“I meant it too. And the difference between you and the other two boys is that they’re paid in gold eagles. You’ll be paid in thousands, Jim. Any kick?”
“No kick,” Jim said mildly.
Riling rode over to Shotten and Riordan and spoke to them. Most of the others had gone in groups of two and three. Sweet was with the two Bardens, and when he reached the end of the long slope to the river he turned in his saddle and looked back. Riling, Jim, Riordan and Joe Shotten were angling south along the river, heading for the cottonwood motte that lined the river for miles to the south.
Sweet watched them out of sight and then spoke to Anse. “Notice how them four stick together?”
“Why not?” Barden murmured. “Riordan and Joe work for him. Garry’s a friend, come in to help.”
“I can buy that kind of a friend for seventy-five a month and no questions asked,” Sweet said sardonically.
Barden knew what he meant, and he said gloomily, “Maybe we’ll need ’em, Milo.”
“But how did Riling know that a month ago? Tell me that.”
Barden couldn’t answer him.
When they had ridden a mile or so Riling said, “All right, cut for town, boys, and stay out of trouble.”
He watched them go up over the ridge, Jim Garry riding in the rear. Then he drew out his sack of tobacco and rolled and lighted a smoke, afterward pulling his horse deeper into the cottonwoods. He didn’t dismount there but quietly sat his horse, waiting for everyone to ride out of sight. The midmorning sun slanting through the cottonwoods touched the yellow leaves scattered beneath the trees in a bright harlequin pattern that would have pleased him at any other time. But not this morning.
Lufton had tricked him smartly, and the thoughtof it both galled him and pleased him. He was pleased because he saw that Lufton underestimated his intelligence. If, as Lufton probably thought, Jim Garry had read the note and told him, Riling would have seen through it. But coming from Carol, he hadn’t doubted it. His slow, thorough mind considered Carol now. He had read that look in her eyes back there as pleading for understanding; in another hour she would be telling him why she’d failed, although he knew. He must be careful with her if she was to be of any use to him. Today she’d been afraid of what she’d find there at Ripple Ford and thankful that the plans had misfired. He’d have to win her back again, give her the courage she lacked, reassure her.
Presently he put his horse out of the cottonwoods, back-tracking to the V and going into the dunes. He was a solid man on a horse, carrying his arrogance even to the saddle. He rode with one big hand on his thigh, elbow a little outthrust, back straight. His face was thoughtful during that hour that he crossed the dunes and dropped down on the other side of them onto a long reach of alkali flats that lifted in dun steps to the base of the distant Bench. Carol remained in his mind, put there by the happening this morning. Again the choice confronted him, as it had all this past month since he’d known her. He couldn’t remember when it first came to him that she could be his to use. It must have been after that dance at the Roan Creek schoolhouse the week he’d bought his place. He’d been a stranger then, a big, smiling man who was sure of himself, friendly, new to the country, eager to meet people.
He’d met Carol and Amy Lufton that night, alongwith twenty other girls. Carol had cornered all the men, as she always did with her beauty, but Tate had seen it was no pleasure to her. She was restless and bored and a little desperate, and when he’d been introduced to her that night she had looked at him with a rising, provocative interest. Tate had wanted her on sight and had set about getting her in his own, always oblique, way. He had not danced with her that night. The whole evening he ignored her, dancing with all the other girls and the married women, and because he was a stranger, he took
“No kick,” Jim said mildly.
Riling rode over to Shotten and Riordan and spoke to them. Most of the others had gone in groups of two and three. Sweet was with the two Bardens, and when he reached the end of the long slope to the river he turned in his saddle and looked back. Riling, Jim, Riordan and Joe Shotten were angling south along the river, heading for the cottonwood motte that lined the river for miles to the south.
Sweet watched them out of sight and then spoke to Anse. “Notice how them four stick together?”
“Why not?” Barden murmured. “Riordan and Joe work for him. Garry’s a friend, come in to help.”
“I can buy that kind of a friend for seventy-five a month and no questions asked,” Sweet said sardonically.
Barden knew what he meant, and he said gloomily, “Maybe we’ll need ’em, Milo.”
“But how did Riling know that a month ago? Tell me that.”
Barden couldn’t answer him.
When they had ridden a mile or so Riling said, “All right, cut for town, boys, and stay out of trouble.”
He watched them go up over the ridge, Jim Garry riding in the rear. Then he drew out his sack of tobacco and rolled and lighted a smoke, afterward pulling his horse deeper into the cottonwoods. He didn’t dismount there but quietly sat his horse, waiting for everyone to ride out of sight. The midmorning sun slanting through the cottonwoods touched the yellow leaves scattered beneath the trees in a bright harlequin pattern that would have pleased him at any other time. But not this morning.
Lufton had tricked him smartly, and the thoughtof it both galled him and pleased him. He was pleased because he saw that Lufton underestimated his intelligence. If, as Lufton probably thought, Jim Garry had read the note and told him, Riling would have seen through it. But coming from Carol, he hadn’t doubted it. His slow, thorough mind considered Carol now. He had read that look in her eyes back there as pleading for understanding; in another hour she would be telling him why she’d failed, although he knew. He must be careful with her if she was to be of any use to him. Today she’d been afraid of what she’d find there at Ripple Ford and thankful that the plans had misfired. He’d have to win her back again, give her the courage she lacked, reassure her.
Presently he put his horse out of the cottonwoods, back-tracking to the V and going into the dunes. He was a solid man on a horse, carrying his arrogance even to the saddle. He rode with one big hand on his thigh, elbow a little outthrust, back straight. His face was thoughtful during that hour that he crossed the dunes and dropped down on the other side of them onto a long reach of alkali flats that lifted in dun steps to the base of the distant Bench. Carol remained in his mind, put there by the happening this morning. Again the choice confronted him, as it had all this past month since he’d known her. He couldn’t remember when it first came to him that she could be his to use. It must have been after that dance at the Roan Creek schoolhouse the week he’d bought his place. He’d been a stranger then, a big, smiling man who was sure of himself, friendly, new to the country, eager to meet people.
He’d met Carol and Amy Lufton that night, alongwith twenty other girls. Carol had cornered all the men, as she always did with her beauty, but Tate had seen it was no pleasure to her. She was restless and bored and a little desperate, and when he’d been introduced to her that night she had looked at him with a rising, provocative interest. Tate had wanted her on sight and had set about getting her in his own, always oblique, way. He had not danced with her that night. The whole evening he ignored her, dancing with all the other girls and the married women, and because he was a stranger, he took
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