Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia did not arrive back from town until nearly noon of the following day. Their faces clearly showed that they had put in a wild night of drinking. Their eyes were bloodshot, their features bloated.
Buck English was down at the cavvy corral when they rode up. As they dismounted he sauntered over to them. Neither Layton nor Vanalia paid any attention to him. But Buck thrust his way before them, building a deft cigarette.
“Kind of late gettin’ back on the job, ain’t you, boys?” he drawled quietly.
Layton grunted, but Vanalia cursed savagely. “Who the hell wants to know?”
“I do,” snapped Buck, the chill in his eyes deepening. “I’m runnin’ this spread now. And I’m here to tell you that if you want to keep on ridin’ for this layout, you’re gonna hit the ball and earn your wages. After quittin’ time on Saturday nights, up until work time starts Monday mornin’ … your time is your own. But Jack Carleton ain’t payin’ you wages to go on sprees in the middle of the week. Don’t let it happen again. I’m tellin’ you somethin’.”
“Is that so?” sneered Vanalia. “Well, let me tell you somethin’, feller. Over past the Madrigals you mighta been hell a-wheelin’. But here you’re just a wise young jasper tryin’ to show some new authority. So I’m announcin’ it don’t get by a bit with Buzz and me.”
Buck smiled grimly. “You feel the same way about it, Layton?”
“Yeah,” growled Buzz. “I feel the same way about it.”
“Bueno. You’re both fired. Pack your war bags and hit the trail. I’ll give you a note on your time. Take it to Jack Carleton and he’ll pay you off. That’s all.”
The two recalcitrants were honestly amazed. They had had their own way about the ranch for so long that this new order of things rather knocked their feet from under them for a moment.
But their astonishment was only momentary. Vanalia cursed again and went on unsaddling. Layton followed suit.
“It’ll take a better man than you to fire us,” rasped Vanalia. “Don’t push us too far or we’ll knock the kinks outta you.”
Buck shrugged, inhaled deeply, and tossed his cigarette aside. Then he went into action like a tiger on the kill. Layton was the closest and Buck knocked him flat with the first punch. He went right on over Layton’s falling body, catapulting into the squat, powerful Vanalia with both fists pumping.
Vanalia drew his gun, but Buck was too close to him. His gun hand was knocked aside and a terrific, lifting blow caught the ranch hand squarely under the heart. Vanalia gasped and sagged, his knees bending. A flailing fist crashed home to his face, driving him still farther back—half blinding him. He tried to get some distance between himself and this human catapult—distance to swing his own powerful fists. But he never had a chance to get set. That thudding tattoo of driving punches never stopped for a second. He began to flounder unsteadily. A whistling right hook bounced off the angle of his sullen jaw and he went down, sliding through the dust on his shoulders.
A yell of warning sounded behind Buck. He whirled, just in time to see Buzz Layton lift himself on one elbow, steadying his gun for a center shot.
Buck did not have his guns on him and it looked bad. He tensed for a leap at Layton, but a big, redheaded thunderbolt beat him to it.
It was Red Scudder, who had run out of the saddle shed at the first sound of conflict. Now he was clear in the air, pouncing like a great cat. He slammed down on Layton just as the latter pulled the trigger. The bullet flicked the loose folds of Buck’s neckerchief as it passed. But then a big, freckled fist rose and fell like a club, and Layton went limp once more.
Red secured Layton’s gun and got to his feet. Buck was busy punching the cartridges from Vanalia’s weapon. This done, he walked over to Red, his hand outstretched.
“Much obliged, Red,” he said simply. “I owe you one for that.”
Red shrugged and grinned, as their hands met. “That was a dirty trick Buzz tried,” he drawled. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Besides, those two jaspers just got somethin’ that’s been comin’ to ’em for a long time. They’ve been overdue for a lickin’ for far too long.”
Buck handed Vanalia’s gun to Red. “Hang on to both those hoglegs until these jaspers are ready to leave. I’ll go look over the books and see how much time they got comin’. If they get obstreperous, peel ’em again.”
* * * * *
The foreman’s office was a tiny, end room beside the opening into the patio.
Buck had just finished figuring out the time of the two cowpunchers, when Donna Carleton stepped through the door. She was a little pale—but defiant.
“I … I saw that fight,” she announced. “Was it necessary?”
“I figured it was,” answered Buck quietly. “I fired ’em and they sorta boiled over. I had to show ’em who was boss.”
“But they had done nothing to be fired for.”
“Sorry, Miss Donna … I see it different. They was soldierin’ on your uncle. The other boys were all on the job, earnin’ their wages. Layton and Vanalia weren’t. If they’d acted reasonable when I reminded ’em of it, nothin’ would have happened. But I called ’em and they wanted a fight. They got it.”
“But you’re making the ranch shorthanded,” argued Donna, realizing plainly that her arguments were useless, and furious because of it.
“I can get some more to take their places,” Buck said. He stood up and reached for his hat. “I’m sorry you don’t like the way I’m goin’ about things. But I was sent out here to run this ranch … and I’m gonna run it.”
His teeth clicked over this last statement and Donna could not meet the level power of his eyes. She turned and went out of the room.
Buck went down to the bunkhouse.
Layton and Vanalia were ready to leave. Buck handed over their time slips.
Red Scudder was lounging in the door of the bunkhouse, the cowpunchers’ empty guns dangling in his hands. At a nod from Buck he gave them to their owners.
Pete Vanalia holstered his weapon and swung into the saddle. Then he stared down at Buck with flat, deadly eyes.
“This thing ain’t finished, English,” he said thickly through swollen lips. “Our turn will come … one of these days.”
Buck shrugged. “Life works out that way sometimes, Vanalia. But I’ll remember you promised it.”
Vanalia cursed and spurred away, Layton falling in beside him.
Red Scudder watched their disappearing figures with narrowed eyes. “I would remember, Buck … was I you,” he murmured. “I’ll say this for Pete Vanalia. He’s got nerve … and a hell of a long memory. Layton’s the weak sister of the two.”
“I judged so,” agreed Buck. “Well, looks like I got to ride to town this afternoon and pick up a couple or more hands. Think you could stand the exercise, Red?”
Red’s blue eyes gleamed. “¡Bueno! I don’t mind sayin’, I like your style, Buck.”
Their eyes met and locked.
Buck smiled slowly. “I reckon we understand each other, Red.”
* * * * *
In the back room of the Silver King Saloon a conference was in session. Four men were present, seated around a scarred table on which rested a half-filled whiskey bottle and several glasses.
Curt Daggett, a tall man with narrow shoulders and a bulging, sagging waistline, was speaking. His pale, washed-out-looking eyes were gleaming with anger and perturbation and his thin lips scarcely moved as the bitter words dripped from them.
“No question about it … we’ve been working too slow and cautious,” he declared. “Now the going will be slower and tougher than ever. It doesn’t do any good for you to try and belittle Buck English to me, Curly. That jasper didn’t get his fighting reputation on hot air and bluff.
“If you don’t think he’s a tiger … ask Buzz and Pete. I was just out front talking to ’em a few minutes ago, and Pete … though it hurts his feelings to admit it … says that English is all he’s rated to be. On top of that, he’s made a friend of Red Scudder … and Red rates a pretty tough hombre himself. So our job hasn’t gotten any simpler, not by a damned sight. Question is … what do we do?”
Monk Canole blurted into speech. His nickname aptly described him. His physical makeup was strongly simian in type. His shoulders were sloped and stooping, with long, loose hanging arms. His legs were short and bowed. His nose was flat and spreading, his eyes little and round and set deep beneath beetling brows, above which his brow was low and sharply slanting.
“You shoulda listened to me a long time ago, Daggett,” he growled. “When you’re gamblin’ for high stakes, you gotta play your cards like you mean it. You cain’t keep ’em close to your vest. We been follerin’ your plan so far, and all we’ve done is put Carleton on his guard. He’s imported the fightinest hellion I know of to run his ranch. And English knows Wolf and Curly and me. I tell you, we’ve made a mess of things. How about it, Wolf?”
“You’re right, Monk,” Wolf Slonicker said, taking in the rest of the men with his sharp eyes. “Buck English bein’ on the job sure don’t help our chances none. We shoulda struck out hard and heavy before this. Now, I dunno just what to do.”
Slonicker was tall and thin and cadaverous, with long black hair, shallow eyes, and narrow, protruding features. At the moment he was chewing nervously on a splinter of wood he had whittled from the table edge.
“Seems like English has sure got you fellows buffaloed,” Curly Whipple said, sneering. “To hear you jaspers talk you’d think he was a company of United States cavalry all by himself.”
Canole cursed. “You always was a damned fool, Whipple. You can make a lot of big talk, but in a showdown you don’t amount to much. If you had the brains of an ant, you wouldn’t try to put that hogwash over about English bein’ a soft-shelled hombre. In your heart you know better … and you know you’re scared stiff of him. You’re jest whistlin’ to keep from breakin’ down into tears. Me, I’m honest enough to admit that I’d rather tackle a nest of bobcats than I would Buck English. I’d have more chance of comin’ out alive. So unless you can talk sense, shut up!”
“Monk’s talkin’ gospel, Curt,” said Slonicker to Daggett. “I tell you, English is a tiger.”
Daggett, who had been drumming his fingers on the table, lifted his head in decision. “I’ll take your word for it, boys. Which means … English has got to be removed … the quicker the better. Got any ideas?”
For a time there was no answer. Then Canole shifted restlessly.
“Dry-gulchin’ is the best bet I know. It won’t do to try and meet him face to face and call him out. Whoever tried it would be dead … pronto … and English would still be saunterin’ along. But a Thirty-Thirty slug sifted into him from ambush ought to do the trick … providin’ the fellow who tried it didn’t miss. Besides, that way we can still cover our tracks. Jack Carleton won’t be able to lay his finger on us.”
“Sounds reasonable … and safe,” Daggett said, nodding his approval. “And with English out of the way … we’ll quit the petty larceny stuff and make some real moves. Who’s a good rifle shot?”
Canole leered. “Whipple ain’t so bad, and he seems to think that knockin’ off English wouldn’t be much of a chore. Why not elect him?”
Curly Whipple paled. He was very passably good-looking until his eyes and mouth were studied. The eyes were pale blue and shifty. His mouth was pouty and weak. His sandy hair was attractively curly and there was a pink glow beneath the tan of his face. One’s first impression of Curly Whipple was favorable—but knowing him as he really was could promptly change that.
“Why pick on me?” he protested. “I’m just a ’puncher, drawin’ wages from the S C Connected spread. You three fellows got a lot more at stake than me. No, sir … I won’t do it.”
Monk Canole’s beady eyes turned red. “I reckon, Whipple … concernin’ everythin’ I know … you will do it … if I say so.”
Whipple licked his lips, started to say something but changed his mind and nodded. “Okay, Monk,” he mumbled.
* * * * *
The first stop of Buck English and Red Scudder when they reached town was Sheriff Jack Carleton’s office. By good luck they found Carleton in.
Buck came to the point immediately and briefly. “I gave Layton and Vanalia their time, Jack.”
Carleton smiled tightly. “So I noticed, Buck. They just left here. I gave ’em their checks. Little argument, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah … some. They got hostile when I told ’em they were all done. Red and me come in to see if we could pick up a couple of riders to take their place. Got any idea where we might find any?”
Carleton nodded. “Yeah. I got a line on a couple already. Look like pretty fair hands to me. You’ll find ’em at the hotel. Names are Evans and Drake. Go and look ’em over. They suit me, if they suit you. I had a hunch you’d have trouble with Layton and Vanalia. Anythin’ else new out at the ranch?”
Buck rolled a cigarette carefully. He nodded. “What do you know about Slonicker, Canole, and Curly Whipple, Jack?”
Carleton was startled.
“Not a great deal. They’re our closest neighbors to the ranch. But they mind their business and …”
“I wonder,” broke in Buck crisply. “I wonder if they do mind their own business. How long they been here?”
“Lemme see. Somethin’ like five years for Slonicker and Canole. Whipple came in more recent. Why?”
“Five years, eh? That checks up. They must’ve come straight here from Welkin Valley and down there past the Madrigals. Well, Jack … they left Welkin Valley with an open noose waitin’ for ’em if they ever came back. Rumor had it that Whipple was connected with ’em, too. Sundown has been tellin’ me about things, and before I worry much about the Tonto Desert men, I’m gonna look the S C Connected over pretty darned careful.” Buck turned to face Scudder. “Red, it’s gettin’ late. Let’s pick up those two riders and hit the trail. So long, Jack.”
* * * * *
For some time after the two had left, Carleton sat in thought. Finally he shrugged and smiled grimly.
“I knew I wasn’t makin’ any mistake in gettin’ hold of Buck,” he muttered. “I knew Slonicker and Canole were off-color, but I sorta figured Whipple as bein’ a fairly decent sort. I reckon I better tell Donna to have nothin’ more to do with him. Buck seems pretty sure about all three of ’em.”
* * * * *
At the hotel Buck located the two riders, Slim Evans and Chuck Drake. He approved the moment he saw them. They were young fellows, but capable-looking—and square shooters if Buck knew anything about human nature. Forty and found evidently met their approval, for they rounded up their horses and rode out with Buck and Red.
Dusk caught them halfway up the mesa trail. Buck was in the lead, with Red Scudder, Evans, and Drake following in the order named. Where the trail cut around the head of a narrow, brush-choked ravine which angled downward across the flank of the mesa, Buck pulled in to breathe his horse, advising the others to do the same.
He rolled a cigarette and scratched a match, turning sideways in the saddle to shield the flame from the rising push of the night wind. As he bent his head toward the light, a lance of crimson flame spurted from the ravine, a gun bellowed in report, and some mysterious force cut the cigarette clean from his lips. At the same instant a queer, crunching spat sounded behind Buck, and Red Scudder slid from his saddle like an empty sack.