DUST CREATED A haze around him as he rode north out of Spanish Flat. After a hearty breakfast, a bath and a haircut, he felt better.
As he trotted north he considered what he had learned since arriving. He knew Ben Majors pretty well; the big man was bluff and ruthless, but straightforward in his own intolerant way. A man could look for Majors to attack him from the front.
But Sid Vivian, the head of the mountain crowd opposing Majors’ Spur, was of a different breed. If the desert people condemned him, that would not discourage Vivian, as men’s feelings had often run against him. Good and bad, right and wrong, were only labels readily transferable from one thing to another, and to Sid Vivian the right was what profited him, the wrong what injured him. Chavis knew that Vivian was the more dangerous of the country’s two powers.
He passed the Spur cut-off road and continued north toward the group of smaller ranches above Spur. He passed Larry Keene’s mail box and after a while the wagon trace lifted him gradually along a slope. He stopped atop the ridge and looked down into a small valley. Low, pine-sloped hills formed the sides of the bowl, and about four miles ahead was the high-walled Mogul’s cliff, split down its center by a dark notch. This valley was Chainlink, where Jim Boyce had raised the orphaned Chavis; and the cut in the mountain face was Chainlink Pass, the only good route into the jagged Yellows. A few steers grazed lazily along the flanks of the near hills; below him, on the valley floor, two long adobe buildings enclosed a yard: Chainlink’s bunkhouse and headquarters. The other outbuildings sat back by a log corral, bleached gray by the sun.
Chavis pushed his horse on downslope. He rode past a wide pool of muddy water and frowned. Signs of neglect were obvious around this tank. The springs had not been cleaned out; cattle had churned up the soil and left great spots of bare, brown mud.
No rock salt was out. Grass in the immediate vicinity was overgrazed but across the valley he could see wide meadows. Someone should have moved these cattle some time ago.
He pushed forward again.
He stopped just outside the yard and was about to sing out when his eye caught a movement around the comer of the main house. After a short while he put his horse around that comer and pulled up. Surprise broke on his face.
She was hanging damp sheets on a line stretched from wall to tree. She was dressed in a man’s riding clothes that could not conceal the rounded slimness of her figure. A cascade of glossy black hair fell below her shoulders.
As she swung to face him, showing her surprise, he got a clear picture of her: her lips were long and her eyes widespaced and colored by a gray that had no bottom. She wore a shirt open at the neck, showing the smooth, dark shading of her skin.
The sound that whipped Connie Boyce around brought a quick fear to her. Her first glance told her little; the big man on horseback looked like another tough hardcase rider, like so many that had recently been cruising the country. Then recognition came and with it she felt an immediate confusion.
“What are you doing here?” She tried to make her voice harsh.
He had not expected such a terse welcome. “Why,” he said, “I’m just paying a neighborly call.”
“You’ve paid it,” she said, and waited for him to leave. He did not answer and despite her anger she found herself studying him, noting the scars of a fight on him and putting malice into her glance. Behind the surface signs, she saw, lay a toughness that recent years must have built up to blunt his expressions and protectively cover his feelings. And also, she was sure, there lay his weaknesses.
“What is it, Connie?”
She stepped forward and looked up at him. “There’s enough trouble on this range without hired gunfighters. Why don’t you move on?”
He frowned. “Nobody’s bought my gun.”
“Were you hoping I would?”
“Look,” he said, angered. “I came back because I heard there was trouble. My gun is not for sale and never has been.”
“For a Sunday School innocent you’ve burned a lot of gunpowder, Tracy. We’ve heard about it down here. Ride on, you’ll do us all a favor.” She felt herself close to tears; she whirled and walked toward the house. He reined his horse around and overtook her; then he swung down and caught her arm.
“Connie, I didn’t steal Jim’s money. And I didn’t come back to make trouble.” He searched her eyes. “Did you get the bank draft I sent?”
“I got it,” she said. “All five thousand dollars. Was that to prove you can be as big a thief as the man who robbed you and Dad?”
“Damn it, I didn’t steal that money. I dug it out of the ground in little scraps.”
She looked at him bitterly. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and walked swiftly into the house, slamming the door. A taut smile played on his face as he turned to the bunkhouse.
Along the two side walls were lines of bunks, only two of which were mussed. The others were only empty mattresses. Two men sat at a table in the center of the room. One of them was in the process of dealing a poker hand when Chavis closed the door behind him. “Working hard, boys?” His voice was edged with sarcasm.
The man facing him raised his eyes and the other one swiveled around to lay a cold glance on Chavis. “What’s it to you?” said the second man.
“I’m the new straw boss,” he said easily, noting that the screened expression of the second man did not change.
The first, the surly one, however, came out of his chair and turned to face Chavis. “Since when?”
“Since now. If you don’t like it, draw your pay.”
The man studied him, giving Chavis time to size the two up. The talkative one was fat and smelled of whisky. The other, the silent one who kept to his chair, was small and dark. His shoulders sloped off from a thin neck. A small bald spot showed at his scalp lock and the edges of his hair were turning from coal-black to gray. He had the appearance of a very mild man but his eyes were steady and bright, gleaming with an innate toughness. These surface qualities caused Chavis to take a second look at him. “What’s your name?”
“McCaig,” drawled that one. “Sam McCaig.”
From Texas, Chavis thought. “Been here long?”
“Not long.”
“How about you?”
The surly one said: “I’m Corey Wate. Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Chavis.”
The light grew in McCaig’s eyes; somewhere along the trail he had heard of Chavis. Wate took a shuffling step forward, sizing Chavis up, wondering just how tough the big man was.
“Who hired you?” said Wate.
“Well, now, who owns this place?”
“Connie Boyce.”
“That’s right,” Chavis drawled.
Wate settled himself solidly on both feet, spread well apart. “Dammit, I don’t like this, Sam.”
“Tough,” said McCaig. He didn’t shift his comfortable seat.
“How about it, Wate?” Chavis folded his arms. “Willing to work for me?”
“No. No, I guess I ain’t.”
“All right. Pack up and move on.”
Corey Wate said again, “I guess not, Chavis.”
Chavis advanced to within a pace of the heavy man. “Pack up.”
Wate thought on it. Then, suddenly, he shrugged and said: “I reckon I’ll work for you.”
“Too late, fella. Move on. I don’t want you.”
Wate grew angry. He threw his fist at Chavis’ jaw but Chavis pulled aside, let the blow slide across his shoulder, and buried a short-swinging fist into Wate’s belly. Wate doubled and sat down on the table’s edge, rocking the lamp, holding his belly with both hands and making small choking sounds.
Pain was contracting Chavis’ fist, a result of this blow on top of last night’s fight. “Get moving,” he said, and stood by.
“All right,” Wate breathed. “All right.”
Chavis looked at McCaig. The lean puncher shrugged blandly, whereupon Chavis turned and went out. He took his warbag and roll off the saddle and carried them back into the bunkhouse, and told Wate: “How much you got owin’ to you?”
“Two months.”
“One,” corrected McCaig.
Chavis’ sharp glance hit McCaig. “Thanks.” He gave Wate two double-eagles. Wate sullenly pocketed the money and crossed the room to tie his roll together. He picked up a rifle and shouldered his roll. “I got no horse.”
“Take a Chainlink horse. Leave it at the livery in town.” He probed Wate with a steady glance. “And be sure you leave him.”
Wate glared at him and dropped his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, and left.
“Who hired him?” Chavis asked.
“Miss Connie,” said McCaig.
“She must have been strapped for help.”
“A fact. Few want to work for a woman.”
“But you don’t mind?”
McCaig shrugged. “The pay’s good, grub’s good.”
Chavis grunted and turned to look out the door. Corey Wate was riding out of the yard, slouched in the saddle. Chavis looked at the warped walls of the barn, at the leaking water trough, at the squawking windmill and the wagon drying in the sun. “This spread’s shot to hell.”
“Sure is,” McCaig said. “What you plan to do about it? Wait for the good Lord to give us a handout?”
“The only thing that comes to him that waits is whiskers. We’ve got to set this place up as a running outfit. Chainlink’s got good water, good grass, and the only good trail into the Yellows. It’s a natural.”
McCaig’s eyebrows lifted. “You know the place?”
“I worked here a long time ago.” He looked thoughtfully at the mountains. “As long as Vivian and Majors keep off us, we can get some work done. But if they start fighting between themselves, this could turn into a battlefield. We’ve got to be ready for that.”
He saw McCaig watching him with the gravest of care, and he said: “Why’d you stay on here?”
“Maybe I like a good fight.”
“Maybe you’ll get one.”
Well out from the base of the Yellows, eight miles northeast of Spanish Flat, lay Ben Majors’ Spur, the nerve center of a good many sections of bunchgrass that Majors had acquired over the years, some by simple claim, or by purchase, and others by running off the owners.
Spur’s buildings were sprawled over a large plot, with a wide yard in the middle. Years before Majors had planted cottonwoods here in memory of his wife; and now these trees, full grown to some seventy-five feet, formed an irregular pattern among the buildings. One dusty road led along a tangle of corrals and barns to the yard, scattered around which were the sheds, bunkhouse and mess hall. The big house, long, low and galleried all around, stood at the head of this yard, situated to command every point of activity.
It was into this yard that Ben Majors and Bones Riley now rode. Riley took both horses into a corral while Majors went up to the house and into his office, where he sat down and lit a cheroot. Majors was fifty and looked his age, but no more. Beneath his sorrel-matted crown was a face blocky, unlined, and tough. A full-sweeping mustache guarded thick lips drawn straight by pressure. His dark, carefully flat eyes burned with an intense, intolerant energy.
Bones Riley clumped across the porch to the office. “Those cows will be in no fit shape if we don’t move them up into the Yellows pretty quick.”
“I know it. But right now I’m worried more about your friend Chavis.”
“What about him?”
“The man’s got smoke smell on him. For all I know he’s hired his gun out to Sid Vivian.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Bones said. “Those two never got along. Besides, Tracy’s not the kind to go startin’ any wars. Leave him be and he won’t bother us.”
“Bones, when a man takes up the gun he can’t put it down. Tracy Chavis took it up and there’s the smell of powder on him now. As long as he stays here all the wolves’ll come prowlin’ up the valley, waitin’ for a kill—and Chavis will have to shoot them up. That man could never stay away from a fight.”
“Don’t bother him,” Bones said, “and he won’t bother you.” He wheeled outside.
Sara Majors, Ben’s daughter, had turned east across the rolling desert until she arrived on a hillock from which she could survey the area roundabout. When she saw no movement she frowned and turned her horse down to the dry creek below. She tied the pony to a cottonwood and began walking restlessly back and forth; finally she sat against the shady trunk of the tree, her gaze absently sweeping the skyline, her thoughts turning dry and bitter. It was a beautiful land, she thought, or it had been, until men came to it, men like her father, ignorant and uncaring of its beauty and its peace. The ruthlessness and violence in her father had made her hate ruthlessness and violence in all men.
When a rider topped the skyline some distance off and came forward, and stepped down by her, she said: “I thought you might not come.”
Larry Keene had a good smile and an easy, warm way of showing how much he liked these meetings with her. He came before her, his open wish on his face, making her desirable. She had been lonely for a long time on Spur and so she waited for these moments and treasured them, and lately had begun to permit herself half-hopes. Now these hopes raised a fear in her and she said: “Larry, keep out of this thing. Just plug along with your own ranch and let the rest of them go.”
“Hard to do. I’ll be caught right in the middle if this blows up.”
“Keep out of politics,” she said. “My father can’t see you small ranchers.” She frowned. “Your friend Chavis could bring us all trouble.”
“Not unless it comes to him. He knocked out Shad Carruth last night.” It was an underhand sort of warning and he realized that fact at once, and changed the subject. “Sara, I hope some day I’ll be able to ride onto Spur to see you and be treated like a human being.”
“Yes,” she smiled softly. She dropped her head and he thought she was still smiling, but he couldn’t see. He tipped her chin up with his finger. She wasn’t smiling, but seemed to be waiting for him. Abruptly he stepped forward and put his arms around her, and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, not at all tender. She felt his lips bruise hers and she pushed away from him, angered.
There it was—the same cruel violence in all men! She whirled, caught up her horse and flung herself into the saddle, touching spurs to the horse.
When she entered the long house her father came out of his office. “Where’ve you been?”
“Riding,” she said. “Away from here. Anywhere.”
“Broke both legs gettin’ home, didn’t you?” Sarcasm turned to suspicion. “Was Keene down there?”
“You let me into none of your affairs. You can leave mine alone.” She faced him bitterly.
“By God, don’t you talk that way to me!” He had never forgiven her for not being a boy, and instead of accepting her he had turned away. He said loudly: “You keep away from Keene. I’ll have nothing to do with that nester and he won’t be a son-in-law of mine. You hear?”
She turned her back on him and walked wearily into her own room, a tall blonde girl with freckles on her tan cheeks, not really pretty. Out in the front of the house her father walked restlessly, a big coarse man with a passion for power and a temper without end. In a few minutes she heard him walk into his office and slam the door.
Chavis stamped out his cigarette. “Let’s have a look around,” he said, and went outside and mounted. He rode out of the yard with McCaig following him, cutting away from the buildings in the direction of the desert, the smell of the earth rising pleasantly to his nostrils.
While he rode, searching the land, he tried to form a clear picture of the situation he was up against. If it came to a fight he would be opposed by Majors or Vivian or possibly both, with little hope for help from the local law, Sheriff Paul Hilliard—Majors’ weak-kneed hired man. He could count on only a few men if gunsmoke clouded the Mogul: Larry Keene would side him and possibly a few of Keene’s friends, and he thought he could rely on the Texan Sam McCaig, but he couldn’t be sure.
There was a second problem to face. When he had been Chainlink’s foreman it had been a major power in the district, a big ranch with a respectable cattle count. But now the herds were small, the ranch sadly neglected. To a man who had kept the blood flowing in the veins of Chainlink, its present state of deterioration was both pitiful and sickening.
It would be tough, unending work for just two men.
“One thing you can do this afternoon,” he told McCaig. “Get some rock salt out here. And where did Corey Wate come from?”
McCaig shrugged. “He was here before me.”
“You get along with him?”
“Tried to,” McCaig said. “The trouble with that fella is that somebody once told him to be himself.” They rode in a comfortable silence for some time while Chavis refreshed in his mind the locations of the waterholes, tanks and tree-groves. “How many beef have we got?”
“Maybe eight hundred head.”
“Not many for this outfit.”
McCaig nodded, pulling his horse to a stop while he got out a gnarled pipe and packed it. “Last spring she bought a couple hundred calves from Majors.”
“That must have been before Vivian told Majors to stay out of the Yellows.”
“Yeah.” The Texan curled a leg over the saddle horn and leaned forward, looking over the land. “After Majors got the word to keep out, he started spittin’ on the small people. What you plan to do if he jumps us—or if Vivian takes a notion to?”
“Shoot back.”
McCaig smiled. “Two of us may not make much of a splash against Ben’s crew.” He straightened in the saddle, peering across the valley. “Rider over there,” he said, and put his horse forward at a gallop.
Chavis caught up and rode beside him. They dipped into a hollow and rode out of it. The rider apparently spotted them. He swung his horse and disappeared into the trees, with Chavis and McCaig following at a dead run. The timber slowed them; when they came out in the open end of the grove the rider was not in sight.
“Lost him,” McCaig said. “Looked like Corey Wate.”
“Now, I wonder just what he’d be doing back here?”