The livery man squinted up at Herne and let the bridle he was carrying in his left hand dangle to the floor. You was in an all-fired hurry a while back.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hungry, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Or maybe you’d come from findin’ that youngster takin’ a ride on that mill?’
That’s right.’
The old man kept looking at Herne and spat out of one side of his mouth. ‘Don’t believe in givin’ anythin’ away, do you? Least of all, your time. I re—’
‘That horse of mine ready?’
‘Since sun-up.’
‘Here’s your money.’ Herne dropped the coins into the man’s open hand and stepped past him, heading for the stall where the bay was waiting. In a couple of minutes he was leading him out, saddled up and looking well rested.
‘Did a good job,’ said Herne as he went past the small corral.
‘Course I did,’ the old man snapped back at him, peevishly. ‘Bin doin’ it long enough, ain’t I?’
Herne had one boot in the stirrup when he hesitated; the fifteen cents weighed heavy in his mind. He looped the reins over the top fence and stepped a few paces back.
‘Seems to me I’ve heard a lot of mention of a man named Drummond since I got into Powderville. That make sense to you?’
The livery man set down his bucket and turned slowly, a scowl on his largely toothless face. ‘I thought you was the one in too much of a hurry to talk, be neighborly the way decent folks would?’ And he started to turn away again.
‘Please yourself! I can—’
‘What you want to know about Drummond for?’
Herne shrugged: ‘Got curious. Folks talkin’ ’bout him like he was important or somethin’.’
‘That why you want to see him?’ The old timer pointed at Herne’s Colt. ‘You heard he’s buyin’ guns?’
‘Could be.’
‘Even after you seen what he done?’ The reedy voice was high with indignation and surprise.
‘Anybody else likely to be offerin’ me work round here?’
‘That kind of work – no.’
‘Then I guess it’s got to be Drummond I want to see. If you’re sure those were his men.’
The livery man spat down onto the wisps of straw. ‘Men! Men, d’you call ’em? Dogs, more like. Mangy, stinkin’ dogs!’
Herne reasoned that he was wasting his time and went back to where the bay was waiting. He was in the saddle when the man came limping after him. ‘You want to find him, go north of here and then fork west. All that land along the river valley, that’s Drummond’s. Circle D. Closer you get there’s so many damn signs up a blind man couldn’t miss seein’ ’em. You’ll be wastin’ your time, though. Drummond ain’t about to hire no has-beens like you!’
Herne ignored the insult; touched the horse’s flanks with his heels and moved off into the street.
At first the road was the same one he had come in on. Ten miles or so northwards, he took a fork to the left and straight off started losing height. Gradual and slow, but definite just the same. The hills on his right grew steadily higher as the grass beside the trail became richer and greener.
The sky was a cold blue, hardly smudged by any cloud: cold, blue and vast. Underneath it the prairie spread itself in all directions, alternating patches of yellow and green that were studded here and there with the darker shapes of ponderosa pine.
Now and then Herne glimpsed the tops of birch trees down to the west where they marked the bank of the river. He had been riding almost an hour on this track, taking his time and letting the horse feel its own pace, before he came across the first sign.
PRIVATE RANGE CIRCLE D RANCH
TRESPASSERS ARE HEREBY
WARNED
He was to see a great many signs before he saw anything much else. There were cattle, moving in batches of maybe two, three dozen. Black or brown with white heads that bent to the grass even as they moved. Fences. Barbed wire.
No men. No buildings. The range seemed to spread forever.
At one point Herne leaned over from his saddle and touched the barbs of the wire with his fingertips. Nine years since it had come into existence. Years in which men had learned how to milk money out of the land and had seized it with a greed that was insatiable. Years when the land had been torn apart by those who fought for a bigger share. Every ten acres meant another cow could be reared and grazed: every cow meant more dollars.
In seventy eight Herne had fought in the Lincoln County Range War. Him and others like him. A tall character with a steady head and a way of walking up on you that was quiet and deadly – Pat. Pat Garrett. Him and that kid he palled up with. That kid whose mood could change from laughing to hating inside a second. The kid who shot the heads off four or five hens and watched them run aimlessly about flapping their wings, enjoying it so much that the saliva started to drool down his face. The kid Billy Bonney. Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.
Now Herne was about to get involved again. Fighting for other men’s wealth.
He looked up and where the trail had been empty in front of him before, it was empty no longer.
The thin column snaked over the horizon and grew as it approached. The faint spray of gray that floated above it became a cloud of swirling dust. The lines of men and horses separated one from another. Not as many this time: eight riders.
The speed at which they rode made the ground shake. It was designed to strike fear into whoever they went towards; a show of strength and force.
Unafraid, Herne let the bay continue to trot forwards, wondering if the man who had led them the previous night in the saloon was with them again.
He soon picked him out. To the right of the line, at the front. There was no mistaking the nose which dominated the thin, pale face.
Herne reined in his mount and waited, the fingers of his right hand resting on his thigh, close enough to the butt of the Colt that the heel of his palm was actually against it.
He sat, unflinching, waiting for the lines of riders to come to a halt or ride on round him. They stopped.
The breath from the animals’ nostrils was warm and raw; sweat stood out on their bodies. Whoever ran the operation had to keep a big string of horses for the men to use.
‘Can’t you read?’
‘No, his eyes are failin’ him. Gettin’ old.’
Herne would have recognized the laugh which followed that remark anywhere. For an instant he was hearing it again in the saloon – the leaping body hurled back by the blast of a double-barreled shotgun. Imagining it at the mill – the fall and shake and last slow dance of the hanged man.
‘He’d damned well better have seen! Better have some damned good reason for trespassin’ on Circle D range!’
The riders were slowly moving out of line and spreading about Herne, making an arc, closing down on him. He heard the lever of a Winchester being pumped.
The man with the broken nose edged his horse nearer to Herne, less than ten feet away now. He reached up his hand and flipped the tall hat off his head so that it hung at back of him from the cord about his neck.
‘Ain’t I seen you before?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe, Hell! You was in The Cattleman’s House last night.’
‘When we caught up with them two rustlers,’ put in a young feller with a pair of new leather gloves on his hands and freckles on his fresh face.
The leader laughed: ‘You seen what happened to them, stranger. Any time you want, we can arrange the same for you.’
The laugh cut off sharply and became a snarl that was accompanied by the sound of another Winchester being levered.
‘You got five seconds to start sayin’ your piece.’
‘I’m ridin’ in to see Drummond.’
‘You’re what?’ The man glanced at those nearest to him in amusement and surprise. What in Hell’s name makes you think that Mister Drummond might want to see you?’
‘I heard he was hiring on.’
‘What?’ asked the freckle-faced kid. ‘Folks to help out back of the stables? Someone to peel potatoes for old Frenchy?’
Herne shifted his gaze slowly, letting it rest on the youngster’s face. ‘I heard he was hirin’ guns, sonny. Heard he was tired of boys and wanted men.’
The words were spat out, cold and harsh and flat like bullets. The kid jerked backwards as though he’d been hit and when he recovered he lunged forwards, his hand making for the gun at his hip.
‘Jesus!’
Herne’s Colt was in his hand before anyone realized what was happening. Body bent forward into a gunfighter’s crouch, arms spread, feet spaced apart for perfect balance. The hammer of the gun was thumbed back.
‘Jesus!’ Someone to Herne’s right repeated it again in a tone of awe and wonder.
The kid’s hand was only barely resting on the butt of his own pistol; his eyes were on Herne’s face, flickering, frightened eyes that pleaded for the man who had the drop on him not to squeeze the trigger through one more fatal fraction of space.
The broken-nosed man slapped his leg with the flat of his hand and threw back his head and hollered with laughter. Nobody else joined in or said a thing.
Herne waited for the laughter to subside, aware of the fact that although he had his Colt on the youngster there were at least two rifles out and ready.
The red spots on the man’s cheeks were redder than ever; he shifted his wiry body in the saddle and reached back for his hat, sliding it onto his head.
‘Boy, he sure got you that time! Teach you not to talk too much when you don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.’ His tone changed and his face tightened. ‘Less’n you got the speed to back it up.’
He raised a hand and pointed at Herne: ‘You, you’re lucky you picked the right one to draw on. There’s others you wouldn’t have found so easy.’
‘Maybe.’ Herne lowered the hammer with care and slipped the Colt back into his holster. He looked one way and then the other, saw two Winchesters being pushed down into their scabbards.
He guessed that it was going to be all right: for now.
‘Tell you what,’ said the leader, ‘we’ll ride back to the ranch with you. Sort of keep you company.’ He laughed once more. ‘Wouldn’t want to see you gettin’ lost. Not after goin’ to all this trouble to get here.’
His laughter was still rising above the men as they turned their mounts about and reformed. Herne rode in the middle – four men before him, four behind. It wasn’t as if they were actually taking him in as a prisoner, but it seemed mighty like it.
Herne rode in silence, looking about him thoughtfully.
You could see the ranch house from a long way off. Chimneys and a small tower were thrust up into the horizon before the sprawl of low buildings and fences that surrounded them came into sight.
From a distance it looked impressive. But from close up—
Herne took in the barns and outhouses first, noting the number of men who seemed to be about the place, all busy with one job or another. There were a large number of horses in three corrals; some, he guessed for the cowboys, the faster-looking ones for Drummond’s private army. A L-shaped single-storey building to the right seemed to be the bunkhouse, some of the planking suggesting that it had recently been repaired. Smoke drifted up from one of the two tin chimney stacks.
All this Herne marked and noted, impressed by the size and manner of the set-up. But nothing was as impressive as the ranch house itself. Herne had seen similar buildings on his rare trips back east; hotels in New York would have rivaled it. In the middle of cattle country it was difficult to ignore or forget.
The building was set squarely on the ground with a permanence which suggested that whoever built it had been thinking about the generations to come. The basic structure was of brick. The main floor was set some four feet off the cleared earth, the area below obviously being used for some kind of storage. Broad wooden steps led up onto a wide terrace which appeared to run all the way round the building. Pillars rose up along the edges of this and supported the second storey which hung out over the terrace.
High, arched doorways fitted with glass were set at intervals around the main floor. More windows, with ornamental frames, were studded about upstairs. An arched brick tower at the front was crowned by a rectangle of ornate iron work, over which flew the Circle D flag – the brand in dark blue on a white background.
The tower was flanked by a pair of high brick chimneys and more chimneys of the same design were placed on the other walls. Small trees, now bare of any but the fewest leaves, were standing at intervals in front of the terrace.
‘Somethin’, ain’t it?’ said the man just in front of Herne, turning in his saddle.
Herne nodded slowly.
‘Bet you ain’t never seen anythin’ like that before.’
Herne nodded again and moved his horse out of the line, going up front and level with the leader. ‘Do I get to see this Drummond, or what?’
The man looked at him keenly: ‘Ain’t for me to say. That’s for Mr. Drummond. But I’ll see.’
He swung his leg over and down, dropping to the ground and walking briskly up towards the steps at the front of the house. The other riders spread out, getting down to free the saddle cinches, then standing in groups to chat and smoke. Herne saw the freckled kid watching him every now and then, but paid it no mind. He hadn’t seen him in the saloon the previous night and wondered what he would have thought about the treatment meted out to two youngsters much the same age as himself.
Herne shrugged: he didn’t suppose the kid would have cared any too much. Wouldn’t have seen that the ones getting shot and hanged could as easily have been himself.
After a few moments, there was a shout from the top of the steps. ‘You’re to come up, Mr. Drummond’ll see you now.’
Herne dismounted and led his horse over to the nearest stretch of rail, tying the rein about the top pole. He automatically touched the butt of his Colt as he set off towards the house, walking slow and easy, watching everything that was going on around him.
The face with the bent nose nodded to him as they passed on the broad steps. ‘Go right on in.’
Herne turned the handle of the door to his right and stepped into a large hall with polished black floor boards and a variety of wooden and glass tables, mostly bearing ornaments or vases of dried flowers. At the center of the hall was a big iron stove, the front of which was partly open, showing the glow of burning wood. The blackened smoke stack went up towards the ceiling. Beyond it Herne could see a flight of stairs.
Alongside the stairs a door opened and a man walked quickly through and marched across the floor towards Herne.
‘You’re the one Nate told me about.’ He extended his hand and Herne shook it, noticing the firmness of the grip. ‘I’m Drummond. Samuel Alexander Drummond.’
Drummond stepped back and looked Herne up and down. He was only an inch shorter than Herne himself and looked to weigh twenty or thirty pounds more. His solid frame was encased in a three piece suit in a dark material patterned with tiny checks. He wore a white shirt with a high collar at the center of which was a large black bow-tie. He had a full growth of beard and a moustache, the ends of which came out sideways into tightly rolled strands. The hair of his beard was several shades lighter than the dark brown of the hair on his head, which was parted on the left and neatly brushed.
His eyes seemed gray, almost colorless. He looked at Herne for what seemed a long time.
‘Nate didn’t say your name.’
‘Herne. Jed Herne.’
There was no sign of recognition. If Herne’s earlier reputation as a gun hawk had come this far then it had evidently faded and been forgotten. Or maybe Drummond didn’t trouble to remember the names of such as Herne.
‘Where you from?’
Herne shrugged and looked past Drummond’s head for a second, sensing rather than seeing a movement at the half-open door by the stairs. ‘Anywhere,’ he said. ‘Everywhere.’
‘So what brings you to the Powder River?’
‘Work.’
Drummond looked Herne over once more. ‘I can’t say that I would have considered you if it hadn’t been for what Nate said about your move out on the range. He was impressed. And there are areas in which I trust his judgment.’
Drummond paused, a sudden thought striking him. He turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back across the hall. At the door he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Come in here.’
Here was Drummond’s office. The centerpiece was a walnut desk that was eight feet long by four feet wide. The top was covered by dyed leather except for a six inch border. On it were a blotter, sheets of paper, an open account book, a number of pens in a glass holder and several bottles of ink.
There were glass-fronted bookshelves all along one wall; the books themselves were large and leather-bound. On the opposite wall was a big map of the area.
Drummond stood by the map.
This is the extent of my range – north and south along the banks of the Powder River, reaching up nearly as far north as Fort Keogh, south half way to Powderville. The land to the east goes up into the hills here.’ He pointed with a well-manicured yet strong finger. ‘How many acres would you say?’
Herne ignored the abrupt brusqueness of the question, looked at the map and thought it over. ‘I’d say,’ he ventured, ‘close on five hundred thousand acres.’
Drummond laughed shortly and shook his head, moving away from the map and sitting behind his desk. ‘Six hundred and fifty thousand acres. This year we’re grazing more than thirty five thousand head. Next year it should be more.’
Herne glanced back at the map: ‘You’re takin’ over fresh land?’
Drummond tapped his fingers on the desk. That is my plan. And what I plan, I do.’
Herne looked at the gray eyes and thought that what Drummond said was almost certainly right. He wondered how successful he would have been in carrying out his plans if he hadn’t bought the support of so many hired guns. Like himself.
‘Er ... about the job. There’s—’
‘We lost a man a week or so back. Some fool thing. Unnecessary. He got himself into an argument with a farmer and didn’t have the right kind of support. I’d like to replace him.’ He looked quickly up at Herne and then at the blotter on his desk. ‘I’ll give it a try, but … but there are things you have to understand.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘My men are my responsibility. I look after them well and I expect a loyalty that is total in return. You will wear the uniform provided and take orders when they’re given. Your pay will be forty dollars a month with all meals found, ammunition, a Winchester rifle and a string of three horses. I take it that is satisfactory?’
‘Sure. Only
Drummond moved his hand across the blotter: ‘Only—’
‘You said a lot about other things, but nothin’ about duties.’
Drummond’s eyes flickered and he pushed himself up from the chair. Tour duties are simple. This range is plagued by rustlers. Rustlers and folk who think they can pull calves out of the herds and fit them up with their own brand. Do-nothings and no-goods who come out from the east thinking they can take a hundred and sixty acres of land just because some Federal official says they can. As though simply by existing they had a right to it.’
Drummond leaned forward and hammered his clenched fist down onto the desk. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this. I worked for what I’ve built up here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone ride in and take one acre from me, never mind a hundred and sixty. I’ll go further than that – no one’s taking one single blade of grass.
‘So your duties are very clear. You help to get any sniveling bastard off this land who don’t belong on it and anyone you see getting within a dozen yards of any of my stock you string him up from the nearest tree.
‘That clear enough?’
Herne coughed, nodded.
‘Good. Nate will see that you find a place in the bunk house and fit you out with gear. You can cut out some horses from the string later. That’s all.’
Herne nodded again and went out of Drummond’s office. On the way to the front door he turned his head. The woman on the stairs was tall and wearing a long green dress that fell past her feet and swelled out at the back. Her hair was combed tight to her head and parted at the center; her eyes were dark, her mouth generous. A diamond-shaped pendant hung low from her neck, resting on her bosom.
Her eyes held Herne’s for an instant and then she swung her skirt round and walked slowly up the stairs, her head and back quite erect.
Herne shut the door behind him and walked over towards the corral to find Nate.