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  Turning, I started toward the stable, and then I stopped, for there was a man standing there.

  He was a huge man, towering over my six feet two inches, broader and heavier by far than my two hundred pounds. He was big-boned and full of raw power, unbroken and brutal. He stood wide-legged before me, his face as wide as my two hands, his big head topped by a mass of tight curls.

  “You’re Brennan?”

  “Why, yes,” I said, and he hit me.

  There was no start to the blow. His big balled fist hit my jaw like an axe butt and something seemed to slam me behind the knees and I felt myself falling. He hit me again as I fell into his fist, a wicked blow that turned me half around.

  He dropped astride of me, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him, and with his knees pinning my arms, he aimed smashing, brutal blows at my head and face. Finally he got up, stepped back, and kicked me in the ribs.

  “If you’re conscious, hear me. I’m Morgan Park, and I’m the man who’s going to marry Moira Maclaren.”

  My lips were swollen and bloody and my brain foggy. “You lie!” I said, and he kicked me again and then walked away, whistling.

  Somehow I rolled over and got my hands under me and pushed up to my knees. I crawled out of the street and against the stage station wall, where I lay with my head throbbing like a great drum, the blood welling from my split lips and broken face.

  It had been a brutal beating he’d given me. I’d not been whipped since I was a boy, and never had I felt such blows as those. His fists had been like knots of oak and his arms like the limbs of trees.

  Every breath I took brought a gasp, and I was sure he’d broken a rib for me. Yet it was time for me to travel. I’d made big talk in Hattan’s Point and I’d not want Moira Maclaren to see me lying in the street like a whipped hound.

  My hands found the corner of the building and I pulled myself up. Staggering along the building, using the wall for support, I made my way to the livery stable.

  When I got my horse saddled, I pulled myself into the saddle and rode to the door.

  The street was empty … no one had seen the beating I’d taken, and wherever Morgan Park had come from, now he was nowhere to be seen. For an instant I sat my horse in the light of the lantern above the stable floor.

  A door opened and a shaft of light fell across me. In the open door of Mother O’Hara’s stood Moira Maclaren.

  She stepped down from the stoop and walked over to me, looking up at my swollen and bloody face with a land of awed wonder.

  “So he found you, then. He always hears when anyone comes near me, and this always happens. You see, Matt, it is not so simple a thing to marry Moira Maclaren.” There seemed almost a note of regret in her voice.

  “And now you’re leaving?” she said.

  “I’ll be back for you … and to give Morgan Park a beating.”

  Now her voice was cool, shaded with contempt. “You boast���all you have done is talk and take a beating!”

  That made me grin, and the grinning hurt my face. “It’s a bad beginning, isn’t it?”

  She stood there watching as I rode away down the street.

  ****

  THROUGHOUT THE night I rode into wilder and wilder country. I was like a dog hunting a hole in which to die, but I’d no thought of dying, only of living and finding Morgan Park again.

  Through the long night I rode, my skull pounding, my aching body heavy with weariness, my face swollen and shapeless. Great canyon walls towered above me, and I drank of their coolness. Then I emerged on a high plateau where a long wind stole softly across the open levels fresh with sage and sego lilies.

  Vaguely I knew the land into which I rode was a lost and lonely land inhabited by few, and those few were men who did not welcome visitors.

  At daylight I found myself in a long canyon where tall pines grew. There was a stream talking somewhere under the trees, and, turning from the game trail I had followed, I walked my buckskin through knee-high grass and flowers and into the pines. It smelled good there, and I was glad to be alone in the wilderness which is the source of all strength.

  There beside the stream I bedded down, opening my soogan and spreading it in the half sunlight and shade, and then I picketed my horse and at last crept to my blankets and relaxed with a great sigh. And then I slept.

  It was midafternoon when my eyes opened again. There was no sound but the stream and the wind in the tall pines, a far-off, lonely sound. Downstream a beaver splashed, and in the trees a magpie chattered, fussing at a squirrel.

  I was alone. With small sticks I built a fire and heated water, and when it was hot I bathed my face with careful hands, and while I did it I thought of the man who had whipped me.

  It was true he had slugged me without warning, then had pinned me down so I’d have no chance to escape from his great weight. But I had to admit I’d been whipped soundly. Yet I wanted to go back. This was not a matter for guns. This man I must whip with my bare hands.

  But there was much else to consider. From all I had learned, the Two-Bar was the key to the situation, and it had been my idea to join forces with Ball, the man who was stubborn enough to face up to two strong outfits. I’d long had an urge for lost causes, and a feeling for men strong enough to stand alone. If Ball would have my help…

  To the west of where I waited was a gigantic cliff rising sheer from the grassy meadow. Trees skirted the meadow, and to the east a stream flowed along one side, where the pines gave way to sycamore and a few pin oak.

  Twice I saw deer moving among the trees. Lying in wait near the water, I finally got my shot and dropped a young buck.

  For two days I ate, slept, and let the stream flow by. My side ceased to pain except when a sudden movement jerked it, but it remained stiff and sore to the touch. The discoloration around my eyes and on one cheekbone changed color and some of the swelling went down. After two days I could wait no longer. Mounting the buckskin, I turned him toward the Two-Bar.

  A noontime sun was darkening the buckskin with sweat when I turned into Cottonwood Wash.

  There was green grass here, and there were trees and water. The walls of the Wash were high and the trees towered until their tops were level with them, occasional cattle I saw looked fat and lazy.

  For an hour I rode slowly along, feeling the hot sun on my shoulders and smelling the fresh green of the grass, until the trail ended abruptly at a gate bearing a large sign.

  TWO-BAR GATE RANGED

  FOR A SPENCER .56

  SHOOTING GOING ON HERE

  Beyond this point a man would be taking his own chances, and nobody could say he had not been warned.

  Some distance away, atop a knoll, I could see the house. Rising in my stirrups, I waved my hat. Instantly there was the hard whap of a bullet passing, then the boom of the rifle.

  Obviously, this was merely a warning shot, so I waved once more.

  That time the bullet was close, so, grabbing my chest with both hands I rolled from the saddle, caught the stirrup to break my fall and settled down to the grass. Then I rolled over behind a boulder. Removing my hat, I sailed it to the ground near the horse, then pulled off one boot and placed it on the ground so it would be visible from the gate. But from that far away an observer would see only the boot, not whether there was a foot and leg attached.

  Then I crawled into the brush, among the rocks, where I could cover the gate. To all outward appearances a man lay sprawled behind that boulder.

  All was still. Sweat trickled down my face. My side throbbed a little from a twist it had taken as I fell from the horse. I dried my sweaty palms and waited.

  And then Ball appeared. He was a tall old man with a white handlebar mustache and shrewd eyes. No fool, he studied the layout carefully, and he did not like it. It looked as though he had miscalculated and scored a hit.

  He glanced at the strange brand of the buckskin, at the California bridle and bit. Finally, he opened the gate and came out, and as he turned his back was to me.
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  “Freeze, Ball! You’re dead in my sights!”

  He stood perfectly still, taking no chances on an itchy trigger finger.

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  “Not trouble … I want to talk business.”

  “I’ve no business with anybody.”

  “With me you’ve business. I’m Matt Brennan. I’ve had trouble with Finder and Maclaren. I’ve taken a beating from Morgan Park.”

  Ball chuckled. “Sounds as if you’re the one with trouble. Is it all right to turn around?”

  At my word, he turned. I stepped from out of the rocks. He moved back far enough to see the boot and grinned. “I’ll not bite on that one again.”

  I sat down and pulled my boot on.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN I was on my feet I crossed to my hat and picked it up. He watched me, never letting his eyes leave me for an instant.

  “You’re bucking a stacked deck,” I said. “The gamblers are offering high odds you won’t last thirty days.”

  “I know that.”

  He was a hard old man, this one. Yet I could see from the fine lines around his eyes that he’d been missing sleep, and that he was worried. But he wasn’t frightened. Not this man.

  “I’m through drifting. I’m going to put down some roots, and there’s only one ranch around here I’d have.”

  “This one?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied me, his hands on his hips. I’d no doubt he would go for a gun if I made a wrong move.

  “What do you aim to do about me?”

  “Let’s walk up to your place and talk about that.”

  “We’ll talk here.”

  “All right … There’s two ways. You give me a fighting, working partnership. That’s one way. The other is for you to sell out to me and I’ll pay you when I can. I take over the fight.”

  He looked at me carefully. He was not a man to ask foolish questions. He could see the marks of the beating I’d taken, and he’d heard me say there had been trouble with Maclaren and Finder. I knew what I was asking for.

  “Come on up. We’ll talk about this.”

  And he let me go first, leading my horse. I liked this old man.

  Yet I knew the cards were stacked my way. He could not stay awake all night, every night. He could not both work and guard his stock. He could not go to town for supplies and leave the place unguarded. Together we could do all those things.

  Two hours later we had reached an agreement. I was getting my fighting, working partnership. One man alone could not do it, the odds were all against any two men doing it … but they’d have a chance.

  “When they find out, they’ll be fit to be tied.”

  “They won’t find out right away. My first job is grub and ammunition.”

  The Two-Bar controlled most of the length of Cottonwood Wash and on its eastern side opened upon a desert wilderness with only occasional patches of grass. Maclaren’s Boxed M and Finder’s CP bordered the ranch on the west, with Maclaren’s land extending to the desert at one place.

  Both ranches had pushed back the Two-Bar cattle, usurping the range for their own use. In the process, most of the Two-Bar calves had disappeared under Boxed M and CP brands.

  “Mostly CP,” Ball advised. “The Finder boys are mighty mean. They rode with Quantrill, an’ folks say Rollie rode with the James boys some. Jim’s a fast gun, but nothin’ to compare to Rollie.”

  At daybreak, with three unbranded mules to carry the supplies, I started for Hattan’s, circling wide around so that I could come into the trail to town from the side opposite the Two-Bar.

  It was in my mind that the Two-Bar might be watched, but after scouting the edges of the Wash I decided that they must believe they had Ball safely bottled up and no chance of his getting help. Probably they would be only too glad for him to start to town … for when he returned they could be in possession and waiting for him.

  Going down the Wash for several miles, I came out by a narrow, unused trail and cut across country, keeping to low country to escape observation.

  The desert greasewood gave way to mesquite and to bunch grass. The morning was bright, and the sun would be warm again. Twice, nearing the skyline, I saw riders in the distance, but none of them could have seen me.

  The town was quiet when I rode in, and I came up through the shacks back of the livery stable and left my mules tied to the corral near the back door of the store.

  Walking out on the street, I smoked a cigarette and kept my eyes open. Nobody seemed to notice me, nobody seemed to know I was in town. There was no sign of Maclaren or Canaval, or of Moira.

  Loading the supplies, I broke into a sweat. The day was warm and still, and my side still pained me. My face was puffed, although both my eyes were now open and the blackness had changed to mottled blue and yellow. When I was through I led the mules into the cottonwoods on the edge of town and picketed them there, ready for a quick move. Then I returned to Mother O’Hara’s. My purpose was double. I wanted a good meal, and I wanted news.

  Key Chapin and Canaval were there and they looked up as I entered. Chapin’s eyes took in my face with a quick glance, and there was in his eyes something that might have been sympathy.

  Canaval noticed, but it did not show. “That job is still open,” he suggested. “We could use you.”

  “Thanks.” There was a bit of recklessness in me. My supplies were packed and ready to go, and there was enough on those mules to last us three months, with a little game shooting on the side and a slaughtered beef or two. “I’m going to run my own outfit.”

  Maybe I was a fool to say it. Maybe I should have kept it a secret as long as I could. But just as I started to speak I heard a door open behind me and that light step and the perfume I knew. Maybe that was why I was here, to see Moira, and not for a meal or news.

  From the day I first saw her she was never to be near without my knowledge. There was something within me that told me, some feeling in my blood, some perception beyond the usual. This was my woman, and I knew it.

  She had come into the restaurant behind me and it may have been that that made me say it, to let her know that I had not cut and run, that I intended to stay, that I had begun to build for the future I had promised her.

  “Your own outfit?” Chapin was surprised. “You’re turning nester?”

  Canaval said nothing at all, but he looked at me, and I think he knew then. I saw dawning comprehension in his eyes, and perhaps something of respect.

  “I’ll be ranching.”

  Rising, I faced around. Moira was looking at me, her eyes level and steady.

  “Miss Maclaren?” I indicated the seat beside me. “May I have the pleasure?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head slightly and went around the table to sit down beside Canaval, her father’s foreman and strong right hand.

  “You’re ranching?” Canaval was puzzled. “If there’s any open range around here I haven’t heard of it.”

  “It’s a place east of here … the Two-Bar.”

  “What about the Two-Bar?” Rud Maclaren had followed his daughter into the restaurant. He rounded the table beside her and looked down at me, a cold, solid man.

  Taking a cup from a tray, I filled it with coffee.

  “Mr. Brennan was telling us, Father, that he’s ranching on the Two-Bar.”

  “What?”

  Maclaren looked as if he’d been slapped.

  “Ball needed help, and I wanted a ranch. I’ve a working partnership.” Then looking up at Moira, I added, “And a man doesn’t want to go too far from the girl he is to marry.”

  “What’s that?” Maclaren was confused.

  “Why, Father!” Moira’s eyes widened, and a flicker of deviltry danced in them. “Haven’t you heard? Mr. Brennan has been saying that he is going to marry me!”

  “I’ll see him in hell first!” He stared down at me. “Young man, you stop using my daughter’s name or you’ll face me.”

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bsp; “I’d rather not face you. I want to keep peace in the family.” I lifted my cup and took a swallow of coffee. “Nobody has a greater respect for your daughter’s name than I. After all … she is to be my wife.”

  Maclaren’s face flushed angrily, but Canaval chuckled and even Moira seemed amused.

  Key Chapin put in a quieting word before Maclaren could say what might have precipitated trouble.

  “There’s an aspect of this situation, Rud, that may have escaped you. If Brennan is now Ball’s partner, it might be better to let him stay on, then buy him out.”

  Maclaren absorbed the idea and was pleased. It was there in his eyes, plain to be seen. He looked down at me with new interest.

  “Yes, yes, of course. We might do business, young man.”

  “We might… and we want peace, not trouble. But I did not become a partner to sell out. Also, in all honesty, I took on the partnership only by promising never to sell. Tomorrow I shall choose a building site.

  “Which brings up another point. There are Boxed M cattle on Two-Bar range. It should take you no longer than a week to remove them. I shall inform the CP of the same time limit.”

  Maclaren’s face was a study. He started to speak, then hesitated. Finishing my coffee, I got to my feet, I put down a coin and went out the door, closing it softly just as Maclaren started to speak.

  There was a time for all things, and this was the time to leave … while I was ahead.

  Bounding the building, I brought up short. Finder’s black-haired rider was standing beside my horse. There was a gun in his hand and an ugly look in his eyes.

  “You talk too much. I heard that you’d moved in with Ball.”

  “So you heard.”

  “Sure, and Jim will pay a bonus for your hide.”

  His finger tightened and I threw myself aside and palmed my gun. It was fast … the instinctive reaction of a man trained to use a gun. The gun sprang to my hand, it bucked in my palm. I heard the short, heavy bark of it, and between my first and second shots, his gun slammed a bullet that drew blood from my neck.

  Blackie turned as if to walk away, then fell flat, his fingers clawing hard at the dirt.