they spread apart a little, and I shucked my Winchester and looked right and left for shelter. There was none. If I started to run for the woods I’d be caught, cold turkey, against the white of the new-fallen snow.
True, the snow that was falling now blurred the air between us, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet. So I sat my saddle and waited, letting my horse shift around nervously to keep his muscles loose and ready if we had to run anyway.
Both of the men were known to me. Johnny Ives was a youngster with a reputation as a gunfighter. He was said to have killed a man in Kit Carson, Colorado, and another at Doan’s Store on the Texas Trail. The only man I actually knew of him killing was an old Indian up near Glendive.
The man with him was a bad one, known around as George Woll. Somebody had said that Ives was riding for Roman Bohlen.
“Kind of off your range, ain’t you?” Ives said.
“Don’t know. My range has always been wherever I wanted to make it.”
“Like down around Squaw Butte?”
“What’s that mean?”
Ives had the thong off his six-shooter butt but I had my Winchester in my hands. He would never lay a hand to that gun in time, and I think he guessed as much. George Woll sat his saddle, motionless.
“I don’t know,” Ives said, “only you might have been driving cattle down there.”
“I was. I drove some
back
.“
“You better be able to prove it,” Ives said, grinning unpleasantly. “Bohlen’s figuring on asking you.”
“Let him ask.” Gesturing at the remains of the cabin, I said, “What happened here?”
“Hell, do you need a map? Farley was a goddamn rustler an’ nester. He got what was coming to him.”
Like I said, I’ve got a temper, and right then it got away from me. “If you say Philo Farley was a rustler, you’re a damned liar!”
Ives’ face went white and he started a hand toward his gun, but my rifle muzzle had him dead center in the belly, at no more than fifteen yards. “Go ahead goddamn you!” I said. “Go ahead and lay hand to that gun!”
Oh, he wanted to! He wanted to the worst way. And Woll, he just sat there and looked at me as if his face was frozen from the cold, but he kept his hands in sight and didn’t make a move or say a word. I decided that I was going to watch my back when George Woll was around.
I was mad clean through. “Philo Farley,” I said,“was a gentleman, and if he has been murdered, I’ll lay a bet every damned one of you hangs for it!”
“Hangs?” Ives said startled. “For killin’ a nester?”
“If you’ve killed him, you’ve killed the wrong nester,” I said, more quietly. “Philo Farley was a former officer in the British Army, a man of good family, a man with connections, and if you’ve killed him you’ve blown the top off this whole country!”
“Aw, he wasn’t that important,” Ives scoffed. “And if he was, what difference does it make? This here’s a long distance from England!”
“Is it? I can name you five big outfits within two days’ ride that are English, and all of them friends of the Farley family.”
Right there I was stretching a point, but Ann had said they knew some of the ranchers’ families in England, so I might be more right than I could swear.
“What became of her?” I asked then.
“Her?”
“Ann Farley … Philo’s sister.”
Ives shot a quick, scared look at Woll. Then he said, “He didn’t have no sister that I ever heard of.”
“He had one. She just got here from England. I rode out with her myself.”
They were really scared now, and Ives gave an apprehensive look at the snow-covered ruins. “I never saw any woman. Farley was always alone.”
Woll spoke for the first time. “You seen him?”
So Farley was not dead. Or if he was, they were not sure of it.
CHAPTER 11
W HATEVER THEIR URGE for trouble when they rode into the valley, it was gone by now. They would need time to figure out whether I was lying about Ann Farley, and also they would
True, the snow that was falling now blurred the air between us, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet. So I sat my saddle and waited, letting my horse shift around nervously to keep his muscles loose and ready if we had to run anyway.
Both of the men were known to me. Johnny Ives was a youngster with a reputation as a gunfighter. He was said to have killed a man in Kit Carson, Colorado, and another at Doan’s Store on the Texas Trail. The only man I actually knew of him killing was an old Indian up near Glendive.
The man with him was a bad one, known around as George Woll. Somebody had said that Ives was riding for Roman Bohlen.
“Kind of off your range, ain’t you?” Ives said.
“Don’t know. My range has always been wherever I wanted to make it.”
“Like down around Squaw Butte?”
“What’s that mean?”
Ives had the thong off his six-shooter butt but I had my Winchester in my hands. He would never lay a hand to that gun in time, and I think he guessed as much. George Woll sat his saddle, motionless.
“I don’t know,” Ives said, “only you might have been driving cattle down there.”
“I was. I drove some
back
.“
“You better be able to prove it,” Ives said, grinning unpleasantly. “Bohlen’s figuring on asking you.”
“Let him ask.” Gesturing at the remains of the cabin, I said, “What happened here?”
“Hell, do you need a map? Farley was a goddamn rustler an’ nester. He got what was coming to him.”
Like I said, I’ve got a temper, and right then it got away from me. “If you say Philo Farley was a rustler, you’re a damned liar!”
Ives’ face went white and he started a hand toward his gun, but my rifle muzzle had him dead center in the belly, at no more than fifteen yards. “Go ahead goddamn you!” I said. “Go ahead and lay hand to that gun!”
Oh, he wanted to! He wanted to the worst way. And Woll, he just sat there and looked at me as if his face was frozen from the cold, but he kept his hands in sight and didn’t make a move or say a word. I decided that I was going to watch my back when George Woll was around.
I was mad clean through. “Philo Farley,” I said,“was a gentleman, and if he has been murdered, I’ll lay a bet every damned one of you hangs for it!”
“Hangs?” Ives said startled. “For killin’ a nester?”
“If you’ve killed him, you’ve killed the wrong nester,” I said, more quietly. “Philo Farley was a former officer in the British Army, a man of good family, a man with connections, and if you’ve killed him you’ve blown the top off this whole country!”
“Aw, he wasn’t that important,” Ives scoffed. “And if he was, what difference does it make? This here’s a long distance from England!”
“Is it? I can name you five big outfits within two days’ ride that are English, and all of them friends of the Farley family.”
Right there I was stretching a point, but Ann had said they knew some of the ranchers’ families in England, so I might be more right than I could swear.
“What became of her?” I asked then.
“Her?”
“Ann Farley … Philo’s sister.”
Ives shot a quick, scared look at Woll. Then he said, “He didn’t have no sister that I ever heard of.”
“He had one. She just got here from England. I rode out with her myself.”
They were really scared now, and Ives gave an apprehensive look at the snow-covered ruins. “I never saw any woman. Farley was always alone.”
Woll spoke for the first time. “You seen him?”
So Farley was not dead. Or if he was, they were not sure of it.
CHAPTER 11
W HATEVER THEIR URGE for trouble when they rode into the valley, it was gone by now. They would need time to figure out whether I was lying about Ann Farley, and also they would
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