The meeting broke up after midnight and Brian went to bed with the feeling that they had patched things up for at least the present. He slept late and woke near noon to find himself alone in the bear-grass hut. He dressed and went out to see Sandoval, Cameron, and Pancho eating breakfast in the shade of the ramada by the main house. Estelle must have seen him from inside for as he reached the house she appeared with a cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” he said. “Where’s Asa?”
A shadow was between them, since their meeting the night before. She seemed withdrawn before him and unusually sober. “Fallon came from Prince this morning,” she said. “Mayor Prince wanted to see Asa.”
She went back inside. Brian asked Sandoval, “What’s it about?”
The Yaqui shook his head. “We was still asleep. I guess Prince didn’t say.”
Estelle brought Brian a plate of food in a few minutes. He sat on one of the split logs by the door to eat. After he finished, Sandoval rolled a pair of cigarettes and offered one to Brian. They sat side by side, smoking, silent. Brian was still stiff and sore and beaten from the grueling ride behind them. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to move. The somnolent sounds of chickens scratching and clucking in the dooryard made him sleepy and he dozed in the shade, dropping his cigarette half-smoked.
The trembling of the earth woke him. The sun stood in the middle of the sky, pouring a steel-bright heat on the land. Morton Forge was bringing a hard-ridden horse across the waters of the seep. The men under the ramada jumped to their feet and ran toward him. He hauled the lathered animal up, shouting to be heard over the roar of its breathing.
“Things have blowed up in our faces. Asa’s gone and killed Sheriff Cline!”
The blood drained from Brian’s cheeks. His weight settled against the earth like a man recovering from one blow and setting himself against the next.
“Nacho and Harv Rich brought Cline’s body to town about ten o’clock,” Forge said. “They had Asa with ‘em. Claimed they saw him shoot Cline.”
“Saw him?”
“That’s the story. A couple more bronc Apaches jumped reservation yesterday. Cline got a tip they’d been seen in Silver Sinks. Neither of his deputies had checked in. He left word for them to follow him. They claim they was up on the rim when they saw Cline get it.”
Silently, helplessly they stared at each other. They all knew what it meant. Cline had been loved and respected throughout the county. With Asa as their newly chosen leader, the Salt Rivers couldn’t help but share the blame for Cline’s murder. It would wipe out what support Prince had left both in and out of the council, and ruin his last chance for pushing the franchise through.
“Dios,” Sandoval said. “I feel like somebody he kick me in the stomach.”
“Cline and Harv Rich and Nacho and Asa all in Silver Sinks at the same time,” Brian said musingly.
“Natural Asa’d be there,” Cameron said. “He’d have to go through the sinks on his way to Prince’s.”
Sandoval was frowning at Brian. “What you think?”
“I think it’s a helluva coincidence,” he said. None of them answered. The horse snorted and wheezed. Finally Brian said, “Well, whatever happened, Asa’s going to need the best lawyer we can get.” They were all frowning at him and he knew they were thinking of the same man he was. His chin lifted defiantly. “Damn it,” he said. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
None of them responded. He went into the corral and started roping out the line-back. Cameron walked heavily up to the house and Brian knew he was going to tell Estelle. While Brian was saddling up, she came down to the corral. Her face was white and strained. She stopped by the horse, made a couple of false starts, then said:
“Brian … do you think Asa really did it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You hate him, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “No, Estelle. We’ve fought a lot. But he’s just a kid with a bad temper. Give him a chance, he’ll find himself. He’ll be all right.”
“I want to go.”
He nodded grimly. “All right. Cameron and I’ll hitch our horses behind the buckboard.”
It was a long ride into town. None of them spoke much. They were all bitterly shocked and discouraged by this new blow and Brian was intensely conscious of the strain between him and Estelle, shadowing every glance, every word. They reached Apache Wells in the afternoon.
The jail stood on West Cochise, across the creek from the more respectable part of town, a long crumbling adobe building shaded by a ragged line of willows that set up a melancholy whisper against its roof whenever the wind moved their thin foliage. At the door a group of idlers surrounded Nacho, who sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, rolling a cigarette and talking expansively. They all turned as the wagon rattled up out of the creek, and Nacho came to his feet. Brian and Cameron got down, helping Estelle to the ground.
“Nobody goes in here,” Nacho said. “Court order.”
Brian faced him. “Show me the order.”
Nacho began to leer. “Old Double Bit, he’s getting tough.”
“Show me the order, Nacho, or get out of the way.”
Nacho dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. The idlers began to back off. “You want to be in there with Asa?” Nacho asked.
Brian’s weight settled against his toes but Estelle grabbed his arm, stopping him. “There’s been enough trouble,” she said. She turned to Nacho. “Please—what harm can we do by seeing him?”
Nacho did not answer. He merely looked at her. It was the same look that every idler in front of every saloon gave every woman that passed on the street. Color rushed into Estelle’s cheeks. An angry reaction ran through Brian but before he could move Estelle made an exasperated sound and darted around Nacho. He caught her, trying to spin her back. She bit his hand. With a howl of pain he released her. She wheeled and ran into the jail.
“You little bitch,” Nacho shouted. Holding his hand, he lunged after her. Brian followed, catching him by the arm just inside the door and wheeling him back. Nacho tore free, his face vicious and white. His hand was on his gun when somebody called sharply from outside.
“Nacho!”
The breed checked his motion, staring past Brian. A tall white-headed man in a frock coat parted the knot of watchers with the tip of his gold-headed cane and stepped to the door.
“Mr. Sheridan has a perfect right to see the prisoner, Nacho,” he said. “You’re taking your duties a little too seriously, I believe.”
It was Harold Parrish, the circuit judge from Alta. Nacho subsided, the color returning to his face and rendering it dark and sullen. Brian relaxed, grinning wryly at Parrish.
“Thanks, Judge.”
Parrish nodded soberly and Brian turned, followed by Cameron, to walk into the dank cell-block. Brian saw Estelle talking with Asa in the last cell and he couldn’t help grinning wryly to himself. He’d always known she had spunk but he’d never seen it so graphically displayed. She was still breathing heavily, excited color in her cheeks. She turned as they came up, speaking breathlessly.
“Asa says he didn’t do it, Brian.”
Asa stood at the door, lean hands clenched around the bars. In his gaunt face, already edged with a stubble beard, was nothing but defiance for Brian. Cameron saw the bitter expression and spoke with a heavy exasperation. “You got to quit fighting Brian, Asa. He’s here to help you. He didn’t have to come at all.”
Asa’s eyes tried to hold the defiance. But they shifted in confusion and he looked down at the floor. Some of the hostility drained from him. He ran a hand nervously through his black hair.
“What happened?” Brian said.
“Sam Fallon came early this morning,” Asa said. “Told me Prince wanted to see me. Something about the franchise. Urgent. Fallon dropped off at his place and I went on through Silver Sinks. It was the quickest route to the mayor’s. In the sinks I heard this shot. I got off my horse and went through the rocks. I came on Cline’s body. That’s where Nacho and Harv Rich found me. Now Fallon’s saying he didn’t come this morning. None of you saw him. I can’t prove anything.”
Estelle shook her head helplessly. “The whole thing’s so crazy.”
“And so neat,” Brian muttered.
Estelle looked at him, eyes pleading. “You believe Asa?”
Brian said, “Sam Fallon was the weakest one last night. Could be he went straight to Tarrant about our meeting.”
“And they knew I’d take Silver Sinks to Prince’s,” Asa said.
They were silent. Finally Brian grinned at Asa, trying to be reassuring. “Take it easy. We’ll break it. If it’s humanly possible, we’ll break it.”
Asa answered the grin, a little sheepishly. “Damn my temper anyway, Brian. I’ve been wrong from the beginning. Is there any way we can wipe it off and start over?”
“Easiest thing in the world,” Brian said.
He put out his hand. Asa stuck his through the bars and they shook, grinning at each other for a moment. Then the humor left them. Brian looked at Estelle. She made a helpless sound. Brian looked once more at Asa, reached through to give him a reassuring punch on the shoulder, then went out. Parrish was in the office, going over the docket with Nacho and the bailiff.
“We’ve set the trial for this Saturday,” he told them.
“Isn’t that a little soon?” Brian asked.
Parrish shook his head. “I’ve got a big circuit, Mr. Sheridan. If we don’t get started on this as soon as possible I’ll have to set it over till next year.”
More discouraged than ever, they left the jail and rode back across the creek to the main part of town. Brian stopped off at Wolffe’s office, but the door was locked. When he came back downstairs the banker’s kid was talking with Estelle. He told them Wolffe was at the Double Bit. Estelle was looking back toward the jail.
“I hate to leave Asa here alone. That Nacho—”
She trailed off. Cameron nodded. “I feel the same way. If Tarrant did this there’s no telling how much farther he’ll go.”
“We could stay in town,” Estelle said. “Take rooms at the hotel.”
It would be more a gesture than anything else, but Brian sympathized with her need to watch over Asa. “I’ll leave you here then,” he said. “I want to see Wolffe.”
It was a long, hot ride to the Double Bit and Brian had to push his horse to make it before evening. He thought the first sight of the ranch would hurt—the myriad windows flashing in the coppery glow of the sun, the barns and corrals backed up into the mist-purple foothills. But somehow he was filled with no hurt, no sense of loss. As he dismounted in front of the house he saw a man coming from the barns. It was Latigo, and the man reached the porch before Brian. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his Levis, eyes measuring Sheridan insolently.
“Is Wolffe here?” Sheridan asked.
“No.”
“Jigger told me he was.”
“He ain’t!”
“Who is?”
“Me.”
Brian started onto the porch. “I’ll see for myself.”
Latigo made a sharp shift to block his way. “No, you won’t. If Wolffe was in, he wouldn’t want to see you.”
Brian stared at him, seeing the thinly veiled contempt in the man’s eyes. “I’m going in, Latigo.”
Latigo’s lips peeled back in a wolfish smile. “Like you took the Steeldust away from me in Apache Wells?”
Brian hung a moment longer, meeting the man’s stare. Then he lunged in at an angle, as if trying to get around one side of Latigo. The foreman shifted hard that way to block him.
Brian stopped at the last instant. It left Latigo plunging forward without anything to block. He tried to catch himself, but it was too late. His impetus had carried him by Brian at an angle.
Brian hit him across the side of the neck, jackknifing him and knocking him off his feet. The man rolled over into the compound and came to his hands and knees. Brian moved at him. Latigo came up off his hands and knees, throwing himself at Brian’s midsection.
Brian went into him, slamming an uppercut into his face. The blow and the smashing force of Brian’s body pitched Latigo over backward. He flopped over in the dirt a second time, staring up at Brian with a mixture of pain and surprise in his face.
With a guttural sound, Latigo switched around and scrambled to his feet. Brian rushed him. Latigo ducked his first blow, feinting at Brian’s face. Brian threw up an arm to block it. The real blow hit Brian in the solar plexus.
He couldn’t help doubling over in pain. He felt Latigo cup those hands behind his neck. Felt the man’s weight shift to slam a knee into his face.
He jerked aside in the last instant and caught the knee and heaved.
It pitched Latigo over on his back again. The blow dazed him and he shook his head before he rose again. Brian lunged in as soon as Latigo gained his feet. Latigo blocked his first blow and counterpunched for his solar plexus again. This time it struck Brian in the ridged muscle of his belly. Six weeks ago it would have doubled him over anyway. Now he only grunted and struck back. The blow rocked Latigo’s hand. He feinted at Latigo’s belly. The man hugged his arms in and left his face open. Brian hit him in the face. Latigo went down so hard it knocked the air from him with a sick grunt.
He lay on his belly a long time before rolling over. He finally raised his head, trying to see Brian through the blood streaming into his eyes. His breathing had a broken sound.
“You’d better not get up again,” Brian said. “You’re whipped and you know it.”
Latigo hung his head, spitting blood into the dirt. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you.”
Brian waited till he was sure the man would not get up. Then he turned to go inside. As he did so the front door was opened and Wolffe stepped out, followed by Ford Tarrant. Anger settled its pale grooves about Wolffe’s thin-lipped mouth with the sight of Latigo on the ground, and his boots beat a swift tattoo as he crossed the porch.
“We thought somebody was busting a bronc,” he said. His intense black eyes fixed accusingly on Brian. “What’s going on?”
“Latigo thought you didn’t want to see me,” Brian said. “I changed his mind.”
“See me about what?”
Brian glanced at Tarrant before answering. There was something vaguely subservient in the way Tarrant stood at Wolffe’s elbow, partially behind the man. His face was unusually florid and Brian knew he had been drinking. Brian thought he would meet a strong hostility from the man, now that they had clashed in open warfare. But there was a cloudy indecision in Tarrant’s eyes, as though he still didn’t know quite what role to assume with Brian.
“What are you doing here?” Brian asked.
Tarrant tried to bluster. “I don’t see that it’s any of your—”
“He came to tell me about Cline,” Wolffe said, breaking in impatiently.
“That’s why I came too,” Brian said. “I’m asking you to defend Asa.”
Tarrant could not hide his surprise, and Wolffe scowled deeply at Brian. “With all the evidence against him?”
Brian looked directly at Tarrant. “What if we could prove he didn’t do it?”
Tarrant’s face went wooden. He couldn’t avoid the brittle tone of his voice. “You have evidence?”
“Maybe.”
“If you’ve got it, come out and say so,” Wolffe said irritably. “Otherwise you’re talking supposition—”
“I’m talking friendship, George.”
“Asa was never my friend.”
“I was.” Brian moved closer to Wolffe, standing a foot from him. “You can’t sit on the fence forever, George. You know what Ford tried to do with Sandoval’s cattle—”
“Self-protection,” Tarrant said thickly.
“The hell with that,” Brian said. His anger was rising. “A man’s got a right to live. You can’t have it all, Ford.” He turned to Wolffe. “A man’s life is at stake. An innocent man. You’ve got to come down off the fence, George.”
“Brian, I can’t—”
“Then you’re with Tarrant. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“Brian, how can you—?”
“It’s one way or the other!” In his anger at the man, in his furious need to sway him and convince him, Brian caught him by the lapels. “Can’t you see that? Either you’re with us or you’re against us, George. It can’t be any other way.”
Wolffe caught Brian’s arm, struggling to twist free. “Let go, you young fool—”
“Are you saying you won’t do it?”
“I already told you—”
Brian gave vent to his boiling anger with a curse, shoving Wolffe violently backward. The man tripped on the edge of the porch and fell heavily. Latigo was on his feet, and he made an involuntary move behind Brian.
Brian pivoted toward him. The man stopped his motion, face still bloody and mottled with dirt. He was unarmed and he glanced at the gun holstered against Brian’s hip. Brian half turned again toward Wolffe. The man was getting to his feet, his face a white mask of fury and humiliation.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” His voice trembling and a smoldering, vindictive rage glowed in his black eyes. “I’ll smash you for good this time.”
Brian stared blankly at him. “This time?”
Wolffe sent a contemptuous glance at Tarrant. “You don’t think it was that weasel, do you?”
“George!” Tarrant’s protest was panicky.
“I want him to know,” Wolffe said hotly. “He’s kicked his dog for the last time.”
“So you drag the rest of us down with you,” Tarrant said.
“Nobody’s dragging you down!” Wolffe said disgustedly.
Brian stared at them blankly, his mind turned momentarily blank by the shock of what he’d heard, trying helplessly to piece together the implications. Like a detached observer, he watched the quarrel reach a crest between the two men, sensing that it was a culmination of earlier clashes.
“Then why not go on?” Tarrant swayed faintly and his slack lips were twisted in a drunken sneer. “Why not tell him how Hadley helped you siphen off a big chunk of every Double Bit check that went through his bank—?”
“Ford—shut your mouth!”
“Why should I?” Tarrant asked. Wolffe had touched off a drunken panic in him and he couldn’t stop. He seemed to be striking out at the man for past indignities, his voice wavering with a vindictive hysteria. “You’ve already spilled the beans. Overcharging Brian for everything he bought. Tell him about that. Pocketing the difference. The phony deposit slips and the false accounts and—”
With a curse Wolffe wheeled toward the man, swinging a vicious backhand blow at him. It caught Tarrant across the mouth and flung him heavily backward. He would have fallen if a post supporting the porch overhang hadn’t been directly behind him; he sagged against it, grabbing the post to hold himself up. A rank hatred burned the drunken blaze from his eyes as he stared at Wolffe. He held a hand to his slack, bloody mouth and cursed foully.
Brian’s mind was no longer blank. The surprise and shock were gone and the comprehension of Wolffe’s full betrayal was beginning to move through him in a thin channel of sickness, growing rapidly to a tide, bitter and black.
Wolffe saw the expression on his face. Wolffe’s anger at Tarrant faded from his black eyes; his broad shoulders sagged and there was a spent, drawn look about his mouth.
“Well,” he said thinly, “you were bound to find out sooner or later.”
Brian shook his head helplessly, still trying to grasp the reality of it. “What’d you want, George? You could have been rich off the retainer I paid you.”
“Rich? Chicken-feed like that? What kind of man did you think I was? I licked boots long enough. I bowed and scraped and went without till I had my bellyfull. You didn’t think I was going to stand by and see a fool throw away the biggest ranch in Arizona. What do you know about riches? You and Tarrant were the biggest men in the country, but you were pikers. You’re going to see a different Double Bit come out of this.” Wolffe’s voice rose higher, a flush filled his face. “It’ll be bigger than you could ever dream of!”
There was a feverish excitement in his face. It was like a revelation to Brian. The burning eyes, the covetous regard for money, the obsessive need to possess and maneuver and control.
Why hadn’t he seen him like this before? He had merely indulged Wolffe, looking on him as a prudish older brother, knowing a certain fondness for him despite his faults.
“I guess I should have seen it a long time ago,” he said.
Wolffe had subsided. He was breathing heavily, regaining his composure. “You wouldn’t listen,” he said.
“Tell me one thing, George. Did Arleen know what you were doing?”
“I never told her. Maybe she sensed it. I don’t know.” Wolffe stepped back onto the porch. “What’s the difference?”
Brian looked at him. “Yeah,” he said emptily. “What’s the difference?”