The Smoking Iron

by Brett Halliday

  “You frighten me,” said Katie simply, “when you look like you do now. As you looked when you drew on Lon. I don’t see why men have to fight … kill each other,” she cried out wildly. “There’s a lust for killing that gets into their blood. I’ve seen it here on the Border. Too much of it. That’s why I forbade my riders to go armed.”

  “An’ got overrun by rustlers,” Dusty reminded her.

  “All right. Sometimes I’m sorry. I avoided bloodshed that way. Perhaps I saved some man from turning into a killer.”

  “But now there’s bound to be killin’. No matter who takes over the ranch. The rustlers won’t quit without bein’ persuaded by lead now that they’ve got started.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Katie cried brokenly. “I just don’t know. I wanted to do what was right. I wanted to run the ranch peacefully.”

  “You picked the wrong place for that, I reckon. You’d best trade the K T for a farm back in Kansas.” There was lashing scorn in Dusty’s voice.

  Katie looked at him wonderingly. “You sound like all the other men who quit me.”

  “Shore. I’d quit too.”

  “But you offered to help me.”

  “Because I thought you wanted a man that’d use his guns.”

  “I do,” she said suddenly. “I’m through being fainthearted. I’ll fight those rustlers back. I won’t let them ruin the Katie.”

  The sharp line of the rimrocks swung sharply to the left in front of them. At the same time, the line of cottonwoods marking the bank of the river swerved to the right in a great sweeping arc to form a wide spread between the river and the cliffs.

  Katie Rollins said, “There it is,” quietly but with a tremor of pride in her young voice.

  Dusty stared speechlessly ahead at the wide sweep of flat land lying before them. It was a rich, alluvial plain, perfectly flat and stretching ahead as far as the eye could see. Covered with luxuriant green grass and dotted with mesquite and catclaw, it looked more like pictures of an English meadow than anything Dusty Morgan had ever seen or dreamed of seeing hi the West. The road cut straight ahead through the rich grass, and the palominos lifted their heads and snorted as though to welcome the sight and smell of the unbelievably rich pasture land.

  Dusty said, “It’s like ridin’ into paradise outta hell, beggin’ yore pardon, Miss Katie.” His voice was low and awed.

  Katie nodded, her brown eyes shining mistily. “I feel the same way. Even now. After living here all my life. Do you see why I don’t want to give up the Katie?” she demanded fiercely.

  “Any man’d sell his soul for a place like this, ma’m.” Dusty’s eyes were going hungrily from side to side, feasting themselves on the sight of sleek, stocky, steers grazing knee-deep in the rich herbage.

  “It’s a strip eighteen miles long and eight miles in width at the widest part. There’s a little over sixty sections in all. The whole flat used to be the river bed, dad said, thousands of years ago. Then the river cut the course it now follows. There are more than three hundred springs, all together, and they never dry up. It stays green like this all summer, and it’ll support a thousand head with plenty of winter feed without cutting and stacking.”

  Dusty’s silence was the finest tribute he could pay to her brief description of the K T ranch. It was the kind of spot cattlemen in the arid west dreamt about after imbibing too heavily on Saturday night.

  “It’s only about half grazed now,” Katie said in a low voice. “There were about eight hundred head on the ranch when dad died. And the rustlers pick out the best of my stuff every time they make a raid.”

  “It ain’t surprisin’ you got rustlers,” Dusty muttered. “Eighteen miles of river bank on one side. All they got to do is push across an’ cut out whatever they want. Funny thing to me is that yore daddy ever kep’ any stock long enough to get ’em to market.”

  “But it isn’t that bad at all,” Katie explained. “The river all along here has a quicksand bottom. There are only three fords in the whole eighteen miles where a man can ride across without bogging down. We’ve got it all fenced, of course, to keep the stock out.”

  “Only three fords?” Dusty’s eyes lighted. “Three men could guard them easy enough.”

  “I don’t know,” Katie responded hopelessly. “I had men guarding the fords. The rustling went right on. Yet we know there are no other places the river can be forded.”

  Directly ahead of the buckboard, rising magically out of the grassy flat, was a large group of trees. Cotton-woods, poplars and weeping willows.

  “That’s the home place,” Katie told him, nodding toward the seeming mirage. “The main spring is there. Dad built the house himself, more than thirty years ago. He homesteaded that section and leased the rest of it, and he’d been buying it up steadily since then. He paid out the last section two years before he died.”

  The team was straining against the bits now, eager to finish the journey to the tree-shaded and quiet spot that was home.

  Dusty let them out into a fast trot, his eyes narrowed as he took in the long rambling building of rough limestone blocks in the shade of giant cottonwoods at the upper end of the oasis, the huge pond surrounded by weeping willows and the double line of straight poplars leading down to the sheds and corrals a couple of hundred yards distant from the main house.

  A few white leghorn chickens scratched idly in the yard, and a Jersey milk cow munched her cud in a wire corral and watched them drive up. There was no other sign of life about the place. Over it brooded an atmosphere of melancholy and desertion that was somehow evil in essence. It was planned and built for peace and serenity, for the heartwarming quietude that comes with security and freedom from care and want. But this was different. It seemed to be peopled with ghosts, and the chill that struck Dusty Morgan’s heart was colder than could be occasioned by the mere shade of trees overhead as he pulled the buckboard up in the yard.

  He looked at Katie and saw that she had become subdued and listless. He cramped the wheel for her and she stepped down, saying quietly, “I’ll go in the house and tell Juana to start some dinner. I think you’ll find Miguel around the barn. They’re the only ones left. Come up to the house after you’ve unharnessed and I’ll see about furnishing you a horse so you can ride on.”

  She turned away from the buckboard and went slowly toward the stone ranch house. Dusty had to bite his lip to keep from crying out and telling her he had no intention of riding on. He had come to the end of the trail, and he knew it.

  9

  Miguel was an ancient Mexican with a withered and seamed countenance. His tall frame with shrunken and cadaverous and his wispy hair showed silvery-white when he lifted a shapeless felt hat to greet Dusty politely. He showed some yellow snags of teeth in a wide smile, and his black eyes gleamed with curiosity as they lingered on Dusty’s costume and on the gunbelt slanting across his hips.

  He went to the head of the team and caught them by the bridles when Dusty pulled them up in front of the big barn. When Dusty dropped the lines and stepped down, he asked, “You are the new patrón, señor?”

  Dusty said, “Sort of. Yeh. That is, I’m plannin’ to take hold here. But I ain’t the man Miss Katie was lookin’ for.”

  “No, señor?”

  “He didn’t come. Got killed on the Marfa stage.”

  The old Mexican said, “So? And you weel work here, señor?”

  “Call me Dusty.”

  “Bueno. I am Miguel, Señor Dusty.”

  Dusty nodded and held out his hand. The Mexican shook hands with him gravely and replaced his hat on his head. “I am glad you are come, señor. The Katie, she ees need man bad.”

  “You’re the only one left, Miguel?”

  “Sí. My mujer, Juana, she ees cook for Mees Katie. And I am tend the barn. I am too old for the riding much no more.” He shook his head sadly and went around to unhook the traces.

  Dusty stayed at the heads of the palominos, held them until the traces were unfastened from the doub
le-tree, then led them a step forward and let the tongue out of the neck yoke, dropped it to the ground. Miguel hurried around to help him unhook the neck yoke, protesting, “I weel feex the team, señor. Eet ees not for you.”

  “I want to get the low-down on some things.” Dusty walked beside him as he led the team into the cool barn. He busied himself helping unharness while he plied the old man with questions.

  “Been here a long time, Miguel?”

  “Sí. A long time. Since the Señor Rollins built thees house.”

  “How many riders did he usta keep on the pay roll?”

  “Three men, she are work steady. In roundup there are work for more. Ten, maybe, or twelve.”

  “And he didn’t have no trouble with rustlers?”

  “No, señor. He ’ave no trouble.”

  “Why do you reckon it started right after he died?”

  The old man shrugged his stooped shoulders. “Mees Katie ees tal the men they are not for wear guns. Across Border are many bad hombres afraid for steal while Señor Rollins ees here. After he die they no more ’fraid. Find out queek Katie riders no more got guns.” He spread out gnarled hands expressively. “Ees much bad now.”

  “But she tells me Lon Boxley has been sending his X L riders over to help out.”

  A shadow crossed the Mexican’s face. “They come sometimes,” he admitted stiffly. They had the harness off the palominos and hung on wooden pegs in the wall. He stripped the bridles off and stepped aside to let the horses trot past him through the barn and out the back door to a feeding pen.

  “But they don’t do much good, huh?” Dusty drawled.

  “I theenk, señor, they are not want to do the good. I theenk maybe they make, what you call it, the pretend for try.”

  Dusty nodded and mused, “Pullin’ the wool over her eyes so she won’t hire no real gunhands while the rustlin’ goes on till she gets plumb desprit.” He drew in a deep breath. “I reckon it’s in the cards for me to have a talk with Mister Boxley.”

  “He ees bad man weeth gun, Señor Dusty.”

  “Fast, huh?”

  “Sí. Muy pronto. He ’ave kill todos los hombres w’at ’ave try for shoot weeth heem.”

  The gentle ringing of a bell drifted down to them from the house. “That ees Juana for say deener ees ready,” Miguel told him.

  Dusty said, “Yeh.” He started away, hesitated and turned back. “Is there a extra rig here I can borrow?”

  “A saddle? Only the wan of Señor Rollins.”

  “I’ll ride it,” Dusty told him. “Get me up a good hawse for after dinner.”

  He turned and went out of the barn, up the shaded path between the double row of poplars toward the house.

  He hesitated at the path leading up to the front door, circled around the rear instead. Beside the kitchen door he found a bucket of fresh water set out on a long bench beside a washpan, with a clean towel hanging from a nail above it.

  He filled the pan and stripped off Ben Thurston’s striped shirt, doused his head and arms in the water and went to work with a bar of yellow soap.

  After sloshing a great deal of water about, he dried himself with the towel and picked tip the shirt again. He stared at it with loathing, wishing he didn’t have to put it on again, when he heard the kitchen door.

  He turned and blushed a deep scarlet when he saw Katie coming toward him. She smiled at his discomfiture and told him, “I’ve seen men in their undershirts before. The hands always lined up here to wash before supper. Here.” She offered him a little bundle of gray cotton cloth. “It’s one of dad’s old shirts. I … saw you looking at that one as though you were afraid it would bite you,” she went on quickly.

  Dusty dropped the striped shirt and took the one she offered him. “A man gets sick of wearin’ a thing like that in a hurry,” he admitted. “It’s shore nice of you to get me out this one.”

  “You won’t be quite so conspicious.” Katie turned away. “Come in as soon as you’re ready. Juana has dinner on the table.”

  Dusty slid his arms into the sleeves and pulled the shirt over his head. It was a little large for him, but felt mighty good after the constricting tightness of the gaudy thing he had just discarded.

  Juana was a fat and beaming Mexican woman not more than half her husband’s age. She opened the kitchen door for Dusty and led him down a short hall to a large room next to the kitchen. There was a small table set for two under wide windows at the end of the room. The table was covered with a gay red and white cloth and there was a bowl of yellow daisies in the center.

  Katie Rollins smiled at him from one of the two chairs and said, “Juana will be angry if you don’t sit down and eat while everything’s hot.”

  Dusty went across the room awkwardly and pulled out the chair opposite the mistress of the K T ranch. “I didn’t expect nothin’ like this,” he protested, “I’m more usta squattin’ on my heels and eatin’ out of a tin plate.”

  Katie said, “It gets terribly lonesome. We all used to eat together. Dad and I and the men.” She put a large steak on his plate and pushed a bowl of mashed potatoes closer, urging him. “Take plenty of everything. Juana always cooks enough for a dozen range hands.”

  There was creamed gravy and boiled carrots, fluffy biscuits and a large pat of yellow butter. When he began eating Dusty was glad there was plenty of everything. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten any supper in Marfa the night before. He’d been too busy drinking and making a play for Rosa. The recollection shamed him, and he kept his head down and devoted his attention entirely to the job of his stomach.

  When he had gotten down to biscuits and honey along with his third cup of coffee, he began to slow up and he apologized to his hostess. “I reckon I’ve been eatin’ like a wolf, ma’m, but I missed a couple of meals an’ yore cook shore does make everything taste good.”

  “I like to see a man enjoy his food,” Katie told him simply. She leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “And I want to thank you for the way you offered to help me this morning … even though I can’t accept your offer.” She paused to draw in a long breath. “I know when I’m licked. I’m going to sell the Katie.”

  “Made up yore mind sudden, ain’t you?” Dusty set his empty coffee cup down and leaned back to roll a cigarette.

  “It’s a decision I’ve been coming to for a long time. I should have done it soon after father died. If I hold out much longer I won’t have anything to sell.”

  Dusty said, “I was hopin’ you’d let me try my hand.”

  “No.” Katie shuddered. “It would mean killing.”

  “I reckon it would.”

  “No one man can possibly do anything,” she went on as though she argued with herself. “I’ve had half a dozen Excel men from here for days at a time and the rustling went right on.”

  “Maybe they didn’t try very hard.” Dusty had his cigarette rolled. He put fire to it.

  “What … do you mean by that?” Katie’s face had gone a little white.

  “I wouldn’t trust Boxley no further than I could throw a bull by the tail, Miss Katie. Can’t you see that maybe he don’t want the rustling to stop.”

  She said, “That’s a terrible thing to say. You hardly know Lon at all.”

  “I know him plenty good enough,” Dusty reminded her grimly. “Any man that brags about his slick draw an’ then shoots when a man ain’t lookin’ is liable to do anything.”

  Katie compressed her lips. “You struck him without warning.”

  “I was standin’ in front of him. I shucked off my coat. It wasn’t my fault if he didn’t know what was comin’.”

  “This argument is useless.” Katie’s voice trembled a little. “I’m going to give you dad’s old saddle and a horse. I want you to ride on off the Katie this afternoon.”

  “You shore you want me to?” Dusty asked softly.

  “Yes. Before something happens. I’m afraid Lon will come and catch you here.”

  “I can ta
ke care of Lon.”

  “No.” Katie rose swiftly and turned to the windows, staring out. “I won’t have any killing. Not on the Katie. I’ll sell out first.”

  “To Boxley?”

  She whirled on him angrily. “Perhaps. If he’ll pay my price. Or I might marry him … and keep the Katie.”

  Dusty laughed mirthlessly. “That would fix everything … the way Lon Boxley wants it.”

  Katie turned back to the window. He saw her slender body stiffen. She said, “There’s … I think that’s Lon coming now.”

  Dusty got up to look out over her shoulder. A lone rider was galloping toward the ranch.

  She said, “It is Lon,” in a choked voice.

  Dusty was looking down at the curling tendrils of brown hair at the back of her neck. He was standing very close to her. He said, “This is a good time for a showdown.”

  “No.” Katie’s body brushed against him as she turned. He did not move but looked down at her gravely. The bosom of her woolen shirt lifted and fell with her rapid breathing, and her eyes were dilated.

  “He mustn’t know you’re here,” she cried. “You’ll have to hide. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Why no,” said Dusty. “I ain’t in the habit of hiding, Katie.”

  With a start he realized that he’d called her by her first name. Just plain straight out without any Miss in front of it.

  But she didn’t seem to notice, or she didn’t mind. “I won’t let you meet him,” she cried out. They could hear the hoofbeats of Lon’s horse now.

  “It’s bound to come,” Dusty told her. “Sooner or later. I’m stayin’ here in the Big Bend.”

  “Please,” Katie implored him. “Stay right here. Let me handle him.” She started to go past Dusty.

  He put out his arm to stop her. “Are you afraid I’ll kill him? Is that it, Katie?”

  “Afraid for him?” She laughed shakily. Lon’s horse was slowing as he neared the house. “He’s killed every man that ever went up against him,” she cried out fiercely. “Can’t you understand that?”

  “Are you afraid of what’ll happen to me?” His voice was deep and purposeful. He still barred her way out of the room.