After awhile, I heard riders and held myself from the path with a hand at my horse’s nostrils until they were by. One was a huge man. Wetterling. They had seen the smoke then.
A gun! I must have a gun.
Big Red ran like the wind, and I loved his easy movements. He ran and ran, and when day was not yet gray in the eastern sky, I was riding into the trees near the ranch house of Nana Maduro. Was she here, or in the hotel room above the saloon?
In the last of the darkness I found her window, heard her breathing inside, and put a leg through, then another. I touched her arms, and her eyes opened. Her head turned.
She did not cry out, but she sat up quickly. It was enough to take a man’s breath.
“Lou Morgan!” she exclaimed in a startled whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll need a gun,” I said, “or better, a pair of guns. Your lovers are snarling at each other at the mission where you left me.”
Then I told her of the pitch slivers and the Yaqui. At first her eyes were hot with disbelief, but gradually changed to doubt. Then I told her of the ocotillo smoke that had brought Wetterling, and I laughed at my enemies.
She dressed swiftly while I watched out the window and saw dawn throw crimson arrows into the sky. Out in the cool halls of her house she took me and got a pair of pistols, ornamented, beautiful—two Russian .44s, a pistol made by Smith & Wesson. A masterpiece!
With these belted on, plus a Winchester .76 and a belt of ammunition, I was ready.
With her own hands she quickly made breakfast. I drank black coffee, and ate eggs and ham, and looked upon her grace and beauty, and forgot. Until too late.
We heard them come. From the window we saw them. A half-dozen horsemen, one with a bandaged head, one with an arm in a sling, and three horses with empty saddles. But Wetterling and Borneman were riding together, side by side. My enemies had joined hands.
What to do?
It had to be quickly, and it had to be now. These men were conscienceless. They would kill Nana Maduro as soon as they would kill me, and if they forced from us the secret of the mission gold and silver, then we would die.
Into the gray of morning I stepped, and saw the blood of dawn on their faces. My rifle stood by the door, my two guns lay against my thighs.
“Good morning,” I said. “The thieves ride together.”
Wetterling’s eyes were ugly, but those of Borneman were only cold. I made up my mind then—Borneman must die. He was too cool, with his scholar’s face and his quiet voice, and his thin, cruel lips.
“Let’s be reasonable,” he said quietly. “You and Nana are alone here, except for two riders who are old men, and even they have gone to a line camp. Your Indian woman cook is as helpless as you. Tell us where the gold is and we’ll leave.”
“We’ll tell you nothing!” I said.
“He speaks for me,” Nana said. “I hope he always speaks for me. And to think I had always believed you—a famous scientist my grandfather called you—were his friend!”
Wetterling’s hatred was obvious. He still wanted Nana. “I’ll change you!” he said. “I’ll break you!”
“With the gold,” Borneman said, “you can buy fifty women.”
There was a silence then, while a quail called. Silence while dawn made a glory of the sky; and the dark pines fringed against the hills; and the air was cool and good.
Six men, and one of them Clevenger, whose partner I had killed. One of them a Yaqui, hating me. And a girl behind me whom they would not spare even if I died, and whom I knew would suffer the tortures of hell before she’d die, for she had courage, and would not tell.
That decided me. Numbers give courage, but they give it to the enemy, too. They gave it to me. Six men, and growing in me a terrible rage and a terrible fear. A rage against them, and a fear for her, for Nana Maduro whom I had loved since she was a child on her father’s ranch.
“You want gold and you’ve come prepared to buy it,” I said, “with your blood.” I took a step forward. “The price will be high, my friends, and Borneman, you will owe me, in a few minutes, the five thousand you offered me to kill Wetterling.”
Wetterling’s big blond head snapped around. “What?” he barked. “You paid him to kill me? Why, you—”
He struck at Borneman and my guns came up shooting. As he struck, his horse swung broadside, cutting off a rider whose gun came up fast. That gave me an instant I desperately needed. Three men were out of the picture, but I saw Clevenger’s eyes blazing and shot into them. His scarred head seemed to blast apart as he slid from his horse. Behind me the Winchester barked and another rider was knocked from the saddle, not dead, but hurt.
The Yaqui slammed his heels into his mount and charged me, and I stepped aside, grabbed his arm, and like a cat was in the saddle behind him with a left forearm like a bar of iron across his throat. The plunging horse swung wide and, with the Yaqui’s body for shield, I shot again and again.
Wetterling’s horse went down and he was thrown free. Borneman hit the ground and rolled. I threw a quick shot at him and sand splashed his face and into his eyes. He screamed and clawed at his face, then the Yaqui twisted and I felt a knife blade rip my hide. With a great effort I tore him free of me and threw him to the ground. He started up, but the plunging, bucking horse was over him and his scream was drowned in the sound of the Winchester.
I hit the ground, guns empty. Borneman still pawed at his eyes. Clevenger was down and dead. Wetterling was getting to his feet. Another rider was sprawled dead or injured, and still another clutched a broken arm and swore.
Wetterling looked at me and shook himself, then started for me. Suddenly I felt the fires of hell in my blood and I swung for his chin.
It missed. He came in low and hard, grappling me about the hips, so instead of resisting, I went back quickly and the force of his tackle and my lack of resistance carried him past and over me.
On our feet, we walked toward each other. I feinted, he stepped in, and I hit him with a right that jarred him to his heels. He swung, and then we walked in, punching with both hands.
It was a shindig! A glorious shindig! He swung low and missed me, and I brought my knee into his face. His nose crushed to pulp and I hit him with both hands as he straightened back. He fell, and I walked close. As he started to get up I slugged him again.
My wounded leg was burning like fire, my breath was coming in gasps, my head felt dizzy. Somehow he got up. He hit me again and again, but then I got him by the throat and crotch and threw him to the ground. He started up and I hit him. Blood splashed from his broken nose and he screamed. I hit him again, and he blubbered.
Then I walked back to Nana. “If he moves,” I said, “shoot him. I’m going to sit down.…”
* * *
IF YOU SHOULD, in the passing of years, come to the ranch on Cherry Creek, look for the N M brand. You’ll find us there. I’ve tequila in the cupboard and brandy on the shelf, but if you want women, you’ll have to bring your own, for Nana’s mine, and we’re watching the years together.
The gold we gave to the church, the silver to charity, and the jewels we kept for ourselves.
My hair is grizzled now, gray, and I’m heavier by the years, but Nana Maduro Morgan says I’m as good a man as I ever was.
And Nana should know.
RIDE OR START SHOOTIN’
* * *
CHAPTER 1
The Bet
TOLLEFSON SAW THE horses grazing in the creek bottom and pulled up sharply. “Harry,” his voice was harsh and demanding as always, “whose horses are those?”
“Some drifter name of Tandy Meadows. He’s got some fine-lookin’ stock there.”
“He’s passin’ through?”
“Well,” Harry Fulton’s reluctance sprang from his knowledge of Art Tollefson’s temper, “he says he aims to run a horse in the quarter races.”
Surprisingly, Tollefson smiled. “Oh, he does, does he? Too bad he hasn’t money. I’d like to take it awa
y from him if he had anything to run against Lady Luck.”
Passman had his hat shoved back on his head. It was one of those wide-across-the-cheekbones faces with small eyes, a blunt jaw, and hollow cheeks. Everybody west of Cimarron knew Tom Passman for a gunfighter, and knew that Passman had carried the banner of Art Tollefson’s legions into the high-grass country.
Ranching men had resented their coming with the big Flying T outfit and thirty thousand head of stock. Passman accepted their resentment and told them what they could do. Two, being plainsmen, elected to try it. Harry Fulton had helped to dig their graves.
It was Passman who spoke now. “He’s got some real horses, boss.”
Tollefson’s coveting eyes had been appreciating that. It was obvious that whoever this drifter was, he knew horseflesh. In the twenty-odd head there were some splendid animals. For an instant a shadow of doubt touched him. Such a string might carry a quarter horse faster than Lady Luck. But the doubt was momentary, for his knowledge of the Lady and his pride of possession would not leave room for that. Lady Luck had bloodlines. She was more than range stock.
“Let’s go talk to him,” he said, and reined his bay around the start down the slope toward the creek.
Within view there was a covered wagon and there were two saddled horses. As they rode down the slope, a man stepped from behind the wagon to meet them. He was a short, powerfully setup Negro with one ear missing and the other carrying a small gold ring in the lobe. His boots were down at heel and his jeans worn.
“Howdy!” Tollefson glanced around. “Who is the owner here?” The tone was suited to an emperor, and behind the wall of his armed riders, Tollefson was almost that. Yet there is something about ruling that fades the perspective, denying clarity to the mind.
“I’m the owner.”
The voice came from behind them and Tollefson felt sudden anger. Fulton, who was not a ruler and hence had an unblunted perspective, turned his head with the thought that whoever this man was, he was cautious, and no fool.
As they came down the hill the Negro emerged just at the right time to focus all their eyes, and then the other man appeared from behind them. It was the trick of a magician, of a man who understands indirection.
Tollefson turned in his saddle, and Fulton saw the quick shadow on Tom Passman’s face, for Passman was not a man who could afford to be surprised.
A tall man stood at the edge of the willows. A man whose face was shadowed by the brim of a flat-crowned gray hat, worn and battered. A bullet, Fulton noticed, had creased the crown, neatly notching the edge, and idly he wondered what had become of the man who fired that shot.
The newcomer wore a buckskin vest but had no gun in sight. His spurs were large roweled, California style, and in his hand he carried a rawhide riata. This was grass-rope country, and forty-five feet was a good length, yet from the look of this rope it was sixty or more.
“You the owner?” Tollefson was abrupt as always. “I hear you’re plannin’ to race a quarter horse against my Lady Luck.”
“Aim to.” The man came forward, moving with the step of a woodsman rather than a rider.
“I’m Tollefson. If you have any money and want to bet, I’m your man. If you don’t have money, maybe we could bet some stock.”
Tandy Meadows pushed back his hat from his strong bronzed face, calm with that assurance that springs from inner strength. Not flamboyant strength, nor pugnacious, but that of a man who goes his own way and blazes his own trails.
“Yeah,” Tandy said slowly, digging out the makings, “I’ve two or three quarter horses. I figured to run one of them. It isn’t much point which of them.” He scratched a match on his trouser leg. “What made you figure I had no money? I got a mite of change I aimed to bet.”
Tollefson’s smile was patronizing. “I’m talking about money, man! I like to bet! I was thinking,” he paused for effect and he deliberately made his voice casual, “five thousand dollars.”
“Five?” Meadows lifted an eyebrow. “Well, all right. I guess I can pick up a few more small bets around to make it interesting.”
Tollefson’s skin tightened over his cheekbones. He was no gambling man, but it built his ego to see men back up and hesitate at the thought of five thousand dollars in one bet. “What do you mean? You want to bet more than five thousand dollars?”
“Sort of figured it.” Meadows drew deeply on his cigarette. “I heard there was a gambling man down here who liked to bet enough to make it interesting.”
Tollefson was deeply affronted. Not many men could afford to bet that kind of money, and he liked to flaunt big bets and show them who they were dealing with. Yet here was a man who calmly accepted his bet and hinted that it was pretty small potatoes. Somewhere in the group behind him he thought he detected a subdued snicker, and the casual indifference of this man Meadows irritated him.
“Whatever you want to put up,” he snapped, “I’ll cover! Name your price! I’ll cover all you can get at two to one odds!”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Tandy said, sliding his thumbs behind his belt. “Aren’t you the Tollefson from the Flying T? How about bettin’ your ranch?”
Art Tollefson was shocked. He was profoundly shocked. This down-at-heels stranger offering to cover a bet against his ranch! Against the Flying T, sixty thousand head of stock and miles of rolling grassland, water holes; and buildings!
Lady Luck was his pride, a symbol of his power and money. She was the fastest thing he had ever seen on legs, and he liked to see her win. Yet his bets were merely for the sake of showing his large-handed way with money, of making him envied. At heart he was not a gambler and only put his money up reluctantly, but he was rarely called. Yet now he had been, and he knew that if he backed down now he would become the laughingstock of the range. It was a humiliation he neither wanted nor intended to endure.
“That’s a rather large bet, my man,” he said, for suddenly he realized the man must be bluffing. “Have you any idea what you’re saying? You’d have to show a lot of money to cover it.”
Meadows smiled. It was the first flicker of expression that had come to his face, but the smile was pleasant. Yet there was a shadow beneath it that might have been faintly ironic. “What’s the matter, Tollefson?” he taunted gently. “Gettin’ chilly around the arches? Or were you bluffin’ with that big money talk? Back down, if you like, and don’t waste my time. I’ll cover your little spread and more if need be, so put up or shut up.”
Tollefson’s fury broke. “Why, you impudent chump!” He stopped, his jaw setting hard. “All right, get on your horse and come to the bank with me! John Clevenger knows my ranch, and he knows horses! If you’ve got the collateral, you can put it up, and you’ve made a bet!”
Tandy swung astride one of the saddled horses. Tollefson’s quick eyes saw the build of the animal. Arab, with a strain of Morgan by the look of it. If this horse was any evidence.…He shook ova momentary twinge of doubt.
Meadows turned his horse, then hesitated. “Don’t you even want to see my horses? I’ve not decided which to run, but you’re welcome to look ’em over.”
“It’s no matter!” Tollefson’s fury was still riding him. He was bitter at the trap he had laid for himself. If this fool didn’t have the money, why he would.…Just what he would do he wasn’t sure but his face was flushed with angry blood.
Art Tollefson was not the only one who was feeling doubt. To Harry Fulton, who rode behind him, this seemed too pat to be an accident, and to Tom Passman it seemed the same way but with an added worry. Gifted at judging men, he knew Tandy Meadows should have been carrying a gun; yet there was none in sight, and it worried him.
Tandy Meadows looked straight down the road, aware that the crossroads of all his planning had been reached, and now everything depended on John Clevenger. He knew little about the banker except that the man was known and respected on the frontier, and that he was one of the original breeders of quarter horses. He was hard headed, yet a Western man to the very he
els of his boots, and a man with the courage of his convictions. It was rumored of him that he had once accepted four aces in a poker game as collateral for a bank loan.
The bank at El Poleo was a low, gray stone building that looked like the fort it had to be to survive. Situated as it was, across the street from the Poleo Saloon, half the town saw Art Tollefson and the stranger draw up before the bank. It was in the nature of things that in a matter of minutes everyone in town knew what they had come for. The town was aghast.
CHAPTER 2
A Trap Closes
JOHN CLEVENGER SAW them coming with no idea of what they wanted. He had opened his bank against great odds and against even greater odds had kept it going. He had faith in his fellow man and his judgment of them, and was accustomed to the amazing ways of Western men. More than once he had loaned money on sheer courage and character. So far he had not lost by it.
Tollefson was a shrewd, hard-headed business man, yet one of overbearing manner who carried things with a high hand. Tollefson dealt in force and money power, Clevenger in character and self-respect. That Tollefson should make such a wager was beyond belief, yet Clevenger heard them out in silence.
“You have collateral for such a bet?” Clevenger asked. He studied Meadows thoughtfully and approved of what he saw.
Tandy drew a black leather case from his hip pocket and extracted a letter and some legal-appearing papers. Clevenger accepted them, started as if struck, then looked again and became very thoughtful. Twice he glanced up at Meadows. At last he got to his feet and pulled off his glasses. There was the ghost of a twinkle in his eyes as he studied Meadows. “I hardly know what to say, Mr. Meadows. I—” His voice faltered, then stopped.
“That’s my collateral,” Tandy said quietly. “I think you’re the best judge. Tollefson seems to want a big bet on this race. I’ve called him. We came to see if you would accept this as collateral and put up the money to cover the bet.” He glanced toward the flushed face of the rancher. “Of course, if he wants to Welsh on the bet, now’s his last chance.”
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