Out at the Standing K, three riderless horses came racing into the ranch-house yard. A few minutes later, a small group of men untied a man from the saddle of a fourth horse. In the spread of yellow light from the bunkhouse lamps, one of them called out to Wilshaw Broome, ‘It’s Max Pepper. Looks like he’s still alive.’
Broome was sitting in the deep shadows of the house veranda. ‘Get him down an’ into the bunkhouse,’ he shouted back.
The gravely wounded man was put on a cot, and one of the ’punchers took a closer look at the man’s belly wound. ‘This sort o’ hurt don’t give you too long,’ he declared pessimistically.
‘Let me talk to him,’ Broome said. ‘Who shot you, Max? Where’d it happen?’ he asked with little consideration for the man’s suffering.
‘One o’ the timber stands,’ the man choked out.
‘Who was it tied you to your mount?’
‘Copper. It was Copper helped me … couldn’t see too clear.’
‘So, who shot you? Where are the others?’ Broome demanded to know.
‘It was the devil himself come out o’ the flames, Mr Broome. I seen him up close.’
‘What do you mean, “the devil”? Who did you see?’
But Max Pepper didn’t answer. He rambled on feverishly while the men exchanged worried looks with one another.
‘Goddamnit,’ Broome cursed impatiently. ‘Give him a shot o’ liquor.’
‘Let me,’ Copper Thorpe said, and offered a tin mug to Pepper’s lips. The stricken man gulped instinctively, opened his eyes at the effect.
‘Is that you, Copper?’ he garbled. ‘You saw them devils, didn’t you?’ Pepper closed his eyes, made one attempt to lick his lips, then he died.
‘He said there was more’n one devil,’ Thorpe said tentatively, and shook his head. ‘An’ he thinks I was there with him. Bein’ gut shot ain’t the sharpest way to ride brush country.’
‘He didn’t know who or what he saw. He didn’t even know what he was sayin’,’ Broome snapped. ‘We’ll cut this nonsense now by some o’ you unsaddlin’ the horses, an’ some o’ you takin’ care o’ Pepper.’
When the horses were turned loose and the saddles hung up, Duff Handy was in no hurry to get back to the house.
‘What do you reckon Max meant by seein’ devils?’ a big-jawed ’puncher called Frog Petty asked him. ‘He must’ve seen somethin’.’
‘Yeah, he saw a devil o’ sorts, all right,’ Handy agreed. ‘He just couldn’t bring himself to tag a name to it.’
‘Maybe it was that ol’ Hoope Kettle come back,’ Petty suggested, his wide lips quivering. ‘From what I heard, he ain’t ever far from this place.’
‘Listen, Frog, Broome’s pittin’ you against somethin’ you can’t kill,’ Handy said. Then without waiting for a response he continued quickly, told Petty about the burning of McGovren’s cabin, that Brent Perser had seen Aileen McGovren in town. ‘You best let some o’ the boys know.’
‘Why ain’t you ridin’ with the rest of the gang, Duff? Why ain’t you tryin’ to catch whoever it is we’re after?’
‘I know too much, an’ the old man don’t want me out o’ his sight,’ Handy replied.
‘Handy, where the hell are you?’ Broome interrupted, with a shout from the bunkhouse door.
‘See?’ Handy said. He winked at Petty and tapped the side of his nose.
‘I told you to stay with me,’ Broome continued harshly.
‘I’m right here, boss,’ Handy answered him. ‘When you said to unsaddle the horses, I went right to it.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean you. I told you to stay away from the hands. Let’s get back to the house.’
But the cage door had been opened, and throughout the night, the restless ’punchers sat about the bunkhouse. Each time Duff Handy’s tale was told, a little bit was taken away or a little bit added, until they all had the root of a horrifying tale. By first light, more than one rider had made up his mind to quit the Standing K, the demon-hunting payroll of Wilshaw Broome.
After the burial of Max Pepper, Broome was waiting at the main corral. He was ready to issue further commands on the impending manhunt, but it was Frog Petty who got in first.
‘Me an’ one or two o’ the boys are aimin’ to collect our pay, Mr Broome,’ he said, with as much assurance as he could muster.
‘An’ why don’t that surprise me?’ Broome rasped back. ‘You an’ Handy formin’ a whisper club’s got nothin’ to do with it, I suppose?’
‘Rustlers are normally out for beef an’ broncs, Mr Broome. That’s who you told us we were up against. But now there’s wind o’ some real spooky stuff happenin’, an’ it didn’t have to be Duff who told us. We’re gettin’ out before we get brought home like Max,’ Petty declared.
‘You’re yellow,’ Broome snarled. ‘Yellow an’ scared o’ your own shadows. Those o’ you that want that pay, come by at the end o’ the week. Meantime, get your traps from the bunkhouse an’ clear the ranch.’
An hour later, Broome was back in the shadows of the house veranda. Knowing there was something final needed, he was silently watching, pondering his next move.
‘Hey, Jollife, do you get spooked easy?’ he called out to a man who was carrying the look of an opportunist.
‘No, boss. Never seen much to get me that way,’ Tark Jolliffe answered back.
‘Good, ’cause the Standin’ K’s lookin’ for a new foreman. You been here long enough to know what’s to be done, an’ you know how we handle rustlers an’ killers. So take whatever men are left an’ go get ’em. I’ll give each o’ you six months’ extra pay for them you dispatch. A year’s, if you bring ’em in kickin’.’
‘That’s a darn sight more’n you offered the others,’ Jollife muttered. Due to the most recent developments, the man was feeling confident at his new-found status with Wilshaw Broome.
It was shortly after first light when the men rode off. Broome deemed that the men who’d remained were of like feather, big profits distilling them to a hardline. But nearer the truth was, there were few places that such men would find ready employment along the Rio Bonito.
‘They’ll get results,’ Broome said.
‘Not if they come up against the likes o’ what Max was taikin’ about,’ Handy answered.
‘Yeah, that reminds me, what the hell did you tell Frog Petty?’ Broome demanded from Handy.
‘Nothin’. I was speculatin’ along with the others,’ Handy lied. ‘It was Max who got the worms in his head.’
‘Well I’m goin’ to have to decide your future pretty soon, feller, an’ promotion sure ain’t in the wind,’ Broome said ominously.
Handy looked suitably worried, before turning away towards the empty bunkhouse. ‘I’ll go trim them lamp wicks, afore the place burns down,’ he said obligingly. But he was already wondering if Wilshaw Broome had thought everything out. After all, Handy was just about the only man in the outfit who hadn’t had his hand in a killing, or the burning of the McGovren cabin. Also, he’d met Megan and liked her. When he’d prodded the charred remains of what Carter Krate said was a body, he’d felt physically sick. Now he didn’t know what it was that Broome had in mind for him, and wondered why he hadn’t quit with the others.
Throughout the rest of the day, unaware of what was going on in the various parts of the ranch, Handy and Broome kept close to the house. At that stage, Handy wasn’t unduly worried because he could keep a distrustful eye on his boss. In fact, on one occasion, he considered putting a bullet or two between the man’s shoulder blades. He smiled ruefully, reckoned that even if he stamped the man’s forehead with his own initials and ran, he’d be well down the list of likely suspects.