Now as he rode the gelding through the darkness, he asked himself: Why?
Was it just a plain case of bounty hunting? Was there some close connection between Aintree and Shaw that compelled the rifleman to throw in with Aintree to avenge the redhead’s humiliation in El Paso? Then what of the other two men? Where did they fit into this?
He was in Broken Spur country now with Darky trotting steadily through the lush valley grass. Vaguely he wondered if that outfit had anything to do with this. It was a remote possibility. The Storm Lazy S outfit had fought Ed Brack’s Broken Spur crew to a standstill the year before. Brack had apparently accepted defeat after the Storms had beaten even his imported gunhands. But Brack was a proud, ambitious and powerful man. The fact that he considered that the Storms were raising cows on land that he thought to be his winter graze might still be rankling. He ran cows on ranges in three or four states. He ruled a cattle empire and it might still irk him that he had been bested by so insignificant an outfit as the Storms.
It was a possibility. Certainly the Broken Spur hands at Grebb’s had taken no part in the fracas. But that didn’t necessarily signify a thing. He wondered who the other two men were—the two who had ridden in with Shaw and Aintree.
He angled across the southern end of the Broken Spur valley, reached the saddle in the hills and slowed his pace. At the highest point, he stopped Darky and let him blow, looking at the moonlit valley of the Three Creeks below him. There was deep regret in him. The year spent with Will and the family had been good. The best year of his life. He had helped to build something, had been able to form decent human relationships. Telling stories to little Melissa, joshing Kate, having fun with the boys, seeing Will and Martha together. It had all helped to make him human again. It had brought him back from the gulf into which he had slipped over the years.
Now the sickness of the killing came over him, as it always did. No matter how much a man needed killing, or even asked to be killed, the shaking came, like a powerful physical symptom of remorse.
It was a time he dreaded.
He was a mature man, he told himself. He had killed before. He was into his thirties, but at that moment, he needed the company of one man—his brother, Will. For years, during the years of the war, during the years when he was one jump ahead of the law, he and Will had seen nothing of each other. But he had gone home to the old Storm place in Texas before Will started the trail-drive to Kansas, two years back, and the family had accepted him without question.
‘Old memories returned—Will always the elder brother, always the quiet and steady one. Hell on wheels when roused, but like a rock when needed. Will who had comforted him as a child, Will who had taught him how to shoot, to rope, to ride.
And now, tonight, he had betrayed him.
He stayed where he was for five minutes, thinking, undecided, suddenly not wanting to face his brother. Then he got a grip on himself, tightened Darky’s girths and mounted, heading on down into the valley.
Fifteen minutes later, he hit the valley trail and let the gelding increase its pace. The horse knew that it was headed for home, it knew the trail. There would be no stumbling in the dim light here.
Sometime later, Mart saw the moon glistening on the waters of the first creek, saw where the dark lines of the house stood out against it. No lights showed. Everybody would be abed.
He dismounted in the yard, thinking. Maybe he should saddle a fresh horse, pick up some supplies and light out. Least said, soonest mended.
A match flared.
Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. Will must have known. That was him sitting there smoking his pipe. He let Darky’s line drop and walked toward the house.
Will was there in his rocker, puffing.
Mart squatted. He couldn’t see Will’s face, but he knew every leathern line of it. The elder man was nondescript, just another work-hardened cattleman pushing into his forties. Nothing spectacular about him. Hair graying, heavy mustache hiding his upper lip, eyes steady and peaceful. A thinking man.
Mart squatted, his powerful shoulders squaring themselves as he hugged his knees. They were as different as two men could be, these two brothers. Where Will was quiet, Mart was volatile; where Will smiled, Mart laughed; when Will was moved to wariness and careful consideration, Mart was reckless. There was a strong physical difference, too. Mart was a tall man, inclined to leanness; his hair bleached fair where the sun had touched it; his eyes were the clearest gray, direct and challenging His manner was firm, his movements quick. Where his brother showed anger only in moments of acute stress or danger, at such moments Mart grew cold and controlled.
Will was good with people, they trusted him, they accepted his authority. Mart, they liked. Women and children were soft clay in his hands. Both men shared a great love of horses and both men hated to accept defeat. They were brothers completely in that they were generous to a fault. They understood each other, and maybe because they were so different, they were tolerant of each other.
‘Will,’ Mart said, ‘I killed a man tonight.’
There was silence between them. Mart could feel his brother recoil mentally from the shock of the statement. After a long pause, Will spoke—
‘How’d it happen?’
Mart told his tale, briefly and to the point. When he finished, his brother offered no criticism. To the contrary, he said: ‘You didn’t have any choice. You’re lucky to be alive. It’s goin’ to be this way for some time yet awhile, boy. You have a rep. You have to live it down. Where do you stand now?’
Mart said: ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about that. There’s Aintree wounded.’
‘You could of killed him.’
Mart knew what his brother meant. Mart had changed. Not too long ago he would have cut the man down in cold blood. That was the unwritten law. A man drew on you and it was your right. Twice, Mart had let the man live. How long could a damned soft fool stay alive?
‘He’ll come after me again,’ Mart said. ‘He’s the kind. There’s his two partners. The two I didn’t see. I don’t know who they are. They could be the kind who could owe me for Aintree.’
‘So you have a choice,’ Will offered. ‘You can stand or run. You stand and there’s more killings. Maybe you could be the one who gets killed.’
‘There’s the law, too.’
‘You can rule that out,’ Will said. ‘It was an even draw. You said so. Men saw it. You’d best make your mind up right here an’ now. With some good horseflesh you can get a few hours ahead of ’em.’
Mart said: ‘I made up my mind to that already. I just didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d run out on you.’
Will swore.
Then he said: ‘Catch up a couple of horses. I’ll pack some supplies.’ He rose to his feet. ‘This’ll blow over, boy. You’ll be back here an’ I’ll be workin’ the ass off you come fall.’ He turned and went into the house.
Mart stood up, led Darky to the corral and off-saddled. He decided to take the gelding along with him. It was his favorite horse. He found a rope, climbed the fence into the corral and roped a chunky zebra dun, a steady horse with plenty of bottom named Old Stripes. He would want horses with staying power on this run. He saddled and bridled the dun, then made a hackamore with a rope on Darky. He let down the bars on the gate and let Old Stripes out.
He heard the sound of footsteps and turned. Two figures came toward him. He knew that his sister-in-law, Martha, accompanied his brother.
Martha never fussed. She had come through the war, gone up the trail with the cattle to Kansas and then trailed west to Colorado. She was past fussing. A physically strong woman, nearly as tall as her husband, still handsome and still with a trim waist.
She put a work-worn hand on Mart’s arm and said: ‘Look out for yourself, Martin, an’ come back soon.’
He bent his head and kissed her cheek. They were not a demonstrative family, but he wanted to show her what he owed her and Will.
Will cleared his throat.
‘If’n you go west,’ he said, ‘go see Joe. Let him know. You want to contact us later, tell Joe. He’ll get word to us. I could ride out to the Devil’s Eye. You can watch half the state up there.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Mart said. ‘Tell the girls goodbye for me, Martha.’ He untied his horses and stepped into the saddle.
Will said, handing up the gunnysack full of supplies, ‘That’ll keep you a-goin’ for a while. I’m putting extra shells for the belt-gun and rifle in your wallet.’ He loaded the wallet on the cantle of the saddle and slapped the dun thoughtfully on the rump. ‘Let’s hear from you. I’ll find out all I can and leave word with Joe. Look out for yourself.’
Mart sat the dun looking down at them, two dim shapes in the moonlight. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.
He said: ‘See you, folks,’ and set the horses in motion.
When he reached the first creek, he turned and lifted a hand in farewell. They waved back and the sun stepped down into the smooth-running waters of the creek.
He felt like hell. The black dog of depression fell on his shoulders. All this because some damned young fool in the past had wanted to brace the famous gun down on the Mexican Border. As he rode for the hills, he turned the events of the evening over in his mind again. It was the presence of Shaw at Grebb’s place that puzzled him and until he knew the relationship between the dead rifleman and Aintree, he would never understand it.