The pace picked up as the night wore on. Riders came and went, and the tinny jangling of a piano arose from the saloons across from where she sat. The raucous clamor of laughter—both men’s and women’s voices—punctuated the night and grated on her as she tried to rest. Once there were two quick shots fired, and a man ran out of a door, threw himself on a horse, and headed out of town at a dead run.
She heard Fred making some noise, so she got up to check on him. He was mumbling in his sleep but seemed to be in little pain. She shuffled to the bed across the room, slipped off her shoes, and lay down. The sounds of the busy night life of War Paint surrounded her, but she was thinking of her family now. She knew her husband was such a violent man that he would never think of the safety of anyone—not even his wife.
Finally her weariness began to overtake her. As she dropped off, she thought of a day long gone, a faint memory from her childhood. She had been wading in a small creek near the cabin where she lived with her family. It had been hot, and she could vaguely remember how cool and fresh the water had felt on her feet and legs. Her mother had come for her, and she remembered clearly saying, “Oh, Mother, I wish I could wade in this creek forever! It’s so nice and peaceful here!”
And she remembered her mother’s answer. All of us would like to wade in a nice creek and have fun, Hope—but we’ve all got to eat our peck of dirt before we die.
As the memory faded she fell asleep, unaware of the tears that gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
CHAPTER SIX
“A MAN’S GOT TO FIGHT FOR WHAT’S HIS!”
Willis Malloy stared around the crowded room with disgust. Over twenty small ranchers and farmers had come to Dutch Shultz’s house, and now after two hours of argument they were no closer to action than when the meeting had begun.
They were crammed into the biggest room of the Shultz house, the combination kitchen and living area. Emma Shultz had fixed coffee, using all three of her coffee pots, but then had left the men and gone outside. A few of the men were seated, but most of them were standing, leaning against the walls.
The tension in the room was almost palpable, for some of these men were natural enemies—cattlemen and farmers. Malloy had known that the two groups were distrustful, and now as he looked around the room trying to think of some way to bring them all to one purpose, he saw that they had arranged themselves as much as possible into representative groups. One group centered around Shultz, a big German of forty with mild blue eyes and yellow hair. These were the small farmers, all possessing calloused hands and wearing worn overalls. Lowell Cox, Malloy sensed, was the leader of the group—he and Shultz. Cox was a balding fat man in his early fifties. He was one of the mildest men in the room as a rule, but he had been a tough sergeant in Grant’s army. He let his wife and four children boss him around, yet there was steel in the man, buried beneath the placid exterior.
He spoke up now, saying in a mild tone, “Malloy, I can’t go along with what you’re saying.” He was sitting beside Dutch Shultz, and as he spoke he rubbed his enormous stomach as if it were an old friend. “I’m a farmer, not a rancher. I can’t see myself going to war with an outfit like Arrow because Silas Head is making it hard on you ranchers.”
Most of the farmers agreed, and Malloy kept a tight rein on his temper. “You think that now, Cox, but how many of your fences has Arrow pulled down? How many times has that bunch ran their cattle over your crops and ruined ’em?” He saw that his words had touched a raw nerve and went on to say urgently, “There’s room in this valley for all of us. But Head don’t believe that—and he won’t be satisfied till he’s sittin’ right on the whole thing!”
“In that, you’re probably right, Malloy.” The speaker was Gus Miller. He was leaning against the wall and had said almost nothing during the meeting. He had been listening, his black eyes alert and clear, but now he showed a trace of temper, running his hand through his thick black hair. “I had a run-in with some of Ash Caudill’s hard-nosed hands last week. They’re pushing me pretty hard.”
“Sure, Gus, but not as hard as they will if we don’t do somethin’,” Malloy said instantly. Gus Miller had been a pretty tough hand, he knew. He’d smelled plenty of gunpowder in his day, and Malloy knew that the other ranchers looked up to him.
Dave Orr, a tall, thin man of thirty-two, spoke up. “You’re probably right about that, Malloy, but I don’t see that we can do much about it.” Orr had fair hair and blue eyes, and there was something of a scholar about him. He didn’t fit well among these men, yet the fact that he was educated meant that they held a lurking respect for him. He was the owner of a fairly large ranch, his crew of five men effective as far as running cattle were concerned. He spoke of that now, doubt shading his voice. “I’ve got a good crew, but they’re not gunmen. Most of us in this room aren’t.” Looking around, he said, “Except for you and Gus, Malloy—and a few hands like Smoky Jacks—I doubt that any of us are.”
A mutter of agreement rippled around the room, but then one of two men who had been standing in a far corner spoke up. They had said nothing at all; in fact, they had not even joined in the small talk that the other men had engaged in when the meeting began. The speaker was Charlie Littleton, a smallish man of less than thirty, with tow hair and startling green eyes. He looked a little like a cat with those eyes, and the compact shape of his body and the smooth way he moved added to the impression.
“Them Arrow hands, they still put their pants on one leg at a time, don’t they?” His voice was soft and had a Texas accent. His words dropped into the conversation, bringing the eyes of every man in the room around to him. He drew tobacco and a paper from his shirt pocket, fashioned a cigarette with small, tapering fingers, then lit it and added casually, “I guess a bullet will make a hole in them boys, no matter how tough they are.”
Shultz studied the small rancher, his eyes filled with doubt. “That’s right Charlie, but they make holes in us, too. And I ain’t had the practice those fellows have.”
Charlie Littleton and his brother Dion, a huge hulking man who rarely put two sentences together, ran a small ranch that bordered on the Blue Hills. It was rough country, and dangerous, for the Indians had used it for years as a hunting ground. But when the Littleton brothers had moved their ranch there, the Indians had learned to give the place a wide berth.
They were a strange pair, having the same father but different mothers. Charlie, small and quick and intelligent; Dion, strong as an ox, but not bright. They had one thing in common, and that was the smell of danger about them—which had been proven in several gunfights—and by a reputation they’d brought with them from Texas.
Charlie shrugged, answering Shultz’s doubt. “Sure, Dutch, but you can learn. Like Malloy says, things won’t get any better in this valley as long as Silas Head is alive.”
“Even if he dies,” Gus Miller nodded, “it’ll be Ash Caudill we’ll have to face—and he’s worse than the old man!”
“That’s exactly right!” Malloy said eagerly. “We gotta stand up for ourselves. The law won’t do nothin’.”
“Maybe we could take some of these things to court,” Dave Orr suggested.
“Court!” Charlie Littleton laughed softly. He turned his eyes on Orr. “When’s the last time you heard of any court in this county bringing a judgment against Silas Head?”
“That’s right enough,” Lowell Cox nodded, a thoughtful look on his round face. “At the same time, if we step out of line and Head brings us into court, you can be blamed sure how that will go!”
The argument went on for another hour, and Malloy finally said, “We’ll have to stay together. One man can’t do much, but if we get organized, we can put up a fight.” He was thoroughly disgusted with the crowd, but knew it would be foolish to show it. “You fellows think on it. We’ll meet and talk again.”
“Guess that’s a good idea,” Dutch nodded, relieved at the outcome. He was a ponderous man and hated the idea of change.
The meeting broke up abruptly, the ranchers leaving at once but the farmers staying to drink more coffee and visit. As Malloy mounted and turned his horse, he was joined by the Littleton brothers. Charlie Littleton said, “Might ride a piece with you, Willis.”
“Sure.” Since the Littletons’ ranch lay in the opposite direction from his own, Malloy understood at once that it was not a casual whim. When they had passed out of sight of the Shultz farm, Malloy ridiculed the others. “Seemed like a big waste of time, Charlie. Those fellows will never make a move.”
Charlie Littleton shook his head, then gave a sly glance at Malloy. “Oh, they might, if they got hurt bad enough.”
“Bunch of dumb dogs!” Dion grumbled in his chest.
“I don’t mind doing business with dumb people,” Charlie smiled lazily. “A man needs some of the dumb ones to get the work done.”
“And then the smart ones take the cream?” Malloy asked.
“I think you’re smart, Willis,” Charlie nodded. “I like smart people.”
Malloy asked cautiously, “What’s on your mind, Charlie?”
“Making money—the same thing that’s on yours.”
Malloy turned in the saddle to give his companions a keen study. Finally he smiled broadly. “You two are crooks.”
Charlie Littleton looked more catlike than ever as he smiled back. “Why, sure we are, Willis. We make a good living at it.”
“I’ve heard some rumors ’bout Arrow losin’ cows over your way. Better be careful. That old pirate would string you up in a minute if he ever caught you.”
“Ain’t ever caught me,” Charlie said lightly. His hat brim shaded his eyes, and for a time he rode along, saying nothing. He seemed to have forgotten that he was talking to anyone, but finally he remarked, “I ain’t interested in anything small.”
“No? What would it take to satisfy you, Charlie?”
“All of the graze west of Buffalo Springs.”
Caught by surprise, Malloy blinked his eyes and hauled in on his reins. He stared at Littleton, speechless, then said slowly, “That’s about a fourth of Head’s best rangeland. Why don’t you just take it all?”
Ignoring Malloy’s sarcasm, Littleton said in a cool tone, “Because I’m not strong enough to take it all.”
“How you plannin’ on doin’ this? Nobody ever took an inch of land from Head.”
“Why, I’m a smart fellow, Willis!” Littleton dropped his smile, then said, “I’ve got a pretty tough crew. Paying them top wages, but they understand they might have to bust a cap sooner or later. I’m out to bust or get busted, Malloy. Like Dion said, those fellows back there—they’re dumb. Way I see it, that’s good. We can use ’em, then when we get what we want, they can look out for themselves.”
“Too much talk, Charlie!” Dion broke in.
Charlie glanced at his brother’s brutal face, then nodded. “Maybe you’re right, Dion. What do you say, Malloy? You want in?”
Malloy was still cautious. “I ain’t heard you tell how you plan to do all this, Charlie. I’d like to take Arrow down—but I value my skin.”
“All right, here it is.” Littleton spoke rapidly. “We start a war, and when the smoke clears, we’ll take over what we want. First thing, we get Arrow stirred up so they begin putting the pressure on those fellows. Make Head so mad he starts shooting. Then, we get the small ranchers and farmers to shoot back. They’re like a bunch of sheep now, but when they get hurt, they’ll shoot back. We whittle away at Arrow, me and you and a few more. That outfit’s scattered all over the country! Got men in line shacks, don’t they? We hit them and Head will hit back.”
Malloy nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “That might work, Charlie.”
“Are you in?”
Malloy had made up his mind. “Sure. But how do you know you can trust me?”
“I don’t trust you, Willis,” Littleton shot back. “You don’t trust me either. Fellows like us can’t afford to trust anybody. You’ll watch me and I’ll watch you. That’s all right. Just remember, when this thing is over, we’ll be the big moguls in this valley.” His sharp white teeth gleamed. “Sound all right to you?”
“Let’s do it!” Malloy nodded. “Arrow beat up one of my hands. I’d like to pay ’em back. Got any ideas?”
“I might just have one. Maybe we can build a fire under this thing—and pick up a nice bunch of change at the same time.”
****
Diane Head was conscious that she made an attractive picture, but it pleased her when Ash Caudill said, “You look mighty pretty in that outfit, Diane.”
“Compared to what? You haven’t seen anything but smelly old cows in so long that any girl would look good to you.”
Caudill grinned at her, shaking his head and rolling a smoke. “Well, I’d have to admit that you’re prettier than any cow I ever saw.”
The two of them were watering their horses at a small creek lined by cottonwoods. They’d made a circuit of some of the younger steers at the far eastern border of Arrow’s grass. It was only ten in the morning, but the sun was getting hot. They had dismounted, enjoying the cool shade and the trickling sound of the creek.
Diane leaned back against a tree, took off her hat, and threw it on the ground. “Dad wouldn’t think so,” she said in response to Caudill’s compliment. “He thinks a cow is the most beautiful thing in the world.”
“They’re useful,” Caudill smiled. He was a handsome man, and looked his best in the distinctive regalia of a range rider. He was wearing a pair of dark trousers, a tan shirt, and a black hat with a rawhide cord, now pushed back so that his crisp brown hair fell down on his forehead.
Diane glanced at him and gave him an arch look as she remarked, “You’re a good-looking scoundrel, Ash.”
“I’m a scoundrel?”
“Of course you are. Did you think I didn’t know?”
His gray eyes showed a flash of humor, and he said, “It’ll take a rough fellow to ride herd on you. Anyway, you wouldn’t be interested in a mealy mouth type.”
“No, that’s right.”
She seemed tall; the riding trousers helped to create that illusion, shaping her in a slim, boy-figured fashion. She wore a man’s shirt, open at the neck. It fell carelessly away from her throat revealing the smooth, ivory shading of her skin. Her features seemed sharp, but this was only another illusion caused by the flickering shafts of sunlight that touched her as they filtered through the leaves. Her lips were slightly parted as she looked up at him, her eyes like ebony pools that had no bottom. The strongest impression she made on people was of a temper that could swing suddenly from laughter and softness to anger. There was, Caudill knew, a deep capacity for emotion in her, and he asked hopefully, “What about it, Diane?”
“What about what?” she smiled, feigning surprise.
Caudill moved so quickly she had no chance to react. One moment he was standing still, the next he was pulling her into his arms, and even before she could protest, his lips closed on hers. He had kissed her before, but always she had provoked it, and she had been the one to break it off. Now, as his arms drew her closer, she found herself helpless—and enjoying it.
Without knowing it, Diane Head had tired of men who were half-afraid of her. She had long known that many of the men who admired her were drawn more by her father’s wealth than by her own qualities. She had become cynical, putting men to the test—which most of them failed. None of them had been strong enough, but now as Caudill made his demands on her, she sensed his strength, and was both drawn and repelled by her own response.
Drawing back, she glared at him. “Don’t do that again, Ash. I don’t like it!”
“I will do it again,” he said easily, “and you’ll like it, Diane—just like you did just now.”
“You are a conceited man, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “Don’t you think I’ve been here all this time, watching how you handle the men who’ve come for you?”
Diane stared at him, her shoulders u
nconsciously straightened, opposing him, and her hands tightly closed. Ash still held her at arms’ length, appreciating the supple lines of her body and knowing that she was calculating him in a way she’d never done before. She had a quickness of mind matched by a stubborn streak, and now he saw something rise in her eyes. “Yes, I liked it,” she admitted suddenly, but then she laughed at him and pulled herself free from his grasp. “So, how do I treat men?” she inquired curiously.
“You like to make them jump when you speak. And most of them will, but not me, Diane.”
“No, you won’t,” Diane said, her voice quiet and a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then she shrugged and bent to pick up her hat. “Come on, let’s get back.”
“All right.” Caudill swung to the saddle, too smart to press his advantage. He knew his embrace had stirred her—and he knew as well that it had challenged her. Now she would try hard to control him. He was a man who liked challenges himself, and now more than ever, he felt that sooner or later this girl would choose him.
They made the ride back to the ranch without incident, but as soon as they rode into the yard, both of them saw that something was happening. “Trouble of some kind,” Ash murmured.
Then the booming voice of the owner came across the yard, “Caudill! Come here!”
The pair dismounted, going at once to where Silas Head was standing. Deuce Longly was with him but let Head do the talking.
“What’s wrong?” Caudill asked.
“We’ve lost some stock, that’s what’s wrong—and we’ve got a man shot as well!”
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 8