Страница 2 из 52
Nothing was familiar except the bar and the tables. The man behind the bar was squat and fat, his eyes peered at Tack from folds of flesh. “What’s it for yuh?” he demanded.
“Rye,” Tack said. He let his eyes swing slowly around the room. Not a familiar face greeted him. Shorty Davis was gone. Nick Farmer was not around. These men were strangers, a tight mouthed, hard eyed crew.
Gentry glanced at the bartender. “Any ridin’ jobs around here? Driftin’ through, and thought I might like to tie in with one of the outfits around here.”
“Keep driftin’,” the bartender said, not glancing at him. “Everybody’s got a full crew.”
One door swung open and a tall, clean cut man walked into the room, glancing around. He wore a neat gray suit and a dark hat. Tack saw the bartender’s eyes harden, and glanced thoughtfully at the newcomer. The man’s face was very thin, and when he removed his hat his ash blond hair was neatly combed.
He glanced around, and his eyes lighted on Tack. “Stranger?” he asked pleasantly. “Then may I buy you a drink? I don’t like to drink alone, but haven’t sunk so low as to drink with these coyotes.”
Tack stiffened, expecting a reaction from some of the seated men, but there was none. Puzzled, he glanced at the blond man, and seeing the cynical good humor in the man’s eyes, nodded.
“Sure, I’ll drink with you.”
“My name,” the tall man added, “is Anson Childe, by profession, a lawyer, by dint of circumstances, a gambler, and by choice, a student.
“You perhaps wonder,” he added, “why these men do not resent my reference to them as coyotes. There are three reasons, I expect. The first is that some subconscious sense of truth makes them appreciate the justice of the term. Second, they know I am gifted with considerable dexterity in expounding the gospel of Judge Colt. Third, they know that I am dying of tuberculosis and as a result have no fear of bullets.
“It is not exactly fear that keeps them from drawing on me. Let us say it is a matter of mathematics, and a problem none of them has succeeded in solving with any degree of comfort in the result. It is: how many of them would die before I did?
“You can appreciate, my friend, the quandary in which this places them, and also the disagreeable realization that bullets are no respecters of persons, nor am I. The several out there who might draw know that I know who they are. The result is that they know they would be first to die.”
Childe looked at Tack thoughtfully. “I heard you ask about a riding job as I came in. You look like an honest man, and there is no place here for such.”
Gentry hunted for the right words, then he said, “This country looks like it was settled by honest men.”
Anson Childe studied his glass. “Yes,” he said, “but at the right moment they lacked a leader. One was too opposed to violence, another was too law abiding, and the rest lacked resolution.”
If there was a friend in the community, this man was it. Tack finished his drink and strode to the door. The bartender met his eyes as he glanced back.
“Keep on driftin’,” the bartender said.
Tack Gentry smiled. “I like it here,” he said, “and I’m stayin’!”
He swung to the saddle and turned his buckskin toward Sunbo
Childe had said that one was opposed to violence. That would have been his Uncle John. The one who was too law abiding would be Bill London. London had always been strong for law and order, and settling things in a legal way. The others had been honest men, but small ranchers, and individually unable to oppose whatever was done to them. Yet whatever had happened, the incoming elements had apparently moved with speed and finesse.
Had it been one ranch, it would have been different. But the ranches and the town seemed completely subjugated.
The buckskin took the trail at an easy canter, skirting the long red cliff of Horse Thief Mesa and wading the creek at Gunsight. Sunbo
Two horses were standing at the corral as he rode up. His eyes narrowed as he saw them. Button and Blackie! Two of his uncle’s favorites and two horses he had raised from colts. He swung down and started toward them, when he saw the three people on the steps.
He turned to face them, and his heart jumped. Betty London had not changed.
Her eyes widened, and her face went dead white. “Tack!” she gasped. “Tack Gentry!”
Even as she spoke, Tack saw the sudden shock with which the two men turned to stare. “That’s right, Betty,” he said quietly, “I just got home.”
“But—but—we heard you were dead!”
“I’m not.” His eyes shifted to the two men. A thick shouldered, deep chested man with a square, swarthy face, and the lean rawboned man wearing a star. The one with the star would be Dick Olney. The other must be Van Hardin.
Tack’s eyes swung to Olney. “I heard my Uncle John Gentry was killed. Did yuh investigate his death?”
Olney’s eyes were careful. “Yeah,” he said, “he was killed in a fair fight. Gun in his hand.”
“My uncle,” Tack replied, “was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence in his life!”
“He was a might slow, I reckon,” Olney said coolly, “but he had the gun in his hand when I found him.”
“Who shot him?”
“Hombre name of Soderman. But like I say, it was a fair fight.”
“Like blazes!” Tack flashed. “Yuh’ll never make me believe Uncle John wore a gun! That gun was planted on him!”
“Yuh’re jumpin’ to conclusions,” Van Hardin said smoothly. “I saw the gun myself. There were a dozen witnesses.”
“Who saw the fight?” Gentry demanded.
“They saw the gun in his hand. In his right hand,” Hardin said.
Tack laughed suddenly, harshly. “That does it! Uncle John’s right hand has been useless ever since Shiloh when it was shot to pieces tryin’ to get to a wounded soldier. He couldn’t hold a feather in those fingers, let alone a gun!”
Hardin’s face tightened, and Dick Olney’s eyes shifted to Hardin’s face.
“You’d be better off,” Hardin said quietly, “to let sleepin’ dogs lie. We ain’t goin’ to have yuh comin’ in here stirrin’ up a peaceful community.”
“My Uncle John was murdered,” Gentry said quietly, “I mean to see his murderer punished. That ranch belongs to me. I intend to get it back!”
Van Hardin smiled. “Evidently, yuh aren’t aware of what happened here,” he said quietly. “Your Uncle John was in a noncombatant outfit durin’ the War, was he not? Well, while he was gone, the ranch he had claimed was abandoned. Soderman and I started to run cattle on that range and the land that was claimed by Bill London. No claim to the range was asserted by anyone. We made improvements, then durin’ our temporary absence with a trail herd, John Gentry and Bill London returned and moved in. Naturally, when we returned the case was taken to court. The court ruled the ranches belonged to Soderman and myself.”
“And the cattle?” Tack asked. “What of the cattle my uncle owned?”
Hardin shrugged. “The brand had been taken over by the new owners and registered in their name. As I understand it, yuh left on a trail herd immediately after yuh came back to Texas. My claim was originally asserted during yore Uncle’s absence. I could,” he smiled, “lay claim to the money yuh got from that trail herd. Where is it?”
“Suppose yuh find out?” Tex replied. “I’m goin’ to tell yuh one thing: I’m goin’ to find who murdered my uncle, if it was Soderman or not. I’m also goin’ to fight yuh in court. Now, if yuh’ll excuse me,” he turned his eyes to Betty who had stood wide-eyed and silent, “I’d like to talk to Bill London.”