“We’ll talk this out some more, boy, you can bet,” he called after his son. “I ain’t no slouch with a gun and I don’t aim to be spoken down to. I’m Carver Farrar.”

  Chris ignored him and rode on. Lom moved further back into the darkness under the trees and watched his father anxiously. And when Carver turned on him, eyes filled with viciousness, Lom said tightly:

  “I’m with you, Pa. I always been with you.”

  “You better be, boy, or I’ll shoot your stinkin’ coward’s guts out. Let’s wait in the barn. Damn girl ain’t worth gettin’ my neck stretched for anyway.”

  With that, and another look after his son, Carver Farrar made for the small barn at the far end of the dusty clearing.

  Chapter Four – How Many Will Die?

  SALLY MANN COULDN’T sleep. No matter how hard she closed her eyes, sometimes until pain worked through her head, as soon as she relaxed she was wide awake again. And remembering.

  Finally as the heat of night began to worry her, she washed her hair and later sat on the back porch in her father’s old rocker and diligently combed it. She thought again of the tall stranger. What had they called him? Durant?

  She said the name into the night and liked the sound of it. Then in disgust at herself, she rose from the rocker, left her comb on the railing and went inside to get a fire going. Come sunup she hoped to be on her way to town to fetch her father’s body. Then she would come back and bury him, and try to work out some kind of future for herself. What it would be she had no idea. The ranch was a hopeless proposition unless money could be poured into it, by making dams, buying new stock, repairing the fences. And where could she possibly get money enough for one tenth of that, now that the bank had threatened to foreclose on them?

  Them?

  She screwed up her mouth. It was no longer ‘them’. From now on it would only be her, with two graves to remind her that her kin had gone. All but Jedro. And where was Jedro, except in the mining camps, or on a cattle drive or on a railroad gang, making his own way, taking his own kind of surliness with him. Sally did not miss her brother. They had never been close. There hadn’t been time for the normal affections to grow between them because Jedro was always suffering his father’s scorn and criticisms until he decided to move out.

  Sally remembered the day he left. Jedro had taken the best horse on the place and the best saddle. When their father berated him for that, he simply told him he’d earned them. These, apart from the clothes he stood up in, were the only possessions he took away with him. Five long years ago.

  Then Lee had turned nineteen years of age and started to become footloose too. Sally knew he would have followed his brother’s trails if he’d had the gumption to buck their father. Lee had stayed, daily growing into a youth unsure of himself, never to become a man.

  When she had the fire going, Sally put on coffee. She was so preoccupied with her own musings that she did not hear the faint creak of the back door as Chris Farrar opened it and came into the house. She did not hear him either as he made his way past her bedroom and into the living room-kitchen complex that bespoke their poverty for all the world to know.

  “Make it strong,” Chris Farrar said and the voice caused Sally to heel around, round-eyed, shocked. When she saw Farrar there, she took an involuntary step back and burned her skirt against the side of the iron stove. Jumping away from it, she found his stare travelling her body in a way that alarmed her.

  “What do you want? What are you doing here?” she demanded to know. She held the coffee jar in her left hand. Her right hand stole up to check that her blouse buttons were fastened.

  “I’ve come to have you, Sally,” Farrar said. “Like you’ve always wanted me to. I’ll make you forget things, forget everything.”

  “I’ll kill myself first,” Sally said.

  “Suit yourself, Sally,” Farrar said. “But for a start, get that coffee right. Then we’ll sit and work some things out.”

  “We have nothing to work out! You killed my father and brother. How could you come here?”

  “Pa killed your pa and nobody seen who killed Lee. You got to understand that and live with it.”

  He walked across the room towards her. Sally hurled the coffee jar at him, then broke into a run. Farrar ducked under the flying jar and moved quickly to cut off her run for the front door. But Sally had moved fast and was struggling to get the front door open before he caught her. Having locked the front door on coming home, she let out a cry and wheeled on him. Her hands dug into his face and Farrar howled and struck her down. Sally tried to rise and Farrar helped her a little of the way by grabbing her blouse. She could feel his fingers against her skin and smell the whisky on his breath. Then his leering face was close to her, still carrying the ugly marks of his fight with her brother.

  “For God’s sake!” she cried up at him.

  Farrar ripped her blouse down then grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. Trying to cover her breasts with her hands, Sally could do no more than kick out at him. One kick caught him in the shins and he let out another howl. With that Farrar backhanded her across the room and she crashed into the old couch, rocked from it, and losing her footing, fell into blessed unconsciousness.

  Farrar rubbed his shin and then felt his face. Anger boiled in him when he realized his face was bleeding again. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the floor towards the bedroom. But halfway across the room, he stopped dead. The sound of hoofbeats came from outside.

  Cursing his father, Farrar dropped Sally and strode to the front door. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, catching it on his shoulder as it bounced back from the wall. Then he strode out onto the narrow front porch to find a rider drawn up at the hitchrail. The light from inside burst past Farrar and onto the troubled, curious features of Jim Moriarty.

  Moriarty dropped a hand to his gun butt, and snapped, “What the hell goes here?”

  Chris Farrar recognized him and went into a crouch. He was drawing his gun when Moriarty punched off a shot. Farrar looked towards the front door of the house, but the light in the doorway would show him too plainly. So he ducked off the other way as a second shot sought him out.

  He threw himself across the porch rail and landed on the hard ground. He rolled, coming up with his gun in his hand. Meantime, Jim Moriarty had flung himself from the saddle and, crouching near the hitchrail, waited for a gun flash to give him a target.

  Then another two horses broke out of the night, coming straight for the house. Moriarty sized up the position quickly and didn’t like it. He flung himself back on his horse, punched off another four wild shots, then wheeled his horse back up the clearing.

  Carver and Lom Farrar rode down and drew to a halt in front of the house as Chris came to his feet.

  Carver grated, “Handled it great on your own, boy. Coulda got yourself kilt.”

  Chris scowled at him and said nothing. Then he heard the back door of the house slam shut and pushing his father’s horse away, broke into a run. He went through the house at full pace but, when he reached the back porch, Sally Mann was nowhere in sight. Nor was there any sound.

  Carver and Lom rode the side of the house, guns out, their eyes searching the moonlight. They found as much as Chris and when they linked up with him again, Carver asked:

  “The girl?”

  “She was here. I had her.”

  “I seen you bust out of the house after some screamin’, boy. What was you lookin’ for, comin’ out like thet? A bullet?”

  “I figured you’d come down to buy in,” Chris told him.

  Carver threw his head back and laughed raucously. “Couldn’t even take a lone strip of a girl, Chris. Boy, you’re sure the big man takin’ control of things.”

  Lom sat his horse, looking worried. He had no intention of saying a single word. As far as he was concerned this was an argument between his father and his brother and he didn’t care who won the day. Whoever did, he’d back.

  “I can take her and will,” Chris said. “And I won’t have to do any begging or forcing. She’ll come across.”

  “This place too?” Carver asked.

  “This and the whole range. Then the town.”

  Carver was suddenly shocked. “You got high ambitions, boy,” he said.

  “I’ve always had them. For years now, I’ve been making my name. I think it’s time.”

  Carver leant forward in the saddle and screwed up his leathery face thoughtfully.

  “You think you got a big enough name, boy?” he asked.

  “Don’t you?” Chris asked.

  Carver pulled on his lips and looked in the direction of town. “Well, now, I ain’t so sure about that. I guess you can walk tall and expect most fools to step out of your way. But you’re thinkin’ real big this time, Chris. You’re thinkin’ like I used to before creaks come into my bones.”

  “You went about it the wrong way,” Chris told him flatly. “You talked. I’m going to act!”

  “Yeah?” Carver asked, doubting him. “How you figure?”

  “I lost my face in the saloon today. I’ll rectify that first.”

  “By doin’ just what?” Carver asked.

  “Takin’ Moriarty. That was him here just now.”

  “Moriarty?” Carver Farrar spoke the name with venom. “The sheepman?”

  “Everybody knows what he’s up to, and nobody likes it. When I take care of him, I do the town and the range a favor. In return they’ll stand behind me no matter what I do.”

  Carver laughed coarsely and shook his head. “Folks got short memories, boy. I thought I taught you that.”

  “Those with short memories will be taken care of,” Chris said. He dabbed blood from his cheeks and turned away. Carver said no more until he was out of hearing then turned solemnly to his other son.

  “Lom, you hear me now and don’t ever forget it. Chris means what he says, but I ain’t sure he can do what he thinks he can. No matter he does or not, he’ll at least stir up a hornet’s nest. While he’s doing thet, you do exactly what I tell you.”

  “What you got in mind, Pa?” Lom asked.

  Carver got suddenly angry with him. “Thet ain’t no business of yours, boy. All you got to do, day and night, is listen to me and keep your mouth shut. I say we go someplace, we go there. You got it?”

  “You ... you buckin’ Chris, Pa?” Lom asked anxiously.

  “Buckin’ him?” Carver exploded. “By hell, your thinkin’s all wrong, boy. I ain’t buckin’ him because he ain’t big enough for me to worry about. I’m maybe just steppin’ around him for the moment, waitin’ to pick up the rewards. Remember now, you stick with me. This could be my big chance.”

  Lom looked anxiously off into the dark, feeling that any trail out of this would be a good one. If he could just get enough money together to support himself till he linked up with a cattle drive, he could maybe get himself down to Mexico. He’d heard there were breed women there for the taking, or anyway for a drink. With money from the drive, he’d be able to buy what he wanted and answer to nobody. Answer to not a single person in the whole world.

  A stupid grin worked across his mouth but, even while he was enjoying his thoughts, Carver grated, “Come on now, boy. We got to get home and do some planning. Moriarty ain’t no gun slouch as I see it, so we got to be on hand, and fresh and ready, in case Chris bites off more’n he can chew.”

  “You ... you figure Moriarty might take Chris?” Lom asked incredulously.

  “He could. If he does, we’ll cash in on the business. If he don’t, why we’ll just tack onto Chris’s shirttail for a while longer. You just clear your head of everything, boy, and do my bidding. You’ll see old Carver Farrar ain’t finished by a long shot.”

  With that, Carver Farrar led his younger son down towards the back of the house where Chris, on his horse, was waiting for them. Then together all three rode off into the night.

  Blake Durant heard the creak of the floorboard outside his room in the dead of the night. Without making a sound, he got to his feet, drew his gun and took three long silent steps to put himself behind the door of his room. He waited then, watching the door knob turn. When the door began to come open he slid the gun forward and, when Jim Moriarty appeared on the threshold, pushed the Colt .45 against his forehead.

  Moriarty showed no concern. He lifted a hand and nudged the gun away and, smiling, stepped into the room. Blake Durant touched the door closed with his boot.

  Moriarty, walking to the window, said innocently, “Didn’t mean to disturb you, Durant.”

  “You can get your belly opened doing it,” Durant warned.

  “Yeah, I seen thet. Like I said, I’ll change my ways in approaching you.” He looked out the window onto the long, dusty main street. In the distance the river gleamed in the moonlight. It was as peaceful a scene as he’d seen before. Then he turned, put his seat on the window sill and smiled wider.

  “I just come from Miss Sally Mann’s place, Durant.”

  Durant looked him straight in the eyes, strangely angered at his easy attitude. A girl in her state of sorrow should have been allowed time to herself.

  He said, “So?”

  “Others were there.”

  Durant frowned lightly and put up his gun. He then ran leather-toughened fingers through his thick yellow hair, thinking of Sally Mann. He remembered more than the deep sadness in her blue eyes, having a clear picture of a slightly upturned nose, soft and mobile mouth, fair curls which ringed the smooth skin of her neck.

  “The others were the Farrar boys,” Moriarty went on. “Makin’ trouble, I reckon.”

  “You reckon?” Durant asked.

  “Well,” Moriarty wiped dust from his clothes. “I heard a scream and then some thuds inside the house. Next thing when I was going to investigate, the door opened and Chris Farrar was there, gun in hand. We took one look at each other in the poor light and decided there was no love lost. I had him backin’ off when two others bought in. I figure they were his fool brother and old man, who between them brought tragedy to that poor girl’s doorstep.”

  “You handled the three of them on your own?” Durant asked, wanting to know the full measure of this sheepman.

  “Hell, no,” Moriarty grinned. “I backed off. Three guns shootin’ at me is enough to make me want to be someplace else.”

  “You didn’t try to save the girl?” Durant asked, anger definable in his voice.

  “Couldn’t, Durant. Three against one. And anyway, while I was backing off I heard another horse going off. I reckon my intervention gave her the chance to beat it.”

  Durant sat on the edge of his bunk and pulled on his boots. He had slept soundly and felt good. “Why’d you go out there in the first place, Moriarty?” he asked.

  “To make a deal with her.”

  Durant eyed him solidly. “Tonight? After what happened today? Business means that much to you, mister?”

  Moriarty nodded. “I’ve got a lot of sheep, Durant, and no place to put them. I had a deal going with Ord Mann, but the Farrar bunch took care of that. I’d talked to the kid, Lee, too, and he was willing to go along with me. I supply the sheep, they supply the land and the fences. We split down the middle for five years after which they get the herd for the original price I paid for them. I have the same deal going with several other men whom I don’t mean to name right now, for obvious reasons. But my sheep are coming, Durant, and there’s plenty of quick money to be made. In a year—”

  “Let’s keep to the girl,” Durant cut him off, bluntly. Moriarty’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise. Then his smile came back. “You’re taken with her, eh?”

  “She’s had a father and brother murdered, mister. I figure she needs a friend or two.”

  Moriarty beamed and came a step towards the big, solemn faced drifter. “Then you’re in it, eh? I knew you wouldn’t back out. There’s money and the girl, for somebody like you, what more can you hope for?”

  “I’m not in it,” Durant argued with him. “This trouble’s not mine.”

  “I figure it is. You’ve been seen with me, Durant. I heard about your trouble earlier in the night. Rooney even told you to shift on. The town’s against you, they’ve branded you unwanted. So what can you do but stand and fight with me?”

  “We’ve got no deal,” Durant was adamant. “If I wanted to throw in with anybody in a business partnership, I’d pick somebody better than you, Moriarty.”

  Moriarty’s good feelings dissipated.

  “Better than me, Durant? Say that a little plainer.”

  Durant pointed to the door. “That plain enough, mister?”

  Moriarty didn’t move. “You scared of a fight, Durant? That strut of yours, it don’t mean a thing?”

  “I do my own thinking. I’d advise you to do some too. Just don’t worry me or crowd me. Got it?”

  Moriarty smirked and rubbed his clean-shaved jaw. “You better ride then, Durant, like Rooney told you to. You don’t, this town of cattlemen will come down on you like a summer bluster, and the Farrar boys will figure you a good target. Remember, they shoot in the back.”

  “Nobody can prove they killed Lee Mann,” Durant argued, although he had his own definite thoughts about that.

  Moriarty laughed scornfully. “Proof? In this town?” He walked to the door but did not open it. Looking back, he added, more seriously, “Rooney runs the town, Durant. And back of him, polishing his tin star, are the Farrar boys. They ride roughshod through these parts, terrorizing everybody. It’s been said that old Carver has plans to eventually own this whole territory.”

  “He isn’t big enough for that,” Durant said.

  “You know him then?”

  Durant shook his head. “I’ve listened to talk. He’s been in this area for ten years. He’s made no move until now. Why would he suddenly make one now?”

  “His boys have grown up. Chris has begun to earn himself a reputation. When Carver Farrar shot down Ord Mann, it was his way of telling the town he was ready to take over. But Lee Mann cut some flesh off Carver’s prize exhibit, and the cold murder of Lee Mann didn’t do their standing any good. But they’re good and ready to move, you can bet and, if you don’t believe me, ride out and take a look at their place. You’ll find a half dozen layabouts gettin’ fat on Carver Farrar’s beeves and coffee and waiting for his call to action. Some of those layabouts have a stink on them would make a dead horse get up and move away.”

 

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