by T. T. Flynn
A man stepped on a horse and ran down the draw to meet Travis. He was slender, wiry in sun-faded jeans and gray shirt. His features had the tanned smoothness of youth set now in urgency as he swung the horse around, walking beside Travis. “You see any strangers, Mister Travis?”
Travis asked: “Were you followed, Chet?”
“Near run into Gid Markham’s mother ridin’ this way.” Chet’s clear eyes under the yanked-down brim of his black hat were worried. “Maybe Markham’s ridin’ this way, too. He wouldn’t like me drawin’ his pay an’ meetin’ you here.”
Travis chuckled. “He’d fire you, Chet . . . and you’d pick up your extra pay from me, go to work for Matt Kilgore, and laugh about it.”
“Gid Markham,” said Chet levelly, “might not figure it that easy.”
Travis lost his humor. “Markham thinks he’s a Spanish don running an old-time hacienda with peons he can use a whip on.”
“He’s proud,” Chet said.
“He’s hard and cold like his old man was. Keep that in mind, Chet.” Travis weighed the worry on Chet’s face. It was an honest, plain kind of face with its own youthful strength, which was why Travis was using Chet Davis. “Ever know a finer man than Matt Kilgore, Chet?” he asked quietly.
“Never did,” said Chet with quick, warming emphasis. “I mind one time when Pa . . .”
“Matt Kilgore needs help,” Travis said gravely. “His boys are gone. The Markhams never have let up on him. You’re helping Matt now, Chet. I’m helping him. You’re not going to back out?”
“I reckon not,” Chet said uncomfortably.
“Matt will be grateful. Now then . . . is Gid Markham hiring more men? Making moves like trouble?”
“Don’t seem so.”
“See you here next week then.” Travis looked ahead at the small rock cabin and empty corral. “Where’s Grady Doyle and his men?”
“They ain’t here. An’ good riddance if they ain’t never comin’ back,” Chet Davis said coolly. “Ary one would lief shoot a man’s back.”
Thoughtfully Travis watched Chet Davis ride back down the draw. Too young, too honest. Only Matt Kilgore’s name would hold him.
Travis glanced inside the rock hut and stepped back on the horse with growing irritation. He had no illusions about Grady Doyle and the scum Doyle knew how to hire. They’d be back; their pay was too good. But their orders had been to stay here at the line camp.
Riding up the steep head of the draw into scrub cedars, Travis fell to whistling softly as he thought of Patricia Kilgore. Today Pat and he would eat in Soledad. They would ride back to the ranch together. He was still thinking of Pat and the future when the last balding ridges dropped away to the stage road, and Soledad was near. Not much of a town by cities Travis had known. Mostly adobe in the custom of this dry, Southwestern land. Little silver-threading irrigation acequias ran to green garden plots and tall cottonwoods and elms.
Beyond the brief foothills, desert and near desert ran into distance. But east and south of Soledad the blue peaks lifted. Between them and beyond were deep canyons, rugged hills, great sweeps of grassland, sheltered valleys, and more mountains. This colorful, wild New Mexico country was larger than many Eastern states. Tiny settlements of the native Mexican people had drowsed away the generations. Land, cattle, mines, and timber were here. And Travis had quickly realized that a clever stranger with money and luck could dominate all this country. Cattle already branded in his name were here. The Kilgore’s run-down ranch was a start. Soledad was the key. Mines back in the mountains, ranches, little native placitas over immense reaches looked to this isolated town. The sheriff and courthouse were a hundred and fifty miles east and south, out of the way.
Travis was smiling when he rode into the busy plaza and stopped at the bank to deposit $20,000 in St. Louis Exchange. With amusement he knew that the graying Ed Jackson who ran the bank was speculating on how much more money Roger Travis could deposit. Other men, too, were wondering.
At Ledfesser’s Mercantile, Travis left a list to be made up. Then, in the Bonanza Bar across the plaza, he bought for the house. Later, Travis would remember this hour in Soledad as the high point of his life. He was happy, lucky, and the future beckoned. The back mirror showed his wide shoulders relaxed in the expensive blue broadcloth suit. His hat was cocked slightly. Travis was laughing when a man touched his elbow and said: “Matt Kilgore’s girl wants you outside.”
That was the high point, Travis remembered later—Patricia Kilgore waiting outside for him.
Patricia stood a respectable distance from the Bonanza, thinking in anger of the man named Clay Mara. When Roger came to her, tall and smiling, Patricia asked rapidly: “Did you see Dot Strance bring three men into town in her buggy?”
Roger was amused. “Is the widow collecting men today?”
“One of the men,” said Patricia, “is helpless from a bullet wound. Old Ira Bell is in bad shape. And the horse thief named Clay Mara who brought them in on one of our horses was so exhausted he slept on Dot’s shoulder. They’re at Doctor Halvord’s house. This man Mara can be caught there.”
“One of our horses?” Roger asked quickly. He used our like one of the family now. Patricia had seen Travis’s pleased smile at hearing it.
“Matt,” she reminded, “doesn’t like to mark a horse. He brands on the neck where the mane hides it. This sorrel has our brand. Also,” said Patricia, with growing heat as she thought of the stranger who had stolen the sorrel, “I remember the three-cornered blaze and white stocking. That horse was in the extra bunch at Canyon Largo.”
Little points of cold light jumped into Roger’s eyes. Tension edged his words. “That sorrel and two more horses, Pat, were turned over to some men that I . . . that Matt hired. They went off on business of their own. I don’t know what.”
Patricia felt let down as she and Roger walked slowly toward the plaza corner. The real worry that had made her seek Roger for advice was only partially lessened by his explanation about the horse.
“This man Clay Mara,” she continued under her breath, “asked Dot Strance to send word quickly to Gid Markham.”
“Why Markham?” Roger demanded sharply.
“Dot doesn’t know. She’s afraid it may mean trouble of some sort.”
“Does Missus Strance know we own the sorrel?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Patricia said, thinking back. “The neck brand was hidden when Dot stood by the horse. But this man Mara knew who I was, and he didn’t mention the sorrel. He was in the buggy with Dot, where I could hardly hear, when he asked her to send for Gid Markham. And he made a point of asking Dot to have the sorrel brought into town, as if he had a reason.”
Roger’s jaw muscles were bunching. Temper hardened his words. “A wounded man means a gunfight. Matt’s men had the sorrel, and now a Markham man brings the horse in.”
“He must want Gid Markham to see the horse.”
“Evidently,” Roger said. “Three Markham men got away from the gunfight, and that sorrel will prove the fight was with our men.”
Patricia said: “Gid’s mother met me on the trail and told me that last night Gid promised to keep peace with us if not provoked.”
“What Mexican trick . . . ?”
“Not a trick,” Patricia said quickly. “Consuela Markham was a Rivera, Roger. Her family has been in this country for generations. They were the ricos, at the top, proud. She was a mother, afraid for the only son she has left if there’s more trouble.”
Roger’s cool voice lacked sympathy. “The woman has had enough years to stop trouble. Why talk about it now?”
“You’d have to know how her husband, Amos Markham, ruled their marriage. Consuela Markham was Mexican . . . reared to respect and obey her husband. Amos ignored her and bound his son to himself. He filled Gid with his hatred of the Kilgores.” Patricia hesitated. “Amos even named his son Gideon. Do you know what it means?”
Roger was impatient. “What woman’s foolishness now?”<
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“I met the padre on the trail one day,” Patricia said slowly. “We talked of the Markhams, and Father Philippe told me that Gideon is a name from the Hebrew, and means ‘a hewer-down.’ And Amos Markham reared Gid that way . . . to hew down and destroy the Kilgores.”
Roger’s laugh was a short bark of derision. “What foolishness. I suppose Amos and Matt mean something, also.”
“The padre said Matthew means ‘the gift of the Lord’ and Amos means ‘one who bears a burden.’ When Roger stared at her, Patricia said steadily: “Amos Markham knew his Bible. Think how it comes out, Roger . . . Amos, who ‘bears the burden,’ reared his son as the ‘hewer-down’ of ‘the gift of the Lord.’”
“Women and their ideas,” said Roger, and his sardonic amusement brought a flush to Patricia’s cheeks.
“Don’t laugh about Gid Markham!” Patricia flashed. “Or the promise he made to his mother last night.” She drew a breath. “If our men have had a gunfight with Gid’s men, his promise is wiped out. Gid will be more vindictive than ever.”
A man rode past at a jolting trot. A dog fight was clamoring in the distance. Roger had sobered. “Where’s this sorrel horse now?”
“José Sanchez,” Patricia said, “is bringing the horse in with the burro string. This man Clay Mara didn’t look under the mane. I don’t think he knows who owns the sorrel. Gid hasn’t seen the horse. And you weren’t there, Roger. You haven’t even seen the three men.”
“So?” said Roger narrowly.
Patricia slanted a glance up. “Don’t ask questions, so you honestly won’t know. I’ll be at the hotel in an hour or so, unless I’m delayed.”
“Pat . . .”
“Men,” said Patricia, “make trouble . . . and women have to pick up the pieces.”
Sternly Roger said: “This isn’t . . .”
“Consuela Markham,” Patricia said, “would go with me if she were here. If this man Mara asks questions, he can talk to me.”
IX
Travis watched Pat Kilgore walk away, slender under the small Chihuahua sombrero of straw that Pat preferred to the prim bonnets and frilly millinery of other young women. She could be tender and feminine in a way Travis had never known in a woman. He forced his thoughts to Grady Doyle, who had taken the sorrel gelding. What had the fellow done? A fight. A wounded man. Possible trouble with Gid Markham too soon. Temper was dark in Travis as he started for the office of the Soledad Beacon, and the red-headed Dorothy Strance, who might know more about this business than she had told Patricia.
Black letters on the front window of the small frame building west of the plaza said: THE BEACON D. Strance, Editor. Notary. Job Printing. The young widow seemed to know everything that happened in a hundred miles. She printed scathing items that would bring violence to a male editor. And she must be aware that she was in the bursting prime of her womanhood, desirable and needing a man. Travis drew a deeper breath as he stepped inside.
Behind a wooden counter, whittled on the edge and darkened by inky fingers, was a small hand press and a job press, stone forms, tables, and wall shelves holding paper stock. A gaunt printer wearing an eyeshade, ink-smudged canvas apron, and paper cuffs was working intently at the type rack, composing stick in hand.
D. Strance sat behind the counter at an old roll-top desk against the right wall. Her pencil lifted from a pad of paper as she looked up. Her question—“Are you from San Francisco, Mister Travis?”—was so casual that he almost said: “Yes.”
Travis laid his hat carefully on the counter and smiled. “I came up the Mississippi from New Orleans to Saint Louis, ma’am, and then to New Mexico. One day I hope to see California.”
After leaving California, he had traveled east to St. Louis, registered from New Orleans, and converted his cash money into St. Louis Exchange. No person in New Mexico could say otherwise.
Regret crinkled the widow’s forehead. “I hoped you were the R. Travis with an account in a San Francisco bank, so I could print it.”
Uneasiness caught Travis. Holding the smile, he said: “What’s worth printing about a bank account in San Francisco?”
“I subscribe to a San Francisco paper, and often we reprint stories from it.” She was searching through penciled copy, letters, clippings. “Last night, in an old issue, I noticed a story about the South Bay Bank in San Francisco. And the name of R. Travis in it.”
“A common name, ma’am.”
“Not,” said D. Strance, “if you were the man. Our readers enjoy stories about people they know. After I printed that paragraph about your gift of a hundred dollars to the padre, so many people spoke to me about it.”
It was an effort to lean casually on the counter, smiling, while the woman chattered. The South Bay Bank. Travis started to sweat.
“Here it is!” said D. Strance, plucking out a newspaper clipping.
Travis wanted to bend over the counter and snatch the clipping from her, but he had to stand, smiling, the fingers of his left hand straining on the counter edge as she read aloud from the clipping.
“It’s headed ‘Bold Abduction,’” said D. Strance, “and says . . . ‘William Campbell, cashier of the South Bay Bank, was abducted from his office today by a stranger who had attempted to cash a forged draft against an account in the name of R. Travis. Alerted by the teller, Mister Campbell engaged the man in conversation while clerks summoned police. The stranger became alarmed, reached to a weapon in his coat pocket, and ordered Mister Campbell to inform clerks outside the office door that a mistake had been made. Mister Campbell was forced to accompany the man to a waiting carriage.’” D. Strance chuckled. “Can’t you see him marching out of the bank?”
“Yes,” Travis said. His mouth was drying.
She read on: “‘While being driven away from the bank, Campbell discovered that the apparent weapon in the stranger’s coat was a straight-stemmed pipe.’” D. Strance said with amusement: “Marching the cashier out past the clerks and customers with only a pipe in his pocket.”
Travis could see it. Vividly he could see Campbell’s walnut-paneled office and the big marble and gilt banking room on Montgomery Street in San Francisco. His voice sounded flat. “Did they catch the fellow?”
D. Strance said: “Catch a rascal who could do that with only a pipe in his pocket?” She read on. “‘Sighting a patrolman, Campbell leaped out, shouting for help. A confederate in coachman’s livery drove the carriage recklessly around the next corner away from the hue and cry. Police are searching the city and establishments on the Barbary Coast for the two desperadoes.’” D. Strance added: “Whistles blowing. People shouting. Men running. And the man riding comfortably away with his pipe. It would have made a nice story if the bank account in the name of R. Travis had been yours.”
She’d print it in bold type. The careful, smiling comment Travis made took effort to get out naturally.
“Someone else’s account. Mind if I show that clipping to Matt Kilgore?”
“Since you’re not the man, there’s no use reprinting it.” D. Strance went back to her swift writing as Travis walked out with the clipping. And some moments later, she paused and said aloud: “Now what did he want? He never did say.”
Her printer made a dry reply as his hand flew between type rack and composing stick. “He never got a chanct to say.”
“That story with the name R. Travis has been on my mind.” D. Strance’s pencil tapped her even teeth. “Hank, the doctor says that wounded man will pull through, if the wound doesn’t get infected. You know Ira Bell, don’t you?”
“Busted many a bottle with the old buzzard.”
“Bust another for the Beacon,” she said inelegantly. “See if you can get Ira Bell to tell what happened. Everything.”
“You hinted,” said Hank, setting type steadily, “that them three are workin’ for Gid Markham.”
“I think so. And we know there was shooting.” D. Strance made aimless marks on her pad and frowned. “I never saw a tougher-looking character than that
roughneck calling himself Clay Mara who snored on my shoulder on the way in.”
“Your shoulder,” Hank said drily, “don’t look damaged. Time some man got a head on it. Though a feller who’d snore on a lady’s shoulder ain’t a lively prospect.”
“Hank! This isn’t the Bonanza! Or . . . or . . .”
“Or Carrie Plunkett’s place out toward the stamp mill,” Hank said calmly, setting type swiftly. “You’re a growed-up girl, Miz Strance, purty an’ tantalizin’ to the men, even dressin’ plain like you do an’ tryin’ to hide it.”
“Hank!” said D. Strance, flushing.
“You got a little girl needs a daddy,” Hank said. “Time you quit actin’ like a pretty icicle on the Christmas tree.”
“You know I’ll never . . .”
“Don’t take a stand a likely man can’t rope you off of. You want I should bust a bottle with this here Clay Mara, too?”
“The Beacon,” said D. Strance, “will buy all the bottles needed to start that one talking. He’s . . .” She brooded. “The man’s dangerous, Hank. It came off him like a reek.”
“No man who comes walkin’ in like he done gives off a vi’let smell,” said Hank, unimpressed. “Try him when he gets outta the barbershop an’ ain’t snorin’ in your ear . . . which’d rile any woman.”
“Hank! I really mean . . .”
“I know,” Hank said, type clicking rapidly into his metal composing stick. “Well, we’ll see. Strangers git fooled acrost a bottle by my ganted look. They keep tellin’ ’emselves till they fall flat that it ain’t possible I’m sittin’ there, sociable, talkin’ away, givin’ ’em two fer one.”
* * * * *