson. “If I ever catch you—”
“Here, that’s enough!” Jacks nodded to the cook, saying, “Ozzie, fix up a big sack of grub.” As Og moved quickly to throw groceries into a sack, Jacks spoke to Zane. “It ain’t but a day’s ride to a ranch I know. Owner’s name is Wells. Tell him I sent you, Zane, and that it’d be a favor to me if he’d give you a job.”
He began telling the boy how to get to the ranch, and when Og came with the supplies, Smoky offered, “Take that big roan I been riding.”
“Hey, that’s my horse!” Malloy yelled.
Smoky looked at him, then said, “All right, I’ll go with the boy. We can ride double.”
Malloy gasped and shot a look around the circle. He knew he had no choice and muttered, “All right, he can borrow the horse.”
“Make him out a bill of sale and sign it, Malloy,” Smoky demanded. “And hurry it up, or I’m gone.”
Malloy wanted to tell Jacks to get out too, but knew he had no chance of getting the herd through without the experienced rider. He turned to the wagon and disappeared inside.
Hope cried, “Oh, Zane, you can’t leave!”
“Gotta do it, Sis.” Then Zane turned to his father. “Pa, I’ll find us a place and come and git you, I promise.”
Amos came over to stand by his son. He put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Zane—I was never prouder of you. The Lord will take care of you.” Then he moved to the chuck wagon and lifted his rifle out. “Take this. It ain’t no Spencer, but it’s true as steel.” He waved off Zane’s protests, saying, “Man’s got to have a gun in this world, son.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wallet, then removed several bills. “Got to have a little cash, too, until you draw a paycheck,” he said. “You can pay me back sometime.”
“Pa—” Zane said tightly, but then Malloy was back. He held out a piece of paper and yelled at the boy, “Don’t show up on my place—ever!”
Zane threw a saddle on the roan, tied the groceries on the back of it, then mounted. “Thanks, Smoky,” he said briefly. He tried for a grin but without much success. “Cody, you look out for your ma, ya hear me?”
“Sure!”
Cody watched with the others as Zane rode out, and then Malloy said loudly, “Well, that’s that!”
But it was not, and they all knew it. Malloy could feel the antagonism in the camp and muttered, “I’ll take the first watch.”
“I hate him, Ma!” Cody said, staring at the horseman. “Let’s run off, you and me and Grandpa. We can get Zane and we’ll get us a place.”
Hope shook her head. “We can’t do that, Cody.” She left his side, and Cody looked at his grandfather. “Why does he have to be so mean, Grandpa?”
Amos shook his head. “Don’t rightly know, boy.” He turned aside as well, and Cody sat down by the wagon wheel and fondled Buck’s sleek head, thinking of Zane. It made him feel sad that Zane had lost his Spencer. “When I grow up, I’ll get rich and I’ll buy him ten rifle guns like that!” he whispered. Then he got up, and the dog followed at his heels as he walked away from the wagon.
CHAPTER FOUR
ARROW MAKES AN OFFER
After White Wolf’s visit there had been no more trouble on the drive. The weather had mitigated and no other Indians had appeared. Two days after Zane left, they reached the South Platte and turned the herd west, and on the third day following, Malloy led them to a broad flat plain that seemed to stretch on endlessly.
“This is the place,” he said to Hope, looking around eagerly. She was sitting in the wagon, her father resting in the bed under the canvas. Malloy was riding alongside, keeping pace with the wagon. “That red chimney rock over there—that’s the marker for the southeast corner.” He pulled a map out of his pocket, studied it, then called out to Jacks, “Turn ’em north!” Replacing the map inside his pocket, he pointed on ahead. “House ought to be right beneath that slight rise over
there.” When Hope said nothing, he grew irritated. “Well, cain’t you talk? A man gits tired of nothin’ but the sound of his own voice, blast it!”
Hope turned to look at him, somewhat surprised at his outburst. Since Zane had left she’d not said a word to him—nor had anyone else for that matter. Their silence had grated on him, she realized, but she wondered why it bothered him so much. “It looks fine,” she said evenly. “I’ll be glad to be in a house again.”
He rode silently for a moment, considering her response. “It probably ain’t much of a house.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll make out.”
He hesitated, obviously wanting to say something, but changed his mind. Finally he said, “I’ll go on ahead and locate the house.”
“All right, Willis.”
As he spurred his horse on and rode over the rise, she pulled the team to a stop, then climbed back under the canvas. Kneeling by her father, she asked, “Pa, how do you feel?”
Jenson’s face was pale, and he appeared to be asleep. But his eyes opened when she spoke to him, and he smiled faintly. “Makin’ it fine, Daughter.”
She took the stone jug that rested on the bed of the wagon, poured some of the tepid water into a tin cup, then lifted him into a sitting position. “It’s warm, but wet,” she smiled. He drank a little, then she let him lie back. “We’ll have you on the home place tonight.” Taking her handkerchief, she moistened it with the water, then carefully wiped his face.
There was little of the bright spirit in her that Amos had loved to see, and he asked, “Are you worried about Zane?”
“Yes. He’s too young to be away from home.”
“That’s a fact,” Amos agreed. “But God knows where he is. And you and I have agreed in prayer that he’ll be kept from harm. So it’ll be fine with him.”
“Yes, Pa.”
Hope had always envied the simple faith that her father possessed. He had the gift of faith, it seemed, more than anyone she’d ever known. When things were at their worst, he would pray, then say, “Well, it’s up to God now—and He ain’t never failed us, has He?”
One of the few times Hope could remember her father getting angry with her had been the occasion when she’d asked, “ . . . but what if it doesn’t work? What if prayer doesn’t work?” He had snapped at once, “That’s doubt and unbelief you’re atalkin’, Daughter! It’s what got all the Israelites killed, doubtin’ that God was able to take them out of Egypt! There ain’t no good reason to doubt someone as lovin’ and merciful as God. So don’t let me ever hear you talk like that again, you hear?”
Hope looked down at her father’s pale face, wished that she had his faith, then smiled as she rose. “You feel like riding on the seat with me, Pa?”
“Well, I think I do.” She helped him to the seat, then the two of them looked around at the open country that would be their home.
“Big, ain’t it, Daughter?” Amos shook his head in amazement, eyeing the broad sweep of the land. Very few trees interrupted the vast gray-yellow expanse that extended to the horizon. “Didn’t know a man could see so far,” he remarked. “Always had trees and mountains in the way back home.”
Father and daughter sat silently together—the wagon bumping and swaying across the rough land—both lost in their own thoughts as they contemplated their new surroundings. Two hours later, Malloy came galloping back in a cloud of dust. “House is right over there—” He signaled for them to follow him toward a stand of cottonwoods that lined the banks of a small creek. He pulled up where the creek made an elbow-shape at the foot of the slowly rising hills. “There it is,” he nodded. “Get down and let’s see what we got.”
Hope climbed down off the wagon, stretching stiff and sore muscles, then turned to help her father down. But she realized that he would rather do it himself, so she turned to look at her new home. It was a poor excuse for a house, not nearly as good as the cabin they had left in Arkansas. It was a simple single-story structure, built of roughhewn lumber that had weathered to a drab gray over the years. The unpainted boards were warped by rain and sun, some of them lying on the ground, some hanging on only by a rusted nail or two. All the windows were broken.
The inside of the house was in even worse condition. Pieces of broken furniture lay scattered about; the floor was littered with old papers, broken glass, and nests made by pack rats. The broken windows had not stopped the endlessly blowing sand and dust from piling up in every corner and on every surface.
“Well, it’s a mess,” Malloy stated matter-of-factly. “But it’s bigger than I thought it would be.” They examined the rest of the house—four rooms besides the kitchen. All were in equally poor shape, and Hope found herself overwhelmed and depressed by the thought of trying to make this into a home.
“Guess Og and the boy can help you clean it up” was all Malloy had to say to her. “At least we got a good cookstove and plenty of water nearby.”
“It’ll be fine,” Hope assured him, not wanting Willis to see her inner turmoil. “I’ll get started right away.”
Malloy left then, returning to the spot along the creek where Jacks and Gibson had taken the cattle to drink. He pulled up to the chuck wagon, ordering, “Ozzie, go help my wife get the house cleaned up.”
Smoky Jacks was sitting in the saddle with one leg crooked around the horn. He had just rolled a cigarette and lit it. “So long, Ozzie. I’ll sure miss that jelly bean soup of yours.” Og nodded at the rider, and as he drove the wagon away to carry out his boss’s orders, Jacks turned to face Malloy. “Guess if you’ll pay me off now, I’ll be movin’ along.”
Malloy hesitated, then reached into his pocket. Pulling out a wad of bills, he counted out Jacks’ wages, then shoved the money back into his pocket. He said reluctantly to the wiry puncher, “You did a good job. I’m much obliged.”
“Sure.” Jacks jammed the bills carelessly into his shirt pocket, then dislodged his foot from the saddle and stuck it in the stirrup. He took a deep draw on the cigarette, studied the cattle for a moment, then asked suddenly, “You see them cows with the arrow brand?”
“Shore do,” Malloy answered. “Quite a few of ’em—and some of ’em grazin’ on my grass.” His eyes narrowed, and he asked, “What about ’em?”
“They belong to Silas Head. He owns the biggest ranch around here—and claims most of what he don’t own. He’s a rough old cob.”
“Well, he’ll have to get his cows off my graze.”
“Yeah, well, good luck, Malloy.” Jacks picked up his reins, but something was on his mind, and he stopped and turned to Malloy again. “None of my business, but if I was you, I’d be careful about Arrow. Head’s hired a rough crew. Big outfit like that likes to crowd the small fellows.”
Malloy’s temper, never far from the surface, was aroused. He flushed, saying, “I don’t care how big Arrow is, they cain’t use my grass.”
Jacks saw that his warning had been useless, so he merely nodded. “Yeah, well, I’ll be movin’ on.” He turned his horse and rode away, stopping only long enough to speak to Cody, who was on his pony, watching the cattle with Fred Gibson. “Hey, Cody, I’m pullin’ out,” he said, stopping beside the boy. “You tell your ma and your grandpa goodbye for me, will you?”
“You’re leaving?” Disappointment clouded the boy’s eyes, and he looked up at the cowboy, asking hopefully, “Will you see Zane?”
“Might just do that,” Smoky grinned. “You keep your eye out for him and me. Mind your ma and your grandpa. You’re gonna be some punkins, Cody. Any fellow who’d tackle White Wolf—why, he’s a fellow to tie to.” Jacks winked at him, then nodded at Gibson, “So long, Fred,” and galloped away. As he left, he was sad, for he saw no happy ending for this family.
****
“New bunch moved into the Carlin place.”
As Ash Caudill had known, his casual remark struck a raw nerve in the owner of the Arrow spread. Caudill had been the foreman of the huge ranch for four years, ruling over the crew with an i
ron hand. He had recruited them as an officer collects a company of fighting men, and only a man of Caudill’s skill with a six-gun could have controlled them. There was little in his appearance to reveal the deadly killer instinct and the absolute coolness under fire. He was not tall, no more than average in height, but he was compactly built, well-muscled, and perfectly coordinated. He looked at the world out of slate-gray eyes, speaking softly as a rule, but he had a set of hair-trigger reactions and a temper like a land mine, unpredictable and violent. He was a handsome man of twenty-nine, with brown hair always neatly slicked down and neat features, a ladies’ man—it was said, though he kept that part of his life separate from his job as foreman.
He was standing in front of Silas Head’s desk in the big, rangy room used by the cattleman for a study. Once a week, Caudill came to give Head a summary of the conditions of the range and to apprize him of any other details he thought he should be aware of. Caudill had saved this one bit of information until last, knowing that it would set the big man off. When the explosion came, Caudill had expected it.
“Clear Creek’s the only water in that part of the range,” Head bellowed, speaking as if he were addressing a town meeting, though only the two of them were in the room. “We’ll have to use that graze if we’re to meet the government contract—and we can’t use it without that water.”
Silas Head was a huge, burly man—in his sixties but still hale and healthy. He had come to Wyoming years earlier, fought the Sioux for the land and the rustlers who came like hyenas to glut themselves with his cattle. The battles, no less violent than those fought at Gettysburg or Shiloh, had not left him unmarked. Physically, he carried part of an arrowhead in his back, too close to the spine for the doctors to risk removing it, and several bullet tracks scattered in various parts of his huge body. Spiritually, the damage was worse, for in the deadly fight to build Arrow into a great ranch, he had become a despot. Not an enlightened despot, but one who had managed to avoid annihilation by striking his enemies as hard and quickly as possible. The stubbornness of his spirit was reflected in the truculence of his chin, the set of his jaw, and the steadiness of the blue eyes that drilled men who crossed him like twin bullets. He had been a fighting man in his youth, accounting personally for those who tried to stop him, and now as the titular head of the largest ranch in eastern Wyoming, he used hard men to do that sort of thing for him.
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 5