Every second Thursday, weather and road-agents permitting, the stagecoach between Santa Fe and Las Cruces rolled into Hanging Rock on its way south. The driver, known locally as ‘Rye’ Johnson because of his predilection for that particular brand of painkiller, cursed his team up the street shortly after two o’clock on the Thursday following the funeral of George Tate. Pulling the horses to a sweating halt in a huge cloud of dust, Johnson slammed on the long handbrake, leaped down from his perch high up on top of the coach, and threw open the door nearest to the boardwalk.
‘Hangin’ Rock, an’ right on time!’ he yelled. ‘Thirty minnits stop for grub an’ a change o’ horses!’
‘Rye’ Johnson was not a man to let ceremony stand in the way of his own thirst, and so, without another word, he left his passengers to unload themselves and their luggage and tramped heavily into the welcome shade of Dutchy’s, outside whose saloon the stage always stopped. The passengers began to alight from the stage with that timid reluctance mixed with relief which characterizes people who have travelled long distances in acute discomfort. The first man off was obviously a drummer, sample case clutched in his sweaty hand. He reached up to the luggage rail, pulled down his carpetbag, and followed in Rye’s dusty wake, mopping his shining brow. Behind him was a dark-suited businessman who alighted and walked briskly off down the street with every appearance of a man in town to conduct some business and then make the fastest possible departure. The usual crowd hanging around the verandah of Dutchy’s to watch the arrival of the stage wasted little time watching him, however. Their attention was fixed now upon the man getting out of the coach, which swayed beneath his solid weight. A powerfully-built man, dressed in somber black relieved only by the soft-collared silk shirt and flowing black tie, he might have been dismissed by a chance onlooker as a moderately successful gambler had it not been for the certain arrogance which marked his carriage. Closer inspection would have shown that his clothes, though dusty, were of the finest broadcloth, and that his boots, even beneath the film of desert grit, shone dully with the sheen that many polishings will impart only to fine leather. The man’s face was floridly handsome, with only a hint of weakness about the mouth to indicate that, if this ’man had money, it might not always be wisely spent. All in all, he gave the appearance of wealth and power combined with a forcefulness which was enhanced by his sheer size. His dark-browed face was now, however, smiling fulsomely for the benefit of a small, pretty blonde girl to whom he had turned in order to help gallantly from the stagecoach. She looked to be in her early twenties, and her smile, as she thanked the big man, made slaves of the bystanders in an instant.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling, ‘for all your kindness. It would have been a dull journey without your company, Mr. Barclay.’
‘Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Tate,’ replied Barclay with a deep bow. ‘I’m hoping you’ll call me Zack, an’ that I’ll see a lot more of yu while yo’re here.’
The girl flushed slightly at the eager warmth in the big man’s voice, a pleasant sight which Barclay missed completely having turned to a bystander. Snapping his fingers he rapped, ‘You! Take the lady’s bags across to the hotel!’ The habit of commanding and of instant obedience being its effect were natural to this man, and had it been another to whom he had spoken, no doubt his command would have been as naturally obeyed.
Unfortunately for Barclay, however, the man he addressed so contemptuously was none other than the ramrod of the Slash 8, who had ridden into town with Dave Haynes upon receiving Grace Tate’s telegraphic communication that she would be arriving on the stage. Barclay was apprised of his mistake when a cold voice cut in upon his gallant attentions towards the young woman.
‘Yu may think yo’re king- o’ the valley, mister, but I ain’t one o’ yore serfs!’
Barclay wheeled in amazement upon hearing this cutting remark, and, since he had never seen Sudden before, ejaculated, ‘Who the devil are yu?’
‘Well, I’ll give you a hint: I ain’t one o’ yore admirers,’ came the reply. Without another word, the Slash 8 man shouldered past Barclay and presented himself, hat in hand, to the young woman.
‘Ma’am, my name’s Jim Green. I’m runnin’ the Slash 8. I brung out a buckboard to take yu back to the ranch as soon as yo’re ready, but I figgered yu’d probably want to eat first, an’ freshen up some, so I made arrangements at the hotel.’ He pointed with his chin across the street, and finished with a smile, ‘Anyway, yu call the shots.’
Grace Tate regarded him coolly for a long moment, and then over his shoulder caught sight of the smoldering visage of Zachary Barclay, who looked as though at any moment he might erupt into violence. Not wishing to commence her acquaintance with Hanging Rock by being involved in a street brawl, Grace Tate sought to pour oil on the waters by laying a hand on Sudden’s arm and saying, ‘Thank you, Mr. Green, but I did promise Mr. Barclay that we would lunch together. Perhaps you would call for me later at the hotel?’
‘Why, shore, ma’am.’ Sudden was puzzled by the coolness of the girl’s tone, and her intention to spend more time with Barclay, but he said nothing. As Sudden turned to go, Barclay thrust forward, facing him for a moment.
‘So yo’re Green,’ he said, rocking a little on his heels. ‘I’ve heard of yu.’
‘That makes us even,’ replied the cowboy. The flat tone did nothing to soothe Barclay’s ruffled feelings, and as Sudden made again to walk away, the rancher laid a detaining hand on Sudden’s arm.
‘Just a minute, you!’ he snapped.
‘Take yore paw off me,’ warned Sudden, and the ice in his voice made Barclay snatch away his hand as if the cowboy’s arm had suddenly produced a charge of electricity. Involuntarily, he backed away from the wicked gaze that the Slash 8 man bent upon him, and before he could gather his wits to say something, Sudden had pushed through the crowd and into Dutchy’s saloon.
For a moment, the watchers thought that the big man might have an apoplectic fit, so suffused with rage did his face become. The huge frame shook with suppressed rage. The drummer who had arrived on the stage watched this performance through the window of the saloon, and turning to another watcher, remarked, ‘I’d guess that yon gent ain’t too used to being spoken to thataway.’
‘Yu ain’t whistlin’ Dixie,’ grunted the man. ‘That there’s Zack Barclay, an’ mostly around here, when he says “Jump, frog!” every toad in three counties twitches. Mark the day, pilgrim: it ain’t often yu’ll see someone talk like that to Zack Barclay an’ walk away in one piece?
The drummer gazed reflectively at the width of Zack Barclay’s shoulders as the Box B man escorted Grace Tate across the dusty street to the Traveler’s Rest. ‘I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with him,’ he breathed.
‘Don’t yu—ever!’ was the salty advice. ‘If I was that feller Green, I’d be takin’ out some life insurance.’
The drummer’s gaze now swung towards the ramrod of the Slash 8, who was leaning against the bar talking quietly with Dave Haynes and Dutchy. Noting the two low-tied guns, the slim hips, the broad shoulders and whipcord build of the man, the drummer shook his head.
‘Now what?’ asked his neighbor.
The drummer nodded towards where Sudden stood. ‘Just thinkin’,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to tangle with him, neither.’
Later that afternoon, Dave and Sudden dismounted in front of the hotel and walked into the neat hallway, where a small handbell stood on a counter. Dave lifted the bell and its tinkle elicited a response from the rear of the house, where an Irish brogue shrilled the news that Mrs. Mulvaney was on her way out, indeed.
‘David,’ she beamed, when she saw her visitors. ‘Shure an’ you’ve been neglectin’ me lately. Why didn’t you come in for lunch?’
‘He kinda lost his appetite, ma’am,’ suggested Green.
‘An’ we’ve had our troubles, Mrs. M.,’ added Dave.
The good lady’s face saddened. ‘Shure an’ it’s sad I was to hear of George Tate’s murder,’ she told them. ‘Twas a sad day for this town when that happened.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Nor did I think I’d live to see the day when a Tate broke bread with a Barclay—beggin’ your pardon, David, an’ that of your friend.' She looked inquiringly at Dave, who hastened to introduce Sudden.
‘This yere plug—ugly derelict’s named Jim Green, Mrs. M.,’
Dave told the landlady. ‘He claims to be neighbor ramroddin’ the Slash 8, but I give yu fair warnin’—cards make him reckless, liquor drives him mad, an’ if yu give him credit he’ll leave town the next mornin’
‘Right,’ snapped the widow, with mock severity, ‘I’ll treat him just the same as the rest of you Slash 8 boys an’ it’s not far wrong I’ll be goin’.’
They shook hands warmly; by this time, Sudden had divined that the widow’s attitude was often the direct opposite of her true feelings, and he said, ‘Shure an’ I’ll pay cash-on the barrel-head iv’ry time, mum.’
Mrs. Mulvaney smiled at his attempt to reproduce her Galway brogue.
‘Och, a lovely lad, David. .Puts me fair in mind of the late Mr. M., God rest his soul. But you didn’t come here to chatter to an old woman. I’ll call your Miss Tate the now.’
She bustled away into the rear, leaving the two men exchanging glances of amusement. A few moments later, Grace Tate appeared in the doorway of the hotel dining room, Zachary Barclay close behind her. Bidding her goodbye, the big man bent low over her hand and murmured something.
‘Thank you again, Mr. Barclay,’ Grace Tate said. ‘You have been most kind and helpful, and I shall not forget it.’
With a ferocious glare at the two Slash 8 men, Barclay pushed past and went out into the street. Grace Tate came forward and held out her hand to Dave.
‘You must be David Haynes,’ she exclaimed. ‘My father wrote so much about everyone at the ranch that I feel I know you already.’
Dave’s honest face grew fiery red, and he mumbled something as he took her hand and shook it as though it might bite. Grace Tate then half-turned to face Sudden.
‘And you are James Green. I am told that you are a gun-fighter, Mr. Green.’ Sudden, who had not missed the fact that Grace Tate had not extended her hand to him, shrugged, regarding her quizzically.
‘I’d say that would depend on who was tellin’, yu, Ma’am,’ he said quietly.
The girl lost her poise for a moment, then, regaining control, said, ‘I do not imagine, on the basis of what I have heard, that your association with the Slash 8 will continue much longer, Mr. Green.’
To this Sudden made no reply, but Dave stared at the girl dumbfoundedly.
‘Yu—yu can’t mean that, ma’am?’ he managed to say.
‘I both can and do,’ asserted Grace Tate.
‘But Jim here—’ began Dave, when the girl cut off his protests by saying, ‘We can discuss it later at the ranch. I would like to go there immediately if that is possible. I have been informed about the situation in the valley, and of the circumstances of my father’s death. I don’t want your sympathy—’
She held up her hand as Dave opened his mouth. ‘I’ve been prepared for the possibility of my father’s death for some time.
Now it has happened. I never could understand what made him think that a country like this was worth living in, much less dying for. The only thing I regret is that I was not here for the funeral.’
‘I’m surprised yu got here this quick,’ Sudden remarked.
‘So am I,’ was the cold reply. ‘Communications in this God-forsaken land seem to be even more primitive than I remember. However, my main reason for being here is to put an end to all this trouble over Sweetwater Valley.’
‘How yu proposin’ to do that, ma’am?’ asked Dave, with some wonder in his voice.
‘I intend to sell the ranch, of course—as soon as I can arrange it.’
Dave looked at the girl before him like a cave man looking at a railroad engine, but before he could speak, Sudden suggested that they go and bring the buckboard so that Miss Tate could ride out to the ranch.
‘Bring a saddled horse,’ she told them. ‘I haven’t forgotten how to ride. Just give me few minutes or so to change my clothes.’
Sudden nodded, while his companion, still regarding the girl with awe, gulped noisily. Wordlessly the two men headed for the door. As soon as they were outside, Dave threw his Stetson violently to the ground and, swearing horribly the while, jumped up and down on it several times.
‘Yu shore ain’t doin’ that hat a bit o’ good,’ observed Sudden laconically.
‘Huh? … What? … Why … of all the pizen-mean, sharp-tongued, hatchet-faced, evil-eyed harpies that I ever seen, of all the . . .’
‘Take it easy,’ Sudden advised him. ‘It ain’t her fault.’
‘Ain’t her fault? Ain’t her fault? She as good as calls yu a saddle tramp, as good as fires yu, tells me she aims to sell off the ranch—’
‘She can’t,’ Sudden told him flatly. ‘Cool down?’
‘I can’t!’ fumed Dave. ‘That … woman! If they had a contest for pretty Gila Monsters, she’d come in last.’ He continued in this vein for a while, during which time his companion watched mildly, rolled a cigarette, lit it, and said nothing. Eventually, Dave quietened down somewhat, and commenced to punch his battered Stetson back into shape. Green grinned at his friend’s morose expression.
‘Aw, don’t yu worry none, Li’l Breeches,’ he told Dave. ‘Just keep in mind she’s had Barclay fillin’ her ear with pizen all the way from the capital, and he ain’t a man to let the daisies grow under his feet. I’m shore surprised he ain’t awready bought the Slash 8, Hired us all, an’ married Miss Tate into the bargain.’
Dave grinned. ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ he mumbled.
‘Shore it is. I’m bettin’ she’s got some o’ her Paw’s blood in her, which is why her dander is up. When she knows the full story, she’ll be a mighty different gal. Now why don’t you head for the livery stable an’ rustle up a hoss. I’ll meet yu over at Dutchy’s.’
Dave nodded again. ‘Jim,’ he began, ‘I’m sorry I blew my stack. Yo’re right, o’ course. I forgot Barclay. An’ now that yu mention it, she is kinda pretty, ain’t she?’
‘Not that I recall mentionin’ it,’ Sudden grinned mischievously, ‘but she is.’
He grinned hugely as Dave flushed a deep scarlet and hurried away towards the livery stable, while Sudden descended from the hotel porch to where his horse stood at the hitching rail.
‘Looks like he’s smitten, Night,’ he told the horse. ‘Or is it smote? Anyway she shore was purty, all that fire an’ ice. She shore put a name to everythin’ in the house, boy. Looks like Barclay told her that her Pa woulda done better hirin’ Jesse James.’
The black stallion bent a graceful head and nipped playfully at the foot in the stirrups.
‘Yu, too?’ grinned Sudden. ‘I shore am friendless today.’
While Sudden and Dave Haynes had been meeting the new owner of the Slash 8, Zachary Barclay had been undergoing an interview which was giving him considerably less pleasure than his stagecoach idyll with the young Grace Tate. After leaving the hotel, he had made his way directly to the bank, where Jasper de Witt was awaiting him.
‘You took your time getting here,’ was de Witt’s waspish greeting.
‘I had a piece o’ luck,’ Barclay told the banker eagerly. ‘When I was in the stage office at Santa Fé buyin’ my seat, who walks in but Tate’s girl, just arrived from New York an’ in a tearin’ hurry to get to Hangin’ Rock. I made shore she got on the same stage as I did.’
‘Grace Tate is here, hmm?’ mused de Witt. ‘Yu spent the entire journey in her company?
‘Every mile o’ the way,’ was the proud reply. ‘I shore filled her ear. Good job yu sent me word o’ how things was back here.’
‘And she swallowed it all?’ de Witt’s voice was not as enthusiastic as Barclay had hoped, but he plunged on. ‘Hook, line, and sinker,’ he boasted. ‘I just left her at the hotel. She’s already agreed with me that the best way to stop trouble is to prevent it. She told me she aims to talk to her lawyer an’ fix a price. Then she’ll sell the Slash 8 to me. I’m bettin’ we won’t have any more trouble from the Slash 8. What do yu think o’ that?’ He clapped his meaty hands on his hips and regarded his master with an air of triumph. De Witt’s expression did not alter, and Barclay’s pose gradually crumbled.
‘What … what is it?’
‘I’m just wondering how you are going to talk that Slash 8 foreman into selling, now that you’ve got the girl convinced,’ de Witt said.
‘Yu tellin’ me the girl ain’t got the right to sell?’ gasped Barclay.
‘Damned right I am,’ snapped the banker. ‘Only found out about it at the inquiry—too late to let you know. Tate made a paper leaving Green in full control until the girl is twenty one. She hasn’t got the right to cut the grass on that place without Green’s approval.’
Barclay was silent at this revelation. Another idea came to him. ‘But yu got the mortgage on the place,’ he reminded the banker. ‘Yu’ve foreclosed, ain’t yu?’
‘That’s true, but I won’t be able to if Green fulfills his deal to sell a herd in South Bend. If he does, he can pay off his debt, and we have no hold on the Slash 8.’
Barclay smiled evilly. ‘I reckon we can put a crimp in his plans.’
‘That’s what Linkham told me,’ snarled the banker. ‘He was supposed to take care of this Green fellow. Instead of which, he shot George Tate. There was no need to kill Tate-!had him over a barrel. But Green is still around. I don’t see him looking particularly worried about the fact that he’s supposed to be dead.’
‘Hell, yu can’t hold me responsible for Link’s mistakes,’ complained Barclay. ‘I wasn’t even here to make sure he done it right.’
‘He’s still your man, Zack!’ de Witt warned the rancher sharply, ‘He’d better have a good explanation ready for me when I see him.’
‘If I’d been here, things woulda been different,’ Barclay told the banker.
‘I seriously doubt that,’ came the biting reply, ‘but you’ll get your chance. In the meantime,’ he leaned forward in his chair ‘what did you find out in Kansas City?’ Barclay’s face broke into a conspiratorial leer, and he leaned forward on the desk.
‘You was right, Seth—’ he began, but stopped in sheer terror as a look of demoniac rage came into the banker’s face.
For the second time in the day, Barclay stepped back, flinching as though expecting a blow. He was a big man, and could handle himself well in rough and tumble street lighting, but the cold menace of de Witt’s gaze turned his muscles to water.
‘Damn you for a loudmouthed fool!’ screeched the banker. ‘If I ever hear you use that name again, I’ll slit out your tongue and feed you to the buzzards personally.’
Barclay stuttered and held up his hand as though to ward off a blow.
‘Hell … I didn’t even realize I’d said it … Jasper, I’m plumb sorry … it won’t happen … again. For God’s sake, Jasper. It was a slip of the tongue.’
‘Let it be the last,’ snarled de Witt, ‘Mister Barclay.’ He paused significantly on the name. ‘Your real name spoken, even in this town, would get you hanged in an hour, so never forget yourself. If you speak that name again, you will die—very slowly.’
‘Yu—yu wouldn’t,’ Barclay muttered, struggling to draw the tatters of his shattered dignity together. ‘After all I’ve done for yu .... ’
‘You have done nothing for me!’ spat de Witt. ‘I’m the one who pays the bills, hires your gunmen, owns your ranch, and buys your women, your drink, and the fancy clothes you strut around in. But I don’t need you. If you think I do, defy me.’
The cold eyes bored into Barclay’s, and the big man said nothing.
‘Remember what I tell you,’ de Witt said. ‘I shall do exactly as I please. For the moment, it pleases me to keep you around but I can change my mind.’ Then, discarding the menacing tone, he said, more cheerfully, ‘Now, once more—what did you discover in Kansas City?’
Barclay smiled like a human imitation of a cringing, beaten dog who now sees the hand of friendship once more extended.
‘Like I said,’ he told the banker eagerly, ‘yu was right. The plans are complete, and the surveyors will be movin’ along the proposed route in about a month. They should reach here in another month. They’ll start buildin’ the railr—’
‘Damn your eyes, keep your bull voice down!’ hissed de Witt. ‘Do you want to share your pickings with every derelict in Hanging Rock?’
Barclay mumbled another apology. His vain and callow soul writhed in torment under the constant lash of this inhuman leech behind the desk who continually shattered Barclay’s self-esteem. He longed to reach across the desk with his huge hands and choke the life out of that scrawny neck. But he knew, and the banker knew that he knew, he would never do it. De Witt’s hold upon him was too strong, and he knew that his evil master would have placed proofs of Barclay’s identity where they could be easily found should he be killed.
‘So.’ De Witt made a steeple of his fingers, a habit of his when he was considering a problem. ‘We have roughly six weeks to finalize all our arrangements.’ He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘You, my over-sized friend, get out of here and be ready to move whenever Green starts that herd towards South Bend. Stop the herd. Stop Green, too. Permanently, do you hear? With that authority of Tate’s he has too much power. He could wreck the whole thing. With Green gone, the girl will have no choice but to sell.’
Barclay nodded again. His face was still sullen, and his soul burned with hatred of this man, who had so mercilessly tongue-lashed him. This now-friendly tone did nothing to dispel his rage. He knew de Witt detested him. An’ it’s mutual, he thought, but what he said was, ‘Anythin’ else?’
‘Be silent,’ de Witt told him, ‘and I’ll make you rich. Remember that.’ Barclay knew that he was dismissed. Still seething, he stumbled out into the street. The hot, bright sunlight brought him back to reality after the evil gloom of the bankers office, but his tormented ego knew no peace. Zachary Barclay wanted to kill his master, but he knew that in doing so he would merely kill himself.
‘There’s one trick yu’ve overlooked, though, yu buzzard,’ he said to a mental image of a cringing de Witt. ‘An’ if I can pull it, yu’ll be finished. An’ then, by God! I’ll kill yu with my bare hands.’
But his black nature knew no peace. Hands clenching and unclenching, he prowled up the dusty street of Hanging Rock, looking for something or someone to hurt, break, or destroy. It was at this moment that his narrowed eyes descried, preparing to mount a black stallion outside Dutchy’s saloon, the ramrod of the Slash 8. Zachary Barclay lengthened his stride.