“Do you really think he will come, Uncle Jack?”
Sheriff Jack Carleton nodded. “I reckon he will, Donna. Folks do say Buck English is kinda chary about givin’ his word to anything. But when he does give it … it’s as good as an oath. He never breaks it.”
They were in Jack Carleton’s office in Cedarville. Through the open door the sunlight glimmered in dazzling reflection from the white, powdery dust of the street. It was two hours past midday and for those entire two hours Donna Carleton had been sitting there beside her uncle, waiting for Buck English.
Donna’s face, in repose, was not in accord with the accepted standards of feminine beauty. Her mouth was too wide and her chin was too strong. But there was character there—character and strength and a certain softly brooding wisdom.
From a Spanish mother, who had died at the girl’s birth, Donna had inherited a silken crown of sleek, blue-black hair and dusky, warm coloring. From her father, who had been Jack Carleton’s elder brother, she had gotten a pair of level blue eyes and her forceful chin and mouth. She was of medium height, slender—free-limbed as a boy. Perhaps her greatest charm lay in the aura of sparkling health and well-being which surrounded her. She was the apple of her uncle’s eye.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve always heard that you would gamble on anything, Uncle Jack. But it seems to me that this idea concerning Buck English is the longest chance you ever took. To put a man of his reputation in charge of our ranch looks almost like inviting a wolf to look after some lambs.”
Jack Carleton chuckled. “You’re bound and determined to make Buck out a no-good scalawag, ain’t you, honey? Mebbe you’ll be surprised.”
“But,” argued the girl, “you’ve told me yourself that Buck English is wild … that he’s killed men … that he is liable to step beyond the law at any time. And, knowing what a stickler you are for law and order … well, it just seems queer to me.”
“I’ll grant you that I’ve said that about Buck. It’s the truth. Only … he ain’t exactly got beyond the law yet. But he’s liable to at any time. And there ain’t nothin’ I’d hate any worse than havin’ to go out and get Buck … I mean, put the cuffs on him and bring him in.” The sheriff paused briefly to shift in his chair.
“You know … Buck’s daddy used to be sheriff of this county. There never walked or breathed a squarer, finer, gamer man than Martin English. He was my friend … and your daddy’s friend. And Martin English caught and brought to justice the men who killed your daddy. Sure we both owe the English clan somethin’ for that.
“I was with Martin English when he died … from a slug that caught him in the back by a dirty rat who wasn’t fit to lick his boots. At the time Martin didn’t say so, but I know his last thought and hope was that Buck would make a worthwhile man of himself. The kid ain’t had a great deal of chance to do it yet. I admit he’s been runnin’ kinda wild. But he worshiped his daddy and his dad’s death sorta broke him all to pieces. He flew off at a tangent, you might say. I’m hopin’ to drag him back to travelin’ the safety of a straight line. The best way I know of doin’ it is to give him work and responsibility. That’s why I intend to offer him the job. And somethin’ tells me I ain’t gamblin’ a bit, either. I got a hunch the kid will make good.”
Donna smiled, before she repeated: “Kid! Kid! To hear you talk Uncle Jack, one would imagine Buck English hadn’t reached voting age yet.”
“Well, by my calculatin’ he ain’t far past it, at that,” said the sheriff, tamping tobacco into a black, stubby pipe.
Jack Carleton was a sparely built man of middle age, with a thin face and blue eyes set deep beneath shaggy brows. His somewhat thin hair was sandy in color, as was the drooping mustache that bracketed his stern mouth.
“He ain’t a day over twenty-five, if my memory serves me correct. Just a kid … a sick and sad kid.”
“Sick!” exclaimed Donna.
“Mentally sick,” confirmed the sheriff as his thoughts seemed to drift off for a few seconds. Then he nodded and continued: “See, Donna, it’s like this. Physically Buck would pass as a high-grade young tiger anywhere. Like I said … his daddy’s death broke Buck all up. It give him the wrong slant on things … made him bitter and hard … hard as flint. And when a twenty-five year ole kid gets that way … well, he’s sick. Why if he was normal for his age, he’d be laughin’ his way through life, fallin’ in and out of love at every jump, crowdin’ in on dances and parties and things of that sort.
“They tell me Buck won’t even look at a woman. He drinks a little, gambles the same, and will fight a buzz saw at the drop of the hat. He’s throwed his guns and got his man twice … in self-defense. But that’s an unhealthy life for a boy his age. I’m gonna shake him outta it or know the reason why. And I expect you to help me, honey.”
Donna’s eyebrows lifted. “How can I help? I never dreamed I’d be asked to play the part of guardian to a rapidly developing bad man.”
“Nobody is askin’ that of you. What I want you to do is just act natural with Buck … same as you do the rest of the boys around here. Accept him like he was any other nice, clean-cut youngster. Smile at him, talk with him, ride with him. I reckon that’ll take the tough edges off of him quicker than anything else.”
Sheriff Carleton stopped at the sound of a horse outside. “Well, that there must be him coming in now.”
Carleton jumped to his feet and went to the open door, where he stood waiting.
Donna was slower to get up and join her uncle. But as she leaned out around him, she caught a glimpse of a rider just jogging to a stop in front of the office. Suddenly a little panic gripped her, and Donna Carleton was not easily stampeded. She felt almost as though she was being called upon to face a wolf of some sort. To hide her agitation she walked over to the side window of the office, from which she could see the boldly jutting rim of Red Mesa, five miles to the south.
She heard her uncle call a greeting as he stepped out onto the plank walkway to which was given a deep answer in a flat, repressed voice. Boot heels clumped on the low steps and spur chains clashed musically. Donna turned slowly.
Her uncle had stepped aside and there, framed in the doorway, was a tall, wide-shouldered figure in faded blue shirt, flaring batwing chaps, and dusty, worn boots. Cartridge belts crisscrossed lean hips to end up in a pair of big, walnut-butted guns, jutting from open topped Mexican-style holsters.
A brief handclasp passed between the two men before Jack Carleton turned and waved his hand.
“Have a seat, Buck. Oh yeah … meet Donna, my niece. Donna … this is Buck English.”
The rider pulled off his hat and bowed stiffly. For a fractional second his eyes met Donna’s and the sheriff’s niece felt as though she had been shot through with icicles. She forced a smile she did not feel as she murmured an answer to his curt: “Glad to know you, Miss Carleton.”
Carleton slid a chair over to his visitor, then sat down himself.
“Buck,” said the sheriff abruptly, “I got a proposition to offer you. Things ain’t been goin’ any too well out at my Red Mesa Ranch. Sundown Sloan, who’s been roddin’ for me, is a good man. But he’s gettin’ along in years. He ain’t able to ride as much as he used to and some of the boys have been takin’ advantage of it. They ain’t hittin’ the ball like they should. Sundown come to me about it and asked for me to take the responsibility off of his shoulders and put it on a pair of younger, stronger ones. Right away I thought of you. I’d sure admire to have you take the job. How about it?”
The rider was plainly a little taken back by the abruptness of the offer. He hesitated a moment, before answering. “Why … sure … that’s mighty handsome of you, Jack … to think of me,” he said, his voice still that deep, queerly repressed tone. “It’s a royal chance for a fellow my age. But ain’t you takin’ quite a gamble? What makes you think I could handle it?”
“I knew your father,” Carleton said quietly. “You’re a lot like him in most ways, Buck. And he was the most capable man I ever knew. Also … I reckon it’d make him mighty proud, Buck … if he knew his boy was foreman of a spread like the Red Mesa Ranch.”
Buck English was still for some time. Donna covertly studied him. His face was lean and brown and looked as hard as granite. There was power in that face. It told of a man who would never vacillate between good and bad. He would either be straight as a string or something awesomely malignant. His shadowed eyes gleamed that same brilliant, cold gray—inscrutable—piercing.
There was a boyish cast to his head, heightened in effect by the slightly curly brown hair that clung close to the contours of his skull. His brow was high, the brow of a thinker. There was force, almost ruthlessness in his arched nose and tightly clipped jaw. It was the mouth that made him appear older than his years, however—bitter, slightly twisted—sardonic.
Presently he spoke again. “I can’t help wonderin’, Jack … whether you’re offerin’ me this job because you really figure I can straighten out your spread … or whether you think it’ll be the right sort of thing to keep me out of trouble.”
The sheriff smiled slightly. “Both, Buck,” he admitted. “You’re old enough to know what the kinda pace you’re goin’ always leads to. Sooner or later you step over the edge. The law was one of the most sacred things in your daddy’s existence, boy. He slaved for it … gave up his life for it in fact. He …”
“That’s right,” grated English harshly. “He gave up his life for it … for a damned cowardly law that sent him unarmed to gather in those yellow-backed snakes. Nobody knows what the law did to my dad better than I do. A bunch of whining dollar mongrels stripped him of his guns. It hurt business, they said, to have a sheriff take on the hard nuts in their ten-cent town and rock ’em off. Gun play had to stop.
“They made him go after his man with nothin’ but his bare hands. So … a coyote who wouldn’t have dared stay in the same county with him, had Dad been packing a gun … shoots him in the back, never givin’ him a ghost of a chance. So much for your law. I got nothin’ but contempt for such a law, Jack. You’ll have to use some other kind of argument.”
He was breathing hard as he finished, his lean, muscular hands clenched, his mouth more twisted and bitter than ever.
“You’ve spoke the truth, Buck,” Carleton drawled quietly, “But that don’t change the facts. Every man must have some purpose in life … some ideal that shapes his thoughts and actions. If he ain’t got it … he’s not a man. He’s a clod. Man to man, I can understand your feelin’s and I can’t blame you a lot. But it comes right down to what would have pleased your dad more than anythin’ else.” Carleton paused to let his words penetrate the son of his good friend.
“He was your ideal … and I reckon you were his pride,” he finally picked up. “You sure owe somethin’ to both them ideas. And you won’t be payin’ the debt by hellin’ around and finally runnin’ foul of the very law your dad gave his life for. It’s up to you to make your choice, Buck. I don’t know of a man who I thought more of than your dad … and I’ve always thought a lot of you. But I’m givin’ it to you straight that, if it becomes necessary, I’ll go out after you … and get you, just as quick as I would any other man. I wouldn’t want to, understand … but I’d do it just the same. For you see, Buck, I’m the same kind of a fool about the law that your dad was. Think it over.”
English did, for some time. A twisted smile gripped his lips as he looked up.
“Should I take you up on your proposition, Jack … I hope it wouldn’t be because you thought I was scared of that last threat.”
“Oh, you danged stiff-necked young chump!” exploded Carleton. “Of course not. I never saw an English that was afraid of anythin’. That’s just the trouble. If you’d get a little shaky over somethin’ once in a while, you’d be easier to handle. No, kid … I’m not tryin’ to threaten you or bully you in any way. I’m just makin’ you an offer and paradin’ some facts to prove you oughta take it.”
English drew a deep breath. “¡Bueno! I’ll do it, Jack.”
The sheriff’s thin face split in a joyous grin. The two men stood up and gripped hands.
Carleton knew the supreme success of a worthwhile victory; English the passing of futility and thwarted purpose, and the presence of something substantial in life at last. Each was richer.
“When can you go out to the ranch and take hold, Buck?” asked the sheriff.
“Soon as I can get there. I got my war bag out on my horse. Do I get it right that I can use my own methods in startin’ the wheels turnin’, Jack?”
“As long as you don’t throw a gun. Of course that shouldn’t be necessary. I reckon there’s one or two cowpunchers out there that’ll need a little tamin’. I ain’t been able to give much attention to the place. This office takes just about all my time. Donna can ride out with you and she’ll give you a better picture of conditions than I can.
“You can handle things just as though it was your own spread. You know … it’s a devil of a note when the sheriff of a county can’t even keep his own ranch runnin’ on an even keel, ain’t it? But either the ranch or the office has to be neglected and folks have been sorta demandin’ results from this here office. So you see how it is. Good luck, Buck.”
Donna had not anticipated the sudden suggestion of her uncle that she accompany Buck English out to the Red Mesa Ranch. Consequently, before she could frame an adequate excuse, the opportunity was gone.
She was a little uncertain about this lean, hard-jawed young cowpuncher, with the icy, dispassionate eyes. His presence affected her strangely. She was not exactly afraid of him, but a certain, queer, inexplicable timidity seized her, making her feel self-conscious and disturbed.
* * * * *
As they jogged out of Cedarville, Donna knew that many pairs of curious eyes followed them. A good majority of those eyes belonged to people Donna knew, and it required a distinct effort on her part to answer nods and words of recognition.
As for her companion, he seemed splendidly unconcerned. He rode in an easy slouch, his eyes straight ahead and thoughtful. That he was also recognized and the object of speculation, apparently bothered him not at all. With his horse, his gun, and his own particular brand of independence, he seemed coldly self-sufficient.
Neither of them spoke until town lay a good mile behind them. Directly ahead the blazing rim of Red Mesa was etched boldly against the sky. Already the narrow trail had taken an upward trend, a climb that would endure for five long miles and grow steeper with each foot of progress. In the end it would top that distant wild rim, to wind another eight miles back to the southwest extremity of the mesa, where the ranch lay.
Beyond that spread the Tonto Desert, a red, fiery gulf of thirsty desolation. And still farther on, almost a hundred miles away, rose the twin peaks of the Madrigals, hazy, blue, haunting with wild allure.
It was Buck who broke the silence.
“Just what seems to be the main trouble out at the ranch, Miss Carleton?” he asked quietly.
Donna, caught somewhat unaware by this abrupt breaking of the silence, stammered slightly. “Why … ah … well, I imagine it is about as Uncle Jack said. Too much slackness and indifference due to the lack of competent authority. Sundown Sloan has done his best, but, as Uncle Jack said, he is old and he cannot stand the strain of hard riding any more.
“Some of the ranch hands have taken advantage of it. They’ve been soldiering on the job more or less. Uncle Jack tried firing a few of the worst, but those he hired in their place are just as bad. And then … well, we’ve missed more stock than is reasonable to expect from accidents, inclement weather, cougars, coyotes, and other things.”
“You mean … rustlers?” demanded Buck crisply.
“Yes. You probably know what the Tonto Desert is … and the kind of men who ride it. They’ve grown bolder since age has slowed up Sundown. And you know how cowboys are about such things. Without a common leader they do lots of talking and riding without results.”
“I see,” muttered Buck. “And yet your uncle puts a proviso on this job that I don’t pull a gun. Wonder how else he expects me to handle cattle rustlers? I reckon that’s one place him and me ain’t gonna agree. There’s just one cure for rustlers … hot lead or a rope. Should the necessity arise, I reckon I’ll use my own judgment and take a chance on what he’ll say about it.”
“I don’t believe he was referring to rustlers when he asked that of you,” defended Donna spiritedly. “Uncle Jack is no fool. He knows, as well as anyone else that certain malignant sicknesses require equally malignant remedies. He was referring to the handling of the ranch within itself.”
“I savvy,” Buck said drily. “Who are your nearest neighbors?”
“Why the S C Connected adjoins our range on the east. Our ranch and theirs occupy practically all of Red Mesa.”
“Who owns the S C Connected?”
“Slonicker and Canole.”
Buck straightened in the saddle, his nostrils twitching. The color in his icy eyes deepened.
Donna, looking straight ahead, did not notice this momentary change in his attitude.
“Them two couldn’t by any chance be Wolf Slonicker and Monk Canole?”
Startled at the sudden harshness of his voice, Donna darted a swift glance at him. But Buck’s head was lowered as he licked a cigarette into shape.
“Why … yes, that is what they are called. Why? Have you known them before?”
“Yeah, I’ve knowed ’em before. They got a jasper named Curly Whipple ridin’ for ’em?”
The dark blood flooded Donna’s throat and face. She couldn’t help it. She and Curly Whipple were very good friends—very good indeed.
“Yes.” she murmured. “Curly is their foreman. Do you know him also?”
“I know him.”
The words were so flat and cold, Donna flared.
“He’s a nice boy … a good friend of mine.”
“Oh sure,” came the answering drawl, almost sardonic. “He would be. Yeah, he would be.”
Donna’s anger was swift. She had never met such a man as this. It seemed that every inflection, every tone of his voice carried some hidden meaning. And Buck’s last words concerning Curly Whipple had fairly dripped contempt.
“See here, Mister Buck English,” she stormed. “I don’t like your tone a bit. I’ve long heard of you, of your self-centered, cold-blooded contempt for every creed, every law, every tenet of good citizenship. So, no matter what my uncle may see fit to do with you, don’t presume to any scorn for my friends. Frankly, I fail to see that you are in any position to throw slurs … either spoken out or suggested … about anyone. You should sweep the dust from your own house before you notice that in someone else’s.”
Buck shrugged, saying nothing—but his eyes, as they fixed steadily on the trail ahead, grew colder and colder.