Ed Brack was drinking and brooding, doing both with concentrated energy. He sweated and he thought about his worthless treacherous son, Mart Storm who ought to be dead by now and Will Storm who he’d by God kill one day.
Some far corner of his mind heard the cry from the corral of ‘Rider comin’. Only when he heard the sound of hoofs to the front of the house did he become aware and rouse himself. He walked to his office door that opened onto the stoop and saw a man ride up. Once glance was enough to tell him the man had been hurt. He crouched in the saddle, all beat up and shrunken.
Brack stepped down from the stoop and said: ‘Who’re you?’ The man looked at him palely. His eyes were filled with pain.
‘The name’s Aintree,’ he said.
For a moment, the name meant nothing to Brack. Then his mind went click and the name fitted into place, took on meaning. A couple of the hands drifted near. Dwyer came out of the bunkhouse his arm in a sling and walked toward them. Brack felt a flutter of alarm run through him.
‘Go into the house,’ he ordered the man. Aintree eased himself from the saddle and walked slowly into the house. Brack turned to one of the men: ‘See to his horse.’ He took time to give Dwyer a long and bitter glance before he followed Aintree. He was deeply suspicious of his foreman. Could he never find a man he could trust? Dwyer’s story was a good one and he stuck to it, but Will Storm’s words stayed in his mind. Was Storm trying to sow dissension in the minds of Broken Spur? By heaven, if Dwyer was guilty he’d have the man’s guts. He’d put his trust in him. It was Storm’s mention of Shuster that worried him. Somehow it had the ring of truth about it.
Aintree was in the hall of the house, sitting hunched up in a chair. Brack stood in front of him, legs wide, a master of men.
‘What the hell,’ he said with quiet menace, ‘do you mean by coming here?’
Resentment showed on the man’s face.
‘I couldn’t think of no place else.’
The alarm fluttered in Brack again.
‘Grebb had you holed up,’ he said. ‘You were safe there.’
‘Storm came after me,’ the man told him. ‘He’d of killed me. I broke down timber outa there.’
‘Jesus,’ Brack said in disgust. ‘You’re real tough. You mean Grebb didn’t stop him?’
‘He threatened to burn Grebb’s place down.’
‘He—?’ Brack’s mind jolted. ‘Which Storm?’
‘Will.’
‘Will?’ Brack’s voice cracked with disbelief.
‘He’s tryin’ to get the rope from around Mart’s neck.’
‘Is he, by God?’ Brack brought the harshness back into his voice. ‘Well, you can’t stay here. I told Grebb I didn’t want any of this connected to me. Why the hell do you think I pay out good money. I’ll give you a fresh horse and supplies and you ride. Hear?’
‘Christ, Mr. Brack, I’m wounded. The ride from Grebb’s plumb played me out. Let me stay over till tomorrow.’
‘And have Storm find you here? I should smile.’
‘Hell, Storm wouldn’t dare buck you.’
‘You heard me. You ride.’ He went to the door and yelled for Dwyer. The foreman came on the run and cut the sunlight out of the doorway. Brack said: ‘A fresh horse and supplies for this man. I want him out of here. He doesn’t talk to anybody. Not even you. Understand.’
Aintree reached back for the butt of his gun. Brack hit him with the back of his hand, hard, and knocked him out of the chair. He hit the floor with the gun in his hand. Dwyer jumped forward and stamped down on the wrist. The gunman screamed. Then he lay on the floor, near to weeping.
Brack said: ‘Get him out of here.’
Dwyer picked up the gun and hauled Aintree one-handed to his feet, propelled him toward the door.
‘You won’t get away with this, Brack,’ he said. Brack turned away. Fifteen minutes later he watched Aintree hunched in the saddle heading into the hills. But the sight didn’t reassure him. Uneasiness rode him. For a moment, he faced the fact that he had been trounced twice by the Storms. It rankled. It burned in his guts. He reached out for the bottle and poured himself a generous drink. When he threw it down, it didn’t help much. He wanted action, violent action. He wanted to feel his strength. He would never become accustomed to feeling weak. For one glorious moment, he dreamed of riding down onto Three Creeks and razing the place to the ground, driving the terrified Storms from the land.
In the midst of this dream, he heard the cry of: ‘Riders comin’. ‘ He hurried out onto the stoop. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. He saw the moving mass of riders, the pack-animals. What the hell? He thought. He went back into his office and fetched his glass, focused it on the approaching cavalcade and exclaimed in surprise.
Women!
He kept his glass on the leading figure—a woman riding upright in the saddle, head held high, bottle-green riding habit, a female general leading her troops forward.
Ed Brack gasped.
It looked like Horatia Hargreaves. It couldn’t be. But he knew it could be. That woman would turn up in any old corner of the earth without warning.
Not now, he thought. She couldn’t come here now.
He put the glass on the girl to her rear, letting his eyes take in her beauty. He passed on, saw the sheriff’s lined and unshaven face. The man looked as if he was suffering in the saddle. The glass ran over the faces of the posse, stopped. Now Ed Brack could not believe his eyes. The glass held still on the tall figure leaning forward in the saddle, resting one hand on the saddle-horn as if to ride at greater ease.
Mart Storm!
By God, Ransome had caught him. Brack felt the exaltation rise up in him like an overwhelming flood. He could have jumped for joy then. Suddenly his fortunes were reversed. He felt the energy and determination flow back into him again. He hurried down off the stoop to greet his guests. The cavalcade reached the corner of the corral. Men were coming out to watch their arrival, all eyes for the two fine-looking women. Brack felt a momentary rush of embarrassment. With all his brashness, he never felt comfortable with women, feeling instinctively that they didn’t like him. But this woman was looking down at him and smiling. He pulled off his hat.
He tried to make himself urbane, a man-of-the-world. ‘Why, Miss Hargreaves. I never expected—an unexpected honor, ma’am.’
The cool clear voice reached him—
‘Mr. Brack, how nice. We remembered the invitation you extended to us in Baltimore. We were in the area and thought how pleasant it would be to see you again.’
A blush flooded Ed Brack’s craggy features. The girl behind Honoria was smiling on him. He muttered: ‘Miss Vanessa,’ rushed forward to help them dismount. ‘You must both be tired after your journey.’ His mind was on Mart Storm just the same. He had him here right in his hand now. Now he had the whole damn family by the short and curly ones. He felt Honoria’s cool hand in his. It was a long time since he had touched such a woman. His mind was confused.
Dwyer was there, smiling, being the smooth Texas gentleman to Vanessa. She turned and thanked him with a warm smile when he helped her down to the ground. Brack turned to briefly greet Burt Ransome, let his eyes rest longingly on Mart Storm. The gunman grinned at him maddeningly, the calmest man there.
Brack’s mind was busy—
I’ll stretch your neck before the week’s out, you smirking bastard. Where’ll I put the women? Hell, there isn’t room for women here. Dwyer—where in tarnation was Dwyer? Leave that girl be you randy sonovabitch.
‘Dwyer.’
Reluctantly, the foreman turned from the girl.
‘Yes, Mr. Brack.’
‘Get that man tied up.’ He turned to the women—’Ladies, my accommodation here, well, we’re not used to ladies around here. But we’ll do our best. Everything is at your disposal. Everybody.’ At his most unctuous now, smiling, hands rubbing together, trying to slip and jolt from being a violent man to being a smooth and charming one. His face grimaced in turn in hatred for Storm and pleasantry for the ladies. The result was grotesque. He was bowing the ladies toward the house, bawling for the Chinese cook to bring cold lemonade. He’d have to give up his own room to them.
Mart Storm slipped from the saddle. One of the Broken Spur men kicked his feet from under him and another dabbed a rope around his neck.
Vanessa turned and exclaimed in anger, but her aunt caught her by the arm and pulled her toward the house.
‘Dwyer, get him into a safe place. Don’t take your eyes off him.’ Yelling for the cook to prepare food for the army. The cook ran out, gobbled incomprehensively at the sight of so many mouths to feed and scuttled back into the house again. Saddle-leather creaked as the posse heaved itself tiredly out of the saddle.
They were seated on the stoop and in that cool clear voice of hers, Horatia Hargreaves was telling how the wounded outlaw had thrown himself on their mercy. Mr. Ransome, the sheriff, really had arrived in the nick of time, as they said. Ed Brack allowed himself to develop the theme of Martin Storm at some length, dwelling on his crimes and his violence, not missing out the fact that he was the worst of a totally bad crew. The whole countryside was terrorized by the terrible Storms. The Misses Hargreaves listened in awe and horror, making suitable exclamations at the appropriate places. The lemonade came and it was far from cold; the ladies drank it thankfully. Ed Brack consumed something stronger. With all the excitement, he was in need of it. Thank God, he thought, he had put Stu Aintree on his way before these two arrived. He prepared himself for uphill work with the ladies for the remainder of the day, but, to his immense relief that problem was solved by the charm of the ladies. They met him halfway—Horatia was graciousness itself. She put herself out, was charming and flattering. Ed Brack melted. Vanessa chatted ingeniously, stimulating him with her youth and by her show of open admiration for him. He found himself utterly captivated.
He sent for Dwyer and the foreman stood there fiddling with the brim of his hat and not able to take his hungry eyes off Vanessa. Brack told Dwyer to take care of the posse men. The sheriff could come and eat up at the house. A short while after, Ransome joined them, ponderously gallant, obviously a little nervous of the famous gunman he had somehow managed to capture. He was a fish out of water here in such elegant company. Brack appreciated his gaucheness. Beside the sheriff Brack felt civilized. He excelled himself. He had the ladies laughing at his sallies. He showed them to their room and ordered a bed made up for himself in his office and, while the ladies freshened up, he took the opportunity to pay Mart Storm a visit in the bunkhouse. He had an enjoyable ten minutes, telling Storm what he was going to do with him if his brother Will didn’t come to heel pretty smartly. Mart didn’t seem much put out and that ended with Brack in a rage stomping furiously back to the house.
Thirty minutes later, the ladies appeared, having produced elegant dresses from the dozen or so pieces of baggage that had been toted by sweating straining servants into the house. The tents of these men now dotted the grass to the south of the corral. Their cook-fires were smoking. Broken Spur looked as if it had been invaded by an army.
Dusk was approaching. Brack apologized for the rough fare that would shortly be placed before the ladies. They were simple ranching folks here. But the Chinee had done Brack proud and the meal couldn’t be grumbled at under the circumstances. Even Brack had to admit that. Certainly the two English ladies ate with relish and enthusiasm. This delighted Brack, who had always thought that ladies of the standing of these two pecked at food like dainty birds. When these two had put away enough food for two hungry hunters, Brack, basking in the radiance of their beauty and having drunk enough to fancy himself as a conversationalist and wit, thought himself a great success with both and was debating in the glory of his vanity which he should choose from the two for a little light dalliance. The younger was certainly ripe for plucking, but the elder had a great deal in her favor on account of her sophisticated charm and the skill which she had with men.
During the meal, the men had drunk whiskey and beer, there being no wine in the valley and Brack had thought he had best not offer so harsh a drink to such delicate creatures. He was set back on his heels by having whiskey demanded of him by Horatia and, having put the liquor in front of the aunt, found himself prevailed upon to offer it to the niece. They had, Horatia told him, first tasted whiskey in the highlands of Scotland where it originated. She complimented him on his choice of stock and forthwith started to throw whiskey down her gorgeous throat with the abandon of a hard-drinking man. Ransome, poor fool, sat and watched her with his mouth open.
They left the devastation of the table to the care of the Chinee, Horatia having congratulated the uncomprehending man on his cooking, and made themselves comfortable in cowhide chairs. The men were given permission to smoke and, to the consternation of the two men, Horatia demanded and was given a cigar which she proceeded to smoke with relish.
Brack sank lower in his chair, face flushed and his mind still dwelling on the problem of which lady he should seduce. He paid no attention when the door opened and the Chinese cook entered. He did however happen to be staring at Vanessa at the time and could not fail to see the expression on her face. From one of well-fed contentment, it became one of alarm. She was looking at the door.
Brack turned his head and in that one brief moment of realization, that head cleared and he became comparatively sober.
Just within the doorway, two men stood, guns in their hands. The Chinese was shaking with terror.
The first man was a Negro and his eyes showed that he was not adverse to using the gun he held. The other was a white man. He stood upright and calm with his gun pointed at Brack’s heart. Will Storm and Joe Widbee. Brack had enough sense to be terrified.
Ransome was holding the floor with his back to the intruders. He was saying: ‘I have found it in my experience as a peace-officer, dear lady, that—’
Brack shouted: ‘Shut up, Ransome.’
The sheriff looked at him in some astonishment. He then caught sight of the armed men. He shot to his feet and notwithstanding that he was in the presence of ladies, cried out: ‘Jesus! ‘
‘Take their guns, Joe,’ Will Storm said quietly. ‘Then watch the front of the house.’ He turned to the Misses Hargreaves and added: ‘I’m truly sorry about this, ladies.’
Horatia said, calm as you please, matching her manner to that of the man with the gun: ‘Please, don’t apologize, sir. I’m sure this would not have occurred had your business not been urgent. I am Horatia Hargreaves and this is my niece, Vanessa.’
Joe collected guns and stuffed them in the top of his pants. He crossed to the window and peeked through a part in the curtains at the yard.
‘Proud to know you, ma’am. An’ you, miss,’ said Will. ‘Mighty shame we couldn’t meet under more auspicious circumstances. We won’t take but a minute. All I want is a little information from that puff-up horned toad yonder.’
Ransome, maybe still drunk, maybe trying to impress the ladies by striking an attitude, said: ‘You’re a-breakin’ the law, Storm, an’ I hereby placin’ you under arrest.’
‘Sure,’ Will said easily. ‘You do that, Ransome. We’ll get around to it sometime. Right now, I want Brack there to tell me where Stu Aintree’s at.’
Brack was on his feet, eyes red-rimmed and fierce; his pride wounded yet again, his vanity torn to shreds, hating Will for doing this to him in front of women.
‘He’s not here, Storm. You an’ your nigger can get outa here right now.’
Joe said, without turning his head from the window, ‘Watch your words, li’l man, or I’ll bend a barr’l over your haid.’
Rage simmered in Brack. He pointed speechlessly at Joe for a moment, gave up and shouted at Storm: ‘You’re trash. All you Storms’re trash. I’ll have no truck with you. You don’t scare me with your guns.’
Will said: ‘I won’t ask again, Brack. Where’s Aintree? We know he came here. We followed his sign. Joe don’t never make a mistake with a sign. You know that.’
Vanessa said, cool as her aunt, looking at Will with some interest: ‘I’m sorry to intrude on a private conversation, Mr. Storm, but may I enquire who this Mr. Aintree is?’
‘Sure thing, Miss,’ Will said. ‘He’s the polecat that braced my brother. Him and another varmint. Mart killed the other one an’ wounded Aintree. This here Brack hired Aintree to do the killing.’
‘Why that’s terrible, Mr. Storm,’ Vanessa exclaimed.
‘It’s a lie,’ Brack shouted. ‘A damned black lie.’
‘Do you mean to say, sir,’ Horatia enquired, ‘that your brother has been accused of a crime when in fact he was forced into it?’
‘It wasn’t no crime, ma’am,’ Will told her. ‘It was self-defense and in this country nobody was ever arrested for killing in self-defense.’
‘Don’t
you listen to him, Miss Hargreaves,’ Brack bellowed.
‘These Storms is all a pack of killers and thieves. They
‘
Horatia went on: ‘This makes me feel simply terrible, Mr. Storm. You see, my niece and I were the implements by which your brother was taken by Mr. Ransome and his men.’
This took a moment to seep through to Will’s understanding.
‘You mean,’ he said, ‘Mart’s been took?’
Vanessa said: ‘He’s here now. My aunt and I decided, perhaps foolishly, that a fine man like Mr. Storm couldn’t possibly go on fleeing from the law and captured him. We gave him into the custody of the sheriff. However, if what you say is true—’
Joe said: ‘If n Mart’s here, let’s go get him.’
‘Wait,’ said Will. ‘Where they holdin’ him, ma’am?’
‘In the bunkhouse, I believe.’
Will walked up to Brack and pushed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s belly. As the gun was cocked and ready to go off, Brack’s eyes nearly started from his head in fear.
‘Brack,’ Will said, ‘you tell me which way Aintree headed or I pull the trigger.’
‘Please,’ said Ransome, ‘not in front of the ladies.’
Horatia gave a little squeal of delight and declared: ‘I assure you, they’re loving every minute of it.’
Joe laughed.
‘P-put away that gun, Storm. Point it someplace else,’ Brack quavered.
‘Which way?’ Will said softly. ‘I’ll count three. Then you’re dead.’
‘Tell him, Mr. Brack,’ Vanessa said, ‘it’ll ruin the furniture.’
Brack looked at them despairingly.
He swallowed hard.
‘East,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want any part of him. I gave him supplies and sent him on his way.’
‘East could be anyplace.’
‘I don’t know exactly, I swear. He just rode off into the hills. He’s wounded. He can’t have gotten far.’
‘There’s a trail goin’ east outa here,’ Joe said.
Will uncocked his gun. The relief on Brack’s face was worth seeing.
Will said: ‘All right. We get Aintree an’ we come back. It’ll be soon. Mart stays here till we do. You harm a hair of his head and there’ll be some corpses lyin’ around here, Brack. Hear?’
Brack nodded that he heard. Joe walked to the door. Will backed up and said: ‘Sorry to intrude, ladies.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr. Storm,’ said Horatia, glowing. ‘Vanessa gave him a wide smile of approval. Will glowed a little.
Joe had the door open. They both went out quickly. The people in the room heard their rapid retreat to the rear of the house.
Brack said to Ransome: ‘Get the men after them, Ransome.’
Ransome wailed: ‘We’ll never catch ’em in the dark, Mr. Brack.’
‘Don’t stand there arguing with me, man. Move.’
Horatia was on her feet.
‘Mr. Brack,’ she said, ‘I insist that you do nothing until Mr. Storm and his friend brings this man Aintree back to give evidence. It isn’t fair.’
‘You what?’ roared Brack. ‘Ransome, get goin’.’
Vanessa barred the way to the door. The Chinese cook started gobbling.
Vanessa said: ‘You’ll do nothing, Mr. Brack. Didn’t you hear Mr. Storm’s threats that there would be some dead men about here if you did?’
‘I’m not scared of that saddle-bum,’ shouted Brack. He rushed to the window and, before the ladies could do anything about it, yelled for Dwyer to come to him on the run.
Horatia declared: ‘I am very, very angry, Mr. Brack. You really are a cad.’
‘I’m a what?’
‘A rotter.’
‘What in hell’s that?’
Vanessa said: ‘Somethin’ like the stinking polecat Mr. Storm referred to.’
Brack’s face worked.
Ransome said: ‘Why not let them bring Aintree back, Mr. Brack? You don’t have any thin’ to fear?’
‘Aw, shut up, you fool,’ said Brack. ‘And get outa my way.’
He brushed Ransome aside, saw the way to the door now clear and rushed into the hall. He reached the stoop and stood roaring for his foreman.
Once outside the house, Will and Joe legged it. They knew they were headed for a trail known to every rider in the Broken Spur crew; So they would have to move fast and keep on moving. They reached their horses with Will badly winded. How he managed to heave himself into the saddle, he would never know. They rode east into the hills without any attempt at concealment. Speed was now of the essence. Joe led the way unerringly as Will knew he would, hit the trail and together they both urged their horses along it.
It rose steeply and the animals strained against the incline. At the crest of the ridge, they paused to let the horses blow. From below they heard the sound of pursuit. Will’s threat had been wasted. Brack was too frightened to be cautious. Will hesitated. Maybe it would be wiser after all to ride back there and bust Mart loose.
‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘We don’t have all day.’
Will wheeled his horse and followed the Negro into the night.
Brack listened to the sound of the posse dying away into the distance. He was a worried man. He stood in the dust of the yard and thought. If Storm caught up with the hired gunman it would look bad for Ed Brack. That couldn’t be allowed. He shivered at the thought that ran through his mind. He had done some violent things in his time, but to kill a captured man ...
But a man had to be hard to survive. Hardness was a part of his pride. To be a man you had to be hard all through to the core. What was this Mart Storm to him? Less than nothing. Just one of the men who had challenged him and who had taken his son away from him. He was just a gunslinger like that Stu Aintree. He would be doing the world a good turn to rid it of him.
He turned to Dwyer.
‘Take the prisoner into the hills,’ he ordered. ‘Let him escape.’
‘But, boss ‘
‘Let him make around ten yards.’
Dwyer swallowed.
‘This isn’t my kinda work, Mr. Brack,’ he said. ‘I was hired to work cows.’
‘You don’t fool me, Dwyer,’ Brack said coldly. ‘I know your kind.’
‘I ain’t a killer.’
‘What about the men you hung?’
‘That was different.’
Brack’s patience snapped.
‘So it was different. So you’ve been stealing my cows. You do like I say, Dwyer, or you’re finished.’
They stared at each other in the gloom. Dwyer wiped his face with the back of his hand.
‘It calls for a bonus,’ he said.
‘Hundred dollars,’ he said. ‘And tell your story right.’
Dwyer brightened at the sound of the price.
‘I’m your man,’ he said.
Brack said: ‘Everybody I pay for is my man.’
Dwyer gave that a moment’s thought, then walked away toward the bunkhouse.
Mart Storm was lying tied up on the floor of the room that was at one end of the bunkhouse reserved for the foreman. There was no door leading from the room to the rest of the bunkhouse. Dwyer reckoned he could get the prisoner out of there without the others knowing. He thought about it. He decided that it would be a better idea if Storm broke away from there and not taken into the hills. It would be like the real thing. Put a gun in the dead man’s hand and swear Storm had jumped him.
He walked into the room. The lamp was burning on the table. Mart Storm looked at him as he entered. He seemed to be lying there placidly awaiting his fate. That the man should be so calm infuriated Dwyer.
The foreman went to a cupboard and found his spare gun. He tucked it into the top of his pants and drew his knife. He pointed his gun with his injured hand at Mart’s face and cut his bonds. Mart sat up and rubbed his ankles. He could not help giving a slight grimace of pain as the circulation returned to his wrists.
Dwyer backed up and said: ‘On your feet.’
Mart rose slowly. He said: ‘What’s goin’ on around here?’
‘It was your brother and his nigger, ‘Dwyer said. ‘They’re lookin’ for you. Only they ain’t goin’ to find you. Nobody’s goin’ to find you ever again.’
Mart said with the same calm: ‘Well, well, that decides that then. Only you’re wrong. I’ve been found.’
Dwyer said: ‘What the hell’re you talkin’ about?’
‘I’ve been found by a lady,’ Mart said.
Dwyer turned his head and saw the girl standing in the doorway with a gun in her hand. It was pointed at his belly and it didn’t waver.
Vanessa Hargreaves said: ‘Put that weapon down very carefully on the floor, Mr. Dwyer, or I shall kill you.’
Dwyer was tempted. He teetered for a moment on the terrible brink of decision. It was the look in the girl’s eyes that made up his mind. He bent and carefully laid his gun on the floor.
‘Back up,’ said Mart. Dwyer obeyed. He took two paces backward and came up against the wall. Mart picked up the gun and took the weapon from the foreman’s belt. ‘It’s your play, Miss Vanessa.’
‘We shall go up to the house,’ the girl said. ‘All of us, and that includes you, Mr. Storm.’
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ Mart said, ‘I’ll catch me a horse an’ ride.’
‘It is not all the same to me,’ she told him firmly. ‘Please walk with me to the house, Mr. Storm.’
‘Let your hair down and call me “Mart”,’ he said. She looked at him frigidly. Mart moved Dwyer to the door and drove him toward the house. There didn’t seem to be a soul in sight which was the cause of some relief to Mart. The girl followed behind him. She seemed to be humming a little tune to herself. Mart said: ‘What happened to my brother?’
She told him and ended with: ‘Your brother is a delightful man.’
‘He’s married with five kids.’
‘And why aren’t you married with five kids, Mr. Storm?’
‘I was waitin’ for a girl like you to come along.’
‘Aw, for crissake,’ Dwyer said.
They followed him into the house. Mart shoved him into the big room and there was Ed Brack with a bottle at his elbow. At the sight of them he sat bolt upright and his eyes repeated their previous attempt to start from his head. Mart saw Horatia sitting on the other side of the room and said: ‘Evenin’, Miss Horatia.’
Brack hauled himself to his feet and ground out: ‘What in tarnation’s going on here?’ He saw the gun in Vanessa’s hand. ‘You mean you’ve released this killer? Have you gone plumb outa your mind, girl?’
‘She did it on my instructions,’ Horatia declared. ‘I have a suspicion, Mr. Brack, that nice Mr. Storm was telling the truth. I may be wrong, but we shall see when he returns with this dubious character, Aintree.’
‘Will Storm’s a liar,’ Brack bellowed.
‘I don’t think so. He has nice eyes.’
Ed Brack made choking sounds.
‘Sit down,’ Mart said. ‘We may have a long wait. Miss Vanessa, I’d be obliged if you could arrange for a little food to appear. They didn’t get around to feedin’ me.’
Vanessa made sounds of commiseration, went to the door and called to the Chinese to bring some food. In a short while, Mart ate heartily while Brack and Dwyer glowered. Dwyer was tempted to jump Mart while his hands were engaged, but the gun was still steady in Vanessa’s hand and, to add to his discomfiture, Miss Horatia had revealed the fact that she too possessed a firearm. True, it was of feminine proportions, but it could kill a man at that range as well as a Colt forty-four.
When he was through eating, Mart pushed his plate away with a contented sigh and said: ‘This surely do beat all. If this is trouble, I could sure do with some more of it. There’s ole Brack there fit to be tied, Dwyer choking like he ate a hedgehog and you two charming ladies. It surely do make a man grateful to be alive.’
Horatia said: ‘It will make a magnificent chapter in my memoirs, Martin. And I’m grateful. I think we might dedicate it to Martin, don’t you, Vanessa darling.’
‘What a splendid idea,’ said Vanessa. Now she smiled warmly on Mart.