“Damn Prewett!” Red Dank growled as he mopped sweat from his brow.
Stone and Wiley sat slumped in their saddles and regarded the ramrod sullenly. For the last three hours they had worked hard to push the herd up a steep ramp to the waiting freight cars.
Buck Halliday realized that this temporary ramp was a helluva lot more crude than the one he had seen back on Tom Prewett’s land. He also realized that Dank’s surly demeanor came from realizing the same thing. He waited until the stragglers had been loaded into the last car before he went looking for Kerry Hogan. Like the others, the youngster looked done in.
Halliday said, “We should be heading back to town now. There’s usually free time after a drive like this.”
Hogan said nothing for a moment. He waited until Stone, Dank and Wiley went past him to join the bulk of the men before he mumbled, “The sooner some of ’em get likker in them, the sooner some tongues might start to wag.”
He then threw Halliday a guarded look before he rode into the shade of a clump of trees at the side of the tracks.
Almost immediately, Dank announced that Jude Cowley was giving them two days off in town for all those who wanted it. There was a mumbled response to this announcement, then the bulk of the men rode away. Halliday put his horse back along the tracks at a slow walk, content to keep his own company, but looking forward to some time off. As he rode, he had a nagging feeling, the source of which he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Reaching the high country fifteen minutes later, he drew rein and checked the terrain behind him. He made out the dust cloud sent up by most of the Cowley crew as they headed for town. Then he saw a lone rider he took to be Kerry Hogan, trailing them. Far to the west was more dust which closer study identified as three riders heading away from the town trail. He sat his horse, confident that the shade concealed him as he watched the trio break into a gallop as they passed the border of Tom Prewett’s land.
Halliday scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and toyed with the idea of following the trio, certain they were Dank and his friends, the last to leave the railhead camp. But what could he gain by doing that? Finally, he decided to head for town.
It was a hot ride and he was glad to see the town before him just as sundown was closing in. He rode down a back street and left his horse at the livery, then he doused his face at the stable’s trough. Satisfied that he was as presentable as he needed to be, he went into the saloon by the back door.
The Cowley hands were bunched together at the card tables. Most threw him a disinterested glance and continued with their talking, so Halliday went to the counter and ordered a drink from the barkeep.
Within a half-hour, the saloon was filled with locals who had finished work for the day. The general conversation was limited to the weather and the opening up of large slices of new land to the west, with an occasional mention of Jude Cowley, who was expected to take a leading hand in the venture. But though he scarcely bothered to follow the trend of the talk, Halliday soon realized that Cowley was considered the most influential person in town.
Then Kerry Hogan entered the saloon, dusty and weary. Halliday decided that drinking on his own was getting him nowhere, so he picked up his bottle and joined the youngster, who merely gave a grunt in greeting.
A drink later, Tom Prewett came charging into the room.
He stopped just inside the batwings, gave the whole saloon a searching look, then hitched up his gunbelt and approached Halliday’s table.
The youngster, who had earlier had his back to the swing doors, turned slowly then frowned, instinctively reading into the settling silence that trouble for somebody was in the air.
He saw Tom Prewett just as the glaring rancher pushed him in the back and stood over him.
“What the damn hell was that for?” Hogan growled. “I’m warnin’ you to—”
“You snivelin’ little backstabber!” Prewett ranted. “I shouldn’t waste words on your kind. I should just tear you apart and have done with it.”
Hogan got to his feet but Prewett grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down again. The youngster let out a yelp as he was slammed back into his seat, hurting his back. Halliday stood up, watching Prewett carefully, remembering his first impression of the man and deciding that a man like that didn’t go off half-cocked without a reason. Then Hogan swung a wild punch and the big rancher caught the fist in a work-hardened hand and held it.
The youngster let out a grunt and tried to throw a left, but the pressure on his right fist saw him sink slowly to his knees. Out of his seat and on his knees, his fist still crushed in Prewett’s vise-like grip, Hogan looked up, wide-eyed.
“What’d I do?”
“You sold me out, you no-good little runt! In fact, you sold out the whole range.”
“That ain’t so!” Hogan cried. “I never sold out anybody in my life. You’ve got it all wrong.”
Prewett pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket, pushed it under Hogan’s nose and barked;
“That ain’t your signature?”
Sweat lined his face and his jaw muscles bulged, the veins of his neck standing out against the grime on his neck.
Kerry Hogan scanned the piece of paper under his nose.
Halliday realized then that he was stalling for time. Guilt was unmistakably etched in the young man’s face.
“Is it your signature?” Prewett demanded. “No lies now. I can easily check it out. If it’s yours, damn your hide, you’ve betrayed your father and brother, who backed me to the hilt in holding onto that section of the land we shared. You knew the agreement I had with your pa. We swore to hold out, together, no matter what, and to hang onto what little we had.”
“Pa and Larry are dead, Tom. You know that.”
“I heard, but I was told you were checking things out, as I knew you would. I figured you’d honor your pa’s word to me, and continue the fight as if he was still alive while you found out who killed them and why. But you let him down, boy. You sold out to the first bidder.”
The youngster bit his lip hard and suddenly wrenched his hand away. Tom Prewett made no attempt to keep him from getting to his feet, but his bulky form blocked his way to the doors.
The youngster shook his head while stealing glances about him to see what effect the rancher’s accusations were having on Halliday and the rest of the saloon’s patrons. Halliday saw Hollis making use of the lull in trade to wipe down his counter, and the Cowley crew still stayed together, not a man drinking. The rest of the patrons were only interested in leaving the room.
“Maybe this isn’t the place to talk this out, Prewett,” Halliday said.
Tom Prewett seemed to notice him for the first time. He swung angrily on Halliday and his lips curled back in a sneer.
“You’re ridin’ for Cowley, stranger. That brands you as one of them. So stay out of this. You’ve been warned.”
“At the moment you’re buttin’ into my business, mister,” Halliday told him coolly. “I was just having a drink with young Kerry here when you interrupted us.”
“Too bad,” Prewett grunted under his breath, then he looked heavily about him before he grabbed Kerry by the shoulder again and pushed him away.
As Hogan went staggering away, Prewett drew his gun and stood with his feet planted wide, his gun trained on the youngster.
Prewett announced, “I want everybody to stay right where they are. This is business which I aim to get settled right now. Kerry, move!”
The youngster looked fearfully at him, heavy sweat running down his face. Halliday read fear in the young man’s eyes that he knew he would get the worst of this encounter. Somehow he felt obligated to intervene.
“What do you aim to do, mister?” Halliday challenged the rancher.
The question made Prewett straighten to his full height. Halliday saw the muscles of his neck bulge again. Then Prewett turned slightly and looked at him, his lips peeling back in a vicious snarl.
“I told everybody to mind their own business! That includes you!”
Halliday shook his head. “Kerry’s no match for you, mister ... with or without a gun. Every man in this room knows that. And I doubt if they’ll stand by and be witness to a massacre.”
“Nobody’s gonna interfere, I said,” Prewett said. He shook the gun to emphasize the point. “Nobody a-tall ... including you. As for the others, I doubt if there’s a man here who doesn’t know me as a fair man who takes care of his own troubles. I’m doing that now and I advise you to do the same.”
Kerry’s hands had now become fists. Halliday saw fight in the young man’s eyes, and this surprised him.
Then, suddenly, the kid made his move.
He drove his shoulder into Prewett’s side and at the same time, he brought his hand down hard to smash the gun from the rancher’s fist. Knocked back a step, Prewett let out a grunt, saw his gun hit the floor, then saw Hogan’s hand going for his gun.
Prewett stepped forward to drive his knee into Hogan’s side. The youngster buckled under the blow and his gun was jolted from his grasp. A townsman at the counter kicked the gun away as the youngster made a lunge for it.
Then a voice behind Halliday said quietly;
“Leave them be, mister. Like Tom says, it ain’t none of your business.”
Halliday glanced behind him to look straight in the eye of one of Jude Cowley’s crew. He remembered the cowboy’s name was Abe Gordon—a quiet, hard-working ranny who kept mainly to himself. Coming from a man like that, the advice meant something to Halliday. Then he heard the scuffle of boots and returned his attention to Prewett and Hogan, who were now locked in a wrestle on the floor. The townsmen formed a circle around them as they rolled toward the batwings. Cowley’s men were bunched up closer behind Abe Gordon and Halliday. When Hogan, moving fast, sidestepped Prewett and got in a solid right to the man’s left eye, Gordon pushed out a hand to restrain two of Cowley’s hands and mumbled;
“All of you keep out of this.”
“Young Kerry’s one of us,” growled a cowhand.
Gordon swung about and glared. “Didn’t strike me that you knew that a minute ago, Homer.”
Hogan kept his distance from the lumbering Prewett, clearly gaining confidence. But he was still wary of getting too close to a man who could knock him cold with just one blow.
For another minute, Hogan circled, darting in and out and throwing jabbing leads at Prewett’s head. The blows, although they brought blotches to Prewett’s skin, seemed to have little effect on the rancher. He merely followed his man, holding back his punches, waiting for an opening.
Then Hogan rushed him.
His fists beat a rapid tattoo on Prewett’s face and when Prewett stepped away, obviously hurt, Hogan made the mistake of getting in close.
Tom Prewett’s big arm swung and his huge fist exploded against Hogan’s jaw. In a blink, the fight was over. Kerry Hogan went down and rolled onto his side. He tried to rise, but all his strength had left him. He slumped full-length in the sawdust and lay still.
Prewett stood over him, breathing noisily, when the batwings opened and Sheriff Martin pushed his way into the room. Halliday had the immediate impression, mainly from Martin’s untroubled expression, that the sheriff had known all along about the fight. The lawman strode forward, shoved Prewett roughly in the chest and growled;
“Well, Tom, seems you’ve taken up like a lot of other troublemakers in this town and bucked my rules, eh?”
Prewett regarded him solidly but said nothing.
The lawman examined the unconscious youngster, his lips curled back in a sneer, then he said to two townsmen;
“Pick him up and take him down to the jailhouse. One of you stay with him till I get there with Doc Secombe.”
He then turned and confronted Prewett.
“As for you, Tom, you better come along, too. I’ve said it loud and clear too many times that I won’t stomach anybody ridin’ in here and startin’ trouble. I’ve got to answer to the citizens of this town for keepin’ the peace and you leave me no alternative but to prove to you that I mean to live up to that responsibility. Let’s go.”
Prewett frowned heavily as he stood there rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, waiting for the unconscious Hogan to be carried out.
“Kerry threw the first punch, Sheriff,” Abe Gordon said from directly behind Halliday.
The comment brought the lawman heeling about, glaring fiercely.
“How’s that?” Martin growled.
Gordon pushed past Halliday and said again;
“Kerry threw the first punch. Tom came in, and sure ’nough he was angry, but he was only runnin’ off at the mouth. Then Kerry let fly at him. Tom couldn’t do nothin’ else but protect hisself. Not a man here will say different, Sheriff, no matter who you ask. Tom didn’t start the trouble, so you cain’t hold him responsible.”
The lawman drew in a sharp breath and turned to Hollis. “What did you see, Hollis?”
Hollis glanced in Gordon’s direction, then licked his lips. “Well, Corey, it’s hard to say. Fact is, I was so busy wipin’ my counter that I didn’t—”
“You were right behind them, mister!” Gordon accused, and the color drained from the barkeep’s face.
He licked his lips again and the lawman waited, glaring at him while Prewett picked his gun up off the floor. The lawman took his eyes off Hollis long enough to watch Prewett drop the gun back into leather, then he heard Hollis say;
“Guess that’s the way it was, Abe. Young Kerry took a swing at Tom and Tom didn’t do no more but grab his fist and hold onto it. Then Kerry took another swing at him and hit him a couple times. I guess, like you say, that Kerry started it.”
The lawman drew in another ragged breath and nodded grimly at the barkeep who moved away and busied himself with his customers. Tom Prewett looked about him, then his shoulders slumped when he asked quietly;
“Guess there’s no reason to hold me now, eh, Sheriff?”
Martin fixed him with a fierce look for a moment, but after another sweeping look at the crowd, he nodded. “Okay, you can go. But next time you start trouble in this town, you’ll be lookin’ at me from the wrong side of a cell. Git!”
Prewett seemed about to argue, but then he sighed wearily, nodded his thanks to Abe Gordon, and walked out.
The lawman stayed in the saloon for only a minute longer before he walked out and trudged back to his jailhouse.
Gordon dropped some coins on the counter and turned to Halliday with a grin.
“Drink, mister?”
“Why not?”
Halliday draped himself over the counter and made a point of not looking at the man. When the drinks came, Gordon said;
“I’ve worked with you for a week and I don’t know that I’ve seen a better man handle cattle. Also, you strike me as the fair type. But don’t get involved in young Kerry’s troubles or you’ll find them too many for even you to handle.”
Halliday gave him a slight smile. “You figure that’s what I’m doin’, Abe?”
Gordon shrugged. “You did a lot of ridin’ with him, and I saw you fetch his grub a couple times. I guess you don’t know how things are ’round here. Until you do, it’s best mebbe to poke your nose somewheres else.”
Halliday’s smile broadened. “You mean don’t get mixed up in the fight between Cowley and the ranchers, Abe, is that it?”
Gordon finished his drink and said, “What fight?”
Halliday emptied his glass and bought another two whiskies. Against his better judgment, he wanted to know more about this town and about Gordon’s support of Tom Prewett. But Gordon tossed his drink down in one gulp, and then, sliding the empty back to Hollis, gave Halliday a terse nod and went on his way.
Halliday watched him go, liking the man and feeling that in Gordon was the same kind of pioneer blood that ran through Tom Prewett’s veins.
Gordon rejoined the other Cowley hands and soon a card game got underway. But Halliday was in no mood to join in. As often happened, he felt a need to be on his own. He could feel himself being dragged into trouble that he could well do without. But he wouldn’t run away from it.
He left the saloon and sought out the rooming house where he rented a room. Kicking off his boots, he stretched out and let the cramp of the week’s work leave his bones. In the morning he’d have a fresher mind with which to tackle his new problems. He closed his eyes and the faces of people wandered through his mind. The Colbert brothers of Passena; Bo Jackson and his young woman, Marianne; Jude Cowley; Sheriff Corey Martin; Kerry Hogan, Red Dank and his sidekicks, Stone and Wiley; Abe Gordon and Tom Prewett; Hollis, and all the faces of the Cowley crew. Last came the woman who had sat in Prewett’s buckboard, the pretty, worried young woman who had looked at him in such a puzzled way.
Sounds came to him from the street below—a window shutter banged shut, the clip of hoofs and the grinding of wagon wheels—familiar sounds that lulled him to sleep.