by Ray Hogan
“I know—”
“All right, see to it, now. I’ll be riding over next day to see if you done it.”
“Be no need for that.”
“Yeah, reckon there will be,” Hagerman said mildly, and shifted his attention to Starbuck. “You get moved in?”
Shawn said, “I’m all set. Fine quarters—may have trouble sleeping.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Rhoda said quickly as if fearing he might make a change.
“Sure you will,” the rancher added, again pausing, gaze on his daughter. He swung his eyes to Shawn and a thoughtfulness came into them. He smiled faintly as if pleased by what had occurred to him. “Ain’t no sense at all you staying with the crew—not when we got plenty of room here.”
“How long will you be around?” Ron asked, a note of surprise in his voice as he spoke to Starbuck for the first time.
“Hard to say.”
“Pa hired him on as ... well... a bodyguard,” Rhoda volunteered. “Guess we forgot to tell you.”
Ron nodded glumly. “Yes, you did. Last I heard he was going to be here just long enough to see about this brother he’s hunting.”
The girl considered her brother narrowly. “Don’t you like the idea of him being Pa’s bodyguard?”
The younger Hagerman’s shoulders stirred. “It ever make any difference what I like?” he asked, and, rising abruptly, wheeled from the table and left the room.
Price watched his departure with no particular interest. “Guess you had yourself a look at my place this afternoon—seen you riding out with my daughter,” he said, coming back to Starbuck. “Like what you saw?”
There was a different note in the rancher’s voice as he made the comment and asked his question, one that indicated his approval of the incident.
“Sure did,” Shawn said. “Take a few days for a man to see it all.”
“We’ll do that together,” Hagerman said, bobbing his head decisively. “Finest piece of land in this part of Texas. Got two hundred thousand acres and there’s damned little of it that ain’t usable ... Plenty of water—reaches all parts.
“Some other things I’d like to show you, too. There’s a flat to the south of here where a man could grow hay and grain, cut down on his feeding costs ... Once in a spell we have a dry summer and the range don’t turn out so good. Be smart to do some feeding when that happens, keep the stock in good shape.”
“You’re lucky down here,” Starbuck said. “Been on a few ranches where they have to do that regularly.”
“Know that. Mighty hard to beat this country. Well, expect I’d best be turning in, leave you two alone. Young folks like you got more to talk about than an old stud like me.”
“Favor I want to ask of you,” Starbuck said, delaying the rancher with a lift of his hand. “Went over this house today. I figure it’ll be a good idea if you’d lock your door when you go to bed.”
Hagerman’s eyes brightened. “Lock my door inside my own house! I’ll be goddamned if I will!” he shouted, once more the man Shawn knew him to be.
“Now, Pa,” Rhoda broke in. “You hired Shawn to do a job. Ought to let him do it.”
Price got to his feet. He appeared much older than at first look, Starbuck thought. His big frame seemed to sag a bit and his eyes were tired in their deep hollows. It was at the end of day that age usually showed its haggard face.
“All right, whatever you say ... One hell of a note, howsomever, when a man has to bolt the door to his own bedroom,” he declared, and, pivoting, left the room.
Rhoda stood before the full length mirror in her room and studied herself critically. She had hoped to spend the remainder of the evening with Shawn, but shortly after her father had retired he had excused himself politely and taken his leave. Not much later she had watched him, wide shouldered and erect on his big sorrel, ride from the yard. He was probably headed for town—but whether it was to keep an eye on Ron or to pass some time in one of the saloons she could only guess.
But the trouble she had gone to fixing up herself had not been wasted. Shawn had been impressed—and Pa! He was already teaming them up in his mind! He was transparent as glass—all that talk about the ranch, that showing it to him personally and pointing out its advantages and possibilities.
Rhoda smiled, moved to the cushioned chair by the window and sat down. She had news for Pa. She was far ahead of him. The moment when she first saw Shawn Starbuck she had recognized that he was a man to quicken the pulse of any woman; and then when he had smacked Pa on the jaw she decided he was the man she wanted—and would have, come fire or brimstone.
He was vastly different from the other men she’d known—so serious, so intent and so determined in the manner he went about things. Like this brother he had not seen for so many years and was seeking. He had made it clear that it was a mission he would see through to its end.
She would have to change his mind on that score. There would be no need for him to continue his wandering about over the country searching for Ben in order to settle his father’s estate. She had heard most of the story—after Pa had ordered her out of the office so they could talk. The window had been open and it had been simple to just stand there and listen.
Once Shawn became her husband he would forget all about the inheritance, probably small, that awaited him. He’d have all the fortune he’d ever want, being half owner of Hash Knife which she was certain Pa would make her—and Shawn. In fact, the way he felt about Ron at the moment, she could end up getting it all.
Rhoda considered that thought. Up to Shawn’s riding into the scene, she’d never given the matter of being part owner of the ranch any deliberation. She had simply sat back, lived the life that was handed her without question, taking all things for granted. But Shawn Starbuck’s coming put a different light on it; she guessed she should now take more interest in Hash Knife and become a bit more aggressive where it was concerned.
That she was more like Pa had long ago become clear to her, while Ron was said to take after their mother—and that made it easier. Ron had already done a pretty fair job of cutting the ground out from under himself; it would take little effort—even if Pa never learned that he had been the one to make a deal with the killer—for him to finish it.
But Shawn would require careful handling. He was no ordinary man ready to jump at the chance of getting himself a wife, a fine ranch and a fortune all in the same ball of wax. She would have to make it doubly attractive to him—and the answer to that lay in herself. Me, she thought, rising and beginning to undress. I’ll have to be the key.
Shawn Starbuck was one in whom honor ran strong and deep; it was a major factor in governing his life—thus it at once became his most vulnerable point. Perhaps such scheming was cold-blooded, even ruthless, but Rhoda could see nothing wrong with it.
In this world when you finally came to know what you wanted above all else, you simply set out to get it. That had been the way Pa had made Hash Knife into what it was, the self-same system he had used to become the biggest and most powerful—and richest—rancher in southwest Texas. She could see no reason why she shouldn’t follow his example.
Laying the blue satin dress aside, she removed the remainder of her underclothing and crossed to the dark wood dresser standing against the wall. Opening a bottom drawer, she rummaged about and located the nightgown she had purchased one time while visiting in the East. Pulling it over her head, she smoothed it against her. It was a light shade of pink, outrageously thin, and clung closely to her.
Turning, she surveyed herself in the mirror critically, and then, satisfied, nodded. It should do the trick and break down any man—even one so apparently straight-laced as Shawn Starbuck ... And there was no time like the present to get started at the task. Moving on to the chair near the window, she sat down to await his return.
Eleven
Starbuck was not sure in his own mind what he expected to learn or accomplish by trailing the younger Hagerman into Brasada. It had simply occ
urred to him, as he sat at the table with Rhoda and Price, listening to the hoof beats of Ron’s departing horse, that it was what he should do.
The rancher had said his son frittered away his time on gambling, liquor and women; if true, he would be associating with the hard-case lot among whom a hired killer, being a stranger in town, could expect to find friends. Therefore, observing them, listening, if possible, to their conversations, could result in a clue that would lead to the identity of the killer.
It had been somewhat difficult to leave. It was clear that Rhoda wanted to talk, to spend time in the parlor or perhaps out on the gallery where several big leather chairs had been placed and it was a great deal cooler. But the urge to keep an eye on Ron pushed at him steadily and he had ridden out.
The remembrance of Rhoda, the utter beauty of her, however, hung in his mind like a misty wraith, and it was not until he turned into the settlement’s main street that the vision dissolved.
There were only a few persons abroad he noted as he angled the sorrel toward the hitch rack at the side of The Chinaberry. Brasada was a small town, existed mostly for the convenience of Hash Knife and the three or four other ranches in the area, thus the list of permanent residents was short.
Halting at the rack, Starbuck dismounted, tied the gelding securely and stepped up onto the porch of the saloon. He would as soon Ron did not see him; that was sure to convince the younger Hagerman that he was being spied upon—which was, of course, partly true—and believing such Ron would likely avoid his usual haunts and companions.
Stopping just outside the saloon door, Shawn glanced inside. He saw Dave Archer immediately. Hash Knife’s one-time foreman was sitting at a table with two other riders, morosely nursing a drink and evidently brooding over the injustice of Price Hagerman’s actions.
The rancher had been unduly harsh, Starbuck thought, but it was none of his business.
Ron was not in The Chinaberry, he saw after touring the room with a probing glance. He could be upstairs in one of the rooms that lay off the balcony, and Shawn gave thought briefly to making inquiry of Nate or of Artha, if she was available, as to the probability, and then put it aside. He’d check the other saloons in town first.
Accordingly, he turned back to the street. A short distance farther along was THE KAFFI-KORN, which appeared small and seemed to have little light. Across the way and beyond several doors was a somewhat better illuminated barroom that bore the sign, THE PACK SADDLE. As far as he could tell there were no other saloons in Brasada; locating Ron should not be difficult.
The Kaffikorn had two customers lounging against a short, crudely constructed bar in the rear of its dimly lit interior; neither of them was Hagerman. Shawn crossed over to The Pack Saddle. It was enjoying slightly better patronage. Half a dozen men were hanging around the counter watching a seventh engaged, without music, in a stomp dance with a worn looking woman in soiled yellow. The puncher was physically enthusiastic but the expression on the woman’s rouge-marked sallow face was one of utter exhaustion.
Ron Hagerman was not the energetic dancer and he was not among the six at the bar. Puzzled, Starbuck moved away from the door and paused in the shadows to consider. Could there be another town close by where Ron had gone?
He decided such was unlikely. No mention had been made of any settlement other than San Angelo and it was much too far distant. It had to be Brasada. His thoughts swung back to The Chinaberry, the second floor rooms where Artha and the women like her plied their trade. That’s where he’d find Ron ... .
All speculation came to a halt as the familiar figure of Hagerman, in company with a young girl, emerged from the doorway of a two-storied house a few strides away. The barely legible sign overhanging the walk designated it as MA CONVERCE’S ROOMING HOUSE. Ron and the girl hesitated momentarily and then moved toward Shawn slowly, evidently pointing for the small wooded square at the end of the street.
Trapped, Starbuck drew back into the deep shadows of the passageway alongside The Pack Saddle, unable to do anything other than remain hidden in the darkness. Almost at once Hagerman’s voice came to him.
“Nothing’s changed, Stell.” His voice was low, discouraged. “Only wish I could say it had.”
“But you said it would be soon! I’m so tired of waiting—holding on.”
“Maybe you think I’m not!” There was impatience in Hagerman’s tones now. “I told you it would take time. Told you that right at the start.”
“I know, but it’s going on longer than I figured. And Ma keeps ragging at me about it—always wanting to know when we’re getting married ... I think she knows, Ron.”
“Knows what?”
“Well... that we ... that when we go off to the park at night, we—”
“What of it? Said we’d get married, didn’t I? And we will.”
“But when? That’s what Ma and me keep wondering.”
“Soon as we can.”
“Couldn’t we just forget everything here, move on to somewheres else? You could get a job on some ranch and—”
Ron swore deeply, halted, turned his face to the girl. They were almost directly in front of The Pack Saddle and weak light filtering through one of its dust smudged windows fell upon the pair. Stell was very young, Starbuck noted, no more than fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most.
“You think I’m giving up my claim on Pa’s place? Just walking off, leaving it? Not by a jugful! I’ve earned my share of Hash Knife—earned it the hard way.” He paused, added in more even tones, “No, I’m not throwing it all away.”
“But for me you said once that you’d—”
“What’s wrong with you, Stell? Don’t you want to be rich? Don’t you want to have servants and pretty clothes and a carriage and all the fine things that’ll make you a lady?”
“Sure—of course I do,” the girl replied, moving on. “But I just can’t wait forever, Ron ... Sometimes I think I’d be better off tying up with some regular fellow, one who maybe ain’t going to get all the things you say you’ll have when your pa dies.”
“You been talking to some other man?” Hagerman’s voice was suddenly sharp.
“Well, not exactly. Always plenty of them coming to the house, renting rooms and such, and trying to spark me—”
“By God, Stell—you’d better not—”
“Never said I did, only that I sometimes get to wondering if—”
The girl’s plaintive tones faded out of range. Starbuck, feeling somewhat embarrassed, sighed in relief. They hadn’t noticed him.
He stared after them thoughtfully. What he had heard verified much of the story Rhoda had told him. Although Ron had not come right out and mentioned the fact that he expected the death of Price Hagerman shortly, he had indicated their future together began with that moment, which he had given her to understand would be soon.
Ron was having it rough. Price Hagerman dominated his life completely, so much so that he was less than a stable hand in stature on his father’s own ranch and was also being forced to meet secretly in the dark with the girl he planned to marry—a girl who was, incidentally, growing impatient.
Ron’s response to her urging had betrayed a strong note of anxiety—and that could mean trouble. The younger Hagerman, already pushed to the edge by Price, could become desperate if he believed he was to lose Stell.
It simply worsened a bad situation, and Shawn realized he would have to keep an even closer watch over the rancher. Ron could go over the edge, not wait for the man he had hired but take matters into his own hands. Starbuck had learned long ago how unpredictable a man turned quietly hopeless could become; even the meekest often turned, transformed into a tower of violence.
Moving back to the edge of the walk, Shawn glanced toward the square. Ron and Stell were vague outlines melting into the dark shadows beneath the trees. Maybe he should try to do something about the situation existing between the rancher and his son, see if he somehow couldn’t promote a little better understanding between the two.
> That would solve many of the problems that faced the family, although it would have no effect on the impending arrival of the gunman Ron had hired.... If he actually had done so ...
Starbuck frowned as that came suddenly into his mind. He had no proof that a murder had been arranged; he had only Rhoda’s word—word that had been based on information given her by a chance acquaintance. Could the whole thing be a lie? If so—whose lie? And why?
The person supposedly telling Rhoda of the arrangement—Orly or some such name—would have nothing to gain as far as he could see; by simple logic then it would be a lie on Rhoda’s part—one designed to further discredit her brother and enhance her own interests. But would Hash Knife mean that much to her? She had given him the impression of caring little for the ranch—was that all a show, an out and out act for his benefit?
Starbuck swore suddenly, violently. Why the hell had he let himself get mixed up in such a mess—a family mess at that? He must have been out of his head when he let himself get talked into becoming a part of the Hagerman quarrel!
Disgusted with himself and all things in general, Shawn stepped out into the street, slanted for the brightly lighted Chinaberry. He’d have himself a drink, cool off a bit and then return to the ranch ... If he hadn’t already given his word to both Rhoda and Price Hagerman he’d pack up and move on.
There was one thing he could do, however; he would jump Ron about hiring a killer, demand to know if he actually had done such a thing. If he could get a straight answer to that question then he would at least know more about whom he could trust on Hash Knife.
Twelve
The Chinaberry’s clientele had increased somewhat, Starbuck noticed when he crossed the saloon’s porch and entered. Someone was at the piano playing in an uncertain, lonely fashion, ignored by most of the crowd gathered now about a man in checked suit and derby who was performing card tricks at one of the tables.