by Ray Hogan
“So I’m offering you the job to stick around, keep me alive until the time comes when one or the other’ll happen.”
Shawn shook his head. “Obliged to you, but I’m not looking for work.”
“Figured that, but I expect it costs money to go wandering around the country hunting for this Ben.”
“Does. Have to stop every once in awhile, take a job to raise cash so’s I can keep going.”
“Then why not—”
“Just came off a job over New Mexico way. Fixed me up pretty good so there’s no reason to hire out. If Ben’s not here, I’ll have to push on.”
Price Hagerman sighed, brushed the sweat off his face. “Could make it worth your while—but I don’t reckon that’s any special inducement to you.”
“No, sure isn’t.”
It was no unfamiliar problem to Starbuck. In his passage across the west he had several times encountered this situation where a father, doubting the abilities of his son, or sons, refused to relinquish the reins and step down. Sometimes there had been reason for the reluctance, but there were occasions when it was not justified.
“Don’t mean to be sticking my nose into your family business,” he said, “but could be you’re figuring Ron short. Might pay to quit rawhiding him, give him another chance.”
“Be a waste of time,” Hagerman grumbled. “All he’s wanting to do is lay around and go trotting off to town every time he can. Seems he can always find plenty to do there, what with whoring and drinking and gambling and such.”
“Could be he’s doing that because he feels there’s nothing else for him—and forking manure’s not much of a job for any man.”
The rancher shifted. “Maybe it ain’t but it keeps him out from under my boots, and there’s nothing he can foul up while he’s doing it.”
Hagerman hesitated, glanced toward the outer door as heels rapped on the bare wooden floor. A moment later Dave Archer stamped into the room. The foreman’s face was taut, angry.
“Drawing my time,” he said, halting in front of the rancher.
Price Hagerman’s mouth tightened. “You quitting?”
“You’re damn right I’m quitting! Took enough of your chewings—a whole blasted year of them, in fact! That’s more’n enough for any man. You just get yourself another whipping boy.”
“Easy enough done,” Hagerman drawled. “But you ain’t got no time coming. Wages due you won’t near pay for them steers you let die.”
“I let die!” Dave Archer shouted. “I ain’t the only hired hand on this spread! Why the hell don’t you try collecting from the rest—”
“Because you’re the ramrod and the one responsible.”
“Well ... I ain’t paying—”
“And you ain’t drawing either. No, sir. What you’ve got coming will go against what you owe.”
“I don’t owe you a cent, Price,” Archer said, his voice trembling with anger. “You know it.”
“Owe me for twelve steers—over two hundred dollars. You got less’n a month’s wages due. That won’t cover but about half what they were worth.”
The foreman’s face had darkened to where it was almost purple as anger continued to mount within him. He brushed at his mouth, took a step forward. Hagerman’s hand dropped casually upon Starbuck’s pistol lying before him on the table. He looked up at Archer, eyes flat, features expressionless.
“When you ride out just be damned sure you don’t let nothing of mine stick to your fingers—hear?”
Dave Archer’s lips parted to make a reply, closed quickly as he thought better of it. Pivoting on a heel, he strode from the office.
Hagerman glanced at Shawn, a sly smile pulling at his mouth. “Foreman’s job’s open, seems. Sure you ain’t interested?”
“I’m sure,” Starbuck replied. “Give it to Ron.”
“Only wish’t I had the guts to,” the rancher said, and, taking up Shawn’s pistol by the barrel, handed it across the table.
Starbuck accepted the weapon, dropped it into its holster. Hagerman, rising, stepped to the door, looked into the yard.
“Dave always did have a short powder string. Expect he’ll be back.”
Shawn shook his head, moved up behind the rancher. He had seen pure hatred in Archer’s eyes.
“Wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him, if I were you,” he said. “It all right if I hang around a couple of days? Like to talk to your hired help about Ben.”
“Do what you damn please,” Price Hagerman said and turned back into his office.
Seven
Starbuck moved out into the bright, hot sunlight, paused briefly to get his bearings. It was also agreeable that he stay in the bunkhouse, he supposed, and crossing to the sorrel, he mounted and rode to the nearest of the three structures that housed the crew.
At that moment there was a quick rush of hooves. Dave Archer, a small carpetbag slung from the horn of his saddle, broke into the open beyond the long, low building, and, looking neither right nor left, pounded out of the yard. Shawn watched the man disappear behind the tamarisk windbreak while the thought occurred to him again that Price Hagerman was fooling himself if he thought the man would return and resume his job as foreman.
Halting in front of the bunkhouse, he dismounted and entered the rambling structure. It was considerably cooler and he paused just within the door, brushed sweat from his face and looked about. Two dozen or so bunks formed lines down either side as well as in the center of the rectangular room.
There was no one present, and, probing along the first row with his eyes, he located a bed that didn’t appear to be taken. He’d park his gear there, he decided, and later, if someone claimed that particular bunk, he’d change to another.
Returning to the sorrel he obtained his saddlebags and blanket roll, toted them into the building and dropped them on the chosen bed. He stood quiet then, thinking, considering the best course of action to follow in making inquiries.
Circle Hash Knife was a large spread with many riders—fifty, the rancher had said. There seemed little sense in simply going out on the range and seeking out each man singly. It would be much smarter to simply hang around the bunkhouses and talk to the punchers as they came in for meals or to sleep. In that manner he should be able to meet them all.
He could start that evening—not many hours away. The day crew would be riding in, being relieved by the men assigned to the nighthawk trick. Decided, he wheeled and once more entered the yard, intending to take the sorrel into the stable, give him a rub-down and a ration of feed. He hauled up sharp. Rhoda Hagerman, astride a fine looking tan and white mare, was waiting for him at the rack.
“You’ve moved in,” she said, matter of factly.
“Be for a couple of days. Aim to talk to the crew.”
Rhoda frowned, bit at her lower lip. She had changed clothing, now wore a blue silk shirt and a pair of close fitting black pants of lightweight material. Her boots were glove soft, artfully decorated with carefully stitched floral designs.
“Then you didn’t sign on?”
“No. Be moving on soon as I’ve done my asking.”
“Your asking?”
“About my brother, Ben. There’s a chance some of your hired help knew him, or have maybe seen him. Fact is, he could be working for you right now. Your pa didn’t know.”
The girl nodded absently. “He wouldn’t. Why don’t you talk to Dave Archer? He’s the one who’ll—”
“He’s gone—quit. Rode out a bit ago.”
She stared at him. “Dave quit?”
Shawn pushed back his hat. “Can’t say as I blame him much. Your pa’s a little on the unreasonable side.”
“You’re not telling me something I don’t already know. He offer you the job?”
“Had my choice—that one or one body guarding him.”
“That’s what I figured he’d talk to you about. He’s more worried than he lets on.”
“Worried, maybe, but he’s not scared. He’s afraid somethin
g will happen to him before your brother’s able to step into his boots—or you find yourself a husband who can do it.”
“He’s going to be disappointed then if that’s what he’s waiting on. Not much chance of either coming true. You busy?”
“Not specially. Was figuring to look after my horse.”
“That can wait. I’d like for you to take a ride with me ... to talk.”
Shawn studied the girl in silence. It would take very little to become interested in her—and that was something he could not permit himself to do, not in her or any other woman. A life of his own would have to wait until he found Ben and had squared away all matters pertaining to Hiram Starbuck’s estate.
“You bashful—or maybe afraid?” Rhoda asked, arching her brows. She had mistaken his reluctance and was finding it amusing.
He smiled, stepped up to his saddle. “Reckon there are a few things I’d be afraid of,” he drawled, “but I don’t think you’re one of them.”
Rhoda tilted her flat crowned Mexican hat to a more rakish angle and swung the mare around. “We’ll go down by the creek. It’s cool there.”
They rode in silence from the yard, slanting southwest for a small grove of trees a mile or so in the distance. Arriving there they pulled up under a huge, spreading cottonwood. Shawn, dismounting, stepped to the mare’s flank and extended his arms to help the girl down.
She gave him a pleased, quizzical look, allowed him to lift her easily from the saddle. Moving then to a log that lay half in, half out of the softly burbling creek, she found a seat, beckoned to him to do likewise.
Starbuck removed his hat, stepped to the stream and doused his face and head with the cool water. Drying with his bandana, he returned to her.
“I—I don’t think I heard your first name,” she said, fussing with her thick hair.
“Guess it wasn’t mentioned. Happens to be Shawn.”
She looked up, interested. “That sounds Indian. Are you part—”
“No, it’s short for Shawnee. My mother once taught some children from that tribe. She liked the sound of the word, made it into a name for me.
“I see.... You haven’t always lived in this part of the country, have you?”
“I was born in Ohio. Pretty well grew up there.”
“I thought so. You talk better than most of the men around here. Pa sent me back to Virginia for awhile, trying to educate me. I hated it there.”
“Home’s always best,” Starbuck murmured, looking off across the long flat glittering in the hot sunlight. Dust devils were whirling along the edge of the hills to the west.
“I was born on this place—right in the house where we live now. Ron, too. Pa came here when he was fifteen, back in 1830. Met my mother here, too. She was a San Antonio girl, came to visit some friends. She never went back.”
“Took a lot of doing to build up a fine ranch like this. Plenty of money, too.”
“There wasn’t much money involved. Pa worked at all sorts of jobs until he got a chance to open a little store. You know the kind—general merchandise and such. He got to taking in cattle and horses for supplies, and then later on started trading for land.
“The war came along then. He wasn’t for either side although he leaned to the South. Said they were fools, though, to think they could beat the North, with all its big cities and factories and the like. He figured it would be smarter to be a supply point for both, and that’s what he did—sold cattle and horses to whoever had the money—hard money.”
“And when it was all over he was a rich man with a big ranch.”
“That’s the way it worked out, all right,” Rhoda said and then looked closely at Shawn. “Why? Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, guess not, only things didn’t turn out so good for most people. War ruined them. There were plenty who lost everything they had.”
“The war wasn’t pa’s fault. He just did what he thought best for himself and his family.”
“Not everybody’ll look at it that way. Some will figure he took advantage of the times, grabbed up all he could fast as he could.”
Rhoda became silent. In the depths of the Cottonwood’s sprawling limbs a dove mourned softly. Somewhere along the creek a splash sounded as a raccoon or like small animal caught a fish for his meal.
“I suppose so,” she said at length, “but isn’t that how life is out here? The strong win out while the weak fall by the wayside.”
“Same as it is everywhere, I suppose—not that it makes it right. Once spent some time with a band of people who didn’t believe in that. They lived together like a family, shared everything equal, the work as well as all the things they could make or grow. They didn’t believe in greed or violence and if trouble hit them, they’d turn away from it, even pick up and move on if there wasn’t another answer.”
“A person would have little to show for a lifetime here on earth, feeling that way.”
“Exactly the point. They believed in what the Bible says about not building any mansions. Could be they’re right. You sure can’t take any of it with you.”
“Which is just what Pa would like to do,” Rhoda said with a laugh. “If he can arrange it he’ll take Hash Knife right up to heaven with him.... Or maybe it’ll be down to the hot place.”
“Means a lot to him, no doubt. That threat to kill him—there something to it?”
The girl frowned. “Of course.”
“I mean, is there somebody in particular out to put a bullet in him? I know there’s probably plenty who’d like to but never get farther than talking about it.”
“He has a great many enemies.”
“Only natural. Building this ranch up to what it is meant stepping on people, and he sure doesn’t take much trouble trying to get along with folks. Saw a good sample of that today—Dave Archer.”
“I know. My mother tried to change him when she was alive but she didn’t have much luck. He just rides iron-shod over everybody—friends or enemies. He’s grown worse since Mama died—that changed him the wrong way.”
“He’s a mighty lonely man. Found that out from talking to him.”
“I wondered about that. You were in there with him a good while. Expect he opened up with you more than anybody in a long time.”
“He unwound himself plenty.”
Rhoda sighed. “Expect it was good for him to open up, but it won’t really make any difference. He’ll always be the way he is. I guess only dying will end it.”
“Too bad. Going to be hard on you and Ron if it happens. He’ll be leaving behind a lot of hate that you’ll have to face.”
“I know—and it’s more than just an if. Someone is coming to kill him—a man paid to do it.”
Starbuck’s head came up slowly. “You know that for certain?”
“I do.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know his name, only who it was that hired him.”
Shawn didn’t take his eyes off Rhoda’s stilled, softly contoured face. “Who?”
“My brother—Ron.”
Eight
For the space of several moments Starbuck said nothing. And then, “You want me to believe that?”
“Whether you do or not, it’s the truth,” Rhoda said in a lost voice.
Again he was silent. Finally, “You’re saying that Ron wants his own pa murdered?”
She nodded woodenly.
“How do you know? He wouldn’t have told you.”
“I heard it from ... well ... a friend, a drummer that I got acquainted with one day when I was in town. While we were talking Ron passed by. Orly—that was my friend’s name—didn’t know he was my brother.”
“Then how—”
“It came to him by accident. He overheard Ron talking to someone that was leaving on the stagecoach he’d just come in on. Ron was giving him the cash to hire a gunman. The person to be killed was Price Hagerman.”
Frowning, Shawn studied the backs of his hands. Murder—killing was not un
common, but for a son to deliberately plan the death of his father was something else again.
“You sure this Orly couldn’t be mistaken?”
“I am. He recognized Ron the instant he saw him, and he called Pa by name. Besides, there’d
be no reason for him to make it up. He knew me only by Rhoda.”
“When was this gunman to come?”
“No day was set. Ron told whoever it was that he was dealing with that he didn’t want to know—that the killer was not to get in touch with him. He was to just ride in, get the job done, and ride on. That’s why he paid for it in advance.”
Starbuck got to his feet, began to pace slowly back and forth, eyes on the ground. Hired guns—paid-for assassinations—were no novelty to him, but the thought of an acquaintance, even one as recent as Ron Hagerman, arranging for the death of his father left him somewhat stunned.
“I take it that you haven’t told your pa anything about it.”
“No, of course not. Deep down Pa loves Ron— worships him, really. He’s just hard on him because he wants him to be like himself ... I think he sees himself in Ron and wants to be certain he doesn’t make the mistakes he did, and does all the things he should have done.”
“Still, might be better to tell him.”
“Why? It would break his heart—destroy him. Could you have told your father that this brother you’re looking for—Ben—had hired someone to kill him?”
Starbuck paused, placed himself in Rhoda’s position. “Reckon not,” he admitted. All he could have done would be to watch close and hope to prevent it.
“I thought a lot about it, even considered going to Ira Blackburn about it, but I couldn’t force myself to do that either. Family pride, I suppose. Anyway, what could he do? He’s so old—and sort of useless.”
“Picked me up quick enough. How did the word get out that a killer was coming after your pa?”
“I started it—with Ira. I wrote him a letter, had it mailed from San Angelo, warning him that it was about to happen. I signed it ‘A Friend.’... I thought it might put Pa on his guard and maybe there was a chance Ira Blackburn would stumble onto the gunman when he showed up.”