For the boy there had been no vacations. When others went to their homes, he had stayed at school, sitting for days alone in the library, reading.
“I would continue to read, if I were you. Books are friends that will never fail you. You are going into a hard world. Remember this: honor is most important, that, and a good name. Keep your self-respect.”
“You lack, I believe, an essential to happiness. You do not understand kindness.” The headmaster shuffled papers on his desk. “I know that because I have never understood it myself, and it is a serious fault which I was long in appreciating. I hope it takes you less long.”
From his desk the headmaster took an envelope. “This was enclosed in the letter which terminated your schooling.”
Kettleman did not open the letter until he was alone. It was brief and to the point.
You was settin on the street when I seen you, and you was hungry. I fed you. Figgered a boy needed schoolin, so I sent you. Ever year I paid. You are old enough to make out. I got nothing more for you.
Come to Abilene if you want.
Flint
Five twenty-dollar bills were enclosed. He packed his clothes and, with nothing better to do, went to Abilene.
There was no one there named Flint.
After several days of inquiring he met a bartender who gave him a careful look and then suggested he stick around.
At school he had learned to ride, for it had been a school for young gentlemen. He got a job riding herd on some cattle, fattening for the market. It was not cow-punching, just keeping the cattle from drifting. The others were cowhands, however, so he learned a good deal.
After three months the cattle were sold. He went to work in a livery stable. He was there when Flint came.
The wind moaned in the pines. He replenished the fire, and lay back in his blankets again. The boughs bent above him, the fire crackled, and far off a horse’s hoofs drummed. The coals glowed red and pulsing. Looking up through the pines he could see a single star.
He could be no more than thirty miles from Flint’s hideout in the malpais.
He awakened sharply, every sense alert. He heard a distant shout, and then a reply so close he jumped from his blankets.
“He can’t be far! Search the trees!”
Swiftly he drew on his boots and swung the gun belt around his lean hips, then shrugged into the sheepskin. There was no time to eliminate signs of his presence here, so he simply faded back into the deeper shadows, taking the shotgun with him.
Brush crashed. A rider pushed through, then another.
“Hell! That ain’t his fire! He had no time!”
“Somebody waitin’ for him, maybe.”
“Whoever it was” — the second rider’s voice was sharp with command — “had no business on this range. Throw that bed on the fire.”
Kettleman stepped from the shadows, the shotgun ready in his hands. “The blankets are mine.” Without taking his eyes from the riders he threw a handful of brush on the fire, which blazed up. “And if he lays a hand on that bed, I’ll blow you out of your saddle.”
“Who the devil are you?” The older man’s tone was harsh. “What are you doing here?”
“Minding my own business. See that you do the same.”
“You’re on my range. That makes your being here my business. Get off this range, and get off now.”
“Like hell.”
The man called Kettleman felt a hard, bitter joy mounting within him. So he was going to die. Why die in bed when he could go out with a gun in his hand? He could cheat them all now, and go as Flint had gone, in a blaze of gunfire.
“When you say this is your range, you lie in your teeth. This is railroad land, owned, deeded, and surveyed. Now understand this: I don’t give a damn who you are, and like it here. You can start shooting and I’ll spread you all over that saddle.”
He felt the shock of his words hitting them, and knew they were taken aback, as in their place he would have been, by his fury. The fact that he held a shotgun on them at less than twenty paces was an added factor.
“You’re mighty sudden, friend.” The man in command held himself carefully, aware that he faced real trouble, and sensing something irrational in the sharpness of the counter-attack. “Who are you?”
“I’m a man who likes his sleep, and you come hooting and hollering over the hills like a pack of crazy men. I take it you’re hunting somebody, but with all that noise he’s probably bidden so well you couldn’t find him anyway. You act like a lot of brainless tender-feet”
“That’s hard talk, for a stranger.”
“There’s nothing strange about this shotgun. It can get almighty familiar.”
“I’ve twenty men down below. What about them?”
“Only twenty? They make noise enough for eighty. Why, I’d have a half dozen of them down before they knew what they were up against, and the rest of them would quit as soon as they knew you weren’t around to pay them for fighting.”
A voice called through the trees. “Boss? Are you all right?”
“Tell them to go about their business,” Kettleman said. “And then you do the same.”
The rider turned his head. “Beat it, Sam. I’ll be along in a minute. Everything is all right.”
He turned back to Kettleman. “There’s something here I don’t understand. What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Not a damned thing. Not a single damned thing.”
The rider dismounted, then turned to his companion. “Bud, you ride along and help the others. I’ll meet you at White Rock.”
Bud hesitated. “It’s all right, Bud, there will be no trouble with this man. Never tackle a man who doesn’t care whether he lives or not. He will always have an edge on you.”
He was short, with square shoulders, prematurely gray hair, and he wore a mustache. His hard, dark eyes studied Kettleman with care.
Obviously puzzled, he glanced around the camp, seeking some clue. His eyes found the big game rifle. “That’s quite a weapon. Must be hard to get ammunition though.”
“I load my own.”
“I see.” The rancher got out a cigar and lighted it. “A man with a rifle like that — well, if he was a good enough shot, he could make himself a lot of money.”
Kettleman was bored. Daylight was not far off and he badly needed rest. Talk of money irritated him, anyway. He could buy this rancher and give him away and never miss what it cost, and how much could it help him now?
“My name is Nugent. I’m a cattleman.”
“All right.”
Nugent was accustomed to respect and Kettleman’s impatience angered him. Wind stirred the flames, and he added a few sticks. Poking at the fire gave him time to think. There had to be a reason for the man’s presence. No cowhand could afford such weapons. The rifle alone must have cost several hundred dollars.
“You said something about this being railroad land.”
Nugent was fishing now, and Kettleman smiled to himself. Experts had tried to get information from him.
He shrugged. “At least half the land along any railroad right of way is railroad land, isn’t it?”
Nugent was not satisfied. He had a suspicion the man was amused by him, and such a thought was unbearable. He treated Nugent like an inferior. Nugent was not accustomed to being so treated and did not like it. The flat-heeled boots did not go with cow country, and the man’s clothing showed little wear.
“I never knew a man who did not want something.”
“You are looking at one.”
Nugent got to his feet and Kettleman arose too. “I don’t like a man who takes a crowd when he goes hunting.”
Really angry, Nugent replied shortly, “Even the law does it.”
“You are not the law. I think a man who can’t do his own hunting is a coward.”
Nugent’s face went white, and with an effort he fought down the urge to reach for a gun. But he was no gunfighter, and knew it.
“My advice to you is to clear out. We don’t take to hard-talking strangers.”
Deliberately, Kettleman yawned. “Get the hell out of here. I want to sleep.”
Unable to think of a reply that might not get him killed, Nugent walked to his horse and mounted.
‘I’ll see you later,” Nugent said when he was in the saddle. “If I didn’t have a squatter to chase, I’d — ”
“Squatter?” Kettleman smiled at him. “Why, you’re only a squatter yourself. You don’t own a foot of range. You came in here a few years ago and started running a few cattle on land that doesn’t belong to you. Now of a sudden you are talking of squatters. You’re a pompous little man with a bellyful of importance. Now get out of here.”