The Sons of Grady Rourke by Douglas Savage Page A

was thick and curly with ringlets around his forehead where his tall hat had made a deep depression above his clear, gray eyes. He was tall and not heavy, but built solid and wide through the shoulders like a man who works hard labor for his wages.
    â€œGuess my legs’ll sit now.” Brewer hobbled toward the straight-backed chair opposite Patrick’s rocker.
    Patrick stood and found a clean tin cup in the kitchen. He knelt to fill the cup, which he set on the table between them, and refilled his own cup. He sank back into his father’s chair.
    â€œThanks. I’m Mr. Tunstall’s foreman down on the Felix. He sent me to ask for your help.”
    â€œHelp? My plate’s pretty full just getting the fences back up here.”
    â€œI know. Sorry about your Pa. We all liked him. Sheriff Brady shut down the store yesterday. Billy rode down yesterday evening. Rode all Friday afternoon and all night. I started before daylight this morning. The other clerk—the dude, Widenmann—he got himself arrested by Brady for not handing over the keys. Two deputies are living in the store now to keep people from buying there. They come to take half of everything. Said it were to do with Mr. McSween ’bezzling from the Fritz family. The old man died in Germany last year, I guess.”
    Patrick put down his cup and looked down at his ragged shirts that had more button holes than buttons.
    â€œDeputies? Was my brother Sean among them?”
    â€œDon’t know. Billy didn’t say. Does he ride with Brady or the Boys?”
    â€œEvans’ gang? I suppose he does now.”
    â€œOh. Them Boys take what they please from Chisum’s herds. Took Mr. McSween’s ponies last November, too.” Brewer shrugged toward the breezy curtains that let in the distant rumblings of the cold cattle with their jingle-bobbed, Chisum ears.
    â€œWhat does Mr. Tunstall expect from me?”
    â€œHe wants you to come down to Rio Felix with me tomorrow. He’s expecting trouble from Brady. Tunstall ain’t gone back to Lincoln yet. He wants some guns to ride with him when he does.”
    Patrick looked into the fire.
    â€œI didn’t come home to get into no gun fights, Dick. I’m a rancher now. Trying, anyway.”
    â€œMr. Tunstall don’t really expect no gunplay if Brady comes. He just wants us to stand up with him if Brady’s men try to take Tunstall horses for this McSween business. He says that Mr. McSween is buying into the store a little at a time, but he don’t own any interest in Rio Felix or Tunstall’s horses. He just wants us to stand up with him if Brady comes down or to ride with him back into town.”
    â€œBut there could be shooting.”
    â€œI don’t think so. Brady ain’t no killer like the captain or Jimmy Dolan. I have to say that Brady just tries to walk the line between Dolan and our side. He ain’t a bad man. Not like Dolan and Evans, anyway. Brady’s got a house full of babies. He ain’t likely to go spoiling for a killing fight. We just want it to be even, that’s all. The Rio Felix spread can be a two-day ride from here in the winter.”
    Dick Brewer became more animated as the blood returned to his cold face. He was earnest and courteous. Like the amiable Billy Bonney and the wide-eyed Rob Widenmann now in jail, Tunstall seemed to attract decent young men trying to make an honest living in a clapboard town.
    Patrick raised his tin cup to extend the momentary silence so he could think. He had a ranch to run single-handed and the Englishman was inviting him to take sides in a little war in which Patrick had neither an interest nor a stake—except for the cattle grazing on old weeds under new snow that paid him just enough to hang on to his father’s land. The cattle belonged to John Chisum and Tunstall’s bank was supported by Chisum’s sterling name.
    â€œAll right, Dick. There’s a cot up in