Suddenly, I began to wonder. How many head had been stolen? I asked Fuentes. “Five hundred … Maybe twice that many. After all, whoever is stealing is taking from all three ranches, and has been taking for maybe three years.” “He’s got to think about Indians.”
“Si … Maybe he doesn’t have to think about them, amigo. Maybe they are friends, you think?”
“Or he’s found some hiding place where they won’t look.” Fuentes shook his head. “The Apache won’t look? An Apache would look into the gates of hell, amigo. So would a Kiowa or a Comanche.” We rode on, not talking. Organized roundups were a new thing in this neck of the woods. Usually a man, with two or three neighbors, would make their gather, sort out the brands and start a trail drive. When they got to the end of the track, they would sell the cattle they had, keeping an account of any brands from their part of the country, and when they got home they’d straighten up. Unbranded stuff was usually branded according to the brand its mother was wearing—if there was a mother around. And if the rancher was honest. Otherwise, any strays were apt to collect his own brand, and often enough there were a good many cattle that wore no brand at all … mavericks … To be branded in any way that pleased the roundup crew or the man in charge. Years ago, down in east Texas, a man named Maverick had traded for a bunch of cattle, and never bothered to either count or brand them. Then, when an unbranded cow crittur was seen on the range, somebody would be sure to say, “Oh, that’s one of Maverick’s!” Hence, the name for unbranded stock. All was quiet at the ranch when we rode in. We had brought few cattle, as we wished to move right along, and those few we turned in with the lot on the flat. Joe Hinge was in the bunkhouse when we walked in. He looked up, his surprise obvious. “Wasn’t expectin’ you fellers? What happened?” “Didn’t you tell Danny to have us come down? He said you were ready to move west after those cattle?”
“Well, I am … just about. But I surely didn’t send Danny for you, nor nobody else. I figured the first of the week—“ Well, I looked at Fuentes, and he at me. “Danny said you wanted us,” Fuentes commented. “He must have misunderstood you.”
Ben Roper came in. “Seen anything more of Ol’ Brindle?” “He’s over there. You want him, you can have him. He’s got a few friends scattered around in that brush just about as mean and ornery as he is.” Irritated, I walked to the door. What was Danny up to? I heard Fuentes make some comment about it to Hinge, but my thoughts worried at the problem like a dog over a bone. He had given us … or so it seemed … misinformation, so he could have the field to himself. I had wanted a few days more over there. Well, I swore a little, thinking of the ride I’d been planning over to the east and south. I wanted to find those missing cattle, and I had a hunch. Now it would be days, perhaps weeks, before I got over there again. Ben Roper came out, rolling a cigarette. “What’s up?”
I told him.
“Ain’t like Danny,” he said. “That’s a pretty good lad. Good hand … works hard. Maybe you’re right about the girl. He’s been talkin’ about her ever since the dance.” He grinned at me. “No tellin’ what a young bull will do when he’s got somethin’ on his mind.”
He lit the cigarette. “Anyway, you’ll get some good grub. Barby Ann’s upset, too, and when she’s upset, she cooks.”
He looked at the glowing end of the cigarette. “That there Roger Balch was by … Stopped a while at the house. She’s been upset ever since.” “How far is it to San Antone?” I said, changing the subject.
“Ain’t never been there from here,” he said doubtfully. “Maybe a hundred mile. Could be more.” He glanced at me. “You goin’ to light a shuck? Hell, man, we need you!”
“Just thinking.”
Squatting on my heels, I took up a bit of rock and drew a rough outline of the cap-rock in the sand, as I thought it was … over west of us. San Antone was the nearest big town, but it was a long way off … several days’ ride. Between here and there was a lot of rough country, and some plains-rolling hills and the like. There were streams, enough for good water even if a man didn’t know where other waterholes lay. But a drive of young stuff over that route … stuff as young as some of it was … was unlikely. A man would be apt to lose half his gather, one way or another.
Wherever those cattle were, it was between here and there, and I’d bet it wasn’t more than twenty miles off, somewhere down there in the Kiowa country. He would need water … Young stuff will drink a lot while growing … And he’d need somebody just to hold those calves … unless he had a lot of water and mighty rich graze.
I looked at what I’d drawn, but it wasn’t enough. It told me nothing. There were several blank spaces I had to fill in. I needed to talk to somebody who knew the country, somebody who wouldn’t be curious as to why I wanted to know. Better still, somebody from whom I could bleed the information without him even being aware I was trying.
Straightening up, I hitched up my gunbelt and was turning back toward the bunkhouse when there was a call from the house. “Looks like you’re wanted,” Ben Roper said.
Barby Ann was on the steps, and I walked toward her. Ben went on into the bunkhouse. She looked white and strained. Her eyes were unnaturally bright and her hands trembled a little. “Talon,” she said, “do you want to make five hundred dollars?”
Startled, I stared at her.
“I said five hundred dollars,” she repeated. “That’s more than you’d make in a year, even at fighting wages for Balch and Saddler.” “That’s a lot of money,” I agreed. “How do I do it?” She stared at me, her lips tightening. At that moment she looked anything but pretty. “You kill a man,” she said. “You kill Roger Balch.”
16
Well, I just stood there. Barby Ann didn’t look to be the same woman. Her skin was drawn tight, and there was such hatred in her face as I’d rarely seen on any man’s, and never on a woman’s.
“Kill him,” she said, “and I’ll give you five hundred dollars!”
“You’ve got me wrong,” I said. “I don’t kill for hire.” “You’re a gunfighter! We all know you’re a gunfighter. You’ve killed men before!” she protested.
“I’ve used a gun in my own defense, and in defense of property. I never hired my gun and never will. You’ve got the wrong man. Anyway,” I said, more gently, “you’re mad now, but you don’t want him dead. You wouldn’t want to kill a man.” “Like hell, I wouldn’t!” Her eyes were pinpointed with fury. “I’d like to see him dead right here on the floor! I’d stomp in his face!” “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Damn you! Damn you for a yellow-bellied coward! You’re afraid of him! Afraid!
It’s just like he says, every damn one of you is scared of him!” “I don’t think so, ma’am. None of us have any reason to jump Roger Balch. I don’t think anybody likes him too well, but that’s no reason to kill him.” “You’re scared!” she repeated contemptuously. “You’re all scared!”
“You’ll have to excuse me, ma’am.” I backed away. “I’m no killer.” She swore at me, then turned and went into the house. Fuentes came to the door of the bunkhouse as I went in. “What was that all about?” he asked, curiously. I told him.
He looked at me thoughtfully, then shrugged. “I guess he told her he was through. Or that he was marrying Ann Timberly.” “Marrying who?” I turned on him.
“He’s been courting her. Going to call, setting out with her … Everybody knows that. I guess Barby Ann found out and faced him with it.” Joe Hinge had been listening. “She’ll get over it,” he said, carelessly. “I don’t think so,” I said, after a minute. “I think we’d better tie down for squalls. The way she feels now, if she can’t get somebody to kill him, she’ll do it herself.”
Hauling my dufflebag from under my bunk, I got out a shirt that needed mending and started to stitch up a tear in it. Most cowhands have a needle and thread somewhere, but this was a buckskin shirt, and I was stitching it with rawhide. Hinge watched me for a minute. “Hell,” he said, “you do that like you was a tailor!”