He reckoned this layout was the sure-enough headquarters of the old Ortega grant—Gourd and Vine they was calling it now according to what Alph Chilton had told him. A hundred thousand unfenced acres. There had been more but a heap had gone into Ortega marryings and then, in bad times, considerable more had been sold. How this crop of gringos had got hold of it wasn't quite clear.
In fact, now Rafe came to think back, there seemed quite a pile of things the banker hadn't gone into. The only name dropped into their talk had been that of Spangler, the bullypuss range boss Chilton claimed was stealing them blind. Nor had the banker explained how he came to have a lien.
Increasingly uneasy, Rafe watched a rider quit the maze of pens and, circling the buildings, come on at a lope. Pitching aside the remains of his smoke Rafe eased Bathsheba up out of the creek. If that feller hadn't seen him before he certain sure did when Rafe came out of the trees.
Rafe's eyes suddenly narrowed. This galoot coming toward him looked almighty like the slab-sided bustard who'd been leading that bunch Rafe had tried to flag down before he'd wound up in the hands of Grant's bone setter.
The nearer he come the more like him he seemed. Rafe was pretty hard put to keep a rein on his temper. It didn't help none when this guy, even before he'd pulled up, yelled, 'What the hell do you think you're doin'?'
His voice was rough as the look on his face. He was big, heavy-set, with great slabs for hands. His chaps- covered legs appeared thick as fence posts. Menace and suspicion peered through slitted eyes as he set up his horse in a slather of grit. 'When I ask a man somethin' he damn well better answer!'
Rafe, with both hands over the knob of his saddle, said, 'I'm huntin' a job—'
'And I'm a Chinaman's uncle!'
Rafe wasn't going to take issue on that, though he thought to himself the guy looked more like a chimp with his long fat nose and stringy mustache staggling over that steel-trap slit of a mouth. Even his ears stuck out like an ape's and his winkless, red-veined eyes were about as readable as rock. He was certainly a beauty.
This guy said, like he was talking to a fool, 'I guess you don't believe in signs. I guess you're one of them as has to be showed—'
'What signs?' Rafe said, and Frozenface got right up in his stirrups like he was more than some minded to take bodily hold of him. Before he could do so another voice said, 'What you got there, Jess?'
Frozenface, never for an instant taking his look off Rafe, growled, 'Another damn drifter! It's gettin' so a man can't put a foot out of doors without stumblin' over some goddamn saddle bum! I say it's time, by Gawd, we was stringin' up a few!'
'You know the old man wouldn't hold still for that—'
'Who's to tell? A guy with a choke strap round his neck ain't—'
'We don't have to do that. Take his stuff, put him afoot and haze him off into the dunes like you done the rest of them,' the newcomer said; and something about the sound, some inflection of his voice, pulled Rafe's face about.
His jaw fell open. '
In the whirl and churn of Rafe's confused thoughts there was just enough savvy to understand he was about as close to planting as a man could come and still keep breathing. This dark faced Jess, if that order were ignored, wouldn't hesitate a minute. It was more reflex, however, than any conscious intention that caused Rafe's legs to lock the mare in her tracks. His glance stayed riveted on the handsome dandy in the bottle-green coat, stock and tall beaver hat who, in white cheeked dismay, stared incredulously back.
Chagrin—almost a sickness—peered out of that weasel-like handsome face. Consternation crept into the bloodless look of it, and a wildness sprang into the fright-widened eyes as Rafe said, 'Hell, don't you know your own brother?'
The man glared back, rebelliously shaking his head. He licked his lips and tried to pull himself together. 'I have no brother.'
'Mean to say you ain't Duke Bender?'
An ugly red flamed up through the other's face. His cheeks became mottled and he said, thick with fury, 'I'm Bender, all right—'
'You never had no brother Rafe?'
The man said harshly, 'He was killed in the war.'
Rafe just looked at him. Slowly his lip curled, seeing the hate and shame in that face, the trembling fright. 'By God, you'd like to believe that, wouldn't you!'
Bender bristled. 'I don't know what your game is, feller, but you sure as hell ain't no brother of mine. Rafe was killed in the war. We got a paper to prove it!'
V
Rafe sat there numbly trying to figure this out. They maybe did have a paper; it wouldn't be the first time mistakes of that nature had been made during the confusions of fighting a war. But the scared incredulity of Duke's first look was still bright in front of him, making a mockery of all that had been said. Duke recognized him sure as hell; and there was one more thing you couldn't hardly get around: his brother didn't want Rafe climbing out of no grave to stand between him and what he figured he had coming when the Old Man went.
It made Rafe pretty sick. Back on the farm he'd found excuses for the boy, ways of glossing over, covering up the things he'd done, knowing Duke wasn't bad, only thinner-skinned than most, too quick to lay hold of notions that pleased him, a sight too gullible, too easy steered.
He'd always been one to find the shortest way out when things began to bog up. Aside from his folks nobody ever, back home, had called him anything but 'Duck'—which had sure used to make Rafe Bender boil.
He sighed, thinking back, seeing how they had spoiled him, never making the boy face up to his problems.
