smoothed out in his head what the gunfighter’s stake in this deal added up to. He remembered Ben’s baleful look after mention of French’s plates, and cursed impotently under his breath. These were the men he was going to have to make his fight with and he had better weigh them careful.
He got a layout of tools for himself from cook’s box and bent over the kettle, afterwards forking a couple of biscuits from the oven and dumping a splash of black coffee into one of the battered tin cups. This was just about the kind of crew a guy would pick if he was fixing to make off with a fortune in horses. It was hard, nevertheless, to imagine Ben killing French for the sake of the hole he must have reckoned the man’s death would put Farraday into. It had come near enough doing it, Grete thought, suddenly sweating.
A galoot who would go that far to gain his ends was nobody to stamp your foot and yell
boo
at. It was a sobering thought. With his mouth full of stew he turned it over, glimpsing one other thing. Sary had said she was afraid of this crew, yet Ben had put it together. She had also claimed they were after her horses, but again you were forced to come back to Ben Hollis. If a man covered his dead brother’s horses, might he not also lust after that brother’s comely wife?
One by one the men swabbed out their plates and went off to the
caballada
. Farraday dug out the makings and patched up a smoke, trying to trace out the probable succession of events by which Ben might hope to gain control of this stock. But he remained too aware of Sary’s proximity to get very far with any serious thinking.
He got up, grinding out the butt of his cigarette, and tossed his tableware into the wreck pan. Biggest problem right now centered around Curly Bill. That false trail the kid was laying might keep Bill himself off their necks, or it might not. But this was the best Grete could look for. The moment that swarthy outlaw decided the horses weren’t coming through Stein’s he’d have moved to seal off every trail they might use and then, with what was left of his men, he’d have set out to find them.
Grete snaked a fresh mount from the cavvy under rope off to one side at the left of the fire. You couldn’t turn geldings in with mares, particularly when there was a stallion around. It was remarkable when you stopped to think of it that Steeldust behaved as well as he did. Someone had obviously spent a lot of time with him. Barney, probably — he seemed to have a knack with stock. French had a way with stock too, Grete remembered, and irascibly hoped his faith in the kid would prove better justified than his snap judgment of Hollis.
It was Idaho that Grete couldn’t figure. Considering the pounding that lay between them the gunfighter’s present cooperative attitude looked phony as anything Grete had come up against. Had Idaho swallowed his feelings or was he only dissembling? By every standard the man should be itching to take a fall out of Grete to recover the prestige Grete’s fists had drubbed out of him. That thing of him coming up with French’s plates still had Grete going around in circles. Or maybe it was lack of rest that made his head hurt.
He considered the mares and found the bulk of them grazing. Stars glimmered like jewels in the black night above them. There was no wind. The moon, in its last quarter, had not yet come up. A rider drifted out of the dark motte of trees with a soft “
Quien es?
”
“Farraday,” Grete said. “Everything quiet?”
The Mexican shrugged. “
Poco bueno.
”
“Where’s Idaho?”
Frijoles pointed. “Far side, I sink.”
“Slip back and catch a few winks.” Farraday rode on. He was so exhausted he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned prodigiously. Next horseman he encountered was Rip. He sent the man in. Off somewhere above the pass a coyote irritably yammered, and a picture came up in Grete’s mind of the way Ben had looked when the younger of those two
He got a layout of tools for himself from cook’s box and bent over the kettle, afterwards forking a couple of biscuits from the oven and dumping a splash of black coffee into one of the battered tin cups. This was just about the kind of crew a guy would pick if he was fixing to make off with a fortune in horses. It was hard, nevertheless, to imagine Ben killing French for the sake of the hole he must have reckoned the man’s death would put Farraday into. It had come near enough doing it, Grete thought, suddenly sweating.
A galoot who would go that far to gain his ends was nobody to stamp your foot and yell
boo
at. It was a sobering thought. With his mouth full of stew he turned it over, glimpsing one other thing. Sary had said she was afraid of this crew, yet Ben had put it together. She had also claimed they were after her horses, but again you were forced to come back to Ben Hollis. If a man covered his dead brother’s horses, might he not also lust after that brother’s comely wife?
One by one the men swabbed out their plates and went off to the
caballada
. Farraday dug out the makings and patched up a smoke, trying to trace out the probable succession of events by which Ben might hope to gain control of this stock. But he remained too aware of Sary’s proximity to get very far with any serious thinking.
He got up, grinding out the butt of his cigarette, and tossed his tableware into the wreck pan. Biggest problem right now centered around Curly Bill. That false trail the kid was laying might keep Bill himself off their necks, or it might not. But this was the best Grete could look for. The moment that swarthy outlaw decided the horses weren’t coming through Stein’s he’d have moved to seal off every trail they might use and then, with what was left of his men, he’d have set out to find them.
Grete snaked a fresh mount from the cavvy under rope off to one side at the left of the fire. You couldn’t turn geldings in with mares, particularly when there was a stallion around. It was remarkable when you stopped to think of it that Steeldust behaved as well as he did. Someone had obviously spent a lot of time with him. Barney, probably — he seemed to have a knack with stock. French had a way with stock too, Grete remembered, and irascibly hoped his faith in the kid would prove better justified than his snap judgment of Hollis.
It was Idaho that Grete couldn’t figure. Considering the pounding that lay between them the gunfighter’s present cooperative attitude looked phony as anything Grete had come up against. Had Idaho swallowed his feelings or was he only dissembling? By every standard the man should be itching to take a fall out of Grete to recover the prestige Grete’s fists had drubbed out of him. That thing of him coming up with French’s plates still had Grete going around in circles. Or maybe it was lack of rest that made his head hurt.
He considered the mares and found the bulk of them grazing. Stars glimmered like jewels in the black night above them. There was no wind. The moon, in its last quarter, had not yet come up. A rider drifted out of the dark motte of trees with a soft “
Quien es?
”
“Farraday,” Grete said. “Everything quiet?”
The Mexican shrugged. “
Poco bueno.
”
“Where’s Idaho?”
Frijoles pointed. “Far side, I sink.”
“Slip back and catch a few winks.” Farraday rode on. He was so exhausted he could hardly keep his eyes open. He yawned prodigiously. Next horseman he encountered was Rip. He sent the man in. Off somewhere above the pass a coyote irritably yammered, and a picture came up in Grete’s mind of the way Ben had looked when the younger of those two
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