DAYLIGHT CAME ACROSS the sky in changing sheets of color and out on the desert, hidden here by the hills, the land would already be turning warm. But at the Chainlink, the shadows hung on, and the air was thin and raw and bracing. Chavis ate a quick breakfast in the cook shack and saddled up, telling Sam McCaig that he was going over to Larry Keene’s small ranch.
Within half an hour he off-saddled before the log building. Keene opened the door and came out, a smile on his long face.
“Welcome, Tracy.”
Chavis nodded. “How many hours do you guess it will be before something blows up?” he asked. And when Keene’s curiosity prompted him, Chavis explained the past two days’ events. “I need a few men who can ride with us when the shootin’ starts.”
“Here’s one. And Carter and Niles, too, I think.”
“No hope from the sheriff?”
“Guess not. Hilliard’s honest, but only to the point where Ben calls the play for him. He hasn’t got the guts to cross Ben.”
“Then why hasn’t Majors sicked him on Sid?”
“Vivian’s just too tough for Hilliard. Hilliard wouldn’t come back if he went after the Flying V, and he must know it. And Ben’s afraid to lose him because then Sid might put his own man in the office.”
Chavis dropped off the porch and mounted. “Can you get Carter and Niles over here tonight? I want to talk to them.”
Keene said they’d be there, and Chavis rode out of the yard and put his pony on the road.
He rode on south, and midmorning brought him to Spanish Flat where horses stood lazily before the Drovers’ Rest. A man came out on the saloon porch. Ray Corrigan, still favoring his slinged arm, came to a full stop and called: “Here’s Chavis—Flying V!”
The call brought five men swarming from Craycroft’s saloon to group themselves loosely around Corrigan. Sid Vivian was not present.
Pete Vird spat out a cigarette. “Well,” he said. “Looky what we got.”
He had known this would come; it was only a question of time; but Chavis also knew that Vivian would never have picked this hour or location for a showdown; however, Vivian wasn’t here. He saw Vird’s hand hover over his right hip, and he said, “Don’t be brash, Pete.” His own arm hung relaxed, fingers curled below the grips of his Colt.
A heavy shape ambled along the walk—Bones Riley. He moved forward indolently, saying, “This’d be a little raw in the street, don’t you think, boys?” He grinned at Chavis.
Vird elevated his thin shoulders, and when his eyes met Chavis’ there was a point of flame in them. “This time,” he said, “you got your chance to slide out. But we ain’t forgettin’ your last play, Chavis. No man alive can make that stick.” He went to his horse. The Flying V mounted and rode up the street without giving him another look.
Chavis watched them leave. “Thanks, Bones.”
Bones flipped a hand and entered the saloon. Chavis then rode across die street to the stable, and came out leading the horse Corey Wate had ridden into town.
He started down the road with the sun’s full heat on him. The Flying V bunch was only a quarter mile ahead and he soon saw that they were matching his slower pace, to keep the irritating fog of dust up before him. He saw Pete Vird wheel around; Pete’s arm rose and fell and then the whole crowd drew away at a hard run. He took Pete’s signal to be a gesture of insolence but when he reached the point he discovered something in the dust. Dismounting, he picked it up. Resting in his hand was a small square of cowhide showing the Chainlink brand. Hot anger urged him to make a chase of it but a cool second thought suppressed the impulse. He mounted again and trotted forward, leading Wate’s horse.
He spent the afternoon with McCaig repairing fence and moving the main herd across the basin. After supper he and McCaig saddled up and rode south under an early, nearly full moon, heading for Keene’s place.
Chavis dropped off the saddle and tied up to the corral bars, noting three horses already hitched there. With McCaig beside him, they crossed the yard and tramped into the house. Keene spoke to Chavis and nodded with reserve to McCaig, who was not well known in the valley and therefore not greatly trusted. Hal Carter and old Bill Niles stood at the far end of Keene’s main room, and a tall youngster stooped near the flickering fireplace.
Chavis shook Niles’ hand. The old man said, “My grandson, Gary,” nodding toward the boy.
The kid stepped away from the wall and came forward, a tall, rawboned youngster with a good smile and a strong handshake. Chavis swung back to the old man. “Why’d you bring him?”
“He’s got to grow up,” said Niles, and quartered in so that the firelight splashed across his gaunt features, giving Chavis his first good look at him. “I brought him here because he’s got a right to know how things like this are settled.”
Chavis looked once more at the kid and nodded. They found stools and boxes and presently formed a small circle of uneasy talk.
Old Niles brought the conversation around to Chavis. “Afraid I’ve got bad news. When I was in town this afternoon a Spur cowboy rode in and talked with Sheriff Hilliard. After Hilliard left town I followed the cowboy over to the saloon. He was spreadin’ his story. Vivian’s dammed up Olive Creek. That dries up Majors’ north springs.”
“So,” murmured Larry Keene, “the ball starts rollin’.”
“It started before that,” Chavis said, and he told about the theft of Connie’s bank draft and his recovery of it. “But Vivian’s been rustlin’ Chainlink cattle. He taunted me with it this afternoon. I figure now that Sid must have decided it would be easier to hit Majors, who wasn’t looking for this kind of attack. Now Sid will sit back and watch to see what Ben does. If Ben doesn’t take the bait it will show Vivian that he’s turning chicken. But Ben knows that, too, so he’ll get to work.”
Hal Carter, thin and restless, stood up and rammed his hands in his pockets. “What will he do?”
“Move on Chainlink. It’s the only way to hurt Sid. He can’t scatter Vivian’s herds because they’re already spread all over the Yellows. He can’t ride in and attack him because he’d get ambushed and cut to pieces. But if he takes Chainlink it will cut Sid off at the pockets, sew him up in the mountains.”
Carter frowned. “What’s that mean to me?”
“Chainlink’s your neighbor. I don’t think you want to see Connie Boyce wiped out. I’m trying to put the ranch back on its feet—and I can’t do it if Ben Majors walks in and forts up on our doorstep.”
“Ben’s never bothered any of us before.”
“Because he never had to. He had plenty of graze in the Yellows. But that’s closed to him now.”
“That’s so,” said Niles.
Chavis watched Carter sourly. It irritated him to see men so hesitant to fight for their own interests. “Damn it, make up your minds. Can I count on you or not?”
“I’m no gunfighter, Chavis,” said Carter. “All I’m tryin’ to do is be left alone.”
“Ain’t much chance of that,” said Keene. “You’ve got to pick a side—Ben ain’t goin’ to allow any fence-sittin’.”
Carter crossed to the door. “Give me some time,” he said, and left.
Old Bill Niles looked at his grandson. “We’ll think about it.” He let his glance rest on Chavis.
Chavis stood up when they had gone and said, “Thanks, Larry.”
“For what? Whatever help you get out of them you’ll have to force. They ain’t any too anxious to get mixed up in a shootin’ war against Spur or the Flying V.”
Chavis nodded and gestured vaguely; he turned and walked out with McCaig. They swung onto the road and beat carelessly through the night toward Chainlink. They slowed to a trot going through the trees on the edge of the ranch. A sound in that deeper black caused Chavis to pull his horse in. Soon he caught sight of a rider threading the trees.
Connie entered the trail and put her horse alongside his. Watching his expression, she asked, “What is it?”
“Nothing wrong,” he said at last. “Keene will help.”
“But not the others?”
“That’s right,” he said, and aimed his horse down the trail. “What were you doing out here?”
“Night-hawking. When cattle are bunched like these they make an easy target.”
“Not your job,” he said shortly, and then put his attention on the skyline ahead. A faint red glow shone over the hilltop and sight of it arrested him for a moment. Then he identified it and drove his pony forward at a dead run.
He topped the hill and ran unchecked toward the Chainlink yard. The barn was afire and lighting the whole area roundabout. A rider milled on the edge of the light for a moment and then disappeared, running out across the valley.
“Sam!” he called. “Do what you can about that barn.” He kept on, lining out across the plain a few hundred yards behind the fleeing rider.
Chavis’ horse was a good one, fairly fresh. He gained steadily and was within easy rifle range when the fugitive entered the timber. The rider silhouetted himself once then dropped from sight, and that one sharp glance identified him as Corey Wate. Chavis barreled into the trees and pulled up short, listening. A faint crashing reached him and then silence.
He had lost Wate. By daylight he could track him; tonight it was useless. He wheeled the horse and ran back toward the ranch.
Piled hay, just within the barn’s doorway, had been set afire. The flame had not yet gotten to the barn itself before McCaig had forked the burning stuff out into the yard. By the time Chavis returned, McCaig had doused the barn timbers and was standing watchfully near the bonfire, a bucket of water in his hand.
“Damn!” said McCaig. “Ten minutes more and we’d be out a barn.”
Connie advanced into the light, her face and hands blackened and her hair streaming in the breeze. “He got away?”
“It was Wate. I wonder who he’s working for?”
“It must be Sid Vivian. Ben isn’t that ruthless.”
“Don’t be too sure,” McCaig said. “With a few more men we’d carry this right into Majors’ lap.”
“We don’t have ’em,” Chavis said. “Right now we’ve got to straighten out this place. We’ll save our next play until we can get ahold of Wate.”
At daylight Chavis took an ax and mounted, turning along a lower trail that wound through low foothills and covered with creosote and manzanita. He carried with him one of Jim Boyce’s maps and worked along to an approximate comer of Chainlink property, where it adjoined Spur.
He dismounted and began to blaze a fence line against the boles of occasional cottonwoods and junipers along the boundary. He was deep in this work when a strident hail challenged him.
Roy Durand, Spur’s segundo, and Shad Carruth stood dismounted by a tree forty feet away.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Stringing a fence.” Chavis answered Durand.
“This land is Spur by right of use.”
“You’ve got no markers, so now it’s Chainlink.”
Durand’s pale eyes looked out of a bleached face; the hang of his gun and the blankness of his eyes were all any man could tell of his clouded past. He said; “Chavis, the day you string one strand of wire will be your day of grief.”
Having spoken, Majors’ third-in-command mounted and swung south, Carruth following.
Chavis watched them wheel over the ridge and resumed blazing the fence line. At ten he returned to the ranch and hitched a team to a flatbed wagon. He tossed in a twin-handled post-hole digger, an ax, a hammer and staples, and a crowbar. He loaded a spindle of barbwire on the bed and drove over the hump to the line he had blazed.
Where the spread between the line of trees was too great for holding the wire, he sank narrow holes with the digger and used heavy cottonwood limbs for posts.
Any time now he expected some Spur man to cruise over to see how he was making out. At noon he had one section ready for stringing. He dumped the wire spindle to the ground and rolled it to the nearest post, where he tacked a loop to a thick cottonwood bole.
“Don’t move a whisker, Chavis.”
He turned with slow care. It was Roy Durand again, with two Spur men, neither of whom Chavis knew.
“I warned you about that wire.” Durand stepped from the saddle, pulling off his gloves. Chavis kept silent, and the two Spur riders scattered to flank him, keeping him under their guns.
Durand said: “You’ll never string another piece of wire. You’re a dead man now and when I’m done you’ll be deader. I’m goin’ to beat hell out of you.”
“With those guns behind you?”
“Listen, cowboy. You took your chance when you strung that wire, and you had my warnin’ before. Don’t expect me to play patty-cake.”
Two paces away Durand stood relaxed, thumbs in his waistband. “Chavis, drop your gun belt.”
Durand had said he was a dead man; Chavis was beginning to agree. The cocked gun on each flank made it well-nigh impossible to move.
Chavis weighed his chances, smiled a taut smile, and jumped.
He caught Durand at the shirt collar, pulling him in, then spun him half-around before Durand or either of his men could recover from their surprise. Desperation had prompted this move and it was the one thing none of them had expected. He clamped the crook of his arm around Durand’s neck and bent him back, slowly cutting off the man’s cry. He had Durand against him as a shield and steadily increased the pressure on his neck until the Spur man quit struggling and dropped his gun. Chavis kicked the weapon away, drew his own pistol, and prodded Durand’s back.
“You two men, get where I can see you. Go on—move!”
Hesitantly, the Spur riders backed before him.
“I’ve had about enough of this. I told Sid Vivian and I’ll tell you now—if I see one Spur or Flying V rider on Chainlink you boys will be holdin’ a funeral. Tell Ben that if he makes another play against Chainlink he can expect to have his damned ranch burned to the ground, and he’ll be lucky to have one steer left alive. Now get the hell out of here.”
They didn’t move until Durand said, “Go on.”
The two cut away.
“All right,” Chavis said. “We’ll just tie you up while I finish. And one thing more: I don’t expect to ever find a hole in this fence.” Holding his gun on Durand, he got a saddle rope and tied the man to a cottonwood, then tried to cool down by resuming work.
He finally stood back, having put up a token hundred yards of line, and loaded the gear onto the wagon. He hitched the team, tied Durand’s mount to the tailboard, and let him loose. “Climb up.”
Durand swung onto the seat. Chavis settled beside him. The wagon rolled forward, raking a high cloud of dust behind. Ahead of them the Mogul rim, cut by Chainlink Pass, lifted above the choppy hills.
Trouble was a rising wind. It blew against his cheeks when the laboring horses began swinging around a curve. There, two men jumped from the junipers directly before the horses—Durand’s men. They held guns almost idly on him.
“Stand ’er up, Chavis.” It was all over for him, he knew, if he let them keep the drop. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill him after his earlier play.
Durand snapped his arm across Chavis to grab at the reins; one of the Spur men cocked his gun and leveled it; and in one fast movement Chavis cuffed Durand back, threw a quick shot between the horse’s ears at the larger Spur man, and went off the high seat at a long jump.
He struck hard, going to his knees, and coming up fast. He had hit the larger of the two men but the second man was firing beneath the horse to reach him. Then, the horse momentarily sheltering him, he heard a rifle open up from the slope above.
A third fellow was hidden on that hill, but his lead was flying high over Chavis’ head. He raced out ahead of the horse, into the remaining cowboy’s fire, watching the rider’s black, wild eyes, and letting go his own shot. The man died as he toppled from his saddle. Behind him a quick flurry of hoofbeats rose.
Still cocked for trouble, Chavis glanced toward yonder slope. The rifle up there was silent now. Looking at the two dead cowboys on the ground, he thought: First blood, but not the last.
The thought soured him. Turning, he found the wagon empty, Durand’s horse gone from the tailgate. That was the clatter he’d heard—Durand breaking away.
A drum of hoofs rose on the slope and he brought his gun to bear on the sound. The barrel-shaped Bones Riley rode around the junipers, holding his rifle across his saddle. “No more shootin’, Tracy.”
Chavis holstered his gun. “You firing from up there?”
“Tryin’ to scare the boys off. I didn’t want this.”
“Thanks, Bones.”
Bones shook his head. He climbed down and had his careful look at both the downed men. “Both of ’em worthless. But they never asked for this.” He looked up at Chavis. “What was it about?”
Chavis told him about the fence. Bones said: “I knew nothing of it. Durand wasn’t actin’ on my orders.”
“Didn’t think he was,” Chavis said. “I didn’t start out to kill anybody. But this is the fourth time I’ve been shot at since I’ve been back and I’m not happy about it, Bones. Tell Ben to pull in his horns if he doesn’t want them chopped off.”
At three o’clock he rode to Spanish Flat to talk to Sheriff Paul Hilliard. Chavis had the sheriff pegged as a weak man, but he needed to know where the law stood.
Hitching his horse at the hotel rail, he started toward the courthouse.
“Tracy!” Keene’s voice called guardedly.
He turned, quartering across the street to meet him. Keene said then, “Les and Ran Crews are in town’
That was news. “Now what would bring that pair over here?”
“Money,” Keene said. “Blood money. Your blood, of course.”
Chavis turned to go on. “Maybe—maybe.”
“Watch yourself,” Keene warned.
Chavis nodded, continuing on his way. He was caught in a hot crossfire. Pushed from both sides, he had served notice on both Vivian and Majors, and his defiant attitude was a challenge which neither one of them could pass off. Now the Crews brothers had been hired to take a hand in this trouble.
He had seen that pair of notorious hired gunmen twice—once on a wild night in Tombstone when the brothers had made Sheriff Johnny Behan jump to the tune of popping Colts, the other time in Leadville when Ran Crews, backed by his watchful brother, had shot it out with Sudden Dan Thompson. Ran was still around; Chavis had been at Sudden Dan’s funeral.
Somebody had hired the Crews boys to come to Spanish Flat. Logically, either Majors or Vivian. Which?
Across the square he found the sheriff’s office empty. The old swamper told him that Hilliard wasn’t expected back until suppertime, so Chavis returned to the street, walked to his horse and rode to the Chainlink.