At any time of day or night a dozen saddle horses would be standing three-legged at the hitching rails, usually in front of Joe Benson’s National Saloon. A buck-board or a spring wagon would also be present, usually driven by some small rancher in for his supplies. The two big outfits sent two wagons together, drawn by mules.
Bruce Barkow sat in front of the sheriffs office this morning, deep in conversation with Pod Gomer. It was a conversation that had begun over an hour before.
Gomer was a short, thick-set man, almost as deep from chest to spine as from shoulder to shoulder. He was not fat, and was considered a tough man to tangle with. He was also a man who liked to play on the winning side, and long ago he had decided there was only one side to consider in this fight–the side of Dan Shute and Bruce Barkow.
Yet he was a man who was sensitive to the way the wind blew, and he frequently found himself puzzled when he considered his two bosses. There was no good feeling between them. They met on business or pleasure, saw things through much the same eyes, but each wanted to be king pin. Sooner or later, Gomer knew, he must make a choice between them.
Barkow was shrewd, cunning. He was a planner and a conniver. He was a man who would use any method to win, but in most cases he kept himself in the background of anything smacking of crime or wrongdoing. Otherwise, he was much in the foreground.
Dan Shute was another type of man. He was tall and broad of shoulder. Normally he was sullen, hard-eyed, and surly. He had little to say to anyone, and was more inclined to settle matters with a blow or a gun than with words. He was utterly cold-blooded, felt slightly about anything, and would kill a man as quickly and with as little excitement as he would brand a calf.
Barkow might carve a notch on his gun butt. Shute wouldn’t even understand such a thing.
Shute was a man who seemed to be without vanity, and such men are dangerous. For the vanity is there, only submerged, and the slow-burning, deep fire of hatred for the vain smolder within them until suddenly they burst into flame and end in sudden, dramatic and ugly climax and violence.
Pod Gomer understood little of Dan Shute. He understood the man’s complete character just enough to know that he was dangerous, that as long as Shute rode along, Barkow would be top dog, but that if ever Barkow incurred Shute’s resentment, the deep-seated fury of the gunman would brush his partner aside as he would swat a fly. In a sense, both men were using each other, but of the two, Dan Shute was the man to be reckoned with.
Yet Gomer had seen Barkow at work. He had seen how deviously the big rancher planned, how carefully he made friends. At the Fort, they knew and liked him, and what little law there was outside the town of Painted Rock was in the hands of the commanding officer at the fort. Knowing this, Bruce Barkow had made it a point to know the personnel there, and to plan accordingly.
The big black which Rafe was riding was a powerful horse, and he let the animal have its head. Behind him in single file, trailed Tex Brisco and Bo Marsh.
Rafe Caradec was thinking as he rode. He had seen too much of violence and struggle to fail to understand men who lived life along the frontier. He had correctly gauged the kind of courage Gee Bonaro possessed, yet he knew the man was dangerous, and if the opportunity offered would shoot and shoot instantly.
“Trigger” Boyne was another proposition. Boyne was reckless, wickedly fast with a gun, and the type of man who would fight at the drop of a hat, and had his own ready to drop on the slightest pretext. Boyne liked the name of being a gunman, and he liked being top dog. If Boyne had sent a warning to Caradec it would be only because he intended to back up that warning.
Rafe took the black along the mountain trail, riding swiftly. The big horse was the finest he had ever had between his knees. When a Sioux gave gifts, he apparently went all the way. A gift had been sent to each of the men on the Crazy Woman, which was evidence that the Sioux had looked them over at home.
The black had a long, space-eating stride that seemed to put no strain on his endurance. The horses given to the others were almost as good. There were not four men in the mountains mounted as well, Rafe knew.
He rounded the big horse into the dusty street of Painted Rock and rode down toward the hitching rail at a spanking trot. He pulled up and swung down, and the other men swung down alongside him.
“Just keep your eyes open,” Rafe said guardedly. “I don’t want trouble. But if Boyne starts anything, he’s my meat.”
Marsh nodded and walked up on the boardwalk alongside of Brisco, who was sweeping the street with quick, observant eyes.
“Have a drink?” Rafe suggested, and led the way inside the National.
Joe Benson was behind the bar. He looked up warily as the three men entered. He spoke to Bo; then glanced at Tex Brisco. He placed Tex as a stranger, and his mind leaped ahead. It took no long study to see that Tex was a hard character, and a fighting man.
Joe was cautious and shrewd. Unless he was mistaken, Barkow and Shute had their work cut out for them. These men didn’t look like the sort to back water for anything or anyone. The town’s saloonkeeper-mayor had an uncomfortable feeling that a change was in the offing, yet he pushed the feeling aside with irritation.
That must not happen. His own future and his own interests were too closely allied to those of Barkow and Shute.
Of course, when Barkow married the Rodney girl that would give them complete title to the ranch. That would leave them in the clear and these men, if alive, could be run off the ranch with every claim to legal process.
Caradec tossed off his whisky and looked up sharply. His glance pinned Joe Benson to the spot.
“Trigger Boyne sent word he was looking for me,” he said abruptly. “Tell him I’m in town–ready!”
“How should I know Trigger better’n any other man who comes into this bar?” Benson demanded.
“You know him. Tell him.”
Rafe hitched his guns into a comfortable position and strode through the swinging doors. There were a dozen men in sight but none of them resembled Boyne or either of the Blazers he had seen.
He started for the Emporium. Behind him Tex stopped by one of the posts that supported the wooden awning over the walk, and leaned a negligent shoulder against it, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
Bo Marsh sat back in a chair against the wall, his interested eyes sweeping the street. Several men, who passed spoke to him and glanced at Tex Brisco’s tall, lean figure.
Rafe opened the door of the Emporium and strode inside. Gene Baker looked up, frowning when he saw him. He was not glad to see Rafe, for the man’s words on his previous visit had been responsible for some doubts and speculations.
“Is Ann Rodney in?”
Baker hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “She’s back there.”
Rafe went around the counter toward the door, hat in his left hand.
“I don’t think she wants to see you,” Baker advised.
“All right,” Rafe said, “we’ll see.”
He pushed past the screen and stepped into the living room beyond.
Ann Rodney was sewing, and when the quick step sounded, she glanced up. Her eyes changed. Something inside her seemed to turn over slowly. This big man who had brought such disturbing news affected her as no man ever had. Considering her engagement to Bruce Barkow, she didn’t like to feel that way about any man. Since he had last been here she had worried a good deal about what he had said and her reaction to it. Why would he come with such a tale? Shouldn’t she have heard him out?
Bruce said that the man was an impostor and someone who hoped to get money from her. Yet she knew something of Johnny Gill and she had danced with Bo Marsh, and knew that these men were honest. They had been liked and respected in Painted Rock. “Oh,” she said, rising. “It’s you?”
Rafe stopped in the center of the room, a tall picturesque figure in his buckskin coat and with his waving black hair. He was, she thought, a handsome man. He wore his guns low and tied down, and she knew what that meant.