“Something the matter?” I asked. “Seems like you’re kind of unsteady.”
He got up more slowly, but he let his hand close over one of the broken chair legs. “Better get back against the wall,” I told Pennywell, “from here on this is going to get rough.”
This time he was cautious. He came toward me slowly, gripping the club in his right hand; he raised it a mite more than shoulder high and poised to strike. But this time I was on my feet. He didn’t know much about stick fighting and his one idea was to bash in my skull. He struck down and hard. Blocking the downcoming blow with my forearm, I slid my right hand under and over his arm to grasp my own wrist in an arm lock. I had him and there was never much mercy in me. I just slammed the pressure to him and his hand opened and dropped the club as he screamed.
He went over backwards to the floor and I released him and let him fall. I had almost broken his arm. I could have without no trouble. He was game and he got up. When he tried to swing with his injured arm I was suddenly tired of the whole thing. I hit him four inches above the belt buckle with my left, and then clobbered him on the ear with my right. He went down, his ear split apart, gasping for breath.
“A man that can’t fight shouldn’t try,” I commented. “He’s just lucky I didn’t break his fool neck.”
Taking Pennywell by the elbow, I went to the door. “I’m taking this girl to a good home,” I said, “but I’ll be back.”
Spud Tavis was slowly sitting up. “Tavis,” I said, “you’ve got youngsters, Pennywell says. My advice is to go home an’ take care of them. If you ever bother this young lady again, you’ll answer to me. An’ next time I won’t play games.”
The rain had wind behind it, lashing the boardwalk and the faces of the buildings. We slopped across to the livery stable, where I left Pennywell under the overhang and went in alone, gun in hand.
Nobody was there. I saddled up my horse, who looked almighty unhappy with me, and then mounted up. At the door I gave her a hand up and we went out and down the road. As we left I saw somebody standing on the edge of the walk, peering after me. Once out of sight and. sound in the darkness we cut across a field, took a country lane, and headed for the mountains.
The trail began at a lightning-scarred pine and wound steeply up among the rocks, slick from rain and running water. After a climb of nearly half a mile we came to a huge boulder that hung over what was called a trail. It taken us nearly two hours to travel maybe a mile and a half of trail, and then we were riding smooth and in the woods a couple of thousand feet above the prairie.
Wet branches slapped at our faces and dripped water down our necks. Several times the horse slipped on the muddy trail. The horse I rode was bigger than most and powerful, but it was carrying double. After a while I got down and walked, leading the horse along.
“Logan Sackett,” I said to myself, “you can get yourself into some mighty poor situations.”
Here I was, slippin’ an’ sloppin’ through a wet forest, headin’ toward what might be a bullet in my fat skull, and all because of some no-account drifter’s girl.
The house when I saw it looked almighty big, even from up on the mountain. It looked the way folks figure a ha’nted house might look like, standin’ up there on its hill, peerin’ out over the country around.
Behind it there was a long building, more’n likely a bunkhouse. There were a couple of barns, sheds, and some corrals. I could see light reflected from a water tank. It must have been quite an outfit when it was all together an’ workin’ right.
We walked and slid down the steep hill behind the house, and lookin’ back I could see why nobody tried that way in, because it was rimmed around with cliffs two or three hundred feet high or mountains too steep for a horse to climb.
I led my horse inside a barn and stripped off the saddle. The barn was empty and smelled like it’d been empty a long time. Very carefully we crossed to the bunkhouse and I opened the door, stepped in, and struck a match. It was empty, too. No bedrolls, nothing.
A few old dried-out, workout boots, some odds and ends of harness and rope, a dusty coat hung from a nail.
We crossed the yard and went very easily up the back steps. The door opened under my hand, and we stepped in.
All was dark and still. The house had the musty smell of a place long closed. Lightning flashed revealing a kitchen storeroom. We tiptoed on through it, opening the door into the kitchen.
There was a fire in the kitchen range, and the smell of warmth and coffee was in the room.
The floor creaked ever so slightly as we crossed it. I could feel the skin crawl on the back of my neck, but I laid a hand on that door.
By rights we should have had a gun barrel stuck in our faces, but there hadn’t been a sound. Was the old lady dead?
Gently I opened the door. Beyond was a big room, cavernous and dark. Lightning flashed and showed through the shuttered windows and the glass transom window over the door. And in that momentary flash I found myself looking across the room into the black muzzle of a big pistol. Behind it stood the old lady.
The flash, then darkness. “All right,” her voice was steady, “I may be old but I have ears like a cat. If you so much as shift your feet I am going to fire, and mister, I can hit what I aim at.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve a lady with me, ma’am.”
“To the right of the door there is a lamp. There should still be a little coal oil in it. Take off the chimney, strike a match, and be mighty, mighty careful.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re friendly, ma’am. We’ve just had a run-in with some folks down at the town.”
Carefully I lifted off the lamp chimney, struck a match, and touched it to the wick. Then I replaced the chimney and the room was softly lit.
“Better stand clear of the light,” she said quietly, “those no-accounts yonder shot two or three of them out for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Logan Sackett, and this here girl is Pennywell Farman.”
“Any kin to Deke Farman?”
“He was my father.”
“Maybe he was a good father, but he was a shiftless, no-account cowhand. Never did earn his keep.”
“That sounds like pa,” Pennywell said mildly.
The hand that held the gun was steady as a rock. And it was no ordinary gun. It was one of those old-time Dragoon Colts that would blow a hole in a man big enough for your fist … or mine.
“What are you doin’ here?” the old lady asked.
“Ma’am, this young lady taken on to cook an’ care for youngsters at the Tavis place. Spud Tavis made things bad for her, an’ she run off an’ fetched herself into town. She came to the Bon Ton huntin’ the boss to ask for a job, and some of that crowd—Len Spivey for one—they talked kind of mean to her, ma’am. She needs a lady to set with, ma’am, and somebody who will teach her the things she should know. She’s sixteen, and she’s a good girl.”
“Do you take me for a fool? Of course, she’s a good girl. I can see that. What I want to know is what kind of a man are you? Are you fit company for her?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m mean, ma’am, meaner than a skunk, on’y I never figured to be comp’ny for her, only to bring her here. I’m fixin’ to ride on, ma’am, soon’s my horse is rested up.”
“Ride on?” Her voice grew stronger. “Ride to where?”
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am, just on. Just to ride on. I been a sight of places, worked at a whole lot of things. Was Milo Talon your son, ma’am?”
Suddenly the room was still. And then she said, “What do you know of Milo Talon?”
“Why, we met up down Chihuahua way, quite a spell back, only I understood his folks were all passed on.”
“He was wrong, and I’m his ma. Where is Milo now?”
“Driftin’, I reckon. We drifted together, there for a while, and got ourselves in a shootin’ match down Laredo way.”