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He indicated a point on the map. “That narrow passage leads over the border of our land into open country and then the desert. I found cattle tracks there, going out. It might be rustlers. A little blasting up on the rocks above the gap will close it tight.”
Costa nodded. “You are correct, senor. That is a good move.”
“This field—” Jed indicated a large area in a broad valley not far from the house—“must be fenced off. We will plant it to flax.” “Flax, senor?” Costa was puzzled.
“Yes. There will be a good market for it.” He indicated a smaller area. “This piece we will plant to grapes, and all that hillside will support them. There will be times when we ca
Carol studied him in wonderment. He was moving fast, this new Michael Latch. He was getting things done. Already he had grasped the situation, accomplishing much.
“Also, Costa, we must have a roundup. Gather all the cattle, weed out all those over four years old and we’ll sell them. I found a lot of cattle back in the timber that run five to eight years old. . . .”
A few hours after he had ridden away, Carol walked down toward the blacksmith shop to talk with Pat Flood. He was an old seafaring man with a peg leg whom Uncle George had found on the beach in San Francisco, and he was a marvel with tools.
He glanced up from under his bushy gray brows as she drew near. He was cobbling a pair of boots.
Before she could speak he said:
“This here new boss, Latch—been to sea, ain’t he?”
She looked at him quickly. “What gave you that idea?”
“Seen him throw a bowline on a bight yesterday. Purtiest job I seen since I come ashore. He made that rope fast like he’d been doin’ it for years.”
“I expect many men handle ropes well,” she said.
“But not sailor fashion. He called it a line, too. ‘Hand me that line!’ he says. Me, I been ashore so long I’m callin’ them ropes myself, but not him. I’d stake my di
Jed Asbury was riding to Noveno. He wanted to do several things he might not do so well, unless alone.
In the first place, he wanted to assay the feeling of the town toward the ranch, toward George Baca, and toward Walt Seever. He thought he might talk with a few people before they discovered who he was. Also, he was growing irritated at the delay in a showdown with Seever. His appearance in town alone might force that showdown, or allow Seever an opportunity if he felt he needed one.
Jed had never avoided trouble. He always went right to the heart of it. For this trip he was dressed for it, wearing a pair of worn gray trousers, boots, his silver guns, and a battered black hat. He hoped to pass as a drifting puncher.
Already, in his riding around the ranch and his conversations with the riders he had learned a good deal. He knew that the place to go in Noveno was the Gold Strike. He swung down and tied his horse to the hitching-rail and walked inside.
Three men were loafing against the bar. Immediately he recognized the big man with the hard face and the scar on his lip as Harry Strykes, the gunslick who had ridden with Seever. As Jed stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink, a man who was seated at a table got up slowly and walked up to Strykes.
“Never saw him afore,” he said.
Strykes walked around the man and stopped in front of Jed.
“So?” he sneered. “A smart trick of yore own, huh? Well, nobody cuts in on my boss. Go for yore gun, or go back to Texas!”
Jed did not move.
“I’ve no reason to kill you,” he said calmly. “I don’t like your tone, but I’m not going to touch a gun, because if I drew I’d shoot you so you’d take a long time to die. Instead, I’m going to teach you to have better sense than to speak to strangers as you have me.”
His right hand grabbed Strykes by the belt. He shoved back, then lifted, and his left toe hooked Strykes’ knee with a sharp kick. Strykes’ feet flew up and Jed jerked him free of the floor, his arms pawing wildly at the air. Jed dropped him flat on his back.
Strykes had been caught unawares, and he hit the floor so hard that for an instant he was stu
CHAPTER FOUR: Cut Down to Size
Jed Asbury held his drink in his left hand, leaning carelessly against the bar. Harry Strykes stared at him, too furious for words. Then he lunged.
Jed’s left foot was on the brass rail, but as Strykes lunged and swung, Jed moved out from the bar to the full length of his straightened left leg. Strykes’ swing missed and the force of it threw his chest against the edge. Jed lifted the remainder of the glass of rye and tossed it in the man’s eyes.
Coolly he put the glass down and stepped away. He made no move to hit Strykes, merely waiting for him to paw the liquor out of his eyes. When he seemed about to get that done, Jed leaned forward and, with a sudden jerk, whipped open the man’s belt. Strykes’ trousers slid toward his knees, and he grabbed at them wildly. Jed pushed him, with the tips of his fingers. Strykes couldn’t stagger with his trousers around his knees, so he fell.
Jed turned and smiled.
“Sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen! The name is Mike Latch. If you are ever out to Casa Grande, please call.”
Abruptly he walked out of the saloon, and behind him he heard roars of laughter as the men stared at Harry Strykes sprawling ludicrously on the floor.
Yet Jed had not forgotten the man who had stepped up to Strykes and said that he had never seen Jed before. Did that man know the real Michael Latch? If Walt Seever did know something of the covered wagon and the three murdered people, he would know that Jed Asbury was an impostor, and would be searching for the evidence. The vast and beautiful acres of Rancho Casa Grande were reason enough.
Riding homeward later, Jed Asbury mulled over the problem. There was every chance of eventual exposure, yet no one might ever come near who actually knew him.
His brief altercation with Strykes had got him nowhere. He probably had been observed when he had ridden into town, and that the stranger had known Latch, and had been ready to identify him. But the fight might have won Jed a few friends who enjoyed seeing a bully put in his place, and friends might be valuable in the months to come. The town as a whole had been noncommittal or frankly friendly with Seever, although Walt’s friends were the tough element.
Seever would fight, and Jed might be killed. So somehow he must find a way to give Carol a strong claim to the ranch. Failing in that, he must kill Walt Seever.
Jed Asbury had never killed a man except to protect himself or those dear to him. Deliberately to hunt a man down and shoot him was something he had never dreamed of doing. Yet it might be the only way. With a shock he realized he was thinking more of the girl than himself, and he scarcely knew her.
Apparently the stranger had identified him. Next time it might be a direct accusation in front of witnesses. Jed considered the problem all the way home. . . .
Unknown to Jed, Jim Pardo, one of the toughest hands on the ranch had followed him to Noveno. On his return Pardo reined in before the blacksmith shop and looked down at gigantic old Pat Flood. The blacksmith would have weighed three hundred pounds with two legs, and little of it fat. He loomed five inches over six feet and his hands were enormous. He rarely left his shop, his wooden leg giving him trouble.
Pardo squinted after Jed and nodded. “He’ll do,” he said, swinging down.
Flood lighted his corncob pipe.
“Had him a run-in with Harry Strykes,” said Pardo.
Flood looked at Pardo, his gaze searching.
“Made a fool of Harry,” said Pardo.
“Whup him?”
“Not like he should of. But it was worse. He got him laughed at.” “Strykes will kill him for that.”