MATTHEW RUARKE PICKED up a pair of saddle horses in Washington Camp, put Leroy Hamlin on one of them and mounted the other. They rode without conversation into the hills for three hours until, just before sunset, they broke into a forest clearing and Ruarke reined in; lifting his voice in a call:
“Holliday!”
In time a big square-shouldered man walked into the clearing with a displeased expression. “You want the whole damned Territory to know my hideout?”
“Simmer down,” Ruarke said. “How else do you want me to get in here without getting shot from ambush? A man’s got to announce himself around here. Where’s your trigger-happy crew?”
“Hunting. What you want?”
“Goodfellow’s back. Did you knock down his ore train?”
“After it was smelted.”
“How much you get?”
“I ain’t no assayer,” Holliday said. “Maybe a couple thousand dollars’ worth. Nothing great.”
“It’s just practice,” Ruarke said. “Sit tight—we’ll get swinging pretty soon now. I’m just about set up.”
“Won’t be any too soon for me and the boys. Man gets restless out here in the high lonesome, nothin’ to do but bag antelopes and jackrabbits.”
Phil Mercy ate his supper in a small café and walked up-gulch, over the lip and out of town. He came upon a row of claims along the farther creek-bank, headed downhill; they all sported look-alike tarpaper shacks and hasty-built sluices. A man with a thick beard came out of one shack with a friendly smile. “Evenin’. Lookin’ for a claim?”
“Might be.”
The bearded man pointed down-gulch. “A few passable spots left down that way a mile or so, around the big bend into Antelope Gulch.”
Mercy nodded. The miner offered, “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
“Why, thanks.” Mercy followed him inside.
“My name’s Vendig—Henry Vendig.” The miner was friendly and curious; he brought a pot from the tiny stove and filled two battered tin cups with syrupy black coffee. Mercy gave his own name, and inquired, “Having luck?”
Vendig gave him a long level glance. “Maybe.” And then began asking questions. The man waxed loquacious; he was hungry for news of the outside world, as if he had to reassure himself it still existed and he could go back to it if he chose. Mercy talked awhile, finished his coffee and thanked Vendig, and left to continue down the gulch.
Calhoun finished his steak and, remembering a gambler’s instructions, walked up the gulch’s western bank until he reached the ridge-top; from here he commanded an over-all view of Mule Canyon, dotted now with lamplight and campfires. Calhoun went across the ridge afoot; he soon came upon a middle-sized clapboard house with a long galleried porch and a stone chimney. Price Goodfellow’s home. Calhoun knocked and stood before the door with a slight upward tilt to his lips.
“Well,” said Goodfellow, admitting him, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Calhoun removed his hat, uttering small talk. Catherine was across the room in a big rocker before the fire. She didn’t turn her head when he came in, and so he walked around and put his back to the fire, warming his hands behind him. Catherine looked casual and fresh in a crisp fawn-colored dress that lay tight against her hips and waist and breasts and brought out the full color of her cheeks; her face had lost its tiredness and when she spoke her voice had a renewed lift: she was young, and vitality had sprung quickly back into her. Her smile was faintly quizzical—it was characteristic of her, he had learned. She said, “You look much better, all shaved and clean.”
“I feel human,” said Calhoun, and then the three of them formed a triangle of idle conversation that was lively and full of ease. But Goodfellow was watching him with care; Goodfellow wasn’t certain whether Calhoun had it in mind to court Catherine seriously, and being uncertain, Goodfellow was not on sure ground: he didn’t yet know just what kind of man Calhoun was.
Goodfellow said, “I sent two men and a packhorse down the road to pick up that strongbox we cached. If it’s still there, of course.”
“It will be,” Calhoun said. “Ruarke knows if it disappeared, you’d go right to his door.”
“He’s not afraid of much, Ruarke.”
Calhoun said: “He’s a crook. Crooks are always afraid—always looking over their shoulders.”
Goodfellow considered it. “He’s tough—don’t mistake that. There are a number of men like him in Mule Canyon. I suppose it can’t be helped—wherever there’s a big strike, you’re bound to get undesirables among the camp followers. I’m a little worried about the possibility of road agents down here. I remember the gangs of toughs that sewed up Alder Gulch back in the ’sixties—Henry Plummer’s gang. The same kind of things could easily happen here. We’re just as isolated.”
Calhoun said, “If it happens, there’s always somebody who’ll stomach too much and break the thing up. They hanged Henry Plummer and most of his gang.” He lighted a cigarette and leaned back on the flagstone mantelpiece, pulling at the smoke. The house still smelled of newness. He said, “Maybe it won’t happen here at all.”
“Maybe it won’t,” Goodfellow agreed. “We can always hope, anyhow. Well, then, tell me—what have you decided to do?”
“I threw in on a freighting venture with a fellow named Shelby Long.”
“He used to work for me. A good, solid young man.”
“But that’s a sideline for me,” Calhoun said. “Are you a gambling man?”
“On occasion.”
“Where would you figure the best spot to set up a place?”
Catherine was watching him: she said, “So you’ve decided to go ahead with it. I hope you remember what I told you about Matthew Ruarke and his crowd. They don’t like competition.”
“I don’t figure to change any plans just to please Ruarke.”
Goodfellow said, “Build your place right at the top of the canyon. The location will give it elegance. Men will be willing to climb to get to it—and when they’re worn-out and half-drunk they’ll be able to get home by going downhill. Put it up big, where everybody can see it.”
“That’s about what I had in mind,” Calhoun said.
Goodfellow said, “Ruarke and the rest of them put up their tent-saloons and flimsy buildings down in the hollows, as if they’re hiding from something. If you want to attract the wealthy players, put up a place that looks proud.”
“Exactly.”
Goodfellow smiled. “You talk like a businessman, Calhoun.” He glanced at his daughter and there was a change in the light behind his eyes; he said abruptly, “I believe I’ll go up and have a look in on the night shift.” He shouldered into a sheepskin jacket and went out of the house.
Catherine smiled. “That means you’ve passed inspection.” She cocked her head over on one side. “I had an impulse to get up just now and kiss you.”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t have liked that.”
“I might have,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Then we’re getting somewhere.”
“No,” he said. “You still don’t see what I was talking about, do you?”
“I’ve got time to learn, I hope.”
“Maybe you do.”
She spoke with sudden anger: “I want you. What’s so wrong in that?”
He shook his head. “I can’t answer that for you.”
“All right. I’m a brazen woman. Life’s not so long we have any great deal of time to dawdle with outmoded customs. Hell, Calhoun—” she smiled, “did I startle you?”
“No,” he said softly.
“But I disappointed you—is that it? You accused me of hero-worship, didn’t you? But you’re the one who’s making an image. A sweet-talking society belle in crinoline, all manners and softness—isn’t that what you idolize?”
“I don’t know,” he drawled. “Is it?” He looked amused.
“You think I’m a spoiled brat, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “At least you’re honest about it. That’s what I like about you.”
He kept the smile on his face, but turned and went toward the door, picking up his hat. In the opening he turned to look back. Catherine had not risen. She said, “Come back when you feel like it, Sam.”
“Maybe.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he said. He put his hat on and walked down toward town, frowning, disturbed by her; he had not encountered anyone like her and his experience was unable to provide him with a quick certain answer.
He came down the main thoroughfare, zigzagging among shacks and tents, and came to a large structure which was clapboard up to shoulder-height, and tent above that. It bore a great and gaudy sign: Stacy Donovan’s Palace.
He ordered a drink and pushed himself through the crowd to a corner table, where he settled himself, sipping from the drink. Under the pitched circus-tent roof a woman sang to the accompaniment of a harsh and Jangling piano; she was hardly heard in the din of the place. The rattle of a spinning wheel came to him from a nearby roulette rig; the barker called, “Eleven, Red. Place your bets, gentlemen—place your bets.”
Calhoun turned and watched the singer. She was a handsome woman; she wore too much rouge and a dress which had no shoulders and which glittered with sequins in the lamplight.
He glanced at the door and saw Leroy Hamlin entering the saloon, and was surprised, as Leroy had left the stage at the noon junction. Leroy elbowed violently through the crowd; his roving eyes touched Calhoun and he turned his course accordingly and rammed forward, head tucked down.
Watching Leroy come up, Calhoun froze his expression into a noncommittal mask. Leroy stopped by his table and gave him a long and searching look. Calhoun said roughly, “What do you want, Leroy?”
Leroy was a little drunk. “All the way from Yuma you been making like how tough you are. I ain’t impressed, Calhoun. I figure maybe I’ll just take you apart an’ see how Goddamn tough you are inside.”
So this was it, Calhoun thought. It had been some time coming. He kept his eyes steady on Leroy and Leroy repeated, “I’m gonna take you apart,” stupidly.
“You got Ruarke’s permission, Leroy?” Calhoun said softly. His eyes mocked Leroy.
Leroy grunted. His fists clenched and opened. He grabbed Calhoun’s table and thrust it against Calhoun; Calhoun found himself bound between the table edge and his chair, backed up against the wall. Leroy’s eyes were hot and his lips pushed in and out rhythmically; he said in an animal growl, “Come out of there and give us a fight.”
Calhoun peeled his lips back from his teeth in a wicked grin, but he didn’t move. His refusal to jump infuriated Leroy. “I’ll have you,” Leroy cried—“By God I’ll have you!” Leroy flung the table aside as though it were a piece of cardboard. He fell on Calhoun in a rush, giving him no time to get up, swinging his fist toward Calhoun’s face. Calhoun jerked his head to one side; the ham-fist grazed his cheekbone, jarring him. A hot rage overcame Calhoun; his temper was always near the surface. He braced the backs of his knees against the chair and levered himself upward, ramming his head into Leroy’s belly, butting Leroy back, bending the man over. Leroy roared and stumbled. Calhoun went after him in a stiff-legged dive, all the while thinking, This is damned childish.
Leroy’s right hand looped around in a roundhouse that caught Calhoun at the angle of his jaw and dumped him flat on the floor.
The crowd was a hard-breathing circle around them. Calhoun shook his head to clear it; he saw Leroy’s boot coming at him, and rolled quickly away. Leroy cried out with pleasure as he kicked Calhoun in the back of the ribs. He raised his big foot to stamp Calhoun’s face.
Calhoun rolled over, avoiding the boot, and got to his feet. He danced away, knocking two spectators asprawl and feinted for a moment until his vision cleared; he faced Leroy constantly, and watched him constantly. He knew that with the chance, Leroy would kill him.
Squatted over, Leroy took a striding plunge, his left fist feinting, his right coming out fast—very fast. Calhoun caught it on his forearm and threw it aside; he put full strength into a blow to Leroy’s belly and felt his fist sink into a layer of dough like fat before contacting Leroy’s drum-taut muscle. The sponge of fat protected Leroy and he was not hurt by the blow.
Calhoun shifted his hips to avoid the ram of Leroy’s knee toward his crotch; he trapped both of Leroy’s arms under his elbows and rode around in a circle until Leroy used his brute power to pull free. Calhoun let go, hooked a fist against Leroy’s kidney, and backed away.
Leroy gave an impatient roar and said, “You damned leech—stand still!”
Leroy dropped his arms, leaving himself wide open, shuffling forward. Calhoun started in but Leroy, playing possum, suddenly struck out in long-reaching right and left-hand swipes. Calhoun evaded them and Leroy, off balance, stumbled forward; Calhoun caught him with a short, driving blow beneath the chin which stopped Leroy, clouded his eyes, sagged his jaw; Leroy shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog, and stood flat-footed, not turning, while Calhoun walked a quarter-circle past him. Leroy made arcs of his two long arms, waiting to catch Calhoun in a hug. Calhoun came in all the way, but at the last moment lifted his knee to his belly so that it stood between him and Leroy; and when Leroy’s arms went around him he thrust out with his upraised knee. Leroy’s grip broke. He fell back against the bar.
Calhoun stood with legs braced apart, knowing that if he let this drag on, Leroy’s overwhelming muscular power would wear him down. And so he didn’t give Leroy time to get his balance, but moved in and slammed four evenly-spaced blows at Leroy’s stomach. On the third blow he felt Leroy’s tight muscles begin to give; on the last he felt them sag under the fat and then, before Leroy could push away from the bar, Calhoun put his head down and butted Leroy.
Leroy gave. He folded at the middle and only then thought to bring his knee up into Calhoun’s face, but it was too late; Calhoun had moved out again and now swung his solid blows grimly into Leroy’s lowered face, slugging with deliberate precision.
Dazed, badly hurt, Leroy turned his face into his own shoulder for protection and pawed his way out into the open, away from the bar. One hand slipped behind him and drew a squat-bladed knife from the back of his belt. He spat blood and came forward, the knife swaying in wicked arcs, lamplight racing along its blade.
A tall man—Shelby Long—came out of the crowd of onlookers, and put his gun against Leroy’s back. “That’ll be enough, Leroy.”
Leroy kept advancing, ignoring Shelby Long. Long raised his pistol and brought it sharply against Leroy’s head. Leroy stopped and braced himself heavily, legs spraddled; he dipped his head and stared stupidly at the floor. He swung ponderously about and growled at Shelby Long, who kept his gun leveled on Leroy’s chest. Leroy stood that way for a long time and then turned, walked uncertainly to the door, and went out, the crowd making a path for him.
Shelby Long holstered his gun. He said, “Long as it was a fair fight I didn’t figure to mix in.”
“Thanks,” Calhoun said.
“Why didn’t you draw on him?”
“He didn’t have a gun.”
“Knife’s as bad as a gun, where Leroy’s concerned. He’ll carve you up at the drop of a hat.” Shelby Long went back and got Calhoun’s hat and handed it to him. The crowd murmured excitedly. The two of them went out of the saloon; outside in the darkness Shelby Long said, “Have you got a place?” Calhoun shook his head. “Well, then, come on with me.” The Texan strode off up-street, Calhoun going along, rubbing at the soreness in his knuckles.
Shelby Long took him into a one-room board shack on the edge of town. “Ain’t mine, but the previous owner took off and left it—two jumps ahead of Ruarke’s gang of claim-jumpers. Come on in.”
Long went to a pot-bellied black stove in the corner and built up a fire under the coffeepot. He said, “Let’s see that hand,” and when Calhoun held out his bruised fingers Long observed, “nothing broke.” He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Calhoun. “What did Leroy have against you?”
“It started with a run-in over cards. It’s been building up for some time.”
“Ah,” Long said. “I heard about the holdup, and the mules runnin’ off. So you were one of that bunch?”
Calhoun nodded. Shelby Long produced an old comfortable pipe and puffed strenuously on it until he had it going to his satisfaction. He set his tin cup on the shelf and stepped outside. Calhoun followed and they sat against the front of the shack, watching lights wink on and off in town; sporadically voices lifted from one quarter to another. Shelby Long said, “Leroy’s a man to watch. He’d have little trouble shooting you in the back.”
“No,” Calhoun said, massaging his fist. “Leroy’s proud of his strength. I caught him against the bar there, but if he jumps me again it will be the same way. He likes to use his hands.”
“You could be wrong,” Long observed. “Watch him.” He leaned lower in a lazy slouch and pulled quietly on his pipe, a man whose natural cheer and enthusiasm were momentarily dampened. He said, “I came up here like a lot of fellows, thinkin’ to strike it rich. But I found out soon enough I couldn’t tell raw gold from lead. So here I am, thanks to you, starting an enterprise worthy of my fine breedin’.” He chuckled and took the pipe out of his mouth. “Tomorrow I’m heading for Sonita to pick up a load of cordwood. Big start.”
“Cordwood? What for?”
“Gonna get cold up here another week or two. Ain’t much firewood hereabouts—and even if there was, the boys are too busy digging gold out of the ground and losing it across the tables. They’ll buy wood sooner than cut it. They all think they’re millionaires.”
Calhoun said, “What’s to prevent us from cutting the wood ourselves? Save you a trip and the price of cordwood.”
“Hold on,” Long said. “You’re talkin’ about manual labor.”
“I am.”
Long frowned. His pipe had gone out and he sucked it that way. Finally he grinned. “Done,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll build corrals and a woodshed up here.” He stood up and tramped back and forth; the prospect had filled him with restless enthusiasm. “I thought you were going to build a saloon?”
“I am.”