Kettleman’s first job in the East was driving a hansom cab and he had deliberately sought it, as a way to learn the town, to see where the various types of people gathered, and to learn where the money was.
He overheard a discussion between two businessmen of a building they planned to put up and the way they intended to acquire the property for it. He moved in quickly the next morning at daybreak, bought an option on a key lot, and sold it two weeks later for a substantial profit.
Then he found a job as messenger for a brokerage house where he worked for a year, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open. He carefully kept his stake intact, and from time to time made small investments from it. A year after his arrival in New York he had tripled his original stake.
Each investment had been based upon information obtained during his working hours, and he never forgot how much a pair of attentive ears can overhear. Later, when he was in a position to do so, he deliberately hired such men to listen for him. Businessmen often discussed their affairs as though the driver of the hansom was deaf, and the information was often of value.
He was startled from his dreaming by the click of a hoof on stone, and he turned his head to see a rider coming down the trail along the lava beds. Behind him were strung out a bunch of cattle. Well concealed, Kettleman had only to sit still and allow them to pass. Three more riders brought up the rear, and he did not need to be told why the cattle were being moved at such an hour.
The last of the riders trailed some distance behind, and when he was almost up to Kettleman, he drew up.
It was completely dark now. Kettleman knew the rider had come to a halt because of the cessation of movement, and then he heard a creak of saddle leather as the man moved slightly in the saddle.
Kettleman made no move except to turn the shotgun toward the sound.
He heard a match strike and through the leaves he could see the light reveal momentarily, not a face as would be expected, but a hand. The rider had held the fire away from him, expecting to draw a shot.
Kettleman was amused, but he did not move. The match was dropped, and then another one lighted. “Well” — the voice was a soft drawl — “don’t reckon you plan to shoot me, so why don’t we talk?”
The horse stomped restlessly, but the man called Kettleman made no move. The unseen rider drew a cigarette down to the match, bending his head to meet his cupped hand, rather than otherwise. Kettleman caught a brief glimpse of a gaunt, hard-boned face, and then the match was blown out and there was only the glow from the cigarette.
“This horse,” the soft drawl continued, “is a good night horse. Broke him from a wild bunch, and he’s worth his weight in gold to a night-riding man. He spotted you first off. If you’d been a horse he would have whinnied, if you’d been a cow-critter he would have cut out after you, and he’d shy from a bear or a lion, so you’ve got to be a man.”
The rider paused. “Something different about you, too. I can tell that by his attitude.”
Kettleman remained still, curious to see what the rider would do next. And when the rider did speak his voice was plaintive. “Now, see here. I done my part. It’s up to you. How’s folks to get acquainted if somebody is so standoffish? If you’re afraid of crowds, you needn’t be. That bunch up ahead are gone to hell and gone by now. They sure are skittish.”
“Why, I mind a time down in Texas — Say, who are you, anyhow?”
Kettleman decided the man’s sharpness deserved its reward. It took a man with acute senses to detect from the actions of a ridden horse that he was not alone, and in the dark, at that.
“I am a man who minds his own affairs,” he said aloud, “and that’s all I ask of others.”
“Talks mighty well, he does. Talks like a man who’d had schoolin’, and I’d say there ain’t too many of that kind around this neck of the hills.”
“You might,” the rider said suddenly, “jump the wrong fence and figure me for a rustler. As a matter of fact, I have rustled a few head, tune to tune, but that was in another country and a long time back.
“In spite of how it looked, I wasn’t with those boys. Not in the rustling. You see, I know them, and I could figure that where they were, rustling would be, so I thought I’d ride out tonight and read them from the Book.”
“You know, sort of set up an understandin’, like. They do as they might, as long as they lay off the outfit I ride for. If they jump my brand, I told them I’d come huntin’.”
The stub of the cigarette described a brief arc and hit against the lava, then lost itself in the rocks.
“Mighty one-sided, this here conversation,” the rider said, “but if you happen to be one of those travelin’ gunslingers who are riding into this country, you lay off the Kaybar. We don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I,” Kettleman said, “and we’re not likely to run into each other again.”
There was a silence for a minute or two, but the rider showed no disposition to move on. Kettleman could almost sense the man’s curiosity. Finally, the rider said, “Now there’s a strange thing. You say I’ll not see you again — run into you, I mean. This is a big country, but not so big that folks can miss each other very easy. I’m going to be around. What’s going to happen to you that I won’t see you?”
When there was no reply, the rider said, “This is a good country, friend.” He paused, and then he added, “If you’re on the dodge you might like to know there isn’t even a town marshal in Alamitos — never needed one.”
“Folks ain’t inclined to pry, although there’s newcomers around. Some of them are building up to be mighty unpopular.”
“I know nothing about things here,” Kettleman replied, “and I have no interest in local affairs.”
He found himself liking the cool, quiet-talking man. He heard a whisper of paper and knew the man was building another cigarette.
“You’re not from hereabouts, or I’d recall your voice,” the rider said, “and I know almost everybody around. You don’t fit anywhere unless you’re a friend of Port Baldwin.”
Kettleman felt a cool wind blowing down the canyon. He waited, and then he said, “I don’t know the man. Does he live here?”
“Newcomer. From back East somewhere. He just moved into the country with forty thousand head of cows and that means he’s got to crowd everybody off their range. I think he knew that when he came in.”
Porter Baldwin. He had never met him but he knew his name. It was one of those things he believed he had left behind.
“Is he the one who is importing the gunfighters?”
“That’s the one. Although Tom Nugent may do the same.”
“And what about your outfit?”
“Kaybar?” The man chuckled. “I suppose the boys over there would say I was the gunfighter for Kaybar. I’d not claim the job for myself but they might claim it for me. And there’s a salty bunch at Kaybar. The colonel knew how to pick them.”
“Knew?”
“He’s dead. His daughter handles the outfit”
“How does a girl figure to lead a war?”
“If a girl can do it, this one can. She’s a girl to ride the river with, I’d say. I’d not want a better boss.”
The rider was silent for a few minutes, then said, “I’m going to ride along.” He paused. “You got grub? coffee?”
“Thanks. I do have them.”
“But no horse. And that’s a curious thing. A man afoot in this country isn’t going far.”
The rider turned his mount “If you want to look me up, you ask for Pete Gaddis.”
Kettleman listened to the sound of the retreating horse, strangely drawn to the man who had talked so quietly into the night Gaddis had wanted to talk, and to a stranger.
So. Porter Baldwin.
The past then was not so far behind. Yet Baldwin could have no idea that Kettleman was anywhere around. So what was Baldwin planning? Why had Baldwin suddenly come into this area with forty thousand head of cattle? Baldwin knew nothing of cattle and wasn’t likely to get interested in them.
His mind, long attuned to business combat, now began to seek out causes and effects, searching for the hidden motivations behind Baldwin’s move. Gaddis had said, “That means he’s got to crowd somebody off their range.” That must be it.