It came to me suddenly, but the challenge of it set my blood to leaping and brought laughter to my lips. For now I could see my way clear, my way to money, to a home, and to all I’d need to marry Moira Maclaren … The way would be rough and bloody, but only the daring of it gripped my mind.
Turning, I started toward the stable, and then I stopped, for there was a man standing there.
He was a huge man, towering over my six feet two inches, broader and heavier by far than my two hundred pounds. He was big-boned and full of raw power, unbroken and brutal. He stood wide-legged before me, his face as wide as my two hands, his big head topped by a mass of tight curls.
“You’re Brennan?”
“Why, yes,” I said, and he hit me.
There was no start to the blow. His big balled fist hit my jaw like an axe butt and something seemed to slam me behind the knees and I felt myself falling. He hit me again as I fell into his fist, a wicked blow that turned me half around.
He dropped astride of me, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him, and with his knees pinning my arms, he aimed smashing, brutal blows at my head and face. Finally he got up, stepped back, and kicked me in the ribs.
“If you’re conscious, hear me. I’m Morgan Park, and I’m the man who’s going to marry Moira Maclaren.”
My lips were swollen and bloody and my brain foggy. “You lie!” I said, and he kicked me again and then walked away, whistling.
Somehow I rolled over and got my hands under me and pushed up to my knees. I crawled out of the street and against the stage station wall, where I lay with my head throbbing like a great drum, the blood welling from my split lips and broken face.
It had been a brutal beating he’d given me. I’d not been whipped since I was a boy, and never had I felt such blows as those. His fists had been like knots of oak and his arms like the limbs of trees.
Every breath I took brought a gasp, and I was sure he’d broken a rib for me. Yet it was time for me to travel. I’d made big talk in Hattan’s Point and I’d not want Moira Maclaren to see me lying in the street like a whipped hound.
My hands found the corner of the building and I pulled myself up. Staggering along the building, using the wall for support, I made my way to the livery stable.
When I got my horse saddled, I pulled myself into the saddle and rode to the door.
The street was empty … no one had seen the beating I’d taken, and wherever Morgan Park had come from, now he was nowhere to be seen. For an instant I sat my horse in the light of the lantern above the stable floor.
A door opened and a shaft of light fell across me. In the open door of Mother O’Hara’s stood Moira Maclaren.
She stepped down from the stoop and walked over to me, looking up at my swollen and bloody face with a land of awed wonder.
“So he found you, then. He always hears when anyone comes near me, and this always happens. You see, Matt, it is not so simple a thing to marry Moira Maclaren.” There seemed almost a note of regret in her voice.
“And now you’re leaving?” she said.
“I’ll be back for you … and to give Morgan Park a beating.”
Now her voice was cool, shaded with contempt. “You boast—all you have done is talk and take a beating!”
That made me grin, and the grinning hurt my face. “It’s a bad beginning, isn’t it?”
She stood there watching as I rode away down the street.
Throughout the night I rode into wilder and wilder country. I was like a dog hunting a hole in which to die, but I’d no thought of dying, only of living and finding Morgan Park again.
Through the long night I rode, my skull pounding, my aching body heavy with weariness, my face swollen and shapeless. Great canyon walls towered above me, and I drank of their coolness. Then I emerged on a high plateau where a long wind stole softly across the open levels fresh with sage and sego lilies.
Vaguely I knew the land into which I rode was a lost and lonely land inhabited by few, and those few were men who did not welcome visitors.
At daylight I found myself in a long canyon where tall pines grew. There was a stream talking somewhere under the trees, and, turning from the game trail I had followed, I walked my buckskin through knee-high grass and flowers and into the pines. It smelled good there, and I was glad to be alone in the wilderness which is the source of all strength.
There beside the stream I bedded down, opening my soogan and spreading it in the half sunlight and shade, and then I picketed my horse and at last crept to my blankets and relaxed with a great sigh. And then I slept.
It was midafternoon when my eyes opened again. There was no sound but the stream and the wind in the tall pines, a far-off, lonely sound. Downstream a beaver splashed, and in the trees a magpie chattered, fussing at a squirrel.
I was alone. With small sticks I built a fire and heated water, and when it was hot I bathed my face with careful hands, and while I did it I thought of the man who had whipped me.
It was true he had slugged me without warning, then had pinned me down so I’d have no chance to escape from his great weight. But I had to admit I’d been whipped soundly. Yet I wanted to go back. This was not a matter for guns. This man I must whip with my bare hands.
But there was much else to consider. From all I had learned, the Two-Bar was the key to the situation, and it had been my idea to join forces with Ball, the man who was stubborn enough to face up to two strong outfits. I’d long had an urge for lost causes, and a feeling for men strong enough to stand alone. If Ball would have my help…
To the west of where I waited was a gigantic cliff rising sheer from the grassy meadow. Trees skirted the meadow, and to the east a stream flowed along one side, where the pines gave way to sycamore and a few pin oak.
Twice I saw deer moving among the trees. Lying in wait near the water, I finally got my shot and dropped a young buck.
For two days I ate, slept, and let the stream flow by. My side ceased to pain except when a sudden movement jerked it, but it remained stiff and sore to the touch. The discoloration around my eyes and on one cheekbone changed color and some of the swelling went down. After two days I could wait no longer. Mounting the buckskin, I turned him toward the Two-Bar.
A noontime sun was darkening the buckskin with sweat when I turned into Cottonwood Wash.
There was green grass here, and there were trees and water. The walls of the Wash were high and the trees towered until their tops were level with them, occasional cattle I saw looked fat and lazy.
For an hour I rode slowly along, feeling the hot sun on my shoulders and smelling the fresh green of the grass, until the trail ended abruptly at a gate bearing a large sign.
TWO-BAR GATE RANGED FOR A SPENCER .56
SHOOTING GOING ON HERE
Beyond this point a man would be taking his own chances, and nobody could say he had not been warned.
Some distance away, atop a knoll, I could see the house. Rising in my stirrups, I waved my hat. Instantly there was the hard whap of a bullet passing, then the boom of the rifle.
Obviously, this was merely a warning shot, so I waved once more.
That time the bullet was close, so, grabbing my chest with both hands I rolled from the saddle, caught the stirrup to break my fall and settled down to the grass. Then I rolled over behind a boulder. Removing my hat, I sailed it to the ground near the horse, then pulled off one boot and placed it on the ground so it would be visible from the gate. But from that far away an observer would see only the boot, not whether there was a foot and leg attached.
Then I crawled into the brush, among the rocks, where I could cover the gate. To all outward appearances a man lay sprawled behind that boulder.