Bucks’ shoulders rose and fell. He had a round face, without guile, and eyes that were a deep brown, almost black now that night had invaded the room. Reilly touched a match to the lamp and settled back in his chair again.
“I’m just ridin’,” Bucks said. “Seems like a waste, don’t it?”
“Depends on who’s doin’ the wastin’,” Reilly said. “You lookin’ for a winter roost? Not much pay, but three meals a day and a wall to break the wind.”
“I could use that,” Bucks said, and as he smiled his face changed, revealing a certain gaiety that time and trouble couldn’t hide completely.
Downing the last beans, Reilly shook out his tobacco sack and rolled a smoke, afterward offering the makings to Milo Bucks. The young man fashioned a stubby cigarette, raced a match and drew deeply. “The weed’s a comfort sometimes,” he said. “Like a cool drink of water or a fire on a chilly night.” He raised his eyes and looked at Reilly. “That was a hell of a jail, wasn’t it?”
“The sheriff makes it that way,” Reilly opined. He flicked ashes onto the floor and added, “You could have got your tail in a crack, buttin’ in on Burk like you did.”
“A man’s a damn fool in lots of ways,” Bucks admitted. “He’ll get boozed up, shoot off his mouth and get in a fight, or hunt himself some woman for a gallop on the two-headed beast, but he don’t mean none of it.”
“I used to think like that,” Reilly said. “But there’s more to life than that.”
“Sure, sure, but who the devil thinks about it when they’re twenty?” Bucks rose and shied his smoke into the fire. “A man’s got so much runnin’ in him, like a colt. Bayin’ at the moon ain’t confined to dogs, you know.”
“I guess not,” Reilly said. He checked the coffee can, found a cup left and dumped it in the pot. The well was on the back porch and he went out, banging around in the darkness. The windlass squeaked and he came back in, setting the pot on the stove to boil.
While the coffee cooked, Reilly went to the barn and put up his horse. In the tack shed he found a piece of leather and took it to the kitchen, along with a head knife, an awl and ten feet of rawhide lacing. His head pounded fiercely but working took his mind off it so he laid his gun on the table and cut a pattern around it. He buck-laced the holster together, then spent an hour making a cartridge belt.
Milo Bucks sat across from him, watching and smoking. He picked up Reilly’s gun and examined it. “I’ve seen guns like this,” he said. “Short barrel, lightened main spring for fanning.” He put the gun back on the table. “Not a bad job.”
“You know about those things?” Reilly asked. He completed the bullet loops and filled them from the two boxes of shells he had bought in the hardware store. His rifle was broken and these black powder loads might rear back a little in a short-barreled pistol, but such technicalities did not concern him much.
He threaded the belt through the holster, buckled the rig on and felt pleased with the mild sag. He whipped the gun out of the leather, cocking it on the upswing in one smooth motion. This test satisfied him so he replaced the gun in the scabbard and ignored it thereafter.
The coffee had boiled over and was now cool enough to drink. They filled their cups and took them to the front porch, squatting on the steps to listen to the night sounds and study the enveloping blackness.
In the yard a broken bottle lay, catching the faint rays of the moon and flinging them away like a distant star. Across the outline of the land, a coyote paused to cry out, then moved on, a shifting shape.
Far out on the road a party of horsemen made a steady drumming. When they drew nearer, Milo Bucks drew his pearl handled .44, half-cocked it and spun the cylinder. He sat holding it in his lap while the riders approached.
They slowed before coming into the yard and one man said, “He’s here. I see a light.” They stopped by the watering trough and Reilly stood up, taking care to keep away from the light streaming through the open door.
Ten feet from them he recognized Max Horgan, Indian Jim and Herb Winehaven. Reilly gave Milo Bucks a short nod and Milo said to no one in particular, “I think I hear the horses gettin’ restless.”
He walked rapidly toward the barn.
Reilly said, “What do you want, Max?”
“Talk,” Horgan said. “Can we get down?”
“Come in if you want,” Reilly said.
“We’ll just get down,” Horgan said, and saddle leather protested as they dismounted. Indian Jim held the horses. He was a big man with a face the color of old leather and a pair of shoe button eyes.
“What’s on your minds?” Reilly asked.
“I don’t see why we should be on the peck at each other,” Herb Winehaven said. He was a runt and he wore an old suit of clothes with gaping holes at the elbows. His face was pointed at the chin and his mustache dropped past the ends of his lips.
“You’ve got guts, Herb,” Reilly said. “I’ve always said that.”
“Now don’t go gettin’ hot under the collar,” Horgan said. “We want you in with us, Reilly.”
“What are you into?”
Horgan laughed at this, but Winehaven didn’t smile. The horses shifted and Indian Jim grunted to quiet them.
“That reminds me,” Reilly said, and moved Horgan and Winehaven aside to walk up to Indian Jim. The big man shifted nervously and Reilly said, “You remember what you said to me the last time we met?”
“Been long time,” Jim said. “Forget easy.”
“I haven’t,” Reilly said, and knocked the man beneath the horses. One snorted in surprise and they began to mill, but Indian Jim had rolled out of the way and came to his feet again.
“You want to take it up from there?” Reilly asked. “No,” Indian Jim said.
Horgan moved his feet and said, “Now that you got it off your chest can we talk a little sense?”
“You talk,” Reilly said. “I’ll listen.”
After a glance at Winehaven, Horgan said, “You got Burk mad as hell at you, Reilly, but that can be patched up. Get wise to yourself. You’re on the outside looking in around here. We can use you.”
“How?”
“This place you got here. It’s got some pockets back in the rocks. A little water and enough grass, I’d say.” Horgan shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. “Make you a good proposition, Reilly. It would be hard to turn down.”
“Make it then,” Reilly said.
“I buy a lot of stock now and then—”
“Buy it or steal it?”
“Here, here,” Horgan said gently. “We came friendly like, Reilly. You tryin’ to make me mad or somethin’?”
“I don’t give a damn.” He turned to Herb Winehaven. “You get a good price for my cattle?”
There was an ugliness in Winehaven which he couldn’t control. His unruly disposition made him say, “Maybe I did. What’s it to you?”
“Not much to me,” Reilly said. “Except that I’m going to cut the price of that beef off of your butt before I’m through.”
“Pretty big talk,” Winehaven said.
“Let’s not get in a ruckus,” Horgan said, pushing himself into the argument. “Who’s that kid you got with you? Never mind. Get rid of him.”
“I like him,” Reilly said. “Don’t ever tell me what to do, Max. I don’t like it at all.”
“All right, all right,” Horgan said in a running voice. “About a deal now—a cut of everything that we hold here.”
“How big a cut?”
Horgan hesitated. “What do you say to a tenth?”
“Go to hell,” Reilly said.
Some of the softness went out of Horgan’s voice. “Seems to me you’re gettin’ damn proud, Reilly. Remember who you are. Burk’s mad at you. You just upset Henderson. Maybe you better think it over a little while and we can come back in a day or two.”
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“Save yourself the trip,” Reilly told him. “Your horses are gettin’ spooky. They’ll feel better with weight in the saddles.”
“All right,” Horgan said. He turned to his mount. Winehaven and Indian Jim swung up and waited.
“I meant what I said, Herb,” Reilly murmured.
“I heard you,” Winehaven said. “I’ll be expecting you and it’ll be different than the last time.”
“We’ll see,” Reilly said, then looked sharply at Horgan’s mare. He stepped close, took the bridle and swung the mare so that some lamplight fell on her face.
“Get the hell away from there!” Horgan said. “What do you think you’re doing there?”
Reilly released the bridle and stepped back. “That’s a dandy sorrel you got there, Max. Seems that I remember seein’ that blaze face some place before.”
“If you did, I was on him,” Horgan said. “I raised this mare from a foal.” He glanced at Winehaven and then back to Reilly. “You don’t believe me? I can prove it.”
“Nobody’s arguing with you, Max. I just said that I saw this sorrel some place before, but I sure to hell can’t recollect where.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you,” Horgan advised. “We’ll be back, Reilly.”
“That wouldn’t be smart, Max,” Reilly said, and watched them carefully. Horgan seemed debating something in his mind, and then put it off. He rapped the sorrel with his heels and led the way out of the yard.
Reilly stood there, his legs spread, watching and listening until the night swallowed them and there was no sound at all coming back on the gentle breeze.
Milo Bucks’ boots popped in the loose dust as he came across the yard. He rolled a smoke and a match flared, but Reilly saw nothing in his eyes except a strict neutrality.
“Nice people,” Milo said. “That Indian didn’t like to take that poke in the jaw.”
“You’re smart,” Reilly said. “Be smarter and saddle that horse of yours and ride over into Utah and join the church. It’ll be safe there.”
“Do I want to go where it’s safe?” Bucks laughed and flipped his cigarette away, watching it hit in a shower of sparks. “This is the kind of hand I like—fast and with high stakes. A man makes it or breaks it in a hurry that way.”
“That what you want to do?”
“It’s less agony than losing it slow,” Bucks opined.
Reilly nodded, for in spite of himself, that was his way, to stake it all on one card, win or lose. A part of him reached out to Milo Bucks, for in the young man he saw many failings, most of them he had had himself at that age.
“Let’s get some sleep,” Reilly said and went toward the house.
CHAPTER 6
As soon as the sky lightened next morning, Reilly Meyers gave Milo Bucks fifty dollars and sent him to Buckeye for supplies and a wagon. After Bucks rode out, Reilly saddled his horse and cut into the hills back of his place.
Through the morning he rode, finally breaking out on the flats that led to Paul Childress’ place. Lifting the stud into a lope, he covered the remaining miles and tied up in front of Childress’ porch.
Al Murdock had been working near the barn. He came across the yard when he saw Reilly. Reilly waited by the steps and Murdock said, “Your face don’t look too bad. A little lopsided maybe.”
Reilly waved it aside. “Paul at home?”
“Inside,” Murdock said. He went up the steps, held the door open and motioned Reilly into the house. Childress came to the door of his study, his gold rimmed glasses perched halfway down his nose.
“Come in,” he said, and turned away. Reilly and Murdock took chairs and Childress shoved his tally book in a cubbyhole. He took off his glasses, tossing them on the paper littered desk and rested his forearms fiat. “Something on your mind, Reilly?”
“Cattle,” Reilly said. He rolled a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “You’re overstocked, Paul. I’m understocked. Let’s make a deal.”
“Make it,” Childress said.
Reilly cuffed his hat to the back of his head. “I’ll go broke quick without a herd. I’ve got graze and a watershed. Suppose I was to bed down three hundred and fifty head for you. There’s still time to drive them over and let them find a winter hole. I don’t get the snow that you do. The hills break most of it. They’ll get fat, Paul.”
“What will it cost me?” Childress asked.
“One out of ten,” Reilly said, “and I’ll take it in calves.”
Childress drummed his fingers-on the desk, then shot Murdock a glance. “Al?”
The foreman’s shoulders rose and fell. “Sounds about right. Figurin’ the wages of a man up in the hills all winter—I’d say, do it.”
“When do you want ’em?” Childress asked.
“Give me thirty days,” Reilly said, and stood up. He stepped to the hall door and paused. “Emily and Ma in the kitchen?” Childress nodded and Reilly went to the rear of the house, pushing open the swinging door.
The thick odor of apple pie filled the room and the stove laid an oven heat in the kitchen. Mrs. Childress smiled at Reilly, and when she noticed his bruised face she scolded him with her eyes. Emily stood on her toes to kiss him in passing, then pulled a chair out for him to sit at the table.
She took a pie from the window sill and cut a wide wedge. Reilly said, “Hate to strain Paul’s hospitality.”
“He’s a fool sometimes,” Mrs. Childress said. She touched Reilly on the shoulder. “You’d make me happy if you and him would make up.” She dropped her hand and went back to the stove. “He hates to be stood off, Reilly. He’s a givin’ man. That’s his nature.”
“And I never needed his help—is that it?” He waited but she didn’t answer him. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Emily said. “Eat your pie, Reilly.”
Reilly ate his pie and put on his hat. He crossed to the stove and gave Mrs. Childress a quick hug, slapped Emily as she bent over the table rolling dough and went to his horse.
Murdock was at the corrals with two men breaking horses, but he did not look at Reilly when he rode out. With the afternoon sun on his back, Reilly made for the end of a low range, passing Buckeye near sundown.
Darkness found him mounting a series of low hills where Jim Buttelow’s horse ranch lay in a short valley rimmed by sage-stubbled rises. Away from the ranch house, breaking and holding corrals fanned out like spokes in a wheel.
Reilly rode into the darkened yard and dismounted. Lamplight made bright patches on the porch as Jim Buttelow came to the door, peering out into the night. He grunted when he recognized Reilly and held the door open.
Buttelow was a friendly man with big bones and a rough manner, a hard man in a hard land, tough when forced to be, but by nature, easygoing and soft spoken. He took Reilly into the parlor and waved him into a chair.
“Got a proposition for you,” Reilly said.
“If it makes me some money, then I’m interested.”
“I’m after a small remuda,” Reilly said. “I made a deal with Paul to winter a herd, but I’ve got to have horses.”
Buttelow paused to pack and light his pipe. “Maybe we can make a deal. I got myself into a little jackpot on an army contract and you might just be able to get me out of it.” He puffed for a moment, then went on. “Got a telegram yesterday sayin’ that Otis Fielding and his bunch over in Utah have a herd of three hundred that they’re going to have to move out before winter comes. I had room for ’em, but the contract officer at Fort Bliss wired me that they were building a new stable and put a hold on the herd I was ready to ship. When Fielding gets here I’m goin’ to be pinched for room.”
“I don’t know,” Reilly said. “Holdin’ a herd is somethin’ I hadn’t thought about.”
“Build a corral,” Buttelow said.
“No time,” Reilly said. “So
unds good, but I don’t have the time or men. I’d like to buy a few head from you though.”
“You want Ernie and Walt Slaughter?”
Reilly looked at Buttelow. “You gettin’ tired of ’em? I couldn’t pay much, Jim.”
“I just want ’em off the place,” Buttelow said, and smiled at Reilly’s expression. “They’re good men, Reilly—too good. A man’s a fool to stick with stompin’ horses. That may sound strange comin’ from a man who hires nothin’ but bronc riders, but it’s a fact. Walt and Ernie ought to get off by themselves. They’d be better off eatin’ backfat and greens on a quarter section than they are here. Look in the saloons and see the cripples cadgin’ drinks. Usually they’re old stompers. It rips a man here, Reilly.” He hit himself in the stomach. “Pretty soon you get a little crazy in the head, and then it’s too late.”
“Walt and Ernie know this.”
“Sure,” Buttelow said, “they know it. And like most men they figure it won’t get them that way. I’m an old man, Reilly, and like all old men, I’ve begun to dream. One of these days you’ll find me in front of some store, passin’ out advice to people if they’d only stop and listen to it. That’s sort of sad in a way, because most of that advice would be good. Take Ernie and Walt with you, Reilly. They’ll work for you.”
“I can’t carry a payroll, Jim. I just can’t do it.”
“They won’t worry about money,” Buttelow said. “A man never does when he’s young. Only old men want money, after all the other good things are gone.” He stood up and offered his hand. “A deal?”
“A deal,” Reilly said. “I’ll build a stout holding corral.”
Buttelow walked with him to his horse. “I’ll send Walt and Ernie over in the morning.”
“All right,” Reilly said, and swung up.
“You comin’ in with us against the rustlin’?” Buttelow asked.
“You think I ought to?”
“Keepin’ the law’s every man’s job,” Buttelow said. “We got to help one another to get along.”
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