them.”
“Gunmen?”
“They know how to shoot.”
Danby crossed his hands over his saddle horn. “I’m not going to lose any more sheep, Marshal. I’ve buried my last ewe. Next time, I’ll bury Pate Nichols.”
“Danby, I’m here to warn you. If you and Pate Nichols start a range war I’m going to stop it. Anyway I can.”
“Not your place to tell me my business,” he snapped back. “I’ll protect what belongs to me. That’s the right of any man.”
A breeze rippled the top of the shallow creek water, breaking the sunlight into yellow, dancing lozenges.
“Does that include your wife, Danby?”
Coffer’s face turned purple. He sat rigid in his saddle. “What are you trying to insinuate, Marshal?” His voice sounded like he was strangling on his own anger.
“Only this. If you and Nichols start any gunplay I’ll see the other man hanged for it, no matter what the cause. I warned Nichols, and now I’m warning you.”
“I’ve got every lawful right to protect my property. That includes everything that belongs to me. Rose is my woman.”
I saddled up and collected my reins. “Danby, this trouble between you and Nichols isn’t about fences, or thirsty cattle. It’s a personal hurt raging out of control like a hay fire.”
“Marshal, you’ve said your piece. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off my land. You show your face around here again I’ll like as not shoot you down, along with Pate Nichols.”
I walked my horse toward him and pulled up.
“Danby,” I said low, “the day you draw on me is the day your wife turns widow. That’s all. Let’s go, Jake.”
We swung our horses around and pulled for town.
CHAPTER 11
W e found more coyote tracks riding in. There were bigger prints, too. Jake examined them. “Wolves,” he said.
He thought they were concentrated in the area because of the available water.
“I have never seen so many in my life,” he confessed. “The ground is covered with scat.”
“They are like any other animal that feeds off death, Jake. They smell when an easy killing is to be had.”
We hitched our horses outside the jailhouse. “That was an awful hot ride coming back,” Jake said, “and it’s half past noon already.”
“I’ll buy you a beer first. Then we can find Magra and have dinner.”
“That sounds like a fine idea. Especially about the beer.” He used his hat to knock dust off his pants. “Yes, sir, that was some hot ride.”
We went into the Texas Bluebonnet. While we were finishing our beers one of the men at the end of the bar approached us. His shirt was stiff with trail dust and caked with rings of dried sweat. He wore batwing chaps and smoke-coloured buckskin gauntlets with dyed porcupine quills on the back. Tall and hard, he was the kind of man who carried the dust and sun with him his whole life.
“You the law in this burg?” he asked.
“I am. Marshal Marwood.”
“Glad to meet you. My name is Gideon Short.” He shucked one of the gauntlets and we shook hands. Despite the protection of his heavy glove he had rein burns on his wrist.
“Blacksmith said I’d recognize you. Claimed you always wore a grey duster and carried a Colt Dragoon holstered crossways.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Short?”
“I’m trail boss for a Texas herd we’re pushing toward Denver.”
“We’ve got good cattle agents right here in Haxan, Mr. Short. They’ll give you a fair price.”
“I’ve got a buyer waiting in Colorado, Marshal. I thank you, though.”
“How big’s your herd?”
“A little under four thousand head. I’ve got them camped six miles back on waist-high grama grass. Here’s the thing, Marshal. We hit town early this morning. I want to let you know my boys are going to kick their heels a bit tonight before we push north.”
“We’ve got new laws here in Haxan, Mr. Short.”
“I’ve heard. My cowboys aren’t much for pistols, Marshal, unless it’s killing rattlesnakes and antelope for camp meat.”
“Gunmen?”
“They know how to shoot.”
Danby crossed his hands over his saddle horn. “I’m not going to lose any more sheep, Marshal. I’ve buried my last ewe. Next time, I’ll bury Pate Nichols.”
“Danby, I’m here to warn you. If you and Pate Nichols start a range war I’m going to stop it. Anyway I can.”
“Not your place to tell me my business,” he snapped back. “I’ll protect what belongs to me. That’s the right of any man.”
A breeze rippled the top of the shallow creek water, breaking the sunlight into yellow, dancing lozenges.
“Does that include your wife, Danby?”
Coffer’s face turned purple. He sat rigid in his saddle. “What are you trying to insinuate, Marshal?” His voice sounded like he was strangling on his own anger.
“Only this. If you and Nichols start any gunplay I’ll see the other man hanged for it, no matter what the cause. I warned Nichols, and now I’m warning you.”
“I’ve got every lawful right to protect my property. That includes everything that belongs to me. Rose is my woman.”
I saddled up and collected my reins. “Danby, this trouble between you and Nichols isn’t about fences, or thirsty cattle. It’s a personal hurt raging out of control like a hay fire.”
“Marshal, you’ve said your piece. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off my land. You show your face around here again I’ll like as not shoot you down, along with Pate Nichols.”
I walked my horse toward him and pulled up.
“Danby,” I said low, “the day you draw on me is the day your wife turns widow. That’s all. Let’s go, Jake.”
We swung our horses around and pulled for town.
CHAPTER 11
W e found more coyote tracks riding in. There were bigger prints, too. Jake examined them. “Wolves,” he said.
He thought they were concentrated in the area because of the available water.
“I have never seen so many in my life,” he confessed. “The ground is covered with scat.”
“They are like any other animal that feeds off death, Jake. They smell when an easy killing is to be had.”
We hitched our horses outside the jailhouse. “That was an awful hot ride coming back,” Jake said, “and it’s half past noon already.”
“I’ll buy you a beer first. Then we can find Magra and have dinner.”
“That sounds like a fine idea. Especially about the beer.” He used his hat to knock dust off his pants. “Yes, sir, that was some hot ride.”
We went into the Texas Bluebonnet. While we were finishing our beers one of the men at the end of the bar approached us. His shirt was stiff with trail dust and caked with rings of dried sweat. He wore batwing chaps and smoke-coloured buckskin gauntlets with dyed porcupine quills on the back. Tall and hard, he was the kind of man who carried the dust and sun with him his whole life.
“You the law in this burg?” he asked.
“I am. Marshal Marwood.”
“Glad to meet you. My name is Gideon Short.” He shucked one of the gauntlets and we shook hands. Despite the protection of his heavy glove he had rein burns on his wrist.
“Blacksmith said I’d recognize you. Claimed you always wore a grey duster and carried a Colt Dragoon holstered crossways.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Short?”
“I’m trail boss for a Texas herd we’re pushing toward Denver.”
“We’ve got good cattle agents right here in Haxan, Mr. Short. They’ll give you a fair price.”
“I’ve got a buyer waiting in Colorado, Marshal. I thank you, though.”
“How big’s your herd?”
“A little under four thousand head. I’ve got them camped six miles back on waist-high grama grass. Here’s the thing, Marshal. We hit town early this morning. I want to let you know my boys are going to kick their heels a bit tonight before we push north.”
“We’ve got new laws here in Haxan, Mr. Short.”
“I’ve heard. My cowboys aren’t much for pistols, Marshal, unless it’s killing rattlesnakes and antelope for camp meat.”
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