THIS WAS A barren land, cloudless by day and hot, and for that reason Tracy Chavis chose the hours of early darkness for travel. Ahead of him towered the Yellows, with their eighty-mile depth of rugged peaks guarding the desert from the wilderness beyond. Chavis judged the distance to the foothills and realized he would reach Spanish Flat within an hour, and realized also that not many people were going to enjoy his return to the Mogul country.
He had gotten used to being called a drifter and a gunslinger in his lonely travels during the past four years, and what they had called him – with few exceptions – had never mattered to him. But now he discovered with some surprise that what people thought of him did matter. He was coming home.
Three miles ahead twinkled the lights of Spanish Flat, and the smell of distant water was enough to quicken his horse’s hoof beats. At that same moment he heard the drum of running horses and a bunch of riders cut across the distant glow of the town. The riders pulled up not more than a hundred yards ahead. Someone shouted, “Who’s that?” Before Chavis could answer, three or four guns began firing at him.
He flattened himself along the saddle and cut to his right. The guns ahead all fired at once and then mysteriously quit, leaving no sound at all in the darkness. A horse took shape and approached, making him wheel aside, and he found himself in the center of another burst of shooting, but this time the shots flew wider. The sudden shock of the attack had momentarily numbed him but now his anger began to boil up. His horse started to jump around and he had a bad moment controlling it. The racket he raised targeted him and realizing this, he fired his own shots and changed positions again, still enormously puzzled.
The riders drummed toward him, calling out and shooting, still missing wide. He drifted his horse quietly toward the flanks of the Yellows, his temper crowding him to take the attack to them.
They now started maneuvering slowly, uncertain of his position. Chavis aimed at that shuffling sound and let go a burst of fire. A man shouted and when Chavis fired again that yell was cut off abruptly. He grinned, knowing that he had hit one of them. In the lull he thumbed in fresh loads and pushed forward toward them.
One man shouted, “To hell with this!” and then he heard them racing away along the rim of the desert. Chavis then let his horse quiet down, knowing he had no chance of following them in the night. But what was it all about? He had not recognized them in the darkness; no one had known that he was heading back to the Mogul. Who was that reception committee—and whom had they been expecting?
Back on the road and riding once more toward Spanish Flat, he considered this. He had heard vague rumors of gun trouble along the Mogul but nothing specific. He searched back in his memory…
Four years ago, as trail boss of the Chainlink herd, he had left Spanish Flat. He remembered Connie Boyce standing at his stirrup and looking up at him just before the herd pulled out.
“Watch Dad for me, Tracy. Don’t let him drink too much—don’t let him gamble away the beef money.”
He’d said sure. He’d picked her up and kissed her, then set her down again and loped off to catch up with the herd and old Jim Boyce at point, never knowing it would be his last sight for four years of the ranch he had called home.
But he hadn’t kept his promise.
They sold the steers and took cash payment and hit the spots of Gunsight. Later, drunker than sin, they were an easy touch for the shadowy rider who’d loomed up, slugged them and faded with the five thousand dollars. Chavis had broken his word to Connie; he couldn’t return to Chainlink without finding the thief and regaining that money. So he sent old Jim Boyce back to Spanish Flat and took up the trail.
It had been a long and fruitless search, with its share of gunsmoke and blood, which had stopped him, thrown him off. It had taken four years. But nothing out of that past seemed to offer any explanation for the ambush tonight. Rankled and puzzled, he rode downslope into Spanish Flat.
A freshening breeze whipped along the street. Puddles of light flowed out of windows and doors. Four Spur cowboys swept past him and dismounted at the Drovers’ Rest, giving him no sign of recognition.
Against the hotel’s far wall a stable fronted on the street, wide doors yawning across a dip in the boardwalk. He rode in and dismounted. A man drifted from the rear shadows, had his close look at Chavis, and directed: “Fourth stall back.”
“What’s going on?”
The stableman gave him another searching glance. “I wouldn’t know, friend,” he said, and disappeared, into the lamplit office, fear drifting back from him.
Chavis frowned. He pushed into the office and set his back against the door.
“How about answering my question?”
The liveryman regarded him blankly and shrugged. “Simple enough. Two big boys up-country have started a little war between themselves. Rest of us figure to keep out of it until one of ’em wins.”
“Who’s fighting?”
“Sid Vivian’s made war talk to Spur.”
Chavis’ eyebrows lifted. “Since when is Sid big enough to threaten Ben Majors?”
“Vivian’s got friends. There’s been a lot of rawhiders moving into the Yellows the past few years.”
Chavis left the office. This news of a war between Spur and Vivian’s Flying V surprised him. It must somehow tie in with his being ambushed, but the connection was held from him. Ben Majors’ Spur was the biggest outfit on this slope of the Yellows. Sid Vivian was a mountain man, a small rancher who ran a few head on a tumble-down ranch eight miles back in the mountains, and from time to time he had been suspected of rustling. But a war between the dog and the flea he found hard to understand.
He watered the horse and unsaddled it, and stepped out onto the street. A breeze came through the alley, sharpening his senses. Chavis’ life had run along hard and dangerous paths and there was whetted sensitivity in him to these messages in the air and to the call of wind, the breath of smoke in the sky, the dim tracks on twisting trails—and to the devious thinking of men.
He caught a sudden odor of frying meat from the hotel dining room, and had made up his mind to go in when a man came from the lower part of town. Chavis recognized him and waited until the man stopped four feet away to fight a smoke, and swung his idle glance up to inspect Chavis.
“By God!” said the man, grinning. “The black sheep!”
Chavis clasped his hand in a rough grip. “You haven’t changed, Larry.”
“We’ve all changed. But how come you’re back?”
Chavis shrugged. “A long story. A crowd of riders ambushed me not far out. Would that be tied up with your troubles round here?”
“Might be,” Larry Keene said. “Sid Vivian and three of his boys rode out toward the desert an hour back. Could be them you met.”
“We’ll see. Let’s talk over a meal.” He caught Keene’s bony shoulder and steered him toward the hotel dining room. Keene set his elbows on the table and sat lank and comfortable “A hell of a lot of ugly rumors have drifted down here. About you.”
“I guess they would have.”
“Some said you engineered robbin’ Jim Boyce’s herd money. They’re tellin’ it that you got him drunk and had a friend roll him.”
“Jim knows what happened. I don’t give a damn what the rest of them think.”
“Jim doesn’t know anything. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“Been dead over a year. Didn’t you know that?”
Chavis frowned. “I guess I’m a little late.”
“Maybe. Did you catch the stick-up?”
“No. I’ve spent the last couple of years making back the money. I figured it was my fault we lost it, it was up to me to get it back. I put in some time prospecting the Sangre de Cristos—hit a couple of fair pockets. It was the only way I could get it back for Jim, because I didn’t have enough to go on to catch up to the bushwhacker. All I knew was I was after a man that chewed his cigars down without lighting them. I thought that I tracked him to Leadville, but I never found the trail again.”
“It’s an odd thing that you’d come back after he’s gone. Jim died defendin’ you, Tracy. The whole country was ready to lynch his killer, but we never found him. Sheriff Hilliard was pretty well set to arrest Sid Vivian, but Hilliard’s Ben Majors’ man. Most folks think Majors likely hired it done.”
Chavis considered it. “I can see Sid in that picture, but not Ben.”
Keene shrugged. “Maybe. But he had more reason to get rid of Jim Boyce than Vivian did.” His head whipped around toward the door.
Chavis swung his attention that way. The man coming forward was big, blond and heavy-shouldered, with ruggedly good features. A star winked from his vest. Sheriff Hilliard, Chavis decided. He advanced to their table, his eyes unfriendly.
“You’re Chavis, ain’t you?”
“That’s right,” Chavis drawled; his hand dropped off the edge of the table.
Hilliard, seeing that, frowned. “We don’t need you around here, Chavis. Ride out before you pull somebody into trouble.”
“If there’s trouble around here, Sheriff, it wasn’t me that started it.”
“I guess maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I run a quiet town, Chavis. I don’t want gunmen in it.”
Hilliard’s threats seemed not to touch Chavis; his cold glance simply pushed them aside. “Sheriff,” he said, “let me give you some advice: don’t talk to me like that again, and don’t make statements you have to crawl out of.”
Hilliard grimaced but kept his gaze fixed on Chavis. “I guess you know I’ll be watching you as long as you’re around this county. I’d advise you to get out before people start rememberin’.”
“Thanks,” Chavis said dryly. He kept his glance on the sheriff until Hilliard swung and left the room. Chavis pegged the sheriff for a lazy man in a lazy job.
“You’ll likely find a lot of that around here,” Keene told him. “If you’re plannin’ to settle on the Mogul again, it won’t be easy. And on top of that you’re goin’ to run into trouble with Ben and Sid. They’re at each other’s throats over who controls this range, and we’re sitting right in between.”
“We?”
“The small fellows,” Keene said. “Majors summer-grazes his herds up in the Yellows. You knew that. But now Vivian and his crowd claim rights to the hill country. They told Majors keep off, the object bein’ plainly to ruin him and then take over his place. With this drouth, Ben will go down if he can’t take that graze away from Vivian.” He rolled a smoke, cupping it to his face. “Sid’s brought in a crowd of two-bit rustlers and laid down the law to Ben Majors. Ben ain’t goin’ to take it lyin’ down.”
“What’s he done about it?”
“Nothing much, yet. One of his boys rode over a few days ago and warned me to have nothing to do with Sid, but I’d expected that and, anyway, I’ve never been a friend of Sid’s. It won’t hurt to go along with Ben on that.”
Chavis considered this information. “How about Jim Boyce’s ranch? What’s happened to it?”
“Connie’s runnin’ Chainlink.”
“That scrawny kid?”
Keene smiled. “Time’s passed, son. It’s kind of hard to call her scrawny.”
Chavis finished his meal and pushed back. “What do you think will happen?”
“Most likely Majors will move on Chainlink. Connie’s got the only decent pass through the Mogul into the Yellows. Since old Jim died, Connie warned both Ben and Vivian to keep off. Ben offered to buy her out, but she wouldn’t sell.”
“That sounds typical,” Chavis commented. “The kid never had much politics in her.”
“But she’s got guts. Closing that pass made it rough on Ben. He can’t get this cattle through the summer without usin’ it. Trouble is, he’s tough enough to push her off if he can’t get trail rights across Chainlink.”
Chavis dropped a coin on the table and stood up. “How about a drink?”
Keene rose. They crossed to the Drovers’ Rest, noting a few new horses there, all wearing Ben Majors’ Spur brand. Ben Majors’ crew. The two pushed inside. Five or six punchers rattled around in the room, most of Majors’ outfit, and Hal Craycroft tended bar in his soiled apron. When the men saw Keene and Chavis, they quit their small talk to wait for their boss to recognize and deal with the newcomers. Ben Majors had his broad back to them, until their silence warned him, and he slowly placed the glass on the bar and pivoted. He saw Keene first, and nodded civilly. When he saw Chavis he stopped all motion and stood flat-footed, looking from under heavy brows.
Larry Keene moved indolently to the near end of the bar while Majors kept his heavy glance on Chavis, standing alone now in the doorway. Chavis let the silence ride, then advanced into the room.
“You through lookin’ at me, Ben?”
Majors narrowed his eyes. “Thought I was through seein’ you four years ago when you skipped out with your boss’ money.” His voice was gravelly.
“Maybe,” Chavis suggested, “you don’t like me comin’ back?”
Majors half-turned back to the bar, but still keeping Chavis within his range of vision. “Some reason for you to come back? Maybe you ran out of that money you stole?”
Chavis smiled without mirth. “Ben, are you tryin’ to build up to something?”
“You call it,” Majors said evenly. “I never was your friend, Tracy, and I ain’t pretendin’ to like you now. It would be better all round if you pushed on.”
“You’re the second man that’s told me that tonight, Ben. It could be that you’re right. But I’ll have to find it out for myself.” He turned flat to the bar, accepting a drink from Craycroft, owner of the Drovers’ Rest.
“On the house, old-timer,” Craycroft said.
Larry Keene, standing beside Chavis, moved his head to indicate a table behind them. “An old friend.”
Chavis spotted Keene’s target across the room—a huge, corpulent man sitting comfortably behind a pack of cards. “Bones,” Chavis said. “How are you?”
Bones Riley waved a hammy paw. “Howdy, Tracy.”
“You in this?” Chavis said.
“I’m Ben’s foreman.” Riley eased his fat body around, caught Chavis’ sudden frown; it brought him waddling forward, bringing his drink with him. “Tracy, it’s good to see you.”
“A Spur man,” Chavis smiled, “with a fresh point of view.”
Majors called from down the bar. “Bones, leave that man alone!”
“I’ll pick my own friends, Ben.”
Majors advanced along the bar, but Bones didn’t move. He regarded Majors with his own brand of stubbornness, slightly aroused.
“Why—” Majors shouted; he raised his fist, but Chavis’ hand whipped up and caught Majors’ wrist.
“No way to treat your help, Ben.”
Majors jerked away, and stood glaring. “By God, tinhorn, you get out of this country and you get out quick!” He wheeled back along the bar.
“He’s changed some in four years,” Chavis observed, noting how Majors’ old stubborn streak had developed into intolerance.
Majors was talking softly to a man beside him. That was Shad Carruth, Majors’ troubleshooter, two hundred and sixty pounds of bone and muscle and slab-sided rock. Carruth had wrecked more men and more saloons than any man in Chavis’ wide acquaintance. His small-eyed glance whipped down the bar to Tracy Chavis.
Bones Riley looked at him. “Somethin’ cookin’ down there,” he said. “Shad’s lookin’ mean.”
It didn’t take long. Shad Carruth came roving down toward the door, pausing before Chavis. “Better move on, feller.” He got no response and so he walked forward, brushing Chavis deliberately, and whirled. “Watch yourself,” he said, thereby beginning the oldest of games. A slight smile turned up the comers of Chavis’ mouth as he felt the old current of temper crowd him, growing stronger and colder.
“I guess …” he began.
Carruth cut in quickly: “Easy to talk tough, friend.”
Chavis saw Bones and Larry Keene pulling away; it was his fight and they would not interfere. Carruth lumbered closer and cocked his fist. His small smile pulled at his lips and he lunged, whipping his fist out. Chavis stepped inside and hooked two short blows into Carruth’s chest and belly, and leaped away before Carruth could grab him. Carruth stood flat-footed. He balled a hammy fist and feinted, making Chavis duck, and threw his other hand straight against Chavis’ face.
It drove Chavis back against the bar, and Carruth followed the blow with two more quick ones against Chavis’ chin and eye. He circled, waiting for his vision to clear, and suddenly feinted in from one side, drawing the big rider’s guard down, and drove his fist squarely into Carruth’s broad face, putting all his two hundred pounds behind it. He watched Carruth fall, then wrench himself to his feet, step back and halt. A quick cruelty flared in Carruth’s eyes, and Chavis smiled a tight smile, a rash signal on his face. He remembered how many times along the trails he had watched this scene grow before him.
“Friend,” said Carruth, “I’ll cripple you.”
It was strictly a put-up job, but Chavis’ pride caused him to step forward again and say, “You can try, Shad.”
Carruth stepped rapidly to the left and rolled his shoulders heavily forward; he raised both huge fists and stepped in. Chavis drew him off balance with a wide feint and caught Shad’s jaw with a hook that sounded like the flat of a cleaver pounding a side of beef. Carruth’s wide face tilted and he struck out with his doubled fists and hit nothing. Chavis threw a blow into his stomach, staggering him backward, quickly measured him, and smashed twice more on the shelf of Shad’s jaw. It sent Carruth again to the floor to lie there, his arms supporting him, his breath hung up in his throat and a gap in his teeth.
Chavis swung away to face the crowd, his hard smile seeking out Majors.
“You want in, Ben?”
No one spoke, no one moved. Majors moved out from the bar, crossed the room and left without looking at Chavis.