with the terrified bawling of cattle, that trampling roar was like the sound of an avalanche. Cries flew out of the street. The hall door burst open.
“Father!”
A girl with a quilted wrapper clutched about her ran barefooted past the scowling red-cheeked foreman, the loose mass of her hair tumbling about slim shoulders like a cascade of gold in the light from the street. “Father — ?” More guns went off and there were yells from below. Bill Grace, swearing, dashed for the stairs.
Kimberland, still at the window, dropped a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulder. The tautness of strain was in his muscles, too.
Honey said, “I’m afraid — ”
His watch said 2:30. He allowed her to coax him as far as the rocker. “We’re as safe right here as we’d probably be anywhere.” He took the girl’s hand. “Tonight we’ve got a new marshal, Sugar. I think you could turn his head very easily.”
There was no change in the lovely face but her voice was compliant. “Would that help you, Father?”
“I suppose,” he said with just the right inflection, “a woman might find that young scamp attractive.”
“Do I know him, Father?”
He smiled down at her quizzically. “He’s the fellow who saved you from Church’s bull that time.” He spoke as to a child. “Perhaps you’d enjoy having lunch with him tomorrow. Of course,” he added doubtfully, “Frank’s pretty much of a roughneck.”
“I could do that,” Honey said.
“Town’s growing up. Never does any harm to be well thought of by a marshal. Sort of like to have him get the idea us folks from Bar Forty…. Look, just act natural, Sugar. Friendly. That’s all I want you to do.”
• • •
Frank, at the marshal’s office, had turned in at two. Danny was tipped back in one of the chairs against the wall, snoring with his mouth opening and shutting with each breath. Frank had left Chavez in charge of the town. Sleep wouldn’t come to Frank what with all the banging and clatter being stirred up by that gale. His thoughts were like horses; every fourth or fifth jump they’d take him back to those bodies in the rear of Ben’s store. Chavez had shown up with Ben, and the furniture-selling coroner had officially pronounced Brackley dead. Frank had then assembled the contents of his pocket which had included a dog-eared wallet. This last, upon inspection, had proved to contain a handful of silver and thirty-four dollars in hard-used bills. Frank had stared at these blankly.
“What’s the matter?” Ben had asked, and Frank had explained about the loan Gurden claimed to have made Jace. Chavez had looked frankly skeptical. Ben had asked, “What about those fellers that carried him over here?”
Frank shook his head and, figuratively speaking, was still shaking it. The men who had brought Brackley here might have taken the money if Brackley’d had it on him but Frank couldn’t dredge any confidence from the notion. If a man made up his mind to robbery, where was the sense in leaving part of the haul? It would all have been in Brackley’s wallet if he’d had it. Yet Frank had no doubt if he was made to, Gurden would produce a signed lien on Brackley’s ranch. There was only one question about this in Frank’s mind: Had Gurden had such a paper
before
Brackley’s killing?
But this question bred another. Had Gurden arranged Brackley’s death or had somebody else? He could foresee the kind of rumors that were no doubt already flying — that would certainly fly if Bar 40 put cattle on Brackley’s range. Kimberland or Gurden — which one of them had hired this?
Chavez had put up Frank’s dun or he might have gone on the prowl again. He needed sleep. This had been a hard night, about the hardest one he had ever put in. He got up, pulled his boots on, and walked over to the door. Danny was still snoring. Frank stood there a moment, thinking, then went back, got his hat and shrugged into his brush jacket.
He pulled open the door. The
“Father!”
A girl with a quilted wrapper clutched about her ran barefooted past the scowling red-cheeked foreman, the loose mass of her hair tumbling about slim shoulders like a cascade of gold in the light from the street. “Father — ?” More guns went off and there were yells from below. Bill Grace, swearing, dashed for the stairs.
Kimberland, still at the window, dropped a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulder. The tautness of strain was in his muscles, too.
Honey said, “I’m afraid — ”
His watch said 2:30. He allowed her to coax him as far as the rocker. “We’re as safe right here as we’d probably be anywhere.” He took the girl’s hand. “Tonight we’ve got a new marshal, Sugar. I think you could turn his head very easily.”
There was no change in the lovely face but her voice was compliant. “Would that help you, Father?”
“I suppose,” he said with just the right inflection, “a woman might find that young scamp attractive.”
“Do I know him, Father?”
He smiled down at her quizzically. “He’s the fellow who saved you from Church’s bull that time.” He spoke as to a child. “Perhaps you’d enjoy having lunch with him tomorrow. Of course,” he added doubtfully, “Frank’s pretty much of a roughneck.”
“I could do that,” Honey said.
“Town’s growing up. Never does any harm to be well thought of by a marshal. Sort of like to have him get the idea us folks from Bar Forty…. Look, just act natural, Sugar. Friendly. That’s all I want you to do.”
• • •
Frank, at the marshal’s office, had turned in at two. Danny was tipped back in one of the chairs against the wall, snoring with his mouth opening and shutting with each breath. Frank had left Chavez in charge of the town. Sleep wouldn’t come to Frank what with all the banging and clatter being stirred up by that gale. His thoughts were like horses; every fourth or fifth jump they’d take him back to those bodies in the rear of Ben’s store. Chavez had shown up with Ben, and the furniture-selling coroner had officially pronounced Brackley dead. Frank had then assembled the contents of his pocket which had included a dog-eared wallet. This last, upon inspection, had proved to contain a handful of silver and thirty-four dollars in hard-used bills. Frank had stared at these blankly.
“What’s the matter?” Ben had asked, and Frank had explained about the loan Gurden claimed to have made Jace. Chavez had looked frankly skeptical. Ben had asked, “What about those fellers that carried him over here?”
Frank shook his head and, figuratively speaking, was still shaking it. The men who had brought Brackley here might have taken the money if Brackley’d had it on him but Frank couldn’t dredge any confidence from the notion. If a man made up his mind to robbery, where was the sense in leaving part of the haul? It would all have been in Brackley’s wallet if he’d had it. Yet Frank had no doubt if he was made to, Gurden would produce a signed lien on Brackley’s ranch. There was only one question about this in Frank’s mind: Had Gurden had such a paper
before
Brackley’s killing?
But this question bred another. Had Gurden arranged Brackley’s death or had somebody else? He could foresee the kind of rumors that were no doubt already flying — that would certainly fly if Bar 40 put cattle on Brackley’s range. Kimberland or Gurden — which one of them had hired this?
Chavez had put up Frank’s dun or he might have gone on the prowl again. He needed sleep. This had been a hard night, about the hardest one he had ever put in. He got up, pulled his boots on, and walked over to the door. Danny was still snoring. Frank stood there a moment, thinking, then went back, got his hat and shrugged into his brush jacket.
He pulled open the door. The
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