“Has Dutch Brannenburg been through?”
Herrara stared at me. “You ride for Dutch?”
I laughed. “Him an’ me don’t see eye to eye. I met him yonder and we had words. He’s headed this way, hunting two horse thieves … Anglos,” I added, “but he hangs whoever he finds.”
“He did not hang you,” Herrara said, still staring.
“I didn’t favor the idea. The situation being what it was, he figured he could wait.”
“The situation?” the Anglo asked.
“My Winchester was sort of headed his way. His motion was overruled, as they’d say in a court of law.”
“He is coming this way?”
“There’s nine of them,” I said, “and they size up like fighters.”
For a minute or two nobody said anything, and then around a mouthful of beans and beef, I said, “They’ll come in from the north, I’m thinking. I didn’t find any tracks in the Limestone Ridge country.”
They all looked at me. “You came that way?”
I shrugged. “Joe,” I said, “I’d been in this Hole two, three times before you left South Pass City.”
He didn’t like that very much. Mexican Joe had killed a man or two over that way and they’d made it hot for him, so he’d pulled his stakes.
I’d come in there first as a long-geared apple-knocking youngster. I’d been swinging a hammer on the U.P. tracks and got into a shooting at the End of Track. The men I killed had friends and I had none but a few Irish trackworkers who weren’t gunfighters, so I pulled my freight
“Are you on the dodge?” It was the Anglo who asked the question.
“Well,” I said, “there’s a posse from Nebraska that’s probably started back home by now. I came thisaway because I figured I’d see Isom Dart … I wanted to sort of pass word down the trail.”
“What word?” Herrara’s tone was belligerent
The Mexican had been drinking wine, as had the others. He was in an ugly mood and I was a stranger who did not seem impressed by him. There had been some other Mexicans down in Sonora and Chihuahua who weren’t impressed, either, and that was why he was up here.
“Milo Talon,” I said, “is a friend of mine, and I want to pass the word along that he’s needed on the Empty, over east of here, and that he’s to come careful.”
“I’ll tell Dart,” the American said.
Herrara never took his eyes off me. He was mean, I knew that, and he’d cut up several men with his knife. He had a way of taking it out and honing it until sharp, then with a yell he’d jump you and start cutting. But the honing act was to get a man scared before he jumped him. It was a good stunt, and usually it worked.
He got out his whetstone, but before he could draw his knife I drew mine. “Say, just what I need.” Before he knew what I was going to do I had reached over and taken the stone. Then I began whetting my own blade.
Well, it was a thing to see. He was astonished, then mad. He sat there empty-handed while I calmly put an edge to my blade, which was already razor sharp. I tried the blade on a hair from my head and it cut nicely, so I passed the stone back to him.
“Gracias,” I said, smiling friendly-like. “A man never knows when he’ll need a good edge.”
My knife was a sort of modified Bowie, but made by the Tinker. No better knives were ever made than those made by the Tinker back in Tennessee. He was a Gypsy pack peddler who drifted down the mountains now and again, but he sold mighty few knives. The secret of those blades had come from India where his people, thousands of years back, had been making the finest steel in the world. The steel for the fine blades of Damascus and Toledo actually came from India, and there’s an iron pillar in India that’s stood for near two thousand years, and not a sign of rust.
I showed them the knife. “That there,” I said, “is a Tinker-made knife. It will cut right through most blades and will cut a man shoulder to belt with one stroke.”
Tucking it back in my belt, I got up. “Thanks for the grub. I’ll be drifting. I don’t figure to be trapped inside if Dutch comes along.”
Nobody said a word as I went outside, tightened my cinch, and prepared to mount.
Then the American came out. “That was beautiful,” he said, “Joe is an old friend of mine, but he’s had that coming for a long time. He didn’t know what to think. He still doesn’t.”
“You’re an educated man,” I said.
“Yes. I studied law.”
“There’s need for lawyers,” I said. “I may need one myself sometime.”
He shrugged, then looked away. “I should pull out,” he said. “I just sort of drifted into this, and I’ve stayed on. I guess it doesn’t make much sense.”
“If I knew the law,” I said, “I’d hang out my shingle. This is a new country. No telling where a man might go.”
“I guess you’re right. God knows I’ve thought of it, but sometimes a man gets caught in a sort of backwater.”
I stepped into the saddle, listening beyond his voice. Nobody came from the cabin. I heard no sound on the trail.
The American pointed. “Isom Dart has a cabin down that way. He’s a black man, and smart.”
“We’ve met,” I said.
He looked up at me. “They’ll be wondering who you are,” he said. “It isn’t often a man stands up to Mexican Joe.”
“The name is Sackett … Logan Sackett,” I said and rode off. When I looked back he was still looking after me, but then he turned and walked toward the cabin door.
I trusted the Anglo. I had heard of him before, and he was a man of much education who seemed to care for nothing but sitting in the cabin and drinking or talking with the Mexicans or passersby.
This Brown’s Hole was a secret place, although the Indians had known of it. Ringed with hills, some of them that could not be passed, it was a good place, too, a good place for men like me. There we’re places like this in Tennessee where I had been born, but they were more green, lovelier and not so large.
My thoughts returned to Emily Talon. She was a Sackett. She was my kin and so deserving of my help. Ours was an old family, with old, old family feelings. Long ago we had come from England and Wales, but the family feeling within us was older still, old as the ancient Celtic clans I’d heard spoken of. It was something deep in the grain, but something that should belong to all families … everywhere. I did not envy those who lacked it
There’d never been much occasion to think on it. When trouble fetched around the corner we just naturally lit in and helped out. Mostly, we could handle what trouble came our way without help, but there was a time or two, like that time down in the Tonto Basin country when they had Tell backed into a corner.
Riding through wild country leaves a man’s mind free to roam around, and while a body never dare forget what he’s doing, one part of his mind keeps watch while another sort of wanders around. My thoughts kept returning to Em Talon and the Empty.
That old woman was alone except for a slip of a girl, and you could bet Jake Planner was studying ways to get her away from the ranch. Chances were he thought I was still around, but if he did know I was gone he’d figure I was gone for good. Well, if I could find Milo Talon, I would be. Right now I wanted Milo more’n anybody, but I hadn’t any fancy ideas about being safe in Brown’s Hole. So far most of the folks in the Hole, if they weren’t outlaws themselves at least tolerated them. The Hoys, however, tolerated them least of all, as they’d lost some stock from time to time.
From time to time I rode off the trail and waited in the cedars to study my back trail, and I kept my eyes on the tracks. I wanted to see Dart, but there were others around I’d no desire to see at all.
Suddenly I heard hoofs a-coming and I pulled off the trail. It was Dart, and he was riding a sorrel gelding. They called Isom Dart a black man and he’d been a slave, but he surely wasn’t very black.
He seen me as quick as I did him. “H’lo, Logan. What you all a-doin’ up thisaways?”
“Huntin’ you. I want to pass word to Milo Talon. He’s needed on the Empty. His ma’s still alive and she’s in trouble. He’s to come in careful … and anybody in town is likely an enemy.”