with These Hands (Ss) (2002) (11 page)

Hardin shrugged. "How do you feel about it? Do you feel like you'd been licked?"

Brandon looked rueful. "That's the worst of it," he said.

"I don't. I'd like to tackle him again, but he's just too allfired big for me."

Hardin got to his feet and stretched. "Well, if you ain't headed anywhere in particular, why not spend a month or so here? I could use the help, an' she gets mighty lonesome by myself. I'm a good cook," he added, "but a feller don't feel like it much when he's by himself."

For three days, Brandon worked cattle, cut wood, and fed stock and then one morning, Jeff Hardin came from the house carrying a set of boxing gloves.

"Ever have these on?" he asked.

"Never saw any before," Tom admitted, "although I heard somebody invented something of the kind. What's the idea?"

"Why," Hardin said quietly, "I figure any man who will tackle a bigger, stronger man three times in a row an' is still willin' to try it again should have his chance. Now I used to take beef to New Orleans an' Kansas City, an' I used to know a few prizefighters. They taught me some things.

I also know some Cornish-style wrestlin'. I figure you should go back to Animas in a couple of months and whip the socks off Huffman. You want to try learnin'?"

Tom Brandon grinned. "You've got yourself a pupil!" he said. "Let's have those mitts."

A month later, Hardin ended a hot session with Tom and grinned as he wiped sweat off of his forehead. "You're good, Tom," he admitted, "an' a sight younger than I am.

You've got a good left an' you've got that short right to the body in good shape. I reckon you'll be ready in a little while."

Several weeks passed and the weather settled down into day after day of cold. "You know," Hardin said one evening, "this here breed you were sayin' was killed by that Lon Huffman-he reminds me of a feller used to ride with Juan Morales."

That brought Tom up straight. "Are you sure?"

"Sounds like him. One time I was way down south an' I seen someone who looked like that. Folks said he was mixed up in some shady cattle deals with Morales, and how he buys ever' stolen cow he can get." He puffed for a few minutes on his pipe. "Tom, d'you s'pose that Huffman could have suddenly decided to drive off that herd o' yours?"

Tom Brandon was dubious. "I practically accused him of it when we had that last fight," he admitted, "but it was temper talkin'. I never should have said it. Only something about that killin' didn't smell right."

"Pay you to look into it," Hardin advised, "when I get back."

"Back?" Brandon looked up in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

"Got a letter," he said, carelessly. "I'll have to leave you here alone. Look after the place, will you? I want to buy some stock. I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

Alone on the place, it surprised Brandon that he could find I so much to keep him busy. There was the stable door that I needed fixing, a couple of water holes that needed cleaning I out, then a dam to stop a wash that had started. Day after , I day he was up with the sun, riding over the range, work- >>I ing, losing himself in the many tasks to be done. In all that ; I time, he never went near town. He thought of faraway ;|

Animas, but that was behind him. Only at times, when he [I thought of Ginnie Rollins, it was almost all he could do not jj to saddle up and start back. f I

There was no word from Jeff for almost a month, and |l then a letter did come, from El Paso. t|

Been busy. Just returned from Mexico. Will see you next I month. Met a might pretty girl. I

Tom read the note and grinned. Met a pretty girl! At I his age! He chuckled, and returned to work. That was I the good thing about a ranch, he reflected, a man was I never out of work. He could always find something to do. I

He branded a few strays, moved some of the younger I stock down nearer the ranch, hunted down a cougar who had been giving them trouble, and killed two wolves, both with his Winchester at more than three hundred yards.

The days drifted into weeks, and alone on the ranch, Tom Brandon worked hard. Jeff Hardin had been a friend to him when he needed a friend, and he wanted to surprise him, but it was a pleasure just to do what he knew needed to be done. He broke horses, built and repaired fence, cleaned up a patch for a garden, and when Jeff had been gone two months, the place had changed beyond belief.

Then, suddenly, a package was delivered to him at the gate. Ripping it open, he found a letter from Jeff on top.

Beneath the letter were several legal-looking papers.

These will explain the delay in returning. When you get this stuff, better high-tail it for Animas.

Stunned, he stared at the papers. On top was a statement, sworn to before a notary, that the signer had seen Juan Morales pay money to Lon Huffman for cattle. The second was a statement by a Mexican, that Morales had given him orders to be at the border to receive a bunch of stampeding cattle, and that the letter informing Morales about the cattle had been in English. The Mexican also testified that Lon Huffman had been with the stampeding cattle, which had all worn the Rollins R brand.

Staying only long enough to get an old man who lived nearby to feed the stock, Brandon threw a saddle on his horse and headed back for Animas.

Months had gone by since he had seen the town, and he came up the street at a canter and drew up before the saloon. Swinging down, he pushed through the doors and walked at once to the bar.

Neil Hubbell broke into a smile when he saw him, then glanced hastily at the door. "Tom, you be careful! Lon Huffman's been sayin' he drove you out of town an' that if you ever show your face around, he'll kill you."

"Neil," Tom requested, "come around here and search me. I'm not heeled except with this gun that I'm leavin' with you." He stripped off his pistol and belt, handing them over the bar. "I want to see Lon, but I want to fight him bare-handed."

"Ain't you had enough of that?" Hubbell demanded.

"Tom, I think-" He broke off as the door opened and Lon Huffman came in with Eason and Bensch. Huffman stopped abruptly when he saw Tom.

"You?" he said. "Well, I ran you off once an' I'll do it again!" He spread his hands over his guns.

"Hold it, Lon!" Hubbell's voice was stern. "Brandon just turned his gun over to me. He ain't heeled."

"Then give it back to him!"

Tom Brandon took an easy step forward, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. Here it was, the fourth time-would this be another beating? Or were the things that Jeff had taught him the answer? "Unless you're dead set on gettin' killed, Lon," he said quietly, "I'd like to beat your ears in with my fists."

Huffman stared, then he took a fast step forward and swung.

Tom's move was automatic, and it was so easy that it astonished him. He threw up his left forearm to catch the swing, then smashed his own right fist to the ribs.

Huffman stopped in his tracks, jolted to the heels. Before he could get set, Tom chopped a short left to the cheek that cut deep and started blood coming down Huffman's face.

Huffman lunged close, swinging with both hands, and Tom stepped inside of a left and, grabbing the sleeve of Huffman's right arm with his own left, he threw his hip into Huffman and jerked hard on the left. Huffman hit the floor hard, and his face went dark with blood. With a lunge, he came off the floor, and Tom Brandon waited for him. This was easy, almost too easy!

Tom stiffened his left into Lon's face, then hit him with a short right to the wind. Huffman backed up, looking sick, and Tom closed in, then struck twice, left and right to the face. Blood was over Huffman's eye and cheek now, and he was staggering.

Brandon moved in, feinted, then whipped that right to the wind. Huffman stopped in his tracks and Tom hit him with a left three times before Huffman could get sorted out. He lunged forward and Brandon stepped in with a short right mat dropped Huffman to his knees, his nose welling blood.

He looked up then and was amazed to see Jeff Hardin standing in the door with Jim and Ginnie Rollins beside him.

"Nice work, boy!" Hardin stepped forward grinning.

"Very nice work!" Then his face became stern. "Have you got those papers?"

Tom Brandon reached into his shirt for the papers and Hardin handed them to the older man. As Rollins looked at them, his face became hard and cold. Lon Huffman was on his feet, helped there by Bensch.

"An' I trusted you!" Jim Rollins growled. "You dirty... no-good..."

Huffman wiped blood from his face and stared at them sullenly. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "You gone crazy?"

"Just a matter of a stampeded herd, Lon," Brandon said quietly. "Just a matter of a herd stampeded over the border so Juan could get his brother-in-law up there with the Rurales and prevent our recovering them. They call that stealing, Lon."

Huffman tried to bluff it through. "Didn't do no such thing!" he said. "An' there ain't nobody can say I did!"

Brandon smiled. "Those papers Jim has say so. We've got proof. Even Juan Morales hasn't any respect for a man who would double-cross his employer-or shoot a rider of his because he was afraid the fellow would talk too much while he was drunk!"

Awareness cleared Huffman's brain. He hesitated, then half-turned, throwing a meaningful glance at Eason. He was trapped.

He ran a hand over his face. "Guess there ain't nothin' but to give up-"

Eason had edged to the door and now he suddenly whipped it open, and at the same instant, Huffman went for his gun. Bensch plunged out the door, hit the saddle, and shucked his Winchester, but as Huffman's gun came up, both Rollins and Hardin fired. Struck with two bullets, Lon pitched over on his face.

Eason had frozen where he was, his fingers pulling away from the gun butt.

Bensch took one look, then wheeled his horse. Rollins lifted his gun, but Hardin brushed it aside. "Let him go.

He won't do us any harm."

Hardin smiled then. "This here's that pretty girl I spoke of meetin', son. You told me so much about her an' about all that happened here that it decided me. I used to be a Pinkerton man. Well, you were in a bad position and it seemed to me the right man might get you out of it. It was small pay for the way you were fixin' up my ranch.

Actually, I've been settin' around too long. Needed a vacation."

"You got here just in time," Tom admitted, smiling.

"Tom," Rollins thrust out a hand, "I reckon I'm an old fool. I'm sorry."

Tom took the hand and when he released it he took Ginnie's arm. "Why don't you two go get yourselves a drink? Because Ginnie and I have things to talk about."

*

Turk Madden came in toward the coast of Eromanger at an elevation of about three thousand feet. The Grumman amphibian handled nicely, and flying in the warm sunshine over the Coral Sea was enough to put anyone in a good mood. Especially when Tony Yorke and Angela waited at the end of the trip in the bungalow by Polenia Bay. A night of good company, especially Angela's, would take his worries away. The war in Asia was expanding. Someday soon America would be involved, and all this-the express freight and passenger business he had worked so hard to build-would be no more.

Curiously, Turk's eyes swung to the interior. The island was only about twenty-five miles long, and perhaps ten wide, yet it was almost unknown except for a few isolated spots along either coast. Several times, he had considered taking time out to fly over the island and down its backbone.

Madden shrugged. Flying freight, even when you were working for yourself, didn't leave much time or gas for exploring.

When he saw Traitor's Head looming up before him, he banked slightly, and put the ship into a steep glide that carried it into Polenia Bay. Deftly, he banked again, swinging into the cove, and trimmed the Grumman for a landing. It was then he saw the body.

The ship skimmed the water, slapped slightly, and ran in toward the wharf, but Turk Madden's eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. Violence in the New Hebrides was bad medicine and there, floating on the waters of the cove, almost in the bay now, was the body of a native with his head half blown away.

None of Yorke's boys came running to meet him. Instead, a white man in soiled white trousers and a blue shirt came walking down to the wharf. He was a big man, and he wore a heavy automatic in a shoulder holster.

Turk cut the motor, and tossed the man a line, then dropped his anchor. He was thinking rapidly. But when he stepped up on the wharf, his manner was casual.

"Hello," he said. "I don't believe I've met you before.

Where's Yorke?"

"Yorke?" The big man's eyes were challenging. He lit a cigarette before he answered, then snapped the match into the water with studied insolence. "He sold out. He sold this place to me. He left two weeks ago."

"Sold out?" Madden was incredulous. "Where*d he go?

Sydney?"

"No," the man said slowly. "He bought passage on a trading schooner. He was going to loaf around the islands awhile, then wind up in Suva or Pago Pago."

"That's funny," Madden said, rubbing his jaw. "He ordered some stuff from me. Told me to fly it in for him.