“You think they will come here?”
“They will come,” he said. She turned from him and broke an egg into the pan, trying to order her thoughts. Vicente was different. He was a man. She looked at him, puzzled by this change in a brother she now felt she had never understood.
“I will take the sheep to the Notch,” he said. “They will not look for them there.”
This, then, was what Vicente had sought to avoid. Now that it had come he was no longer afraid. Shame filled her. Shame that she had doubted him, shame that hers had been the fault
There was quiet resolution in his narrow face and she realized at last that he had never been afraid, only he had sought to avoid an issue that could only result in defeat and destruction for the Chaveros.
“Vicente …” It was as near as she ever came to a plea for understanding. “He is a good man. I could not let him die.”
He took the eggs from the pan, a tortilla from the warm pile on the plate. “It is enough that you have a man.”
She returned to the fire, humbled by his quiet dignity. He would take die sheep to the Notch. It was, of course, the best place for them. The Sutton riders did not like sheep but out of sight might also be out of mind. The Chaveros could build another house but the sheep were all they had.
“Take the others with you,” she said.
“And you?”
“It is I they will want. If I am not here they will follow.”
“You are my sister. I will stay.”
“Go … I can handle them.”
Vicente hesitated. The others would need him. Juanito was too young and without Maria Cristina or himself his mother would be helpless. And his wife, Rosa … she was a fine girl but she did not plan.
Maria Cristina had handled men before. This time she might succeed where his presence might precipitate violence.
The sun was not yet up when she saw them go. Juanito started ahead with the sheep, then her mother and Rosa with the burros, loaded with some useful, some foolish things. Vicente held his rifle in the hollow of his arm and this morning for the first time he had tied down his holster. He stood very straight this morning and his eyes were proud. Yet he was quiet at the end. “When you can … come.”
“I will, Vicente.”
Dry-eyed, they stared at each other, this brother whom she had despised and loved, now no longer to be despised. There had never been emotion between them; there could be none now.
“Vicente … go with God.”
He turned his back abruptly and caught the pommel. An instant he remained so, his back full upon her, then he swung to the saddle, an easy grace in his movements she had not noticed before.
He turned when seated. “You … do you come to us or go to him?”
“He is gone.” Within her the words created a strange emptiness where none had been before. “He is gone.”
“He will come back. Is he a fool to ride away from such a woman?”
She watched him ride away: his vest was patched, his boots were shabby and old, yet he was a man, this one. Her father would have been proud.
She stood very still in the empty yard, watching them out of sight At last, as he crossed the ridge, Vicente lifted a hand. Then the shaggy pony went over the hill and out of sight
Inside, the house looked empty and forlorn. She took the broom and began to sweep. Not to think … that was the thing now. There was nothing to think about There was only to wait.
What had she done? Ruined their lives for a strange gringo? A man who meant nothing to her and whom she had scarcely seen? She remembered the hard strength of his arms, his sudden strange gentleness … she was a fool.
He was a drifting man, a man from the malpais, a gun fighter. And what had he told her? That she should join him or he would come back. But to join him would be to lead them to his hiding place and how could he come to her when it would mean his death? No matter. What she had done she had done. It was enough.
She was washing dishes left from breakfast when she heard them coming. She went to meet them, drying her hands on her apron.
There were nine of them, sour and dirty with sleeping in their clothes, wearied from long hours in the saddle. Mort Bayless was there … she had heard stories about him … Joe Sutton, Jack Button … no friendly face among them.
Jack Sutton’s face was ragged from lack of sleep. He looked drawn and mean. Beside him Ben Hindeman — as always —stolid, indomitable. A man who might have been cast from iron, before whom other men must bend or break.
“Where’d he go?” Hindeman asked the question, taking out the makings to build a cigarette.
“I don’ know.”
She made no attempt to evade the issue. If she could not defeat them she could at least face them with pride.
“He comin’ back?”
She shrugged. “Back?… Why he come back?”
Joe Sutton spoke into the momentary silence. “The sheep’re gone, Ben. I think they’ve pulled out.”
Ben Hindeman put the cigarette between his chapped lips. By God, this was a woman! The way she stood there … no fear in her.
He considered it, taking his time. Ben Hindeman was a careful man and, outside his own family, a ruthless and cold-blooded man who lived for the brand. Old Bob Sutton had been the boss but now the mantle had fallen to Ben’s shoulders as Old Bob had always expected.
Jack Sutton did not like that but there was little he could do. Among the sixty cowhands who rode for SB, not more than eight or nine would follow him, and none would risk a showdown with Hindeman. Direct, relentless and powerful, Hindeman wasted no effort. He destroyed what got in his way, smashing it down without malice or cruelty, simply because it was in the way.
There was something here that bothered Ben. There was in this Mexican girl something fierce, something tigerish and dangerous. She was not like his wife, who had the strength to yield and to endure, but this was a woman with an aggressive strength; she had a brain. That was something Jack would never understand.
It was because of this quality that Hindeman, who believed in no wasted effort, had left the Chaveros alone. They were better off in the canyons making their small living harmlessly from their sheep than hiding in the hills and living off SB stock.
What Jack did not realize was that this girl would fight and mat not too many miles south there were Mexicans she could enlist to help her. And the best SB range lay on the south side of the border. It lay within the power of this girl to wreck the SB if she were hurt or angry and if she realized that she could. At the same time Hindeman knew the danger that could come from successful defiance of SB by Trace Jordan. Jordan must be found. He must be killed.
“Why did you stay?” he asked finally.
“Why should I go? This is my home.” There was a fine insolence in her tone when she looked boldly at him and asked, “Do you fight women now?”
Mort Bayless’ dry voice cut across the stillness. “Give me ten minutes with a quirt and spur. She’ll talk.”
Ben Hindeman looked at the tip of his cigarette, impatient with such talk. Mort was always bloody with women. Beat his own wife until she ran off and never came back. Mort had followed her … maybe that was why she hadn’t come back. But any fool should know this woman would not talk unless she chose.
“Ben?” It was Jacob Lantz. The old tracker had squatted beside the house. “He’ll come back, Ben.”
Hindeman caught the look of something like fear that came to her face suddenly and was gone. Ben Hindeman was smart in his way. He was a one-woman man and that woman was his wife, on their ranch near Tokewanna, but he knew a woman when he saw one. I’d come back, he told himself, by the Lord Harry, I’d come back. “That’s it,” Ben said. “We’ll wait.”
Mort’s face twisted with anger. “What?” He shoved his horse forward, almost knocking over Jacob Lantz. “I’ll not wait! By the — !”
“Mort.”
The chill voice arrested his movement, brought sanity to replace his sudden fury. Hindeman’s shotgun was across his saddlebows and the twin muzzles had him in their eyes. “I’ll give the orders here.”