After collecting their guns from Sheriff Nolan, and also a hard-delivered warning from Garnett’s lawman, Dunc Howser and Cal Jarrett made their way down to the saloon. The pair were in need of consolation to their way of thinking. As with most of their kind they soon got to feeling sorry for themselves; it was the two of them against the world, and a hard world at that.
Slouching into the saloon the pair found an empty table. Howser lowered himself into a chair while Jarrett went to the bar for a bottle and a couple of glasses. Returning with them Jarrett dropped into a chair across from his partner. Pouring whisky into the glasses he eyed Howser’s swollen lips.
‘Figure you’ll be able to drink all right?’ he asked.
Howser scowled. He slammed his stained hat on to the tabletop. ‘You talk too much,’ he said, wincing at the pain he felt in speaking.
‘What did I say?’ Jarrett protested. ‘Huh? What’d I say?’
Howser tossed off his drink, shuddering as the whisky burned his lips. ‘Goddam!’ He dabbed his mouth with a kerchief from his pocket.
‘My chest pains me somethin’ awful,’ Jarrett murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He drank his own whisky and watched Howser tackling his second glass.
They were still nursing their wounds, and the whisky bottle, when the batwings swung open and two men came in. Howser glanced up and studied them. Eventually he recognized them. One was the cook’s louse from over at Olsen’s Boxed-O, the other was an old cowhand who was now relegated to general handyman around Olsen’s spread. Both men made their way to the bar and ordered drinks. Even in his drink-hazed state Howser was able to realize that the pair were more than a little agitated. There was, he decided, something in the wind.
He soon found out what it was. The Boxed-O pair were plainly eager to tell the tale they were carrying, and after a couple of drinks they were giving it free rein to every ear in the place.
Dunc Howser was one who received the news with more than a passing interest. The plain fact that Jim Talman was on the spot made him smile. That Talman was up against Philip Olsen’s Boxed-O added an extra twist. Boxed-O was the biggest spread in the territory, big enough and powerful enough to swamp Rocking-T and make it vanish from the face of the earth. Olsen had been after the Talman spread for a long time and now it looked as though he was making his grab. Howser could see a range war on the horizon, and it made for interesting thinking.
Reaching for the bottle Howser emptied the remaining whisky into his glass. Jarrett was sitting watching him, his face morose, and Howser suddenly grinned.
‘With Talman and Olsen at each other’s throats this piece of country is going to liven up some.’
Jarrett’s face soured even more. ‘Range wars make a lot of trouble. Hell, Dunc, best thing for us is to get out now, before the thing blows wild.’
‘Get out? Damn you, Cal, can’t you see we got us a chance to make us some money out of this.’
‘How?’
Howser’s bloodshot eyes shone suddenly. ‘I got me an idea. Just come to me.’ He shoved to his feet suddenly, jamming his hat back on. ‘Come on, Cal, get your butt off ‘n that seat.’
‘Where we goin’?’ Jarrett stumbled as the searing heat struck him as they left the saloon.
Howser grinned again. ‘Tell you all about it on the way,’ he said.
They mounted up and Howser led the way out of town. Jarrett was silent for some time, then he asked again, ‘Dunc, where we goin’?’
Howser spat into the dust. ‘Boxed-O, that’s where we’re goin’. We’re goin’ to see Olsen and he’s goin’ to give us a job.’
Jarrett’s head jerked around, and his unshaven face was puzzled. ‘Job? What kind of a job?’
‘One you’ll enjoy, Cal. You and me are goin’ to get somebody out of Olsen’s hair for good and all.’
‘Who?’
‘Figure it, Cal. Just figure who’s standing between Olsen and Rocking-T. Somebody Olsen’ll pay to have removed.’
Jarrett nodded in sudden understanding. He gave a low chuckle. ‘Jim Talman.’
‘You named it, boy.’
‘You mean a gun job, Dunc?’
‘Sure. Kill him.’ Howser eyed his partner. ‘You don’t like the idea?’
Jarrett laughed. ‘Hell, sure I like it. Best damn idea you had in a coon’s age.’
Shortly after leaving town the pair took the branch-trail that led towards Boxed-O, and they eventually rode past the stone marker that signified the beginning of Boxed-O rangeland.
It was well into the afternoon when they sighted the buildings of the Boxed-O headquarters. The place looked deserted. There were horses in the large corral, restless in the dusty heat. Apart from the animals no other living thing moved in the sun-bright ranch yard.
From where they sat their sweating mounts, Howser and Jarrett were able to see down onto the ranch complex and then beyond where, far to the north, a pall of dust filmed the air.
‘Somebody moving beef,’ Jarrett said, pointing towards the dust-cloud. He was sweating heavily about the face and neck, his dirty shirt clinging to him front and back.
‘Means there won’t be many folk home,’ Howser said. ‘If Olsen’s there that’s all we need.’
They rode down slowly, crossing the yard to rein in before the huge house. Easing in the saddle they looked the place over.
Howser tipped his hat back. ‘It’s a hell of a place,’ he said.
‘You like to told the truth,’ Jarrett agreed. ‘Man, oh, man.’
Howser was preparing to dismount when the house’s big main door opened and Philip Olsen stepped out. He came to the edge of the porch, his face hard and openly hostile.
‘What do you tramps want? A handout?’
‘Why no sir, Mr. Olsen,’ Howser said. ‘We heard about your trouble with Rocking-T, and we come to offer our services.’
Olsen was amused. ‘Tell me, Howser, just what can you offer me that I couldn’t get done myself?’
Lowering his voice Howser leaned forward. ‘If Jim Talman was out of the picture things might go easier for you. Huh?’
Olsen was silent for a moment as he considered the statement. Howser winked at Jarrett. Abruptly Olsen stepped off the porch and indicated that Howser and Jarrett should follow him. He led them over to the big main corral where they could talk without being overheard. Howser’s intimation had interested Olsen strongly. He waited while they dismounted and tied their horses.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘spit it out.’
Howser hunched his broad shoulders. ‘You want Rocking-T pretty bad don’t you, Mr. Olsen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Jim Talman won’t let it go without one hell of a fight. You’ll probably win in the end, but I’d bet it’ll cost you one way and another. Am I right?’
‘So you’ve proved you can figure things out by yourself.’ Olsen’s voice became edged with impatience. ‘Get to the point, man, I haven’t got time to waste.’
Howser let the cold words pass over him, smiling easily. ‘All right, Mr. Olsen. It’s this way. You give us the nod and we’ll have Jim Talman being measured for a pine box before you know it.’
Jim Talman dead.
The thought settled well with Philip Olsen. Without Talman Rocking-T would go under with much less fight than if he were at its head. It was Talman who held the spread together. He was the source of Rocking-T’s strength. Take him away and Rocking-T would fall apart in no time.
Olsen glanced at Howser, then at Jarrett. Pay these two enough and they would kill anyone. Their price might be high, but it would be cheap compared to what a drawn-out range war could cost him in time, money and men.
‘You keep me out of it,’ he said.
‘Easy done,’ Howser said. ‘All you got to do is to carry on as normal. Leave it to me and Cal.’
‘And your price?’
A new light shone in Howser’s eyes. He scrubbed a big fist across his jaw. ‘Three thousand apiece,’ he said. ‘Half now — half when the job’s done.’
Olsen’s face remained blank. ‘Very well.’ He paused. ‘You wouldn’t try a double-cross would you, Howser?’
‘Run off as soon as we get our hands on the money?’ Howser laughed. ‘Hell no. I know how big you are. That’s enough for me.’
‘Meet me in town, at the livery, about noon tomorrow. I’ll have your money.’ Without further talk Olsen turned and retraced his steps to the house. He heard the men he’d hired to commit murder ride out, and he felt well satisfied with the transaction that had just taken place.