The air was cool and an early morning haze hung over the land as Dade Lockett turned onto the road that led south. He followed the not-too-well-defined tracks for a short distance, his glance appreciatively taking in the long sweeps of grassy flats and low, rolling hills, and then forsaking them, cutting directly for the cone-shaped mountain in the distance where Renzo Clark had said the town of Mule Springs lay. The road would take him there, also, he knew, but it would pursue a more roundabout route, one suited to wagons and other vehicles; he could save time and enjoy a pleasant ride by angling across country to reach the settlement.
Sitting easy in the saddle, allowing his body to flow with the motion of the chestnut, he swept the valley with a lingering gaze. Far to the right were the Peloncillo Mountains, and beyond them Arizona—and Tucson. To his left reared the Pyramid Hills, below them the range called the Animas beyond which was Mexico. He tried to recall the name of the taller mountains to the east, failed. When he had looked over the map of the area that was on the wall of a saloon in Willow Gap, up in Colorado, he had concentrated his attention on that part that would get him in Tucson by the shortest course, thus he had paid little attention to the fringe portions.
Topping out on a fairly good hill, he dropped down its opposite slope and crossed a small, fast-running creek in the cleavage between it and its neighbor. Patches of yellow and purple flowers edged its banks and in a wider section where the water flattened out to form a marsh, sunflowers and crownbeard, still in the budding stage, grew thickly. It was a fine land, Lockett thought, one a man could find easy to settle in, start a life of his own. Cattle would do well; there was ample water, a wealth of grass, and this far south the winters should not be too severe. It was not hard to understand why Grosinger and Cushman, and others like them, craved more of the land—and why the Rakers stubbornly held on against such odds to the piece that was theirs; it was prime country well worth fighting for. At least, where the Rakers were concerned, that was how it had seemed the night before. Now he was not so sure. There seemed a change in Roxie this morning, a coolness in her determination. She had said nothing that would indicate a difference in her thinking, yet he sensed that she no longer …
“You … hold it!”
At the harsh command Lockett jerked the gelding to a halt, hand going quickly to the pistol on his hip in the same instant.
“Never mind that,” the voice warned. “Be a damn’ good way to get your head blowed off!”
Dade hung motionlessly, eyes on the two men who sat their horses in a slight coulée a dozen paces away. Deep in thought he had ridden straight into them without noticing their presence. One appeared to be an ordinary cowhand, but the other, the one doing the talking, was a large, powerfully built, dark-faced individual with hard eyes and a slash for a mouth. The white-stockinged bay he rode bore a Diamond with a G suspended in its center on its hip; Dade knew at once that the rider could be no one else but John Grosinger.
“What the hell you doing here?”
Lockett settled back, sighed quietly. With matters the way they were he should have expected this, stuck to the trail. “Just riding,” he said laconically.
“Where to?” Grosinger snapped.
Dade ducked his head in the direction of a cone-shaped mountain. “Mule Springs.”
“There’s a road going there. Why ain’t you on it?”
“Figured to take a short cut.”
“Across my range. Know who I am?”
Lockett nodded, unwilling to give the rancher the satisfaction of speaking his name. Grosinger was a tough one, it was easy to see that, and he’d be a hard man to beat at anything. Temper began to stir within Dade. What sort of a chance did folks like the Rakers stand against the self-made kings such as John Grosinger? None at all.
“I’m going easy on you,” the rancher said in a patronizing tone. “I’m telling myself you just made a mistake. But it ends there. Turn that horse around and start backtracking. I want you off my range.”
“Seems you want a lot,” Dade said mildly. “Like the Raker place, for one.”
Grosinger scowled. “What about the Raker place?”
“I know you’re out to get it.”
“Sure. I can use the grass. Anyway, the country’s better off without them little two-bit, starved-out spreads.” The rancher’s eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?”
“Happened to be there last night when your sack-wearing boys rode in and shot up the place. Think maybe I winged a couple of them for you.”
Grosinger shook his head. “Wasn’t none of my outfit.”
Lockett smiled bleakly. “Didn’t much figure you’d own up to it. I can tell you you’ll just about get your way now. Clint Raker got shot and I think the girl’s about ready to give in. Sure can’t handle the ranch by herself.”
“They shouldn’t have ever started trying. They’re not cut out to do ranching.”
“Expect they could’ve made it if their pa hadn’t got himself bushwhacked. You don’t know anything about that, either, I reckon.”
“Heard about it. Hardly knew the man myself.”
Dade shrugged. “Somebody knew him,” he said pointedly.
The cowpuncher with Grosinger stirred. The rancher’s jaw tightened. “Sounds like you’re calling me a liar, mister.”
“Take it how you like,” Dade replied coolly. “I figure if the hat fits, you’ll put it on.”
“Well, it don’t, and I ain’t listening to that kind of talk. By rights I ought to turn you over to some of my boys, let them drag you off my land.”
“The same flour-sack-wearing gents you’ve got ragging the Rakers, I’ll bet.”
Grosinger swore softly, considered Lockett angrily for a long moment. Then his big shoulders lifted, fell. “I’ve got too much on my mind to let myself get all worked up by you, cowboy. But I ain’t long on patience, so best thing you can do is turn around, get back on the road. You keep cutting across my range and I won’t be responsible for what’ll happen to you.”
Abruptly the rancher wheeled the bay around and, using his spurs, struck out across the flat to a second scatter of hills to the east. The rider with him remained unmoving, his glance on Dade. “Was you smart, you’d do like he says.”
“Was I smart,” Lockett said dryly, “I’d be the President of the United States.”
The cowpuncher’s expression didn’t change. After a bit he glanced over his shoulder at Grosinger, now well in the distance—and beyond range of a pistol, Dade realized. “Reckon you can go now,” he said. “I can’t shoot him in the back from here.”
The rider roweled his horse out of the coulée and loped off in the wake of the rancher. Lockett, eyes on the pair, now dropping down into a deep swale, waited until they had vanished, and then, twisting half about on the saddle, hooked a leg on the horn, took out his sack of tobacco and fold of papers, and rolled a cigarette. Grosinger was just about as he had figured the man would be—big, arrogant, and cold as a rattlesnake. He already had a world of land, still wanted more. And once he got it, he’d still be unsatisfied. They were all alike, the Grosingers, never content, always out to get bigger and bigger regardless of actual need or who they hurt or what it cost. When the time came, when the hour was right, John Grosinger would ride roughshod over Roxie and Clint Raker and take what he wanted, regardless. That was the way men like him accomplished their end—wear down the opposition, reduce it to shreds, then move in and take over. And more the shame and sorrow, he’d get away with it because there was never anyone around to take a stand with the little people like the Rakers; they always had to go it alone—even the law, too often influenced by the politicians, usually turned its back on them.
Dade Lockett straightened himself slowly on the saddle. By God, this was one time the song was going to be different, he decided, flipping the cold cigarette into the grass. He’d gamble a few days just for the sake of seeing John Grosinger fail in his efforts to grind the Rakers underfoot. Cutting about, he doubled back over his tracks at a steady lope.