He struck a match and lighted the lamp, then replaced the chimney. I pointed to the rolled-up blanket I’d been using for a pillow. There was a neat bullethole there, neat and round and perfect, despite the fuzzy material. “He doesn’t want me to quit,” I said, “he wants me dead.”
13
Headquarters ranch lay warm in the sunlight when I came down the slope, walking my horse. Fuentes and Danny rode with me, because three men can watch the country easier than one, and I was almighty tired when we reached the bunkhouse. Barby Ann came out on the porch. “What’s the matter, boys?” Danny went up to the porch and told her, while Fuentes saw that I got safely inside. “You will be better off here, I think.” The Mexican squatted on his heels near the door. “Joe will be here, and Ben Roper.” “I’m better,” I said. “The fever’s gone, all right, and now I’m only tired from the walk. Give me a couple of days and I’ll be working again.” “You staying on?”
“Somebody shot at me. I’d like to find him and see if he’ll shoot at me face to face. If I ride away now, I’d never know.”
For two days I rested at the ranch. On the second day I walked outside into the sunlight, and when chow time came I went up to the house rather than have food brought to me. Nothing in me was cut out for laying abed, and I was itching to get into a saddle again. I’d been thinking, and I had some ideas. There was nobody in the ranch house except Barby Ann. When I got to the table, she came from the kitchen. “I was just coming down to see how you felt.” “I felt too good to have you walking all the way down there.” She brought two cups and the coffeepot, then went back for some other food. She was still in the kitchen when I heard somebody coming. I slid the thong off my sixshooter. It was probably Rossiter, but after a man has been shot at a few times, he gets jumpy.
Suddenly Rossiter loomed in the doorway, stopping abruptly. “Barby? Barby Ann?
Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I said. “It’s Milo Talon.”
“Oh?” He put out a hand, feeling for a chair. I jumped up and took his hand and led him to a place near me at the table. “Talon? Are you the one who’s been having trouble?”
“I’ve been shot at, if that’s what you mean.”
“Who? Who did it? Was it some of the Balch crowd?”
Barby Ann came in from the kitchen, looking quickly from her father to me. “Pa?
You want coffee?”
“Please.”
Barby Ann hesitated. “Pa? Milo’s been shot. He was wounded.”
“Wounded? You don’t say! Are you all right, boy? Can you ride?” “I’ll be back at work in a couple of days,” I said cautiously. Something in his manner irritated me, but I was not sure what it was. And I had to remember that, due to my own discomfort, I was more easily irritated. We drank coffee and talked while Barby Ann got something on the table. “Hope this won’t make you leave us, son. Barby Ann and me, well, we’d like to have you stay.”
“I’ll finish the roundup. Then I’ll be drifting, I think.” “Hear you bid for some girl’s box at the social. Paid a good sum for it.” He paused. “Who was she?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t know. She never told me her whole name, and she wouldn’t let me ride all the way home with her.” Rossiter frowned, drumming on the table with his fingers. “Can’t imagine that.
Everybody around here knows everybody.” He turned his head toward Barby Ann.
“Isn’t that so, honey?”
“They didn’t know her, Pa. I heard talk. Nobody had any idea who she was or where she came from. She was … well, kind of pretty, too.” After a while he turned and went into the next room. I sat over my coffee, half dozing. Yet my mind kept going back to those shots. Whoever had dug that hole between the logs in the cabin wall had known where to dig. Yet that might not be surprising, for line-cabins were often used by any passing cowboy who might stop overnight. The chances were good that every rider within fifty miles of the North Concho knew the place.
“How’s the gather?” I asked Barby Ann.
“Good … We’ve nearly four hundred head down there now.”
“Seen Roger lately?”
She flushed, and her lips tightened. “That’s none of your business!” “You’re right. It isn’t.” I got up slowly, carefully, from the table. “Just making conversation. I think I’ll go lay down.” “You do that.” She spoke a little sharply. No doubt what I’d said had irritated her, and she was right. I’d no business asking a personal question, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if Henry Rossiter knew his daughter was meeting Roger Balch.
For those two days I rested, slept, and rested. My appetite returned, and it became easier to walk around. On the third day, I got Danny to saddle up for me, as I still hesitated to swing a saddle on a horse for fear of opening the wound. I rode down to where the herd was gathered.
Harley was there, rifle in hand. It was a very good rifle, and well cared for.
“Nice bunch,” I commented.
“They’ll do,” he said shortly. “Should have enough to drive.” He moved off to check a big cow that was showing an inclination to move toward the hills. The grazing was good, and they were close to water and showed little inclination to wander off. I could see another rider, Danny Rolf, I believed, on the other side.
It felt good to be back in the saddle, and I was riding my own horse with his easy way of moving. Harley seemed in no mood to talk, so I drifted on around the herd and into the edge of the hills. Yet I rode with care. As I turned away from the herd to start back toward the ranch, I saw Joe Hinge coming down the slope from the west with a mixed lot of cattle. As they neared me, I drew up and helped guide them toward the main herd. With one or two exceptions they were Spur branded.
Joe pulled up near me, removing his hat to mop his brow. Despite the coolness of the air, he was sweating. And I didn’t wonder. “How’re you feelin’?” he asked me.
“So, so. Give me another day.”
“Sure … But I can use you.” He glanced at me. “You up to working out west?”
“Anytime,” I said casually.
I decided against saying anything about a hunch I had.
“Good … But watch your step.”
After a bit I rode back toward the bunkhouse, and unsaddled my horse when I got there. Doing the casual things that a man does all the time gives him time to think, and I was doing some thinking then.
Somebody wanted me dead … Why?
Another day I slept, loafed, and was irritable with myself for not being back on the job. The following morning I saddled up the bay with the black mane and tail, a short-coupled horse and a good horse from which to rope. The line cabin was empty but there was a note written on a slab of wood with charcoal: Watch out for Brindle.
Well, I would. I’d no notion of tangling with that one if it could be avoided. All day I worked the bench and a couple of long, shallow arroyos, and rounded up eight head, then struck a dozen atop the mesa and started them back down toward the ranch.
At noon I was near the line-cabin and rode in to swap horses. Fuentes had just come in. We both switched our saddles, mine to a steeldust that I’d never ridden, and then we went inside for coffee.
Fuentes was quiet. Suddenly he broke his silence. “Balch … He rode this way.
Two, three times I see him. He keeps out of sight.”
“Balch himself? Alone?”
“Si.”
That was something to study about, for this was in an area where few of his cattle would be found. Those of his we did find we were drifting back down to the holding ground, just like the others. For they could all be separated during the roundup, as was usual.
Puzzles didn’t suit me. I’d hired on to handle stock, and I was ready to do just that, but I’d no idea of getting myself killed when I didn’t even know what was going on. Balch was a man likely to ride roughshod over anything that got in his way, and Saddler was no better. Roger Balch had a problem with himself, trying to prove to everybody what a tough man he was. The major seemed able to take care of himself. And as for Henry Rossiter … what could a blind man do? Rossiter had some loyal hands, and Joe Hinge was a good cattleman.