The locals crowded to the right of the big stranger were in a position to observe the dazzling speed of his draw, the seeming ease with which the long-barreled .45 left its sheath and was levelled at the bug-eyed Underfield, cocked, unwavering, lethal. Underfield froze with his awn weapon only half-drawn.
‘Take your paw away from it,’ he sourly advised Underfield. ‘Try to finish that draw—and you’re grave-bait.’
The warning was superfluous; Underfield was already releasing his grip of his gun butt. The weapon settled back in its holster. With his eyes still dilated, he spread his arms away from his sides. He licked his lips, as he assured Jim: ‘I ain’t drawin’ on you! You can’t shoot me, big feller! Everybody can see I ain’t drawin’!’
Kell rolled over, lurched to his feet and began slapping the dust from his clothes with his hat. A large proportion of the crowd lost interest now and began drifting away. The law arrived in the person of a frowning, alert eyed Sheriff Garrard. Noting the gleaming death gripped in the big man’s right fist, he came to a halt beside the horizontal Barlow and Doan.
‘All right,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s hear it.’ He raised a hand to quell the excited and disjointed babble of his would-be informants, singled out one man from the crowd. ‘Oley Danslow, I’d as soon have it from you.’
A snowy-haired local, far too aged to be concerned with exaggeration or prejudice, offered Garrard a terse description of the fracas, a masterpiece of brevity.
‘L-Bar-W boys come in. One of ’em got too close to the black cayuse. It spooked, knocked him down. He got mad. His pards tied the black and then he started in whuppin’ that critter with his lariat. Big stranger came out and beat the tar outa him. Your boy got mixed up in it, too.’ Garrard eyed his disheveled son. His expression was somewhat incredulous. He shifted his gaze to the townsfolk and said, ‘I work by the book. If anybody claims this hassle was Kell’s fault, speak up right here and now—and I’ll listen. You all know I play no favorites.’
‘That’s okay, Max,’ muttered another aged local. ‘You don’t have to prove it by us.’
‘Sheriff Garrard …’ began Emma.
‘Morning, Emma honey,’ said the sheriff, raising a hand to his Stetson.
‘Good morning,’ she frowned. ‘And you don’t have to worry about Kell. Neither he nor this gentleman …’ She indicated the big stranger, ‘were to blame.’
The residue of the crowd began dispersing. Jim uncocked and reholstered his Colt, turned and walked back to the charcoal. While he carefully examined the few weals on the gleaming black withers, Garrard frowned dubiously at his son, at the still-frozen Underfield and at the still-prone Barlow and Doan.
‘You must’ve hit these jaspers mighty hard,’ he remarked to Jim.
‘One of ’em took a lariat to the charcoal,’ muttered Jim. ‘Cruelty to any animal is something I’ve never appreciated.’
‘Emma—you all right?’ asked Garrard.
‘I suppose I can’t really claim to have been molested,’ she murmured, ‘as this gallant gentleman did no more than grip my arm.’ She stared scathingly at Underfield. ‘In any case, it seems these cowhand; have been punished enough.’
Underfield flushed to the roots of his hair, made to hurl a retort at her, then thought better of it. Barlow made a moaning sound and began the effort to get back onto his feet. So did Doan. They both spat blood and cursed luridly, until they became aware of Garrard’s presence. Jim was treated to a small demonstration, compelling proof of the sheriff’s influence on the hardcase element of Marris County.
‘The way I hear it,’ growled Garrard, ‘you three got a mite out of hand—and paid for it.’
‘Damn and blast …’ spluttered Doan.
‘That’s enough cussing, Doan. More than enough,’ chided Garrard. He jerked a thumb. ‘The three of you mount up and head back to L-Bar-W, and stay out of Delandro for the next five days.’
Jim patted the charcoal’s mane, turned to stare at Barlow. He spoke quietly, but every softly-worded syllable assailed Barlow’s ears with the impact of a thunderclap.
‘If I ever again see you within twenty-five yards of this horse, I’ll break every bone in your good-for-nothing carcass.’
Their eyes locked. Barlow glowered at him for a long moment, then mumbled something unintelligible and averted his eyes. One by one, the three hardcases trudged to their horses, untethered them and swung astride. Jim untied the lariat that had been used to secure Hank to the hitchrail. Without recoiling it, he flung it into the street; Underfield was obliged to dismount to retrieve it. He was red with rage and humiliation, but nary another word was said. Garrard stood watching until Barlow and his cronies had ridden out of sight. Then and only then did he address a query to his son. It was curt, but solicitous.
‘You all right, boy?’
And Jim Rand, a man with a keen appreciation of such things was pleased to note that the flippant young gambler replied respectfully.
‘None the worse. Thanks, Dad.’
‘Kind of a rare experience for you, eh?’ suggested his father, with the vaguest suggestion of a grin.
‘The first worthwhile thing he has done,’ said Emma, ‘in many a long month.’
Garrard’s grin faded. His weather-beaten visage seemed to cloud over, as he doffed his Stetson to the girl, turned and began retracing his steps to the law office. Half-jokingly, Kell remarked to Jim, ‘You will note that Emma doesn’t exactly approve of me.’
She ignored Kell, frowned at Jim and asked, ‘Did they badly hurt that beautiful charcoal of yours? I’m sorry there was nothing I could do to stop them—but I did try.’
‘Hank will be fine,’ Jim assured her. ‘If he could talk, I reckon he’d say he appreciates your concern.’
‘If you’re staying in Delandro awhile …’ she began. ‘Awhile,’ he nodded.
‘Then let me recommend the McDade stable,’ she offered, gesturing towards a livery stable some short distance along the street. ‘Old Mr. McDade is very fond of horses and would probably get a lot of pleasure from tending such a fine animal.’
‘Those weals could use some balm,’ opined Kell.
‘I’ll take Hank to McDade’s,’ Jim assured them. ‘But I’m the one who’ll rub on the balm. This is a one-man horse—as those hardcases learned.’
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ said Kell. He had abandoned his futile efforts to remove all the dust from his clothes. Nodding courteously to Emma of the dark-brown hair, he performed introductions. ‘Miss Emma Kittridge, permit me to present Mr. James Rand.’
‘Mr. Rand.’ She acknowledged the introduction with a brief smile. ‘Welcome to Delandro.’
‘Thank you, Miss Emma,’ said Jim. ‘My pleasure.’
‘And I guess I should apologise,’ Kell good-humoredly suggested to her, ‘for my inability to rescue you in the grand manner. You deserve the more spectacular touch, my dear Emma. I should have knocked Underfield senseless —or forced him to beg your forgiveness.’
‘Well, you made some effort,’ said Emma, without warmth. ‘I guess I should be grateful for that much.’ She nodded to Jim again. ‘Good afternoon to you, Mr. Rand.’
‘Miss Emma,’ he nodded.
She began walking downtown. As soon as she was out of earshot, Kell sadly informed the big man, ‘I admit I’m no scrapper.’
‘As the lady said,’ drawled Jim, ‘you at least made the effort.’ He untethered the black, turned him towards the livery stable. ‘And now I’d best take Hank to McDade’s, get myself settled at the hotel.’
‘Later—if you fancy a few hands of poker …’ began Kell.
‘Sure,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’
Max Garrard was seated alone in his office when, a few moments later, the pretty daughter of his senior deputy came in. There was no exchange of greetings; it wasn’t necessary. Boone Kittridge was Garrard’s closest friend. He thought of Kittridge’s daughter as his own niece. She took the chair opposite the desk, frowned moodily at the weapons on the gun-rack.
‘He was trying to be gallant, Uncle Max. He really did make the effort to protect me. I mean—I wasn’t in great need of protection, but ...’
‘But it was up to any real man,’ said Garrard, ‘to go to your aid.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘And Kell did.’
‘That’s a mercy.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Bad enough he should earn his living from a deck of cards. I can abide that, because I don’t seem to have any choice. But—if he’d stood by while some hardcase cowpoke grabbed your arm —I don’t reckon I could abide that.’
‘He’s no coward,’ she assured him. ‘He’s lazy and never as serious as he ought to be, but he’s no coward.’
‘Your folks scrimped and saved to send you east for a good education,’ he mused. ‘It was money well spent, Emma, because you’re a lady—and mighty intelligent. I did the same for Kell, and look how he ends up. Instead of studying criminology at the Bayone Institute, he takes a fancy to three card monte, faro, blackjack and poker. He comes home to Delandro and becomes a—a smart-talking tinhorn ...’
‘Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a lawman,’ said Emma.
‘He could’ve been a good lawman,’ Garrard sourly asserted. ‘Better than average-—you know what I mean? Not just a handy man in a hassle, but smart up here.’ He tapped! at his temple with a gnarled finger. ‘A detective, more than just a gunslinger with a badge.’
‘I wish there were more I could do,’ she sighed.
‘You did your best, Emma,’ he muttered. ‘I thought he’d get wise to himself after you bawled him out, after you told him you didn’t hanker to be wed to a tinhorn. Well, he didn’t, so I guess you’re better off. You can do better for yourself, and you sure deserve better than a card-playing smart aleck.’
She smiled, stared wistfully towards the table at which her father so often tinkered with firearms.
‘Maybe old friends should never play Cupid,’ she suggested. ‘You and Dad hoped Kell and I would marry, but it doesn’t always work out, does it?’
‘Your mother is like a sister to me,’ he declared. ‘Next to Kell’s mother—God rest her soul—I’ve never been as close to anybody as to you and your folks. It would’ve worked out fine, Emma, and you know it. You always did have a feeling for Kell.’
‘I still have that feeling,’ she murmured. ‘But don’t ever tell him, Uncle Max.’
‘I wish I’d arrived in time to put a stop to that ruckus,’ he said, as she rose from her chair.
‘What you mean,’ she countered, ‘is you wish you could’ve seen Kell trading punches with that roughneck. Well, he certainly didn’t distinguish himself, but let’s give credit where it’s due. He made the effort.’
‘Barlow and Doan looked like they’d tangled with a corral full of mountain lions,’ recalled the sheriff.
She frowned pensively, as she remarked, ‘It was downright frightening—the way that man Rand put them down. A girl can’t live in a cattle town and never see a street fight. I guess I’ve seen more than my share, Uncle Max, but I declare I’ve never seen the equal of what happened just now.’
‘When Rand hits ’em,’ Garrard supposed, ‘they stay hit.’
‘He’s a giant,’ she asserted.
‘Not quite,’ he grinned. ‘But I guess he’s as big a man as you’ve ever seen.’
‘Dad down at the stage depot?’ she asked, on her way to the door.
‘Escort duty—your father and Leo,’ he nodded. ‘When the stage from Denver arrives, they’ll be guarding a shipment of cash from the depot to the Midwest Bank. So long for now, Emma. I’ll see you around.’
‘Mother said to remind you it’s a whole two weeks since you’ve had supper with us,’ said Emma.
‘Tell her thanks,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll drop by and eat with you again real soon.’
Out at the headquarters of the L-Bar-W ranch, some sixty minutes later, the joint owners were interrogating three very short-tempered would-be hell-raisers much to the amusement of the chuck-boss. Barlow, Doan and Underfield had returned; Barlow and Doan still showed the marks of their run-in with the hefty newcomer.
The derisive chuck boss was the sixth member of the outfit, a brawny, unkempt individual answering to the name Red Modine. When the three hardcases returned, Modine was wielding a hammer and saw, working alterations to the chuck wagon in the broad yard fronting the clapboard ranch house. Kane Wilton and Horrie Luscombe were in conversation over by the horse corral, the latter having just ridden in from an inspection of the stock grazing in the east pasture. Wilton listened to all Luscombe had to say regarding the condition of the herd, the number of saleable steers that could be rounded up at twenty-four hours’ notice. Then, as Barlow and his cohorts brought their mounts to a halt, he began hurling queries at them. Luscombe joined in with a stream of profanity, while Modine sawed and hammered and chuckled.
‘One agin three of ’em,’ he jeered, when Barlow had finished his one-sided report of the incident. ‘All three of you couldn’t handle one proddy drifter.’
‘Damnitall, Modine,’ scowled Doan, ‘he was a giant.’
‘Strong,’ breathed Barlow. ‘Strong like an ox. It was like gettin’ hit by a rock.’
‘Anyway, we had two of ’em to tangle with,’ mumbled Underfield. ‘Kell Garrard bought in—and I sure settled his hash.’
‘The sheriff’s whelp?’ challenged the big redhead. ‘He don’t count worth a damn. A ten-year-old boy could whup that dude.’
‘You’re supposed to stay out of town for the next five days?’ demanded Wilton.
‘That’s what the sheriff said,’ nodded Doan.
‘Leave it at that,’ said Wilton firmly.
‘Yeah.’ Luscombe nodded in agreement. ‘You can afford to stay patient—till we make the other side of the Utah border.’
‘What’s that about the Utah border?’ prodded Barlow. ‘I’m still working on the plan,’ drawled Wilton. ‘When it’s all clear, when everything’s figured out, I’ll explain it to you. All I’m saying now is we’ll be headed west—after the end of the month—fifty thousand dollars richer.’