Play a Lone Hand by Luke; Short Page B

and saddle up three horses,” Giff said. “The rest of you stay set.”
    The rider looked first at the gun, then at Giff’s hard face, then turned to go out. The crew broke for him. Gun leveled at the man’s back, Giff followed. Suddenly, the man halted so abruptly that Giff bumped into him; he was looking across the room and Giff looked too. In the bunkhouse doorway stood a woman.
    She was perhaps forty, Giff judged, although her thin autocratic face held a pain-ravaged sternness that made her seem older. Under her right arm was a crutch on which she leaned, her upper body half twisted into it. Her dress was a dead black color and long-sleeved. Her hair, of an auburn color, was so thick as to be almost unruly and she wore it off her neck, coiled carelessly on top of her head. “Who was shooting?” she demanded coldly.
    Giff stepped from behind the rider. “I was,” he said. “I’ll probably shoot again, too.”
    The woman looked levelly at him and said, “I forbid you to. There is no gunfire allowed at Torreon. Any man who works here should know that.”
    Giff’s voice was dry. “I don’t work here, and unless I get three horses saddled right now, you’ll likely hear more shooting.”
    The woman frowned, “Who are you?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” Giff said flatly. “A couple of Torreon hands set three of us afoot this afternoon. I’ve come for our horses. Since they’re not here, I’ll take three of yours.”
    â€œYou’re working for the Land Office.” It was a statement, rather than a question and Giff nodded. “I’m Mrs. Sebree. Please come to the house with me.”
    Giff said quietly, “As soon as I have our horses.”
    Mrs. Sebree said to the crew, “Where are they?”
    There was a moment of silence and then a man cleared his throat and said, “Tied to the west gate.”
    â€œGet them. Meanwhile give this man as many of our horses as you drove away.” Without further words Mrs. Sebree turned and stepped out into the evening. Welling warily circled the table, his gun held at his side, and Giff started after him. He saw his hat on the floor and said flatly to the closest man, “Pick it up.” The man obeyed and handed it to him, and afterward he holstered the gun, circled the table and went out.
    Mrs. Sebree was waiting outside for them. She asked, “Which one of you is the special agent?”
    Welling cleared his throat and said, “I am, Mrs. Sebree.” Already his voice held its old note of affability.
    Mrs. Sebree said, “Then you’ll want to stay here and make sure your horses are satisfactory. There won’t be any more trouble, I assure you. Mr. Dixon, please come with me.”
    It was not quite rudeness, but her point was plain enough. It was Giff she wanted to see, not Welling, and he was excused. She turned then and walked toward the carriage house. Surprisingly, she moved at a normal pace in spite of her limp, and Giff walked beside her in silence. Passing the carriage house, they achieved a gravel driveway. Here Mrs. Sebree rested a moment and Giff unsuccessfully tried to read her thoughts in the lowering darkness. Mrs. Sebree asked abruptly, “Did I hurt that man’s feelings?”
    â€œEveryone hurts his feelings.”
    Mrs. Sebree laughed quietly and started off up the drive toward the big house. At the wide steps of the main house, Giff held out his arm to her. She said, “Thank you, but I do this by myself.”
    Once on the long veranda, she turned toward a cluster of chairs, halted before one, slipped the crutch from under her arm and sat down. She indicated the chair next to her and Giff, removing his hat, also sat down.
    She said, “I would offer you supper but I don’t think you are in the mood to accept it from Torreon.”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Sebree leaned forward, “Tell