CONAGHER
Smoke Parnell and his outfit knew every
dirty trick in the book, from robbing
and rustling, to cold-blooded murder.
There were five of them, sometimes
sixenough men to scare a lot of
I people. Only one man in the territory
Ihad something new to teach them, and
|he was sure they wouldn't like it.
i
 Books by Louis U Amour in the
Ulverscroft Large Print Series:
SHALAKO ' HONDO THE SKYLINERS
MATAGORDA DARK CANYON
THE EMPTY LAND KILRONE
UNDER THE SWEETWATER RIM
THE HIGH GRADERS
NORTH TO THE RAILS
GUNS OF THE TIMBERLAND
THE DAYBREAKERS KILKENNY
HELLER WITH A GUN UTAH ELAINE
CROSSFIRE TRAIL RADIGAN
REILLY'S LUCK TO TAME A LAND
SHOWDOWN AT YELLOW BUTTE CHANCY
MUSTANG MAN FLINT TAGGART
HANGING WOMAN CREEK AND LANDO
THE RIDER OF LOST CREEK
TUCKER KIOWA TRAIL/KILLOE
CONAGHER BORDEN CHANTRY
THE BURNING HILLS
L
ii
 LOUIS L'AMOUR
CONAGHER
Complete and Unabridged
ULVERSCROFT
Leicester
iii
 First Large Print Edition
published August 1979
US edition by arrangement with
Bantam Books Inc.
New York
Copyright ©1969 by Bantam Books, Inc.
All rights reserved
British Library GIF Data
L'Amour, Louis
Conagher.Large print ed.
(Ulverscroft large print series: western).
I. Title
823'.9'iF PS3523.A446C/
ISBN 0-7089-0334-7
Published by
F. A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd.
Anstey, Leicestershire
Printed in England
iv
 T
To
RICHARD L. WALDO
1
 T
CHAPTER i
^ | ^HE land lay empty around them,
I lonely and still. On their right a
JL ridge of hills with scattered cedars,
on their left an open plain sweeping to a
far horizon that offered a purple hint of
hills. In all that vastness there was nothing
but the creak and groan of the wagon, and
overhead the sky, brassy with sunlight.
?It's only a couple of miles now,?Jacob
told her. ?Just around that point of
rocks.?He pointed with his whipstock.
She felt her heart shriveling within her.
?It's awfully dry, isn't it??
?It's dry,?Jacob's tone was abrupt.
?It's been a bad year.?
The team plodded, heads bobbing with
weariness. The last town was fifty miles
behind them, the last ranch almost as far.
In all that distance they had seen not a
ranch, a claim shack, or a fence . . . not a
horse, a cow, or even a track.
At last he said, ?I did not promise you
much, and it is not much, but the land is
ours, and what the land becomes will be
2
 ours, too. The land is not only what it is, it
is what we make it.?
The heavy wagon rumbled on, endlessly,
monotonously. The heat was
stifling, their pace so slow they could not
escape the dust. It settled over their
clothing, their eyebrows, in the folds of
their skin. The children, weary with the
heat, had fallen asleep, and for that she
was thankful.
The wagon reached the point of rocks,
bumped over a flat rock, then rounded the
point.
Her heart sank. Before them, and close
under the shoulder of a hill, was a cabin, a
solitary building, square and bare, without
shed or corral, without shrubs, without a
tree.
?There it is!?There was pride in
Jacob's tone. ?There's our house, Evie.?
She knew how he felt, for in the three
years of their life together she had learned
this about him: that he had never known a
home, had never possessed anything of his
own beyond the clothes he wore, and his
tools. He had worked hard to save the
money for this move.
Drab it might be, barren it was, but to
3
 Jacob, a middle-aged man with years of
hard work behind him, it was home. She
warned herself that she must never forget
that, and that she must do what she could
to help him.
?We will plant trees, we will drill a well
. . . you wait and see. First, I must buy
some stock. We must have cattle.?
The wagon rolled down a slight grade,
and at long last they drew up at the door.
The cabin was small, but it was well-built.
The cloud of dust settled down over theirs
settled at last.
Laban awoke and sat up groggily. ?Pa,
are we there? Are we home??he
asked.
?Get down, son. We are here.?
Jacob walked to the door, fiddled with it
a moment, then swung it wide. ?Come,
Evie, we have much to do. I must ride out
when morning comes. There is no time to
waste.?
Evie hesitated, hoping that this once he
might help her down. He need not carry
her across the threshold . . . after all, she
was no new bride.
Still, it was their first home, and he had
forgotten her, his mind already busy with
4
 the problems of the place. He was letting
down the tail gate, while Laban and Ruth
ran to the door to peek inside.
?Pa!?Ruth called. ?There's no floor!
It's just dirt!?
?It will have to do,?he said testily.
Evie got down and removed her hat,
fluffed a little dust from her hair and went
into the cabin. She knew just what to do,
and knew what had to come into the house
first. Hers was an orderly mind when it
came to such things, and she had planned
for this when they packed the wagon.
There was little to move. Before
nightfall a meal was on the table, beds
were made, a breakfast fire was laid, and
the little world that revolved around Evie
was once more established and ready for
the morrow.
The cabin was built of native stone
taken from the ridge back of the house,
and it consisted of one large room. It had a
peaked roof, with a loft and a ladder that
reached to it. There was a large fireplace, a
square table, a double bed, two chairs and
a bench. The floor was of hard-packed
earth. The water had to be carried from a
water hole about twenty-five yards back of
5
 the house, and about twenty feet higher up
the slope.
The children would sit on the bench at
meals, and they would sleep in the loft, on
pallets. The loft would be, as she well
knew, the warmest part of the cabin.
?The first cattle we sell,?Jacob said,
?we will put in a board floor.?
The first cattle they sold . . . would that
be two years away? Or maybe three?
Three years on a dirt floor? She had
always been poor, but not that poor. But
she said nothing, for she had never
complained; she never would complain.
Jacob had thought of this too long, and he
would need help, not complaints or
arguments.
They were here, and he still had four
hundred dollars with which to buy cattle.
He had dreamed of this, as he had told her,
long before they were marriedeven
before he had married the first time,
before the children were born. . . . One
hundred and sixty acres and a cabin built
with his own hands.
He had built well, for that was his trade.
He was a steady, hard-working man,
skilled at both the carpenter's and the
6
 ii
I
mason's trade, but he had managed to save
little during the hard years of depression
and struggle, during his first wife's long
illness, and the constant loans to his
brother-in-law, torn Evers.
That, at least, was one thing they had
left behind. torn Evers had been gone on
one of his forays when they left Ohio, and
was safely behind them.
At daybreak, after a quick breakfast,
Jacob stood with her a few minutes,
looking toward the east. ?I shall be gone
several weeks. You have supplies enough,
and you will have no need for money, but I
have put aside fifty dollars that I do not
need for cattle. Use it only if there is
need.?
It was not much, but it was the first
money she had held in her hands since her
father had died and left her two hundred
dollars. When only five dollars was left
of that money she had married Jacob
Teale, a widower with two children. He
was a stern but kind man, but bad luck had
dogged him as if it owned him, and
after three years they had this ... no
more.
?You will have the shotgun,?he said,
7
 ?and Laban is a good hunter. There are
quail here, and sage hens. He might get a
close-up shot at a deer. And you have
supplies for at least a month, if you are
careful.?
They stood in the doorway, Evie and
the children, and watched him ride away
on the sorrel, a straight, stiff-backed man,
filled with plans and determination, who
gave no thought to the imponderables, the
little things upon which fortunes are made
or broken.
Evie went back into the cabin and sat
down at the table.
Her father had been a dreamer and a
drifter, filled with excellent advice which
he never applied to himself. ?Evie,?he
would say, ?when in doubt, sit down and
think. It is only the mind of man that has
lifted him above the animals.?
She must consider now. This was a time
of drouth. The heat had parched and
baked the land, sucking away the moisture
from the grass, leaving the trees like
tinder.
Jacob would be gone for weeks. There
must be something to show when he
returned, some things accomplished of
8
 which she could say, ?There . . . this I
have done.?
But there was something else to
consider. For there was the sky, and there
was the vast and lonely land, and there was
little in either on which the mind could
feed, not her eager mind, restless, probing,
seeking.
She must be busy, and the children
must be busy. There were the three horses
to be cared for. They must be fed,
watered, ridden occasionally or worked.
Laban was eleven, but he had worked
beside his father, and for neighbors. He
had milked cows, chopped wood, helped
with the harvest. He was a strong, honest
boy, and she thought he liked her.
Ruth was quick, imaginative, outgoing.
She, perhaps more than any of them,
needed people.
So she formed her plans.
They must explore the country around.
They must spade up a kitchen garden and
ditch it for irrigation from the spring.
They must find what grass there was, and
wood must be cut for the fires now and
those of the winter to come. There would
be much hard work, but there must be
9
 other things, too. There must be amusement
. . . something to do after work, and
above all she must remember that Laban
must be given more freedom, more
responsibility, without forgetting that he
was still a boy, a very young boy.
The land that lay before them was so
empty. It was brown where it was not
gray. Once this land had been a lake bed,
but that was long ago, in some vanished
time. Now there was before them just dry
grass stretching away into the distance.
Back of them lay the brown, cedar-clad
hills.
?Laban,?she said, ?we must explore.
We will need more water for the stock, and*
there may be another water hole. We shall
look for it.?
He looked at her. ?Yes, ma'am, but . . .
but maybe there's Indians.?
Her eyes searched his face. ?What
makes you say that??
?I heard them talking at Socorro.
There's 'Paches in the mountains, and
sometimes there's others, wild ones who
come up from the border.?
She did not know whether to believe
him or not. Jacob had said nothing about
10
 Indians, and she had heard no such talk.
But Laban was a straightforward, trustworthy
boy. If he said he had heard such
talk, he had heard it ... or what he
thought was that.
They made a slow half-circle through
the hills behind the cabin. There was a
good deal of wood lying around among the
cedars, deadfalls, or lightning-struck or
fallen limbs. For a season at least they
would have no worries about fuel. She also
saw several good-sized logs lying about.
?If we could only get them up to the
cabin,?she said.
?We could snake 'em up,?Laban said.
?Hitch to 'em with a chain or a rope and
haul them right up. We could use oF
Black. He's steady.?
cc
«rr:
??
By sundown Jacob Teale was twenty miles
east and turning up a draw to find a place
to camp for the night. A small arroyo lay
just over the crest, he recalled, and beyond
it was a thick clump of cedar. There was a
hollow there among the rocks where water
often collected. He turned up the bank of
the draw, rode over the ridge and into the
arroyo. His horse slid down the steep
10
*»
11
 bank, and started up the opposite side.
A hoof came down on a loose slab of
rock which gave way., and the horse fell,
struggling for a foothold, then rolled over.
Jacob's boot caught in the stirrup and
when the horse rolled the pommel came
down hard on his chest.
Something snapped inside. He felt no
pain, no shock, only a kind of surprise.
Death, he had imagined, was dramatic,
and filled with pain; or one died in bed
with friends around, slowly, of an illness.
The horse struggled, lunged, tried to rise,
and fell back. And this time there was pain
... a crushing, terrible, strangling pain.
But he was free of the horse's weight,
even though his foot was still trapped
beneath it. Somehow he rolled to an elbow
and looked down at himself. His shirt and
coat were red with blood. He felt faint and
sick. Then he looked at the horse.
One leg was broken, an ugly compound
fracture with the naked bone exposed.
He felt for his gun, drew it slowly and
carefully. ?Sorry, Ben,?he said, and shot
the horse in the head.
It stiffened sharply, then lay still.
A moment longer he remained on his
ii
12
 i
elbow. He looked at the evening sky,
where a star had appeared; he looked at the
dusty arroyo, the bloody saddle. He could
not live; even had there been a doctor, he
knew that nothing could be done for him.
The gun stayed in his hand, but it was not
in him to use it.
He lay back, feeling a tearing within his
chest. He looked up at the sky and said,
?Evie . . . Evie, what have I done to you?
. . . Laban . . . Ruthie . . . Lab . . .?
He tried to get up then. If he could drag
himself back into the trail. If he could get
back where somebody could find him. If
he could . . .
He died then, and lay still, and the light
wind of evening worried his hair, sifted a
little dust into the creases of his clothing.
He died alone, as men in the West so
often died, died trying to accomplish
something, to build something, to go
somewhere. Sometimes the sand buried
those men's bodies, sometimes the coyotes
scattered their bones, leaving a few
buttons, a sun-dried boot heel, a rusted
pistol.
Some of them were found and buried,
13
 but some dried up and turned to dust and
the wind took the dust away. One of these
was Jacob Teale.
14
WHEN Jacob Teale had been
gone three weeks the stage came
by the Teale cabin.
Ruthie saw it first. She was up on the
slope gathering chips for kindling when
she saw the dust far away up the valley.
For a moment she stared, then,
dropping the chips, she ran for the house,
calling out, ?Ma! Ma! Somebody's corning!?
Evie put down her dishcloth and, drying
her hands on her apron, she went to the
door. Laban came running from the
corral, where he was in the process of
building a crude shelter of brush for the
three horses and the milk cow they had
brought from Missouri, led behind the
wagon.
Shading their eyes, they saw the stage
coming, galloping horses obscured by the
accompanying cloud of dust, and then
suddenly the racing teams swung from
the trail and came up the road into the
yard.
14
L
15
 It was a Concord stage drawn by four
horses, and two men rode the box. Inside,
they could see two other men. The driver
pulled up and stared down at them.
?Now where in the Lord's name did
you come from??he demanded.
?I am Mrs. Jacob Teale,?Evie replied,
with dignity, ?and these are my children.
Won't you step down? You must be very
hungry.?
?That we are,?the driver agreed.
?Ma'am, this here gent is Beaver Sampson.
He's riding shotgun. He's riding
against Injuns more than road agents.
?The tall gentleman stepping down is
torn Wildy. He's superintendent of this
stretch of stage line, God help him, and
you will recognize the uniform of the U.S.
Cavalry on the other feller. He's Cap'n
Hurley. I'm Charlie McCloud, and we're
runnin' the first stage through to the
Plaza.?
?Come in, won't you??Evie said. ?We
weren't expecting company, but I am sure
we can find something. Laban, will you
bring in an armful of wood? I'll make fresh
coffee.?
torn Wildy glanced at the stone cabin,
16
 then at the corrals. ?You will forgive our
astonishment, Mrs. Teale. We were told
there was no one in this area at all. Coming
upon your place is quite a surprise.?
Sampson glanced from her to the
children. ?Anybody tell you this was
Injun country, ma'am??
?We haven't seen any. Of course, we
have stayed close to home. Just gone for
wood, and all. Mr. Teale is away at the
momenthe has gone to the settlements
to buy cattle.?
?Teale? I haven't heard the name. Not
that I know all the folks who come
through, but a man buying cattle . .. well,
usually you hear about such things.?
Evie led the way into the cabin. ?We are
not set up for company yet, gentlemen,
but you're welcome.?
?Thank you,?Wildy said, seating
himself and holding his hat on his knee.
?Mrs. Teale, we'll be running a somewhat
makeshift affair for a while, so I wonder if
you could take on the feeding of
passengers until we get our stations
established? Your place here is just twenty
miles from our last planned stop, and you
could make yourself as well as the
17
 company a bit of money. That's scarce, I
presume.?
?Indeed it is, Mr. Wildy.?She
smoothed her apron self-consciously.
?Yes, I could do that, but we would have
to lay in supplies.?
?No problem. Mrs. Teale, you would
be saving us a lot of trouble and expense if
you could handle this until we get settled
down. You make up a list of whatever you
need and I'll have McCloud bring it on the
next stage ... at our expense. The
company will foot the bill to get you
started, in consideration of the favor you
would be doing us. After that you will
have to manage on your own profits.?
?That would be fine.?
?We will be having another stage stop
fifteen miles west, but you could save us
the expense of building for the time
being.?
He turned to Laban. ?How are you with
horses, son? Could you harness the teams
and get them out for us until your pa gets
home??
?Yes, sir. I help pa with the horses, sir.
I hitched up and drove when we came west
from Missouri.?
18
 to
?You're from Missouri, then??Captain
Hurley said.
?My husband is a Missourian, Captain.
I am from Ohio.?
As she talked she was moving about,
getting things ready. She was flushed and
excited. It was a pleasure to have visitors,
and she enjoyed hearing them speak of the
common places of travel, of road conditions,
the possibilities of rain, and the
grazing of stock.
?You will be having neighbors to the
south,?Hurley said. ?Some big cattle
outfits are moving in about thirty miles
down the country.?
?It will be a pleasure. Will the stages
come often, Mr. Wildy??
?Not at first. Then they will come every
other day. Two, sometimes three a week
one going west, and another going east. It
will depend on the business.?
She bustled about, getting food on the
table and refilling their cups.
Later, when they had eaten and were
filing out to get aboard the stage, McCloud
lingered. ?Ma'am, you keep a sharp watch
out for Injuns. They ain't been troublesome
right now, but it can start any time,
19
 and there's always young bucks out for
mischief.
?Don't give 'em anything. If you do,
they'll figure it's a sign of fear. Make 'em
trade. Any Injun understands trade and
they cotton to it, but they're notional, and
their thinkin' ain't like ours.?
?Thank you, Mr. McCloud. I will
remember.?
?You say your man went to buy cattle??
?He was looking for breeding stock. We
hope to raise a good herd and start selling
in about three years.?
?If I see him, I'll tell him you're all
well.?McCloud touched the brim of his
hat. ?Be seein' you, ma'am.?
They stood out in front of the cabin and
watched the stage until it disappeared
around the next curve of the road. Then
Evie turned. ?Come, children,?she said.
?We've got a lot to do.?
All of them felt a new excitement.
Laban was puffed up with importance
over his new job. He was to be a hostler, at
least until pa got home, and even after that
if he could talk pa into letting him keep on
with itunder pa's supervision, of course.
At sunset Evie walked away from the
20
 cabin and stood alone, her hair stirring a
little in the faint breeze. She stood on the
edge of the trail, a hundred yards from the
cabin. All was very still.
She never tired of the mornings and
evenings here, the soft lights, the changing
colors of sunlight and cloud upon the
hills, the stirring of wind in the grass.
Out here there was no escaping the sky or
the plains, and Evie knew that until she
came west she had never really known
distance.
The air was incredibly clear. Fresh and
cool as it was, one breathed it in like
drinking cool water; and always there was
a definite odor on it, the odor depending
on the direction from which the wind
blew: the smell of cedar, and of pines
beyond, the smell of sage, or, from the
dryer lands after a rain, the smell of the
creosote bush.
She looked down now at the tracks in
the road, the tracks of the passing stage,
the first tracks in their road since Jacob
left.
Suddenly, she felt a chill. Superimposed
on the tracks of the stage were the
tracks of unshod ponies . . . Indian ponies!
21
 When could they have passed? How
could she have missed seeing them?
It must have been at suppertime, when
they were at the table. The stage had left
shortly after noon, and they had worked
around the place, inside and out. Laban
had fed the stock . . . yes, it must have
been at suppertime.
She walked a little way, studying the
tracks. There seemed to have been two
horses, and at one point the riders had
drawn up, facing toward the cabin,
perhaps listening to them talking.
That was not over an hour ago. She
turned abruptly and, gathering her skirt,
started for the cabin. Even now they might
be up in the cedars, watching her. She
moved quickly.
Laban met her at the door, brushing hay
from his clothes. Ruthie was reading a newspaper
one of the men had left with them.
?What is it, ma? What's wrong??Laban
asked.
She hesitated for a moment, but they
must be told. ?Indians, Laban. I saw their
tracks in the road. They must have come
along while we were eating supper. We
must be very careful.?
22
 That night she left a crack of the
window open looking toward the corrals,
and she placed the shotgun beside her. If
the Indians came she supposed it would be
for the horses, but although the coyotes
howled the long night through, she heard
no other sound.
Before it was time for the stage to come
again, she carefully tamped down the
earthern floor, and then, as she had seen
her grandmother do years ago on their
farm in Ohio, she traced a floral pattern on
the floor to resemble a carpet. She was
pleased with the result.
When they were expecting the stage she
put water on the fire and got food ready to
serve, and then they waited.
They heard the stage coming long before
it arrived, heard the rattle of the wheels over
stones, and the running horses.
Charlie McCloud was driving again,
and a different man was riding shotgun.
He was a lean, round-shouldered man
with a tough face and a hard-cut mouth.
He was sporting a cut on his cheekbone
and a black eye.
?This here is Kiowa Staples,?Charlie
22
«'
23
««'\7,
said. ?It looks like he run into something
in the dark.?
Staples threw him a hard glance. ?It
was some no-account saddle bum,?
Staples said irritably. ?I misjudged him.
The next time we meet it won't be fists
we'll use.?
?Aw, forget it Kiowa,?Charlie said.
?You brought it on yourself. There's some
men you just can't push, an' you pushed
that one too far. You think it over an' you
won't blame him none.?
?I won't blame him,?Staples replied,
?but I'll kill him.?
There was one passenger, a portly man
in a black derby and black suit who
descended stiffly from the stage, stretched,
and started toward the house.
?My advice to you, Kiowa, is to leave
that gent alone,?Charlie McCloud
advised. ?I've seen his kind before. You
don't find them swaggering around
hunting trouble, because they've seen
trouble a-plenty. They've been up
the creek an' over the mountain,
they've hunted buffalo an' they've fit
Injuns an' maybe outlaws, an' they've
done it like you an' me hitch a team
24
 of hossesit's ever' day work to them.
You steer clear of that kind if you want
to keep a whole hide . . . an' a reputation.?
Together McCloud and Kiowa packed
the supplies in and placed them on
the floor out of the way, while Evie put
the food on the table. It was good solid
food and all three men ate with
relish.
?Stays with you, that kind of grub,?
Charlie said. ?If I wasn't married, Mrs
Teale, I'd surely come a-courtin'.?
Evie blushed. ?Thank you, Mr.
McCloud. I've always liked to see a man
enjoy his food.?
Kiowa looked up at her. ?No Injuns??
?We saw tracks,?Laban said, ?right
after you folks left, the last time. There
were two of them.?
?They were scoutin' you,?Kiowa said,
?and us. You keep a fresh eye, ma'am, and
you worry some. It'll likely be your
saving.?
When they were gone, Evie and Ruthie
put the supplies away, while Laban went
back to work on the shelter for the
animals. It was crudely built and scarcely
25
 more than a windbreak, but Evie,
watching him from a distance, saw that the
boy worked with some assurance and not a
little skill. Evidently he had watched his
father and others, and perhaps had helped
at such jobs before.
Since his father had been gone Laban
had been getting up earlier and working
harder, and he had fussed much less with
Ruthie than before. His sister was
mystified by the change. Laban seemed
suddenly grown up and far away from her.
He went about his work with great
seriousness, and did not wait to be asked.
He did what needed doing, and Ruthie's
respect grew despite herself. She found
herself speaking to him as she might to
someone much older. At times it irked her,
but Laban seemed not to notice; sometimes
she deliberately teased him, hoping
to arouse his irritation, to make him want
to fight back, but he assumed a lofty
attitude and only smiled or, worse yet,
ignored her.
In the week that passed the stage
stopped only twice, and then on the day it
was due to come again, three riders
appeared, driving a herd of horses, a
26
 i
dozen of them to be left at the Teale place.
One of the cowhands was a youngster,
not over seventeen, the others were older
men. Johnny McGivern came galloping
on ahead, yelling at Laban. ?Open the
bars there, boy! We're a-bringin' in the
hosses!?
Laban ran to open the gate and the
horses streamed in, and Johnny McGivern
swung down to put up the bars after them.
He was a smiling boy, and he grinned at
Laban. ?I hear you're the hostler here.
Well, there's a stage comin' through nigh
on to noon, so you be set an' ready. Any
chance to get some grub??
?I'll ask ma,?Laban replied with
dignity, not sure how he should react to
this free-talking stranger.
One of the older men was long and slim
and redheaded, with red hair on the backs
of his hands. ?I'm Kris Mahler, son. This
galoot sportin' the remains of a shiner is
Conn Conagher. Shy clear of him, boy,
he's got a burr under his saddle.?
Conagher was a lean dark man of
about thirty-five, with black hair and
mustache, and a stubble of beard. He wore
a battered black hat, a shabby suit-coat
27
 and leather chaps. His boots were down at
the heel, his gun scabbard worn, and the
walnut grips looked as if they had seen
much use.
Conagher looked at Laban quite seriously.
?Don't you set much store by what
Kris tells you, boy. I'm a right peaceloving
man.?
?Who gave you the black eye??Laban
asked.
?Nobody gave it to me, son,?Conagher
said. ?I fought for it.?
?That's the second black eye we've
seen,?Ruthie said. ?Kiowa Staples had
one, too.?
When nobody replied to that, Ruthie
added, ?He says he's going to kill the man
who gave it to him.?
Conn Conagher said nothing, but Kris
Mahler threw him a quick glance and said,
?Little girl, I reckon your ma wants to see
you.?
?Ain't her fault,?Johnny McGivern
said. ?If Kiowa said it, he said it, that's
all!?
Evie Teale came out of the door, drying
her hands on her apron. ?Won't you
gentlemen come in for a bite? There's
28
 been no stage, and the food is ready.?
?I'd take that kindly,?Mahler said.
?Come on, Conn. Let's eat and ride.?
Conn lingered. He studied the crude
shelter and Laban watched him, fearful of
his comment. After a while, Conn nodded.
?That's a pretty good job, son. Did you do
that all by yourself??
?Yes, sir.?
Conn glanced at him. ?Sir. Now that's
nice, right nice.?
Conagher strolled over and took a closer
look at the shelter. ?It helps,?he said, ?if
when you start laying on cover you put the
bottom ones on first, then put the next row
a mite higher with part of it overlapping.
Helps the water to run off.?
?Thanks,?Laban said. He found
himself liking the grim, dark-faced man,
and the boy and man walked toward the
cabin together. Outside the cabin Conn
removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves
to wash his hands and face, and then
combed his black hair.
He turned, looking across the valley into
the distance. ?I like that,?he said,
gesturing toward the view. ?Nothing like a
wide-open country.?
»j
29
?^
it'
?We saw Indian tracks,?Laban said.
Conagher stopped and looked at him,
then tilted his hat brim down and studied
the hills back of the cabin. ?You got a rifle
in there??
?We've got a shotgun.?
?That's good, but you'd better have a
rifle too. When your pa gets here he'll
most likely have one.?
They went inside. During the meal
Mahler did most of the talking, aided by
Johnny McGivern. Evie was bright and
gay, excited by the company and glad to be
hearing some news, even though much of
it concerned events and people of whom
she knew nothing.
When the others had gone outside,
Mahler lingered. ?Your girl said something
about Kiowa Staples threatening to
kill the man he fought. Is that true??
?Well, he did say it. He was just
talking.?
?Not Kiowa. His kind don't 'just talk.5
He meant it.?
?What happened??
?Only careless talk. Kiowa'd had a
couple of drinks and he bumped into Conn
a time or two. I won't say it was a-purpose,
30
 but he was sure not tryin' to avoid it. They
had words and I figure Kiowa was
expectin' gun-play, only Conn belted him
. . . knocked him down.
?They went around and around there
for a while, but this here saddle tramp
Conagher, I meanhe's a mean one to
tangle with, and he gave Kiowa a
trimming.?
?Will there be more trouble??
?No tellin'. Conagher's a drifter. Never
lights any place for long, I figure, and he
may drift clean out of the country before
the two of them meet . . . but he's just
stubborn enough to stick around.?
?Who is he??
Mahler shrugged. ?Wildy hired him for
this job. He don't talk none about himself
. . . does his share and a mite more, I'd say,
and minds his own affairs. He goes his own
way, and the way I'd see it he just don't
give a damnbeggin' your pardon,
ma'am.?
From the window, as she washed dishes,
Evie watched Conagher tightening his
cinch. He seemed a strange, lonely man
and her heart went out to him, although he
seemed not to have noticed her. She was
31
 used to that. Men never had noticed her
very much, and now that she was no
longer a young girl they noticed her even
less. She was not even sure that Jacob had
noticed her, or that he gave much thought
to what she cared about or what she dreamed.
He had been looking for a steady woman
who would care for his children and help
him build a home in the western lands.
There was no romance about Jacob Teale.
Yet what right had she to object to the
way he was? She had been frightened
before they met; her money was almost
gone and she had no relatives. There was
no place for her to go. Jacob was seeking
help and she was seeking shelter, and both
found what they wanted.
Now she had the two children and she
did not shrink from the task of raising
them; she had grown to love them both.
But she was a woman, with a woman's love
to give, and she needed someone reaching
out for it. There was an emptiness within
her, a yearning that must be fulfilled, a
love that needed to be given.
She went to the door when the riders
rode away, driving their small herd to the
other stations to the westward. They stood
32
 there, she and Ruthie, watching them until
even the dust was gone.
Laban had already gone back to his
work. He was removing the pine and cedar
boughs from the lean-to and re-laying
them.
?It will be more waterproof if I lay the
bottom rows first and let the next row
overlap,?he explained. ?I don't know
what I was thinking when I started it.?
They were alone again, and the silence
had come.
33
CONN CONAGHER tied his baridana
over his mouth to keep out the
dust of the drag. Once he turned to
glance back toward the cabin, but it was
already obscured by the dust behind the
horses.
Hell of a thing) he said to himself, leavin'
a woman and two kids out there alone. But
even as he said it he knew that many a man
had no choice. You took your chances in
this country; some of them paid off and
some did not.
He gave no thought to Kiowa Staples.
The man had the name of a gunfighter,
and he had killed a couple of menone of
them up at Tin-Cup, in Colorado, the
other at Mobeete, in Texas. Conn
Conagher had seen a good many who
fancied themselves with guns, and had
helped to bury at least one. They came and
they went.
He rubbed the itchy stubble on his jaws
and squinted through the dust. He had
been figuring on drifting to Tucson, or
34
 maybe out to California. He had ridden for
a couple of California outfits, and it beat
fighting northers in Texas or New
Mexico.
He wasn't getting any younger, and it
was time he found himself a place to light.
Twenty-two years now he'd spent on the
hurricane deck of a bronc, and it was time
he found himself a chair on the porch
somewhere, or spent a winter at one of
those fancy Colorado hotels.
Then he snorted with disgust. What was
he thinking of? He couldn't even afford a
new pair of boots. He was a thirty-dollar
cowhand, and that was all he was likely to
be.
They pushed the horses at a good pace,
and although the sun was close to setting
they kept on. The next station was not
many miles off, and if they rode on in it
would be to a warm fire and ready-made
grub.
Kris Mahler dropped back to talk to
Conagher. ?What do you think? Shall we
go on in??
?Gettin' paid for the job, ain't we? Why
waste time? We can make it short of
midnight, and these mustangs won't suffer
35
 none. Drive 'em on in an' tomorrow
they'll be fit as fiddles.?
There were two men at Red Rock, but
there was no evidence of it when the herd
rounded into the station. McGivern rode
over to the corral and opened the gate for
the horses, who smelled the water in the
trough and pushed in, eager to reach it.
Only when Mahler got down at the door
did it open cautiously.
?Who's there??came the question.
Conn Conagher yelled his answer. ?It's
an apostle with an epistle for you! Open
up, you sod-busters and let a man in!?
The door creaked on its hinges and they
saw the white undershirt of a man in his
pants, holding a rifle. ?Put your horses up,
an' come on in. I'll set the coffee on the
fire.?
After turning his horse into the corral
Conn followed the others in. He was tired
and cold.
He nursed the cup of coffee in his stiff
fingers. If he stayed in this country
he'd have to rustle himself a sheepskin
or buffalo coat, and he did not
want to leave with Kiowa making war
talk ... he would like to see him first.
36
 I Likely it was all talk, but you never knew.
P?Between cups, while waiting for the
beans and cornpone, he pulled off his
boots. There was another hole in his socks.
lu Reminded him of the cowpuncher who
I went to wash his feet one spring and found
ir two pairs of socks he didn't know he had.
11 Conn picked up his cup again, and
sipped the coffee while staring into the
I fire. There was a world of comfort in a fire,
I and he'd looked into a sight of them,
II round and about.
I The station agent was a man of fifty or
more, the hostler older, yet they'd found a
H place to light. The older you got the
H tougher it got. You felt the cold more, and
you didn't take to sleeping out on the
I ground so much. A man that old should
I have himself a home, a place to hang his
II hat while he waited for the sunset.
|| , The waiting would not be bad if it was
II on a man's own place, where he could
|| watch his own cattle graze and could live
|| '! in some kind of peace. Conn turned his
|| foot sideways. The heels of his boots were
|| run down and the soles were growing thin.
|| Lucky he was a rider and not a walker or
|| I they'd last no time at all.
37
 He'd never had a home that you could
call a home. His ma had died when he was
four, and his pa had gone off to help build
railroads and had never come back. His
aunt and uncle had taken him in, but he'd
worked for it. Lord above, how he had
worked! His aunt always threw it up to
him how his pa had never come back . . .
well, a lot of men went west who never
came back, and it wasn't their fault either.
And it didn't have to be Injuns. Cholera
had done for a lot of them, and starvation
and thirst for a good many more, and some
had been killed by men like Kiowa
Staples, who were hunting a reputation. If
you got thrown from your horse out on the
prairie alone, or got caught in a stampede,
gored by a longhorn, or drowned swimming
a river . . . there were a hundred
ways a man could die in this western
country, and nobody the wiser. It was
likely the way he himself would end.
Somebody poured coffee into his cup
and he muttered a thanks without looking
up. His fingers were beginning to get
warm. It beat all how this country could
be hot in the daytime and could freeze up
at night.
38
 It was time he started hunting himself a
place to last out the winter. He didn't have
to feel in his jeans to know there was just
||i two dollars there. Two lone silver dollars,
I and whatever he'd get out of this job
I he'd have to rustle a job on one of these
I new cow outfits.
I Twenty-two years ... it was too long
J ... and nothing ahead of him but a
stiffening of muscles, growing tired a little
sooner, finding it harder to keep warm.
i, He'd driven spikes on the railroad,
jl handled a cross-cut saw in a tie camp,
helped to sink a shaft on a contract job,
' and helped to build a couple of mountain
roads in Colorado. Then he'd driven a
team over the Santa Fe, put in four years
| in the army in the War Between the States
! and got to be a sergeant. He had been
] wounded twice, escaped from Anderson,
ville, and had fought Indians in Dakota
and Wyoming. He'd gone up the trail from
I Texas three times, and had punched cows
< in Texas, the Arizona Territory, Nebraska,
and Wyoming. It was a hard life, a
bitter, lonely life after a fellow got beyond
the kid stage.
When you were a youngster everything
39
 seemed easy, and life was forever. He'd
spent a lot of time dreaming about girls,
usually about one girl whose face kept
changing, but who was always mighty in
love with him, and he ready to die for her
. . . only he never met her, somehow.
He'd never cared for the women on the
Line, although he'd had his dealings with
them. There'd been a girl he knew in a
Missouri town where he drove some cattle
. . . only she married a home guard there,
and already had a baby boy when he came
back up the trail. That had been just as
well, because she wasn't his cup of tea . . .
he'd tried to talk himself into it. And now
he was thirty-five, with nothing but his
chaps and his saddle, and womenfolks
didn't cotton to a man with nothing who
wasn't going anywhere.
These thoughts went through his mind
as he ate his beans and some almighty
tough meat, and sopped his corn bread in
the gravy and settled back to drinking
coffee. He was a coffee drinker, and he
liked it black and bitter.
The trouble with him, he was thinking,
was that the kind of a woman he fancied
was hard to come by, and he wasn't likely
40
 to settle for less. He did not want a big,
bustling, brassy woman; he wanted
something dainty and feminine he could
carry flowers to without her thinking he'd
gone off his rocker. The womenfolks he
met, at least the single ones, they were
hunting a man with a wide stretch of land,
with cows to his name and a ranch house
with more than two rooms. Well, he could
build the ranch house, if it came to that.
He'd always been a fair hand with tools.
?What you goin' to do when you pay off,
Conn??Kris Mahler was asking. ?You
goin' to get drunk??
?Ain't likely. I'm going to rustle me a
job, someplace I can put my feet under the
table for the rest of the winter.?
?You goin' south??
?No.?He made the decision as he
shaped the words. ?I'm going to stay right
here. In this here country somewhere.?
?You got friends here??Johnny asked.
?I got no friends anywhere. Only
whiskey friends, and that kind don't stay
by you. Seems like I been driftin' ever
since I can remember.?
?You seen a lot of country, they tell
me.?
41
 ?Me? I've punched cows from the
Musselshell in Montana to the Rio Fuerte
in Sonara, and all I got to show for it is
saddle sores and savvy, and a thumb lost
on the Brazos when I was tryin' for an
extra turn around the horn and a fifteenhundred-pound
steer hit the end of the
string. Took my thumb off, and me thirty
miles from the ranch and twenty-two from
town. I stubbed it against my shirt to hold
down the bleeding and heated a brandin'
ironI cauterized it right there with a
runnin' iron.
?Then I rode on the twenty-two miles
to an Army-post town to let the doc look it
over. He looks it over, and then he says,
?You lost a thumb, boy.?All of which I
could have told him. Then he gave me a
stiff drink of rye, had one himself, and
cleaned her up a mite, stuck a bandage
on it, and charged me four bits for the
job.?
Conn got up. ?I'm for sleep. Where can
I bed down??
?Any place you can find to suit you, as
long as it's on the floor.?
Conn unrolled his two blankets and
ground sheet. Then he straightened up.
42
 ?Woman over east of here saw Injun
tracks a few days back.?
?I ain't seen any,?the station agent
said. ?I figure she's imaginin' things.?
Conn laid out his bed before he replied,
and then he straightened up and slipped
off his pants. ?No, if she says she saw
tracks, she saw 'em all right. That's a
pretty steady woman yonder.?
Long after the light was out Conn lay on
his back, his hands clasped behind his
head, staring up into the darkness, just
thinking. There was water in the Mogollons,
and a man might be able to make it
up there, with a few head of stock.
At breakfast Johnny McGivern looked
at him curiously. ?What you goin' to do
about Kiowa Staples??
?Do? What's there to do? Ever'where
you go, Buster, there's a Kiowa Staples,
ever' town an' ever' cow outfit. If a man
lets himself be bothered by such as them
he ain't goin' far. I've seen them come
and go. If he minds his own affairs, I'll
mind mine. If he starts anything with
me I'll just cloud up and rain all over
him.?
Conagher took his pay at the Plaza and
43
 recovered his own horse from the stageline
corral. He threw his beat-up saddle on
the dun and rode down the street. He drew
up at a saloon, tied his horse, and went in.
Mahler was there, and he greeted
Conagher. ?Have one on me. They've
hired me to wrangle stock for 'em.?
?Luck!?Conagher said, and took his
drink. He tossed it down, giving the few
men in the room a cool glance. ?I'll buy
one, and then I'm riding.?
Mahler leaned closer. ?Staples is in
town.?
?The hell with him.?
Conagher rode to the store, only a few
steps away, and bought himself a new
rope, some coffee, a side of bacon, flour,
dried fruit, and some odds and ends. Made
up in a sack, it would ride easy behind his
saddle.
Outside he threw it into position behind
his saddle and was about to hang the coil
of rope over the horn when he heard a step
behind him. ?All right, Conagher. This
time it won't be fists.?
It was Staples' voice, and Conn turned
on one heel, swinging the tightly coiled
rope in a sweeping blow that caught the
44
 gunman across the face. It was a brutal
blow; the coiled rope was like iron and it
caught Staples across the mouth and nose,
knocking him staggering into the hitching
rail.
Coolly, matter-of-factly, and without
hurry, Conagher swung the coil again,
smashing him across the mouth as Staples
clawed for his gun.
The gunman never had a chance. He
had expected a gun battle or an
argumentanything but this. Conagher
stood wide-legged in front of him and,
backing the gunman against the rail, he
proceeded to beat him unmercifully with
the swinging coil of rope.
No matter how Staples tried to turn, the
rope was there to meet him. His nose was
broken, his lips smashed to pulp, his
cheeks and ears bloody, and when he
finally got his gun out a sweeping blow
with the coiled rope struck it from his
hand into the dust.
At no time did Conagher seem hurried.
He whipped Staples coldly, almost casually,
as though it were of no importance.
The crowd that gathered watched silently
and in awe.
45
 When Kiowa went to his knees,
Conagher struck him one more swinging
blow that knocked him into the dust, and
then he said, ?You better ride out of here,
Staples. An' leave that gun alone. You
ain't fit to handle one. And don't you cross
my trail again. I don't like bein' braced by
no tinhorn.?
Picking up the gun, he shucked the
cartridges from it and dropped them into
his pocket, and dropped the gun into the
water trough. Then he mounted up and
rode out of town.
Kiowa Staples sat very still, sure of only
one thingthat if he moved Conagher
would come back. He sat there breathing
in deep, shuddering gasps, the blood
falling in slow drops from his nose and
mouth.
Slowly the crowd filtered away, and
when finally the beaten gunman staggered
to his feet he fell back against the hitching
rail and stood clutching it, his head
hanging.
A trouble maker leaned over. ?Kiowa,
you want to borrow my gun??
Staples turned his head and stared at the
man blankly, then he straightened up
46
 and staggered away. He wanted only a
horse. He wanted only to ride away, out of
here.
47
WHEN Jacob Teale had been
gone for two months, Evie had
her first doubts. Travel was
hard, and he might have had to go further
to find cattle he could buy, but he would
surely have sent word. He would have
written.
Jacob had never been a heedless man.
He was not thoughtful about her needs,
but he was a practical man who did
whatever needed to be done. Somehow,
had he been able, he would surely have
sent word.
The supplies brought by the stage
company had lasted well, and Evie had
ordered again. She had even managed to
save two dollars which she carefully put
away.
It was Laban who worried her. He was
working too hard, caring for the horses,
getting them out to meet the stages,
picketing them on grass to make the little
hay they had last, and cutting wood for the
house. She had tried to help, but he
48
 t
resented it, wanting to carry on by
himself.
She saw no more of Kiowa Staples.
Charlie McCloud had given her a brief
account of what had happened. ?Never
saw anything like it,?he said. ?Staples
came a-hunting trouble and Conagher
gave it to him. It was as bad a whipping as
a man ever got. Have you ever seen what a
club forty-five feet of rope will make when
it's in a tight coil? I can tell you one thing.
Staples may take a shot at Conagher from
ambush sometime, but he sure won't face
him again.
?Kiowa never expected anything like
that. He expected Conn to try to draw
against him, but that swinging coil of rope
just knocked him groggy. He'd been hit
four or five times before he even had a
chance to do anything, and Conagher
never let him get set. I figure that's one
would-be gunman who is cured.?
It was hard to believe it of the quiet,
rather gentle man she recalled. When she
said as much, McCloud shrugged. ?Mrs.
Teale, I figure this Conagher's got a lot
behind him. He ain't come to this of a
sudden. He's a man who's had years of it
49
 to put the steel in him. He's seen a-plenty
and he just ain't about to be bothered by
any tinhorn who comes along the pike.?
And then he repeated what someone
else had said. ?He's the kind you just don't
push, Mrs. Teale. Reminds me of Billy
Brooks over to Dodge. Billy was a gunusing
marshal and a good one. In his first
two or three months on the job he shot
thirteen men ... I don't mean he killed
them all, but he was engaged in gunplay
with them. Then he crossed horns with a
tough old buffalo hunter named Kirk
Jordan, and Kirk made Billy take water.
He run Billy clean out of town.
?Any gunman who wants to build
himself a reputation had best steer clear of
men like Kirk Jordan or Conn Conagher,
and a few others I could name. They just
don't put up with foolishness.?
The arrival of the stage was the big
moment of the day, and when it was gone
there was a time of clearing up and taking
stock. The stage brought news, and there
was talk of politics, gun-fighters, Indians,
or range conditions.
When evening came Evie stood at the
50
 door and looked far across the grass,
scenting the wind from the distant ranges
with its smell of hot grass and the fainter
smell of cedar from the ridges beyond.
She never tired of looking out across the
plain, nor of watching the tumbleweeds
roll past when the wind blew strong,
rolling along like brown, fat cart wheels
across the open country. Sometimes she
could count fifty or sixty at once, rolling
away, stopping when the wind died, then
rolling on again as the breeze rose.
Where did they go? Was there a fence
out there somewhere where they could
hang up and rest? Was there a wall of
brush? A forest? A mountain range? Or
did they just roll on and on forever, clear
around the world, maybe?
She could watch the wide plain from the
window near which she cooked and
washed the dishes; she could see the everchanging
light upon it, the cloud shadows,
and sometimes the suggestion of movement
out there beyond the range of her
sight.
How far was it across that plain? She did
not know, and she never asked, for she did
not want it reduced to miles. To her it
51
 went on forever ... it was like a vast sea.
?I wish we had more to read,?Laban
said one night. ?I need schoolin'.?
?Yes, we all need more to read.?She
rested her hands from sewing. ?I will
speak to Mr. McCloud. He may be able to
find some newspapers or magazines.?
She took up the sewing again, although
her fingers were tired, and her eyes ached.
?Until then, Laban, you can read the
land.?
?The land??
?Look upon the land, Labanthere are
stories everywhere. Study the sky and the
trees, the tracks of animals and the way the
birds fly. You can learn things no book
will ever teach you.?
?I saw the track of a snake yesterday,?
Ruthie said. ?It was near the spring.?
?You be careful,?Laban warned.
?There's rattlers around.?
When they stopped talking they could
hear the coyotes. And then suddenly there
was a rushing and plunging from the
corral.
?Indians!?Laban was up, running for
the shotgun.
Evie had put down her sewing and got
52
 to her feet. She went to the door and took
up the still lighted lantern standing there.
Abruptly, she swung the door wide and
lifted the lantern.
The ranch yard was crowded with
horses, and among them, striking at the
bars of the corral gate, was a magnificent
wild stallion.
He swung toward the light as it fell
across the horses, and he blew shrilly, in
challenge as well as in astonishment. He
was not beautiful, but stocky and strong,
with an ugly head and teeth that flashed as
he rolled his eyes toward the light. His
mane was tangled and wild, and he swung
from the corral and faced the light,
bobbing his head and pawing the hard
earth with fierce, challenging strokes.
Then he swung suddenly and, nipping at
the nearest horse, drove his herd from the
yard.
For a long time she stood there,
listening to the receding pound of their
hoofs, and then she went to the corral.
The horses in the corral were wild and
frightened, drawn by the wildness of the
mustang stallion, but shuddering with
fear, too. She talked to them calmly,
53
 replacing the one bar that had been
knocked from the gate. She had known
there were wild horses out there on the
plains, but these were the first she had
seen. For a long time she remembered that
stallion, and the wild look in his eyes as he
stared at her.
The cabin door, when she closed and
barred it, was a comforting thing.
The days grew colder. Evie spent much of
her time out with the children, gathering
fuel from the hillsides. Ancient cedars had
fallen, leaving their gray, gnarled, and
twisted limbs on the broken rocks of the
steep slope. They dragged them down to
the cabin, picking up twigs, branches . . .
all that could be found.
Sometimes Laban or Ruthie would
saddle Nathan, their appaloosa gelding,
and ride out to rope and drag home tree
trunks or heavy limbs from farther away,
building a slowly growing pile of fuel
against the coming cold.
It was on a frosty morning that Charlie
McCloud turned the stage into the yard
and swung down to open the door for the
passengers. There were four that morn53
54
 ing, two ladies from the Eastand they
were ladieswell gotten up for the time
and the place, and two men who looked
tough and capable. Both wore business
suits, wide hats and boots, and the taller of
the two wore a United States marshal's
badge.
Charlie reached into the boot and took
out an armful of newspapers and magazines,
and a couple of books. ?Some
of them are beat-up, Mrs. Teale,?
he said, ?but there's some readin' for
you.?
Inside the house, Evie quickly put food
on the table, and then asked the women,
?Would you prefer tea? I have some.?
?Would you, please??said the older
one. ?I mean, if it isn't asking too much.
The coffee . . . it's so strong?
?They like it strong out here. They say
if you can't float a horseshoe on it the
coffee is too weak.?
When she had tea on the table she went
to the cupboard and got out a plate of
cookies.
McCloud stared at them. ?Mrs. Teale,
you been holdin' out on us. Those are the
first cookies I've seen you make.?
54
>j
55
 ?I didn't know you liked them. I often
make doughnuts, too.?
?Better not let it get around,?Charlie
said, ?or you'll have half the cowboys in
the Territory hangin' around . . . ridin' for
miles to get here.?
?You will have to forgive us,?Evie said
to the ladies. ?The place is rather
primitive. Next year we hope to add to the
cabin so we will have more room.?
?I love your view,?the younger woman
said. She was no more than nineteen, with
large eyes and long lashes. ?Mrs. Teale, I
am Lucy Baker, and this is my aunt,
Celestine Scott. We are from Philadelphia,
and we're going to Prescott. We're looking
for my brother.?
?He lives in Prescott??
?No, that was the last address we had
for him. That . . . that was two years
ago.?
?Two years? The way people travel in
this country he might be anywhere. What
is his name??
?Scott Baker . . . you'd know him easily.
He's tall, and has dark, tight curls. There's
a small scar on his cheek bone,and he has a
beautiful smile. He's always making fun
56
 . . . they used to say he was wild, but that
was just his way.?
?If he comes by, I'll speak to him,?Evie
said. ?You leave me your address.?
Suddenly she noticed the tall man with
the marshal's badge. His expression was
odd, and he was stirring his coffee very
busily. The other man was looking down
at his plate.
The marshal looked up then and said,
?Miss, if you want to stop around the
Plazathat's the next town down the
lineyou might run into him. I couldn't
say for sure, but there's a man around
there called Curlyhe seems to fit the
description.?
Evie's head came up sharply and her eye
caught that of the marshal, who slowly
shook his head.
Scott Baker . . . curly hair . . . Curly
Scottl She had heard Charlie McCloud
speak of him. Curly Scott was one of the
Parnell gang, wanted by Wells Fargo for
stage holdups. There were five of them,
sometimes six, and they were a tough
outfit.
Smoke Parnell was a lean, lath of a man
with a long, hatchet face who had come
57
 west from the Bald Knob country of
Missouri. He was a dead shot with a rifle,
and a fair hand with a short gun. He had
come into the Territory from Nevada and
was suspected of a stage holdup in Black
Canyon, south of Prescott. The gang was
also wanted for raiding several mining
operations, and for at least one killing
during the course of a robbery.
?Your brother been out here long??the
marshal asked.
?Oh, he came out about three years
ago,?Lucy Baker said. ?He wanted to
leave school and try mining for a while. He
had a mine somewhere in the Mogollons.?
She pronounced the word with an
emphasis on the ?goll?and not as it was
spoken in the area, as ?Muggyowns.??I
don't know how successful he has been,
but when we did not hear from him for so
long, we were worried . . . and my aunt
wanted to come west, anyway.?
Evie poured her own cup of tea and sat
down at the table while the marshal and
his companion went outside to talk to
Charlie McCloud. She was starved for the
companionship of women, and she longed
to talk to them. While she was taking in
58
 their clothes her heart went out to them as
she thought of the shock it would be for
them to learn that Curly Scott was an
outlaw.
?I love it here,?she said suddenly. ?I
think there is something here, something
more than all you see and feel. . . it's in the
wind.
?Oh, it is very hard!?she went on. ?I
miss women to talk to, I miss the things we
had back Eastthe band concerts, the
dances. The only time when we see anyone
is like now, when the stage comes. But you
do not know what music is until you have
heard the wind in the cedars, or the far-off
wind in the pines. Someday I am going to
get on a horse and ride out there?she
pointed toward the wide grass before
them?until I can see the other side ... if
there is another side.?
?What about the Indians? Aren't you
afraid of them??Lucy Baker asked.
?So far we haven't seen any. We hear
rumors. The Apaches are raiding to the
south of us, but so far they haven't come
up here. We will have to face that when the
time comes.?
Long after they were gone Evie could
59
 hear the sound of their voices. At the end
the two women had talked of clothes and
fashions, of the theater, and of schools.
She would stop often and look out over
the plains, which grew blue and then a
dusky purple as evening came, and she
would try to remember all that had been
said.
She wished she could have warned them
about Curly. They would stop in the
Plaza, but the marshal would be there, too,
and if Curly heard they were there he
would ride in to meet them.
Early the following morning Laban had
gone to feed the stock. Ruthie had gone
with him, and Evie was finishing the
morning dishes. She dried her hands on
her apron, and almost automatically her
eyes lifted to the hills.
She saw the Indians at once. There were
a dozen of them, and they were coming
single file down the mountain. There
were no squaws among them, just
warriors, and they were stripped for
action.
?Laban!?she called. ?Come to the
cabin! Both of you! Come quickly!?
Laban straightened up and started to
60
 I
protest, then he caught Ruthie by the
shoulder. ?Let's go,?he said.
She jerked her shoulder free. ?Don't be
so bossy!?she said.
?Ruth!?Evie spoke sharply. ?Come ...
now!?
Ruthie started to speak to assert her
independence, but Laban just scooped her
up in his arms and carried her to the cabin,
kicking and arguing.
He dropped her at the door and she «
started to run back. ?What is it, ma??
Laban asked.
?Indians,?Evie said. ?They are coming
down the mountain. You'd better come in,
Ruth.?
Ruthie turned sharply, looked up at the ,
mountain, and then, her face suddenly
white, she ran into the cabin. Laban
stopped to gather an armful of wood. He
came in and went to the back of the cabin
closed the strong wooden shutters. There
were loop holes in the walls through which
they could fire. Evie put the bar close to
the door, but left the door open part
way.
Her heart was pounding and her lips
were dry. ?Laban,?she said, ?they must
61
 not know we are alone here, and they must
not know we are frightened.?
?All right, ma.?
He was standing in the middle of the
room, looking around. There was nothing
that remained to be done.
?They will try to take the horses,?he
said.
?Yes. We must stop them if we can.?
The Indians rode suddenly into the
yard, and drew up when they saw her
standing in the door. Laban was poised
behind it, ready to slam it shut and drop
the bar.
?What is it you want??Evie asked.
?Grub,?one of them said. ?You give us
grub.?
?I am sorry. I have none to spare.?
Ruthie took up the rifle Charlie
McCloud had brought to them and slid
the muzzle through a loop hole.
?You give us grub or we take horses.
We take cow.?
?Ride on,?Evie ordered, ?ride on now!
We do not want trouble, but you must not
come here like this. I do not like threats.
Go now.?
They looked at her. Their horses shifted
61
«i
62
 position, and one Indian rode slowly
around the cabin.
She stood very still, the shotgun held in
the fold of her dress, concealed by it. She
sensed they were not sure. They could see
the muzzle of one gun, and she seemed
very confident.
One of the Indians turned his pony and
started for the horse corral.
?Tell that man to leave the horses
alone,?she said clearly.
Suddenly, they charged.
What warned her, she never knew.
Perhaps it was the tensing of muscles
before the horses lunged. They were not
forty feet from the door when they started.
She lifted the shotgun and fired from
the hip . . . there was no time to raise it
further. Then she stepped back so quickly
she almost tripped, and Laban slammed
the door and dropped the bar.
Bodies crashed against the door and she
opened the loop hole in the heavy door and
fired the shotgun through it.
She heard a scream, then a scattering.
Laban leaped to take the rifle from Ruthie
and fired almost without aiming.
?You got one, ma,?Ruthie said. ?You
63
 killed one of them. There's another
bleeding something awful.?
Laban not only had the rifle, but was a
good shot. He was watching the horses
while Ruthie and Evie moved from loop
hole to loop hole to see what was
happening.
All was quiet outside. The one Indian
lay sprawled in the yard, a pool of blood
under him and around him. The shotgun
blast had caught him not more than
twenty feet off, for he was coming at them
when she fired. The heavy charge of
buckshot must have nearly cut him in two.
Suddenly Laban fired the rifle again.
The corral stood out in the open, and it
was not easy to approach it without being
seen.
?Ma,?Laban said, ?it's almost time for
the stage. They'll be here when it comes.?
The stage . . . she had forgotten about
the stage.
?Ruthie,?she said, ?go up in the loft
and keep a watch out on the road. When
you see it coming, call down to Laban and
he can start shooting.?
?What if there's nothing to shoot at??
Laban asked.
64
 r
«.i
?Shoot anyway. It will warn them on
the stage. Shoot where you think you'd be
if you were an Indian.?
Going to the fireplace, she made coffee,
put the bean pot close to the fire to warm,
and then sliced some meat. The chances
were the stage would go right on through,
but if they did stop, they must have warm
food and hot coffeeabove all, they would
want coffee.
From time to time she peered through
the loop holes, but there was nothing
stirring. All was still, scarcely a breath of
air moving. She could see sunlight on the
grass out in front, the horses standing in
the corral, and the view down the trail
toward the Plaza, miles away. Within the
cabin it was shadowed and quiet, the
shutters closing out the light except the
little that filtered through around them.
The stage was due by now. The
passengers would be stiff and tired from
the long ride in cramped quarters. Charlie
or Ben Logan, who drove alternate, would
be up on the box. He would be right out in
the open and a perfect target. Evie was
hoping there were no women aboard.
She checked the loads in the shotgun.
65
 She was frightened, but she knew what she
must do. How many Indians there were
she did not know . . . she thought she had
seen a dozen, although there might have
been twice as many. The dead one still lay
in front of the house, and at least one had
been wounded, the one Ruthie had seen
with the bloody leg might have been on
the porch when she fired through the loop
hole. And Laban might have hit one.
The minutes went slowly by. She
poured a cup of coffee for herself and one
for Laban, who never drank coffee except
on the coldest days.
?They're still out there, ma,?Laban
said. ?I saw a magpie fly up just now.
Something scared him, and the horses
kind of shied, too.?
Where was the stage?
Suddenly Ruthie called out, ?Ma! It's
comin'! The stage is comin'!?
Laban fired. The roar of the gun seemed
unnaturally loud after the long silence in
the shuttered cabin. Instantly he fired
again. And then they saw the stage.
The team was running wild, and the
driver lay slumped over the seat; how he
was staying up there on the jolting,
66
 F
bounding stage was more than she could
guess. She saw the team charging toward
the cabin, and suddenly the driver sat up,
swinging the horses right at the door.
Evie ran to the door and took down the
bar. The team swung toward the door and
the stage almost crashed against the side of
the building, then stopped.
Evie swung the door open as two men
and a woman almost fell from the stage.
One of the men was dragging another one
down. The driverit was Ben Logan
fell into the room, his chest and one arm
bloody. He clutched a .44 Colt and he
paused one instant to fire before they
slammed the door shut.
?Hit us about three mile up,?he said,
?around the Point. I figure we got a
couple, but they hit us hard.?
He staggered back and almost fell to a
bench by the table, resting his gun hand
on it.
The two active and able men, after
dragging the wounded man inside, had
gone at once to loop holes. There was
almost steady firing now, and the room
was filled with gun smoke.
?What kind of a roof you got, ma'am??
67
 one of the men asked. ?I didn't notice
when we came in.?
?It's a pole roof, covered with earth.?
?Thank God for that! They can't set it
afire.?
The shooting slowed, then stopped.
The other man, short and stocky with a
square, determined face, turned to Logan.
?Ben, we've got to get that stage moved.
They'll set it afire and burn the cabin.?
?It's stone,?Evie said.
?Makes no difference. They'll burn
down the door and fire through the
opening. Anyway, the smoke might do for
us.?
?The horses are still hitched,?Ben said,
?but I can't hold a rein.?
The woman had been kneeling beside
the wounded man, gently unbuttoning his
vest and shirt. Evie went to her. ?If we
could get him on the bed?
The woman looked up. She was scarcely
more than a girl, with a round, pretty face.
?We'd better not move him. He might be
gut-shot.?
The rough term from her lips was
startling. Evie started to speak, then she
realized what the woman probably was.
68
 ?Yes, yes, of course,?she said.
?There's hot water on the fire and we have
bandages. I'm afraid I don't know much
about wounds.?
?I do,?the girl said practically. ?I've
seen a good many. I've lived in some
shooting towns.?
The stocky man was easing the door
open, peering out. ?One of the horses is
down. He'll have to be cut from the
harness first.?
?Then cut him,?Logan said. ?There's
no time to spare, man.?
He tossed a bowie knife to the man at
the door, who hesitated only a moment,
then slipped out and went to his knees.
Rising quickly, he slashed, then slashed
again. The bowie knife had a heavy blade
and was razor sharp. Seizing the whip, he
lashed the nearest horse and the animal
leaped, impelling the others. In an instant
they were gone, careening across the yard,
running down an Indian who sprang up
suddenly from behind a cedar log.
The man who had done the cutting
lunged for the door and tripped, and then
was dragged inside as several bullets
drummed on the door or ricocheted from
69
 the rock walls. And then again there was
silence.
The girl had gone from the wounded
man on the floor to Ben Logan. Working
with smooth skill, she cleaned and then
dressed his wounds.
Outside there was neither sound nor
movement. The day wore on, the heat of
the afternoon changing to the coolness of
evening.
?What do you think, Ben??the squarefaced
man asked Logan. ?Will they stay
and fight, or will they pull out??
Ben Logan shrugged. ?I figure they'll
pull out. No Injun wants to fight a losin'
battle, and they've lost more men today
than in many a fight with the Army. I
figure they'll try to get that dead one out
yonder and they may try for the horses,
but they're likely to go.?
After a moment he added, ?They can
count, good as you or me, and they know
there's four, five guns in here, and we're
behind a stone wall. They aren't out to win
no medals.?
It was a long, slow evening, and a
longer, slower night. Several times, just to
keep the Indians away, one of them fired a
70
 rifle along the side of the corral. It was a
moonlit night and from the cabin the front
of the corral and both sides were covered
easily. Only the back of the corral could
not be observed.
At daybreak the horses were still there,
the body of the dead Indian was gone, and
by ten o'clock they knew the siege had
been lifted.
?Don't worry none,?Logan said.
?When the stage doesn't reach the Plaza
they'll come huntin' us.?
And they did ... a party of forty
horsemen, heavily armed.
71
THE Apaches had come and gone,
and they had left no scars on the
landscape. Those who had attacked
were a small renegade band who had
come over the border from Mexico,
from their hide-aways in the far-off Sierra
Madres.
Evie Teale looked out over the brown
grass of autumn, and thought of the
Apaches. Only a week had gone by since
the day the men rode in from the Plaza,
but it seemed an age ago. Things had such
a way of passing here and leaving no mark
upon the landpeople, events, storms,
troubles.
But the Apaches had left a mark upon
her, and upon Laban and Ruthie. From
now on they would be more cautious,
more wary, more aware that it could
happen to them. But the attack had also
left them stronger, in that they had faced
an enemy and they had survived.
Evie Teale suddenly became aware of
something else. For the first time she was
72
 at peace here, really at peace. She had
believed the land was her enemy, and she
had struggled against it, but you could not
make war against a land any more than you
could against the sea. One had to learn to
live with it, to belong to it, to fit into its
seasons and its ways.
The land was a living thing, breathing
with the wind, weeping with the rain,
growing somber with clouds or gay with
sunlight.
When she had come to this place she
had looked aghast upon desolation. Now
the cabin no longer looked out of place, it
no longer looked like something dropped
alongside the way, for it had become a part
of the landscape, as she had.
As she had. ... She thought of that, and
knew that it was true, and that it had been
the sun and shadow on the grass out there
which had first won her; but now she must
do something herself, she must not leave it
to the land alone.
?Laban . . . Ruthie . . . we're going to
make a flower bed. We're going to plant
some flowers.?
They looked at her, surprised, but
eager, anticipating. ?We'll dig up some
73
 prairie flowers and plant them alongside
the door,?she said.
?Laban, you have to start it. Take your
shovel and dig up a flower bed on each side
of the door. From the corners of the cabin
to the doorstep, and about four feet deep.
?Ruthie, you and I will go look for
flowers. We'll get some daisies, and there's
Indian paintbrush. . . . Come on!?
By the time they returned with a basket
filled with carefully dug-up plants, Laban
had the earth spaded up, raked, and
watered ready for the planting.
?We should plant some trees,?Evie
said. ?We've got water enough, and
there's some young cottonwoods down by
the creek.?
It was dusk before they settled where
the trees would be planted so that they
would offer shade for the cabin and at the
same time would not be in the way of the
stages.
Often, after the children were in bed, Evie
walked out in front of the cabin to look at
the stars and to feel the wind. These were
the lonely hours, when at last she could let
down from the work of the day, when
74
 she could stand there and feel the
wind touch her hair, when she could look
at the bright, silent stars, and hear a
coyote's plaintive cry come from far out on
the plain.
Behind her the windows would show a
faint light from her lantern, for the fire
would be banked for the night, the coal-oil
light would be out or turned low.
She could hear a faint stirring among
the horses in the corral, and sometimes
one would stamp or blow dust from his
nostrils.
Jacob was gone. . . .
Now she accepted the fact. How or why
he had gone she had no idea, but somehow
he had been killed or had died or been
injured in some terrible way. That he
might have simply gone off and left them
she did not for a moment consider. Jacob
was too much a man of duty, and both his
place and his children meant too much to
him.
She had never been sure if he loved her,
for he was not a tender man. In the few
moments when he had approached tenderness
he had seemed oddly uncomfortable,
yet she felt that in his own way that he did
75
 care for her. He was simply one of those
silent millions who have never really
learned how to express what they feel, or
somehow seem to find it indelicate to do
so.
And she had needed love. She had
needed tenderness. She was frightened
and she was alone, and the romance she
had needed so desperately, of which she
had dreamed so long, was simply not in
him to give.
This was the second time that death
for somehow she felt sure that Jacob was
deadhad left her alone. First, it had been
her father. Suddenly she was alone in a
strange place and her father was dead; but
he had taken from her more than a father,
more than financial supporthe had taken
her dreams with him.
He had always been filled with plans
wild, impractical plans they might be, but
plans, dreams . . . and a goal. He had
always had that, and as swiftly as one
faded away he was busy with another, and
his stories as well as his dreams had fed her
own dreaming. Always, somewhere in the
offing there was a Prince Charming, a
someone who needed her, someone who
76
 was young and handsome, and filled with
romance.
When her father died she lost her
dreams. There was nothing of the Prince
Charming about Jacob Teale, but he was a
rock to which she could cling, and she had
been frightened. With no money, no
home, and no chance even to work, she
had accepted his offer of marriage.
Now she was alone again, yet not quite
alone, for there were the children and they
needed her. They needed her as much as
she needed them. She had them, and she
had this place; without them she would
again be where she had been, a woman
alone in a harsh world where there was no
place for a woman alone.
The coolness of the night held a hint of
distant rain. Something far out upon the
grass stirred, and she heard the whisper of
sound. She stood a moment longer, and
then she went back to the cabin and let
herself in, barring the door behind her.
A moment then, she listened, hearing
the breathing in the loft above. She looked
around at the shadowed room, lighted
only by the lantern and a faint flickering
from the fire.
77
 A double bed, a table, some benches, a
chair . . . the pots and pans shining upon
the wall or near the fireplace, the hardpacked
earth floor . . . Would she ever
have a plank floor, now that Jacob was
gone?
She went to her carpetbag, the repository
of the few things she had brought
with her when she came to Jacob, and took
out a thin volume of poetry. For an hour
she read, then stared into the fire for a long
time. Her loneliness was with her always;
only the hours when she was most busy
gave her respite, and each stage she
awaited with a half-conscious longing, a
hope that someone, or something special
would come for her.
Six months had gone by since Jacob
Teale had ridden away, and she found
herself hard put to remember his features.
She remembered his square-shouldered
dignity, his quiet, somewhat stern manner;
and whenever she thought of him she
found herself feeling guilty that she did
not mourn him. But when she remembered
him now he was like a stranger.
The following day Charlie McCloud
78
 brought in the stage, and there were no
passengers, so he lingered, drinking coffee
with her.
?Mrs. Teale,?he said abruptly, ?you
ought to find yourself a man. You're too
fine a woman to go to waste out here like
this.?
?Mr. Teale has only been gone six
months, Mr. McCloud. I think it is rather
too soon to?
C ^^.T--».*-»*-*x^*^orf-*l'*
?Nonsense!?he interrupted. ?You
know as well as I do that something's
happened to him. Mrs. Teale, this here is a
violent land, and I've helped bury two,
three men whose names nobody knew . . .
it happens all the time.
?A man can get throwed by his horse
out there on the plains and he can die of
thirst before he can get anywhere. That's
why they hang horse thieves, ma'am,
because out here if you take a man's horse
you may have taken his life along with it.
?It's a sight easier to die out here than to
live. It doesn't have to be Injuns or
outlaws. Now, you take your husband.
I've asked around, passed the word along
the stage line for any information about
him or his horse. Neither of them seems to
79
 have been seen by anybody. I'd say that
was pretty good evidence that they ran
into trouble somewhere together.
?There was a flood on the Rio Grande
shortly after he left here, and heavy rains
over east of here, too. He may have tried to
swim a river or take a short cut across
country somewhere. You'd better count
yourself a widow, Mrs. Teale.?
?Perhaps you are right, Mr. McCloud.
I would not say it to anyone but a good
friend, but I am lonely, and sometimes
when we are alone here, I am frightened;
but even if I was sure Mr. Teale was dead,
I still would know of no one I'd be
interested in.?
?Well,?he said, ?you deserve yourself a
good man, and I'd surely say I'd be the
last to advise you to latch onto the first
saddle tramp who comes along. But you
see, Mrs. Teale, the stage line . . . well,
they want to put in their own station out
west of here, four or five miles. I know
you've been making a little off feeding us,
but that time's about up, ma'am. I don't
see how you're going to make it without
the stages stopping here.?
She had known it was corning, of
i
80
 course. From the first, the stage company
had planned to build their own place, and
she knew her small cabin was not
adequate.
?This is all we have, Mr. McCloud, and
we must do the best we can. Mr. Teale had
hoped to have a herd started by this time,
but I've had no money to buy cattle.?
Charlie McCloud put down his cup.
?Mrs. Teale, I've got me an idea. There's
a herd a-passin' through here, and when
they come you should go talk to the trail
boss. Now, this here is a mixed herd, and
they've got some long, dry drives ahead,
I'll bet you you could get some calves.
?You'd have to wean 'em, most likely,
but you've got that milk cow. No trail boss
likes to be bothered with calves, and where
they don't have a wagon to carry 'em in
they just let 'em lay.?
Suddenly his eyes began to twinkle.
?Ma'am, I'll tell you what you do. Make
up a big batch of them doughnuts. The
average cow-poke would sell his soul for a
doughnut. You make up a batch, have a
couple of gallons of coffee handy, and you
feed those cowboys and tell them if they
have any fresh-dropped calves you'd like
81
 to have them. They know those calves
aren't going to last out any desert crossing.
You're liable to pick up four or five, maybe
more.?
She got up. ?Thanks, Mr. McCloud,
for what you've told me. Thank you very
much.?
He rose, hesitating a moment. ?Don't
you be forgetting. You keep your eye out
for a good man, and latch onto him.
There's a-plenty running around who are
no good. You need you a good, steady
man.?
«;
?Mr. McCloud, if I marry again it will
be for love, and only for love. I don't care
what comes. A woman deserves some
happiness, Mr. McCloud, and I've had
precious little, but I can't leave this place.
It is all we have.?
She knew his advice was good, for she
had already seen how hungry travelers
were for any kind of baking, and for
doughnuts in particular. The cattle would
be coming through soon and she was going
to gamble all she had at hand on a chance
of success.
With Ruthie helping, and Laban
gathering additional firewood, she went to
82
 work to bake the doughnuts and prepare
for a cowboy invasion. As she worked she
considered the future. If she could get
several calves it would be a start, at least,
and Bess would be dropping a calf before
the winter was over.
Before the herd came in sight they could
hear the cattle bawling, and the herd was a
big one.
Two men riding point swung away from
the herd as it prepared to bed down for the
night, and rode up to the cabin. Evie met
them at the door, with Ruthie and Laban
at her side.
The first was a lean, broad-shouldered
man with a walrus mustache, and the
second an older man, leaner still and
stooped in the shoulders.
?Are you the lady who bakes the bear
sign??
?Bear sign??Evie was puzzled. ?Do
you mean doughnuts??
?Yes'm, reckon I do. We heard tell you
was the best all-fired doughnut maker this
side of the Mississippi, and that you'd set
us up to doughnuts.?
?Come on in,?Evie said. ?I've coffee
on.?
83
 The two men swung down and went
inside, hats in hand. Both men were
armed, both were dusty and tired-looking.
They seated themselves and she put out a
tray of doughnuts and filled their cups.
After a few minutes of silent eating, the
first man looked up. ?I am John Catlin,
ma'am, and this gent here ridin' herd on
me is my uncle, Sam Catlin. We hear tell
how you'd like some calves.?
?I can't afford to buy them,?Evie
confessed. ?I'd heard that when you were
driving a mixed herd calves could be a
trouble. I thought perhaps you might have
one or two that you want to be rid of.?
?That we do,?the younger Catlin said.
?They'd never make it across the desert
anyway, and they'd be a trouble on the
drive. As a matter of fact, I've got six head,
a week to three weeks old, and we've lost a
couple back yonder that couldn't keep up.
?Ma'am, we'd be pleased for you to
have them, but I'm afraid it will cost you.
We've got nine or ten hungry cowhands
just a-sawin' at the bit to get over here.?
?Send them, and you're welcome any
time, whether you have calves or not, as
long as the flour holds out.?
83
)>
84
 An hour later she had five hungry
cowhands around the table, and the way
the doughnuts vanished was something to
see, but they had brought with them six
calves, all white-face, and along with them
a cow.
?She's a mite old,?Catlin said, ?and
likely this here's her last calf. I doubt
whether she'd make it over the desert, so
you're welcome.?
Evie Teale stared at the cow. If it was
more than five years old she was badly
mistaken, and it looked to be in excellent
shape, but she offered no comment beyond
her thanks. The following morning when
the herd moved out, the chuck wagon
stopped by the house to fill its barrels with
fresh water.
It was not until they were gone that
Ruthie came running into the cabin. ?Ma!
Come look!?
On the doorstep was a hundred-pound
sack of flour, fifty pounds of sugar, a sack
of rice and one of beans, with a small
package of dried fruit.
On top of them was a torn piece of
canvas on which somebody had written,
?With the thanks of the 2-C.?
85
 The Two Bar C was gone, but they
would not be forgotten, and they had left
behind them another legacy not lightly to
be dismissed. Where the herd had bedded
down there were cow chips enough for
many a fire.
Evie Teale prepared for the next stage,
and watched the sky. It was colder now,
and the sky looked gray and lowering.
They must work hard to gather fuel for the
winter. It was surely on the way.
The wind was picking up, and the
tumbleweeds were starting to roll. Soon
they would be rolling off to the south in
unnumbered legions. She counted those
she could see rolling.
?. . . eight. . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . .
twelve ...?
After that there was no use in counting,
for they rolled away across the vast plain
like an army of skirmishersscattered
out, moving forward, pausing, and then
moving again.
?I wonder where they go,?Laban said,
watching them.
?I don't know, Laban. Maybe they just
never stop. Maybe they just keep on
rolling forever.?
86
 ?They hang up against corrals sometimes,
or fences.?
?There are not many fences out here,?
Ruthie said, ?but when we came West I
saw a great bank of them against some
willows and cottonwoods . . . remember?
They were piled up as high as a house.?
Again that night, when the children
were asleep, Evie walked out in the
moonlight.
The plain was stark and lonely, the stars
shone unbelievably bright wherever the
clouds broke for them to be seen. The
wind whipped her skirt, and she saw one
of the silent riders of the wind roll by not
very far away.
Maybe ... off to the south somewhere
. . . maybe there was somebody down
there as lonely as she was, somebody
whose thoughts reached out into the
emptiness of the night, longing, yearning,
alone.
87
CONN CONAGHER came down
out of the Mogollons riding a lineback
dun. He had a healing scar
over his right ear and a drawn look about
him that showed even under the thick
stubble of black beard. His blanket roll
was tied behind his saddle and two rifles
were tied across it. His own rifle was in its
scabbard.
The Horse Springs stage station looked
wind-blown and bleak when he rode in,
huddled in his thin coat. He rode up to the
station warily, like a man expecting
trouble.
Two horses were tied at the hitching
rail, both of them cow ponies wearing
Ladder Five brands.
Conn glanced at the brands and
muttered to his horse, ?Now, there's a
rustler's brand if ever I saw one. A Ladder
Five will cover almost anything.?
He tied his horse and went up the steps
to the store's porch, then he opened the
door and stepped in. There was a fire
88
 glowing in the stove, and three men sat
around it. The storekeeper was arranging
stock on the shelves.
Conn went up to the stove and warmed
his hands. ?Cold out there,?he cornmented.
?Too cold.?
?Makes a man wonder what he did with
his summer's wages,?Conn continued.
?Don't know anybody around who is
looking for a hand, do you??
?Can't say I do.?The speaker was a
square-built man in a buckskin jacket and
battered hat. He wore moccasins rather
than boots.
The other two looked like hard cases.
Both were young, lean, and wiry, with a
reckless cast to their features and a halftaunting
expression that Conagher had
seen many times before. These men were
trouble, and trouble was the last thing he
wanted right now.
He walked over to the counter. ?Mister,?
he said, ?I am in a swapping mood. I
want one of them sheepskin coats and
some gloves. Maybe a pair of Levis and
some .44 ca'tridges.?
?What have you got to swap? I usually
89
 do a cash-on-the-barrel-head business.?
?I've got a couple of Winchesters,?
Conagher said. ?I'll get 'em.?
He went out, untied the two rifles, and
brought them into the store. ?They'll
stand cleaning,?he said.
The storekeeper took them in his hands,
turned them over, tried the action, and
looked down the barrel of each one.
?Unusual thing,?he commented, ?a man
wanting to swap off rifles, two of them.?
?They belonged to a pair of Indians,?
Conagher said. ?They jumped me up in
the Mogollons. There were three of them.
We had quite a go-around there for a few
minutes.?
The man in buckskin commented,
?Three Apaches? You're lucky you've got
your hair.?
?Well, I seen a rabbit up ahead . . .
maybe a hundred yards ahead. He was
hoppin' along easy-like across the trail
when he suddenly took off back the way he
came, so I sort of figured there was
something in the brush alongside the trail
that scared him.
?If they were Indians they'd likely seen
me, scouted ahead to lay for me, and likely
90
 they were watching me now, so I pulled up
and got down and picked up my horse's
hooflike it was giving me trouble.
?I hunted around for a rock, hit at the
shoe a couple of times, then threw it
down and picked up another, dropped
it, and stepped over to the side of the trail,
as if I was hunting a bigger rock. Then I
ducked into the brush and sneaked up on
'em.
?Just about the time I got close they
began to wonder what had become of me,
so one of them craned his neck up out of
the brush for a better look and he saw me.
He was surprised, but I wasn't. He wasn't
any more than thirty feet off, but when I
commenced shooting I dusted the brush
all around him and two Indians broke
from cover, one of them dragging a
wounded leg.?
?So you nailed him,?one of the
cowhands said.
?No, I figured I had him, all right, so I
let drive at the other one and dropped him.
When I looked around for the wounded
one, he was gone.?
?Did you hunt him down??
Conagher gave the cowhand a glance*
91
 ?Mister, nobody but a fool goes into the
rocks after a wounded Apache.?
?How'd you get the rifles, then??
?Well, I laid there a piece, and then I
got over into the brush where I'd killed the
first one, and I latched onto his rifle and
ammunition. No use leaving it for some
other Indian to kill with. Then I edged
around until I could see the last Indian I
shot, and with a long stick I pulled his rifle
to me. Then I went back to my horse and
lit a shuck out of there.?
?I'll swap,?the storekeeper said, ?and
I'll add a box of -44's for them you used up
in the fight. Most of the Apaches around
here are good people, and the Zunis north
of us are no trouble makers, but it's them
south-of-the-border 'Paches who keep
raiding up here that give us trouble. They
attacked the stage station down the line
where that womanTeale's her name
runs it.?
Conn Conagher looked up sharply.
?They didn't kill her??
?She made a fight of it, she and them
youngsters. Then the stage came in, all
bloodied up, but amongst them they
fought 'em off.?
>»
92
 Conagher tried on a sheepskin coat,
then another. Satisfied, he put the boxes of
shells in the pockets and picked up the
gloves and the jeans.
?Might as well set and have coffee,?the
storekeeper said. ?You ain't goin' far
tonight.?
?Thanks. I'll move on.?
The man in buckskin followed him
outside, leaning on the hitching rail while
Conagher tightened the cinch. ?Where
was you in the Mogollons??he asked.
?I'm a-headed up thataway.?
?My guess would be you knew them
pretty well,?Conagher said. ?What is it
you want to know??
The man in buckskin glanced over his
shoulder. ?I got me a little stand over on
the Negrito. I was wonderin' if you'd been
around thataway, and if you'd seen any
Injun sign.?
?I came down through Sheep Basin,?
Conagher said, ?and I saw no Indian
sign.?He straightened up and rested his
hands on the saddle. His eyes smiled a
little, and he said, ?I did see some other
sign over on Beaverdam.?
The man in buckskin flushed a little,
93
 then grinned. ?Like I figured, you've got
savvy,?he said. ?Those two in there ... I
don't cotton to 'em. I'd as soon they didn't
know where I hole up.?
?I'll do no talkin'. Ain't none of my
affair.?He held out a hand. ?Name's
Conagher. I'm ridin' the grub line whilst
huntin' a job.?
?If you don't find anything come on
back to Beaverdam. There's wolves up
there, bear oncet in a while, and a few
beaver. A man can make out on deer if he
likes venison. I live off the country, make
up a few furs to bring out. My name is
Chip Huston.?
He came around the horses. ?Watch
yourself with those two in there. That
whole Ladder Five is a salty crowd and
they don't care whose stock they brand.?
?Who are they??
?Hi Jackson and Pete Casuse. They
drifted in here from the Neuces country.?
?Likely I'll never see them again. I'm
driftin'.?
But when he looked back from a
distance of about half a mile, he saw the
two men standing in front of the store,
staring after him.
94
 Three days later, after swinging in a
long circuit. Conn Conagher found a job.
Seaborn Tay was forty years old when
he decided to make his stand. He rode into
the country alone, scouted a piece of
country he liked, and although everybody
warned him it was Apache country and he
wouldn't last a month, he moved in, built
an outfit, and by the time Conn Conagher
rode up to the bunk house rustling
a job, Tay had been running cattle on
that range four years and he still had his
hair.
Conagher swung down from his horse
and looked across the yard at the man who
stood on the steps.
?You ridin' the grub line, or huntin' a
job??
?A job if I can get it. A meal if I can't.?
?Have you got sand??Tay came
walking down toward him. ?I'll have
nobody riding for me who is going to run
for town the first time he sees a pony
track.?
Conagher took off the sheepskin coat.
?Nice coat, ain't it? Warm, too. Well, I
just swapped for it. I swapped two rifles I
taken off two dead Apaches. The third one
95
 F
got off, but he was packin' lead. Does that
answer your question??
?Supper will be on the table in about
half an hour. You got time to wash up
and stow your gear. On this job I furnish
the horses and the ammunition.
I'll have no fighting among my crew.
Any time you can't stand up to the work
I'll give you two days' grub and a head
start.?
Conagher stripped his rigging from the
dun and turned it into the corral, then he
packed his blanket roll and Winchester to
the bunk house.
It was like every other bunk house.
Maybe it was a little stronger and tighter
than most southern bunk houses, more
like they had in Montana or Colorado. He
chose an empty bunk near the stove, and
threw his gear into it.
There were three hands on the job. He
made a fourth. There were bunks for
twelve, but only those near the stove were
occupied. He checked the fire, added a
couple of sticks, and unrolled his bed. He
took his spare six-shooter and tucked it
under his blanket, then sat down and
cleaned his rifle.
96
 By the time he had finished he heard the
triangle ringing for supper, and when he
went out one of the hands was just riding
in. It was Kris Mahler.
?Look what the cat dragged in,?Mahler
said. ?Did the Old Man hire you??
?Somebody has to do the work,?
Conagher said. ?Now I can see why he
was so anxious to get a good man.?
Mahler stepped down from the saddle
and commenced building a smoke. ?Anything
strike you peculiar about this
setup??
?What's peculiar??
?Hirin' men this time of year. Usually
the old hands stay on for the winter
months. Why should Tay be hirin' so late
in the season? What happened to his
regular hands??
?Don't get a burr under your saddle.
You'll find out soon enough. Where's the
others??
?Riding the line. It's a long two-day
trip. One goes north and one south, and
they swing around and pass each other.
There are two line cabins, and if you time
it right you can sleep inside. Mainly it's to
keep stock from drifting, checking range
97
 and water holes, and keeping your eyes
open for rustlers.?
They walked up to the ranch house
together.
?The grub's good,?Mahler said. ?You
never ate such grub. The Old Man found
him a chef who got throwed out of some
ho-tel back east.?
There were just four of them at the
table, and the food was good. Conn ate a
second helping, then filled his cup again
and leaned back.
He talked little, listened a lot. Mahler
had always been a good talker, an easygoing
man, and a good hand. He had a way
of talking on any subject, to anyone. Conn
envied him, while he listened.
There was one old hand, a man named
Leggett who had come from southeast
Texas to this place, riding as segundo to
Tay, who was his own foreman. The other
hand, as Conn might have guessed, was
Johnny McGivern. Like himself, Mahler
and McGivern had ridden in hunting a job
and they had been hired.
Suddenly Tay turned to Conagher.
?Mahler will be telling you, anyway, so
you might as well know. Two of my hands
98
 up and quit just before Mahler and
McGivern rode in, and another one's
missing.?
?Missing??
?Martinez. He came from Texas with
me, too. He rode out, taking the south
swing. Mahler saw him over east of here
the next day. They talked, smoked a
cigarette, and rode on. Nobody has seen
Martinez since.?
?A lot of things can happen,?Conagher
said. ?This here's a rough country.?
Kris Mahler tilted back in his chair and
sipped coffee.
The thought came to Conagher suddenly,
and he voiced it without thinking.
?Do you share any range with Ladder
Five??
Mahler looked up sharply, then glanced
at Tay. The rancher pushed back slightly
from the table and studied Conn carefully.
?What do you know about Ladder Five??
?Well, I saw a couple of their hands
over to Horse Springs. They had pretty
good outfits, the both of them. I'd say they
were gents who could use a brand just like
they've got.?
?We've had no trouble with them,?Tay
99
 said. ?We've no reason to expect trouble.?
Conagher shrugged. ?Well, I never saw
them before and never expect to again. I
just came here hunting a riding job.?
Later, when they were outside, Mahler
commented, ?I wouldn't say any more
about the Five, if I was you. No need
letting the Old Man get the wind up.?
?None of my affair,?Conagher said. ?I
wanted a place to sit out the winter, and as
long as nobody bothers me, I'll bother
nobody.?
And then Mahler said the wrong thing.
?A man out there on a horse . . . he's all
alone. He's a settin' duck for any man with
a rifle. A man would be foolish to risk that
now, wouldn't he??
Conn Conagher, who never liked being
pushed, felt his old cantankerous mood
coming on. He'd be damned if he was
going to ride scared for anybody . . . any
time. But he said nothing. This, he
decided, was a time to listen.
The following day Leggett rode in.
He was a tall man with a long face and a
dry-as-dust manner, but Conn pegged
him right away as an honest man, as well
as no fool.
100
 Conn listened to him discuss conditions
on the range, where he had seen cattle,
where the water holes were, what steers
were trouble makers.
Conn saddled up and tightened the
cinch. He got out his Winchester and slid
it into the scabbard. ?You won't need
that,?Mahler said. ?We ain't seen an
Injun around in some time.?
?I feel better with it,?Conn replied.
Seaborn Tay walked out on the porch
and called to him. ?First time out,?he
said, ?you just get acquainted with the
country.?Briefly he explained the layout
of the range claimed by the ST, and then
he added, in a somewhat lower voice, ?I
got nothing but respect for an honest
cowhand.?
Conn Conagher stepped into the saddle
and gathered his reins. ?Mr. Tay,?he
said, ?I've covered a lot of country in my
time, but when I take a man's money I ride
for the brand.?
101
CONAGHER covered four miles in
his first hour. The range lay below
six thousand feet at this point, with
much open country. There were cottonwoods
along the stream beds, with
scrub oak, pinon, juniper, and occasional
mountain mahogany on the slopes.
The range condition was fair to
middling. He saw a few head of steers and
several cows, all wearing the ST brand.
Where they were too close to what Tay
considered his line, Conagher turned them
back, then rode on.
The stock was in good shape for cold
weather, and there was sufficient range for
the number of cattle he saw. On this first
trip he was only going to get a rough idea
of the country and the problems, but
already he had seen a few areas where
larkspur and horse bush were plentiful. . .
a good idea would be to move all stock out
of this area, come spring. Cattle wouldn't
eat most poisonous plants if there was
other forage. The trouble was that many
102
 dangerous plants were the first things to
turn green in the spring. He took out his
tally book and made a note of the area and
its probable limits.
Just before noon he turned up a slope,
found a trickle of water coming down
through a grove of alders, and stepped
down from the saddle. He loosened the
cinch, let his horse have a little water, then
picketed it on a pocket of grass and settled
down to chewing on a piece of jerky.
From where he sat he could see over a
far stretch of country. Getting his field
glasses from his saddlebag, he began to
study the country. He spotted several
bunches of cattle, a few scattered ones, and
a bunch of deer. He was getting up to
return the field glasses to the saddlebag,
but took one longer look. Further out,
beyond the limits of ST range, he saw
another bunch of cattle.
He studied them for a while, curious as
to why they were bunched so tightly . . .
and then he picked up a plume of dust and
saw the cattle were being drifted by two
riders. They were too far away to make
them out clearly.
He tightened the cinch, swung into the
103
 saddle, and angled down the mountainside.
This was open range country, and the
limits that Tay placed on his range were
purely arbitrary. Such limits were probably
not recognized by other ranchers; it
was simply that Tay wished to keep his
own herds within those limits. That way it
was easier to supervise and care for them,
to check range conditions, and to treat
them for screw worms, and for cuts or
scrapes from horns or rocks.
Conagher found the tracks of scattered
cattle on Tay range, and found where they
had been bunched and drifted. The tracks
showed the men had ridden carelessly, as
if driving the cattle by chance.
He followed the tracks, keeping to low
ground and what cover he could find,
until, topping out on a pinon-crested
ridge, he saw the cattle not far off, still
moving northward. The two riders were
going on.
Holding to the cover of the pinons,
Conagher considered. The cattle below
were likely to be ST stock, but without
checking the brands, he would not be sure.
They had been started north, and would
104
 probably, unless stopped, continue to
graze in that direction. With a little nudge
from riders, they might be thirty miles
away by the time another man came this
way.
With his glasses he studied the direction
taken by the two riders, but they were not
in sight now. Waiting only a few minutes
longer, he rode down to the herd.
All but one wore the ST brand. He cut
out the lone steer, then started the others
back toward their home range. He had
almost reached the home range when
another rider, this one on a sorrel horse
with three white stockings, come down off
the slope.
He was a stocky, hard-faced man with a
scar over one eye, high cheekbones, and a
square jaw. He was riding a Ladder Five
horse.
?Where you takin' them steers??he
asked.
?Back to their home range. As you
can see, they're ST stock. Figured I'd
best start 'em back where they come
from.?
The man studied the brands, then
looked at Conagher. ?I don't believe I
105
 know you,?he said. ?Are you a new rider
for Tay??
?Uh-huh. My name's Conagher. First
time around. Sort of gettin' acquainted
with the range.?
?I'm Tile Coker. You'd better have a
talk with Kris Mahler.?
?We've talked before. Kris an' me rode
together for the stage company a while
back.?
Tile Coker gave him a quick glance.
?Oh? Are you the gent who busted up
Kiowa Staples??
?We had a difficulty.?
?Heard about it.?Coker swung his
horse. ?You an' Kris should get better
acquainted. Save us all some trouble.?
?Maybe.?
Coker rode off, and Conagher pushed
the cattle back over the line and deep into
ST territory. Only then did he resume his
ride.
Twice he found bunches of ST cattle
that seemed to have strayed too far north.
He started them south, then pushed on,
but he kept off the skyline and carried his
Winchester in his hands.
Johnny McGivern was waiting for him
106
 near a clump of scrub oak, but Conagher
saw him before he was seen by McGivern
and chose to make a sweep around some
brush up the slope from where Johnny
waited.
McGivern saw him then and yelled, but
Conagher took a slow, lazy turn around
the clump of oak, cutting for sign. There
was none but that left by Johnny himself,
so he rode on up to the fire.
Johnny had coffee ready, and Conagher
swung down. This was apparently a place
where frequent stops had been made.
There were many tracks, but none of them
were fresh except those made by Johnny's
pinto gelding.
?The stock seems to be in good shape,?
Conagher said. ?Some of it is drifting,
though.?
?Yeah??Johnny glanced at him. ?You
see anybody??
?Only a puncher named Coker. Rides
for the Ladder Five.?
?You talk much??
Conagher took his cup from his
saddlebag and filled it from the coffeepot.
?Not much.?
Johnny was looking at him, but
107
 Conagher paid no attention. He sipped the
coffee gratefully. ?Good coffee,?he said.
?We leave the pot hanging to that cedar.
Whoever gets here first, makes it.?
?I'll try to see you get here before I do.
You make better coffee.?
?Ma taught me. Sometimes I made it
for her before she got home.?Johnny
looked around at him. ?Ma worked out.
My pa was killed in a train crash when I
was six.?
c«
?She had nerve,?Conagher said. ?It
takes nerve to bring up a boy when a
woman's alone.?He looked over at
Johnny. ?She'd be proud of you, I think.
You shape up like quite a man.?
McGivern flushed, and to change the
subject he said, ?I always wished I could
have known what pa was like. What kind
of a man he was.?
?Most railroaders I've known were
mighty good men,?Conagher said. ?I've
helped lay track, myself. And I've ridden
the cars a good bit, with shipments of
stock, and the like. They're good men.?
?I never had a chance to know him.?
?A boy should know his pahe needs
somebody to look up to. A boy or a girl,
108
 they learn how to be a man or a woman by
watching their folks.?
?There was a man worked at a store
near us. Sometimes when we hadn't any
money he let us have groceries anyway . . .
until we could pay. I don't know if ma ever
did manage to pay him all of it.?
?Some day you ought to go back and ask
him. Pay him what you owe.?
Johnny stared into his cup. ?I've
thought about it. You think I should??
?Uh-huh.?
They sat silent, drinking coffee and
listening to the pleasant sound of the
horses cropping grass. After a while,
Conagher got to his feet and cinched
up.
?Conn??Johnny said questioningly.
?Yeah??
?Why didn't you draw on that man? On
Kiowa??
?You mean was I afraid? No, I wasn't
. . . not that I recollect. I expect all men are
scared sometimes, but I didn't think of it.
Kiowa wasn't really meanhe just had
a blown-up idea of who he was . . .
why should I kill him because he was
making a fool of himself? Why should I
109
 a
?~~
risk getting killed myself, for the same
reason?
?He had to be taught,?Conn went on,
?and there's no other way, sometimes. If
he lives, he'll be grateful. If he doesn't, it
won't make any difference. First thing you
want to remember, boy, is that a
reputation doesn't make a man tough. You
got to know, not did he kill somebody, but
who were they? How tough were they?
Also, could he have done otherwise? A
man who kills when he can do otherwise is
crazy . . . plumb crazy.?
?He might have killed you.?
?Might have.?Conagher stepped into
the saddle and looked down at Johnny
McGivern. ?Some men take a sight of
killing, boy. Just be sure that when killing
time comes around that you're standing on
the right side.?
Johnny stared after him. Now what did
he mean by that? Did he mean anything by
it?
In spite of himself, Johnny felt drawn to
the strange, lonely rider who was just
disappearing down a draw. He had never
seen a man more alone, nor a man more
secure in himself. That was it, Johnny
110
 surmised: Conn Conagher knew what he
believed . . . and Johnny wished he did
himself.
Kris now . . . Kris had swagger and
style, but something about Kris made
Johnny uneasy.
But only since he had met Conn
Conagher.
That was the day Conn found the first of
the notes. He saw it from far off, and drew
up in the shadow of a juniper to study it
out.
Down there on the flat there was a speck
of white, just a speck, but it had no
business to be there.
Conagher had been less than fourteen
when he learned to distrust something out
of place, and what he saw was not sunlight
on a stone, it was not the bottom side of a
leaf; it looked like a bit of paper.
It was not much over a hundred yards
off, so he put his glass on it.
A piece of paper lying amongst some
tumbleweed. His glasses swept the ground
... no tracks that he could see at this
distance.
Warily, he rode along, scouting the area
no
111
 until he was sure there was no one around.
Then he rode up to the tumbleweed.
The paper was folded over several times
and it was tied to the tumbleweed.
Curious, he untied it and opened the
paper.
Sometimes when I am alone I feel I will
die if I do not talk to someone, and I
^ am alone so much.
I love to hear the wind in the grass, or in
the cedars.
He read it through, then read it again.
He started to throw it aside, but then he
tucked it into his vest pocket.
He liked the wind in the grass, himself.
And the cedars, too, and the smell of them.
He wondered if the writer of that note had
ever really looked at a cedar. Gnarled,
twisted by wind, rooted often enough in
rock, still it lived and grew. It took a sight
of living and hardship to grow like that,
but when they did grow they grew strong,
and they lasted. Why, he'd seen cedars
that had split rocks apart, cedars that must
have been old before Columbus landed.
Leggett was sitting in front of the bunk
in
112
 house when Conagher rode in. The old
man looked up. ?We've et,?he said, ?but
coffee's on. The Old Man figured you
might come in late.?
?Thanks.?
Conagher stripped the rigging from his
horse and threw it over a saddle tree under
the shed. He was dog-tired and boneweary.
?McGivern come in??
^^. T ^-^ «IK s-* \f «M«f^ *«***. x^ Iv
'Nope . . . Kris took off some place.
too.?
Conagher dumped water into the
washbasin beside the door and, rolling up
his sleeves, he took off his hat and
neckerchief and washed his face, neck, and
arms. Then he dried them on the roller
towel, hitched his gunbelt into place, and
started for the house.
Then he stopped. ?Leggett, you might
as well have some coffee with me. You'll
grow right into that bench if you set there
much longer.?
Leggett got up and walked along with
him to the patch of light that fell from the
kitchen door.
?The Old Man's turned in, but he said
you'd better pick yourself a couple of good
113
 winter horses and iron them out a little, to
suit you.?
?All right.?
?Tay's got good stock. There's a big
dapple-gray would make quite a horse if
you're man enough to take the kinks out of
him, and there's a buckskin about the
same size. Both of them big enough and
strong enough for the snow.?
?Does she get deep around here??
?In the draws and canyons she piles up.
You'll need Montana-style horses.?
They sat in silence for a time, and then
Conagher refilled his cup. ?You been on
this range quite a while. How's the Old
Man when it comes to trouble??
Leggett gave Conagher a bleak look.
?He'll stand by you, if that's what you
mean, but nobody else will. I'm the only
one of the old hands left, and I'm only here
because I ain't a youngster no more and I
got nowhere to go.?
Leggett got to his feet. ?I don't know
you, cowboy, an' you don't know me. If
you got any ideas about buckin' trouble
you got to go it alone.?
?You won't help me??
?How much help would I be? I'm up in
114
 my sixties, boy, older than you thought,
an' I want to live out my days, not die on
some sandy slope with lead in my guts.?
?And the Old Man??
Leggett looked at him. ?Ain't that what
they want most? If they can get him out on
the range they'll kill him, and then they
can take the cattle as they want, and
nobody to stop them.?
Conn Conagher was a stubborn man.
He had never given much thought to truth
and justice or the rights of man, but he did
not like what seemed to be happening
here, and anything that happened to an
outfit he rode for, happened to him.
?Will you stand by the Old Man??he
asked. ?Supposin' they come after him??
?I'll fight. If they come after him, I'll
fight.?
?All right, then you stay here. You keep
a rifle handy, and if there's any doubt
shoot.?
115
KRIS MAHLER rode in about an
hour later. Conn was seated in the
bunk house with his feet up on a
box reading a dog-eared copy of a
magazine. He knew by the way Mahler
stalked into the room that the man was
angry.
?Conn, what's got into you? We've got a
good thing here if you play your cards
right.?
?I play them the way they're dealt,
Kris. What don't you like??
?There's no need to stir up trouble. You
wanted a place to lay up during the winter
. . . well, you got it. So set still and ride it
out. In the spring you can drift.?
Conagher glanced around. ?When I
take a man's money, Kris, I do the job
he hired me for. I don't know no other
55
way.
?No, I guess you don't.?Mahler
dropped onto a bench. ?Conn, you're no
tenderfoot. The Ladder Five is Smoke
Parnell's outfit. Tile Coker is his right
116
 hand. You run a-foul of them and they'll
nail your hide to the barn door.?
Slowly, Conagher lowered his feet.
Every time somebody warned him or
threatened him it got his back up. He
wanted trouble with no man, but he wasn't
going to take any pushing around, either.
?You tell me something, Mahler.
Where do you stand? Are you riding for
the brand? Are you runnin' scared? Or are
you sellin' out to that damned bunch of
highbinders on the Ladder??
Mahler's face turned ugly. ?I could
make you draw a gun for that,?he said
hoarsely. ?Damn you, Conn! Don't push
me!?
?Seems to me,?Conagher replied
mildly, ?that I am the one who is being
pushed. I'll tell you this, Mahler, and put
it in your pipe and smoke it. Every ST
beef critter I see heading toward Ladder
range is going to get turned back, and if I
smell any hide burning from a Ladder
iron, I'll go in a-fogging it ... no matter
who is doing the branding. Do you hear
me??
?You're a damn fool,?Mahler said.
?Look, they're going to clean him out. By
116
«
«T ,
117
 spring there won't be a head of beef left on
ST range, and there isn't a thing anybody
can do about it. You can do your job an'
look the other way, or you can set yourself
up for a target. You've got a choice.?
?It's you who have the choice, Mahler.
You've got the choice right this minute.
You throw your pack on your horse and
ride out of here tonight, or you do what
you mentioned, and pull that gun on me.
?Before you reach for it, remember this.
I been shot at a few times, and I'm still
around. I've gone down a few times, but I
always got some lead into the man who did
the shooting.?
Conn Conagher stood up. ?Kris, you
pack up and light a shuck. I got no use for
a traitor.?
Mahler got to his feet, his features dark
with fury. Desperately, he wanted to pull a
gun on Conagher, but there was a healthy
streak of caution in him.
There was nothing of the tenderfoot in
Conagher. He was an old curly wolf from
the high country, and Mahler had seen
what he did to Staples. That beating had
been brutal and thorough. Morever, in the
close confines of a bunk house there was
118
 no way either of them could miss. Kris
Mahler was ready enough to shoot, but he
was not ready to die.
?All right,?he said, ?I'll pull out. And
Johnny will go with me. That means
there's just you, the Old Man, and Leggett
. . . how far will that take you??
Conagher shrugged. ?Kris, neither of
us is going to get out of this alive. That's
the only thing a man knows about life.
?I'll work my tail off and cash in my
chips some dark night riding herd on
another man's cows, but when they write
my epitaph they'll say, He rode for the
brand, and when they write yours they'll
say, He sold out the man who trusted him. I
like mine better.?
?You're a damn fool,?Mahler said.
?Am I? I've seen your kind, Kris.
Whatever you steal, the women on the
Line will get, or you'll get headaches from
the rotten booze they feed you, and when
your back is turned one of your partners
will shoot you for what's left in your
pockets.?
Kris Mahler walked to the door,
dropped his gear, and went to saddle a
horse.
118
tii
a
119
 Seaborn Tay came to the door of the
ranch house. ?Kris? Is that you??he
called.
?He's just quit, Mr. Tay,?Conn said.
?He's workin' for the Ladder outfit now.?
?You got money coming, Mahler,?Tay
said.
?He's got nothing coming. He's helping
them rob you.?
?Nevertheless, I am paying him. Come
to the house, Mahler, when you're ready
to go.?
?There's a square man, Kris,?Conagher
said.
Mahler did not speak, but when his
horse was saddled he turned on Conagher.
?Tell him to keep his damn money! I
don't want it!?
?Better take it. That may be the last
honest money you ever see.?
Mahler turned around sharply. ?Lay
off, Conagher. Damn you, lay off! I don't
want to kill, but?
?Arizona is nice this time of year, if you
go south far enough,?Conn suggested,
?or California, or the gulf coast of Texas.?
Suddenly a rider came in from the dark.
It was Johnny McGivern.
120
 He looked startled when he saw Mahler
packing his gear behind the saddle. ?Hey,
what's goin' on here??
?I just quit, kid. Get your outfit and
let's go.?
?Go where??
?I'm joining up with the Ladder Five.
Come on. I ain't got all night.?
Johnny stared at him, then looked at
Conagher. ?Is this your doing??
?No, his. He decided he didn't want to
swindle a man who paid him honest wages.
He's going where he belongs, of his own
choice.?
?You talk too damn much!?Mahler
said. ?Come on, kid.?
?There it lays, Johnny. You've got a
choice. You can ride the owl-hoot trail, or
you can play it honest. What you decide
tonight can change your whole life.?
?Kris is my partner!?
?Right down the road to hell, or to a
hangman's noose. That the way you want
it??
?Lay off, Conn!?Mahler exclaimed.
?I'm warnin' you. Lay off!?
?Can't you see it, Mahler? I'm never
going to lay off. I'm going to show those
121
 friends of yours what it costs to steal an
honest man's cattle. From the moment
you ride out of here, it's war, Kris, and I
don't have one ounce of mercy in me for
your kind.?
?You're only one man.?
?I know. And there was a Texas ranger
named Captain Bill MacDonald who said
there was no stoppin' a man who knew he
was in the right and kept a-comin'.
?You boys had better shoot me, Kris,
and then you'd better shoot me again
and stomp the life out of me, because as
long as I can crawl, I'll fight. As long
as I can move a finger, I'll squeeze a
trigger. You boys have saddled your
bronc, now let's see if you can ride
him!?
?Johnny, you goin' to stand there?
Come on!?
?Conn? What'll I do??
?You're a man, son,?Conagher answered.
?You make your own decision.
Just remember when you make this bet
you've thrown your life into the pot . . .
your life and your future.?
Johnny hesitated, then slowly he got
down from the saddle. ?I'll stay. You ride
122
 on, Kris. I'm sorry, but this here's where
the trail divides.?
?The hell with you!?
Kris Mahler jerked his horse around
savagely and rode out of the yard.
Conagher looked at the boy. There were
tears in his eyes. Conn put a hand on his
shoulder. ?Come on, son. You need
something to eat.?
The next morning, leaving Johnny
McGivern on the ranch, Conn Conagher
took off, but instead of making the wide
sweep he rode directly across country.
From the top of a ridge he studied the
layout with his field glasses for nearly half
an hour before he rode down to the flat.
Then he began a sweep, pushing cattle
back toward the canyons of the Black
Range where there was water and grass, as
well as some shelter from the weather. He
worked hard, starting several bunches
moving, and stopping every once in a
while to study the range to the north.
Then he rode on, keeping under cover,
starting cattle whenever he encountered
them, having the one idea of getting them
as deep into ST territory as possible.
It was late afternoon before he saw any
123
 riders, and when he did see them he
turned at once toward the hills, riding
back toward the ridge by a route he had
previously scouted. Leaving his horse out
of sight beyond the ridge, he dug out a
small hollow in a place that seemed to offer
no cover, and there he watched the riders.
One of them was young, the second was,
by the look of him, Smoke Parnell himself.
Suddenly they drew up. Conagher
swore. They had found his tracks!
He eased his rifle forward and waited,
watching to see what they would do.
Parnell studied the tracks, then scanned
the country around, particularly the ridge
where Conagher lay, but farther to the east
and west in places of obvious cover. Then
he reached for his rifle, and when he put a
hand on it, Conagher tucked the butt of
his own rifle against his shoulder, his
cheek against the stock, and took a good
sight. He squeezed off his shot as Parnell's
rifle began to leave the scabbard.
He saw the horse jump and go to
pitching even as the boom of the shot
reverberated against the hills. Instantly
Conn was on his feet and running for his
horse.
124
 When he reached the crest of the ridge
again, fifty yards off, he was in the saddle,
and only his eyes cleared the ridge, behind
some brush.
Parnell was getting up off the ground,
and he was shouting mad. His horse had
run off a few steps and the rider with
Parnell had gone after it. Parnell stopped
to pick up his rifle and Conagher shot
again, his bullet kicking sand within
inches of ParnelFs hand.
The outlaw leaped back so swiftly that
he tripped himself and fell again. Instantly,
Conn fired again, splashing sand
into Parnell's face; then switching his aim,
he put a bullet in front of the horse just as
the other rider was reaching for the bridle.
The frightened horse, evidently burned by
the first bullet as it ricocheted, now took
off running.
The rider wheeled his horse and rode
back, lending a stirrup to Parnell. Just as
Parnell lifted a foot to the stirrup,
Conagher coolly shot again, kicking sand
under the horse's belly.
The horse lunged, and Parnell, his foot
caught in the stirrup, fell to the sand, and
the plunging horse dragged him twenty
125
 feet before its rider calmed the animal
enough for Parnell to get up.
Conagher checked his position as he fed
shells into the magazine. He had dismounted
for more accurate shooting, and now
he walked back and mounted up. When he
let his eyes clear the ridge again, the horse
carrying two riders was some distance off,
and out of rifle shot.
Conagher worked on until sundown,
pushing strays back toward the mountains.
Once they got into those canyons
where there was plenty of water and good
grass it would be the devil's own job to
round them up and get them out. And as
he knew, outlaws have no particular drive
toward hard work.
It was long after dusk when he started
back, and midnight before he finally rode
into the ranch yard.
There was a movement in the shadows
near the house, and Seaborn Tay walked
out into the open.
?Worried about you, boy. Your horse
looks beat, plumb beat.?
Conagher dismounted, stripped the
rigging from his horse, and roped another.
As he did so, he explained, and added,
126
 II
?Might as well let them know it isn't all
going to be fun,?he said. ?Might be
they'll lose their taste for it.?
?Not them,?Tay said. ?Not Smoke
Parnell.?
?They've been warned. Now they'll
come a-hunting blood. You got to be ready
for them.?Conagher walked into the
kitchen and dropped wearily into a chair.
?I'm going out on the trail . . . bed down
and wait for them.?
He ate slowly, relishing every bite,
scarcely aware that he had eaten nothing in
many hours. But he could feel the
heaviness in his muscles. He needed
sleepneeded it the worst way, but he had
started something today that would take
some time to quiet down.
?We need men,?Tay said. ?You can't
carry this on by yourself. Leggett's old,
and McGivern . . . well, he'll get himself
killed. He'll try too hard, I'm thinking.?
?Leave it to me. You hold the place, I'll
move around and make it kind of
unpleasant for them.?
Suddenly his eyes brightened. ?I've got
an idea where we might find a man. It's a
gamble, but worth the chance.?
126
127
 When he left the house he went out and
shook Johnny awake. ?How'd you like to
ride, fifty, sixty miles??
?Where??
Sitting down on a bench, Conagher
traced out the route. ?Now you hold to it.
Don't try no short cuts, because there ain't
any in that country. Keep a sharp watch
out for Indians . . . maybe they'll be there,
maybe they won't. The man we want is
trappin' back yonderhis name is Chip
Euston. I don't have any idea whether
he'll come, but if he does come he'll be
worth any three of those outlaws.?
When Johnny McGivern rode off,
taking a route that would avoid towns,
Conn rode out on the trail down which
he expected the Ladder Five to come.
When he got out a way, he rode off
the trail, climbed a ridge, and bedded
down where he could look around him
and listen.
He was trusting more to his horse than
to himself. He had deliberately chosen a
mountain-bred mustang, a horse only a
few months away from running wild. He
wanted a horse that was spooky . . . that
would hear every sound . . . and a horse
128
 could both see and hear better than a man.
He slept fitfully, awakening to listen and
look, dozing off again. At daylight the
country was empty as far as his eyes could
reach. A slow smoke lifted from the
chimney at the ranch, and wearily he
climbed into the saddle and rode back.
?They didn't come,?Tay said. j
?No, but they will. They will.?>
He went to the bunk house and tumbled
into his bunk and slept.
Tay and Leggett could keep watch. He
would sleep.
129
FOR some time after he awoke he lay
still, staring up at the bottom of the
bunk above him. The room was
shadowed and still, and he heard no sound
outside. He was still tired, but he had
often been tired, and simply being so did
not offer a reason for lying abed.
But he was more than tired. And
perhaps because he was tired he was
feeling again that dreadful, depressing
loneliness that came to him sometimes.
Was it that which led him to fight for the
brand for which he rode? Was it actually
because he was an honest man, or was it
simply that he clung to the brand, the
outfit for which he rode, as the one stable
thing in his transient world?
He was not, he told himself, gifted with
much imagination. He simply did what
had to be done, and his code of ethics was
the code of his father, his family, and his
time. It would be easy, he told himself,
to throw everything overboard and disclaim
any responsibility. All he had to do
130
 was saddle up and ride out of the country.
It sounded easy, but it was not that easy,
even if a man could leave behind his sense
of guilt at having deserted a cause. To be a
man was to be responsible. It was as
simple as that. To be a man was to build
something, to try to make the world about
him a bit easier to live in for himself and
those who followed.
You could sneer at that, you could scoff,
you could refuse to acknowledge it, but
when it came right down to it, Conn
decided it was the man who planted a tree,
dug a well, or graded a road who mattered.
He was a lonerhe had always been a
loner. He was as covered with spines as
any porcupine. He was cantankerous and
edgy. Outwardly easy-going, he shied
away from people, wary of the traps
surrounding people that could lead to
trouble. Yet once in trouble, he knew of no
other way than to fight it out to a finish.
Conagher had worked too hard too
many times to like a thief or a vandal who
would steal or destroy the efforts of other
men. Maybe in the last analysis what they
said of him was true, that he didn't give a
131
 damnabout himself or those who got in
his way. He did have a few principles, and
he had not thought much about them.
They were few, they were simple, they
were his. And he lived by them.
He swung his feet to the floor and
fumbled for his socks. He would have to
stay put long enough to do some laundry,
he decided, looking at a sock. He pulled it
on, and then the other, tugged on his
boots, and stamped into them.
He reached for his gunbelt, slung it
about his hips, and went to the door.
The bullet struck the door jamb,
scattering splinters, and he jerked back so
sharply he almost fell. Wheeling around,
he ran for his Winchester.
The door was standing open now, but
there was no other sound from outside. He
glanced at the place where the bullet had
hit, and then from well back in the room
he knelt down and followed its probable
trajectory to a low hill a good four hundred
yards away. Back in the shadows of the
interior of the bunk house, he studied that
hill. Then he moved farther back to the
second window, which was well toward
the back of the building. As he thought,
132
 the view from that window was obscured
by the corner posts of the corral and its
watering trough.
There was no sound from the house.
The horses were quiet in the corral.
Moving around, he studied the view from
the two windows on the opposite side of
the bunk house.
Was this an all-out attack? Or was it the
work of one disgruntled enemy?
Where was Johnny McGivern? Where
were the Old Man and Leggett? Then he
remembered: he had sent McGivern into
the mountains to recruit Chip Euston if
possible.
The windows on the far side of the bunk
house looked toward the stable and to the
open range beyond, but Conn distrusted
what he saw. The plain out there looked
too level and innocent; there could be dips
and hollows that could hide the body of a
man. He had a hunch that was the idea:
first, the shot from the other side, then he
was to try to get out on the far side, and
when well out of the window he would be
killed.
He moved restlessly from window to
window. That man out there on the grass,
133
 if there was one, had better be a good
Indian, because he was going to have to
wait . . . and wait.
Conagher liked the look of the corral
post and the trough. It was the best cover,
but for the time being he would simply
watch and wait.
Nothing moved out there. The bunk
house was strongly built and could stand a
long attack if necessary. As yet he had not
fired a shot, and they might believe he was
dead. They had shot as he started to leave
the door, and he had fallen back out of
sight. If they did believe it they would
soon come to investigate.
The floor of the bunk house was
puncheon and did not squeak, so they
could not hear any movements within. A
slow half-hour passed. He poured a cup of
coffee from the pot that sat on the stove. It
was strong and scalding, but it tasted
good.
He was in no hurry. Conn Conagher
had lived through too many range wars,
too many Indian troubles to hurry. He
knew how those men felt out there in the
open. They had taken up their positions
before daylight, and they had now been
134
 waiting three hours or more. During all
that time they had had a chance to fire only
once.
The night had been cold, but the chill
was leaving the air now, and it would be
getting warm out there. No doubt they
had water, but he had shelter, coffee, and
plenty of ammunition. Let 'em wait.
Nevertheless, he went from window to
window, always remaining well back in the
room where there was less chance of being
seen. There was a limit to patience, unless
you were an Indian, or Conn Conagher.
Suddenly he saw movement, or rather
the shadow of movement beyond the
corral. Somebody had crept along the
ground close to the corral on the opposite
side, and was nearing a post at the corner
identical with the one Conn had planned
to use for cover. From the window where
he now watched he could not see the
crawler, but he could see tiny puffs of dust
from his movements. There was a chance
that when he reached the end of the corral,
with the protection of the post and the
buttressing posts that strengthened the
corners, he would rise to a standing
position. And when he did he would show
135
 a portion of his body between the poles of
the corral.
Conagher took a quick run around the
windows, glancing out, and then came
back. Again he saw a tiny puff of dust. He
eased the window up, and it made no
sound. Carefully, he took aim at the
opening that seemed to offer the best
chance. He took up the slack on the
trigger, set his sight picture on a point of
the gap nearest the post, and waited.
Perspiration trickled down his cheek,
down his neck. The morning had grown
warmer and he was close to the stove. He
held his slack and continued to wait.
Suddenly a spot of blue showed where
he held his aim, and he squeezed off his
shot.
He heard the thud of the bullet, for the
man was no more than sixty feet away.
The thud sounded so loud that for a
moment he believed he had hit one of the
poles, but then he heard the clatter of a
rifle against the poles as it fell, and the
moan of a man who has been hard hit.
It was the first shot he had fired, and
only the second shot fired since the attack
began.
136
 There were no answering shots, and
there was no movement. For several
minutes he waited, moving from window
to window, expecting an attack now ... or
would they still wait, perhaps until dark?
Suddenly he heard a shuddering groan
from the man beyond the corral.
?You hit bad??he asked, hoping his
voice would carry no further than the
wounded man.
?Yes, damn you!?
?Well, you came askin' for it. I didn't
put out no invitations.?
There was no reply, and after a bit he
said, ?If you want to call your friends, I'll
let 'em come get you, but the first one who
lifts a gun gets killed.?
?They won't believe you.?
?That's your problem. I'll see no man
suffer, and whoever you are, I'd advise you
if you live through this to get yourself
some new friends ... if they don't come
after you.?
?I can't... I couldn't make 'em hear.?
The injured man's voice sounded weak,
and Conagher moved to the door and
called out: ?You got a hurt man down
here. If you want to come get him, leave
137
 your rifles behind and come on. I'll kill the
first man who tries a shot.?
There was a long silence, then all of a
sudden a voice rang out, ?Hold your fire!
I'm coming down!?
The man stood up, half crouching as if
ready to fall back, but when there was no
shot he came on, slowly at first. He was
young, curly-haired . . . Conagher had
heard of him. Scott, his name was, a new
recruit.
?He ain't turned sour yet,?Conagher
said. ?There's a chance for him.?
He spoke to himself, but he said it loud
enough for the wounded man to hear, if he
was conscious. Conagher's shot probably
had gone through his body side to side,
but that was only a guess. When he had
fired he thought he saw the tips of the
cartridges in the man's belt just under his
aiming point, but he could not be sure.
Scott was coming on down the slope. He
had slowed some more, but he was walking
along.
?The boy's got sand,?Conagher said,
speaking aloud again, ?and he's got some
show-oflf in him, too. He's taking this like a
big Injun.?
138
 Scott had reached the wounded man
now, and he stood up straight. ?You
inside! I can't carry this man! He'd die
before we'd gone any distance. He's gutshot,
and bad.?
Was it a trick? Conagher wasn't worried
about tricks. Those that he hadn't used
himself had been used on him. ?All right,
kid, bring him on inside.?
?You want me to drop my gunbelt??
?You keep your gun. And if you feel
lucky, grab for it. I'll not kill any man who
isn't packing iron.?
Scott picked up the wounded man and
carried him to the bunk-house door,
brought him inside, and put him down
gently on a bunk.
The wounded man was Hi Jackson, one
of the two men Conagher had encountered
at Horse Spring station. Blood soaked the
lower part of his shirt and the front of his
pants around the belt. The bullet, as
Conagher has surmised, had gone in at one
side and out the other, and it was an ugly
wound.
Scott's face was pale. Evidently he had
not seen much blood before, and now it
was on his own shirt and hands.
139
 ?You can wash up outside the door,?
Conagher said, ?if you want to chance it.?
Scott glanced at him. ?You must be
Conagher. You don't think much of us, do
you??
n
?A bunch of damn two-bit thieves that
would rustle an old man's cows? No, I
don't think much of you. If Smoke Parnell
had the guts of a mouse he'd get out and
earn himself a living instead of robbing old
men.?
The boy flushed, and Conagher studied
him coldly. ?No, kid, if you want to know,
I don't see anything a damn bit exciting
about what you're doin' now. I don't think
it takes nerve, and I don't think it's
romantic, like some folks seem to think.
The outfit you're tied up with are a bunch
of dry-gulchin' thieves.?
Scott turned to go. ?You better do some
thinkin', boy,?Conagher said. ?You look
like you had the makings, and it took sand
to come down here after this man. Look at
your hole card, kid, and quit this bunch.?
?They're my friends.?
?They were his friends, too. They
knowed him a lot longer than you have,
but who came after him? And who'd come
140
 after you? Kid, it's just pure luck that
you're standin' here talkin' with me
instead of lyin' on that bunk, gut-shot.?
?Can you do anything for him??
?Why the hell should I? He was comin'
after me when he got it. But I will, kid, I
will because I'm a damn fool, if I can find
the time while I'm standin' off your
friends.?
Conagher moved back, watching the
windows. ?Your friends are waitin' until
dark when the lot of them can come down
here and jump me. Well, I've got some
money here, boy, and I'll bet you the stack
that I take at least two more, and likely
three, and you can be one of them.?
Scott stood still, his face still pale, anger
fighting with indecision. ?You can stay
here if you like,?Conagher said, ?and
mind your friend, if friend he is.?
?You'd trust me??
?Not a damn bit. If you made a wrong
move I'd shoot you dead in your tracks.
But you're better off down here than out
there. You got a chance, kid. You'd better
take it.?
?I ... I can't. I'd be a traitor. I'd
be?
141
?A traitor to them? All right, boy,
you've had your say, now get out and get
on back up the hill, but when you come
down again, you better be using that gun,
because I'm going to be aiming for your
guts.?
?You're a hard man, Conagher.?
?This here's a hard country. But it's a
good country, Scott, and it'll be better as
soon as we hang or shoot a few more
thieving skunks.?
His face white to the lips, Scott went
out. He hesitated, then started the long
walk up the hill. Conagher watched him
go, knowing how long and hard a walk the
boy was taking. He was going back to his
outlaw companions, when deep down
inside he knew he shouldn't. He was going
back out of misplaced loyalty.
Suddenly Conagher shouted, ?Scott,
you tell Smoke Parnell that if he has the
guts of a jack rabbit he'll come down here
and we'll shoot it out, man to man. He's
supposed to be gun-handy. Me, I'm just a
cow puncher.?
When Scott got over the crest, Pete
Casuse, Tile Coker, and Smoke Parnell
were waiting for him. ?Took you long
142
 it
«««
enough,?Smoke said. ?What happened to
Hi??
?He's been shot in the belly. It's pretty
bad, I guess.?
?Tough, but while Conagher's carin'
for him he ain't watchin' for us??
Curly Scott looked at him, then
repeated what Conagher had said.
?I heard him,?Parnell said carelessly,
?an' why should I be a fool? We got him
right where we want him, and come dark
we'll go in after him.?
Curly Scott dropped to the ground. He
wished he was anywhere but here. He had
seen that man down there. He was
unshaven and down at heel, he was no kid,
and he was alone, but there was something
about him . . .
?That's a tough man down there,?he
said quietly, ?and we still don't know
where Leggett and Tay are.?
?Hell, they've quit! They've taken out
durin' the night. That damn fool down
there is fighting for a brand that's quit
him.?
Conn Conagher, with occasional glances
from the window, cleaned up the gunshot
and bandaged the man as well as
143
 he could with what was at hand.
He looked toward the house. There had
been no sign of life over there. Maybe they
had left him. Maybe they had pulled out
while he was asleep. Well, no matterhe
wasn't quitting. Maybe he was just too
dumb to quit.
144
 T
CHAPTER 10
^ ^HE wounded man was muttering,
I and suddenly he asked for water.
JL Conn brought it to him in the longhandled
drinking gourd and held it for
him while he drank.
Hi Jackson looked up at him. ?I'm in
pretty bad shape, ain't I??
?I'd say so.?
?You're Conagher??
?Uh-huh.. . . The kid brought you in
Scott.?
?He's . . . he's a good boy. He ought to
go home.?
Then Jackson lay quiet, breathing
heavily. He'd lost a lot of blood, and
Conagher didn't think he had much time.
?I got to leave you pretty quick. When
it's dark your outfit will be down here after
me.?
?You ain't goin' to make it, Conagher.
you know that, don't you??
?I know nothing of the kind. But if I
don't make it, they will be buryin' four or
five of your boys with me. They didn't
145
 pick on no pilgrim. I've been through this
a time or two.?
Shadows stretched out from the house,
gathered in the lee of the bunk house.
Now . . . soon there would be no more
time.
He filled a cup with the black coffee and
sipped it while making his rounds of the
windows. Then he stuffed his pockets with
shells, glanced again at the wounded man,
and edged over to the window.
Again he looked toward the ranch
house. Where were Tay and Leggett?
Suddenly he glimpsed a shadow, the
shadow of a running man. There was no
time for a shot, no time for anything.
He went out the window and made it to
the corral corner in a long, swift dive. A
man moved near the far corner, and as he
moved a rifle shattered the stillness and
the running man fell sprawling. Instantly
there were three more shots, all of them
from the house!
Another man was down, and Conn
could hear somebody swearing.
Whoever was in the house had wisely
held their fire until the attackers expected
no danger from that quarter. Two men
146
 were down, and the one in plain sight was
dead.
Crouched at the corner of the corral,
Conn saw a flicker of movement
something white. He looked again, and
saw that it was a paper tied to a
tumbleweedanother message like the
one he had found before.
It was within reach, and he put out a
hand and cautiously untied it. It was too
dark to read it, and he thrust it carefully
down into his pocket.
The dusk was deceiving. Straining his
eyes, he tried to make out some further
movement, but there was none.
In another minute he heard a whisper.
?Tile? Back out . . . we're pullin' away.?
There was a shuffling movement of
someone crawling along the ground. Conn
had his gun up and could have scored a
sure hit, but what was the use?
If he fired now they would surely return
his fire and he would likely get hit.
If they were pulling out, let them go.
There was no point in it if they were
quitting. Smoke Parnell had never had
more than nine or ten men that Conn
knew of, though there could be more
147
 . . . and he had lost three here today.
Conn stayed right where he was,
and after a while he heard the drumming
of hoofs, growing fainter in the distance.
By now it was completely dark, and he
went back to the bunk house and stirred
up the fire in the stove. Through the light
from the open door he saw that Hi Jackson
was dead.
He struck a match and lighted one of the
lamps, keeping away from the windows in
case one of the outlaws had lingered
behind, though he did not expect it of
them. After all, they had nothing at stake.
They could ride off?and attack again at
another time, if they had the stomach for
it.
He stood for a moment, reluctant at last
to leave the bunk house. When he did, it
was just as Tay and Leggett emerged from
the ranch house.
?Conagher??It> was Tay speaking.
?You made a fight.?
?I tried.?
?Most of the time we weren't situated to
get in even one shot, and then we got our
chance.?
148
 ?You broke their backs. You took the
heart out of them/' Conagher said. He
pushed his hat back. ?I'm hungry and
tired, Tay, and there's a dead man in the
bunk house. The one Scott brought in.?
?Who was it??
?Hi Jackson.?
?Too bad,?Tay said. ?He rode for me
for a while. He was a good hand, but he
took to riding with bad company.?
?Leave him to me,?Leggett said. ?You
done your share, Conn.?
Conagher walked back to the house with
Tay and sat at the table while the boss
filled a cup with coffee for him, and set out
bread, some cold meat, and a quarter of an
apple pie.
?You must be starved,?Tay said.
Conn ate without talking, and Tay stood
at the window watching Leggett carry the
dead man out to the hill.
?A man isn't long for this world, but he
should come to something better than
that. Ever think of the here-after, Conn??
?Not much. I figure it's like the Plains
Indians saya happy hunting ground.
Leastways, that's how I'd like it to be. A
place with mountains, springs, running
149
 streams, and some green, grassy banks
where a man can lie with his hat over his
eyes and let the bees buzz.?
Somehow that made him think of the
note in his pocket and he took it out and
fumbled it open. He was so tired he was
ready to sleep right there, half through his
meal. He looked at the written words.
There was just one line.
/ have never been in love.
He stared at it for a long moment, then
put it back in his pocket. That was a hard
thing for a woman to tell herself, unless
she was a youngster. What kind of a
woman would write something like that
and send it rolling off before the wind?
A lonely one, he told himself, a mighty
lonely one.
He knew how she felt. Sometimes a
body just had to have somebody to talk to.
You saw something and you wanted to
turn and say, Isn't that beautiful? And
there was nobody there.
Well, there were a lot of lonely folks out
here in the West. Men and women
working alone, or feeling alone, their
150
 homes far from each other, their minds
and hearts reaching out across the
distance, plucking at the strings of the air
to find some answering call.
Lonely people, who looked at horizons
and wondered what, or who, was beyond
them, people hemmed in by distance,
people locked in space, in the emptiness
.. . prisoners, they were.
In his own way Conagher was a
prisoner. He'd never had the education to
escape it, if that was an escape. He'd gone
to work as soon as he was big enough to
wrap his hands around a tool, and he'd
been at it ever since. About all he'd ever
had out of life was a seat in a saddle and a
lot of open country to look at.
He had stifled in the dust of the drag of
many a trail drive, stifled in the heat rising
from two thousand hot, moving bodies.
He'd had his guts churned on the seat of a
stage coach bouncing over the prairie, and
by many a bronc, breaking horses for the
rough string.
He wished it was spring so the wind
could blow back the other way. He would
like to send a message back to the one who
had written these notes, to say that she was
151
 not alone, that somebody had read her
words. But the wind didn't blow that way,
and the chances were she'd not find it,
anyway.
Tay interrupted his thoughts.
?What will they do now??he asked.
?What do you think, Conagher??
?They won't leave us alone. Next time
they'll choose a different way . . . they may
just try to drive the cattle off, or take us
one by one.?
?Have you ever been shot, Conagher??
?A couple of times, and it is not a
rewarding experience.?
He finished the pie, drank another cup
of coffee, and pushed back from the table.
?I'm going to sleep,?he said. ?Don't
wake me unless there's trouble, real
trouble.?
He was staggering with weariness as he
walked back to the bunk house. He pulled
off his boots and gunbelt, simply rolled
over on the bed and went to sleep. In his
sleep he dreamed of whole battalions of
tumbleweeds, each with its message, all
blowing toward him. He grasped at each
one, struggling to get its message before
the wind took it out of reach.
152
 For a week after that, there was quiet.
Conagher rode to the Plaza and reported
the shootings. The sheriff listened, paring
his fingernails with a jackknife, and at the
end of Conn's recital he got up and held
out his hand.
?I know Seaborn Tay,?he said. ?He's a
good man. A solid man. And I know
Leggett. I don't know you, but I've heard
about you, and I want to shake your hand.
You've helped rid the country of some bad
men.?
He went on, ?You mentioned Curly
Scott. Was he hurt, do you know??
?I doubt it.?
Conagher pushed his hat back. ?Sheriff,
there's a boy who'd cut loose from that
crowd, given the right chance. He's stuck
by them through some fool sense of loyalty
. . . and they don't deserve it.?
?Maybe we have what it will take,?the
sheriff said. ?His sister is in town. If you
see him, tell him that. She's come from the
East to see him.?
And then he added, ?She has no idea
he's an outlaw.?
When he returned from the Plaza,
Conagher resumed, with the occasional
153
 ?]
«1
help of Leggett, the slow job of moving the
cattle back to more easily guarded areas.
And then one day Johnny McGivern rode
in.
?You didn't tell me what that country
was like,?Johnny said accusingly. ?I lost
myself two, three times.?
?Did you find him??Conagher asked.
?He's comin'. It'll take him a day or
two, with what he had to do.?Johnny
glanced around. ?From what I hear, you
won't need him.?
?We'll need him.?
Riding alone, and riding wide over the
land, Conagher found himself watching
the tumbleweeds. But a week passed
before he found another note, and then it
was by merest chance. He had come down
a draw that opened on the plain and found
an old corral, built for trapping wild
horses. Made of poles and brush, utilizing
what was at hand, the corral had long since
been abandoned, and was now breached in
several places; but piled against the north
wall was a mat of tumbleweeds.
He rode up to them and checked them
from force of habit, and found two of the
notes.
154
 The first one, almost illegible, must
have been written months ago.
When I was a little girl I dreamed of a
handsome knight who would come
on a white charger and carry me
away.
Where, O where are you, White
Knight? I have waited so long, so
very long!
The second note was written much
later, judging by the freshness of the ink
and the better condition of the paper.
i
Last night I walked out to look up at
the stars. I wish I knew the names of
the stars.
Almost without realizing it, Conn had
begun to build an image of the girl who
wrote those strange notes. She was young,
slender, and blonde, and she was somebody
he could talk to, somebody as lonely
as he was himself.
?Don't fool yourself,?he said aloud.
?She ain't writing the notes for any
leather-skinned cowpuncher like you.?
155
 The work went on. Johnny helped with
the cattle, and they gained ground. They
saw nothing of the Parnell outfit, although
Tile Coker had been to the Plaza. A stage
had been held up over in Black Canyon,
some distance to the west. None of the
outlaws had been recognized, but there
had been four of them, with a fifth holding
the horses.
For a week, then, Conagher stayed
around the ranch. He repaired the corral
gate, broke two horses for the rough
string, dehorned a quarrelsome steer, and
cut wood against the coming of colder
weather.
Snow fell at the end of the week, just a
light skimming over that was gone with
the first sun; but during the next week
more snow fell and the ground was
covered. The weather settled down to still,
cold days and nights, and Johnny and
Conn were busy breaking the ice in water
holes and checking on the stock.
It was hard, bitterly cold work, and
many a day Conn got down from the
saddle five or six times to walk some
warmth back into his feet.
Chip Huston was in the bunk house
156
 when Conagher rode back one day. The
hunter looked up. ?Trouble all over??
?It'll come any day now,?Conagher
replied. ?Keep yourself armed and
ready.?
Little by little Conn had taken over the
ramrodding of the ranch, and nobody
objected. Seaborn Tay stayed quiet,
resting a lot, and Conn had a hunch the
boss suffered from a bad heart.
The following morning when Conagher
saddled up he planned only a short ride.
However, he tied a blanket-roll behind his
saddle, for a man might get caught out
somewhere in this weather and he'd better
be ready for a long night in the cold.
He had not gone more than four miles
from headquarters when he came on the
tracks of a bunch of cattle. They were
bunched tightly, perhaps twenty head,
and were driven by three riders on big,
free-striding horses.
Making a little cairn of stones to
indicate the direction taken, Conagher
started north.
The trail of the cattle led straight in that
direction, and the riders apparently had no
worry about being discovered.
157
 It might be a trapit probably was.
And as he thought that, a cool finger
touched his cheek, another his forehead.
Conn looked up ... it was snowing. The
thieves must have expeced it; within an
hour all trail would be wiped out.
Nevertheless, Conagher held to it. He
had a couple of frozen biscuits with him, a
chunk of bacon, some jerky, and coffee. He
would take his chances.
All through the morning and into the
afternoon he followed the trail, which held
straight north, but by mid-afternoon the
trail was gone, wiped out by the snow.
He rode over into a patch of scrub oak
mixed with pine, and made camp.
158
EVIE TEALE tied the scarf over her
head as she looked out the window.
The slowly falling flakes were beautiful,
but they brought to her a chill of fear.
The winter would be long, and it would
take a good deal of fuel to heat the cabin.
The pile of wood behind the cabin had
grown, but judging by the past few weeks
since it had grown colder, Evie knew the
pile would never last through the winter.
Laban had been working steadily part of
each day to build up the supply. Ruthie
and Evie herself had gone far into the hills,
gathering scattered fallen small branches
into a pile to be dragged back to the ranch.
Charlie McCloud had come by, riding
over on his own time, to help them. It was
Charlie, with Laban's help, who built the
stone-boat, a sort of sledge to haul wood.
The place needed plenty of work, and Evie
could see that McCloud was worried
about them.
Using the stone-boat and one of the
horses, they could haul good-sized logs,
159
 although they had snaked a few down
before this, using simply a clove hitch near
one end of a log. Over the years a lot of
trees had fallen and limbs had been blown
down, and there had been few campers to
use it.
The stage now stopped at its own
station, several miles away, so that source
of income was finished. Now it was only
themselves they could depend on, and
what they could obtain from the country
around. Evie carefully hoarded the few
dollars saved from feeding the passengers,
holding the money against a trip to the
Plaza and a chance to buy warm clothing.
As Evie went outside she saw that the
snow was falling faster, and a cold wind
was blowing. Ruthie was gathering chips
around the log where Laban chopped
wood, and Evie took up the shovel and
went back to the work of banking the
cabin.
She was piling dirt around the foundation
to keep the wind out and to make
the house warmer. This was something
they had done each year when she lived in
the East, though there it was her father
who had done it.
160
 When she straightened up to rest her
back, she looked off across the grassland
toward the south. The far hills were no
longer visible . . . the falling snow was
drawing a curtain around them.
She went back to the work. She rarely
thought of Jacob now, her life was too
filled with planning, and doing. Sometimes
she talked with the children about
him, but his image had grown faint with
the passing of time. He had been a stiff,
unbending man who had loved his
children, but he had never known how to
show it to them, and Evie doubted if he
ever felt the need to show them that he
cared.
Their small herd had grown by two.
Her cow had calved, and they had
acquired another, a stray that wandered up
to the water hole one day for a drink, and
had just stayed with them. It wore no
brand.
Suddenly she heard a long halloo and
the pistol-like crack of a whip, and then
she saw the racing stage team and the
stage. It came plunging around the bend
and down the little slope. Ben Logan was
driving today, and he shouted at her.
161
 Somebody riding beside him waved, too,
and then the stage was gone, disappearing
in the falling snow.
She went back inside for a moment to
add to the fire, putting on a few heavy
sticks to keep the room warm while they
were outside.
Just when she was growing worried
about Laban, she saw the horse coming
through the snow, and then the stoneboat,
piled high with fire wood, and Laban
walking beside it. When he came up to the
cabin he tied the horse and came right over
to her.
?Ma, we better watch out,?he said. ?I
heard something back there. It sounded
like a lot of riders or a lot of cattle.?
?Did they see you??
?I don't think so. I was down behind a
tree digging a chunk out of the snow and
frozen dirt, and the outfit was a few yards
back of me in a grove where there was
shelter from the wind.
?I didn't see but one rider, and I
couldn't tell whether he was an Indian or a
white man, but it looked as if he was riding
a saddle. I just saw him shadow-like
through the snow, and it sounded as if
162
 there might be a lot of them ... or maybe
not so many riders, but a lot of cattle. So I
came on home.?
?I'm glad you did.?She turned.
?Ruthie? Come on in. After Laban puts
the horse up we will have a story and some
doughnuts.?
Who could the riders have been? It was
not like Indians to ride in cold weather
unless they were driven to it. Wisely, they
preferred their lodges.
Outlaws? It seemed probable, for the
route they were taking led to nothing but
wilderness. Unless . . .
Two months ago, before the first snow
had fallen, she had ridden back into the
mountains, making a kind of sweep in a
half-circle back of their place to see what
fuel lay on the ground.
Drawn on by the silence as well as by
the beauty of the hills, she had ridden six
or seven miles into the mountains and had
come upon a small park in the hills. It was
a deep, grassy basin with forest around the
edges and a few trees scattered across it.
There was a stream there, and she noticed
a dugout cabin in the side of the hill
across the park. No smoke came from
163
 the chimney, and she saw no signs of
occupation.
She went no nearer, but she did make a
sweep around the end of the park and
came on a dim trail. There were no fresh
tracks, but there were old droppings of
horses as well as of cattle, and some old
tracks.
Whoever was driving these cattle that
Laban had heard might know of that
place.
She sat with the children around the
fire, eating doughnuts, and Evie told them
a story about her girlhood in Ohio and
western Pennsylvania. When she looked
out again she could barely make out the
corrals. All was white and still, and cold.
When the story was finished and the
children were working at the lessons she
had laid out for them, she sat by the fire
trying to plan for the coming weeks. There
must be a path kept open to the shed and
the corrals, the fuel must be used
sparingly, and above all there must be
enough work and amusement to keep the
children busy.
Both of them would help in clearing the
snow from the path, and both would help
164
 in bringing in the fuel. Laban would feed
the stock. The worst of it was they did not
have sufficient hay for a long hard winter.
Part of the winter the animals must graze
outside, pawing their way through the
snow. This the horses could do, but the
calves must be fed.
For three days the snow continued to
fall, steadily and without letup. Every
morning Laban went out at daybreak and
shoveled snow to keep a path open to the
shed.
The stock was in good shape. The snow
banked the flimsy building and covered
the roof with snow, so that inside it was
warm and snug. Evie milked and carried
the milk to the house, while Laban cleaned
out from under the animals and put hay in
their mangers.
The snow was more than two feet deep
on the level, and was piled high on both
sides of the path. The skies were now gray
and overcast. The temperature was ten
above zero on the thermometer beside the
door.
?Ma!?Ruthie at the door tugged at
Evie'sarm. ?Look!?
It was a wolf, a large gray wolf, almost
165
 white, on the side of the hill behind the
cabin, watching them. He was not over
fifty yards away, and was seemingly
unafraid. Evie shouted at him, but he did
not move. She turned back into the cabin.
When she came out with the rifle the wolf
was gone.
She thought about the men driving the
cattle that Laban had seen or heard
back there when the snow had started.
They could not be honest men, driving
where there was no trail, and in a direction
where there was no town or ranch.
It worried her that they should be so
near.
Far to the south, Conn Conagher's horse
floundered and fell. Stiff as he was,
Conagher kicked loose from the stirrups
and landed on his feet, then fell to his
knees. He got up slowly, in time to help
the gelding to its feet. Holding the reins,
Conagher brushed the snow from his
clothing.
The wind was on his cheek. It had been
blowing right out of the north into his
face. He turned the reluctant horse to face
it, and then, holding the reins, he led off,
166
 struggling against the wind and deepening
snow.
He didn't need anyone to tell him he
was in trouble. So far as he knew, there
was nothing ahead of him until he reached
the stage road, which would be invisible in
all this snow. Beyond it there was nothing
but plains, mountains, and wilderness.
There was a cabin, though . . . shelter if
he could reach it. That woman . . . what
was her name? She ran a stage station that
should lie almost due north of him. But
Conagher recalled that somebody had said
the stage had moved their station further
west; in that case the woman was probably
gone and the buildings abandoned.
Still, it would be shelter of a kind. But
how far had he to go? And how far could he
go?
Going back was out of the question. His
horse was already played out, the snow
was getting deeper, and there was, in this
bare plain, no place to stop. There was no
shelter from the wind, and the snow was
too dry to build up a bank or to dig into it.
To go on until he could go no farther
was dangerous, for with his body's
resources drained, he would have no
167
 strength to resist the cold. He knew that
most of those who freeze to death do so
because they struggle too long. He could
stop, huddle in a bundle, and try to wait
out the storm, but although he might and
probably would survive it, his horse would
not. Their only hope was to go on, to try to
reach some shelter where a fire could be
built, and they could have protection from
the wind and cold.
He never remembered when the wind
fell. He had been struggling on, breaking
trail for his horse for what seemed an
interminable period, and suddenly he
realized the snow was no longer blowing
so much, the wind was dying down. Before
him lay miles of white, unbroken snow.
The trail of the stolen cattle lay under it.
He plodded on, holding a hand over his
nose, trying to keep his scarf across his
face. Once again the horse fell, slipping on
an icy rock beneath the snow, and again
Conagher got it up. Now he could see the
low black line of the hills, with a star
hanging low in the sky.
A star? No, it was a light. It had to be a
light, as low as that. He closed his eyes,
took two steps forward and opened them.
168
 The light was still there. He was not
dreaming.
Evie was serving hot soup to the
children when something fell against the
door. Putting the soup down hastily, she
went to the door, hesitated a moment, then
opened it.
A snow-blurred, half-frozen man toppled
into the room, fell to his knees, then
struggled up.
?My horse,?he mumbled, ?my horse is
out there.?
?I'll get him,?Laban said, and went for
his coat and mittens. ?I'll put him up.?
?You'd better have some soup,?Evie
said practically, and guided him to a place
on a bench, not bothering to remove his
outer clothing. Let him get warm first.
Her floor had been wet from melting snow
before this, and on a dirt floor it would be a
trouble only briefly.
She put soup into a bowl and spooned
some of it into his mouth. After about the
third spoonful, he stopped her and
struggled to get off his gloves and his fur
cap.
?Why, you're Mr. Conagher!?she
exclaimed.
169
 ?I reckon so, ma'am. . . . That soup
surely tastes good.?He started to rise.
?Got to take care of my horse.?
?Let Laban do it. He's very good with
animals, and he'll like doing it.?
After a while Conagher stood up and
removed his sheepskin coat, and then sat
down again to finish the soup.
?Two days,?he said. ?It's the first I've
eaten in two days. My grub played out,
but I had coffee until this morning. Tried
to make some, but the wind blew out my
fire, blew my coffee into the snow.?
?Where did you come from??
?Ranch south of here. Away down
yonder.?
Laban came in while Conagher was on
his second bowl of soup. ?I rubbed your
horse down, sir. I am sorry we have no
grain.?
Conagher looked up and grinned. ?You
feed that mustang grain and he'd reckon
you was tryin' to poison him. Thank you,
son. That horse has come a far piece.?
?It is bad weather to ride in.?
?I was folio win' some rustled cattle.
Lost the trail in the snow.?
Evie looked at Laban, and Conagher
170
 caught her glance. ?You seen any cows??
he asked.
?Yes, sir, I saw some. I think they're
being held in a corral over back of us, back
in the mountains a few miles.?
?How many men??
?I don't know, sir. Maybe only a
couple, but there might have been
more.?
«\V7~
?We could send word by the next
stage,?Evie suggested, ?and the sheriff
could ride over from the Plaza.?
?Ma'am, those cattle would be clean
gone out of the country by that time. No,
ma'am, I figure the sheriff has a-plenty to
do without me causing him trouble. I'll
just mosey up there and start those cattle
back home.?
She was silent for a few minutes and
then she said, ?If you could wait we
might get some help for you. It would
only?
?Mrs. Teale, a man who has to ask for
help better not start out in the first
place.?
The heat was beginning to drive the
cold from his flesh, slowly sinking deeper
into his body, and as it did so he felt a vast
171
 comfort and a sense of ease and wellbeing
come over him.
Even as he began to grow sleepy he
became aware of the neatness of the cabin,
the good manners of the children, and the
quiet sense of security.
Evie Teale brought him a plate of beef
and beans, and some baking-powder
biscuits, and he ate, almost falling asleep
in the process. When he had finished
eating, Evie suggested that he unroll his
blankets on the floor and sleep.
She stepped around him as she worked.
He was a lean, powerful man, taller but
not much heavier than Jacob. How black
his stubble of beard showed against his
face!
This was the man who had given Kiowa
Staples that awful beating, but he did not
look like a brutal man.
In the last hours of the night, she awoke
suddenly and for an instant she lay quiet,
wondering what had wakened her. She
thought she had felt a cold draft. . . she sat
up and looked toward where Conagher's
bed had been.
It was gone, and Conagher was gone.
She lay down again, feeling a strange
172
 sense of loss, of loneliness . . . but that was
foolish. He was nothing to herjust a
strange, lonely, violent man, and she
would not be likely to see him again.
173
CONN CONAGHER rode out in the J
morning, still tired though he had I
slept the night through on the dirt ffl
floor in the pleasantly warm cabin. But it II
had been almost too comfortable for him. l|
When a man gets used to sleeping
wherever he can spread himself, he soon '
gets to like it. When he left in the early
hours before daylight he rode out because
he simply felt more comfortable in a r
saddle than in a house.
It was cold. The gelding had humped its
back against the saddle, liking the shelter
of the shed, flimsy as it was, but Conagher I
knew what he had to do. Before he got up
into the saddle he took out his pistol and
gave the cylinder a spin or two and tried
the action. Sometimes the oil will stiffen Lij
up when a gun has been out in the cold. Ill
He tied his scarf around his face, tucked In
his ears under the earlaps, and rode into ?II
the trees. There was deep snow except
where the wind had swept the hillside
clear, and he was not expecting an easy
174
 time of it. But nobody likes to roll out at
daybreak on a cold morning, and outlaws
were even less likely to do it than working
cowhands.
It took him two hours to struggle
through the heavy snow to where he could
look into the basin. He saw a hollow where
the wide-spreading branches of a couple of
big twin pines had kept the snow away and
formed a sort of shelter. He swung down
and left the horse there while he went out
on a point and bellied down among the
rocks.
With his field glass he studied the cabin
below.
The cattle were there. At that distance
he couldn't make out the brands, but a
cowman soon learns to recognize individual
cattle, just as a politician will
recognize certain people in a crowd. These
were Seaborn Tay's cattle.
Conagher studied the ground. As near
as he could make out, there had been little
movement around the dugout. A thin
column of smoke came from the stovepipe
that did for a chimney.
It seemed to be growing colder. Then
Conagher realized that the wind was
175
 rising, coming right out of the north again.
Well, that was good. This outfit wasn't
likely to go anywhere with those cattle in
this snow with a north wind rising.
He looked at the cabin again. He had no
sympathy for those men down there. They
were men not very unlike himself, but they
had chosen to steal rather than to work,
and Conagher was a worker who believed
in an honest day for an honest dollar. He
was going to take those cattle back to the
ranch, and that was all there was to it.
He got up and went back to his horse.
He considered a minute and then said
aloud, ?The hell with it,?and swung into
the leather.
He turned the gelding on angle down
the slope, keeping on the blind side of the
dugout. He hoped there were no cracks in
the walls, but it was likely that they had all
been stopped up to keep out the cold.
He was feeling tough and mean with the
cold weather and the hard travel. He
wasn't hunting trouble, but he just didn't
give a damn. Bringing a few branches from
a cedar, he rode up to the cabin close to the
chimney, which stuck out the side. When
he came alongside the dugout he spoke
i?5
176
 softly to his horse and stood up on the
saddle.
The gelding was well trained, and could
be climbed on or over. Standing on the
saddle, Conagher stuffed greenery into the
stovepipe, then filled any spaces with some
extra tufts of the cedar.
He dropped down to the saddle, moved
to the corner of the dugout, and waited.
Suddenly there was an explosion of
swearing and the door burst open, letting
out a man in undershirt and pants with
one boot on, the other in his hand. The
other men piled out after him, coughing
and swearing, driven from their warm
beds by the smoke, all of them angry, none
of them armed. Only one man had boots
on.
?All right!?Conagher called. He put a
bullet into the ground at their feet and
charged his horse between them and the
door of the cabin. One man, struck by the
shoulder of the horse, went sprawling into
the snow.
?Back up!?Conagher ordered. He held
the rifle in one hand and with the gelding
herded them back. One man made a dart
to get around him, and Conn struck him a
177
 back-hand blow with the rifle barrel that
stretched him out in the snow. ?Get out
there and take down the bars!?he said.
?I'll be damned if I will!?one man
answered.
?You'll be damned if you don't!?
Conagher cocked the Winchester. ?You
call it. I've had a damn long, cold ride, and
I'd just as soon leave the three of you here
for the wolves. Get on with it!?
One of the men started to move slowly,
after a quick glance at the others, and the
rest spread back, away from him.
Conagher turned his horse and rode at
the gate, just in time to see a man throw up
a Winchester to take aim. He had been
sleeping in the lean-to.
Conagher, holding low, let go with his
rifle. His first shot burned the man and
turned him, and Conagher fired again. He
saw the rifle drop and, wheeling, he shot
again, this time using both hands, and the
man went plunging into the cabin door.
He fell across the threshold, slowly
drawing up one leg, and then he lay still.
Quietly Conagher said, ?You boys
better take down the bars.?
And they did.
178
 With his rifle he indicated one of the
men. ?You haze them out, then stand
back.?
When the cattle were outside, he told
the men to line up, facing the pole corral,
and had them put their hands against the
top rail. He swung down then and went up
to the wounded man in the corral and
collected his guns.
A bullet had glanced off the lean-to
doorpost and gone through the man's
forearm, going in above the wrist and
emerging near the elbow. His right hand
was out of action, and was bleeding badly.
?Get out!?Conagher booted him in the
rear and sent him out with the others. He
thrust the man's six-shooter into his own
waistband and put his Winchester into his
saddle scabbard.
?You goin' to let me bleed to death??
the man pleaded. ?For God's sake, man!?
?You fool around with the band wagon,
son,?Conagher told him, ?and you're
liable to get hit with the horn. You get up
against the fence and be glad I don't gutshoot
you.?
He backed off, and with a side swing
knocked in the glass in the window of the
178
I
179
 shack. Most of the smoke from the fire was
out by now, but he looked around, saw
(there was nobody inside, and collected the
guns.
He threw their boots out into the snow.
1 ?Get 'em on,?he said. To one of the men
he said, ?You help the man with the
bloody arm. Better fix that arm up for him,
too. A man bleeding like that's liable to
freeze to death.?
?What you doing to us??
?Don't hurry me. I might decide just to
shoot you instead of hangin' you, and I
might turn you loose. I ain't made up my
mind.?
He glanced at the man who lay sprawled
in the doorway. He had never seen him
before. He had never seen any of these
men, but three of them rode Ladder Five
horses.
After making sure there were no more
weapons, he threw their coats to them.
Then he gave a look around the cabin,
keeping the men in his line of fire.
There was a sack of canned goods,
several slabs of bacon, and a sack of flour.
He gathered them up and carried them
outside away from the door; then he went
180
 inside and kicked the coals from the fire
out into the room, and quickly stepped
out. In a moment the cabin had caught
fire.
?What in hell you tryin' to do??The
one who yelled at Conagher was a blackjawed
man with a deep scar over one eye.
?This here place has been a hide-out for
thieves long enough. I'm burnin' it out.?
?What about our outfits??
?The hell with you! You were free
enough to steal ST cows. Get your outfits
where you got your orders.?
?Smoke will kill you for this/' the
black-jawed man said, ?if I don't do it
first.?
?You open your mouth again until I tell
you to,?Conagher said mildly, ?and
you'll have a scar over the other eye.?
He pointed to another of the men. ?You
saddle up for all of you, and be fast about it.?
When the horses were saddled he told
them to get on their horses and ride out.
?The sheriff in the Plaza is just a-waitin'
for you,?he lied, ?so your best bet is
east.?
?East? There ain't a town or place for
fifty miles!?
181
 ?Tough, ain't it? Well, that's the life of i
an outlaw. You never know what's goin' to 1
happen next. As a matter of fact, there's a I
couple of stage stations, but I'd fight shy I
of them, if I were you. All of them know I
that brand you ride for.?I
He gathered up their guns as they rode j
out and put them in a sack, then he put the I
supplies into another sack and loaded I
them on the dead man's horse.
Then he rode out, starting south,
driving the cattle.
When the small herd came down the
slope back of the Teale cabin, Evie,
followed by Ruthie and Laban, came out
to watch. The cattle gathered at the water
hole and at the trough, and he rode up to
the cabin. He swung down and took the
bag of supplies from the back of the horse. II
?T-Tp>rf»'o a r%rvnT»1p»r\f c1oV»c r\f Viarrm \^rc
«1
?Here's a couple of slabs of bacon, Mrs.
Teale, and you can split the canned goods
with me, and the coffee. You divide it up.
I'll take one third to get me into the
Plaza.?
?This is very nice of you, Mr.
Conagher, but I am afraid we can't pay?
?Didn't ask you to. These here supplies
were the wages of sin, ma'am, an' the
182
 woebegone sinners who pursued the
path of Satan have seen the error of their
ways. You take that grub and be glad.?
He drew a six-shooter from the sack.
?You keep this, too, you might have use
for it.?
?What happened, Mr. Conagher??
?Nothing to speak of. Those sinners
came upon evil times, but if they're wise
they are headed east now, and makin' good
time.?
He looked at her. ?You got any of that
soup left, Mrs. Teale? I'm a right hungry
man.?
After he had eaten, watching the road
through the windows, just in case, he
looked at Laban. ?Boy, how'd you like to
make a couple of dollars and a free ride on
the stage??
Laban glanced at Evie. ?Well, sir, I'd
like it. But what would I have to do??
?Help me drive this herd to the Plaza.
I'll pay you two or three dollars and your
fare back on the stage.?
?Is it all right, ma? Can I go??
?Yes. Yes, you can. You'll take good
care of him, Mr. Conagher??
?Likely he'll take care of me. That's a
182
183
 fine, strong boy, Mrs. Teale, and he'll
make a good hand.?
When they reached the Plaza they
bunched the cattle at the stockyards and
put them in a pen.
At the livery stable the hostler looked
sharply at the Ladder Five brand on the
horse that Laban rode. ?Now, see here?
he began.
?You see here,?Conagher said. ?I'm
leavin' that horse for any Ladder Five
rustler to pick up. And you can tell them
that was the way I put it. The rider ain't
likely to show up to claim it, and if he does
you can go down to the saloon and tell
those loafers you've seen a real honest-toAbe-Lincoln
ghost.?
?You penned some cattle.?
?Those are ST cows and I'm an ST
rider, and in a few minutes I'm going to
sell those cattle, give the buyer a bill of
sale, and take a receipt. I'll be damned if
I'll drive them all the way back to the
ranch in this weather. Money is a whole lot
easier to carry.?
Conagher and Laban went across to the
saloon, which like all such saloons was a
club house, an exchange for trail infor183
184
 mation, an auction or sales room, or
whatever. At the door Conagher paused,
glanced around, and saw Mahler sitting
across the room. He walked in, and said to
Laban, ?You keep shy of me until we
leave. A saloon is no place for a boy, but
we've got business to do.?
At the bar a squarely built man in a
leather coat was watching them. Mahler
looked up, his face stiffening into hard
lines as he recognized Conagher.
Conagher approached the man at the
bar. ?Are you torn Webb??
?I am.?
?I ride for the ST. I've got twentyseven
head of good stock down at the pens
I'd like to sell. I'll give you a bill of sale
and I'll want a receipt.?
Webb hesitated. ?I can use the cattle.
But isn't this an odd time to sell??
?This here,?Conagher spoke roughly,
and not quietly, ?is recovered stolen stock.
It's too far a piece to drive it back to the
outfit.?
Kris Mahler sat very still, staring
into his beer glass. His face was drawn and
cold. Conagher pointedly ignored
him.
185
?What happened??somebody asked.
Conagher shrugged. His sheepskin coat
was unbuttoned and his gun hand was
warm enough, warm as it would ever be.
He did not want a shooting, but he just
didn't care. He had ridden too far in the
cold, he had been caused some rough
work, and weariness had eaten into every
bone and sinew.
?Trailed the cattle to a shack north of
Mrs. Teale's place. I recovered the cattle,
burned the shack, and drove the stock
here.?
?You trailed them? In this snow??
Conagher looked at the speaker and said
quietly, ?I trailed 'em. Happens I knew
about that shack, so when I lost the trail I
knew they'd probably have to hole up
there.?
Nobody spoke for a few minutes, and
then Webb said, ?I'll walk over and look at
the cattle.?
?Any idea who the men were??one man
asked.
?Well, they were ridin' Ladder Five
horses,?Conagher said.
Kris Mahler shoved back his chair and
got up. For a moment he stood, hands
186
 resting on the table, staring down. Then
he turned abruptly and strode from the
room.
187
WITH the coming of spring the
wind blew cold and raw across
the brown plains. Evie looked
at the stock with fear in her eyes, for
both horses and cattle were painfully
thin. The past months had been hard.
Bitter cold and frozen snow kept even the
horses from finding grass beneath the
snow's surface. Unless there was grass
soon she would lose the few calves she
had.
But there was no sign of green. It was
the time when the sun should be warming
the soil, it was the time for rains, but there
was neither sun nor rain.
The food that had been left her by
Conagher more than two months ago was
gone. The stage had stopped once, with a
broken wheel to be mended, and fortunately
there had been enough food then
to feed the passengers. She had a little
money from that, but she hesitated to try
the long trip to the Plaza with the horses in
their present condition.
C7
188
 And both of the children were thin.
Laban had shot a couple of squirrels, but
there was scarcely a bit of meat on either,
and now they were in serious trouble. The
flour was gone, the sugar was gone. With
the last of the bacon grease she had fried
slices of bread for the children.
She knew she should kill one of the
calves, but she had never butchered an
animal and had not the slightest idea of
how to go about it. Moreover, she hated to
lose even one of her small herd. But it had
come to that.
Twice she had planned to flag down the
stage and get McCloud or Logan to bring
her something from town, but each time
she had missed the stage. This morning
she was going out early, to be waiting
beside the road when it came.
Much of the carefully hoarded money
from feeding the stage passengers was
already spent. She had needed a coat for
Laban and mittens for all of them.
Far to the south Conagher saddled up and
rode out. He had seen nothing of Parnell,
and believed the lot of them had, for
the time at least, left the country. There
189
 had been stage holdups on the road
into Tucson, there had been others on
the Black Canyon trail between Phoenix
and Prescott. There had been a bloody
attempt on the stage in the mountains
near the Colorado, on the road to Hardyville.
Conagher swung wide now, checking
for grass. There was none. Melting snow
had frozen, and the stock could not break
through. He opened up several water
holes, found in a sheltered canyon some
stock that was doing well, and then saw a
patch of green up a canyon he had never
entered.
He turned and started up the canyon,
hoping to find grass. He had gone no more
than half a mile when suddenly he saw, off
to one side, dirt churned by the hoofs of
shod horses. It was fresh ... it had
probably happened that morning. He
swung his horse just an instant before the
bullet struck.
He felt the slam of a bullet into his back
and heard the report of the rifle as he
toppled from the saddle. He fell, struck
the ground on his shoulder, and rolled
over. His horse went dashing on, and he
190
 knew instantly that they would be down
here after him.
Fortunately he had carried his rifle in
his right hand, hoping for a shot at a deer
or antelope.
He caught the rifle up from the ground,
and even as he heard a thundering of
hoofs, he rolled over a slab of rock and slid
a dozen feet to the bottom, where he
crawled into a hole made by one rock
toppled against another.
He scrambled through here quickly and
down a steep dry watercourse, where he
saw an opening and ducked into it. It was
only a small space between rocks.
Behind him he heard a shout. ?He's
wounded, Smoke! We got him!?
For the first time he remembered that
he had been knocked from the saddle by a
shot. He was wounded then, and there
must have been some blood. No doubt he
was numbed from the shock, which meant
that it would not be long before he would
feel the pain, and perhaps would not be
able to go any farther.
Before him was a tilted slab of rock
shaped like a rooster's comb. He would be
exposed on the face of it, but they were
191
 still out of sight around the corner, and
there was a way a man might go where the
face of the rock met the talus slope that fell
away for several hundred feet. Gripping
his rifle, he started to run. In an instant his
brief respite was gone and the wound was
throbbing with pain.
But he made it halfway along, and
suddenly saw a place where two slabs of
rock overlapped. The opening, which was
V-shaped, was filled with stiff, wiry brush
covered with thorns.
He had no choice. He could hear them
coming, and once they rounded the rock
back there he would be a clear target,
caught against the face of the rock, a target
that could scarcely be missed, in a place
where there was no shelter. He dived at
the stiff brush, fighting frantically to get
past it.
Luckily, he had thrown himself on top
of the brush, so he was squirming over it
rather than trying to get through, which
would have been almost impossible. He
squirmed and scrambled, his breath
coming in hoarse gasps of mingled pain
and fear. Then he got hold of a large
branch, and swung himself over into the
192
 space beyond, where he fell panting to the
ground.
He lay there, stunned, his breath still
coming raggedly, and for several minutes
he could scarcely think.
When he looked around, he found
himself in a sort of natural cup within a
cluster of ragged peaks. It looked almost
like a volcanic crater, though it was not.
There was not more than an acre of
ground in the bottom of the hollow, with a
thick covering of green grass. Against one
wall there were some trees, and he could
hear water rippling.
Painfully, he crawled across the little
basin to the stream. The water was clear
and cold.
He drank, and then lay on the ground
beside the stream, where he must have
passed out. When he awoke he was very
cold, the sun had gone, and it was almost
dark.
Despite the cold, he lay there trying to
quiet the chattering of his teeth. He
listened but he heard nothing. Using the
rifle as a crutch, he pushed himself up and
half staggered, half fell into the edge of the
trees.
193
 After a few moments he began to gather
some sticks together. Did he dare build a
fire? There seemed little likelihood that
the flames could be seen, and as for smoke,
it was already night, and the chances were
small.
With trembling fingers he shredded
bark, added twigs, and lit a small fire, to
which he then added some large twigs.
The light cheered him, and the warmth
felt good.
Carefully, he looked all around him.
The rock wall of one of the pinnacles was
at his back, trees and brush were around
him, and the basin, so far as he could see,
was empty.
Thinking back, he recalled the twisted
way he had come, and how he had
emerged along the face of the jagged rock.
No rider could have reached that place,
and, looking up from below, they could
not have seen the break between the
overlapping rocks.
So he had vanished.
Would they come back in the morning
to look? It was possible, even likely. But
from here he could control the opening,
and nobody was going to get in as
194
 long as ammunition and strength held out.
With careful fingers he felt of his back
and found a deep gouge where a bullet, or
a fragment of one, had entered the flesh
slightly above his hipbone and had cut
through the flesh along his ribs, just
nicking the thick muscle before going off.
It was a painful wound, but not a serious
one. He had lost blood, and it was going to
hurt when he moved, for his side was badly
bruised, and possibly some ribs were
broken, though they did not feel like it.
The bullet must have glanced up from
the cantle of his saddle. The cold and
perhaps the thickness of his woolen
underwear and shirt had stopped the
bleeding for the time being.
He had no coffee, nothing. He drank a
little water heated in a dish he made from
bark, an old trick he had often used. The
flames heated the water but did not burn
the bark as long as they only touched it
below the water level. The water inside
absorbed the heat.
The hot water helped to warm him, and
then he dug out a place among the leaves
and pine needles, cowered deep within his
sheepskin coat, and went to sleep.
195
 He awoke shivering in the cold morning,
with the last stars solitary in the vast
darkness. He started to sit up, felt a twinge
of pain, and lay still again. He was going to
have the devil's own time of it, he could
see that. He was miles from the ST
headquarters, without a horse, without
food, and wounded. Although the calendar
said this was a month of spring, the
weather gave no indication of it, and even
a tenderfoot would have known he was in
serious trouble.
After some struggle he got his fire going
again. Fortunately there were a good many
dry branches lying around, and there were
the remains of a fallen tree and some pine
cones. He could reach enough fuel to keep
his fire going for some time without
moving around too much. Once the flames
leaped up, he eased himself into a sitting
position, favoring his wounded side.
The effort left him gasping, and he sat
still, letting the fire warm him, and
reaching for an occasional stick.
If they came back they might find him,
but they might not. The snow was gone
from the top of the talus slope along which
he had come, and the ground was frozen.
196
 He might have left no tracks on that frozen
ground.
They might find some broken twigs
where he had forced a way over the brush,
but even that was a question. But did they
need to find him at all? They knew he was
wounded, they knew the cold was not
over, and they knew how small is the
chance of a wounded man, who has lost
blood, in fighting off the cold.
They only needed to keep him bottled
up here. They did not need to find him,
and to run the risk of coming in after him,
which would be like going into a den after
a bear. They could just ride a patrol
around the area and be sure he did not
leave it.
Smoke Parnell had been out there. And
the voice he had heard had sounded like
that of Tile Coker . . . both tough men.
When he was warm enough to take an
interest in his hideout, he looked around
and assayed his situation. So far as he
could see, there was only one opening, the
one through which he had gained access.
Because of the sheltered position, the grass
had already begun to turn green, and there
were leaf buds on the cottonwoods. On the
197
 far side of the hollow, where the sun
reached only briefly, the snow had frozen
into a bank of ice.
There was fuel enough at hand for some
time, there was shelter in some of the
rocky overhangs and there might be herbs
with which he could treat his wounds.
Using his left hand, he caught hold of a
branch and pulled himself erect. Prowling
along the slope, he found some cliff rose, a
resinous, strong-smelling plant, sometimes
called quinine bush. It was a plant
important as winter browse for deer,
cattle, and sheep; and judging by remnants
he had found in caves, Conagher knew
that the primitive pre-Indian peoples had
used to braid the bark into sandals, rope,
and mats. The Hopis used the wood for
making arrows, but what was important
for Conagher at the moment was that
they used the plant to make a wash for
wounds.
He gathered some of the bark, leaves,
and smaller twigs and began to heat the lot
in his improvised bark dish. When it had
boiled, he stripped and, using his bandana
and taking his time, bathed his wound
with the decoction, his sheepskin over his
198
 shoulders to keep him from getting too
chilled.
Whether it did any good he was not
sure, although he knew that the Hopis
swore by it. After that he wandered about,
found some dry spectacle pod, crushed it
to powder, and put it on the wound,
another remedy used by both the Hopi
and Tewa Indians.
After an hour or so of lying beside the
fire, he began to think more about food.
Conagher was a man who had often missed
meals. Going hungry was not a new
experience, though not a pleasant one, but
food was a necessity now if he was to
recover and regain the strength it would
take to get him out of this situation.
Animals and birds must know of this
place, he thought. Men, if they had ever
discovered it, had left no signs here. But if
animals came here, he should be able to
trap or kill one for food.
After a time he got up and moved his
camp to the overhang. This had the
advantage of bringing him within range of
a new supply of fuel. Sitting by the fire, he
carefully studied the plants within range
of his eyes. Meanwhile he chewed on a
199
 couple of leaves from the salt bush. How
much food value they possessed he had no
idea, but they gave him the satisfaction of
chewing and the taste was pleasant.
He was very thirsty and went often to
the stream to drink. He saw rabbit
droppings near the water and the tracks of
several small animals in the sand near the
stream.
After a while he lay down again, feeling
very tired. It was only with an effort that
he could replenish his fire, but he kept it
alive. The wood was dry and gave off
almost no smoke.
He slept, but awoke suddenly, feeling
the chill of night. Evening had come and
his fire had burned itself down to gray ash.
Only one small branch still glowed. He fed
it gingerly with tiny bits of shredded bark,
then with twigs.
Conagher stripped off his shirt and,
hanging the coat over his shoulders for
warmth, bathed his wound again with hot
water and cliff rose, then powdered it with
the crushed spectacle pod.
After he put on his clothes he walked
with great care down to the bank of the
stream. In the brush close by he rigged a
200
 couple of snares, and then went over to the
notch through which he had crawled.
Peering out, he could see only a patch of
sky, and below it the darkness where the
earth lay, the valley below the rim where
he had taken refuge.
Kneeling down, he began with his
bowie knife to cut the brush away so that
he could tunnel through to the other side.
He would work a few minutes, then stop to
rest and to listen. Once he believed he
heard movement, but when he continued
to listen for a long time there was no
further sound. After a while, having
scarcely made a dent in the clump of
brush, he went back to his camp, added
fuel to the fire, and lay down, huddling as
much of him as possible under the
sheepskin coat.
He slept, dreaming wild dreams, and he
awoke in a cold sweat. His side hurt him
and he wanted to change his sleeping
position, but every movement hurt, so he
lay quiet listening to the leaves whispering
and the subtle movements of small
creatures. When morning came his snares
were empty.
On this day he chewed some of the
201
 leaves from the salt bush, drank water
from the stream, slept, and woke again. He
found and ate some juniper berries, and
rigged another snare.
In the night he awoke, built up the fire,
and huddled near it with the back wall of
the overhang as a reflector that threw the
heat back toward him. His head ached and
he was very tired, but he did not feel like
sleeping. He heated water, crushed some
of the juniper berries into it, and drank the
liquid. He had heard that the Hopis
sometimes made a tea from juniper
berries. After a while he slept again, and
when he awoke it was raining.
For a time he huddled over his fire, his
feeling of irritation growing. Finally he
lurched to his feet, moved everything
inflammable away from the fire, and taking
his rifle, went back to the opening.
Listening, he heard nothing. Then he
hacked at the wall of thorny brush until a
partial opening was made. He had started
to go through, then stopped, went back
and tore down his empty snares. He
wanted nothing to be trapped there to die
uselessly.
He forced his way through the brush,
201
:i
202
 paused, and listened, but he heard nothing
except the soft fall of rain.
Weak though he was, he had decided
that to stay here longer would only mean
that he would grow weaker. He worked his
way along the comb-like ridge, and found
a place where he could climb down slowly
and painfully.
Off?to the right he saw what seemed to
be the glow of a fire, and he started toward
it. He needed food and he needed a horse,
and he would be damned if he was going to
go without them when his enemiesif
that was who they werehad both.
Judging by the stars, it was past
midnight when he came close to the fire. It
was burning brightly under a crudely
made shelter.
First he noted where the horses were
tied, and then he saw his own horse there
among them. Evidently they had found
the horse running loose on the prairie, and
had roped and kept it.
He looked around the camp. There were
three men there, two of them in their beds,
sleeping; the other was dozing beside the
fire.
Conn Conagher was weak as a cat, but
203
 he was mad clear through. He had a bitter
anger that drove him recklessly, and he did
not hesitate. He walked right into the
camp, kicked the rifle away from the hands
of the man who dozed, and put a bullet
into the ground between the two sleeping
men.
One of them was young Curly Scott, the
other was Smoke Parnell himself. The
man by the fire was Pete Casuse.
The two sleeping men jerked erect and
Conagher held the gun on them. ?Damn
you, Smoke,?he said ?if I wasn't weak as
a cat I'd beat you within an inch of your
life. Now you lay right there, and you
make a move, even to scratch, and so help
me, I'll put a bullet in your belly.
?You,?he said to Casuse, ?dish up a
plate of that grub, and hurry.?
?Si.?Casuse started to rise.
?Stay where you are. Just reach over
and ladle it up, and use your right hand. I
never shot a man who wasn't holding iron,
but right now I just don't give a damn.?
He lowered his rifle, slid his six-gun into
his hand, and proceeded to feed himself
with his left hand.
?I hope you try something,?he said
204
 grimly. ?I just hope you do. I'd like to
bury the three of you right on this spot.
?Now, Smoke,?he said, ?I'm going to
ride out of here. You boys are then going
to get up and leave the country, and if you
stop this side of Tascosa or Trinidad,
you're crazier than I think you are. You've
had your try at me and you failed, but as of
noon tomorrow I'm hunting you, and I'm
going to shoot on sight, without any
warning whatsoever. I am going to ride
your sign until you've killed me or I've put
lead in all of you.?
Parnell stared at him. ?You're loco!
You're plumb, completely loco!?
?Maybe . . . but you've given me grief,
and I'll take no more from any man. All
I'm going to give you is a running start.?
He finished the plate of food and threw
down the plate, then he drank three cups
of coffee. Parnell made a slight move, and a
bullet burned his shoulder.
Conagher swore. He had meant to hit
him, but it was evidence of his weakness
that he had missed. ?You,?he said to
Casuse, ?you get my horse and saddle up,
and don't try anything foolish.?
Moving slightly to keep the Mexican
205
 under his eyes, he watched him saddle up
and carefully tighten the girth.
Conagher then moved around to pick up
the reins with his left hand. His grip on the
gun was very weak. Parnell was watching
him.
?Hell,?the outlaw said, ?you're so
weak you can scarcely stand.?
?You want to see how weak? Reach for
your gun.?
?No,?Parnell said practically, ?because
you've got just sand enough left in
you to kill me.?
Conagher turned, reached for the
pommel, but never made it. He felt his
knees giving way under him, grabbed at a
stirrup, and it slipped through his fingers.
He hit the ground on his face and lay
still.
For a long moment nobody moved. Pete
Casuse stared at Conagher, then looked at
Smoke briefly. ?There lies a man,?he
said, and then he glanced again at Parnell.
?What was that town you were tellin' me
about? Was it Milestown??
?Up Montana way,?Parnell said, ?and
I think that's a good idea.?
He hesitated a moment, then threw back
206
 the blankets, sitting still until he was sure
Conagher was not going to move.
Fascinated but frightened. Curly Scott
was staring at the fallen man, and then he
looked at Smoke. ?Are you going to kill
him??
?Kill him??Smoke Parnell turned
around sharply. ?Kid, you don't know
what you're sayin'. I may be an outlaw,
but I never yet murdered anybody in cold
blood, least of all an hombre. And there, as
my friend Casuse will agree, is an hombre
that is an hombre.?
?What are we going to do??
?Weme an' Petewe're ridin' back to
the outfit and we're going to pick up Kris
and Tile and we're heading for Montana.
We're ridin' north with the spring.?
?What about me??Scott protested.
?You stay with him. When he's well
enough to ride, take him back to Seaborn
Tay. He's worth more to this country than
that whole outfit. And while you're with
him, kid, you watch him. If you ever get to
be half the man he is, you come back and
ride with me if you think you're still cut
out for an outlaw.?
When they were gone. Curly Scott
207
 stirred up the fire and started to drag the
unconscious man closer. Then, worried at
what he might do if he woke up, he just
eased him onto a ground sheet, covered
him over with blankets, and sat down to
wait for daybreak.
Several times he turned to look at the
sleeping man. He was dirty and unshaven,
and his clothes were worn and bloody, but
there was something about him, even in
sleep, that spoke of what kind of a man he
was.
Conagher stirred restlessly, muttering
something about the wind in the grass.
?Tumbleweed . . .?he murmured, ?rolling
like wheels . . . like wheels ...?
The words made no sense to Scott, but
then, when did words spoken in delirium
ever make sense?
208
 T
CHAPTER 14
^ | ^WO weeks after his return to the
I ST, Conagher was riding, again. He
A had wanted to go back to work after
two days, but Tay would have none of it.
?You lay up for a while. Get some rest.
Thing like that takes more out of a man
than he knows.?
Conagher mended a bridle, fixed the
hinges on the corral gate, sank some post
holes for a fence around the kitchen
garden, and generally kept busy.
He had lost a lot of blood and he had
missed some meals, but such things were
all in the day's work. He had never had it
easy, and did not expect to now. Johnny
McGivern had stayed on, and they had
hired Curly Scott, whose sister had gone
on to California without ever seeing him.
March came to an end and April passed,
and the grass was green from the spring
rains, the prairies covered with wildflowers.
The stock was fat and lazy, and
Conagher rode wide, once even stopping
by the Ladder Five, but the buildings
209
 were deserted and still, and tumbleweeds
were piled against the corral after the
spring winds.
Conagher swung the dun horse and
walked him over to look at the tumbleweeds.
Sure enough, there was something
grayish-white on one of them near the
bottom. Conagher pulled the tumbleweeds
away until he could get at the
note.
It was an old note, and must have been
written late in the fall. It could scarcely be
read, it was so faded.
It is very cold, and I am often alone
here. How I wish someone would
come!
He read it and re-read it, then tucked it
away, folded in a little bundle with the
others. There was no accounting for what
a lonely person would do; he knew that of
his own experience. He was often alone,
and like all men who rode alone he often
talked to his horse. You got cabin
fever after a while when you lived
alone, and you just had to talk, and this
was a lonely woman somewhere away off
210
 up north who needed to talk to somebody.
He prowled around the Ladder Five for
a while. Nobody had been there for quite a
while. In fact, they must have pulled out
right after that time in the mountains. He
had come out of it himself to find only
young Scott with him, who had fixed him
up some chow and they ate there together
until they rode back to the ST.
As he rode away he turned in the saddle
to look back. The Ladder Five was a good
layout. Nobody owned it. Parnell and his
outlaws had just squatted there, fixed
things up enough to get along, and stayed
on.
The ranch lay in a small cove in the rock
wall of the mountain, with a few trees
behind it and a clump off to one side that
would break the wind. The house was
solid and there was a good supply of water.
The grass was green and the range lay out
before it. Taken altogether, it was the sort
of place where an honest man could do
well by settling.
Several times during his ride back to the
ST headquarters, Conn took out the notes
and read them over. They didn't say much
when you came right down to it, but they
211
 told of a lonely girl somewhere far off.
Likely she didn't see many folks, stuck out
on the plains.
Conagher rode up to the bunk house
and got down and began throwing his
duflfel together.
Leggett came from the barn and
watched him without comment for a few
minutes, and then he said, ?You lightin' a
shuck??
?Uh-huh.?
?The Old Man will be some put out. He
sets store by you.?
?He's a good man.?
?You better talk to him. He wants to
make you foreman. He told me so, and it's
right he should. You saved his outfit for
him.?
?I did my job.?
?You done more. You done more than
anybody could have expected.?
Conagher straightened up. ?Mister,
when I hire on for a man, I ride for him. I
ride for his outfit. If I don't like things I
quit. I've got me a horse and a saddle and
there's a lot of country I ain't seen, but
when a man hires me I figure he hires my
savvy and what all I can do.?
211
212
 ?You run those outlaws clean out of the
country.?
Conagher shook his head. ?I'd not say
that. I just worried them to where it wasn't
what you'd call comfortable for them.
Nobody likes to laze it around more than
an outlaw, and you keep him stirred up
and he'll usually move. Well, I sort of
stirred them up.?
When his blankets were rolled and his
gear packed he went up to the house and
asked the cook for coffee. Seaborn Tay
came in and dropped into a chair. ?How's
the range look??
?Good. There was a good fall of snow
and most of it sank right in. No runoff to
speak of. I'd say, you'd a mighty
handsome year ahead.?He sipped his
coffee. ?Mr. Tay, I want to draw my
time.?
?XT~
?Now see here, Conagher. You can't
just up and leave a man that way. I need
you. I was figurin' on you for foreman. I'm
not as spry as I should be, and like you
maybe guessed, I've got a bad heart. I'll
give you a hundred a month.?
?Nope.?
?Look, where are you going to find that
213
 much? You've been riskin' your neck for
thirty a month and you deserve to get
more. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you
a hundred a month and a ten per cent
share.?
?I want to ride north. I got business up
there.?
Tay argued quietly, but Conagher
merely sipped his coffee. The cook put a
piece of pie before him, and he ate it.
?Things work out, I may be back. But
I'll be back to lay claim to the Ladder
Five. I won't be workin' for you, but I'll
be your neighbor.?
?You got a girl somewhere? You gettin'
married??
?I can't say. I've never been married,
and don't figure I'm the sort to stand
hitched.?
Well, when it came to that, he didn't
know. Somehow, when girling time came
around he was always too backward, or
else he was off riding the range where you
couldn't find a girl. Other men no better
off than he was had found some pretty fine
women, here and yonder . . . and some
miserable ones, too. It kind of scared a
man.
214
 He was no youngster any more, and it
was no time to start building fancies, yet
when it came to that, why not?
Anybody could dream, and it seemed to
him that girl who'd been tying those notes
to tumble weeds had been doing a sight of
dreaming. So he would just ride north,
camp along the way, and kind of look the
country over. When he came to a lonely
cabin he'd find that girl, all right. He
would know her anywhere.
It puzzled him how she lived, but he
decided she was the daughter of some
rancher, or maybe of a dirt farmer, or
even, perish the thought, a sheepman's
daughter.
He finished his coffee, pocketed the
money Tay gave him without so much as
counting it, and went outside. Tay
followed him to the door.
?Damn it, man,?he said, ?why do you
have to go tomcattin' off across the
country? You could build yourself into a
nice place here, and rightly a piece of it is
yours.?
?I'll be back some spring, follerin' the
wild geese,?Conagher said, and swung
into the saddle. He lifted his hand to
215
 Leggett and McGivern, alone in the bunk
house now that Euston was gone, and he
rode away.
The grasslands looked greener in the
distance than they did close up. He
guessed it was always that way.
216
IT was a fool thing he was starting out to
do. He was going to try to find the girl
who was writing those notes. It was
foolish to try, because it was about as
impossible a task as a man ever set for
himself, but it was doubly foolish because
what that girl was pining for was a young
man, a man younger than Conn Conagher.
He looked at himself with no illusions.
He was a hard-grained man, a man who
had lived a hard life, and no great beauty
to begin with. He carried scars, inside as
well as out, and about all he had left was
some years of hard work and a boy's dream
of the girl he would find some day.
Oh, he had it, all right! Conagher
considered himself with sour humor. He
was a damn fool who should have outlived
all that nonsense years ago. Maybe it was
the fault of having read too much of
Walter Scott while still not dry behind the
ears.
So here he was, riding north across the
plains looking for a will-o'-the-wisp. He
217
 checked out every piece of old tumbleweed
he saw, but found no messages. He
camped at night wherever he could find a
good place.
When a week had gone by without
finding a single message, he rode off the
plains and headed toward the Plaza.
There, in Callahan's, he met Charlie
McCloud.
?I'll buy the drinks,?McCloud offered.
?No, that's block and tackle whiskey.
You take a drink, and then you walk a
block and you'll tackle anything. I'm
going to sit with you and have a beer.?
?From what Smoke Parnell says, you
don't need whiskey. You'll just tackle
anything, any time.?
?You've seen him??
?I saw him when he was pullin' his
freight for Montana. He said a decent
outlaw couldn't make a livin' with you
around.?
?He's a tough man.?
McCloud glanced at him. ?Didn't I see
you with a blanket roll behind your
saddle? Are you drifting again??
?I've got tumbleweed fever.?
?You too??
217
«
218
 ?What d'you meanme too??
?Seems to me half the cowhands in the
country are hunting tumbleweeds these
days. Somebody found a note tied to one,
and that started it.?
Conagher felt a swell of irritation within
him. ?Note? What kind of a note??
?From some girl up northat least,
she's probably up north. She's been
writing little notes or poetry or something
and tying them to tumbleweeds. Just goes
to show what happens when you're too
long alone.?
?How do you know she's alone??
?The notes sound like it. The cowhands
over east of here are makin' bets on
whether she's short and fat, tall and
skinny, a blond or a brunette.?
?She's probably got a husband who's
broader across the shoulders than he is
between the eyes,?Conagher said dryly.
?They better leave it lay.?
?I don't know. Anyway, it's got them
all stirred up. If she keeps it up, all the
cow outfits in the country will be shorthanded.?
Conagher traced circles on the table top
with his beer glass. He was annoyed.
219
 Couldn't a man even have a dream ill
by himself? But he should have guessed
there would be others who found those
notes.
?How far north have they found them??
he asked.
?I don't know. All across the country, I
guess. I've only talked to them along the
stage lines.?
?A tumbleweed can roll a mighty long
way. Hell, that woman may be married
and have two kids since she wrote those
notes. How you going to tell how old the
notes are??
Conagher signaled for a refill. ?Speakin'
of a woman with two kids,? he said, . I
?how's that Mrs. Teale gettin' along??
?Had a hard winter, I guess. I haven't j
seen or talked to her in three, four weeks. Ill
I've seen them around when the stage rolls I
by ... they always wave.?
?Wonder what ever happened to her
husband??
McCloud shrugged. ?He was carrying II
money. Four hundred in gold, she told 11
me. Now, you know a man can't just carry II
money like that unless he's careful. But ,11
there's a lot could have happened. How In
HI
220
 many men have you known who rode off
and just disappeared?
?A few years ago,?he went on, ?we
found an empty stage out on the plains
with nobody aboard, the horses feeding
along the road, the driver and the two
passengers gone. We never did figure out
what happened. Maybe they all got out to
look at something, or to walk up a steep
grade, and something scared the team and
they ran off ... there's a lot could have
happened. You know about how long a
man can last in this country without a
horse and without water.?
In the morning Conagher rode east
riding slow, checking the tumbleweeds as
he went. They were old tumbleweeds, left
over from the previous year, and on the
one paper he found, the message had been
erased by snow and rain.
After four days he saw to the north a
thin column of smoke rising that he knew
was on the Teale place, and he swung his
horse and rode in that direction.
He had gone no more than fifty yards
when he saw the trail of at least a dozen
riders, going east. The grass was only now
springing back into place; they must have
221
 gone by within the hour. Off the trail and
keeping to low ground, as low as you could
find in this almost flat plains country, he
went on. Because of the grass, he could
find no distinctive prints, but they seemed
to be unshod horses.
?Well, boy,?he said to the horse, ?I
reckon you better build a fire under your
heels. We got some travelin' to do!?
He lifted the horse into a gallop,
standing in the stirrups from time to time
to get a better view of the country. He
was close to the Teale place now, and
all was quiet there. He could see the
boy in the yard cutting wood; he could
see him swing the axe, see it fall . . .
and then an instant later he heard the
sound.
He closed in at a hard gallop, swung into
the yard and wheeled his horse. ?Laban,
where's your ma and sister??
?Hi, Mr. Conagher! They went up the
draw to pick greens. What's the matter??
?Get in the cabin and stand by for a
fight. There are Indians around. I'll get
the womenfolks!?
He slicked his Winchester from the
scabbard, saw the boy dart for the cabin,
222
 and then he went up the draw at a
pounding run.
Evie and Ruthie were corning back, and
he wheeled around. ?Quick! Get a foot in a
stirrup, one on each! Hurry!?
?What's wrong??Evie asked.
'?Paches,?he said shortly, and took
them back down the draw and wheeled up
to the cabin. ?Get in, fast,?he said.
He turned the horse and trotted it to the
gate, then swung down, swung the gate
open, and led the dun into the shed. He
was hurrying toward the cabin when he
heard the Indians coming. It was too late
to make the cabin, though he saw two gun
muzzles showing from loop holes, and
knew the Apaches would see them, too.
They had swung around to the east and
approached the cabin walking their horses.
He counted eleven, all braves. He had
stopped near the door, but out of line with
the loop holes.
One of the warriors he knew by name, at
least three of them by sight. Benactiny,
often called Benito, was a great warrior,
and a fighting man with more than usual
wisdom.
?Hello, Benito,?Conagher said casu222
223
 ally. ?You boys are pretty far north, aren't
you??
?These mountains?Benactiny swept
his hand toward the Mogollons?were
Apache medicine ground. This is our
place.?
?This is a time of change,?Conagher
said conversationally. ?I heard you were
livin' in the Sierra Madres, in Mexico.?
?I live there,?the Indian replied
sullenly. ?Too many white soldier
come.?
a<
?Soldiers never worried Benito,?Conagher
said. ?Nobody could drive Benactiny
and his warriors. Benactiny went
because he wished to go. He went to the
lonely mountains where there was running
water and many trees. He has been happy
there.?
Benactiny's expression did not change.
He was a proud man, as Conagher knew.
?You are right,?the Apache said.
?Nobody could drive Benactiny, but this
is my land, too.?
?Once it was your land,?Conagher
admitted, and then slyly, his expression
innocent, he added, ?Once it was
Mimbres land.?
224
 ?We took it from the Mimbres,?
Benactiny replied proudly.
?And then you went away and the white
man has come. There are many white
men, and they still come. They are as
many as blades of grass upon the Plains of
St. Augustine, and for everyone who dies,
five will rise in his place.
?I hope not many die,?Conagher
added, ?for I like the country as it is, with
not too many people.?
Benactiny changed the subject. ?You
are the man here? There was only a
woman and two young ones.?
?They are my friends. I watch over
them. Their friends are my friends, their
enemies are my enemies. It is good that
you come in peace, for I would like to
believe Benactiny is their friend as well as
mine.?
Benactiny studied him, the faintest
shadow of a smile in his eyes, for before
this the two men had barely spoken in
passing, although each knew much about
the other.
?I think you speak of peace,?Benactiny
said. ?Is it that you are afraid??
?You speak in jest.?Conagher used the
225
 word he had heard an Army officer use to
an Apache. ?I have no need to fear. I have
no enemies.?
?No enemies??
?I had enemies, but I have buried my
enemies upon many hills. A man needs
enemies to keep him wary and strong, but
I would not have Benactiny for an enemy.
I have spoken to all the white men of what
a great warrior he is, but what a fine
chieftain also. It is one thing to be fierce in
battle, but it is important, also, to be wise
in council.?
Benactiny swung his pony. ?We will
ride on.?
?Wait!?Conagher lifted a hand. ?My
friend Benactiny rides far. I would not
have him ride without tobacco.?
With his left hand Conagher delved into
his saddlebag and came up with several
sacks of Bull Durham. One he gave to
Benactiny, and half a dozen others to the
other warriors. ?Divide them,?he said,
?and when you smoke, remember Conagher,
your friend.?
Deliberately then, he turned his back
and stepped up to the door. It opened
before him and he stepped in, reaching up
226
 with his left hand to take the saddlebags
from his left shoulder. Then he went to a
loop hole to peer out. The Apaches were
riding away.
?They would have attacked us,?Evie
said.
?I think so.?
?What did you say to them??
He shrugged. ?They're reasonable
enough. I've fought Indians. I've fought
the Sioux, the Cheyennes, the Apaches,
the Comanches and the Kiowas, but I've
shared meat with them, swapped horses
with them, and found them reasonable
men. They respect courage. You can't
yield to an Indian. He will kill you out of
contempt as much as for any other reason,
but he respects courage, and he respects a
good argument.?
?He knew you.?
?Let's say he recognized me. I ain't
much, Mrs. Teale, but I'm too dumb to
know when I'm whipped. He knew I'd
fight just as I knew he would. We
recognized that much in each other.?
?Will you stay for supper? We were just
gathering some greens.?
?Well, I'll stay if you'll let me
227
 contribute. I've just come from the Plaza,
a few days back, and I've got some bacon,
a package of raisins, and a couple of
pounds of prunes you might use. And I've
got coffee.?
?Thank you, Mr. Conagher. I will
accept them. As a matter of fact, we are
just out of coffee.?
?Fry up some of that bacon,?he
suggested. ?I'll go see to my horse.?
She had said they were out of coffee, but
Conagher had a hunch they were out of a
lot of other things as well. All of them
looked gaunt . . . they might not have
missed meals, but the meals they'd had
must have been pretty skimpy. How Evie
Teale kept going without a man he could
not guess.
He rubbed his horse down, forked some
hay into the corner of the corral, then
carried his saddle under the shed. He
took his rifle, rope and blanket roll to the
cabin.
There was a lot of work around here that
needed a man to do. The boy wasn't up to
it yet. Conagher stopped up a leak in the
water trough, and fixed a place on the roof
where the wind had worried a corner
228
 loose, and when it was close to sundown he
got his rifle.
?I'll be an hour,?he said. ?If I haven't
got a deer by then it'll be no use waiting
longer. They've not been hunted, and they
should be feeding down toward water
about now.?
He remembered the country from
before. A western man habitually noted
water holes and animal sign as he traveled
through the country, and Conagher had
crossed that ridge before. He got up on it,
about thirty yards from the water hole
with the wind in his face, and he lay down
in the brush and waited.
Sure enough, scarcely half an hour had
passed before he saw a deer, then two
more. He chose a big buck, settled down
with his aim on a neck shot. At that range
he could not miss. He killed the buck,
skinned it, and then loaded the meat in the
hide and carried it back to the cabin.
He could smell the coffee, and the bacon
was frying.
When he brought the meat into the
cabin the first thing he noticed was
Laban's slicked-down hair. Ruthie had
tidied herself up, and so had Evie Teale.
229
 The table had a red and white checkered
cloth on it, and it was all set and proper.
Suddenly he was self-conscious.
He was unshaven for days, and he had
been sleeping out wherever he could find a
place. He had not paid much attention to
anything more than combing his hair and
washing up a mite.
?I'll wash up,?he said. ?Excuse me.?
He stripped off his coat and shirt, rolled
up his sleeves and washed, combed his
hair by guess work in the piece of flawed
mirror alongside the kitchen door, then
shook out his shirt, put it on, and came
back in.
?Sorry, ma'am,?he said, ?it's too dark
to shave.?
?That's quite all right, Mr. Conagher.
Please sit down.?
After his own cooking, any food tasted
good, but this was excellent. There were
two slices of bread on the table and he was
eating the second before he suddenly
realized there was none for anyone else.
He ate the piece in silence, cursing himself
for being a fool.
?You've got a nice place here,?he
commented. ?I see you have some calves.?
230
 She explained about the cattle. ?Better
let me brand them for you, Mrs. Teale.
There will be other herds coming through,
and unbranded cattle surely have a way of
coming up missing.?
?I'd be pleased, Mr. Conagher.?
When he got up to walk outside after
supper, Evie glanced around at him. He
was certainly a fine figure of a man when
you really looked at him. He was tall, with
wide shoulders, and he had an easy way of
moving that was more like a woodsman
than a rider. And he seemed sure of
himself without in any way appearing
bold.
There had always been the shadow of
worry under Jacob's seeming assurance,
and she was sure that Jacob, deep inside,
had never really believed in himself. He
was prepared for failure despite the fact
that he was so stern, so hard-working, and
so demanding of dignity.
She knew next to nothing about Conn
Conagher, only that he was reported to be
a top hand who asked no favors of anyone,
a grim, hard man ... a man to leave alone,
as McCloud had said.
She knew he had ridden into the back
231
 country and brought back cattle that
belonged to the ranch he worked for, cattle
that he must have taken back from some
pretty dangerous men. Yet he seemed
strangely shy, and gentle. Though
that had been true of several men she
had met who were reputed to be dangerous.
She made her bed upstairs with the
children, and Conagher slept on the floor.
When she awoke in the morning and
saw that he was gone, she was suddenly
frightened. It had been so reassuring to
have him here, and she realized that for
the first time in months she had slept
soundly.
She was dressing when she heard the
sound of a gun, and then another. She
managed to get down the ladder and get
water on for coffee before he came.
?Shot a couple of turkeys,?he said.
?They're in good shape.?
All that day Conagher worked around
the place, and he kept thinking of the girl
who wrote the notes tied to the tumbleweeds.
If he was going to find her he knew
it was time he started on, but he stayed to
brand the calves, he helped Laban with
232
 some heavy logs well back on the ridge,
and he killed another deer.
?You can jerk the meat,?he said, and
showed her how to cut it into thin strips
for drying.
Twice he rode out, studying the country
around. Jacob Teale had picked a poor
place to settle, and would have failed here
as he had elsewhere. There wasn't enough
grass in the nearby meadows to cut for
hay, and the grazing was not as good as on
the old Ladder Five range.
One evening Evie was coming in from
milking and he was sitting on the stoop
watching the sun set on the hills. ?It is
very beautiful, Mr. Conagher,?she said.
?I like to watch the wind on the grass.?
He started to answer that, and then
stopped. Kris Mahler was riding into the
yard.
233
MAHLER pulled up when he saw
Conagher, and the expression on
his face was not one of pleasure.
?I figured you'd pulled your freight,?
he said. ?I heard you quit the Old Man.?
His horse side-stepped a little, and when
he straightened him out again he went on,
?A lot of good it did you, riskin' your neck
for him. There's a couple of good men
gone because of it.?
?Not because of what I did,?Conagher
replied; ?because of what they tried to do.
As for what good it did me, I was just
doing my job, the way I'll always do
it.?
?You think I didn't do mine??
?You can answer that question best
yourself. You ran out on the Old Man
when he needed you. You joined up with
his enemies.?
?That's a damn lie!?
?There was a time when I'd have
reached for a gun if a man said that to me,?
Conagher said, ?but you know whether
234
 I'm lyin' or not, and I know it, so what you
say doesn't make a bit of difference.?
Mahler stared at him, his expression
cold and mean. ?I never liked you,
Conagher,?he said. ?You're not my kind
of man.?
?I take that as a compliment.?
Mahler turned his horse sharply and
rode away. Conagher watched him go,
then turned to Evie Teale. ?I am sorry for
that, Mrs. Teale. I believe he came to see
5J
you.
?It doesn't matter.?
After a moment she said, ?I was
surprised, Mr. Conagher. They told me
you were a quarrelsome man, yet you
avoided trouble.?
?I don't want to fight him. He's a top
hand when he works, a good man who is
on the verge of being something else. But
you were present,?he said. ?I wouldn't
want to fight with a lady present.?
?Thank you.?
They walked to the cabin together, and
he held the door for her. After she went in
he sat down on the stoop again.
The last of the sun was gone, and the
first of the stars had come. The night wind
235
 was bending the grass, and his eyes
studied the hills. There was something
restful in this, sitting here in the evening,
the day's work done, the sounds of supper
being prepared inside, the low murmur of
voices. It was something he'd missed . . .
how long since he had lived in a house
with a woman in it?
?Not since I left home,?he said to
himself, ?not since I left my aunt and
uncle when I was fourteen.?
Grading camps, cow camps, mining
camps . . . the women you found there
weren't his kind. He was a lonely man who
did not make up to people easily. It came
hard. When he was with women he never
thought of anything to say. It seemed as if
all he knew was stock, range conditions,
and the stories of some fights, and these
didn't add much to his conversation.
He felt that he should be saddling up
and riding onit was no good staying
here. Yet he did not move. He watched the
stars come out, and thought of Mahler.
The man had a burr under his saddle
about something. About a lot of things,
maybe. Why hadn't he gone with Smoke?
Why had he stayed behind?
236
 An idea came to Conagher, but he shied
away from it. Kris Mahler had nothing
against him ... or shouldn't have.
Still, he was riding it rough tonight. Had
he been trying to pick a fight? Or
was he sore because he found Conagher
here?
Was he sweet on Evie Teale? When you
came right down to it, she was a finelooking
woman. A nice shape to her, and
pretty, too.
Well, she was pretty. Maybe not to
everybody's taste, but she was to his. She
was a handsome woman, he thought. And
it took sand to stay on a place like this with
two kids, and no money coming in. It took
real old-fashioned grit.
By rights he should saddle up in the
morning and pull out. If he was ever going
to track down the girl who wrote those
notes he was going to have to do it before
his money gave out, or before somebody
else got there first.
He told himself he would get going in
the morning, but he did not feel very
positive about it.
The trouble was, he suddenly realized,
that he was comfortable, and he could not
237
 remember how long ago it had been since
he was comfortable.
The door opened suddenly. ?Mr.
Conagher, supper is ready,?Evie said.
All through supper he sat there wanting
to say something and he couldn't find the
words. Finally he said, ?I reckon I'd
better drift. I can't sponge off you
forever.?
?You've helped,?Laban said. ?I can't
shoot straight enough to kill much game.
We never had turkey before.?
?Sometimes you can kill them with a
club. I've seen it done.?
Evie Teale stared at him, but when he
looked up she glanced away quickly,
blushing for some reason he could not
imagine. ?I know you must have much to
do,?she said. ?I ... you have helped
us.?
She looked at him suddenly. ?We were
having a bad time, you know.?
He took out some moneynot that he
had so much left after laying in the
supplies he had bought. ?Look, I'll be
coming back this way. Maybe you'd better
take this so you'll have something for me
to eat when I come back.
238
 ?I mean, I don't want to pay you, but I
want to feel free to come back.?
?You don't have to leave money,?Evie
said. ?You can come any time. We hope
you will.?Then, not to seem too forward,
she added, ?We don't have much
company now that the stages do not stop
here. It is very lonely.?
?Yeah . . . sure, it must be.?
He rode out in the morning. At the last
he did not want to go and he waited,
wanting her to ask him to stay, not
knowing whether he dared say anything
about it to her. Why had he been such a
damn fool as to say he was leaving? He had
no reason to leave, when it came right
down it to. He was just going hunting
tumbleweeds . . . what kind of a silly idea
was that, anyway?
Was he a kid to go dreaming about some
fancy princess or something? Some
beautiful girl who was held prisoner
somewhere? What was he thinking of?
All right, suppose those notes did say
something to him? That was no reason to
be a fool. He wasn't a kid any more.
If he had any brains he would turn right
around and go back, but he kept riding on.
239
 He was riding east, and he wasn't even
looking at the tumbleweeds. Twice he
passed places where they were piled along
the brush-lined road, but he did not stop.
What did a man say to a woman like
that? Suppose now, just suppose he
wanted to settle down . . . what would he
say?
When night came he had not answered
the question, and it was time to make
camp. He reined his horse off the road,
crossed over a low ridge and into an
arroyo. His horse shied suddenly and
when he looked ahead he saw the skeleton
of a man. It was too dark to make out
clearly, and the coyotes had been at it, but
there it lay, and nearby were the bones of a
horse, much of the hide still clinging to it.
And there was the saddle.
He rode on a little farther, found a
corner among the junipers and rocks, and
settled down for the night.
The gent back there . . . that was how
he'd die, most likely, and who would give a
damn? When you rode alone you died
alone, and there was nobody to do right by
your bones.
?Well, mister,?he said aloud, ?I'll do
239
240
 right by you. Come daylight, I'll go back
there and dig you out a grave. That's what
I'll do.?
Sleep came only after a long time of
watching the stars. He saw the Big Dipper
wheel around the sky, swore at his
wakefulness, and finally fell to sleep. It
was broad daylight when he awoke and the
dun horse was nudging his toes.
He got up, dressed, and built a small
fire. He boiled some coffee and fried a
piece of venison, and when he had finished
eating he got up, wiped his knife off on the
seat of his pants, and shoved it back in the
scabbard. It wasn't like Mrs. Teale's grub,
but it was all rightit would do.
When he had saddled up he took his
Winchester and walked back to the dead
man.
By daylight the story was plain enough.
The horse's leg was broken, snapped right
off, and the position of the saddle and the
crushed bones over the chest showed him
all too clearly what had happened.
Somebody, an Indian most likely, had
taken his rifle and pistol, if he'd owned
them.
When Conagher had the grave dug he
241
 took hold of the skeleton and as he moved
it he stirred some of the sand and revealed
part of a coat still intact beneath the body.
And partly under the edge of the coat and
buried in the drift sand that had blown
over it, were the dead man's saddlebags.
They were stiff and dry, the edges
curled and turned kind of white, like the
saddle itself. He pulled them apart when
he couldn't get the stiff leather strap to
come loose, and a shower of gold coins fell
on the ground.
Startled, he stood for a moment looking
down at them, then glanced around
quickly.
But there was nobodyhe was all alone.
He squatted on his heels and picked up
the coins. He counted up to three hundred
and twenty dollars, then shook out the
saddlebags again. Five more gold eagles
fell on the ground, and he picked them up.
Four hundred and twenty dollars
more than a year's wages, right there in his
hands. And it was hisfinders are
keepers.
He looked through the remains of the
saddlebags, but if there had been any
letters or papers they had fallen apart and
242
 been blown away. He completed the
burial, made a marker of a couple of big
stones, and then mounted up.
Four hundred and twenty dollars! He
was going into town and he was going to
have himself a time. He was going to have
one good blowout in his life, anywayone
at least.
He rode to Socorro and headed for a
cantina.
The stage was standing on the street,
and Charlie McCloud was boosting a
trunk toward the top. He glanced around,
saw Conagher, and said, ?Hey, give me a
hand here!?
Together they got the trunk to the top
and lashed it in place. McCloud dusted his
hands, looking at Conagher thoughtfully.
?I heard you were stopping over at Mrs.
Teale's. I kind of thought you two would
get together.?
Conagher stared at the ground, flushing.
?Aw, Charlie, you know I ain't the
kind to stand hitched. I'm a drifter.?
?How long have you been telling
yourself that? You're no more a drifter
than I am. Look, Conn, if you're smart
you'll find yourself a piece of ground and
243
 settle down. That there's a fine woman.?
?She is that. But she wouldn't have the
likes of me. What have I got to offer a
woman??
McCloud chuckled. ?Don't ask me. Let
her tell you. A woman can always find
something in a man worth having. I think
you're a no-account saloon brawler who'd
rather fight than eat, and the only things I
can say good about you is that you do your
job, you're honest, and you never backed
off from trouble.?
?Yeah. You can put that on my marker
when they bury me. 'He never backed off
from trouble.' That's just what'll kill me,
one of these days.?
?Speaking of that, have you seen Kris
Mahler? He's carrying a chip on his
shoulder over you.?
?It's one-sided. I've got no fight with
him.?
?Wasn't he one of the Parnell crowd
there for a while??
?I wouldn't know, but that's all over
now, and I left that fight behind me.?
?What are you aiming to do now??
McCloud asked.
?Charlie, I'm going to get drunk. I'm
243
244
 going to get mean drunk and then sleepy
drunk, and when I wake up I'm going to
ride clean to Montana or Oregon or
somewhere far off.?
He crossed the street and entered the
cantina.
?Pedro,?he said, ?give me a bottle and
that table over there. I'm going to get
drunk.?
?But senor,?Pedro protested, ?you do
not get drunk! I have never seen you get
drunk!?
?Nevertheless, I think?
The door behind him swung inward.
Conagher turned slowly. It was Kris
Mahler.
?I heard you were in town,?Mahler
said. ?So I came over to see what an
honest man does when he's away from
home.?
Conagher felt a sudden, vast impatience.
He did not want to fight, but
there were times when it could not be
avoided. He suddenly knew that one of
them was going to leave town or else they
were going to fight; and then he knew that
he, at least, was not going to leave. He was
going to stay.
245
 He stood with his back to the bar
watching Mahler with an expression of
disgust.
Mahler came on into the room and
stopped, legs spread apart, staring at him.
There were only two others in the cantina,
Pedro and Charlie McCloud, who had
come in through the side door.
?Mahler, I'm minding my own business.
I'm not looking for trouble.?
?What's the matter? You turned yellow??
?No, I just want no trouble. You've got
it stuck in your craw because you rode off
and I didn't, so what does it matter? That
was your business, so let it lay.?
?Suppose I don't want to??
Mahler was a big man, a broad, strong
man, powerfully made and rugged.
?Ever'where I go,?he said, ?I hear
what a tough man Conn Conagher is.
Well, I've never seen any of your graveyards.?
Conagher deliberately turned his back
on Mahler and, taking up his bottle,
crossed to the table he had chosen. He
pulled out a chair and straddled it. Then
he filled a glass.
246
 ?Damn you. Conn!?Mahler shouted.
?Listen to me!?
?When you make sense, I'll listen.
Come and have a drink.?
Mahler took two long strides and swept
the bottle and glass from the table,
knocking them into a corner.
?All right,?Conagher said mildly, ?if
you don't want to drink, pull up a chair
and I'll order some grub. Or we'll just
talk. I'm not going anywhere.?
?That man you shot up in the hills back
of Teale's, that was Hi Jackson. He was
my saddle partner.?
Conagher lifted his eyes. His smile was
gone and his eyes were bleak. ?That man
was a damn rustler and a thief, and he tried
to shoot me in the back.?
Mahler grabbed for his gun, and
Conagher, whose foot was lifted against
the under frame of the table, shot the table
out with one smashing kick, knocking it
into Mahler.
He got up then and unbelted his guns
and put them on the bar in front of Pedro.
Kris Mahler had gone down hard, but
now he was getting up and Conagher
walked up to him and hit him with a work246
247
 hardened fist. The blow caught Mahler in
the mouth and staggered him, but he came
in swinging. Conagher caught one and
went to his knees, started up and caught
another, a straight left that stabbed him in
the mouth, and a right cross on the chin.
He staggered back and brought up hard
against the bar. Mahler's mouth was
bloody, but he was smiling,
?If you want to take a beating,?he said,
?you'll get it. Nobody ever whipped me
with their fists yet, and nobody ever will.?
He feinted, then crossed another right
to the jaw. There was a smoky taste in
Conagher's mouth, and he knew a tooth
had been broken. Mahler could punch,
and not only that, but he knew how to fight
with his fists.
He came at Conagher, feinting, rolling
to let Conn's right go by, then smashing
him with two wicked punches in the belly.
Mahler half stepped back then, expecting
Conagher to fall, but Conn merely
weaved, threw a left and a right that
missed, caught a stiff left in the mouth,
and then suddenly he ducked his head and
lunged in.
The sudden attack when everything was
248
 going his way startled Mahler. He tried to
side-step and bumped into a table, and
Conagher smashed into him, knocking the
table over and Mahler with it.
Conagher dropped swiftly, his knee
driving into Mahler's stomach; then
Conagher started to rise and as Mahler did
the same Conagher's knee smashed him
under the chin, knocking him back to the
floor.
Mahler rolled over and Conagher
sprang free, and as Mahler came up,
Conagher went into him, hooking short
and hard with both hands to the head and
body. Shaken, Mahler backed up and tried
to get set, but Conagher plunged into him,
whipping up a wicked right to the wind,
hooking a left that missed at close
quarters, but smashing Mahler with an
elbow.
They fought toe to toe, coldly, furiously.
Conagher lost all track of time. He
caught smashing blows to the head and the
body, but grimly he dug in, hanging in
there like a bulldog, taking Mahler's best
shots and smashing back with both
hands.
He backed Mahler against the bar, took
249
 two driving blows going in, and then
leaned his head against Mahler's shoulder
and ripped at his belly with short, wicked
punches.
Conagher could taste blood in his
mouth, and he knew there was blood on
his face. He was knocked down, and then
again. He got up, and felt a hammer-like
blow on the side of the face, but as he
swung he caught Mahler's arm and threw
him hard against the piano. There was a
thunder of sound and Mahler braced
himself, but when he threw the punch
Conagher went under it and ripped both
hands to the wind, then moved back and
brought up a right uppercut that broke
Mahler's nose and showered him with
blood.
Kris moved away. He kicked a chair out
of the way for room in which to box. He
jabbed, and jabbed again. He feinted,
hooked a right to the chin, then tried the
left, but Conagher had been waiting for it.
He knocked the punch aside and whipped
a lifting left into the solar plexus. Mahler's
knees buckled and he started to fall, and
Conn hit him again with a right. Mahler
fell and Conagher caught him by the collar
250
 and jerked him upright and hit him three
times more before the bigger man could
fall again. He went down then, and he lay
still.
Conagher stood over him, weaving and
bloody, his shirt torn to shreds.
At last Conagher turned away and fell
against the bar.
?You can have that bottle,?Pedro said.
?I give you the bottle.?
?Don't want it,?he mumbled, through
broken lips. ?I don't need it.?
He was thinking. He was putting things
together. The hammering he had taken
left a confusion of ideas in his mind that
suddenly began to be less confused; they
began to fall into place.
Four hundred and twenty dollars in gold
. . . Jacob Teale riding to buy cows . . . Jacob
Teale never came back . . . a skeleton about
one day's ride east. . . a dried-up saddle and
saddlebags . . . it had to be.
He had both hands resting on the edge
of the bar and drops of blood were welling
from his nose, and there was blood in his
mouth. He spat.
His head was buzzing from the punches
he had taken. He reached for his gunbelt
251
in a staggering daze and buckled it on. i
Somebody handed him his hat. ?
?Mr. Conagher??I
It couldn't be. Not here. Not in I
Socorro. He turned his battered face |
toward the glare from the door and there a
woman stood, framed against the sunlight. l
He could not see her face. Only a dress, a I
right pretty dress when you thought of *
it.
3
?Mr. Conagher? I think you should
come home.?
He stared at her. Home? He had no
home. He took a step toward her and his , t
knees buckled, but she caught him under I J
the arm. I 1
?Mr. McCloud? Will you help me? I am I I
afraid he's hurt.?I I
?Him? You couldn't hurt him with an |l j
axe. There's too much mule in him.?II
Conagher drew himself up. ?Why did II
you come here??he asked, swaying a little II
on his feet. He held his bandana against II
his bloody lips. II
She was a plain woman, some had said, II
but she was pretty now, Conagher was II
sure of it. II
?I... we need you, Mr. Conagher. I... II
252
 we all felt lost ... I don't know what ...?
?There's the Ladder Five,?he said,
?that's a good outfit. I mean with this
money . . . it's yours rightly . . . with this
money we can buy some stock from Tay.
We can make a start.?
Kris Mahler rolled over and got up,
his face twisting with pain. Holding his
side he watched them go out the door.
?I hit him,?he said, ?I hit him with
ever'thing I had, and he still came at
me.?
He staggered against the bar, staring at
the still swinging doors.
Outside Conagher fumbled in his
pocket. He pulled out a small handful of
shabby notes. ?You . . . you wrote these,
didn't you? I remember out there that
night you said something about the wind
in the grass, and?
?I was lonely. I had to talk ... to
write to somebody, and there was no
one.?
?There was. There was me.?
Back at the saloon Mahler shook his
head. ?I hit him,?he said again. ?I hit
him with ever'thing I had. What sort of
man is he??
253
 ?He's Conagher,?McCloud said, ?and
that's enough.?
THE END
254
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Louis L'AMOUR, born Louis Dearborn
L'Amour of French-Irish stock, is a
descendant of Fra^ois Rene, Vicompte de
Chateaubriand, noted French writer, statesman,
and epicure. Although Mr. L'Amour
claims his writing began as a ?spur-of-themoment
thing?, prompted by friends who
relished his verbal tales of the West, he
comes by his talent honestly. A frontiersman
by heritage (his grandfather was
scalped by the Sioux), and a universal man
by experience, Louis L'Amour lives the life
of his fictional heroes. Since leaving his
native Jamestown, North Dakota, at the
age of fifteen, he's been a longshoreman,
lumberjack, elephant handler, hay shocker,
flume builder, fruit picker, and an officer
on tank destroyers during World War II.
And he's written four hundred short stories
and over fifty books (including a volume of
poetry).
Mr. L'Amour has lectured widely,
traveled the West thoroughly, studied
255
 archaeology, compiled biographies of over
one thousand Western gunfighters, and
read prodigiously (his library holds more
than two thousand volumes). And he's
watched thirty-one of his westerns as
movies. He's circled the world on a
freighter, mined in the West, sailed a dhow
on the Red Sea, been shipwrecked in the
West Indies, stranded in the Mojave
Desert. He's won fifty-one of fifty-nine
fights as a professional boxer and pinch-hit
for Dorothy Kilgallen when she was on
vacation from her column. Since 1816,
thirty-three members of his family have
been writers. And, he says, ?I could sit in
the middle of Sunset Boulevard and write
with my typewriter on my knees; temperamental
I am not.?
Mr. L'Amour is re-creating an 1865
Western town, christened Shalako, where
the borders of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico,
and Colorado meet. Historically authentic
from whistle to well, it will be a live,
operating town, as well as a movie location
and tourist attraction.
Mr. L'Amour now lives in Los Angeles
with his wife Kathy, who helps with the
enormous amount of research he does for
256
 his books. Soon, Mr. L'Amour hopes, the
children will be helping too Beau and
Angelique.
Mr. LJAmour presently lectures for the
Bantam Lecture Bureau.
257
 This book is published under the
auspices of the
ULVERSCROFT FOUNDATION,
a registered charity, whose primary object
is to assist those who experience difficulty
in reading print of normal size.
In response to approaches from the
medical world, the Foundation is also
helping to purchase the latest, most
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needed by major eye hospitals for the
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If you would like to know more about the
ULVERSCROFT FOUNDATION,
and how you can help to further its work,
please write for details to:
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258
ULVERSCROFT LARGE PRINT
SERIES
The Invisible Outlaw Max Brand
The Trembling Hills Norman Fox
The Devil's Saddle Norman Fox
Lone Star Ranger Zane Grey
The Drift Fence Zane Grey
Sunset Pass Zane Grey
The Hash Knife Outfit Zane Grey
Lynch Town John Kilgore
The Skyliners Louis L'Amour
Hondo Louis L'Amour
Shalako Louis L'Amour
Matagorda Louis L'Amour
Dark Canyon Louis L'Amour
The Empty Land Louis L'Amour
Kilrone Louis L'Amour
Under the Sweetwater Rim Louis L'Amour
The High Graders Louis L'Amour
North to the Rails Louis L'Amour
Tombstoned for a Troubleshooter
Wm. Colt MacDonald
Trouble at Topaz Frank C. Robertson
The Kean Land Jack Schaefer
Double Cross Ranch
259
 Square Deal Sanderson
?Drag?Harlan Charles Alden Seltzer
The Boss of the Lazy Y
260
 IN THE
ULVERSCROFT LARGE PRINT
SERIES
Police at the Funeral Margery Allingham
Death of a Ghost Margery Allingham
A Kind of Anger Eric Ambler
The Intercom Conspiracy Eric Ambler
The Night They Killed Joss Varran
George Bellairs
The Sad Variety Nicholas Blake
The Thirty-Nine Steps John Buchan
In Spite of Thunder J. Dickson Can
A Corpse at Camp Two Glyn Carr
The Saint on Guard Leslie Charteris
The Saint Around the World
Leslie Charteris
The Saint in Miami Leslie Charteris
The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side
Agatha Christie
Ordeal by Innocence Agatha Christie
Cards on the Table Agatha Christie
Death on the Nile Agatha Christie
Taken at the Flood Agatha Christie
Endless Night Agatha Christie
Towards Zero Agatha Christie
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
Agatha Christie
261
 Dumb Witness Agatha Christie
I Murder in Mesopotamia Agatha Christie
The Clocks Agatha Christie
?The Moving Finger Agatha Christie
Sad Cypress Agatha Christie
One, Two, Buckle my Shoe
Agatha Christie
I The Sittaford Mystery Agatha Christie
The Big Four Agatha Christie
Why Didn't They Ask Evans?
Agatha Christie
The Hollow Agatha Christie
The Mists of Fear John Creasey
A Gun for Inspector West John Creasey
Send Superintendent West John Creasey
The Plague of Silence John Creasey
Death by Night John Creasey
The Iron Cobweb Ursula Curtiss
The Noonday Devil Ursula Curtiss
The Deadly Climate Ursula Curtiss
Gold comes in Bricks A. A. Fair
Skeleton Staff Elizabeth Ferrars
A Stranger and Afraid Elizabeth Ferrars
Moonraker Ian Fleming
Nothing is the Number when You Die
Joan Fleming
The Case of the Daring Decoy
Erie S. Gardner
262
 The Long Short Cut Andrew Garve
The Ascent of Di3 Andrew Garve
Murder in Moscow Andrew Garve
All Change for Murder Victor Gunn
The Laughing Grave Victor Gunn
The Next One to Die Victor Gunn
The Unfinished Clue Georgette Heyer
The Tattooed Man T. C. H. Jacobs
Seafire Bill Knox
Children of the Mist Bill Knox
The Klondyker Bill Knox
Death on Doomsday Elizabeth Lemarchand
Gideon's Day J.J. Marric
Gideon's Week J. J. Marric
Gideon's River J. J. Marric
Gideon's Ride J. J. Marric
Gideon's Fire J.J. Marric
Gideon's Month J. J. Marric
Death at the Bar Ngaio Marsh
A Question of Time Helen McCloy
The Eye of a Serpent Geoffrey Peters
The Dog Man Maurice Procter
Devil's Due Maurice Procter
Death of an Author John Rhode
The Door Mary Roberts Rinehart
The Mystery of Swordfish Reef
Arthur Upfield
Bony and the Mouse Arthur Upfield
263
 The Clue of the New Shoe Arthur Upfield
The Bachelors of Broken Hill
Arthur Upfield
Out of the Past Patricia Wentwonh
Latter End Patricia Wentwonh
Danger Point Patricia Wentwonh
264
ULVERSCROFT LARGE PRINT i
SERIES
1
Nurse of the Islands B. J. Ban/ill
A RopeIn Case Lillian Beckwith
The Sea for Breakfast Lillian Beckwith
Lightly Poached Lillian Beckwith
The Small Woman Alan Burgess
Adventures in Two Worlds A. J. Cronin
Finding My Way Borghild Dahl
Three Singles to Adventure Gerald Durrell
I Bought a Mountain Thomas Firbank
Trigger in Europe William Holt
The Bears and I Robert Franklin Leslie
Ring of Bright Water Gavin Maxwell
Road from Singapore Diana Norman
Drums Along the Amazon
Victor G. C. Norwood
Patients in My Care Bridget Ristori
Place of Stones Ruth Janette Ruck
Rex Joyce Stranger
Antique Dealer R. P. Way
265
 I
THE WHITEOAK CHRONICLE
SERIES TITLES IN THE
ULVERSCROFT LARGE PRINT
SERIES
r/f ~ by Mazo De La Roche
i-150
The Building of Jalna
Morning at Jalna
Mary Wakefield
Young Renny
Whiteoak Heritage
The Whiteoak Brothers
Jalna
Whiteoaks
Finch's Fortune
The Master of Jalna
Whiteoak Harvest
Wakefield's Course
Return to Jalna
Renny's Daughter
Variable Winds at Jalna
Centenary at Jalna