'Hi, Doc! How are you, Judge?' He sat down beside them.
'Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!' Doc said. 'I'm afraid you'll never give me any business.'
Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong, handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. 'I came very near cashing in for good.' He gestured at the bullet hole. 'That happened a few days ago over in the Highbinders.'
'I didn't think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?' the judge asked.
'No idea. It wasn't quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster place on the other side of Rawhide.'
'Accident?' Finerty asked.
Mahone grinned. 'Does it look like it? No, I think I came on someone who didn't want to be seen. I took out. Me, I'm not mad at anybody.'
The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. 'Who owns that black stallion out here?'
'I do,' Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He had never seen Remy Kas- telle before. He had not even heard of her.
She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.
He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.
'I'd like to buy him!' she said. 'What's your price?'
Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness. 'I have no price,' he said, 'and the horse is not for sale.' A trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth.
'Well,' she said, 'I'll give you five hundred dollars.'
'Not for five thousand,' he said quietly. 'I wouldn't, sell that horse any more ... any more than your father would sell you.'
She smiled at that. 'He might ... if the price was right,' she said. 'It might be a relief to him!'
She brushed on by him and sat down beside Judge Collins.
'Judge,' she said, 'what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?'
There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. 'I doubt it, ma'am. He's too lazy. Rustlin' cows is awfully hot work.'
'They've been rustling cows at night,' Remy declared. 'If you were from around here you would know that.'
'Yes, ma'am,' he said mildly, 'I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a runnin' iron or a cinch ring.
Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands a little with a burn here, an' more there.'
Finn Mahone got up. He said, 'Ma'am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers in this country, I'd do it with a pen and ink.'
He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.
Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. 'Well! Who was that?' she demanded.
'That was Finn Mahone,' Doc Finerty said gently.
'Oh!' Remy Kastelle's ears reddened.
'Who?' The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall man, as tall as Mahone or Judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five, but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.
Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird River country but two years, and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and he knew men.
'Finn Mahone,' Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest. 'Know him?'
'Probably not,' Dowd said. 'He live around here?'
'No, back in the Highbinders. I've never seen his place, myself. They call it Crystal Valley. It's a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place.' He nodded to Remy.
'Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?' Collins continued. 'Well, the route to his place lies up that Notch. I've heard it said that no man should travel that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn't know it. It's said to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking about it, and he can tell you things ... but that trail would make your hair stand on end.'
'He come down here often?' Dowd asked carefully.
'No. Not often. I've known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place is closer to Rico.'
'Name sounded familiar,' Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. 'Are you ready to go, ma'am?'
'Mr. Dowd,' Remy said, her eyes flashing, 'I want that black stallion Mahone rides. That's the finest horse I ever saw!'
'Miss Kastelle,' Finerty said, 'don't get an idea Mahone's any ordinary cowhand or rancher. He's not. 'If he said he wouldn't sell that horse, he meant it. Money means nothing to him.'
Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out.' 'Doc, I've got an idea Dowd knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?'
'Uh-huh.' Doc lit a cigar. 'Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He's been here more than a year, too. Gettin' on for two years. And he has a sight of money.'
'Now don't you be getting like Powis!' Judge Collins exclaimed. 'I like the man. He's quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees it. I don't blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn't a better one in the country!'
Finn Mahone strode up the street to the Emporium. 'Four boxes of forty-four rimfire,' he said.
He watched while Harran got down the shells, but his mind was far away. He was remembering the girl. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman like that. Women of any kind were scarce in this country. For a moment, he stood staring at the shells, then he ordered a few other things, and gathering them up, went out to the black horse. Making a neat pack of them, he lashed them on behind the saddle. Then he turned and started across the street.
He worried there was going to be trouble. He could feel it building up all around him. He knew there were stories being told about him, and there was that hole in his hat. There was little animosity yet, but it would come. If they ever got back into the Highbinders and saw how many cattle he had, all hell would break loose.
Stopping for a moment in the sunlight in front of the Longhorn, he finished his cigarette. 'Mahone?'
He turned.
Garfield Otis was a thin man, not tall, with a scholar's face. He had been a teacher once, a graduate of a world-famous university, a writer of intelligent but unread papers on the Battles of Belarius and the struggle for power in France during the Middle Ages. Now he was a hanger-on around barrooms, drunk much of the time, kept alive by a few odd jobs and the charity of friends.
He had no intimates, yet he talked sometimes with Collins or Finerty, and more often with young Dean Armstrong, the editor of The Branding Iron. Armstrong had read Poe, and he had read Lowell, and had read Goethe and Heine in the original German. He quickly sensed much of the story behind Otis. He occasionally bought him drinks, often food.
Otis, lonely and tired, also found friendship in the person of Lettie Mason, whose gambling hall was opposite the Town Hall, and Finn Mahone, the strange rider from the Highbinder Hills.
'How are you, Otis?' Finn said, smiling. 'Nice morning, isn't it?'
'It is,' Otis responded. He passed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. 'Finn, be careful. They are going to make trouble for you.'
'Who?' Finn's eyes were intent.
'I was down at Lettie's. Alcorn was there. He's one of those ranchers from out beyond Rawhide. One of the bunch that runs with Sonntag. He said you were a rustler.'
