When a bullet hits bone a man goes down, and he went down and hard. He rolled over and stared up at me.
“You fa/! You … diablo!” His face twisted and he died right there, and when I looked up, Tap Henry was standing alongside the Ventana Saloon with a smoking gun in his hand, and that was a Christian town.
That’s what I mean. We made believers out of them that day in the dusty street on a warm, still afternoon. Tap and me, we made them see what it meant to tackle us and the town followed the ranchers and they followed Jim Lucas when he came down to shake hands and call it a truce.
Betty was alongside me, her face dusty, but not so pale anymore, and Tap walked over, holstering his gun. He held out his hand, and I shook it. We’d been riding partners for months, but from that day on we were friends.
“You and me, kid,” he said, “we can whip the world! Or we can make it plumb peaceful! I reckon our troubles are over.”
“No hard feelings?” One of my arms was around Betty.
“Not one!” He grinned at me. “You was always head man with her. And us? Well, I never knowed a man I’d rather ride the river with!”
There’s more cattle on the Pelado now, and the great bald dome of the mountain stands above the long green fields where the cattle graze, and where the horses’ coats grow shining and beautiful, and there are two houses there now, and Tap has one of them with a girl from El Paso, and I have the other with Betty.
We came when the country was young and wild, and it took men to curry the roughness out of it, and we knew the smell of gunsmoke, the buffalo-chip fires, and the long swell of the prairie out there where the cattle rolled north to feed a nation on short-grass beef.
We helped to shape that land, hard and beautiful as it was, and the sons we reared, Tap and me, they ride where we rode, and when the day comes, they can carry their guns, too, to fight for what we fought for, the long, beautiful smell of the wind with the grass under it, and the purple skies with the 41 slow smoke of home fires burning.
All that took a lot of building, took blood, lead, death and cattle, but we built it, and there she stands, boys. How does she look now?
West of the Pilot Range
Ward McQueen let the strawberry roan amble placidly down the hillside toward the spring in the cottonwoods. He pulled his battered gray sombrero lower over his eyes and squinted at the meadow.
There were close to three hundred head of white-faced cattle grazing there and a rider on a gray horse was staring up toward him. The man carried a rifle across his saddle, and as McQueen continued to head down the hillside, the rider turned his horse and started quickly forward.
He was a powerfully built man with a thick neck and a shock of untrimmed red hair. His hard, little, blue eyes stared at McQueen.
“Who are yuh?” the redhead demanded. “Where yuh goin’?”
McQueen brought the roan to a stop. The redhead’s voice angered him and he was about to make a sharp reply when he noticed a movement in the willows along the stream and caught the gleam of a rifle. “I’m just ridin’ through,” he replied quietly. “Why?”
“Which way yuh come from?” The redhead was suspicious. “Lots of rustlers around 43 here.”
McQueen chuckled. “Well, I ain’t one,” he said cheerfully. “I been ridin’ down Arizona way. Thought I’d change my luck by comin’ north.”
“Saddle tramp, eh?” Red grinned a little himself, revealing broken yellow teeth. “Huntin’ a job?”
“Might be.” McQueen looked at the cattle. “Yore spread around here?”
“No. We’re drivin’ ‘em west. The boss bought ‘em down Wyomin’ way. We could use a hand. Forty a month and grub, bonus when we git there.”
“Sounds good,” McQueen admitted. “How far yuh drivin’?”
his’Bout a hundred miles further.” Red hesitated a little. “Come talk to the boss. We got a couple of riders, but we’ll need another, all right.”
They started down the hill toward the cottonwoods and willows. Ward McQueen glanced thoughtfully at the cattle. They were in good shape. It was unusual to see cattle in such good shape after so long a drive. And the last seventy-five miles of it across one of the worst deserts in the west. Of course, they might have been here several days, and green grass, rest, and water helped a lot.
A tall man in black stepped from the willows as they approached. There was no sign of a rifle, yet Ward was certain it was the same man. Rustlers or Indians would have a hard time closing in on this bunch, he thought.
“Boss,” Red said, “this here’s a saddle tramp from down Arizony way. Huntin’ him a job. I figgered he might be a good hand to have along. This next forty miles or so is Injun country.”
The man stared at McQueen through close-set, black eyes, and one hand lifted to the carefully trimmed mustache.
“My name is Hoyt,” he said sharply.
“Iver Hoyt. I do need another hand. Where yuh from?”
“Texas,” McQueen drawled. “Been
ridin’ in south of Sante Fe and over Arizona
way.” He took out the makin’s and started
to build a cigarette. 45
Hoyt was a sharp-looking man with a hard, ratlike face. He wore a gun under his Prince Albert coat.
“All right, Red, put him to work.” Hoyt looked up at Red. “Work him on the same basis as the others, understand?”
“Sure,” Red said, grinning. “Oh, sure.
The same way.”
Hoyt turned and strode away through the trees toward a faint column of smoke that arose from beyond the willows.
Red turned. “My name’s Red Naify,” he said. “What do I call you?”
“I’m Ward McQueen. They call me Ward. How’s it for grub?”
“Sure thing.” Red turned his horse through the willows. McQueen followed, frowning thoughtfully.
Something about the setup didn’t please him. It was another of those hunches of his. He always tried to disregard them, but somehow it just wouldn’t work.
There was no danger about the cattle drifting. They had just crossed a desert, if Red’s story was true, and there was no grass within miles as green and lush as this in the meadow. And water was scarce. So why had Naify been out there with the cattle close to grub call? And why had Iver Hoyt been down in the trees with a rifle?
It was on the edge of Indian country, he knew. There had been rumors of raids by a band of Piute warriors from the Thousand Spring Valley, north of here. He shrugged. What the devil? He was probably being unduly suspicious about the outfit.
Two riders were sitting over the fire and they looked up when he approached. One was a squat man with a bald head. The other a slim, pleasant-looking youngster who looked up, grinning, when they rode near.
“This is “Baldy”’ Jackson,” Naify said. “He’s cook and nightrider usually. The kid is Bud Fox. Baldy an’ Bud, this is Ward McQueen.”
Baldy’s head came up with a jerk and he almost dropped the frying pan. Naify looked at him in surprise and so did Bud. Baldy looked around slowly, his eyes slanting at Ward, without expression.
“Howdy,” he said, and turned back to his
cooking. 47
Bud Fox brought up an armful of wood and began poking sticks into the fire. He glanced at Baldy curiously, but the cook did not look up again.
When they had finished eating, Hoyt saddled a fresh horse and mounted up. Red Naify got up and sauntered slowly over to the edge of camp, out of hearing distance. The two talked seriously while Bud Fox lay with his head on his saddle, dozing. Baldy picked idly at his teeth, staring into the fire. One or twice the older man looked up, glancing toward the two standing at the edge of the willows.
He picked up a heavier stick and placed it on the fire.
“You from Lincoln?” he asked, low-voiced. “I knowed of a McQueen, right salty. He rid for John Chisum.”
“Could be,” McQueen admitted softly.
“Where you from?”
Baldy looked up out of wise eyes.
“Animas. Rid with “Curly Bill”’ some, but I ain’t no rustler no more. I left the owlhoot.”
Red Naify was walking back. He looked at Ward thoughtfully.
“Yuh tired?” he asked suddenly. “I been workin’ these boys pretty regular. How’s about you night-herdin’?”
“Uh-huh.” McQueen got up and stretched. “I didn’t come far today. No use a man ridin’ the legs off his hoss when he ain’t got to get noplace particular.”
Naify chuckled. “That’s right.”