And to the Benaras boys I said as much. They nodded, knowing how I felt. They were young men from a land of feud, men of strong friendship and bitter hatred, and of fights to the end.
“He was a good man,” Zeb said. “Pa liked him.”
For two days we combed the draws, gathering cattle. At the end of the second day we had only three hundred head. Rustling by the big brands had sadly depleted the herds of the Two-Bar.
We made our gather in the bottom of Cottonwood Wash, where there was water and grass. Once in that bottom, it was easy to hold the cows.
“Come morning, we’ll start our drive.”
Nick looked around at me. “Figure to leave the ranch unguarded?”
“If they move in,” I told him, “they can move out again or be buried there.”
The canyon channeled the drive and the cattle were in good shape and easy to handle. It took us all day to make the drive, skirting the mesa I had crossed in my first ride to Organ Rock. My side pained me very little although it was still stiff. There was only that gnawing, deep-burning anger at the killers of old man Ball to worry me.
They had left a wounded man to burn. They had killed a man who wanted only peace, the right to enjoy the ranch he had built from nothing. He had been an old man, strong for his years, but with a weariness on him and the need for quiet evenings and brisk, cool mornings, and a chair on a porch. And that old man had died in the falling timbers of his burning home, his body twisted with the pain of bullet wounds.
At the ranch we told our story to Benaras, and as he listened his hard old face stiffened with anger.
We ate there, sitting again at that table that seemed always heavy with food, and we talked long, saying nothing of what was to come, for we were men without threats. We were men who talked little of the deeds to be done.
Looking back over the few days since I had first come to Hattan’s Point, I knew I had changed. It is the right of youth to be gay and proud, to ride with a challenge. The young bull must always try his strength. It was alwavs so, the test of strength and the test of youth. Yet when the male met his woman it was different. I had met mine thus, and I had seen an old man die … these are things to bring years to a man.
When day came again to Organ Rock, Jolly and Jonathan Benaras helped me start the herd of young stuff back up the trail. Benaras had given me two dozen head more than I’d asked in trade, but the stock I’d given him were heavy and ready for market as they stood.
Jolly had been at Hattan’s when the news of the raid reached the town. The Apache trailer Bunt Wilson, and Corby Kitchen had been on the raid, and three others unnamed.
“Hear anything said about Morgan Park?”
“Not him. Lyell, who rides for Park, he was along.”
Ball might have meant to say it was a rider of Park’s rather than Park himself. That was more likely.
Jonathan rode back from the point. He had gone on ahead, scouting the way.
“Folks at your place … two, maybe three.”
Something in me turned cold and ugly. “Bring the herd. I’ll ride on ahead.”
Jonathan’s big Adam’s apple bobbed. “Jolly an’ me, we ain’t had much fun lately. Can’t we come along?”
“Foot of the hill. Right below where the house was.” An idea hit me. “Where’s their camp?”
“They got them a tent.”
“We’ll take the herd … drive it right over the tent.”
Jonathan looked at Jolly. “Boys’ll be sore. Missin’ all the fun.”
We started the herd. They were young stuff and full of ginger, ready to run. They came out of the canyon some two hundred yards from the camp, and then we really lit into them.
With a wild yell, I banged a couple of quick shots from my gun and the herd lit out as if they were making a break for water after a long dry drive. They hit that stretch with their bellies to the grass and ran like deer.
Up ahead we saw men jumping up. Somebody yelled, somebody else grabbed for a rifle, and then that herd hit them, running full tilt.
One man dove for his horse, missed his grab, and fell sprawling. He came up running and just barely made it to the top of a rock as the herd broke around it.
The tent was smashed down, the food trampled into the dust. The fire scattered, utensils smashed and banged around. The herd went on through, some of them going up the hill, some breaking around it. The camp was a shambles, the gear the men had packed up there was ruined.
One man who had scrambled into a saddle in time swung his horse and came back. He was a big redhead and he looked tough. He was fighting mad.
“What goes on here? What the hell’s this?”
He rode a Boxed M horse. Rud Maclaren’s men had beaten the CP to the ranch.
Kneeing my horse alongside his, I told him. “I’m Matt Brennan, owner of the Two-Bar, with witnesses to prove it. You’re trespassing. Now light a shuck!”
“I will like hell!” His face flushed with anger. “I got my orders, an’ I—”
My fist backhanded into his teeth, smashing his lips to pulp. He went back out of the saddle and I swung my horse around and jumped to the ground as he started to get up. I hit him getting off the ground and he went down hard. He started up again, then dove at my feet. I jumped back and as he sprawled out I grabbed his hair and jerked him up. I smashed a fist into his wind, and then shoved him off and hit him in the face with both hands. He went down, and he didn’t make any move to get up.
Jonathan and Jolly had rounded up two more men and herded them to me.
One was a slim, hard-faced youngster who looked as if the devil was riding him. His kind I had seen before. The other was a stocky redhead with a scar on his jaw.
“You ruined my outfit,” he said. “What kind of a deal is this?”
“When you ride for a fighting brand you can expect trouble. What did you expect when you came up here? A pink tea party? You go back and tell Maclaren not to send boys to do a man’s job. I’ll shoot the next trespasser on sight.”
The younger one was sneering. “What if he sends me?” He put his hands on his hips. “If I hadn’t lost my gun in the scramble you’d eat that!”
“Jolly! Lend me your gun!”
Without a word, Benaras passed his six shooter to me.
The youngster’s eyes were suddenly calculating and wary. He suspected a trick, but could not guess what it would be.
Taking the gun by the barrel, I walked toward him. “You get your chance,” I said. Flipping it in my hand so the butt was up, I held it out. “Anyway you like. Try a border roll or shoot from where it is. Anyway you try it, I’m going to kill you.”
He didn’t like it. He stared at me and then at the gun. His tongue touched his lips. He wanted that gun so bad he could taste it, and my gun was in my holster.
He had that streak of viciousness it takes to make a killer, but suddenly he was face to face with killing and right now he wanted no part of it. The thing that bothered him was the fact that I’d gamble. No man would make such a gamble unless he knew … or unless he was crazy.
“It’s a trick,” he said. “You ain’t that much of a fool.”
“Fool?” That brought my fury surging to the top. “Why, you cheap, phony, imitation of a badman! I’d give you two guns and shoot your ears off any day you’d like!
“Right now! Shove your gun in my belly and I’ll shove mine in yours! If you want to die, let’s make it easy! Come on, you cheapskate! Try it!”
Crazy? Sure. But right then I didn’t care. His face turned whiter and his eyes were hot and ugly. He was trembling with eagerness to grab that gun. But face to face? Guns shoved against the body? We would both die. We couldn’t miss. He shook his head, and his lips were dry and his eyes staring.
“No … no. …”
My fingers held the gun by the barrel. Flipping it up, I caught the gun by the butt and dashed it down across his skull. He hit the dirt at my feet, knocked cold.