by Arthur Kent
Frome pushed the matter at the back of his mind and concentrated on his journey. The miles had fallen behind, the corn-fed horse was fading, snorting hard, flaking off foam and saliva. Now the Double Star brand appeared on longhorns which grazed on the ocean of grass.
A tree-fringed hill swung up ahead. Frome pushed the spent pony up the climb, urging the reluctant animal forward with a rake of the spurs. The pony topped the slope, blowing hard, and pushed through a stand of wind-whipped timber. The finding of a fresh horse before the animal dropped was now a problem in Frome’s mind. He knew that he should have come across groups of Glinton’s half-wild remuda broncs by now. But he reflected that many of them would have been rounded up to furnish Le Roy’s swollen crew with spare mounts.
A meadow rose sharply on his left and touched something in his memory. He swung the horse that way, remembered the sheltered valley beyond it and the stream. Ponies favoured Creek Valley.
He put the horse up the rim, broke through a stand of pine, and saw a dozen half wild mustangs in the water. He slackened off pace sharply, not wanting to spook them, and moved down the slope, loosening his rope. The mustangs swung at his approach, watched him a moment, then, noting his casual approach, continued feeding and drinking. He looked them over, decided they were a poor bunch, but spotted two passable ponies among them.
One, a small, barrel-chested paint, had recently been ridden, judging by the saddle marks, the other was a heavy-coated gelding. He choose this as the more likely of the two to carry his weight.
Frome was fifty feet away when he detected movement in the pines on the rim across the valley. He bent in his saddle, reaching for his carbine. The movement became a shape. A horse and rider came slowly into view, turning downwards towards the grazing horses. The horses looked at the new intruder.
Frome swore softly. The rider – a small man or a boy – was also loosening rope. If the horses spooked, Frome knew that there was not enough left in the pony beneath him to overtake them.
Frome gestured, trying to turn the new arrival aside. He couldn’t call for that would bolt the mustangs. The new arrival took no notice, but Frome saw that he had slowed his pony, and was carefully loosening his rope. At least, he looked experienced. Probably he wouldn’t make his throw before Frome, but would wait and throw simultaneously. Then Frome had another grim thought. Supposing they both threw for the same mount?
Then a groan split from Frome’s lips as he recognized the rider. It was no small man or boy; it was Curly. Wearing a rough range shirt, hat and denim trousers, a Winchester poking from her saddle bucket, Curly was moving in on the horses. Frome cursed. He thought: Spook those broncs, Curly, and I’ll give you a hiding with your own rope.
Curly had obviously recognized him by now, but she gave no sign of recognition. She was watching the mustangs, hardly moving, stiff in her saddle.
The minutes passed as they pressed in at the stream from both sides. The mustangs were worried. No longer drinking, they had lifted heads, stood stiffly. It wouldn’t take much to make them bolt.
Now Frome worried about which bronc Curly had selected. She hadn’t made any mistakes up to now he conceded, but that didn’t mean she had horse savvy. Ten to one, he thought, she throws for the gelding, fouls my line, and the broncs get clear. The gelding looked a handsome animal, and Frome hadn’t known a woman yet who wasn’t eventually cheated on a horse deal because she couldn’t distinguish between a handsome horse and a good horse. Even Hesta put looks before stamina.
The gap closed. Now Curly was smiling at him. Frome’s answer was a scowl. They were ten feet from the horses on either side. Frome lifted his rope slowly; Curly did likewise. Then Frome snapped, ‘Now!’
The heads of the horses stiffened at the cry. Frome’s rope snapped through air. And Curly’s. The horses bunched, swerved, then bolted. Frome snagged the rope to his saddle horn and waited. Curly did the same. The ropes flipped up, tightened, became taut. Frome’s horse dug its hoofs at the ground and took the weight.
The horses were up the slope. Then two of them went down, snapped back by the singing ropes. One was the gelding; the other the little paint pony. They hit the ground together, rolling, kicking up dirt. They came up and fought the rope, and then they relaxed, gave in, and Frome and Curly dragged them in.
Frome was out of the saddle, holding tightly on the rope and taking the headstraps from the spent pony. Curly did likewise. ‘All right, Curly,’ Frome said. ‘You’ve made your point. You can rope. And you know horses. But as soon as you’ve switched saddles, you can hit back for Plattsville.’
She avoided that. She said sarcastically, ‘I must say you disappoint me, Dave. I thought you would have known more about horses. Yet you ignore the paint and rope the gelding. Obviously you are one of these many men who are fooled because a horse has good looks.’
Frome saw that Curly was laughing. ‘I’ll settle that argument another time. You head for Plattsville.’
‘I can’t do that. I’m heading for Denton. Of course ... if you would rather ride alone.’
‘Why Denton?’ Frome got the headstraps on the mustang, and held the reins firmly while he removed the lariat from its neck and then switched blanket and saddle.
‘I hear they need a good singer there.’
Frome shrugged. ‘A poor excuse. Denton may need a singer but they don’t rate one. It’s a free country, but Denton’s a long haul. I hope you can keep pace with me.’
‘Seeing the horse you selected,’ she smiled, ‘I don’t think I’ll have any difficulty.’
Frome said, ‘So you think. That paint will be bones when this gelding’s still walking.’
‘About what all the gelding can do – walk.’
Curly finished saddling the paint as Frome swung into the saddle of the gelding, and started up the valley without looking back. She overtook him at the rim. Frome said, ‘I didn’t know you knew so much about horses. Where did you learn it?’
‘Kansas Flats. It’s a little place a hundred miles beyond Dodge.’
‘I think I’ve heard of it,’ Frome said. ‘My father had a horse outfit just outside Dodge. What’s the rest of your name, Curly, I might know your kin?’
‘Peterson. My real name’s Julia Peterson.’
Frome thought a moment. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of Petersons that way.’
Curly smiled. ‘That makes us even. I can’t remember hearing of the name of Frome. We couldn’t have had famous families.’
‘Let’s ride,’ Frome said, jacking the gelding forward. Curly spurred the paint. They thundered through the belly-high grama grass, sending steers fanning out on either side of them.
Beyond a grass ridge seven miles on, Frome’s land began.
But his home range was a further ten miles on, and Frome was aiming for home, for it was only there that he could be certain of finding fresh mounts to continue his ride through the Arrows.
Curly kept up the mile-eating gait. The little paint never more than a horse’s length behind the tall gelding.
It was dark when they urged their spent ponies up a hummock a mile away from the Broken Arrow headquarters valley. The gelding was snorting, spilling saliva. With every step, Frome now expected it to fold beneath him.
He tried as much as possible to keep the horse to the down-grades. The worst had happened. Frome hadn’t found any more wandering remuda broncs in the grass ocean. He realized now that the prairies had certainly been combed by the Double Star, gathering in all the ponies they could for the coming troubles.
Curly swung the little paint, which was in better condition, beside Frome. ‘Switch mounts, Dave. You take the paint.’
Frome said, ‘Not a hope, kid. He might fold any minute. I don’t want you to be beneath him.’
‘But he’ll carry my weight better.’
Frome said, ‘If he folds, I know I can spring free. I don’t know if you can do it.’
They had covered another half a mile before the gelding gave in. Stopping stiff-l
egged, it refused to go further. Frome decided the animal had given its best. He swung from the saddle, began to strip the headgear and saddle from it.
Curly looked down from her saddle, a black shape beneath the curtain of stars. Frome took off the gear and swung the gelding towards water, slapping it.
‘I’ll carry your saddle,’ Curly said.
‘Not necessary,’ Frome said, ‘I’m leaving it here.’
Frome unstrapped the bucketed rifle, left the saddle, and began to walk. Curly dismounted and led the paint, walking beside him.
Twenty minutes later, without a word being exchanged, they topped the valley rim, pushed through timber on the rim, and looked down on Frome’s headquarters.
Curly saw the lighted cabin as Frome gripped her, moving her back.
‘There’s a light in my cabin,’ Frome said. ‘Can’t be any of my boys. They’re working for Glinton.’
Curly watched him drag the Winchester free from the bucket. Then he was moving forward, crouched, dodging from tree to tree. ‘Be careful, Dave,’ Curly called softly.
Only the slight murmur of the night breeze in the trees answered her.
CHAPTER 13
Picking his way carefully through the brush on the slope, Frome worked his way down to the floor of the valley. He reached it and hunkered down. He noticed that no light showed from the bunkhouse or the cookshack. A glance at the corral was rewarding. Two black shapes were by the poles – saddled ponies, ready to go.
Frome levered a bullet into the Winchester, advanced across the clearing in a crouch, moving straight for the cabin. Reaching the veranda rail, and noticing that the door was closed, he swung round to the side wall, eased himself up and looked through the window.
Two men were in the main room, and he recognized them both. His lips tightened. Particularly, he recognized the man in the buckskin jacket. Buckskin was sprawled across Frome’s couch, his arm heavily bandaged and tucked in a fold of the jacket. Then Frome hadn’t been wrong; he had winged the man as he’d been galloping for cover behind the outcropping.
The other man, tall, heavily built, stood by the fireplace. He looked angry about something. The wounded man raised his arm, said bitterly, ‘I tell you, Harry, I can’t take it.’
The standing man snapped: ‘And I tell you, you’ve got to.’
‘But the pain’s awful. Let me rest. At least until sun-up.’
The man moved in on him, scowling. ‘You’re not going to die, Dirk. It’s only a bullet wound, and I’ve cleaned it.’
‘But you ain’t got the pain to ride with. I’ve got it!’
‘Sure you’ve got pain. That was a rifle bullet!’
‘So let me rest a little,’ the man whined. ‘Only until daylight.’
‘I tell you, we can’t take the chance. Frome’s on the prod, we didn’t get him. And we ain’t only got Frome to worry about now.’
The wounded man snarled. ‘Frome! We were sure wrong about him. I thought I’d seen him somewheres before. Up Dodge way. But the name Frome don’t register. Yeah, Bennett was wrong about him. He’s one of them Kansas fast guns, that’s for sure.’
‘So,’ the standing man snarled, ‘do you want him round your neck again? And what about Bennett? He won’t only be mad because we didn’t get Frome. He’s going to hate our guts to killing point because we’ve rolled off some of Frome’s stock. He wants Frome dead; and Frome’ll soon be dead, so Bennett’s already looking on Broken Arrow stock as his own. We stay here and both Frome and Bennett stand a chance to get us. We’ve got to leave right now and get to Five Mile Canyon ready to move out with the herd and the rest of the boys.’
‘I know that, Harry, but my arm. I’m not going to be any help to you unless I rest my arm.’
The standing man scowled. ‘You aren’t no Breslow. You aren’t a patch on any of your brothers. Blacky’ll sure be sick of you. And you don’t measure up to Pa.’
The man on the couch laughed derisively. ‘Pa weren’t so hot. Got himself lynched, didn’t he?’ He bent forward. ‘Now be a good big brother and get me some more of that coffee.’
‘The pot’s empty. I’ll have to go to the shack and make some more. You’ll get your coffee, Dirk. But be ready to ride after it.’
Frome saw the big man pick up a coffee pot and move to the door. He came round the veranda rail, hefting the Winchester, crouched by the steps.
He knew the Breslows by reputation. They were notorious around Kansas City. It looked then as if he was about to end Kansas City’s troubles. He felt an excitement. Then Kyle Bennett was behind the attempt on his life, and his theory that Bennett had been behind all the troubles was confirmed.
The door opened. Frome saw Harry Breslow in the doorway. Frome reversed the rifle. He wanted these jiggers alive. Breslow moved forward to the step. As Breslow stepped down, so Frome came up. The stock of the carbine swung up, zipping. It hit Breslow squarely in the face with a meaty smack and the snap of nose bone. The man fell face forward off the step, a groan bursting from his lips.
Frome stepped over him, stood the rifle by the rail, lifted his right Colt.
Dirk Breslow’s voice reached him. ‘What in hell Harry was that?’
The boards creaked beneath Frome as he crossed to the door.
Breslow snarled, ‘Harry?’
Frome bent to the floor, peeped into the room, wanting to take Dirk Breslow alive. Breslow was jittery now, and he whipped up his Colt in a swift movement. He said nervously, ‘Harry?’
Frome said, ‘Harry dropped out. Throw out your gun, Dirk, and save yourself some grief.’
Dirk Breslow moved. He threw himself sideways off the couch, fell heavily to the floor and rolled away. Frome could no longer see him. A slug tore a chip from the door jamp and whined into the night.
‘Frome!’ he snarled.
‘That’s right. Now toss out your irons.’
Breslow laughed hysterically. ‘So you can take me to the hangman? After what we did to Grape and Taber, you won’t give us a chance.’
Frome knew it all now. ‘I can understand why you want me dead, Dirk, but why Grape and Taber?’
‘That wasn’t my fault, Frome,’ Breslow said anxiously, ‘honest. That was a mistake. The boys knew Grape, but they didn’t know you. Taber fitted your description. It was dark. Even Farrow was fooled.’
Frome thought that that looked right. Taber was of the same build and colouring as himself. ‘OK, so throw out your irons.’
‘Listen, Frome, you’ve got to give me a break, see.’
‘I’m counting to three, Dirk. If you haven’t thrown up by then, I’m going to swing and pump a shot into Harry’s head.’
‘Go ahead, Frome. He’s the one you want. He’s the one that gunned Matt Grape and Taber.’
Frome swung up. He said, ‘One’; he stepped back. ‘Two’; and then he sprang back off the porch, darted round the rail, and came up at the window. But Breslow had anticipated him. A shot sounded in the room. Glass pinged. The light went out. Frome fired three shots into the room, aiming for the spot where he guessed Breslow might be. Then he swung back around the cabin and dropped by the veranda rail.
He listened, heard no movement. ‘If you’re not out in five seconds, Dirk, I’m going to fire the cabin.’
Breslow said hysterically: ‘You wouldn’t fire your own property?’ But Frome could tell that the desperado believed it.
‘I’d still show a profit,’ he answered, ‘if I caught a rat like you.’
Breslow said, ‘If I come out, what’ll you do?’
‘Pass you over to the law.’
‘That’s a promise – you’ll hand Harry and me over?’
‘You have my word.’
A pause. A snarl. ‘OK, Frome, you win. I’m throwing out my iron.’
‘Both of them,’ Frome snapped. ‘and make sure the hammers are down.’
Breslow snarled. ‘You won’t give a man opportunity to bring off a million-to-one chance.’
Frome stepped back
off the veranda. ‘That’s right.’
There came a metallic thump. Then another. The guns hit the boards of the veranda. Frome said, ‘Come on out, with your good hand high.’ Breslow appeared in the doorway, stepped forward off the step. Frome checked that he was carrying no sneak gun, then pushed him towards the corral.
Curly came across the clearing, her carbine hanging by her side. Frome took a rope from one of the ponies and began to tie Breslow to the poles. He went back for Harry Breslow, and roped him upright beside his brother.
‘You ain’t going to keep us standing all night, Frome?’ Dirk Breslow snapped.
‘I sure am,’ Frome said.
Frome took Curly to the cabin, got a lamp from the bedroom and lit it. Curly looked around the long room with interest. She saw the mess the Breslows had made and the broken glass. ‘I’ll clear this up.’
Frome said, ‘It’ll keep.’
But Curly, ignoring that, began to straighten things. Frome sat on the couch, began to roll a cigarette. He was thinking. The Breslows had driven his beef to the Five Mile Canyon, thirty miles away from Denton.
If he took a shortcut through the Arrows and turned right from Denton, he would arrive at the O Diamond spread, which was not far from the canyon. He could rely on old Jacob Haines and the O Diamond crew for support, particularly as the Breslows had stolen O Diamond broncs. If he went on to Denton, it would take him thirty miles away from the canyon, and then he would have to go into detail with Marshal Keester. Keester was a fast man of action when convinced, but he had a bigger bone in his head than most men, and needed some convincing.
He saw what the Breslows had been up to. They had been brought in for one job by Kyle Bennett – to nail Frome. But, realizing there was no opposition – for Frome should have died in the hotel – they had decided to drive off a herd of Broken Arrow prime beef and thus in a way double cross Bennett. They could have been across the border into Kansas, with their cattle sold, long before Bennett realized what had happened. And some fifteen thousand dollars was much more than Bennett was scheduled to pay them for killing Frome.