was, he said that maybe you was interested in doin’ some hirin’. And if that’s so, why, I reckon I’d like to work for you.”
“You would like to work for me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bailey said.
“What?” Metzger asked.
“When you speak to me, you will say ma’am,” Bailey said pointedly.
Metzger cleared his throat again. He could crush this little woman with one hand, yet here she was, telling him that he had to hem and haw in front of her, and say yes ma’am to her.
He glanced over at Dancer. Dancer had quit peeling his apple and was now looking at him.
Well, how hard would it be to say ma’am? Metzger wondered. On the one hand, he did not need to make Dancer mad, while on the other hand, he did need the job.
“Yes ma’am, I meant to say yes ma’am,” he said. “I just forgot.”
“Don’t forget again.”
“No ma’am, I won’t forget again. Uh, so, would you be interested in hirin’ me?”
“I might be,” Bailey replied. “What can you do?”
“What kind of work you got in mind?”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked, what can you do?”
“Uh, look here, Luke told me that you once hired another couple of my pards, Poke Wheeler and Gilley Morris, to do some work for you. Do them two names come to mind?”
“Yes, I recognize the names.”
“The kind of things you hired them to do for you? That’s more like the kind of things I can do too. Me ’n’ Poke ’n’ Gilley used to run together.”
“I hope you are more efficient than they were,” Bailey said. “They were unable to do the simplest job, and they got themselves killed while doing it.”
“Kilt?” Metzger replied in surprise. “Wait a minute. Are you tellin’ me that Poke and Gilley is dead?”
“Yes.”
Metzger shook his head. “I’ll be damn. I don’t know. Luke didn’t tell me that. How did they get theirselves kilt?”
“By being totally incompetent.”
“In comp what?”
“It means they had shit for brains,” Bailey said caustically. “I hope you don’t suffer from the same malady.”
“I used to run with ’em, but I’m better’n they was.”
“All right, you’re hired,” Bailey said. “You’ll be working for Mr. Dancer.”
Again Metzger glanced toward Dancer. All during the conversation, except when Dancer had paused to stare at him, he had continued peeling the apple. Now, a long unbroken peel hung from the apple to the floor, and again Dancer looked up at him.
“I’m goin’ to be workin’ with Dancer?” Metzger asked.
“Yes,” Bailey said. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” Metzger replied, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I mean, no ma’am, I ain’t got no problem with that.”
“All right, you’re hired.”
“You got a horse?” Dancer asked. “Yeah, I got a horse.” “Be ready in half an hour. We got a long ride ahead of us.” “All right,” Metzger said. “I’ll be ready.”
Chapter 14
IT TOOK TWO DAYS OF RIDING FOR METZGER AND Dancer to reach the Hilliard ranch. Dancer wasn’t much of a talker, so after a few frustrated attempts to get a conversation started, Metzger gave up.
They had made a cold camp the night before, eating jerky and drinking water. Once, when Metzger suggested that they ought to build a fire and brew some coffee, Dancer glared at him, but said nothing in reply. They spread out their bedrolls just after sunset, and within minutes Dancer was asleep. Metzger did not sleep soundly.
In most of Metzger’s relationships he had been the dominant person, the one who, because of strength and size, intimidated the others. In fact, he was bigger and stronger than Dancer, and in any kind of street brawl could easily have beat him. But Metzger knew that any confrontation with the gunman would be permanent, so he held his belligerence in check. It wasn’t something he would admit to anyone, but the truth was, Dancer scared him.
During the late war, Roy Hilliard had been a prisoner of war in the Confederate prisoner of war camp at Andersonville, Georgia. He spent eighteen months in that hellhole, emerging from the ordeal at just a little over one hundred pounds. When he went back home to Pennsylvania, he found his old job gone and no prospects for anything new. So he and his wife Cindy left home and went west.
It was a gamble, and some of his family tried to talk him out of it. But, luckily, the gamble had paid off, and now Hilliard was the proud owner of a small but thriving ranch. Last year he had not only managed to support his family, but actually turned a profit, and now he was thinking about taking on a few hands to help him run the place.
Yesterday had been his son’s eighth birthday, and he and Mary had a little party for him. He was looking forward to the day Roy Jr. would be old enough to become a full partner in the operation of the ranch.
Hilliard pumped water into the basin, worked up lather from a bar of lye soap, then washed his hands and face. The cold well water was bracing, and he reached for a towel and began drying off, thinking about the pork chops Cindy had cooked for their supper. He had worked hard today, and the enticing aroma was already causing his stomach to growl.
Sometimes when he got hungry he would recall those days in the Andersonville prison, when starvation was a way of life, and the leading cause of death. He had been one of the lucky few who survived the ordeal. And he considered himself even luckier to have found a woman like Mary.
Hilliard had the towel over his face when he sensed a presence nearby. Dropping the towel, he was surprised to see two mounted men looking down at him. Where had they come from? He had neither seen nor heard them approach.
One of the men was big and unkempt, with a bushy red beard. The other man had a large, puffy, purple scar.
“Where the hell did you men come from?” he asked. They made him uneasy, and though just the appearance of the man with the scar was enough to unnerve anyone, it wasn’t what he looked like that bothered Hilliard. There was something about him and the other man appearing as suddenly as they had that left him with a troublesome and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Are you Roy Hilliard?” the man with the scar asked.
“Yeah, I’m Roy Hilliard.” He twisted the towel in his hand, wishing it were shotgun. “What can I do for you?”
“Hilliard, you’ve got twenty-four hours to get off this property.”
“What?” Hilliard gasped. “Now just why in the hell would I do that?”
“Your ranch has been confiscated by the United States government.”
“What are you talking about? I have clear title to this land. I don’t owe one cent.”
“Show him the paper, Metzger,” the man with the scar said.
The big, bushy-bearded man dismounted and took a paper over to show to Hilliard.
“Can you read?” the man with the scar asked.
“Yes.”
“Then read that.”
