by L. P. Holmes
“If there’s any single call on this camp, it’s mine. For I was here first. And I say you are welcome, friend.”
Dave Wall went very still for one sharp moment, wondering if the day’s long ride under the desert sun had addled him and was making him see and hear things that were pure fancy and without any real substance? For her face was clear in the firelight and memory struck strongly at Wall.
It reached back to his former trip to the Crimson Hills headquarters. He had been returning then, and to avoid the hard ride across the desert had swung west and south by way of Crater City. She had been riding out of Crater City when Wall rode in. She had passed so close to him as to leave a faint and haunting fragrance, along with the memory of a loveliness as bright and clear and clean as morning sunshine.
There had never been any sane reason, Wall knew, why his memory of her had remained so strong and vividly with him, for he had no idea who she was and his chance of ever seeing her again had been virtually non-existent. And even if there could have been, there would be no meaning to it. For the distance between the poles of the earth was no greater than the gulf that must exist between such a girl and him, Dave Wall, troubleshooter for most of Luke Lilavelt’s worst range piracies. Yet, in a miasma of dark and somber thoughts, the one of her had remained bright and untarnished and more than once had helped Dave Wall through his blacker moods.
Now, here she was, right in front of him again. There could be no mistake. It was the same girl, the one of that single, bright memory. Then she had been in divided skirt and blouse. Now she wore a more severely practical garb for saddle work. But all the shining loveliness was there, as before. Her sleek, bright head was high and erect with pride and spirit, but despite the ruddy glow of the fire it struck Dave Wall that there was strain and pallor in her face.
He could not have been more astounded had a star fallen at his feet and the wonder of it held him long silent. But he found his voice at last. “Obliged, ma’am. I guess that settles the argument.” He swung his head and his voice was a hard lash. “Come in to the fire, you two … where I can see you better. Move!” Wall drew a gun as he spoke. There was something about this setup that wasn’t right, wasn’t regular, and the prescience of this was rubbing across his nerve ends, sharpening them. “Move!” he snapped again.
The renewed buildup of pressure was too much for the skulkers. They came in to the firelight, full of a sullen furtiveness. At his first clear glance, Wall knew the type. Riff-raff of the cattle country. Drifters. Grub-line riders. Picking up a few days of work here, a few more there. Nothing solid or steady about them and not above crime of any sort if they thought they could get away with it.
“Your trail manners are rotten,” said Wall bluntly. “Just why should you object to my sharing this camp?”
Now it was the girl who said a startling thing. “Ask them also why they rummaged my saddlebags and took my gun?”
One of the drifters swung his head, soundlessly snarling. He jumped a foot as Dave Wall’s gun spat hard thunder and a slug lashed the ground beside him. Before the echoes could come back, Wall growled: “Careful! Watch yourselves! Turn around!”
The heavyset one of the two showed a brief flare of truculence. “Mister, you take in too much trail. You …”
“Turn around!”
It came out of Dave Wall like an invisible tide, a breath of wicked ruthlessness. The drifters turned jerkily. Wall took their guns, then turned to the girl. “Which one took your gun?’
“The heavy one. He put it inside his shirt.”
With his free hand, Wall swung the fellow to face him. Wall saw the bulge of the gun, tucked in the waistband of the drifter’s jeans, under his shirt. With a sweep of his hand Wall ripped the shirt from grimy collar to waist. He lifted away the gun, a light-calibered, slim-barreled weapon.
Wall was thinking: This girl, in a wide and lonely land. And two slimy ones like these. And they had taken away her only means of protecting herself. Wall’s eyes went very cold. “There’s a special hell reserved for whelps like you two. I’ve a notion to send you there, now.” He lifted his voice. “Have they got saddle guns, ma’am?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see.” The girl darted off into the dark, and Wall heard the weary stirring and trampling of horses. The girl came back. “No saddle guns.”
“Good enough.” Wall jerked his head. “Get! You two are riding. You can hunt that other water hole you spoke of.”
The heavyset drifter leered. “That’ll make it chummy for you and …”
Wall hit him before he could get out further words, hit him savagely, full across the face with the flat of his gun, knocking the fellow sprawling, where he lay sniffling blood through a broken nose, dazed and half stunned. A raging, deadly note came into Wall’s voice. “The pair of you have exactly two minutes to get out of here. You better believe I mean that.”
The second of the two, lank and gangling, evidently believed Wall, for he dragged his bleeding companion to his feet and hurried him, stumbling and lurching, out into the darkness, with Wall following closely.
There were three horses and one of them limped badly as it moved a trifle apart. “Mine,” said the girl at Wall’s elbow. “And the reason I’m not home by this time.”
The lanky drifter boosted his partner into the saddle, swung up on his own horse. Dave Wall gave his final harsh warning. “Ride far!”
The horses clattered away up the wash and Wall listened until the sound of their going had faded out. Then he turned to the girl and his tone was still slightly rough from the residue of his mood.
“Day or night, even with a sound horse under you, this is no country for a girl like you to be riding alone.”
She tossed her head. “I’ve ridden it all my life. I’d been visiting friends over at Cottonwood off the east edge of the desert and I was taking a shortcut home. When my horse, sliding down a cutbank, went lame, I headed for the nearest water, which was here. It was one of those things that might never happen again.”
“Yet it did happen, and the consequences could have been … unpleasant. Any idea who that worthless pair are?”
“No. Probably a couple of Window Sash hands. They’re the type Luke Lilavelt likes on his payroll, so I’ve heard. No decent person would ever ride for Lilavelt.”
The darkness hid the ironic bitterness that pulled at Dave Wall’s lips. He was in no position to argue the point. He went back to the fire to unsaddle swiftly and unpack, watering his horses, then graining them. He broke out his frugal camp outfit, looked at the girl.
“You had any supper?”
She hesitated, started to shake her head, then said quickly: “It doesn’t matter. As I said, I expected to be home by this time.”
“Only you’re not,” said Wall brusquely. “You’re here and you’ve had no supper and you’re hungry. I’ve enough for two.”
He stirred up the fire and got to work. Beyond the flames the girl sat cross-legged, watching him. Soon the savoriness of frying bacon and steaming coffee flavored the night air. Wall did not miss the unconscious intentness and eagerness of the girl’s manner.
“How long have you been here?” he asked abruptly.
“Since sunup this morning. I much prefer to ride the desert at night. I left Cottonwood last evening. I knew that Dad expected me home by tonight. But when my horse went lame, there was nothing else I could do but make for the nearest water and wait for Dad and the boys to come looking for me. They’re sure to try this water hole. So, I had nothing to worry about until … until those two came riding in. As soon as I saw the type they were, I thought I’d better get my gun out of my saddlebags. But they guessed what I was after and that … that big brute got there first. Right after that you rode in.”
She wasn’t, Wall realized, entirely at ease, even now. She had courage, this girl, but the experience had unsettled her and she couldn’t hide all her f
eelings, despite her brave front. He handed her a plate of food and a cup of coffee.
“No more pretense,” he said gruffly. “You’re half starved and I know it. Get outside of that and you’ll feel better. You’ve nothing to worry about now. Soon as we finish eating, I’ll bring your bronc’ up to the fire and have a look at it. If there’s no chance of using the animal, I’ll put your saddle on my pack horse, split up the pack, and hit the trail again in a couple of hours. Where’s your home?”
“At Sweet Winds. I’m Tracy Sutton.”
Wall lowered his head slightly to shadow his startled eyes. Surprises came fast this night, it seemed. This girl … Tracy Sutton. He’d heard that Bart Sutton had a daughter. And Sweet Winds was the name of Sutton’s ranch headquarters.
“And I’d like,” continued the girl after a slight pause, “to know the name of my benefactor. Or is that wish out of order?”
Dave Wall drew a deep breath, masked his face to inscrutability, and looked at her, wondering if it would mean anything to her. “Wall is the name … Dave Wall.”
It meant something, all right. He saw her start, saw her eyes widen, saw her even recoil slightly.
“Not … not Luke Lilavelt’s man?” she stammered. “Not that … Dave Wall?” She spoke it as though naming the devil himself.
“I’m sorry,” said Wall wearily, “but it is … that one.”
Chapter Two
When Dave Wall had taken Tracy Sutton’s gun from the burly drifter and returned it to her, she had tucked it from sight under her jumper. Now her hand stole toward it.
“No need of that,” said Wall harshly. “You’re as safe here as if you were in your own home. You should know that. I’m no ogre.”
“From … from all that I’ve heard I could believe that you are,” retorted the girl. “I’ve heard terrible things of you.”
Wall laughed mirthlessly. “Probably. A man in my place has many things told about him, a great many of them lies. And even the truthful things are seldom improved in the telling. Now you’ve the evidence of your own eyes. Maybe if you trust them, you’ll hit closer to the truth than you know.”
Her eyes were accusing, her thoughts traveling their own line. “You’re heading for Luke Lilavelt’s Crimson Hills headquarters. Yes, that’s where you’re heading.” Her lips scarcely moved and her voice was very low. It was as though she were thinking aloud. “Yes, you’re heading for the Crimson Hills. That means trouble … for Dad. I’ve heard him say so, more than once. That the day Dave Wall rode into Crimson Hills, it would mean the start of a showdown between himself and Luke Lilavelt. It never seemed real to me. I never thought it would happen. But it has. You’re here. You … Dave Wall.”
Wall writhed inwardly at the way she looked at him. He knew that along the back trail, in his service of Luke Lilavelt, he’d left hatreds that would never die. To some extent he’d managed to shake off the regrets. It was all a part of the price he had to pay for doing the thing he’d set himself to do. To that realization he had hardened himself. But he never could harden himself to the aversion he now saw growing in this girl’s clear eyes. Particularly this girl. It was like being whipped with a lash of fire. He broke silence on things he had virtually sworn to himself never to explain to anyone.
“There may be things you don’t understand,” he blurted huskily. “There are such things. Sometimes a man can’t help himself. Sometimes he must do things under the whip of his own conscience and sense of honor. Sometimes he does things because the happiness and welfare of someone near and dear to him mean much more to him than does his own.”
All of which made no impression whatever on Tracy Sutton. She was as distant as the stars. “Where,” she asked coldly, “can there be any conscience or sense of honor in doing Luke Lilavelt’s dirty work? Or does he pay you so much money nothing else matters?” Her hand had been stealing under her jumper again. Now it flicked out, gripping that slim-nosed gun. The muzzle dropped in line with Dave Wall’s heart. “I could kill you,” she said steadily, “and no one would ever blame me.”
Wall had quieted, ironing back the gust of feeling that had swayed him. Now he was still and inscrutable again, his voice dryly impersonal.
“That’s right, you could. You could say that I rode into your camp and that you had to shoot me for any one of a hundred reasons you might cook up, any of which would be accepted as gospel and legitimate by plenty of people. All of which would dispose of Dave Wall very satisfactorily, but it still wouldn’t stop Luke Lilavelt from having his try at the Square S holdings … your father’s ranch. Somewhere, somehow, Lilavelt would pick up another Dave Wall under another name. Probably he’d have to buy this new one with that big money you mentioned. Which would hurt his miserly soul, of course, but which he’d do if he had to. And then you probably wouldn’t be lucky enough to have a chance to shoot that one, out here in the desert.”
His glance was direct, taciturn, and telling nothing. She met it for a long moment, then color stole across her face, and her hand and the gun in it fell to her side. Wall stood up and walked away.
He was soon back, leading the girl’s crippled mount. He had only to look, to feel the flinching quiver of that bad leg under gently kneading fingertips to know that here was a pony that would not be carrying a rider again for some time. By itself the horse could shuffle along after a fashion. But the weight of a saddle and rider would have the animal completely broken down inside a mile or two.
While he worked with the horse, Wall could feel the girl’s guarded glance. She had put away her gun. Wall had known that she would, known that her entire gesture with the weapon had been merely thought with never any real intent. But there was no comfort in that, either. For in their own way, thoughts could wound as deeply as direct action.
Wall straightened up. “Out of the question to think of riding this horse. We’ll ride my two and let this one follow along at its own speed. And we might as well start now as later.”
He brought in his own horses, still weary, but stronger for water and grain. He cinched the girl’s saddle on the pack horse, split up his gear as compactly as he could. He slung the sawbuck pack saddle up behind the cantle of his own. The girl hung back in the shadows, for the fire was guttering out. “I can stay here,” she said. “Dad and the boys are sure to be along after a while.”
“Maybe,” said Wall briefly. “Maybe not until tomorrow. In the meantime a certain pair of two-legged coyotes might still be prowling. Don’t be so proud and stubborn. Get in your saddle and come along. A little more of my enforced company won’t contaminate you any worse than it already has.”
That brought a flare from her. “Am I to be blamed for … for wondering about you? After all …”
“The only thing you could be blamed for,” cut in Wall, “is being foolish enough to think that I’d leave you here alone. You’ll make it easier for both of us if you’ll scramble into that saddle and quit arguing.”
He built a cigarette, scratched a match, and cupped it briefly before his face. The light of it turned his weather-darkened features into a hard and settled mask of dull bronze. The girl, watching, caught the line of his profile and she knew that here, regardless of what else he might be, was no man of weakness. There was a stony will in him that it was useless to fight. Wall heard the saddle girth creak as the girl put her weight into the stirrup. So, then he mounted and rode away to the north without looking back.
For some distance Tracy Sutton trailed behind, then finally moved up even with him. “That way lies home,” she said stiffly, pointing more to the west.
“Fair enough,” murmured Wall. “Lead on.”
After that silence held between them while the miles and the hours ran out. The girl neither spoke nor looked at Wall and against the stars her shoulders showed a straight, uncompromising set. The pace was steady but not fast, and Wall, thinking of the crippled horse following, held it so. From tim
e to time he turned his head, listening until he heard the uneven, broken cadence of the animal’s stride. Once, when he wasn’t certain, he pulled almost to a stop, and then the girl turned almost impatiently.
“You don’t need to hold down the pace on my account,” she said tartly.
“Wasn’t thinking of that at all,” answered Wall dryly. “But there’s a faithful little bronc’ with a very bad leg trying to keep up back there.”
Instantly he knew the girl was contrite and her voice sounded slightly muffled. “You make me ashamed. I … I wasn’t thinking …”
“Sure,” said Wall gently. “I knew that.”
Tracy Sutton stared ahead into the night, trying to figure out this man. There was much that she did not know about men and their ways, about the things that made them what they were. At home, under the powerful shelter of her father’s affection and authority, surrounded by the loyalty of a sound and steady crew who were proud of her and slaves to her every wish and whim, she had been long shielded from the rougher aspects of the sex. She had been privileged to ride this country freely and as far as she wished because she was Bart Sutton’s daughter. And never before until this night had she actually come face to face with the ugliness that had reared its head when those two drifters had moved in on her camp at the dry wash water hole.
Honest with herself, she knew she had been desperately frightened, though her pride would not allow her to show it openly. And she thought now of the tremendous relief she had known when this Dave Wall had ridden in through the dusk and laid down his hard and uncompromising challenge to the two drifters. Never had the presence of another human being been more welcome.
She recalled the almost contemptuous ease with which he’d brought the two drifters to heel and that brief moment of explosive savagery he’d shown when he’d smashed the flat of his gun into the face of the burly renegade in retaliation for an uncouth remark.
She hadn’t known then who he was—hadn’t known that this was Dave Wall—the Dave Wall. The man who did Luke Lilavelt’s dirty work, the man who made Luke Lilavelt’s most bare-faced and shameless range piracies go. All she knew at the moment was that he was a big, dark figure of a man who carried something about him that made a pair of drifting renegades cringe and crawl.