“A man killed.”
“Be careful, lad. There’s too many dying.”
So as I curried the buckskin, I told the story, leaving nothing out, and Mulvaney listened, watching me. He was a good man and I had respect for his judgment.
“Right,” he said, at last. “You’d best talk to Canaval.”
Turning away from the corral I looked off down the length of Cottonwood, looked at the white-faced cattle grazing there, and at the water flowing through the ditch to irrigate the vegetable garden we’d planned. It was something begun. I was no longer dreaming. I was putting down roots.
Mulvaney had been watching me as we ate, sitting back from the fire and sheltered so no shot could reach us. “You’re tired,” he said. He had lighted his pipe, and he smoked quietly, then went on, “You’ll back up that challenge to Morgan Park?”
“I will.”
“He’s a power of man, lad. I’ve seen him lift a barrel of whiskey to the length of his arms overhead.”
He need not tell me that, me who had felt the weight of his fist: But how would Morgan Park be with a man who stood up to him? And one hard to hit? I was thinking that such big men rarely have to fight. Their size is an awesome thing and most men draw back. Had he fought much? Or had he always won easily and by bluff? I meant to see.
“Have you boxed any, Mulvaney? You told me you’d wrestled, Cornish style.”
“What Irishman hasn’t boxed? If it’s a sparrin’ mate you want, you’ve picked your man. It would be good to get the leather on me maulies again.”
There followed a week at the Two-Bar that was uninterrupted, and it was a week of work, but a week of sparring, too. Only sometimes we went at it hot and heavy, and Mulvaney was a brawny man, a fierce slugger and powerful in the clinches. On the seventh day we did a full thirty minutes without a break; my strength was nearly back, and my side hurt hardly at all.
The rough and tumble part of it … let Morgan choose the way. I’d grown up in wagon camps and cow camps. I knew my way around as a fighting man. After our tenth session with the gloves, Mulvaney stripped them from his hands.
“It’s a power of muscle behind that wallop, lad! That last one came from nowhere, and I felt it to my toes!”
“Thanks … I’ll be riding to town tomorrow.”
“To fight him?”
“To see Moira, to buy supplies, and to talk to Canaval. It is late for that. I’ve been worried.”
On the day after my return two of the Benaras boys had stopped by on a rare trip to town, and I’d sent them to Canaval with a message from me—and to be given only to him. What might have happened since then, or what Canaval had thought of my message, I had no idea. And I was worried. Canaval could care for himself, but could Maclaren?
In my message to Canaval I had said there was some plot against Maclaren. I’d dared to say no more.
“And Morgan Park,” I told Mulvaney, “I want the man mad. I want him mad and wild before we fight.”
“It’ll help … but be careful, lad.”
Hattan’s Point lay still under a noonday sun when my buckskin shambled down the street. When he’d been watered I walked into the saloon. It was not a drink I wanted so much as conversation. I wanted news.
Key Chapin was there, and as always, I wondered about the man. Where did he stand? What did he want?
“You’ve been making a name for yourself,” Chapin said.
“All I want is a ranch.”
“Lyell was killed … over in Silver Reef.”
His eyes measured me, searching, but asking no question.
I shrugged. “You know there’s a saying, ‘If you live by the sword—'”
“They’ve got a sheriff who’s serious about his business. They say he’s asking questions.”
Ignoring that, I asked one of my own.
“You said when I first came here that the town was taking sides. On which side are you?”
He hesitated, fiddling with his glass.
“That’s harder to say since you came. I’m against the CP because they are essentially lawless men.”
“And Maclaren?”
“Stubborn, and sure of himself. But at times he can be reasoned with. He has an exaggerated view of his own lightness.”
“And Morgan Park?”
He glanced sharply at me, then looked out the door. He was frowning. “Morgan is generally believed to see things as Maclaren does … you don’t believe that?”
“No … unless it so serves his interest. Morgan Park is anything to get the coon. He could choose any side if it would further his own interest.”
At that, Chapin was silent, and I could see he was disturbed by what I had said, although for what reason I could not guess. He was Maclaren’s friend, I believed, but he had also seemed friendly to Morgan Park.
“Look, Chapin,” I said leaning toward him, “you’re the press. I’ve seen a dozen frontier towns tougher than this one—and all of them were tamed. To get law and order meant a fight, but they got it. You more than anyone could lead such a fight here. And I’ll help.”
“Even to stopping this war?”
“What war? A peaceful old man had a ranch that two big outfits wanted. They tried to get it. They failed. He left that ranch to me. If protecting one’s property is war, then settle down for a long fight.”
“You could sell out.”
“No.” I took my hat from the table and was about to leave. “What you should do is start examining motives. How’d the fight start? Why not look into the background of some of the people around? And I don’t mean Maclaren or Finder.”
“You haven’t gotten over being sore at Morgan.”
Standing up, I put on my hat. “Ever hear of a lawyer at Silver Reef named Booker?”
“He’s an unmitigated scoundrel.”
“Ask yourself why Morgan Park is meeting him in secret. And when you see the Slade Boys in town, ask yourself why they are here.”
He looked up at me, definitely startled, and then I turned and walked outside. Moira was not in town, so I turned the buckskin toward the Boxed M.
When I rode into the ranch yard the first person I saw was a cowhand with a bandaged foot. He started up, then realizing he was far from a gun, settled carefully back in place.
“Howdy … if you want to know, I’m visiting, not hunting trouble.” I grinned at him. “I’ve no hard feelings.”
“You’ve no hard feelin’s? What about me? You darned near shot my foot off!”
“Next time keep your foot under cover. Anyway, why gripe? You haven’t done a lick of work since you were hurt. Just sittin’ around eating your head off!”
Somebody behind me chuckled and I turned in my saddle. It was Canaval.
“Did it for an excuse, Brennan.”
“Excuse?” The injured man came to his one good foot, his face flushed. Then he saw we were grinning and, disgusted, he limped away.
Canaval turned to me. He took out his tobacco and began to build a cigarette.
“What do you want, Brennan?”
“Courting … you mind?”
“None of my business. Rud may not like it. He may have me order you off.”
“If you tell me to go, Canaval, I’ll go. Only one thing. If Park is here, you keep him off me. I’m not ready for him, and when I am ready I’d rather she didn’t see it.”
“Fair enough.” His eyes twinkled a little and he looked up at me, only his eyes smiling. “You might be wrong about Moira. She might like to see it.”
Swinging down, I loosened the girth a little and tied my horse to the corral. Canaval stood by, watching me.
“The Benaras boys were here.”
“You got the message?”
He was alert and interested now. “Yes … I got it. Why would the Slades come here? Who would want to kill Rud Maclaren?”
“You figure it out … maybe somebody wants you dead so Rud will be alone.”
He was not disbelieving me. I could see that, and I saw it with surprise. Did Canaval know something I did not? Or had something happened since my warning?
On the steps I stopped and looked back. “That same gent is saving me for dessert … and his own special attention.”
He was standing there smoking when I knocked, and inside a voice answered that sent my blood pounding. It was a voice that would always have that effect on me, a voice that I would never hear too often.
As I entered there was an instant when my reflection was thrown upon a mirror beside hers. Seeing me gazing over her shoulder, she turned.