The door closed and he heard the pad of bare feet coming toward him. “What is it I can do, señor?”
“That black horse! I’ll leave mine here.”
“Come!”
Pedro led the way to the corral and roped the black. When the saddle was shifted, Radigan said, “Better hide my horse. These are not good men.”
“Do you need help, Señor Tom?”
“No, no help.”
“There are men. At Loma Coyote there are men. Good men for the fight. If you wish it I will ride there and they will come to you.”
“No, not yet.”
He rode south and camped that morning at a spot above San Ysidro. When he had slept an hour the sun was up and he saddled up again and rode down into the town.
Downey was sweeping off the boardwalk in front of the stage station. Slowly, he straightened up. “You’re in trouble, Tom,” he said. “I heard they ran you off.”
“Did you?” Radigan tied the black to the hitching rail and straightened. He needed a bath and a shave, and a good meal. Suddenly he realized how hungry he was. “I left because I didn’t want to be pinned down.”
Flynn came around the building and stopped when he saw Radigan. The deputy sheriff measured him carefully, and then said, “You leavin’ the country?”
“This is my home.”
“I’d advise you to leave. You’ve lost your place, which means there’s nothing to keep you here.”
“You’ve made up your mind then?”
“What d’ you mean?”
“You’ve chosen your side, is that it?”
Flynn’s face seemed to flatten out and grow hard. “I’ve told you. You start anything and I’ll take you in.”
Radigan measured Flynn carefully. “Don’t try it, Jim. You’ve a wife and family. You don’t want trouble because you’re afraid you’ll lose all that. The day you try to take me in, you’ve lost it.”
Jim Flynn’s jaw set, and slowly his feet shifted. And then he looked into Radigan’s eyes and suddenly everything within him seemed to go still and cold.
Radigan was not bluffing.
“Don’t push me, Tom,” he said, but even as he spoke there was certainty in him that if he attempted to arrest Radigan he would be killed.
“The day you try to arrest me without cause, Jim,” Radigan replied shortly, “that day you’ll die. I am in the right here, and it is you who’ve followed off a pretty red wagon because it’s new. I’m going over your head, Jim.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ve written to the governor, and to the sheriff. I have notified them of the situation here. My certificates of title are registered in Santa Fe, and if you interfere in this, except to run that Foley outfit off, you are an accessory after the fact of a crime.”
Jim Flynn suddenly found himself with nothing to say. If Radigan had written to the sheriff and the governor, and if Radigan was in the right, then his own job was not worth a tinker’s damn. At the same time he suddenly realized he had a strong distaste for a gun battle with the man who had killed Vin Cable.
At the same time the letter gave him an out and he was quick to accept it. “All right, I’ll wait. I’ll wait until I hear from the sheriff, and then I’ll act, and if it’s you I come after, I’ll take you.”
Tom Radigan made no reply. He knew what had happened to Flynn and he sympathized with him. What was it Sir Francis Bacon had said, “He who hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune, for they are impediments to great enterprise.”
Well, at least they made a man think.
Radigan went inside and accepted the drink that Downey poured for him.
“Breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“You killed one of them?”
“I think so.”
“You did. They’ll be in this morning, Tom. Some of them will be in.”
“I’ll think of that after breakfast.”
He had written no letters, but now he did. He wrote the letters of which he had told Flynn and he wrote one other. To a Ranger captain in Tascosa, and it was an inquiry about the Foley-Thorpe outfit and their cattle.
He was on his second cup of coffee when Flynn pushed through the door. He walked immediately to Radigan’s table. “You want to fight the Foley outfit?”
“Are they coming?”
“They sure are, four or five of them.”
He nodded briefly. “Thanks, Jim.” He had started to get up and then heard the pound of horses’ hoofs and looking out the window saw the riders pulled up at the rail—five of them.
“Too late!” Flynn said angrily. “Damn it, you’re too late!”
“I wanted some more coffee, anyway,” he said, and sat back down.
Flynn turned sharply around. “You can get out the back door! Quick!”
“I like it here.”
Flynn stared at him, then started to speak. His mouth opened and then snapped shut and he walked to the bar. “Give me a drink,” he said hoarsely.
Radigan picked up the pot and filled his cup. Then he leaned back in his chair and relaxed, watching the door.
Boots sounded on the boardwalk and somebody laughed.
Then the door swung wide.
Chapter 4
*
THE THREE COWHANDS who entered first were strangers to him, but the last two were Barbeau and Bitner.
They bellied up to the bar laughing and talking loudly, and obviously unaware of his presence. Whatever else the death of one of their number had done, it had not depressed them to any appreciable extent. Radigan made no move, remaining at the table, and watching them.
His trip into San Ysidro had been necessary. He wanted a final understanding with Flynn, and that unavailing, to write letters to the governor and to the county sheriff. Whatever was to come his own position must be legally secure. He anticipated no help as a result of the letters, but they did officially notify the authorities of what was transpiring and that no help was forthcoming from Flynn. After that it would be up to him, but they would have been notified of the situation and that he must take steps to preserve his property.
Flynn remained at the bar, but the cowhands appeared not to notice him. Barbeau was regaining some of his old truculence, and Bitner was, as always, a silent, morose man; but, Radigan guessed, far more dangerous than Barbeau.
Where Radigan sat the room was in partial shadow, and from the bar his face would not be readily visible. Even as he considered that, one of the cowhands glanced his way, looked off, then taken by something threatening in the silent figure at the table, he looked back. After a moment he whispered to the man next to him, and they all looked around. The cheerful conversation at the bar was suddenly stilled. Flynn straightened up and turned slightly toward them, and Bitner’s attention was suddenly on Flynn.
“Where d’ you stand?” Bitner’s tone was casual.
“I’m the law. There’ll be no trouble here.”
Barbeau laughed.
Tom Radigan had not moved. Now he slowly took up the makings that lay on the table near his coffee cup and began to roll a smoke. He was waiting to see what Flynn was going to do, but if trouble came, he knew he was going to kill Bitner first…Bitner was the most dangerous of the lot, but the three strange punchers all looked to be tough, confident men.
Flynn persisted. “You boys have your drinks, then move along. You start any trouble in town and I’ll come for you.”
“He killed a man of ours.”
“Maybe, but you heard what I said.”
“And it don’t make a bit of difference,” Barbeau declared. “You can walk out of here, Sheriff, or you can keep out of it. Don’t make us no difference.”
“I’m staying. You start trouble and you’ll go to jail.”
“You’ll take us?” Barbeau scoffed.
“I’ll take you,” Flynn replied. “Now you, Barbeau, you want to make a fight of it?”
Barbeau hesitated. He was a fair hand with a gun, but Flynn had not b
ecome a deputy sheriff for nothing, and he was not at all sure he wanted to gamble. Moreover, they had orders to stay out of trouble in town.
Flynn walked in on Barbeau. “I’ve told you, Barbeau. Have a drink if you want it and get out of town, but you’ll start nothing here.”
Barbeau hesitated and Bitner spoke up. “Let it go, Barb. Our time will come.”
Shrugging, Barbeau turned toward the bar and Downey filled his glass. Radigan had been watching Downey with interest. His right hand had remained below the edge of the bar, and it was Radigan’s hunch the shotgun was there. Radigan picked up the pot and filled his cup.
He was in a dangerous position. Outside of town he would be fair game. Flynn, despite the fact that he was deputy sheriff of the county, had practically said as much. He would keep the peace here, but outside of town a man would have to fight his own battles.
Yet the black horse bore no brand they knew, and they might suspect his horse was stabled elsewhere. Radigan had a hunch they would go outside, check both ways out of town, and wait for him, and common sense told him he had no reason to buck the kind of a deck they would stack against him. He pondered the question while he waited.
Downey came around the bar. “More coffee, Tom?”
“Please.”
They would be expecting him north of town, on the route back toward the ranch, yet they would have a man or men at the trail that ran southwest out of town, too. There was a point of rocks that came down to the trail a bit over a mile out of town, but just this side of that point a dim trail, scarcely visible anymore, left the main road and went up through the rocks and cut back, climbing higher and higher toward Pajarito Peak, but well this side of the peak there was a break in the long ridge that divided that trail from the valley where San Ysidro lay.
If he could get out of town—if he could get to that trail—and if they let him leave town, he’d have a chance, because the logical waiting point was at the point of rocks.
He finished his cigarette and drank the remaining coffee, and then the men walked out of the saloon, and he was alone. “Thanks, Jim,” he said.
“Don’t thank me. I just don’t want any trouble.”
“All right.”
Radigan got up and walked to the bar and paid Downey, who dropped the money into the cash drawer without glancing at it. “Watch yourself, Tom. They’ll be waiting.”
Radigan glanced out the window. Their horses were gone, but there was a man loitering across the street and up a short distance.
Radigan grinned. “God have pity on the poor sailors on such a night as this!”
Downey said, “You’ll do, Tom—only those boys want you.”
“Pack me a bait of grub, will you? I may be in the hills a couple of days.”
“That girl didn’t get hurt, did she?” Downey asked.
“No. Lot of iron in that girl, Pat. She’ll be around when the chips are cashed in.”
He shrugged into his coat while Downey put the last of the bundle together. Radigan was thinking of all the buildings down the street. There were four on the right side of the road, three on the left, and scattered houses back of that, lanes, barnyards, stables. The Hansen house was on the left but back from the road, and the idea came to him suddenly.
“See you,” he walked out the door and closed it carefully behind him. He crossed the walk as if going away from the saloon, then turned and stepped quickly into the saddle on the black horse, swung abruptly around the saloon and behind it.
The action was swift and unexpected. The watcher across the street was caught flat-footed, but instantly he dashed across the street. Before he could round the saloon, Radigan rode from behind it and was across the street and behind a building there. He rode down into the wash, came up through the trees, walking the black in soft sand to make no noise. And then he rode directly for the Hansen place.
It was a big, old adobe with an upstairs gallery and it stood among some cottonwoods with corrals and a barn behind it. The sun was high, and Radigan walked the black along the trail, knowing the horse was unfamiliar and gambling nobody was apt to be there who would know him. He walked the horse past the house and tied in among some brush under the cottonwoods beyond the house.
From inside the house he heard a pleasant soprano voice singing an old love song. He listened for a moment, then rapped on the door. A breeze stirred the cottonwoods and they chafed their leaves with soft whispering. The singing stopped and he heard footsteps within. He shifted his weight and the floor boards creaked slightly, and the door swung open.
Angelina Foley was quite obviously astonished. He removed his hat. “How do you do, Miss Gelina? Are you receiving callers?”
Momentarily she hesitated, then she stepped back. “Come in. You startled me.”
“Some of your men seemed to be in a fighting mood,” he commented casually, “and I thought I’d let them cool off a bit.” He smiled. “And I thought it might be a good time to get better acquainted.”
“You’re assuming that I wish to know you better?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not sure.” She motioned to a divan. “You have your nerve, coming here.”
“Can you think of a better place?” He relaxed on the divan. From where he sat he could see the trail leading up to the ranch. “If one has to wait, why not where a man can talk to a beautiful girl?”
She waited, and he looked around the house. It was a roomy old place, cool, comfortable and quiet, yet much had been done to change it. There were curtains in the windows tonight, and a piano—how long since he had seen a piano outside of a barroom?
“You sing very well. Do you play?”
“Of course.”
“Will you?”
“Mr. Radigan, if you have any business with me, please state it. I have no intention of playing for you, and I think it impudent of you to suggest it.”
“It is all too rare when we hear music out here,” he replied, his manner reflecting no reaction to her evident impatience. “Especially old Italian folk songs.”
“You know that song?” Her surprise was evident.
“We come from many places,” he replied. “You’ll find among Western men some who know many things beside cows and range conditions.” He paused. “Miss Gelina, I’m curious. Why did you come here?”
“Because of the land I own,” she replied coldly. “What other reason could there be?”
He shrugged, turning his hat in his hand. “I was wondering. Usually folks who have a good working ranch and a herd the size of yours don’t leave the place where they are. I’m wondering why you left, and why you work a bunch of hands who handle guns better than they do cows.”
Angelina Foley glanced toward the door. She was alone here, with only the Mexican woman cook for company, but she was thinking rapidly, trying to discover some method of attracting some of her hands back to this ranch. Radigan had guessed shrewdly that this would be the last place they would think of looking, and moreover, every remark he made gave greater reason for worry. This was no ordinary cowhand or cattleman.
“I wrote to the governor,” he said.
She stiffened. “You what?”
“I wrote to the governor,” he repeated. “They know me in Santa Fe, and I wanted them to know what was happening here.”
She was frightened, but she knew at once that they were in real trouble. This was the last thing they had expected. When they prepared to drive west out of Texas, Harvey had assured her there would be no trouble as they not only had claim to the land to which they were going but the man squatted on it would be eliminated before they arrived. She had suspected for some time that Harvey had some further idea in the back of his head, some idea for going to the New Mexico ranch. She had not inquired too much about that.
The move was essential. Her father had managed the ranch poorly, had spent too much money, and had become involved in hopeless quarrels. It was due to her own quick action and positive thinking as much as to Harvey that they ha
d abandoned the hopeless fight and moved to New Mexico. The trail they had left behind them was not a pretty one, but due to Ross Wall they had brought the herd safely across the long, dry drive and had left behind all pursuers—left them dead.
Now, if an inquiry began there would be immediate repercussions from Texas.
Instantly she knew he must not guess her panic, and she saw that somehow she must win him over or he must be killed. Or better yet, made to disappear. If he merely disappeared there would be a period of waiting to see if he reappeared, and by that time they would be settled on the ranch with friends of their own.
“It’s too bad there is trouble between us.” She got up and walked to the window, and as she spoke her thoughts raced swiftly ahead, searching out a way through all the nooks and crannies of possible solutions. “You’re a strong man, Tom.”
“Just a cattleman.”
“No, far more than that. I wish we could have met under other circumstances. A girl in my position, who has to run a ranch like a man, doesn’t meet many men who are of interest to her.”
She was not, she reflected, just talking. Every word was the truth. She turned suddenly and looked at him, seeing for the first time through the implication of her own words, and realizing it was true: this was the man she should have met before this.
He was a handsome man. And without doubt a courageous one. There was nothing of Harvey in him, Harvey who had an ulterior motive for everything, and who was always searching for some way to make money without work.
She crossed the room to him. Over her shoulder he saw that the road was still empty. “Tom, what do you want out of life? I mean, what are you working for?”
“I want to make that ranch pay. You have no idea what a job that is. I mean, you’ve come here from a Plains state where the problems are tough enough, but you know the answers to them, as I did. Up here one has to learn new answers, new ways. I’m cautious, so I came with few cattle, and I worked particularly hard to keep them alive. By the time I found the answers I’d managed to wet-nurse a small herd through two winters, and by then I could branch out a little.”
“Is it that hard?”
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