Blood on the Moon (6 page)

“No’m,” Riordan said uneasily.

“And you?” she asked another. She didn’t wait for his answer but shuttled her glance to Anse Barden. “I thought you were all old-timers fighting for land you’d settled on, Anse.”

Milo Sweet said hotly, “Your Blockhouse hands are bein’ paid to fight!”

“And you’re paying these men to fight,” Amy countered. “At least it’s in the open now—gunmen against working punchers.”

And now her gaze settled on Jim Garry. His indifference was a goad to her, for among all these men she held him in the most contempt. And he didn’t care.

Amy said, “Even an Indian wouldn’t betray a trust, Garry. Think it over.”

“I have,” Jim murmured.

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Nothin’ much does, except talk.”

He was baiting her, Amy knew, and she resolved not to lose her temper. But she had a wild desire to corner him, to make him confess. “You did read the note, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re a poor liar,” Amy said quietly.

“Yes’m.”

Amy wanted to argue, but she knew she’d said enough. A look at Tate Riling told her that; the muscles along his jaw line were corded with the effort to control himself. More talk might spoil it, but she couldn’t resist a last gibe.

She said to Riling, “Better luck next time—old-timer.”

She swung on her horse and waited for Carol to mount. Not until they’d walked their horses around the dune did Riling’s crew cease looking at them.

Then the men looked at each other. Amy Lufton’s gibes had hit the mark with the Bardens, Sweet, Big Nels and the other Basin men. Since Riling had bought Fales’s old place and stocked it with his handful of cattle a month ago, he had been their leader. He had voiced their fears, organized them, made their threats and brought in his own friends, the last of them Jim Garry. It had taken Amy Lufton’s
tongue-lashing to show them how far they had come from a group of unimportant local men who feared to lose the little they had, how they depended on a man who had been a stranger to them a month past.

Tate Riling saw it, and for a moment his anger flared. “Damn her,” he muttered. “Damn her tongue too.”

Barden said dryly, “Well, Lufton’s across the Massacre.” He looked bleakly and pointedly at Jim. “Lufton’s not a fool, mister.”

Tate said, “Garry didn’t bring that note.”

“Where’d it come from?” Milo Sweet asked abruptly.

Riling looked at him, speculation in his cunning eyes. Sweet was the rebel, the maverick. If trouble came it would come from him, Riling knew. Sooner or later would come a showdown with Sweet, and Tate didn’t care when. Now was not the time for it though, but on the other hand, he couldn’t show weakness. He had too much at stake to be gentle.

He said quietly, “None of your damned business, Sweet.”

Sweet’s rash temper fled across his eyes, and Riling didn’t give him time to speak but went on boldly, bluntly.

“I got a wrong tip. I won’t get another. If it sticks in your craw, Sweet, ride out.”

Riling understood the way to crowd a man; too, he understood that this was too trivial for Sweet to make an issue of. He saw Sweet’s rashness judge it slowly and put it away and then subside. Sweet said sullenly,

“All right, only Lufton’s across the Massacre with that herd.”

Riling had won. He turned away and said agreeably, “Sure, sure. But steers have got legs, and they can be driven back.” He looked at Barden. “The thing to do is spot his herds—the one that crossed, the two that are still on the reservation. After that we can move.”

The men agreed and soon settled how they were to split up and what they must do. Tate pointed out that if they could find and stampede the held Blockhouse herds across the river, Lufton would have to draw most of his crew back to the reservation to gather them up again in time for the deadline. Once that was done it would be easy to drive the shorthanded Basin herd back across the Massacre.

The crew agreed, broke and went for their horses. Riling spoke for Jim, Riordan and Joe Shotten to side him, for he was wise enough to know that from now on he must keep them out of the nesters’ way. As Riling went for his horse he detoured to where Carol’s pony had been standing. He glanced at the ground, not pausing in his stride, and then got his horse.

With the memory of last night still fresh in his mind, Jim had watched Carol, and he had seen the same thing Riling saw. He stepped into the saddle and rode his horse over that same piece of ground. Drawn in the dust was a broken arrow. Jim filed that away in his memory as he joined Riling.

Tate’s face was set in a scowl, and he eyed Jim sardonically.

“My first slip,” he said. “We’ll have to hit him hard.”

“Before he hits you,” Jim murmured.

Riling looked at him closely. “How’s that?”

“He must be tough,” Jim mused. “He’s got a tough daughter. He was smart enough to spot me.”

Riling grunted, “Not only you. He spotted Riordan and Joe Shotten in town before I knew they were here.”

“A couple of beauties,” Jim murmured. “Who are they?”

Riling smiled faintly. “It don’t matter who they are, Jim. When this thing shakes down to a tight, Barden and his friends will get scared. These boys don’t scare.”

“It’s pretty crude,” Jim observed.

“Not so crude,” Riling contradicted, grinning. “I’ve made everybody like it but Lufton, and I’ll make him too.”

Jim didn’t say anything, and Riling went on easily: “I want you and Riordan and Joe to drift into town now. Keep out of this from now on until trouble breaks. That damned girl saw the setup, and she’s got Sweet and the boys to thinking. Give me time to cool ’em off and make them think they’re doin’ the work.”

Jim said softly, “Me and Riordan and Shotten, hired gunmen.”

Riling looked at him intently, hearing both the irony and the protest in Jim’s statement. He said, “What did I write you?”

“That you needed a man you could trust and that—”

“That’s far enough,” Riling said calmly. “I meant it too. And the difference between you and the other two boys is that they’re paid in gold eagles. You’ll be paid in thousands, Jim. Any kick?”

“No kick,” Jim said mildly.

Riling rode over to Shotten and Riordan and spoke to them. Most of the others had gone in groups of two and three. Sweet was with the two Bardens, and when he reached the end of the long slope to the river he turned in his saddle and looked back. Riling, Jim, Riordan and Joe Shotten were angling south along the river, heading for the cottonwood motte that lined the river for miles to the south.

Sweet watched them out of sight and then spoke to Anse. “Notice how them four stick together?”

“Why not?” Barden murmured. “Riordan and Joe work for him. Garry’s a friend, come in to help.”

“I can buy that kind of a friend for seventy-five a month and no questions asked,” Sweet said sardonically.

Barden knew what he meant, and he said gloomily, “Maybe we’ll need ’em, Milo.”

“But how did Riling know that a month ago? Tell me that.”

Barden couldn’t answer him.

When they had ridden a mile or so Riling said, “All right, cut for town, boys, and stay out of trouble.”

He watched them go up over the ridge, Jim Garry riding in the rear. Then he drew out his sack of tobacco and rolled and lighted a smoke, afterward pulling his horse deeper into the cottonwoods. He didn’t dismount there but quietly sat his horse, waiting for everyone to ride out of sight. The midmorning sun slanting through the cottonwoods touched the yellow leaves scattered beneath the trees in a bright harlequin pattern that would have pleased him at any other time. But not this morning.

Lufton had tricked him smartly, and the thought
of it both galled him and pleased him. He was pleased because he saw that Lufton underestimated his intelligence. If, as Lufton probably thought, Jim Garry had read the note and told him, Riling would have seen through it. But coming from Carol, he hadn’t doubted it. His slow, thorough mind considered Carol now. He had read that look in her eyes back there as pleading for understanding; in another hour she would be telling him why she’d failed, although he knew. He must be careful with her if she was to be of any use to him. Today she’d been afraid of what she’d find there at Ripple Ford and thankful that the plans had misfired. He’d have to win her back again, give her the courage she lacked, reassure her.

Presently he put his horse out of the cottonwoods, back-tracking to the V and going into the dunes. He was a solid man on a horse, carrying his arrogance even to the saddle. He rode with one big hand on his thigh, elbow a little outthrust, back straight. His face was thoughtful during that hour that he crossed the dunes and dropped down on the other side of them onto a long reach of alkali flats that lifted in dun steps to the base of the distant Bench. Carol remained in his mind, put there by the happening this morning. Again the choice confronted him, as it had all this past month since he’d known her. He couldn’t remember when it first came to him that she could be his to use. It must have been after that dance at the Roan Creek schoolhouse the week he’d bought his place. He’d been a stranger then, a big, smiling man who was sure of himself, friendly, new to the country, eager to meet people.

He’d met Carol and Amy Lufton that night, along
with twenty other girls. Carol had cornered all the men, as she always did with her beauty, but Tate had seen it was no pleasure to her. She was restless and bored and a little desperate, and when he’d been introduced to her that night she had looked at him with a rising, provocative interest. Tate had wanted her on sight and had set about getting her in his own, always oblique, way. He had not danced with her that night. The whole evening he ignored her, dancing with all the other girls and the married women, and because he was a stranger, he took the party away from her.

Two days later she’d ridden up to the sorry shack he’d bought as his excuse for being here. Tate had seen her coming and sent his men to the barn, and when she rode into the yard he greeted her coolly.

“I came about that,” Carol said and explained. “The way you spoke, I mean—so unfriendly. The other night too. Why?”

“I never bother with a beautiful woman,” Tate had said bluntly.

The flattery drew the sting from the offense, as he knew it would. Carol had laughed and asked him why.

“You can buy them in honky-tonks,” Tate drawled. “I like a woman who doesn’t want the world, doesn’t expect it, wouldn’t take it.”

“And you think I want the world?”

“I think you’ve got it,” Tate said bluntly. “Why bother with me?”

Carol had ridden off in anger. Two days later in Sun Dust, Carol had met him on the street, and she smiled almost shyly. Tate stopped and was pleasant to her. At parting he said, “That’s the last time you’ll
have a smile for me, Miss Lufton. I think I’m going to fight your father.”

That had done it. Carol had ridden over next day. Tate, curious, wanted to see if he could kiss her, and he tried and succeeded. The easy way she came to him puzzled him. She wasn’t trash, and he knew it, and he knew also that he was probably the first man who hadn’t groveled before her. It explained much about Carol, and he saw that as long as she couldn’t get him she would be his.

The choice was put up to him then, as it was put up to him today. He could marry Carol and talk softly and walk into a share of the Blockhouse. Or he could play out his hand as he’d framed it.

Tate Riling was a shrewd man, and he knew himself, and he made his choice with a faint regret. Carol was nice, but the nicest things palled—except one, money. That was his choice.

Billings’ place, the Broken Arrow, lay between a couple of bald hills above the alkali flats, and when Riling cut past the hill he saw Carol’s horse in the weed-grown yard. Carol was sitting on the ruin of a porch, and when she saw Tate she rose.

Tate rode into the weed-grown yard and stepped down, and Carol was in his arms. He kissed her indifferently and walked with her to the shade of the stone house and squatted there. She sat beside him, her eyes anxious and a little afraid.

“Did I do wrong, Tate?”

Tate shoved his hat back off his forehead. His short blond hair burred straight up and, together with the look of worried bafflement in his eyes, gave the impression of a small boy hugely puzzled.

“Wrong? Wrong how, Carol?”

“I didn’t know it was a trick, Tate! I swear I didn’t, until I heard Amy say it.”

“How could you?” He put a big hand on hers. “Forget it. It’s done, dammit, and now we’ve got to fix it.”

“But I’m glad, Tate, in a way,” Carol said in a low voice. “I couldn’t bear it this morning when I thought that maybe you and Dad were fighting!”

“It’s not pretty,” Tate conceded slowly. “It’s not easy for you. But I do what I have to do, Carol. You can see that?”

“Not—quite,” Carol said hesitantly.

Tate held her hand and fixed his clear, bland blue eyes on her, his face utterly sober. “I’m a poor man, Carol. Money has come hard to me, and what little I’ve got is sunk in a handful of cull cows, a jag of grass and a shack that I bought from a homesteader. Your dad wants that grass, and he’s got the men to take it. Do I tuck my tail between my legs and run, or do I join up with men like myself and fight for what little I’ve got?”

“Is it that simple?” Carol asked.

Tate made a rough, flat-palmed gesture with his hand, a gesture of dismissal. “To me it is. Your father has got his truth, and I’ve got mine. I’ve got to stand or fall by it.”

Carol hung her head a moment, so he couldn’t see the tears that were making her eyes glisten. “I’ve got to accept this,” she thought; a woman has always got to accept her man’s truth, or he isn’t her man.

She said gently, “Now what? He’s across.”

“We’ll shove him back.”

“But how, Tate? He’s got as many men as you have, and he’ll fight.”

Riling snapped off a weed stem and chewed thoughtfully on it, looking out at the blue fall distances of the alkali flats.

“I want to know first,” he began doggedly, “if you’ve made your choice, Carol. I’ve got to know that. Is it me or is it your father?”

“It’s you, Tate!” Carol said swiftly. “It’s you!”