“No,” Costa’s expression was unrevealing, “he isn’t. He expected to have this ranch for himself.” Costa turned toward the girl. “Señor Latch? I would introduce to you Señorita Carol James, a—a ward of Señor Baca’s and his good friend.”
Jed acknowledged the introduction.
“You must bring me up to date. I want to know all you can tell me about Walt Seever.”
Costa exchanged a glance with Carol. “Of course, señor. Walt Seever is a malo hombre, señor. He has killed several men, is most violent. The men with him were Harry Strykes and Gin Feeley. They are gunmen and believed to be thieves.”
Jed Asbury listened attentively, yet wondered about Carol’s reaction. Did she suspect he was not Michael Latch? Did she know he was not Latch? If so, why didn’t she say something?
He was surprised they had accepted him so readily, for even after he had decided to take the dead man’s place he had not been sure he could go through with it. He had a feeling of guilt and some shame, yet the real Michael Latch was dead, and the only man he was depriving seemed to be a thoroughly bad one whose first action would have been to fire the ranch’s foreman, a man whose home had always been this hacienda.
He had made a wild ride over rough country to get here in time, but over all that distance he had debated with himself about the rights and the wrongs of his action.
He was nobody, a drifter, worker at whatever came to hand, an adventurer, if you will, but not unlike hundreds of others who came and went across the West and more often than not left their bones in the wilderness, their flesh to feed the ancient soil.
He had not known Michael Latch, or what kind of man he had been, but he suspected he had been a good man and a trusted one. Why could he not save the ranch from Walt Seever, find a home for himself at last, and be the kind of man Michael Latch would have been?
All through that wild ride west he had struggled with his conscience, trying to convince himself that what he did was the right thing. He could do Latch no harm, and Costa and Carol seemed pleased to have him here, now that he had arrived. The expression on Seever’s face had been worth the ride, if nothing more.
There was something else that disturbed him. That was Walt Seever’s odd reaction when he had said he was Michael Latch.
“You say,” Jed turned to Carol, “that Seever was sure he would inherit?”
She nodded. “Yes, though until about three months ago he was hating George Baca for leaving the ranch to you. Then suddenly he changed his mind and seemed sure he would inherit, that you would never come to claim your inheritance.”
It had been about three months ago that Jed Asbury had come upon the lone wagon and the murdered people, a murder he had laid to Indians. But leaving the corpses with their clothing and the wagon unlooted did not seem like any raiding parties of which he had known.
Three people murdered—could Seever have known of that? Was that why he had suddenly been sure he would inherit?
The idea took root. Seever must have known of the killings. If that was so, then the three had not been killed by Indians, and a lot remained to be explained. How did the wagon happen to be alone, so far from anywhere? And what had become of the girl, Arden?
If Indians had not made the attack and carried Arden off, then somebody else had captured her, and wherever she was she would know he was not the real Michael Latch. She would know Jed Asbury for an imposter, but she might also know who the killers were.
Walking out on the wide terrace overlooking the green valley beyond the ranch house, Jed stared down the valley, his mind filled with doubts and apprehensions.
It was a lovely land, well watered and rich. Here, with what he knew of land and cattle, he could carry on the work George Baca had begun. He would do what Michael Latch would have done, and he might even do it better.
There was danger, but when had he not known danger? And these people at the ranch were good people, honest people. If he did not do more than save the ranch from Seever and his lawless crowd he would have adequate reason for taking the place of the dead man. Yet he was merely finding excuses for his conduct.
The guns he wore meant something, too. Carol had recognized them, and so had Seever. What was their significance?
He was in deep water here. Every remark he made must be guarded. Even if they had not seen him before, there must be family stories and family tradition of which he knew nothing. There was a movement behind him, and Jed Asbury turned. In the gathering dusk he saw Carol.
“Do you like it?” She gestured toward the valley.
“It’s splendid! I have never seen anything prettier. A man could do a lot with land like that. It could be a paradise.”
“Somehow you are different than I expected.”
“I am?” He was careful, waiting for her to say more.
“You’re much more assured than I expected you to be. Mike was quiet, Uncle George used to say. Read a lot, but did not get around much. You startled me by the way you handled Walt Seever.”
He shrugged. “A man changes. He grows older, and coming west to a new life makes a man more sure of himself.”
She noticed the book in his pocket. “What book do you have?” she asked curiously.
It was a battered copy of Plutarch. He was on safe ground here, for on the flyleaf was written, To Michael, from Uncle George.
He showed it to her and she said, “It was a favorite of Uncle George. He used to say that next to the Bible more great men had read Plutarch than any other book.”
“I like it. I’ve been reading it nights.” He turned to face her. “Carol, what do you think Walt Seever will do?”
“Try to kill you or have you killed,” she replied. She gestured toward the guns. “You had better learn to use those.”
“I can, a little.”
He dared not admit how well he could use them, for a man does not come by such skill overnight, nor the cool nerve it takes to use them facing an armed enemy. “Seever has counted on this place, has he?”
“He has made a lot of talk.” She glanced up at him. “You know, Walt was no blood relation to Uncle George. He was the son of a woman of the gold camps who married George Baca’s half brother.”
“I see.” Actually, Walt Seever’s claim was scarcely better than his own. “I know from the letters that Uncle George wanted me to have the estate, but I feel like an outsider. I am afraid I may be doing wrong to take a ranch built by the work of other people. Walt may have more right to it than I. I may be doing wrong to assert my claim.”
He was aware of her searching gaze. When she spoke it was deliberately and as if she had reached some decision.
“Michael, I don’t know you, but you would have to be very bad, indeed, to be as dangerous and evil as Walt Seever. I would say that no matter what the circumstances, you should stay and see this through.”
Was there a hint that she might know more than she admitted? Yet it was natural that he should be looking for suspicion behind every phrase. Yet he must do that or be trapped.
“However, it is only fair to warn you that you have let yourself in for more than you could expect. Uncle George knew very well what you would be facing. He knew the viciousness of Walt Seever. He doubted you would be clever or bold enough to defeat Seever. So I must warn you, Michael Latch, that if you do stay, and I believe you should, you will probably be killed.”
He smiled into the darkness. Since boyhood he had lived in proximity to death. He was not foolhardy or reckless, for a truly brave man was never reckless. He knew he could skirt the ragged edge of death if need be. He had been there before.
He was an interloper here, yet the man whose place he had taken was dead, and perhaps he could carry on in his place, making the ranch safe for those who loved it. Then he could move on and leave this ranch to Carol and to the care of Tony Costa.
He turned. “I am tired,” he said. “I have ridden long and hard to get here. Now I’d like to rest.” He paused. “But I shall stay, at least—”
<
br /> Jed Asbury was already fast asleep when Carol went into the dining room where Tony Costa sat at the long table. Without him, what would she have done? What could she have done? He had worked with her father for thirty years and had lived on the hacienda all his life, and he was past sixty now. He still stood as erect and slender as he had when a young man. And he was shrewd.
Costa looked up. He was drinking coffee by the light of a candle. “For better or worse, señorita, it has begun. What do you think now?”
“He told me, after I warned him, that he would stay.”
Costa studied the coffee in his cup. “You are not afraid?”
“No. He faced Walt Seever and that was enough for me. Anything is to be preferred to Walt Seever.”
“Sí.” Costa’s agreement was definite. “Señorita, did you notice his hands when he faced Seever. They were ready, Carolita, ready to draw. This man has used a gun before. He is a strong man, Carolita!”
“Yes, I think you are right. He is a strong man.”
For two days nothing happened from the direction of town. Walt Seever and his hard-bitten companions might have vanished from the earth, but on the Rancho Casa Grande much was happening, and Tony Costa was whistling most of the time.
Jed Asbury’s formal education was slight, but he knew men, how to lead them and how best to get results. Above all he had practical knowledge of handling cattle and of range conditions.
He was up at five the morning after his discussion with Carol, and when she awakened, old Maria, the cook, told her the señor was hard at work in his office. The door was open a crack, and as she passed by she glimpsed him deep in the accounts of the ranch. Pinned up before him was a map of the Casa Grande holdings, and as he checked the disposition of the cattle, he studied the map.
He ate a hurried breakfast and at eight o’clock was in the saddle. He ate his next meal at a line camp and rode in long after dark. In two days he spent twenty hours in the saddle.
On the third day he called Costa to the office and sent Maria to request the presence of Carol. Puzzled and curious, she joined them.
Jed wore a white shirt, black trousers, and the silver guns. His face seemed to have thinned down in just the two days, but when he glanced at her, he smiled.
“You have been here longer than I and are, in a sense, a partner.” Before she could interrupt he turned to Costa. “I want you to remain as foreman. However, I have asked you both to be here as I plan some changes.”
He indicated a point on the map. “That narrow passage leads into open country and then desert. I found cattle tracks there, going out. It might be rustlers. A little blasting up in the rocks will close that gap.”
“It is a good move,” Costa agreed.
“This field—” Jed indicated a large area in a field not far from the house, “must be fenced off. We will plant it to flax.”
“Flax, señor?”
“There will be a good market for it.” He indicated a smaller area. “This piece we will plant to grapes, and all that hillside will support them. There will be times when we cannot depend on cattle or horses, so there must be other sources of income.”
Carol watched in wonderment. He was moving fast, this new Michael Latch. He had grasped the situation at once and was moving to make changes that Uncle George had only thought about.
“Also, Costa, we must have a roundup. Gather the cattle and cut out all those over four years old, and we’ll sell them. I saw a lot of cattle from five to eight years old back there in the brush.”
After he had ridden away to study another quarter of the ranch, Carol walked to the blacksmith shop to talk to Pat Flood. He was an old sea-faring man with a pegleg whom Uncle George had found broke and on the beach in San Francisco and who had proved to be a marvel with tools.
He looked up from under his bushy brows as she stopped at the shop. He was cobbling a pair of boots. Before she could speak he said, “This here new boss, Latch? Been to sea, ain’t he?”
Surprised, she said, “What gave you that idea?”
“Seen him throw a bowline on a bight yesterday. Purtiest job I seen since comin’ ashore. He made that rope fast like he’d been doin’ it for years.”
“I expect many men handle ropes well,” she commented.
“Not sailor fashion. He called it a line, too. ‘Hand me that line!’ he says. Me, I been ashore so long I’m callin’ them ropes m’self, but not him. I’d stake my supper that he’s walked a deck.”
Jed Asbury was riding to town. He wanted to assay the feeling of the townspeople toward the ranch, toward George Baca and Walt Seever. There was a chance he might talk to a few people before they discovered his connection. Also, he was irritated at the delay in the showdown with Seever. His appearance in town might force that showdown or allow Seever an opportunity if he felt he needed one. If there was to be a meeting he wanted it over with so he could get on with work at the ranch.
He had never avoided trouble. It was his nature to go right to the heart of it, and for this trip he was wearing worn gray trousers, boots, his silver guns, and a battered black hat. He hoped they would accept him as a drifting puncher.
Already, in riding around the ranch and in casual talk with the hands, he had learned a good deal. He knew the place to go in town was the Golden Strike. He tied his horse to the hitching rail and went inside.
Three men loafed at the bar. The big man with the scar on his lip was Harry Strykes, who had ridden with Seever. As Jed stepped to the bar and ordered his drink, a man seated at a table got up and went to Strykes. “Never saw him before,” he said.
Strykes went around the man and faced Jed. “So? Cuttin’ in for yourself, are you? Well, nobody gets in the way of my boss. Go for your gun or go back to Texas. You got a choice!”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Jed said. “I don’t like your manner, but if you touch that gun I’ll have to blow your guts out. Instead, I’d rather teach you a lesson.”
His left hand grabbed Strykes by the belt. He shoved back and then lifted, and his left toe kicked Strykes’s foot from under him as Jed lifted on the belt and then let go.
The move caught Strykes unaware, and he hit the floor hard. For an instant he was shaken, but then he came off the floor with a curse.
Jed Asbury had taken up his drink with his left hand, leaning carelessly against the bar. Jed’s left foot was on the brass rail, and as Strykes swung his right fist, Jed straightened his leg, moving himself out from the bar so that the punch missed, throwing Strykes against the bar. As his chest hit the bar Jed flipped the remainder of his drink into Strykes’s eyes.
Moving away from the bar he made no attempt to hit Strykes, just letting the man paw at the stinging whiskey in his eyes. When he seemed about to get his vision cleared, Jed leaned forward and jerked open Strykes’s belt. Strykes’s pants slid toward his knees, and he grabbed at them. Jed pushed him with the tips of his fingers. With his pants around his knees Strykes could not stagger, so he fell.
Jed turned to the others in the room. “Sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen! The name is Mike Latch. If you are ever out to the Casa Grande, please feel free to call.”
He walked out of the saloon, leaving laughter behind him as Strykes struggled to get up and pull his pants into place.
Yet he was remembering the man who had stepped up to Strykes saying he had never seen Jed before. Had that man known the real Mike Latch? If Walt Seever knew of the covered wagon with its three murdered people, he would know Jed Asbury was an impostor and would be searching for a way to prove it. The vast and beautiful acres of Rancho Casa Grande were reason enough.
Riding homeward he mulled over the problem. There was, of course, a chance of exposure, yet no one might ever come near who could actually identify him.
His brief altercation with Strykes had gotten him nowhere. He had undoubtedly been observed when riding into town, and the stranger must have known the real Latch. Nevertheless, the fight, if such it could be called, might have wo
n a few friends. In the first place he could not imagine a man of Seever’s stamp was well liked; in the second he had shown he was not anxious to get into a gun battle. Friends could be valuable in the months to come, and he was not catering to the rowdy element who would be Seever’s friends.
Seever, however, would now be spoiling for a fight, and Jed might be killed. He must find a way to give Carol a strong claim on the ranch. Failing in that, he must kill Walt Seever.
Jed Asbury had never killed a man except to protect his own life or those close to him. Deliberately to hunt down and shoot a man was something he had never dreamed of doing, yet it might prove the only way he could protect Carol and Tony Costa. With a shock he realized he was thinking more of Carol than of himself, and he hardly knew her.
Apparently the stranger had known he was not Mike Latch. The next time it might be a direct accusation before witnesses. Jed considered the problem all the way home.
Unknown to Jed, Jim Pardo, one of the toughest hands on the ranch, had followed him into town. On his return, Pardo drew up before the blacksmith shop and looked down at Pat Flood. The gigantic old blacksmith would have weighed well over three hundred pounds with two good legs, and he stood five inches over six feet. He rarely left the shop, as his wooden leg was always giving him trouble.
“He’ll do,” Pardo said, swinging down.
Flood lit his corncob pipe and waited.
“Had a run-in with Harry Strykes.”
Flood drew on the pipe, knowing the story would come.
“Made a fool of Harry.”
“Whup him?”
“Not like he should of, but maybe this was worse. He got him laughed at.”
“Strykes will kill him for that.”
Pardo rolled a cigarette and explained. “If Strykes is smart he will leave him alone. This here Latch is no greenhorn. He’s a man knows what he can do. No other would have handled it like he did. Never turned a hair when Strykes braced him. He’s got sand in his gizzard, an’ I’m placin’ my bets that he’ll prove a first-class hand with a shootin’ iron. This one’s had trouble before.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 2