THE HOUSE McKITTRICK was using was a nondescript three-room building, part adobe and part log, set deep in the trees of a narrow gorge that ran from the Camp, near the remains of an abandoned placer diggings. A Mexican housekeeper came in once every few days to keep the place clean; he ate his meals at the Dutch Kitchen and lived alone here. Down below through the timber was a long building to house his crew. Ostensibly McKittrick was in the freight business – he operated three or four wagons on a freight run from Nogales to the camps in this area – and ostensibly McKittrick’s men were employees of that freighting concern. Actually, though, his men staked, or jumped, a good many gold claims in the surrounding hills, claims that yielded enough income to keep himself and his men in reasonable comfort while he proceeded with his campaign not only against the Pendleton mine, but against several smaller mines near the Coronado lode. He had already forced two of the small owners to quit; two or three others were, he felt, on the verge of capitulating.
He had come to Washington Camp only three months before, from a somewhat nebulous background that he chose not to discuss. He used this house in the trees only as a temporary lodging; he intended soon to move into the Pendleton house.
It was past midnight; the Camp had quieted. McKittrick walked up to his house, was about to enter it but then changed his mind and retraced his steps as far as the long bunkhouse where his crew lived. He stopped to listen at the open windows. He heard the heavy breathing of men asleep; the murmurs from those playing poker, and the more insistent conversation of two men. He recognized by their voices two men he had hired in Mexico, who went by the names of Corky and Turk.
Corky was, he remembered, a wizened little man of uncertain age with thinning gray hair, and rounded, sloping shoulders. Corky’s low, petulant whine drifted out the window: “Hell of an outfit to work for.”
Turk said, “Gettin’ paid, ain’t you?”
“Sure,” Corky said. “But who can pay me enough to send me out beatin’ the brush for a wildcat like Wes Marriner?”
“If that’s the way you feel, you’re in the wrong business. You draw gun wages, you got to take chances, Corky.”
“Maybe. Give me another pull at that bottle.” Then Corky’s voice resumed: “You know, Turk, I learned my business the wrong way.”
“How’s that?”
“Yeah.” There was a period of silence, after which Corky said, “I was a cowhand like everybody else. But it didn’t drag big enough for me. I was a kid. Got to thinkin’ maybe I’d like the idea of ridin’ a little taller than the next gent. Funny—I used to like ridin’ a rough trail when I was gettin’ paid top gun wages.”
“You don’t like it anymore?”
“I reckon I got some high-backed,” the unseen Corky said. “I reckon I was just too damn smart. No, damn it, I don’t like it anymore, but I can’t turn back. I done bad to too many people that still remember me.”
Turk made no answer. Presently Corky said, “Turk, you know how McKittrick sees us? Men like you and me are just something to use and throw away.”
A third voice cut into the conversation—Concho. “You bellyachin’ again, Corky?”
“I’m workin’ for my pay. I ain’t paid to like it.”
“Corky,” Concho told him, “you’re breedin’ one hell of a scab on your face.”
Corky subsided then; there was no more talk. McKittrick waited a few minutes longer, deep in thought, and then went to the door, which he opened without knocking. He didn’t enter the room; he stood in the doorway, looking around a moment, feeling the eyes of every man on him. When he found Quincy Nash, alone in a dim corner, he waggled a finger and backed out of the doorway.
Presently Nash came out, his baby-face dour.
McKittrick said, “Tell Corky to shut his mouth or draw his time.”
A surreptitious grin came and went across Nash’s round face. “Sure.”
“I’ve been thinking about Wes Marriner,” McKittrick said.
“So have I.”
“Only one thing could keep him in this country.”
“And?”
“I believe,” McKittrick said, “he’s thrown in with the Pendletons.”
“Makes sense,” Nash observed. “What about it?”
“We can’t have it, my friend. I don’t want him up there inflating the Pendletons. I had the old man all ready to quit before Marriner broke in. Now they want to fight again—look what that kid did tonight.”
“I wasn’t there,” Nash said. “I heard about it. Hell, that kid’s been brash all along. Somebody’ll step on his tail-feathers.”
“I’m not worried about him,” McKittrick said. “I want Wes Marriner stopped, Quincy. Drop everything else until you’ve got him. Use as big a crew as you need.”
“Hell,” Nash said sourly. “You’re makin’ a mountain where there ain’t even a molehill. Wes Marriner ain’t that tough. I can handle him.”
“Of course,” McKittrick breathed. His bright, hollow glance held Nash’s dryly. “That’s why he put a bullet in you a few years ago and you let him walk away from it. That’s why he managed to kill Steve Manley tonight and then walk clean through these two-bit, barbershop bravos you’ve picked for us. That’s why he threw a dare in your face yesterday and you stood flat and took it. Don’t be bashful, Quincy. Use a crew.”
“I’ll use Concho. Between the two of us, we can settle Marriner.”
“Just see to it,” McKittrick said curtly, and turned away. Quincy Nash’s bravado irritated him, even though he knew Nash to be a tough man. But Wes Marriner was tougher. That was why he had sent for Marriner in the first place, and now that Marriner had double-crossed him, he had the sense not to underestimate Marriner’s potential ability to do him damage. He intended to have Marriner brought down; after that there would be plenty of time to force the Pendletons and the other mine owners to knuckle under.
He walked up to his house, palmed the knob and pushed inside; he closed the door and then a voice arrested him:
“Stand still, McKittrick.”
He made no motion. He could see very little among the shadows of the room, but he knew the other man had him placed exactly, and he knew that man’s identity.
Marriner’s voice cut forward again: “Light a lamp, McKittrick … and move slowly.”
Marriner had the drop on him; he had no choice but to obey. He found a match in his pocket and flicked it alight on his thumbnail. By its wavering glow he saw Marriner in a chair near the far window, a gun balanced idly in his fist. McKittrick walked slowly forward, lighted a coal-oil lamp on the center table. While the light grew stronger he stood facing Marriner across half the width of the room.
Marriner was grinning. “Now,” Marriner said softly, “use two fingers of your left hand to dump that shoulder gun on the floor. Move slow.”
McKittrick obeyed, peeling back his coat lapel, lifting the short-barreled revolver and dropping it.
“Now step back to the wall.”
When McKittrick had done so, Marriner rose and moved around the table, picking up the gun, ejecting its cartridges, and putting it down on the table by the lamp. “Now sit down over there where I can watch you,” Marriner said, returning to his own chair. Marriner had placed himself so that he was out of range of a possible bullet through the single window. McKittrick noted this fact with some admiration for the man’s ability. He sat down on a packing-case bench beside the front corner: “You got plenty of gall, I’ll say that. Do you aim to kill me?”
“Not unless I have to,” Marriner said. “It may surprise you some, but I don’t enjoy killing. I’m not one of your Quincy Nashes.”
“Laudable,” McKittrick murmured. He felt no fear, but rather curiosity. He watched Marriner’s lean face, the lopsided tilt of the small man’s lips, the hat pushed back and the thick mat of black hair shot with gray ripples. Marriner said, “It’s not my habit to repeat myself, or to throw around threats I can’t back up.”
“All right. Go on.”
Marriner grinned, saying, “I’ve always liked it best when I was fighting a man like you, McKittrick. You’re slimy and you’re greedy and you’re crooked as a sidewinder’s tracks, but personally you’re a damned good fighter—a hell of a better one than any of the men you hire.”
“Quincy Nash picked them.”
“That was stupid.”
“Yes,” McKittrick admitted. “But I wanted a crew in a hurry and I didn’t know anyone in this part of the country. Look, Marriner, what do you want here?”
Marriner’s grin widened and McKittrick regretted his question. Marriner said, “I won’t be so foolish as to tell you the law will catch up with you, because I know how weak the law is in this neck of the woods. Where’s the nearest deputy? Nogales?”
“Patagonia.”
“Fourteen miles over the mountains. Sure. And I’m not stupid enough to tell you it’s not right to grab other people’s property.”
“It only belongs to them if they’ve got the strength to hang onto it.”
“Yeah,” Marriner breathed. He seemed relaxed. “I’ve killed one of your men tonight. You don’t look mad.”
“I’m curious,” McKittrick said. “What are you up to?”
“Exactly.” Marriner’s grin returned; he seemed to be baiting McKittrick. Marriner said, “I came here tonight to surprise you, for two reasons. First, to show you that I can do it—you’re not safe from me, with or without your crew. Second, I wanted to make something plain that you’ve probably already guessed.”
“You’re working for Pendleton.”
“That’s it.”
“Why? I’ll offer you more than they can.”
“You can’t,” Marriner answered.
“What are they offering you?”
“Something you’ve never owned,” Marriner said, “and never will. But I want you to know this: I like a fight, McKittrick. And I’ve never lost one yet. Think it over.”
“Bluff,” McKittrick said shortly.
“You’re not that stupid. I came back to town tonight to deliver one last statement. If you don’t want to play that way, then I’m through talking. But I don’t want to kill any more of your hired hands before I make it plain that I’m not starting a war. You stay away from Coronado Mountain, and I’ll leave you alone. But the minute you send men to put one foot on that mountain, I’ll start picking them off. And the minute any harm comes to any one of the Pendletons, I’ll hunt you down and kill you like a dog—only I’ll do a better job than your boys have, trying to hunt me.”
“Bluff,” McKittrick said again. “You know damned well I won’t back down.”
“You might,” Marriner breathed, standing up, “if you had enough sense. Don’t poke your head out that door for five minutes, and don’t raise a holler, or I’ll blow you to pieces.” With that, Marriner lifted his leg over the sill, lowered his head and dropped immediately from sight.
For a time he sat without making a sound, without stirring a muscle. Slowly the planes of his long, gaunt-cheeked face turned upward into a distant smile. He shook his head slowly. Presently he went to the table, reloaded his gun and holstered it. Then he took the lamp into the bedroom, and began to undress.
Marriner unsaddled in the Pendleton barn at dawn, climbed to the loft and slept there for four hours with his gun in his hand. At ten he washed at the barn pump and used a hand mirror to shave by; afterward he went up to the big house and knocked.
It was Celia who answered the door, swinging it open with a glance somewhat cold and aloof. Marriner grinned, removing his hat, revealing his silver-black hair. He said with some cheer, “Morning.”
“I understand,” she said, “that you pulled Seth out of the fire last night. I’m grateful to you for it. We all are.”
“You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic,” he said, still smiling, and waiting outside the door. “I wonder if there’s any place around here where a hungry man might feed himself.”
“The cook’s unloading the supplies,” she said. “He’s too busy to be fixing meals at all hours. I’ll make you something—come in.” She made the offer grudgingly, and stepped aside to let him past.
He followed her through to the kitchen, and stood with his arms folded, leaning against the doorjamb. “Where’s everyone?”
“They’ve all ridden out to the other mines. My father wants to hold a meeting of the owners here this noon.”
“Good idea,” he said, and put his gaze more directly on her. “Was it smart to let me in the house like this, then?”
She matched his glance. “I can take care of myself.”
She turned, busying herself at the stove. He watched her work, appreciating the supple strength of her movements, the full roundness of her small body. She was woman enough to excite all the old hungers in him. Her hair was thick and brown, held back by a green bow; her green eyes, when they looked at him occasionally, were direct. He said, by way of making talk, “Somebody ought to put a hobble on your little brother.”
Swift color came to her cheeks; she looked away. “He’s young. He’s still got a little of the wild streak in him.”
“Afraid it’s more than that,” he answered, and noticed her quick glance, which seemed to him an admission that he was right.
She indicated the long table on the far side of the stove and said, “Sit down.”
“Thanks.” He walked past her, catching the clean, sweet scent of her hair, took a seat on one of the benches. This was probably where the Pendleton family sat at meals. He wondered if, now that the property was partially his own, he would be eating most of his meals here, or whether he would eat with the crew, with whom he supposed he would bunk.
He said, “I got in a scrape with McKittrick’s crew last night. He set his dogs on me and I had to kill one of them.”
Her head whipped around. “You couldn’t wait to start killing—is that it?”
“No,” he said flatly. “That’s not it. Is that all you think of me?”
“Don’t bother about what I think of you,” she replied with mock sweetness, turning back to the stove.
“I won’t deny,” he resumed in a casual tone, “that I enjoy a good fight. But I don’t like to kill a man.”
“What’s the difference?”
“One’s a matter of wits,” he said. “The other’s a matter of life.”
“A game—with death at the end,” she said sourly.
“I didn’t make the rules,” he answered, quite softly. “I learned them, though, and I play by them. I walked in on McKittrick afterward and gave him a last chance to back off. He turned it down. We don’t have a choice left—we’ve got to fight him.”
“You made a lot of big talk yesterday,” Celia said, “but I don’t really think we can win, and I don’t think you believe that, either.”
“You’re dead wrong,” he said. His voice was mild; when she looked at him his expression was quietly smiling. “I’ve whipped bigger men than Mike McKittrick.”
“Big talk,” she repeated. She put four fried eggs and several thick slices of bacon, still sizzling, on a tin plate, and set it before him; she brought two cups of coffee forward and sat down on the bench opposite, and watched him while he ate. He felt no discomfort under her inspection, but after a while his glance rose and he said, “What’s bothering you?”
“I can’t make any sense out of you,” she said.
“I didn’t know you liked me well enough to care.”
“I didn’t say I liked you.”
“No.” His smile appeared. “You didn’t.” He looked down and went back at his meal.
Afterward, leaning back against the wall with his coffee, he said, “The quiet one—Josiah. What’s he like?”
“If you’re asking whether you can depend on him, the answer’s yes. Josiah’s given his word. So has Sam.”
“Sam?”
“My father.”
“I see.” He sipped his coffee, then set it down and rolled a brown-paper cigarette. He ignited it, looked toward the open door of the stove and the dying coals within, and flipped the blown-out match; it rode expertly into the stove. Marriner grinned. He heard the girl’s voice: “You’re a little childish.”
“In some ways,” he admitted. “It’s fun, sometimes, not to let all the young-boy ideas die when you grow up.”
“Young-boy ideas, like gunfighting?”
He leaned his head back against the wall. Smoke from his cigarette lifted in lazy spirals; his eyes closed down to narrow slits. He felt the comfort of relaxation that followed a meal, and he spoke with interest and care, making a serious reply to the girl:
“This is a rough country, lady. Full of toughs like the breed McKittrick’s hired. The meek won’t inherit it unless there’s somebody strong along to help them. There’s a need for men like me—that’s why I exist; In a country where there’s no law to speak of, you’ve got to be tough enough to make your own law. If you’re not tough enough, you have to hire somebody who is. Somebody like me.”
“What kind of justification is that? What satisfaction do you get out of it?”
“I get paid,” he said. “And I get the satisfaction of doing what I promised to do. Doing it better than any other man could do it.”
“Do you intend to just go on being a professional fighter-for-hire until someone kills you?”
“When I get tired,” he said, “I’ll quit.”
“When will you get tired?”
“I’m getting a little tired now. I realized that when I talked to McKittrick the other day and I couldn’t stomach the idea any longer of taking pay from a man like him. When you turn down a McKittrick, you’re pricing yourself right out of the market. I knew that when I turned him down.”
“But you turned him down anyway. Does that mean you came to us looking for something else?”
“Maybe.”
“A living,” she said. “If you can keep this mine safe for us, then you’ve got an income for the rest of your life.”
“Maybe,” he said again. He watched her and saw her eyes drop as though she were shamed by his directness, or perhaps by her own thinking. Her face, he noted, displayed strength and conviction, and behind all that, a suggestion of faraway wistfulness. She smiled slightly and said, “I don’t understand you yet, Marriner.”
He finished his coffee and spoke musingly; he had not spoken this way to anyone for a long time. “I was born on a dirt farm in Missouri. My old man was a part-time preacher and my mother worked herself to death. My old man watched the soil wear out and when I was fourteen we left Missouri in a wagon, with eight head of cattle and four horses and a pig. We made it as far as Tucumcari. Mescaleros shot up the wagon train and killed the old man and my kid brother. I’ve been in one fight or another ever since—a man gets to a point where he knows every kind of fight they ever wrote down in the book. I’ve tried them all. I like to fight.”
“No,” she said. “You keep telling yourself that, but you don’t like to fight. You only fight because you must—and so you tell yourself you like it.”
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe.” His eyes were sleepy. His head turned a little. “Someone’s coming.”
“Sam and the others.”
“I’d better have a talk with them,” he said. He stood up, let his glance linger briefly on the girl while he considered what she had just said; thereupon he left the kitchen and returned to the front of the house, where he stopped by the door to look out into the yard.
The three Pendletons rode in the lead and the five other men trailed behind them. All of them shared a common look: they were all men of some self-importance, except one, who was a clean-shaven old-timer with twinkling round eyes and an expression of habitual good humor and amusement.
The men dismounted below and came forward in a body. Marriner stepped back from the door, nodding to old Sam Pendleton, to Josiah, and catching the bright flatness of Seth’s restless glance. The others filed in. Sam Pendleton stopped dead center in the room, pointing out Marriner and then naming the other men: Dunne, Shattuck, Murphy, McWhister, and Paul Campbell, who was the white-haired old-timer with the amused expression. Of these men, only Paul Campbell offered to shake Marriner’s hand. The others scattered around the room, taking various posts, a few seating themselves.
Shattuck who was portly and clothed in a suit of black broadcloth, spoke up challengingly: “Pendleton says you’re in partnership with him.”
“That’s right,” Marriner said.
“You must be a damn fool,” Shattuck said promptly. “Anybody who’d buy a share of our grief must be a damn fool.”
“You can lick McKittrick.”
“Who can?”
“All right, then,” Marriner answered softly. “I can.”
“Hogwash!” Shattuck said. He thrust his paunch forward and seemed about to launch into a speech but old Paul Campbell thrust his calm voice in first: “Let him have his say.”
Shattuck blustered and quieted down. The others all stood around watching Marriner. Sam Pendleton said, “These men all own mines near here. We’re all faced with the same threat—Mike McKittrick. He wants to grab all the veins around here. He thinks he can do it. I’ve told my friends that you believe we can hold out against him.”
“Nobody can hold out against McKittrick,” Marriner said with his brash, tilted grin.
It was Seth who turned on him. “What? What’s that?”
“You don’t hold out against McKittrick,” Marriner said. “You lick him, or you get licked. There’s no stalemate in his game. It’s win or lose.”
Shattuck was regarding him with a sudden respect. “How do you propose to win, then?”
Marriner considered the others carefully, one by one. He said, “My judgment is that McKittrick’s got two plans in operation right now. The first is to kill me. I’ve thrown a dare at him and last night I had to kill one of his hired toughs. He’ll have a crew camping on my trail for a while. And meanwhile it’s my guess he’s sent off for someone he thinks is just as tough as I am. He’ll pay that man to stake a claim to the floor of Coronel Gorge and try to freeze the Pendletons out. If he hasn’t started already, he’ll begin a night-riding campaign against the rest of you. I’ve watched his kind operate before—hell, I’ve worked for them. He’ll roll your ore wagons over cliffs, hijack your payrolls, burn your barns. Your crews will be bought off or scared off. It’s not hard to accomplish what McKittrick’s trying to do, unless he’s bucking someone just as tough and ruthless as he is. That choice is up to you. If you’re willing to fight fire with fire, then we can take the fight right back to him and throw it in his face. We’ll wreck his freight wagons, we’ll run off his crew. If he keeps it up, we’ll start whittling down his gang. If that doesn’t stop him, I’ll make it my business to carry the fight straight to McKittrick personally.”
“Kill him?’ said Josiah.
“If I have to,” Marriner answered flatly. “What’s your answer, gents?”
The round-eyed old man, Paul Campbell, spoke first. “I like the way you fill your boots, fella. I’ll try it your way.”
Shattuck, pompous and blustery, inflated his chest and then seemed to think better of it. He let out a long sigh and only said, “All right. I hope it works. Sam, you’re in favor of this?”
“I am,” Pendleton said evenly.
“I’m surprised,” Shattuck observed, and shut up. One by one the other mine owners answered Marriner’s question. One was reluctant; another clearly unconvinced but swayed by the crowd; the third, McWhister, seemed eager to follow the plan, eager to fight—and his zeal made Marriner make a note to watch McWhister. Such a man might, like Seth Pendleton, get out of hand.
“It’s settled, then,” Sam Pendleton said. “What do we do?”
“The rest of you men should stock up on weapons and supplies, just as the Pendletons have done,” Marriner said. “Don’t provoke anything. Keep your men out of trouble. Let McKittrick start the ball. When he does, wherever it happens, I want to know about it at once. Keep your men armed and ready to move when I give the word. As soon as McKittrick starts the fight, I want us ready to deliver the second blow, and I want it to be a hard one that he won’t forget. We’ll give back everything he gives us, and more.”
“Holy Judas,” old Campbell murmured, “I like the way you talk, boy. I hope you can fight with the same toughness.”
“I can,” Marriner said. He turned to the door and left the house.
He walked back to the barn and spent the next fifteen minutes currying his horse. He wanted to give the men in the house a chance to discuss him and a chance to discuss what he had laid before them; he wanted no reservations on their part when the fight started. And it was due to break soon.
He had a careful look at his horse, and decided it was worn by the past weeks’ riding; he left it stalled with a half-bin of oats and went back to the tack room for a bridle, after which he searched the barn for the best available horse. He grinned at the thought of the McKittrick cowboy who, sometime today, would drift along the side of the hill above Washington Camp and find that, in place of Marriner’s horse, which had been tethered there during the fight last night, there now stood the horse Marriner had stolen from the hitching rail in front of Maldonado’s. He had made the swap when he returned at midnight to pay his call on Mike McKittrick.
Now he selected a horse from Pendleton stock, saddled up and rode around the barn toward the head of the road.
He had to pass near the house on his way, and as he did so, a small figure detached itself from the shadows of a pine grove and came forward. Recognizing Celia, Marriner reined in and waited for her to come up.
Her face lifted as she looked at him. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you like what you see when you look in the mirror?”
He laughed. “I have to.”
“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I’m glad of that.”
He shook his head, smiling down. She half-lifted a hand, seeming about to restrain him; then her hand dropped and she said softly, “McKittrick must have men out watching for you.”
“I expect he does.”
“Then,” she began, and stopped. She said softly, “Be careful, Marriner.”
“Yeah,” he said, and lifted his horse to a trot. Leaving the yard, he looked back once, seeing her form growing smaller behind him. Her arm was lifted, shading her eyes. A grave, gentle smile crossed his face. Then he turned his eyes to the trail ahead and cautiously surveyed both sides of it.
His dust spurted high, clinging to the air and rising into his nose. It was his intent to ride to Patagonia today and have a talk with the deputy there. Such a talk would probably do no good, but it was his responsibility to make use of the deputy if he could. But he had low hopes of any help from there; the law in this part of the Territory was generally corrupt or ineffectual and no peace officer of respectable caliber would be content with the picayune wages of a back-country Arizona deputy in these times of trouble and violence.
Riding through the gap in the biscuit cliff, he nodded to the lookout who had been advised of his new part ownership, as had all the men working for the Pendletons.
He lit a cigarette and rode pensively, seeing the smoke flee in thin streaks on the breeze, and presently entered the upper end of Coronel Gorge. The walls lifted high and straight at either side, restricting the sky. The floor of the narrow canyon was a brown powdered stripe and the hot wind, sweeping through the gorge, gave no relief from the shimmering, suspended pall of heat. He thought of Celia and felt a twinge of regret over many things in his own past and in his uncertain future. He tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground and at that moment something buzzed the air nearby and he saw the wink of instant yellow flame at the side of a high boulder a hundred yards ahead. Immediately he heard the flat crang of a rifle shot echo in rebounding crashes down the gorge.
With speed born of long training he made a bunched leap off the horse, landed on both feet and flipped himself forward, tumbling behind the scant protection of a flat-topped boulder, two feet high. He lay prone behind the long rock, knowing better than to poke his head up for a look. With his six-gun already lifted, he wormed forward toward the far end of the boulder and heard a second gunshot, and a third. He saw the Pendleton horse jerk and shudder and flop to the earth, shot through the eye. He cursed that senseless kill and cocked his gun, his eyes glinting wickedly.