Jared Tetlow got to his feet. “Phin?” he questioned his son’s wakefulness. At the grunted reply, he said, “Carpenter’s got range enough for maybe six hundred head. We’ve got six thousand here now and more comin’. Crowd that range with four thousand head come daylight. Understand? We’ll show this town how a Tetlow fights!”
Ben stared at the cold line of his father’s jaw. There was no yielding there.
Quietly he retreated to bis blankets where he lay long awake. At daylight the cattle were started. Deliberately, they hazed the cattle onto Carpenter’s range while the rancher stood helplessly watching from beside his wife. At this rate within a few days they would have him ruined; what grass they had not eaten would be trampled underfoot.
Sitting his big chestnut, Tetlow watched grimly. Then he called to Ben. “You!” he said. “You’ve no stomach for this, so ride back down the trail an’ tell them to push those cattle through fast! We’ll show ‘em who’s going to run this here range!”
Havalik rode up beside him, his small face tightlipped with satisfaction. “When those herds get here, an’ they should make it by the day after tomorrow, push them on the KR range,” he said, “we’ll have them out of there within the week!”
Riding east, Ben stared grimly at the skyline. Trust his father to think of the one way he could beat them. Nobody had legal authority to make him move his cattle. This was open range, and belonged to the government. No laws regulated it as yet, and even if they had, they could not operate fast enough to save these smaller men. His father could stand a loss if need be, these men could not. Even if his father was forced to move—which he would not be—the range would be ruined for most of the season. The grass would come back, but much of it would be so trampled and overgrazed that the range would be destroyed of injured. His father, with his great holdings and armed riders, could move on or take a loss. These small ranchers could not. Jared Tetlow would ride to power and victory behind a wall of thousands of cattle. Carpenter stared gloomily at the thousands of cattle on his range. Desperate fury consumed him and his big fists knotted and balled iron hard. He wanted to fight, to strike out at something, at anything. But what could he do? “We’d better leave the place,” his wife said quietly. “Let’s go up to the KR like that man said. Let’s go up there and get Marable an’ the Roots. Together maybe we can do something.”
“I’ll be damned if I will!” Carpenter flared. “Leave my place? Be driven off what’s rightfully mine? I will not!”
The story of the cattle drive reached the KR with the story of the challenge to Tetlow issued in the streets of Horsehead. It was no garbled account, but was given concisely and definitely by Doc Blaine over lunch at the ranch house. Aside from Nita, only Jaime Brigo was there.
Blaine’s story started casually enough. “Lots of excitement in town. Fellow whipped three of the Forty hands in less than that many minutes and then called old Jared Tetlow to his face. Dared him at point blank range. I never saw such a thing.”
Brigo’s eyes were steady on Blame’s face. The big Yaqui sensed what was coming. Nita called Maria to pour some coffee. “He moved cattle on the Carpenter place this morning. He’ll ruin the man.”
“That seems to be the idea,” Blaine agreed. “Have you thought about yourself?” “Of course. He can’t run as many cattle as he wants without my place.” Doc Blaine watched her as she talked. She seemed scarcely more than a girl, yet there was an assurance about her that puzzled him. He knew nothing of her beyond the fact that she had bought out a previous rancher for cash, had built here a ranch home that was far superior in every way to anything around, and she lived in the saddle, worked cattle herself and yet supervised a home that was the most perfect thing he had seen this side of a French chateau. “If he tries that, he will have trouble.”
“He has a lot of men.”
“And I have Jaime. And Cain Brockman and some others.”
“Is Brockman as tough as he looks?”
“Far tougher. I only knew one man who could handle him. Jaime might. I don’t know.”
“That fellow who faced down Tetlow,” Blaine mused, “he’s a drifting cowhand, and I think a gunfighter. There are rumors around that he was the man who killed young Bud Tetlow, but he seems like a good man. Why don’t you hire him?” “I don’t think we’ll need anybody else,” Nita smiled, “but thanks just the same.”
“You’d better think it over,” Blaine insisted, “this man Trent—“ Her head came up sharply. “Who? Who did you say?” Doc Blame was surprised. “Why, Trent. At least, that’s the name he uses. You can’t tell about names, especially with drifters. They might use any name.” Nita was looking accusingly at Brigo. “Is it…?” There was no need to repeat the question for she could see the answer in the Yaqui’s eyes and her heart began to pound.
Unable to control herself, she came quickly to her feet, then, not wanting them to see her face, she turned quickly and walked to the window. “You … how long have you known?”
“The night before last. He came by here, and stopped outside.”
“You … you talked to him?”
“No. He did not see me. I don’t think he saw me.” Blaine looked from one to the other. Too wise in the way of the world and women to be fooled, he could see that Nita Riordan was upset. This surprised and intrigued him, for he had never seen anything startle her before. She was annoyingly self-possessed, and Blaine had been puzzled and disturbed by that self-possession. It was something he was not accustomed to in women, and it disconcerted him.
“You know this man called Trent?”
“I … I don’t know. I think perhaps I do. I … we knew a man once who used that name.”
“What was his real name?”
She turned on him. “That, Doctor, is something he would have to tell you himself.” Then she remembered what the doctor had been saying, that this man had faced down Tetlow. Yes, she told herself, her heart pounding, that would be like Lance. He could never stand tyranny of any kind, and he would not hesitate because of numbers.
Lance…!
The thought of him disturbed her, and she stood staring out the window, remembering every line of his face. The way he smiled, the way the laugh wrinkles came faintly at the corners of his eyes, eyes long accustomed to squinting against desert suns. She remembered the quick way he walked, the strong brown hands, the way his green eyes could grow cold—although they had never grown cold when they looked at her.
She remembered that first day down in the Live Oak country, the day she had first seen him. She had looked across that room at him and suddenly they had seemed alone, as if only they remained in life and nothing else could or did exist. She had looked into his eyes and known this man wanted her, and had known that she wanted him, and they were right for each other and nothing else in the world would ever matter but him.
And now he was here again, close to her. He had been outside in the darkness, nearby. Had he known she was there? Had he been thinking of her? What had been his thoughts as he stood out there in the shadows, watching the lights? What time had it been? Had she been reading? Or getting ready for bed? Or already with her head upon the pillow?
“Jaime,” she turned swiftly, “I want to see him.” The Yaqui looked at her and nodded. “Si, but to find him, who knows how? He is like the wind, and he leaves no trail.”
“Think, Jaime! Where would he be? Remember what he said? That you did not follow a trail on the ground unless you could also trail with the mind? You have to think as the man you follow thinks, then you know where to go. You know him, Jaime. Where would he be?”
The big Yaqui shrugged, but he was thinking. That was the way, of course. To follow him with the mind. It was like the deer—once you knew where he watered it was not hard to find where he slept and where he fed. It was the same with all game, and with men. They established patterns. Kilkenny had said that, and he had never forgotten, for Kilkenny could follow a trail where even an Apache would fail.
But to follow the trail of Lance Kilkenny was something else again, for he was one who knew how to think, and knowing that he followed men by their patterns of thought as well as by their tracks upon the sand, he would think in different ways at different times. That, too, he had told Brigo. One possibility there was. He would want a place that was far off and lonely, difficult to find and easy to defend, a place where he might stand off his enemies if need be. Especially would he want such a place with the Tetlows to consider.