It was two days later when high on a ridge, Buck Halliday looked down at the charred shell of what had once been a large ranch house.
Those two days had given him ample time for his bullet wound to mend, and he’d rested often, being in no hurry to get anywhere.
The wind was blowing through the charred remains of the building, yet he saw no ashes stirring on the wind. This told him that the fire had been some time ago and the wind of the last two or three days had already scattered the ashes.
He allowed his sorrel to come down off the ridge to the edge of what looked to be the front of the building. The remains of one step was the only thing recognizable.
He came out of the saddle and kicked the step away. Not a single puff of ash was carried away on the wind. He left the sorrel with the reins trailing and felt the ground. As he had guessed from the ridge, the fire must have occurred at least three days ago. He rose, working the cramp out of his right leg. The wound had healed better than he had expected and it no longer gave him any discomfort.
He made a brief inspection of the inside of the house and decided that nothing was to be gained by looking further. He was back at his sorrel’s side when a bullet tore a piece from the shoulder of his coat. His gun came into his hand and he went into a crouch while his eyes searched desperately for sign.
His first thought was that the ambusher had to be Bo Jackson. But then a rider broke from the timber behind the house, and a gun bucked in the man’s hand.
This shot was not as accurate as the first, and Halliday heard it whine harmlessly over his head. He punched off a shot, but before the echo of it had died, he was in the saddle and turning his sorrel away.
Two more bullets whistled close.
Aware that his position was more vulnerable than that of his attacker, he hit his sorrel into a run toward the cover of timber. Another shot followed him and then he was riding through the trees and into the shadow of early evening.
He came out of the saddle and took cover behind a broad tree trunk.
Silence had settled and there was no movement at all except the stirring of leaves over his head. In a short time, fifteen minutes at the most, it would be dark, and neither man would have the remotest chance of picking the other off.
So he waited, watching the shadows lengthen across the clearing until they met and became one wide blanket of darkness.
He returned to his sorrel, swung up and went on his way, wondering who his attacker had been but not particularly caring. After all, he was the trespasser here.
He rode well into the night, working his way up to the high country to check the trail behind him, but although the moonlight gave him ample opportunity to pick out any figure behind or ahead of him, he saw no one.
He camped at a small creek, bathed his thigh, made up a small fire and boiled some water for coffee. But no sooner had the coffee boiled than he doused the flames, walked his horse a half-mile into the high country and camped to have his coffee and a rest for the night.
Sunup found him on the trail again, still heading south.
Prepared for another day’s long, hot ride, he was suddenly surprised to find himself on the rim of a slope looking down at a town no more than a half-mile away, a town of about five hundred people, with a cluster of stores and a saloon that were clearly discernible even at this distance.
Halliday was no longer bored. A slight thrill went through him as he recalled good times spent in frontier towns just like this one, temporary friendships made, dollars in his pockets. The thought of money made him feel for his stake. He had exactly forty-three dollars—enough, if he was careful, to see him through the next two weeks and maybe into a third. He rubbed his thigh and thought that life wasn’t so bad after all, even taking into account the killing of young Jesse Colbert, the subsequent gunfight with Jesse’s brothers, then Bo Jackson and the stranger who had used him for target practice back at the house.
Halliday let his sorrel have its head, and the horse responded as if it, too, had thoughts of the comfort of a warm stable.
Within ten minutes, Halliday was in the town’s main street.
He had just read a garishly-painted sign that told him everybody was welcome at the Cattlemen’s Rest, a hundred yards uptown, when a youth stepped suddenly from an alley, a rifle in his hand.
For a moment, the youngster stood there, feet planted wide, jaw muscles working, his gaze fixed sourly on the newcomer. Then he bared his teeth and his voice chilled the air between them.
“Knew you’d come this way, damn your lousy hide!”
Halliday saw the youth’s finger tighten on the trigger. He saw, too, the raw edge of hate burn out of the boy’s narrow gaze. It was obviously too late for talking.
The first shot burned the skin on Halliday’s neck as he swayed to the side and the second bullet ricocheted off the top of the saddle pommel.
Then Halliday’s own gun was out and bucking.
The bullet took the boy in the shoulder and knocked him back against the wall of a store. The thud of contact was followed by a curse, then Halliday fired again and the boy’s rifle went spinning from his hands.
The youngster looked at the rifle, then at his bloodied fingers, then at Halliday before he dived forward. Halliday fired another shot which spurted dirt near the boy’s hand.
“Leave it, boy!”
The youngster’s face lifted, hate still etched deeply in his eyes, but now a tinge of fear was beginning to replace the hate. Yet he said stubbornly;
“Was you, all right, seen you plain. You came back for your spur. Well, I’m gonna kill you.”
“You’re not gonna kill anybody, boy,” Halliday grated. “Not while I’m holdin’ my gun on you. Now settle down and tell me why in hell you want to put holes in my hide.”
The youngster again looked at the rifle on the ground and his face went tight. He jerked his head up and said;
“You killed my pa and my brother. I seen you when you came back.”
“At that burned-out ranch house, boy?” Halliday asked.
“You know damn well, you murderer!”
Halliday shook his head and watched a crowd begin to gather on the boardwalk. He was relieved to see a big man wearing a tin star push his way to the front of the crowd, while townsmen spread out in the dusty street to get a better view. Before another minute was up, the burly lawman had taken a position midway between Halliday and the wounded youngster.
“What’s going on here?”
The sheriff studied Halliday and then his would-be killer, his round face set hard. He was a stern-looking man only a touch shorter than Halliday, but just as wide, though some of the bulk was beginning to run to fat. He wore his clothes carelessly, almost untidily, yet he looked capable of handling anything that needed his attention.
“What’s going on?” Halliday echoed. “Sheriff, I’ll be as glad as you to know the answer to that.” He pointed his gun at the youngster who had backed away to the wall and was glaring fiercely at him, his left hand pressed against his bloodied shoulder. “Maybe he can tell us both.”
The sheriff’s sour look swung back to the youth again, and he said, “Well, Kerry?”
The boy glanced around at the crowd before his gaze went back to the rifle in the dust.
“He killed my pa, Sheriff Martin. Killed Larry, too. You gotta keep outta this and give me my chance at him. Stinkin’, low-bellied back shooter shouldn’t get no help from anybody in this town.”
The lawman’s hard look returned to Halliday. For a moment he examined the newcomer carefully, and seemed unimpressed with what he saw.
“What about that, mister?”
“He’s mistaken, Sheriff,” Halliday said. “And in a big way, too. I was riding into your town and minding my own business, when I came to a burned-down ranch house. Naturally, I rode over to take a closer look to see if anybody needed help. Nobody was there. Then, as I was leaving, this young upstart started takin’ potshots at me. Not knowin’ what it was about and not overly worried since he’d had a perfect chance and missed it, I cut out and came across your town.”
“You ran, damn you!” Kerry blurted, and took a challenging step toward Halliday’s sorrel. He dropped his hand away from his shoulder and bunched his good fist in readiness for a fight, his face turning beet-red.
“I’m not in the habit of runnin’, boy,” Halliday said. “I rode away because I figured whatever was going on there was none of my business. Then I took my time in case you came after me and wanted to take things further. Seems you’ve still got me all wrong, and you’d best start gettin’ your facts straight.”
The boy’s face sharpened and Halliday sensed the deepening of his irritation.
“I got my facts straight,” the youngster snarled. “I came home and found pa and Larry dead and the place burned to the ground. There were tracks of hosses but I lost ’em down in the land below our place. So I went back and buried pa and Larry and staked myself out, waitin’.”
“For three days?” Halliday asked coolly.
The boy’s brows arched and worry rutted his brow. He stood silent for a time, clearly wrestling with his thoughts before his face brightened and he said to the lawman;
“There you are, Sheriff. He put his damned foot in it proper this time! Three days, he wants to know, which is just how long it was, me sittin’ out there, waitin’, knowin’ he’d come back—for this.”
The youngster dug a spur out of his pocket and showed it to the lawman. He took another step closer to Halliday and glared contemptuously up at him while he showed him the spur. His face brightened with excitement as he went on;
“He came back ’cause he found out this was missin’. But I had it and I knew he’d be back for it. I saw him diggin’ about for it.”
The youth suddenly lost control of himself and lunged forward, but the lawman was on his guard. He caught the boy by the shirt and pushed him away.
“Maybe you’re right, Kerry,” he said. “And maybe you’re not. Now put a tie rope on that temper of yours and bide your time. I’ll handle this. Ease down now or so help me, you’ll find out again who it is who runs this town ... and I don’t mean maybe.”
The youth moved away, still glaring at Halliday. The lawman bent down and picked up the boy’s rifle, then he turned to Halliday, his hand outstretched.
“Your gun, too, stranger,” he said. “Then we’ll get along to the jailhouse so’s you c’n answer some questions. I’d advise you to come along with me in good faith. So far I’ve nothin’ agin you and nothin’ will happen if your story holds water.”
Halliday studied the lawman for a moment, then he noticed that the crowd was moving closer. He dropped his gun into the lawman’s hand. Martin gave a nod of satisfaction, then motioned for the youth to go ahead of them. When the youngster turned without argument, Martin looked over the crowd.
“Get back to whatever you were doing before this little trouble arrived, folks. No sense in anybody in town bar me gettin’ involved. Move now.”
Halliday looked the crowd over and saw faces similar to those he had seen along every section of the frontier. Cowboys, store men, a couple of old-timers who looked like they were once prospectors or trappers, townsmen and businessmen. A couple of women had joined the crowd—the middle-aged, curious kind—born gossipers, he figured. When they all started to move away, Halliday turned his sorrel and rode beside the lawman.
It was a hundred yards back to the jailhouse which was set apart from the rest of the town by a wide, dusty, hoof-chopped alley. At its end, Halliday saw a livery stable sign hanging above the double-doored entrance to a spacious barn. He reined-up in the shade of a warped hitchrack, tied his sorrel and strode into the jailhouse in front of the sheriff and the youngster.
Once inside, he crossed to the wall and put his back to it and watched the others enter. The young man entered first, still scowling but looking less sure of himself than he had been in the street.
Martin crossed to a scarred, paper-cluttered desk and sat on the edge of it. He laid the rifle and Halliday’s gun side by side on the desktop and gave them a careful study.
Halliday saw a gleam of amusement hit the lawman’s heavily-fleshed face when he compared Halliday’s gleaming, well-oiled Colt with the boy’s old hand-me-down rifle from the Indian Wars.
The lawman drew in a ragged sigh and his face became sober. “In my town, no man takes the law into his own hands. I’m sayin’ that for the benefit of both of you. Kerry, you’ve had your say and now I want to hear from this stranger. So you keep quiet and let him speak. Your name?”
Halliday told him.
“Where’d you come from, Halliday?”
“North.”
“Your rig tells me you’re a cattleman.”
“That’s right.”
The lawman grunted and gave a couple of nods. “And you’re on the drift, huh?”
“Right again.”
“So how come you knew about the Hogan place being burned down three days ago?”
Halliday answered him just as coolly as Martin had put his question. “The wind had blown away all the ashes. I saw that from the trail in but made sure by stepping down and feeling the ground. It was cold. That’s what probably had this youngster thinking I was searching for that missing spur.”
Halliday lifted his boot and showed both men the heel.
“I don’t wear spurs, as you can see.”
“Coulda thrown the other one away, damn you, Halliday,” the boy accused, “when you couldn’t find the one you left behind. By hell, I ain’t gonna believe—”
“Spurs leave marks, boy,” Halliday interrupted. “And my boots don’t have marks and these are the only pair I’ve owned this year.”
The boy frowned down at the scuffed heel of the boot and shook his head.
“That ain’t proof,” he argued. “I seen you look about afore you rode in ... real careful like.”
“Habit,” Halliday said, and turned to Martin. “Sheriff, I made camp with a feller named Bo Jackson at a rock pool three days back. He had a lady friend with him so I cut out and let them be. I rode around for three days until I came upon that ranch house. Not wanting to get involved in any trouble, I took a careful look around until I was shot at. I hid out until I was sure my attacker had left, then I rode out until I came across your town. Now, this youngster has got me all wrong, but I’m willin’ to forget he tried to kill me if he will only admit his mistake.”
Martin acknowledged Halliday’s suggestion with a vague shrug, then shifted about on the desk’s edge to look at Kerry Hogan again. The boy was still clearly unconvinced as he stood there with hands clenched and his shirt bloodied. Yet he gave no indication that the wound which had bled so badly worried him to any degree.
“Kerry,” Martin said in a quiet tone of voice, “it seems you might have made a big mistake. Halliday’s said he was camped with another man and a woman at the time your pa’s place was torched.”
“What other man and woman, Sheriff? I don’t see nobody else here and Halliday was real careful, like I said. Everythin’ we had is gone—the hosses, the cattle, pa’s pig and—”
“You see Halliday with any of your missin’ animals, Kerry?” Martin calmly asked.
The youngster tightened his mouth and scowled. But he didn’t answer.
“Without proof, son, my advice is that you have to give Halliday the benefit of the doubt. If you want to take this any further, that would put you in the same category as any lawbreaker. Besides, you know what happens to anybody who doesn’t obey my rules. So you’d best be on your way. Get the doc to take a look at that hand and your shoulder, then go back to your place and see what can be done out there. Hard for a man to take on the chin what you just did, but there ain’t no way to turn back time.”
Kerry Hogan chewed on his bottom lip and grunted. Then he looked bleakly at Halliday again, and said, “I ain’t sayin’ it’s the end, mister. I got some more checkin’ to do. There were plenty of tracks and they led out to the same spot where you rode in. By hell, I don’t care if you got a whole bunch with you. I’m gonna check ev’rythin’ till I get the right answers. Then I’m gonna come after you, mister, and anybody else who was involved. Pa was ailin’ and Larry didn’t know how to use a gun ... not like me. They was murdered and robbed and—”
The lawman pushed himself off his desk and grasped Kerry Hogan’s good shoulder.
“No sense in gettin’ yourself all worked up again, boy. Just be on your way, huh, and be thankful that Mr. Halliday didn’t use his gun to better advantage. Doc Secombe’s in town, so go straight to his place. Then, if you get any more clues on who burned your place down, I want you to bring them in to me. I don’t want you doin’ anythin’ foolish on your own.”
The youngster pulled away from Sheriff Martin’s grip and went out to the boardwalk to inspect Halliday’s sorrel. If he’d learned anything from the inspection, he didn’t let on. Soon he disappeared down the alley.
Halliday reached for his gun, but Martin shook his head and said;
“Not so fast, mister. I’m not finished with you yet.”
“What else is there, Sheriff?” Halliday asked.
“Some advice,” the lawman said, picking up Halliday’s gun and weighing it in his hand, a glint of amusement showing in his eyes. “First, you should know what I think of you. Which is, you strike me as a man who ain’t just a drifter or a cattleman. I haven’t yet decided what you are, but you stand your ground, you don’t panic, and the way you handled this gun under pressure tells me that you ain’t no slouch with it. So maybe you ain’t just a cattleman, like you said. Seems to me that you know exactly what you want and how to go about gettin’ it.”
“I’m that easy to read, Sheriff?”
“Listen, Halliday,” Martin said coolly, “and listen good.” The lawman moved easily about the room, his big boots pounding out heavy treads on the bare boards. Finally, he drew himself up at the doorway and went on in a slow drawl, “You pack a good gun and you know how to use it. You’re built like a man who’s done his share of hard work and more. Yet you’ve also got the look of a man who likes easy living. I’m telling you now, mister—I’ll be watching you real close. I got me a good town here and it’s running just the way I like it. Don’t mess it up in any way or you’ll find out that I’m a lot tougher than I might have sounded in front of young Kerry.”
“I hear what you’re sayin’,” Halliday said, then he picked up his gunbelt and strapped it around his waist.
The lawman handed him his gun and didn’t move when Halliday strode across the room and went out onto the wide boardwalk. Then Halliday turned and held the lawman’s stare as he said;
“What I said before was the truth. I’m not lookin’ for trouble, but I wouldn’t mind findin’ some work. I’d be obliged if you’d give me a lead.”
“Plenty of work about,” was Martin’s gruff response. He said no more as Halliday went to his horse.