Rafe

Duke was in the driver's seat and steering the ranch hellbent for ruin.

'Ain't a lick of sense to it,' the fat man declared. 'Scowl an' growl till you're blue in the face, you can't make it stand up. But it does—it surely does! All the old hands is gone, all but me. Crew they got now is saltier'n Lot's wife, and with them kinda fellers it's cash on the barrelhead. I've thought mebbe the stole broncs is bein' sold over Duke's writin', but with all these toughs they got to pay an' feed where does Spangler come off? Now you tell me.'

'I can't,' Rafe scowled, and this was purely the truth. 'I can't even see how come—if they run all the rest of the old bunch off an' Duke don't want you sweet-talkin' Luce—you're still on the spread an' still above ground.'

'Chafes a mort of wear off a feller's mental axle, but I can tell you how one part of it's worked,' Brownwater wheezed with a gusty sigh. 'Spangler wants Luce, has threatened to ventilate my carcass if I even so much as open my mouth to her. Duke has been more or less keepin' him in line by promising she'll be Spangler's wife the day Duke gits full title to Gourd an' Vine. He's got Luce believin' the first time she crosses him I'll be turned into a colander an' she'll be turned over to Spangler. It's enough t'cramp rats but, believe me, it works.'

The fat man hitched at his pants and spat gloomily. 'Expect we better be shakin' some dust.'

Rafe had put on his boots. Now he buckled on his spurs and kneed the Bender horse after Brownwater Bill. He would sure like to know what had happened to Bathsheba. A man hates to give up the things he's been used to.

As they rode on through the night the fat man's words kept tramping through his head in confusing tangle; even after he'd got them all pawed over, and got their gist about digested, there were gaps enough to drive a ten- mule hitch through. You could only assume that there were pieces still missing. No kind of threat from any pipsqueak like Duke was going to put much weight on a hard chunk like Spangler. The man would laugh in his face! It didn't look like, either—no matter how fierce an itch the guy might have for their sister, the promise of Luce, by itself, would put him to sawing second fiddle for Duke.

There had to be something else, something more, something Spangler would want to get his hands on even worse and which, at least so far, had been kept out of his reach.

It was just beginning to get light enough to see by—everything fused in dreary shadings of gray—when they caught their first glimpse of the buildings. Brownwater nodded his head. 'Half a mile.' He spat out his tobacco. 'Shouldn't be no trouble unless they recognize you. Duke left two of Spangler's gunnies on tap in case the Ol' Man or Luce got minded t' hunt greener pasters.' He tugged his hat lower over his eyes. 'I'll lead the way.'

Rafe's jaws tightened. That whole business back yonder—every last lucky part of it—could have been play- acted for Rafe Bender's special benefit. Duke was wily as a goddamn fox! And even if it wasn't, this self-styled 'Lucy's beau' could be working hand in glove with one of them to lead Rafe up like a lamb for the slaughter. Why'd he spit out his chaw! Was that tug he'd give to his hat a signal?

Rafe dropped back and let him have his way. Like Brownwater had said, a feller had to trust someone. When things started coming apart at the seams it was easy to imagine every gent and his uncle had a knife out for you. He'd been sure old Pike and that flossy-looking Bunny had been fixing to do him dirt. Made him flush now just to remember it. And he had given Spangler credit for greater savvy than he'd shown, so sure he wouldn't be up on that bluff he had dang near run right into him.

But he didn't have to foller this guy with his eyes shut!

He rubbed some warmth into his fist and took hold of his pistol, determined if this was a trap to make it cost them dear. With the other, stiffer hand he got the chin-strapped hat back onto his head, hauling down the brim to put his cheeks in deeper shadow. There wasn't much else he could do but keep his eyes peeled.

Rafe's guide, without turning his head, said abruptly, 'Duke's had the runnin' of this spread fer two years. He's aimin' to have it lock, stock an' barrel. Ain't nothin' he won't do except mebbe kill the Old Man outright an', if things gits rough, he could do that, too.'

Worst of it was, the guy was probably right. Duke, in the past, had never let anything stand in the way when it came to something he figured he wanted. He was antigodlin, mean and revengeful. He might do a heap of backing and filling but there was also, deep in the hateful twisted core of him, a frightening persistence once he'd made up his mind. He hadn't no more scruples than a goddamn pistol.

Before he did anything else, Rafe guessed, he had better get Luce and his dad away from here.

When he looked up again they were coming into the bare open of the yard, if you could call this one. The grim fortress-like house, with its windowless outside walls, its parapets and ramparts, loomed dark and deserted. The walking hoofs of their horses sounded loud to Rafe as the clash of cymbals. But no one hailed. The tangle of pens showed bars down and empty.

Brownwater Bill, with his hat cuffed back, rode bold as you please to the great open gate and sat there, impassive, waiting for Rafe to come up. Inside he might be tore up as a breaking pen but his face anyway, in this leaden light, looked calm as a millpond. No matter which way he swung, the guy had guts. You had to give him that.

Rafe wished he could feel as sure of his own.

As he stopped his horse just back of the other a gunhung hardcase packing a rifle stepped out of the room to the right of the gate and, with a careless flap of the hand, was about to wave them on in when something about Rafe's look suddenly stiffened him. He sucked a lungful of air, his whole face springing open. Before he could yell or get his rifle fully up, Brownwater, diving from his saddle, came down on the feller like a ton of dropped meat. When Lucy's beau, panting, got up off the man, Spangler's hardcase was trussed hand and foot with twists of piggin' string snatched from Bill's belt, mouth stuffed with shirt tail, eyes looking wilder than a pulque-drunk squaw's.

'Inside—quick!' Brownwater wheezed, pawing around for his pistol.

A crack from Rafe's heel propelled his mount through the gate. Brownwater, dragging his horse, was quick to follow. As Rafe swung down, the fat man, whacking his animal out of the way, hurried back to catch hold of the gate. A gun went off, that slug striking the wood not an inch from his hand.

Rafe, spinning, felt a tug at his hat as the gun spoke again. Then Rafe's own pistol coughed. Across the patio a black-bearded six-footer wheeling out of a door hole jerked half around, flung out a fist and went down.

Brownwater, slamming shut the massive gate, skreaked a bar through the slots and let out a gusty 'Whew!' as old Bender appeared, and Luce—white-cheeked and frantic—came flying to fling herself into Bill's arms.

'There, there,' Brownwater mumbled, looking sheepish and tickled, trying awkwardly to pat her as he would a frightened filly. 'Nothin' to git your wind up over—'