for the older brother’s less caustic seal of acceptance.
He was not kept waiting overlong.
“The rest of it,” repeated Ben Allison slowly, “means war.”
The discussion grew swiftly bitter.
“I don’t give a damn what you say” rapped Nathan Stark. “Our best bet is to go on to the fort. Those pony tracks are heading west. Our course is east.”
“My course is where I say it is,” said Ben. “And I say it’s back to that emigrant camp.”
“Ben, be reasonable,” pleaded Stark, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. “There’s only ten or twelve of the Indians. They’ve nothing to gain by attacking those poor devils back there. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t it?” smiled Clint easily. “Take a look at that north sky, mister.”
Stark glanced nervously at the greasy mushroom bed of clouds growing rapidly beyond the river, then defiantly back to Clint. “All right. The clouds are coming in heavy again. Where’s the difference? We can beat them to the fort.”
“The Sioux,” nodded Ben, pale eyes narrowing, “kin likewise beat ’em to the grove.”
“I don’t follow you, Ben.”
“Well, follow this!” Clint shoved his mare into Stark’s studhorse. “You said you didn’t know much about Injuns. Mister, you don’t. They ain’t partial to snowstorms no more’n white men. It’s damn seldom how few times you’ll bump up agin a war party out joggin’ a blizzard jest fer the fresh air. Also, they got bellies jest like us. They git hungry and they got to eat. You know how much game we’ve seen the past week. You kin lay they ain’t seen no more where they come from. It jest ain’t the weather fer game. She all adds up, mister.”
“To what, for God’s sake?” demanded Nathan Stark angrily.
“To Timpas Creek Grove and them five emigrant mules,” said Ben quietly. “I reckon we got to go back.”
“Yeah,” muttered Clint, reining the mare sharply. “And sometime ’fore spring would be nice.”
“Well, you reckon wrong,” declared Stark, still angry. “And without me. I’ve got ten thousand dollars in these saddlebags and it’s going to get to Fort Worth, emigrant mules or no emigrant mules.”
“What about emigrant jennies?” said Clint innocently, letting his slack grin loosen with the question.
Stark knew he meant the girl, and what he meant about the girl. But he covered his hand. “I won’t waste words with an idiot,” he snapped loftily. Then, wheeling his stud to face Ben, flatteringly, “Ben, you’re a man that makes sense, and understands it as well. I’m appealing to you now. Use that sense, man. Think! Why we can—”
“You’re bellerin’ inter the wind,” muttered Ben. He kicked his gelding around. “You comin’, Clint?”
Clint held the little sorrel in, making no move to send her after the black. “Not jest yet,” he said, hardfaced.
“You stickin’ with Stark, Clint?”
The straight-eyed, too soft way Ben said it let Clint know his refusal had caught his brother like a knife in the kidney. But his own face lost no line of its hardness.
“Stark,” he answered, just as low, “and our ten thousand dollars.”
It was the difference in them, that Ben had made nothing of Stark’s mention of the money. But Clint’s reminder of it was something else again. Something even Ben couldn’t miss, nor ignore, nor even blame.
“Likely, you’ve got a good point. Leastways,” he shrugged, “the way you see it.”
There was no bitterness in the words. Clint knew none was intended. Ben was like that. Still a man knew what store his brother set by certain things. Knew, in that line, that ten times ten thousand dollars could not have kept Ben from going back to help those poor bastards on Timpas Creek.
“We’ll git to the fort and back quick as we kin,” he muttered awkwardly. Then, harshly, to Stark, “Kick that studhorse in his blue-blooded butt, mister. We got miles to make.”
Ben watched them go. He heeled the black
He was not kept waiting overlong.
“The rest of it,” repeated Ben Allison slowly, “means war.”
The discussion grew swiftly bitter.
“I don’t give a damn what you say” rapped Nathan Stark. “Our best bet is to go on to the fort. Those pony tracks are heading west. Our course is east.”
“My course is where I say it is,” said Ben. “And I say it’s back to that emigrant camp.”
“Ben, be reasonable,” pleaded Stark, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. “There’s only ten or twelve of the Indians. They’ve nothing to gain by attacking those poor devils back there. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t it?” smiled Clint easily. “Take a look at that north sky, mister.”
Stark glanced nervously at the greasy mushroom bed of clouds growing rapidly beyond the river, then defiantly back to Clint. “All right. The clouds are coming in heavy again. Where’s the difference? We can beat them to the fort.”
“The Sioux,” nodded Ben, pale eyes narrowing, “kin likewise beat ’em to the grove.”
“I don’t follow you, Ben.”
“Well, follow this!” Clint shoved his mare into Stark’s studhorse. “You said you didn’t know much about Injuns. Mister, you don’t. They ain’t partial to snowstorms no more’n white men. It’s damn seldom how few times you’ll bump up agin a war party out joggin’ a blizzard jest fer the fresh air. Also, they got bellies jest like us. They git hungry and they got to eat. You know how much game we’ve seen the past week. You kin lay they ain’t seen no more where they come from. It jest ain’t the weather fer game. She all adds up, mister.”
“To what, for God’s sake?” demanded Nathan Stark angrily.
“To Timpas Creek Grove and them five emigrant mules,” said Ben quietly. “I reckon we got to go back.”
“Yeah,” muttered Clint, reining the mare sharply. “And sometime ’fore spring would be nice.”
“Well, you reckon wrong,” declared Stark, still angry. “And without me. I’ve got ten thousand dollars in these saddlebags and it’s going to get to Fort Worth, emigrant mules or no emigrant mules.”
“What about emigrant jennies?” said Clint innocently, letting his slack grin loosen with the question.
Stark knew he meant the girl, and what he meant about the girl. But he covered his hand. “I won’t waste words with an idiot,” he snapped loftily. Then, wheeling his stud to face Ben, flatteringly, “Ben, you’re a man that makes sense, and understands it as well. I’m appealing to you now. Use that sense, man. Think! Why we can—”
“You’re bellerin’ inter the wind,” muttered Ben. He kicked his gelding around. “You comin’, Clint?”
Clint held the little sorrel in, making no move to send her after the black. “Not jest yet,” he said, hardfaced.
“You stickin’ with Stark, Clint?”
The straight-eyed, too soft way Ben said it let Clint know his refusal had caught his brother like a knife in the kidney. But his own face lost no line of its hardness.
“Stark,” he answered, just as low, “and our ten thousand dollars.”
It was the difference in them, that Ben had made nothing of Stark’s mention of the money. But Clint’s reminder of it was something else again. Something even Ben couldn’t miss, nor ignore, nor even blame.
“Likely, you’ve got a good point. Leastways,” he shrugged, “the way you see it.”
There was no bitterness in the words. Clint knew none was intended. Ben was like that. Still a man knew what store his brother set by certain things. Knew, in that line, that ten times ten thousand dollars could not have kept Ben from going back to help those poor bastards on Timpas Creek.
“We’ll git to the fort and back quick as we kin,” he muttered awkwardly. Then, harshly, to Stark, “Kick that studhorse in his blue-blooded butt, mister. We got miles to make.”
Ben watched them go. He heeled the black
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