by Ray Hogan
Starbuck folded his arms, stared at her silently. She fluffed her hair, smiled.
“You act like you’ve never known a woman before.”
Face expressionless, Shawn pulled away from the wall, reached for the lamp. He paused as the quiet thud of hooves rose faintly from the yard below.
Turning, he crossed quickly to the window in three long strides. Keeping back from the frame he looked down. A rider was moving slowly along the edge of the hard pack, pointing for the deep shadows beyond the near bunkhouse.
Wheeling, Shawn snatched up his shirt, began to pull it on while he stamped into his boots.
“It’s only Ron,” Rhoda said protestingly.
“Maybe not,” he replied, buckling on his gun. “My job to know for sure.”
He stepped to the door, halted, looked back at the girl. Her face, set to a disapproving frown, was turned to him.
“Be out of here when I get back,” he said and stepped into the dark hallway.
Rhoda’s reply was a quiet laugh.
Fourteen
Starbuck moved hurriedly to the stairs, paused, a faint jingling reminding him that he still wore his spurs. Reaching down, he flipped the buckle tongues, released the straps and laid the star rowels to one side.
Continuing down the dark steps, he opened the door cautiously, and, bent low, crossed the porch, stepped in behind a thick leafed lilac at its corner.
He could see nothing of the rider. He spent a long minute probing the shadows edging the hard pack and then, still hunched, darted from the protection of the shrub to the tamarisk windbreak that formed a shield for the yard.
If the rider was Ron Hagerman he would be either in the barn or at the corral where the family horses were usually kept. Walking in short, quiet steps, keeping always in the darkness, Shawn circled the bunkhouses and other smaller structures until he came finally to the bulking shape of the barn.
Pulling up against the wall, he listened. He could hear only the faraway hooting of an owl somewhere back in the trees. If Ron was in the structure there would be sounds of movements, of gear being laid aside, of the horse shifting about. There was none of that.
Drawing his pistol, Starbuck edged toward the door at the opposite end of the wall near which he stood. An overhead moon was spreading a weak radiance upon the land, and, hugging the shadow extending from the building, he crossed to the double-width entrance.
Again he stopped, drew a deep breath and turned quickly into the wide runway. There was no one there, as he suspected, but he knew he had to be sure. Walking hurriedly down the row of stalls he came to the one where he had earlier noticed Ron’s favorite horse. It was empty.
Immediately he wheeled, retraced his steps, a hard, pressing urgency pushing at him insistently ... One more place to look. If Ron was not there. . .
Easing quietly through the barn’s entrance, he continued on in the narrow band of shadow until he gained the building’s extreme corner. The corrals were only a few strides away. Again dropping into a crouch he hurried over the open stretch of ground, moved in alongside the horizontal poles of the pens. Not halting, he made his way to the one used by the family. Only Rhoda’s mare was inside.
Starbuck drew himself up slowly. The rider had not been Ron Hagerman. There could be only one answer to it; the killer had come. He was having his look at the ranch, familiarizing himself with the arrangement of the yard, the location of the house, the crew’s quarters and lesser buildings.
Best he return to the house—to where Price lay sleeping. There would be only a small possibility of danger for the rancher he was sure, but the killer, unaware of the precautions already taken, could decide to make his try.
Shawn took a step forward into the hushed night, checked himself abruptly as the distinct noise of dry brush raking against some passing object came to him. Instantly he moved to a small shed standing apart from the corrals, faded into its dark shadow.
Most of the yard and the entire front of the house was visible to him from that position. Gun ready, he whipped his eyes back and forth, waited. Anyone attempting to enter the structure, or moving about it, would fall within his vision.
The moments dragged by filled with only the heavy hush of the early morning hour. Now and then a weary horse stamped inside the barn or the lower corrals. The owl hooted again, a lonely, distant note floating through the silvered night. The lamp in the bunkhouse winked out and, back in the sand hills that footed the mountain, a coyote barked. But he heard no more of the intruder.
A blur of motion at the south end of the house brought him up sharply. It was the man on the horse. Starbuck spun, doubled back to the corrals, and, racing to their opposite line, cut left into the dense chamisa fringing that side of the yard.
Bent low, he walked fast and softly toward that point. The killer had made a complete circuit of the premises, knew by that moment the location of the crew’s quarters, the barn and stable, the corrals, the sheds and their relation to the main house. With such firmly in mind he had a clear picture of what Price Hagerman’s pattern of movement would be.
He could visualize the rancher coming out of the house, walking across the open yard to the barn or the corrals to where his horse would be waiting. He could about guess the course he would take as he rode out onto the range—and knowing that, the killer could chose his spot and wait.
Taut, Shawn reached the last of the brush and halted. The white wall of the ranch house was to his left, no more than fifty feet away. Somewhere close by would be the man on his horse. The certainty of it was a strong core in his mind.
Rigid, hand gripping his six gun tightly, Starbuck listened while his straining eyes probed the pools of blackness, the lighter shadows, the moonlit aisles between the trees. The feeling within him heightened. The hair along the back of his neck prickled ... He was being watched. The killer knew he was there. A coldness settled over him. At that exact moment a gun was probably being leveled at him.
Instinctively he ducked low, pivoted. He whirled to one side, changing positions rapidly. A thump of quick movement to his left sent him spinning off again as realization swept him; he had been standing only a stride from the killer!
He lunged to one side as a shadow surged at him. Something solid struck his head. He was moving away however, and it was only a glancing blow. He went to hands and knees, shook his head to clear it. He hung there briefly, and then, as full awareness rushed back to him, he lunged to his feet.
The shadow was gone, the retreating sound of his horse a hurried tattoo at the end of the house. Cursing, Starbuck plunged forward through the brush, broke into the open and came to a halt behind a clump of wild rose. He swore again. The sound had faded.
He had been within reach of the killer, and the man had slipped through his hands. He shrugged, guessed he should be grateful for one thing; he had stood close to death there in the darkness. Only the intruder’s reluctance to use his gun and arouse others on the ranch, and thus betray his presence, had spared him.
His attention swung into sharp focus once again as hoof beats, more distinct this time, reached him. The thud was now at the opposite end of the house. Moving quickly from the pool of shade in which he stood, Shawn ran the full length of the structure until he was once more alongside the tough, stringy windbreak.
The horseman broke into view at the end of the tamarisk, a slumped figure on his saddle outlined against the darkness. Shawn waited until he was abreast and stepped suddenly into the open.
Fifteen
Starbuck caught the headstall of the passing horse in one hand, leveled his pistol with the other.
“What the hell—”
It was Ron Hagerman. Shawn, seething inwardly at his failure to capture the killer, head aching from the glancing blow he had received, released his grip and stepped back.
“Just being sure you weren’t somebody else,” he said, holstering his weapon.
Ron, quieting his startled horse, came off the saddle angrily. “Who the devil’d you
think I was?” he demanded.
Starbuck hooked his thumbs in his belt, studied the man coldly. “The killer you hired to put a bullet in your pa. He’s come.”
Hagerman’s eyes flared, then narrowed quickly. He shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shawn continued to watch him closely. “No point in playing dumb. I know all about it.”
Hagerman’s eyes held firm for a long moment, and then he looked away. “How’d you find out?” he asked heavily.
A faint sigh slipped through Starbuck’s lips. He had hoped the story was untrue, that there was some mistake and Ron wasn’t guilty of such a terrible thing; now there no longer was any doubt.
“Can’t see that it makes any difference. Point is, he’s here.”
“You saw him?”
“Only saw a man riding a horse in the dark. He had himself a good look at the place, getting it sized up.”
“And you didn’t nail him?”
Impatience stirred Shawn. “Tried but I never got the chance ... Was him you heard leaving when you rode in.”
“Never heard nobody,” Ron muttered, staring off into the night. “What comes next? You telling Pa?”
Starbuck was silent in thought for a time. Finally, “Not sure—leastwise about you. Got to tell him the killer’s here for certain. Need to do that so he’ll be on his guard.”
“Be obliged if you’ll keep my part of it from him,” Ron said hurriedly, coming about to face Starbuck. “Consider it a big favor.”
“Yeah, expect you would. But I’m making no promises, not right now. What in the hell were you thinking of when you pulled this stunt?”
Hagerman’s arms lifted and fell in a gesture of helpless frustration. “God, I don’t know! I was drunk, for one thing, and plenty sore at Pa over something. You’ve seen how he rides me. Treats me like I was dirt under his boots.”
“So when the chance turned up—”
“Was that same night—”
“—You got yourself a hired gun. Paid for him in advance.”
Ron nodded woodenly.
“What’s worse, you made it clear you didn’t want to know who the gunslinger would be or when he’d come.”
“Wanted to fix it so’s I couldn’t change my mind, back down ... Was it Rhoda who told you?”
Starbuck only shrugged. “I’ve talked to quite a few since I’ve been around.”
“Had a hunch she knew,” the younger Hagerman said, seemingly not hearing the reply.
“Doubt if your sister has much truck with gamblers and gunslingers,” Shawn said, feeling it best to get Ron’s thoughts channeled away from Rhoda. For him to know it was her who had tipped him off could accomplish nothing more than to deepen the chasm that lay between them.
Ron stirred wearily. “I’d give anything to stop it—my own life if that’s the price. Like for you to believe that.”
“About what it would take. You pay one of those killers to do a job and he does it, regardless. Having a one track mind is part of what it takes to be one. Who was it you got to line it up for you?”
“Gambler I knew. He used to hang around The Pack Saddle. I was in there that same night Pa and me had the big row. I must’ve said something about being glad when he was dead so’s I could take over the ranch, run it myself, because he spoke up, told me if that was what I wanted, he could fix it for me.
“Didn’t exactly understand what he meant at first and he explained. Said there were always gunmen hanging around the bigger cow towns looking to take a job like that. Said he figured to pull out that next day for Abilene, and if I wanted it done, he’d set it up for me.”
“Was this idea of you not knowing who the killer would be or when he’d come yours or his?”
“His. Told me it was the way I ought to arrange it. That way nobody would know I had anything to do with it. Cost me seven hundred and fifty dollars—five hundred for the gunman, two-fifty for the gambler. I—I jumped at the chance. Was that drunk or that sore, not sure which. Anyway I made a deal and got the money to him that next day just as he was leaving town.”
“How long ago?”
“About a month. Why?”
“Just wondering. About what I’d figure it would take for your killer to show up. Leaves no doubt in my mind that it was him I trailed all over the place tonight.”
“Reckon we can be sure, all right,” Ron murmured. “Realize I’ve got no right to ask, Starbuck, but you think you can head him off before he gets to Pa?”
“I’ll do what I can—was what he hired me to do. Going to be a matter of waiting and watching sharp.”
“You think he’ll come back tomorrow?”
“Hard to say. Maybe not, after running into me. More likely to wait, just hang around until everything settles down again. Want to get word passed to all the hired hands to be on the lookout for strangers.”
Ron nodded. “I’ll do it myself first thing in the morning.”
“Start with the cook. He can spread it fast ... Who’ll be foreman now? Guess you know Archer quit.”
“Heard it in town. I don’t know who. Pa’ll have to find somebody.”
“What’s wrong with you taking over the job?”
Ron Hagerman’s face reflected his surprise. “Me? Hell, you know the answer to that. Pa’d never go for the idea. He’d holler me clear off the place.”
“Hollering never draws any blood, about time you realized that and maybe did some yelling right back. You figure you could handle the job?”
“Know I could—leastwise, I could run Hash Knife the way I think is right. Wouldn’t be what Pa would want, though.”
“Can’t see as it would make much difference how you did it as long as it worked out.”
“What I’ve tried to tell him every time we have a row over something. But I can’t reach him—get it into his head. He just rides right over me, goes on doing whatever it is we’re arguing about the way he wants—the way he did thirty years ago.”
“Guess he believes they’re the best since they worked for him.”
“Not denying that, but it’s not true all the time. Like how he treats the hired hands. Drives them like they were galley slaves on one of those old ships I used to read about in school. You can’t do that anymore.... The war changed a lot of things and that’s one of them. Men nowadays are more independent. They won’t take a lot of rawhiding. They’ll just quit, find themselves a better job.
“Right now we don’t have a single man riding the range for us who’s been with Hash Knife over six months! Dave Archer was an old hand; you know how long he’d been here?”
Starbuck shook his head. This was a different Ron Hagerman than he had imagined from first impressions.
“No idea.”
“A little over a year—that’s all. You can’t keep good help, build up loyalty by treating a crew the way Pa does.”
“You ever talk to him about it—mentioning what you have to me?”
“Tried to—got nowheres fast. He won’t listen to anything but what he thinks is right. If I go at him too strong, it ends up with him sending me out to do some lousy two-bit job like he did this morning ... That’s his way of reminding me of my place.”
“What about just going ahead sometime, sort of force your way?”
Ron stirred apathetically. “Be no use. Always tried to talk, persuade him to let me handle it like I think’s best. Flat out refuses me, every time. He figures I haven’t got enough sense to take on any responsibility.”
“There any doubt in your mind?” Starbuck asked, looking intently at Hagerman.
“No, there ain’t. Plenty of things I can handle. Hell, I grew up on this ranch, know every inch of it along with all the do’s and don’ts about raising beef—which I learned from him, only he won’t admit it ... Be no sweat taking over Dave Archer’s job as foreman. The crew would like it, too. I get along with them fine. And if I did he’d mighty quick find them helping and being good hands instead of just putting in
time to draw wages.”
“Reckon it’s up to us to sell your pa on the idea, then.”
“Us?”
“Seems to me you could use a little backing where he’s concerned.”
Ron’s shoulders had come up. He peered at Shawn through the pale light. “That mean you’re willing to help me—even after what I’ve done?”
“That killer’s a different thing, something I’ll have to think about and take care of. What we’re talking about is a way to get you and your pa together, bring about some sort of an understanding.”
“I don’t know,” Hagerman said in an uncertain voice. “Probably be a waste of time.”
“May be, but you ought to figure it’s worth the effort ... I gathered from talking to him that he’s afraid to trust you with anything. Claims you always fell down on the jobs he gave you.”
“Goddammit!” Ron exclaimed, suddenly angry. “That was ten years ago! He keeps throwing up the time when I wasn’t much more than a kid twelve, fifteen years old, and didn’t have much sense.”
Shawn nodded. “And I expect he was judging you by himself when he was the same age—”
“Exactly what he’s doing. At fifteen he was on his own, lagging for himself and already with an idea of how to get a ranch and make it big. With me, I had it already made and just waiting for me. I never had to grub for anything or worry a minute about the next day. He made it all possible—and then hates me because he did. But you can’t make him see it.”
“We’re going to have to, somehow.”
Hagerman shrugged tiredly. “No way that I can think of. He plain won’t listen, unless—” Ron hesitated stared hard at Starbuck. “I know he’s taken to you plenty. Might be he’d stand still for you talking to him.”
“Could be, but we ought to have something special to put up to him—not just the fact that we both figure you can handle the foreman’s job, that things have changed since you were fifteen. There anything coming up that’s needing to be done real bad?”
Ron rubbed at his jaw, looked again into the pale, silver night. The owl had fallen silent but now more coyotes were yapping in the hills.