“Yeah,” he said softly, “but the stick wasn’t shootin’ back at him.” Old Bill took them over the swollen river in one hair-raising trip, and with the river behind them they started south. Several days later, after exchanging horses at several points along the way and checking the stock available at each stop, they rode into the little mining town of Weaver. Coney and Garlin rode in about sundown, followed an hour or so later by Roundy and Doc Sawyer. They kept apart, and when Mike Bastian rode in alone he did not join the others.
Most of those gathered in the saloon were Mexicans who kept to themselves, but there were three toughlooking white men at the bar whom Mike eyed warily.
One of them glanced at Mike in his beaded buckskins and whispered something to the others, at which they all laughed. Mike leaned nonchalantly at the bar, avoiding the stares of the three men. One of them moved closer to him.
“Hi, strangerl That’s a right puny suit you got there. Where can I get one like it?” Garlin heard and glanced over at Colley.
“Corbus an’ Fletcher! And trouble huntingl Maybe we should get into this.” “Wait, let’s see how the kid handles it.” Mike’s expression was mild. “You want an outfit like this? Almost any Indian can make one for you.” He had taken their measure at once and knew the kind of men he had to deal with. There is at least one such in every bar. Given a few drinks they hunt trouble.
“Just that easy?” Corbus asked.
He was in a quarrelsome mood, and Mike looked too neat for his taste. Trouble was coming and there was no way to avoid it. If he walked out they would follow him. It was better to meet it head-on. “Just like that,” Mike said, “but I don’t know what you’d want with it. A suit like this would be too big for you.” “Huh?” Corbus was startled by the brusque tone. “You gettin’ smart with me, kid?” “No,” Mike replied coolly, “nor am I about to be hurrahed by any lamebrain, whiskey-guzzling saddle tramp.
“You commented on my suit and I told you where you could get one. Now you can have a drink on me, all three of you, and I’m suggesting we drink up.” His voice became softer. “I want you to have a drink because I want to be very, very sure we’re friends, see?” Corbus stared at Bastian, a cold hint of danger filtering through. This might be dangerous going, but he was stubborn, too stubborn to laugh it off and accept the drink and end the trouble. “Suppose I don’t want to drink with no tenderfoot brat?” Corbus never saw what happened. His brain warned him as Bastian’s left hand moved, but he never saw the right. The left smashed his lips, and the right cracked on the angle of his jaw. He hit the floor on his shoulder blades, out cold.
Fletcher and the third tough hesitated. Corbus was on the floor and Bastian was not smiling. “You boys want a drink or do we go on from here?” “What if a man drawed a gun instead of usin’ his fists?” Fletcher asked. “I’d kill him,” Mike replied.
Fletcher blinked. He had been shocked sober by what happened to Corbus. “I reckon you would.
All right, let’s have that drink. The boot hill out there already has twenty graves in it.” Relieved, the bartender poured. Nobody looked at Corbus, who was still out.
“What will Corbus do when he gets up?” Colley wondered. Garlin chuckled.
“Nothing today. He won’t feel like it. was There was silence and then Garlin said, “I can’t wait to see Kerb Perrin’s face when he hears of it.” He glanced over at Colley. “There’s a whisper goin’ around that the old man intends the kid to take over.” “That is the rumor.” “Well, he can shoot and he doesn’t waste around. Maybe he can cut the mustard.” Mike Bastian finished his beer as he heard a stage roll into the street. It offered an easy way out and he took it, following several men who started for the door.
The passengers were getting down to stretch their legs and eat. There was a boardinghouse alongside the saloon. Three of the passengers were women, all were well dressed, with an eastern look to them. Seeing him, one of the younger women walked up to him. She was a pale, pretty girl with large gray eyes.
“What is the fastest route to Red Wall Canyon?” she asked.
Mike Bastian was suddenly alert. “You will make it by morning if you ride the stage. There is a crosscountry route if you have a buckboard.” “Could you show us where to hire one? My mother is not feeling well.” Doe Sawyer was on the steps behind him. “Be careful, Mike,” he spoke softly.
“This could be trouble.” Mike stepped down into the street and walked back to the stage with her. The older woman and the other girl were standing near the stage, but he had eyes only for the girl.
Her hair seemed to have a touch of gold but was a shade or two darker than the hair of the girl who had spoken to him. She who had approached him was quiet and sweet. This other girl was vivid. Their eyes met and he swept off his hat. The girl beside him spoke. “This is my mother, Mrs. Ragan, and my sister, Drusilla.” She looked up at him.
“I am Juliana. his Mike bowed. He had eyes only for Drusilla. “I am Mike Bastian,” he replied.
“He said we could hire a rig to take us by a shorter route to Red Wall Canyon.” “Just where in the canyon did you wish to go?” he asked. “To the V-Bar, Voyle Ragan’s place.” He had started to turn away, but stopped in midstride. “Did you say-Voyle Ragan’s?” “Yes. Is there anything wrong?” “No, no. Of course not. I just wanted to be sure.” He smiled. “I wanted to be sure. I might want to come calling. his Juliana laughed. “Of coursel We would be glad to see you. It gets rather lonely at the ranch sometimes, although we love it. Sometimes I think I could spend the rest of my life there.” Mike walked swiftly away, heading for the livery sign he had seen along the street. These then were Ben Curry’s wife and daughters, and somehow Doe Sawyer knew it. How many others knew?
He was their foster brother, but obviously his name was unknown to them. Nor would he have guessed who they were but for what Roundy had told him. Yet he was, as Sawyer had warned, treading on dangerous ground.
He must reveal nothing of what he knew, either to them or anyone else. This was Ben Curry’s secret and he was entitled to it.
Hiring the rig was a matter of minutes, and he liked the looks of the driver, an older man with a lean, weathered face and an air of competence about him.
“No danger on that road this time of year,” the driver said. “I can have them there before the stage is more than halfway. I don’t have to take that roundabout route to pick up passengers.” “Take good care of them,” Bastian said.
He left while the man was harnessing his team and walked back to the boardinghouse.
Drusilla looked up as he came in. “Did you find a rig?” “He’ll be around in a matter of minutes. It will be a long drive but you could lie down in the back if you like. He was putting in some buffalo robes when I left.” “You’re very kind.” “I hope I am,” he said, “but all I could think of was that you were beautiful.” She blushed, or seemed to. The light wasn’t very good. “And I can come to visit?” “My sister invited you, didn’t she?” “Yes, but I’d like the invitation from you, too.” “All right. Now why don’t you ask my mother, too? She likes visitors as much as Julie and I do.” “I’ll have to take the invitation from you and your sister as being enough. If I ask your mother I might have to ask your father, too.” “He isn’t with us. His name is Ben Ragan and he is probably off buying cattle or looking at mining property. He travels a great deal. Do you know him?” “I’ve heard the name,” he said.
He sat with them, eating a little, drinking coffee, and listening to them talking of the trip. Drusilla was very cool, saying little. Twice he caught her eyes upon him but each time she looked away, though without embar- rassment.
“You won’t be able to see much but stars,” he said.
“My advice is to lie down in the back and get what rest you can.” “Do you live over that way?” Juliana asked.