Shoot Him On Sight (19 page)

I reckon she had more sense than I did. Then I got an idea. "Look here," I suggested, "why don't we ride out to the Box-CT. I'd like to show you my—our—spread."

"
Our
spread?"

"Jeff's and mine." I added boldly, "And yours, if you'd see things my way."

"Why, Johnny," she laughed, "that sounded like a proposal."

"It was meant to be," I said earnestly, "if you'd see it that way. But how about riding out there with me?"

I expected her to refuse. She considered a moment. "And how will I be accepted out there?"

"As my friend, at least," I told her.

She got to her feet. "Come on, the day is passing. I mustn't be too late getting back. Should Shel Webster ever discover—fiddlesticks! Come on, let's go."

We arrived at the ranch about an hour and a half later, and though Jeff was a bit stand-offish at first, he came around in time. Mateo, Mama Benita and Mike warmed to Topaz at once. Before we knew it, the sun had commenced to drop and Mama Benita insisted Topaz be our guest for dinner. Diplomatically, no one mentioned Onyxton or Shel Webster.

Eventually, Topaz reminded me she had to get back to town. The horses were saddled and we started back, with the others reminding Topaz she should come visiting again.

Mostly, we rode in silence through the canyon, then cut over toward Onyxton. We swung wide of the town and entered by a roundabout route, finally dismounting before her gate. Neither of us said much. From the vicinity of Main Street came the usual boisterous noises. Along Topaz' street all was dark and silent. I accompanied her to the door, took her key and opened it. Within the doorway she hesitated a moment. "Johnny, it's been a lovely day."

"For me, too. When can we do it again?"

"I don't know, Johnny. It's too risky to—" She swayed toward me, and my arms whipped around her, holding her close. After a moment she pushed me away. She wouldn't let me come in. I kissed her again, heard the door shut behind me and went out to the horses. I left Onyxton, riding, not on my buckskin, but on a wild delicious trail of pure rainbow fantasy, my head high in the clouds of illusion and love.

The following morning, after breakfast had completed the morning preliminaries, I announced I was heading for Onyxton. Lord knows what I had in mind. I was crazy to see Topaz some more, knowing that she'd object, but I reckon I wasn't thinking straight. If I couldn't see her, then, at least, I figured I could talk to Shel Webster and needle him some more. Common sense should have warned me away from that angle, but, as I say, I was beyond thinking straight anymore. Mateo didn't say anything, but Jeff and Mike raised a vigorous protest.

"Damn it," Jeff snapped, "you can push your luck just so far. For cripes' sake, Johnny, use your head, will you?"

"I've lost my head, long ago," I grinned carelessly.

"That's plain to see," Jeff said disgustedly. "Damn it, Johnny, I'm talking for your own good."

"Maybe I know, better than you, what I consider my own good," I laughed.

Mike put in, "Señor Jeff, you are talking against the wind. I understand this
loco
Johnny better than you. With his mind set on a situation, it is useless to sway him. He is stubborn, determined, hot-headed. You may as well save your breath. All right, to Onyxton we will make the journey, Johnny."

I shook my head. "Not 'we', Mike. I'm riding alone. I won't be running near the risk you would. Hell's-bells! There's all too many hombres just waiting a chance to plug a Mexican in Onyxton. Shel Webster says he has ordered his guns to lay off me—so he says. Anyway, I feel safe, so long as I can out-bluff him, keep him off balance. With you it's different—"

"I'd be safe enough, if I kept close to you," Mike persisted.

"With what I've got in mind," I said, and I could feel my face reddening, "maybe I don't want you close to me."

Jeff swore and Mike looked hurt. That made me feel bad too. No one spoke for a minute. Finally I forced a laugh, rose and saying, "
Adiós, mi companeros
," I left and headed out to the corral, where I saddled up my buckskin, climbed on deck and headed toward the canyon through Buzzard Buttes. I didn't feel too good about leaving things as I had, but what else could I do? I rode slowly through the canyon, pondering that question.

The sky overhead was fleckless blue. There was a faint breeze blowing. I was wishing now I'd brought another basket of lunch, wishing I'd brought an extra pony for Topaz, though I'd felt certain we couldn't pull the same stunt two days in a row. That sort of thing was too risky for Topaz, and if Webster ever learned about that—well, I didn't like to think what he'd do. I pushed on. By now the canyon was widening out. A moment more and I'd be in open country again.

About the time I was emerging from the canyon to grassy terrain I spied two riders approaching from Onyxton. I checked the buckskin fast and drew him back behind a gigantic boulder until I could identify the riders. Within five minutes they were close enough for me to recognize them and my heart took a sudden slump.

Topaz and Shel Webster, riding side by side, laughing and talking, out for one of their morning canters. I drooped in the saddle, and backed my pony farther behind the big rock. Right then, I was sure sunk. How in God's name could she… ? After the things she'd said? I watched as they drew past the canyon and continued on up toward the foothills. I could feel the hot blood of anger mounting to my head and a savage anger coursed through my veins. I muttered hopelessly, "Oh, hell," and was about to turn back toward the Box-CT, then I changed my mind. Sure, looking back on it now, I could realize it was a childish stunt, but I just couldn't leave now. I had to see where they were going, what they intended.

I waited five minutes after their ponies had passed the first rise of ground and dropped out of sight, then I jabbed spurs against the buckskin's ribs and fell in behind them, swearing tonelessly as I rode. When I mounted the next rise, I drew to a halt and dismounted, then crept on hands and knees to peer over the top of the rise. There they were, half a mile distant, horses close together, loping easily along. Pangs of jealousy stabbed through me as I watched until they had dismounted behind the next hill. It appeared they were headed for the same spot Topaz and I had picnicked yesterday.

I swung to one side when I had remounted, heading for a thick clump of mesquite, with two great cottonwoods growing nearby, figuring to do some more spying, and hating myself every minute for such procedure. But somehow I couldn't help myself. Once out of sight, I spurred my pony to a faster gait, circled wide and finally drew to a halt beneath the trees. Here I could watch, I figured, without being seen. I dismounted, dropping reins over the buckskin's head, and squatted in the thick shade. I waited.

I hadn't long to wait. Within a few moments their horses drifted over a hilly crest and continued at right angle to my range of vision. Some mesquites grew not much farther on, then I saw them draw their horses to a halt. Webster stepped down, then walked around, one arm raised, to assist Topaz dismount. I saw her lift one leg in her riding skirt, over and past the saddle. As she alighted, Webster caught her closely in his arms. I saw their heads draw together a moment, before she placed both hands on his chest and pressed him back. The whole business was damn agonizing, but I couldn't resist looking, despite what it was all doing to me.

All kinds of thoughts coursed through my mind: the deceit of women, double-crosser, teaser, careless flirt—God knows what my thoughts were. Oh, I knew when I was licked all right. I saw them drop to a sitting position on the earth, the grass moving slightly in the breeze around them. Webster's back was to me. Topaz was facing me and I could see the bright sun picking highlights in her red-gold hair when she removed her sombrero and tossed it on the earth at her side.

Oh, yes, she's enjoying herself
, I told myself bitterly. She'd made a fool of me—or maybe I'd always been a fool—probably told Shel Webster all about me and the bluff I'd been running. Well, my game was up at last. Webster would know for certain now that I wasn't as black as the reward bills had pictured me. Anger mounted in me until I was wishing I'd brought my Winchester and concluded things once and for all. Or I might even ride in on their cozy little chit-chat and put him to the test, see if he was faster'n me. And I knew in my heart that he was. He wasn't packing that under-arm gun for nothing. But it wasn't fear that stopped me. It was a sort of disgust with the whole business. Fear? Hell, right then I didn't give a damn if I lived or not.

No, it wasn't fear. It was just that I wanted to get away from the vicinity as soon as possible and forget all that had happened and what a silly fool I was. I mounted my horse, not giving a damn whether I was seen or not. They were too far off for hoofbeats on grass-padded earth to be heard, but if either had gazed in my direction, they'd seen me leaving. Fast!

I didn't give a damn about that either. I was even hoping Webster would see me leaving and come after me. But I reckon he didn't. I pushed my pony hard, back toward Buzzard Buttes and through the canyon. When I arrived at the house, Mateo and Jeff and Mike were seated on the broad front gallery fronting the building. As I rode on down toward the corral, without speaking, I noted they had a bottle and glasses. They all called greetings, but I didn't reply. I unsaddled, turned the buckskin into the corral and walked slowly back toward the house-On the gallery they all greeted me with relieved smiles. For a moment I felt like a heel for worrying them the way I had. Jeff gestured toward the bottle on the floor. "Wash the dust from your gullet, Johnny."

I shook my head and, without answering, dropped into a chair.

The three looked curiously at me a moment. Mateo said, "What is new in Onyxton, Johnny? You did not remain long."

"Didn't go to Onyxton," I replied gruffly.

"You change the mind, eh?" from Mateo.

"I've changed my mind about a lot of things," I growled shortly.

Silence fell. The three stirred uncomfortably. Mateo rose finally and said something about an order he wanted to give one of the hands. I sat glowering at nothing in particular, not talking. I didn't feel ready to make any explanations. A few minutes later, Jeff announced that he'd forgotten something or other, and he, too, left the gallery for the interior of the house.

Mike eyed me, puzzledly, for a few minutes. "Something has gone very
malo—
bad—, Johnny?"

"
Mucho malo
, Mike," I grunted, disheartened.

Mike nodded. "Miss Topaz—?" he queried tentatively.

"Is it any of your business?" I snarled.

He rose, crossed to my chair, placed one hand on my shoulder.

"
Sí
, what is bad for you makes it my affair, Johnny," he said gently.

I felt lower'n a rundown boot-heel. "I'm sorry, Mike, I— well—I just don't feel like talking now."

"Of course not," he said understandingly. "For a man there are just three consolations—a woman, talk, or whisky. You do not feel like the conversation, about woman or otherwise. Remains only the whisky." He nudged the bottle standing on the gallery floor with his booted toe. I glanced up at him, caught the sympathetic flash of very white teeth in his dark face. Again, he patted my shoulder. "Get drunk in peace, Johnny. It will help you forget—her." He turned without further talk and disappeared in the direction of the bunkhouse.

Mike knew me like the brother he was. He'd sensed my trouble had to do with Topaz. Maybe he made sense. I reached down and seized the bottle. It was about half full of bourbon. It burned my throat as it went down but I kept swallowing. Only a fit of choking forced me to replace the bottle on the gallery floor. I sat waiting for the liquor to take hold and benumb what was left of my senses. After five minutes nothing had happened. I waited another five. Hell, I must have gone dead inside. I've felt more on a couple of bottles of beer. I sat glaring off across the range. The sun was dropping now, making purple shadows in the hollows, drawing dark lines on the spikes of
ocotillo
, subduing the earlier lights on prickly pear pads.

I thought,
Oh, hell, what's the difference if the sun sets or not, or ever rises again
? That's just how low I was. I reached for the bottle again, deciding to finish it off, then stopped. The first drink hadn't helped any, so why shoe a dead horse? I decided whisky wasn't the answer—not right then, anyway. So I just sat and watched the shadows deepen a little more. I could hear voices at the back of the house and near the bunkhouse as the
vaqueros
came riding in, one or two at a time, but nothing that was said was intelligible to me.

I was roused from a sort of numb stupor by the sound of hoofbeats. Glancing up, I saw a rider on a big gray horse just turning in to the ranch yard. He pulled to a walk, then dismounted a few yards from the gallery. He nodded curtly and said "Howdy," and I gave him a short "Howdy," in return.

I sized him up as he approached. A big man with a thin, highly-arched nose, tight lips and penetrating gray eyes. Probably in the vicinity of forty years, I judged. He wore a flimsy vest and flannel shirt, brown corduroys tucked into knee-length boots, a big-buckled belt about a slim middle. The dark hair above his ears had touches of gray beneath the somewhat battered low-crowned black sombrero. I noted the holster, with its big Colt's six-shooter, was bound to his thigh with buckskin thongs, often the sign of a gun-fighter. He looked hard as nails and I figured him right then as a hard customer to deal with. I had a hunch right then that he was looking for me.

Warily, I got to my feet, my own right hand straying down toward my .44 Colt. I noted the corners of his lips twitch a little. He hadn't missed my movement. My heart began to beat a little faster. I didn't think I was going to like this.

He wasn't waiting for an invitation to "Sit and rest your saddle a mite," either, but came steadily on, full of confidence, his gray eyes boring into mine. Steady as hell they were too, and my heart began to pump a little. He said quietly enough, "I'm Trent Taggert."