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  Finally he took the pot off the coals and covered the fire with sand. While the pot cooled off, Duvarney looked about the place where his bed had been. He could not be sure, but it looked suspiciously as if somebody had come up behind him in the soft sand.

  He packed the coffeepot, then swung into the saddle and started north. The sand was so chewed up by cattle tracks that there was no possibility of reading sign.

  He took his time. The occasional glimpses he had of the sea worried him. The swell had grown larger rather than diminishing, and the water still had that same glassy appearance. The sky was vague, the horizon indistinct.

  The western side of the island grew more and more boggy, and the line of cattle slimmed down until at places it was moving almost in single file. Twice he saw places where animals had been dragged from the swamp. Where they had held closer to the Gulf side of the island, they had moved steadily along.

  They were nooning and had a fire going when he rode up to them. “By Jimminy,” Simms said, “there’s our coffeepot!”

  “Thanks, boys. I enjoyed the coffee.”

  “I crossed up yonder,” Lawton Bean said. “It ain’t bad a-tall. There’s a few young uns we may have to pack over on our saddles, but otherwise it’s a cinch.”

  “You boys go ahead. I’m going to scout trail.”

  He rode on, leaving them around the fire, and pushed through the cattle and crossed to the mainland. At this hour there was only one place where his horse had to swim, and the water was lower than his chart had told him. He was riding up on the shingle when he saw the tracks.

  A horse had come this way not long after daybreak, to judge by the tracks—a freshly shod horse with a smaller, neater hoof than Bean’s horse.

  There were some wind-blown trees back from the crossing place, and he headed for them, wanting to take a sight over the route that lay ahead. After all, his chart was not new, and swampland could change. He had gambled on that trail.

  Suddenly he glimpsed a horse and rider among the trees ahead. He turned his mount to weave around some small brush, and when his gun hand was on the side away from the trees he slipped the thong. He planned to use the gun he carried behind his belt, but a man never knew.

  His horse scrambled up the sandy slope and into the trees, and he saw that the rider was Mady Coppinger.

  “Tap,” she said at once, “you’ve got to help me.”

  He pulled up six or seven feet away, his eyes scanning the brush behind and all around her. “What can I do,” he asked, “that Tom Kittery can’t do?”

  “You can help me get out of here. I want to go to New Orleans.”

  “It’s no place for a girl without family or friends,” he said. “How could you make a living?”

  “Oh…oh, I’ll find a way!” She was impatient. “Tap, I just can’t stand it any longer! I can’t stand everybody going to bed when the sun’s scarcely out of the sky. I want to go somewhere where there are lights and music, and something is happening. I’ll just die here!”

  “Have you talked to Tom about it? He’s figuring on getting married. He wants to live in this country; and besides, it’s the only life he knows.”

  “I don’t care about Tom.” Her chin went up. “I’m finished, Tap. Do you hear? Finished!” She swung her horse nearer. “Tap, if you’ll take me to New Orleans I can go. I’ll…I’ll do anything you want.”

  “You’ve got a good man,” he said roughly, “and no town is like you seem to think it is. They’re all the same unless you have money; and going the way you are talking of, you simply wouldn’t have any.

  “Anyway, what makes you think you’d see any of the life you’re thinking about if some man took you to New Orleans; or anywhere else? He might rent a house and just leave you there to visit when he pleased. He might not take you anywhere.”

  “I’d leave him!”

  “For somebody else like him? Mady, you’re too smart a girl to do anything so foolish. You’ve got something here—a good man who wants you, a recognized position, with family and friends around. You’d be throwing it all over…for what? To live in a city where all the doors that mattered would be closed to you. Stop being a damn fool and go home.”

  She stared at him, her face white with anger. Her lips curled. “I thought you were really something! I thought you were the man I wanted, you with your city ways and your style! You talk like a preacher!” Her tone was thick with contempt. “I’ve had too much of that at home. I wouldn’t go with you now if you begged me!”

  He reined his horse around. “I haven’t begged you, Mady. I haven’t even asked you.”

  Ten minutes later, he came to the spot marked on the chart for the trail’s beginning. It was overgrown with grass, but it showed evidences of recent use, more than likely by Indians going to the shore for the fishing, for there had surely been little other travel this way.

  He tied his handkerchief to a bush to mark the opening, then rode out along the trail, scouting the way. At this time of year the swamp did not look bad, and it was possible there might be several routes that would take them through. Nonetheless, he held to the trail, emerging from it several miles further along, near the head of Powderhorn Lake.

  He found a place among the willows near the lake and made a concealed camp there, starting a small fire. This spot could be no more than five miles from Indianola, and it would be easy travel from here into the port. Yet he felt worried and restless. So far all had gone well, and his ruse might have taken the Munson men out of the port city, but there was no certainty of that.

  Tap Duvarney knew what remained. He must ride into town with at least one man who would know the Munsons when he saw them. That man would be Spicer. He might take one other. He would try to make a quick deal, then when they got their cash the lot of them would move out to join Tom Kittery and the main herd.

  The cattle started to come, and he rode out to intercept the leaders and turn them. The grass was good at the head of Powderhorn, so the cattle settled down to grazing. Lawton Bean was the first man to appear. Together they held the cattle while the rest of the herd streamed in from the narrow trail. There had been no trouble. It was all too easy; and to Tap Duvarney, to whom few things had come easy, it only served to worry him still more. Something had to be wrong, or to go wrong. Things simply didn’t happen this way.

  “I was glad to get off that island,” Doc Belden commented as he drew abreast. “You should see the way the sea is breaking out there. Smooth as glass, but great big swells…biggest I ever saw.”

  “Doc,” Tap said, “I’m going to leave you in charge of the herd. They’ll be uneasy, with the weather changing, so you’ll have to hold them close. I’ll take Welt Spicer and Lawton Bean.”

  Doc Belden tamped his pipe thoughtfully. “Spicer should know the Munsons. He’s been around long enough, but you be careful.”

  “I’m going to turn a fast deal if I can. It may not be the best one, but it will be fast and it will give us some more working capital.

  “Doc,” he added, “Mady Coppinger is around. She’s Tom’s girl, but she’s got some fool notion about running off to New Orleans. Tom’s hunting her, and she’s ready to jump at any chance to get away from here. Be careful…it’s a killing matter if she’s found with anybody.

  “I told him I hadn’t seen her, and I hadn’t then, but now she’s been close to camp and I’ve talked with her. She’s mad enough to bite nails.”

  “Leave it to a woman to cause trouble,” Doc Belden said. “All right, Tap, you go on in when the boys get here. We’ll watch things here. Only don’t be gone too long. I don’t like the looks of the weather out there.”

  It was a short ride to Indianola.

  Chapter 8

  *

  JACKSON HUDDY DID not leave Indianola when the others did.

  Deliberately, he remained behind, disliking to trust his safety to such a group, with its accompanying noise, idle talk, and carelessness. He preferred to depend on his own sense, his own instincts.


  His were the feelings of a prowling carnivore. He preferred to travel alone, to hunt alone. In the presence of others he was stiff, stilted, and cold, but out alone in the night, in the wilderness, he was strictly a killer.

  A solitary man by disposition, he had much in his nature to make others uncomfortable. Faultlessly neat, he wore the plainest of clothes, always carefully brushed. His thin hair was combed close to his scalp; his jaws were never unshaven. He had never been seen to tip back in a chair, lean against a wall or a post, or to make any careless gesture.

  None of the Munson riders were at all unhappy he chose to remain behind and follow along later. His presence put a damper on idle talk, and it was well known that he disliked profane or obscene language. His standards and morals were largely those of the hard-shell Baptist family in which he had grown up, and had he discarded his guns there was nothing in his conduct to which they could have objected. He was a man with a single, deadly vice.

  The usual conceptions of fair play were foreign to him. He killed his enemies when and where he found them, and at his own convenience. He wasted no efforts, and wasted no lead. He disliked gun battles in streets or saloons, avoided any display of temper on the part of others, and showed no emotions of his own. His peculiar walk and his high-shouldered, erect bearing drew attention; otherwise he was colorless.

  His mother had been a Munson, an Alabama cousin of the Texas family. The Texas family had, several generations back, migrated from Germany to Mexico, and had moved to Texas some years later. Jackson Huddy heard of the Munson-Kittery feud in Missouri, and rode south to help his family. The first Kittery he killed was a pleasant young man, Al Kittery, who rode in from El Paso to visit his kin. He commented, in a saloon, that it looked as if the family might need his help.

  When Al Kittery left the saloon and went into the street, Jackson Huddy followed.

  Al Kittery, it had been said, was quite a hand with a gun, but he had not killed anyone. Loafers in the saloon heard two shots that sounded almost as one, and going out, they found Al Kittery’s hand on his half-drawn gun and two bullet holes in his heart. Jackson Huddy was gone.

  Now, standing on the street in Indianola, Huddy watched the stage arrive. He was waiting for Every Munson, the only one of the family to whom he was in any way close. Ev Munson was as completely opposite in appearance to Huddy as a man could be—young, handsome, reckless of bearing, inclined to the flamboyant in dress and manner. Only in one thing were they alike, for when it came to killing, Ev was as cool and efficient as Huddy himself.

  Every Munson would not be on the stage, but he would be riding up that same street within minutes, if he was on time, and he usually was. This was another reason Jackson Huddy had let the others ride on ahead…he wanted to see Ev without the others.

  The stage rolled in and came to a stop; the dust cloud that trailed behind it caught up and settled over and around the stage. The first man out was a fat drummer, his vest buttons spread so wide over his stomach that glimpses of white shirt showed between them.

  The second person to get down was a young woman, and when the drummer turned and held out his hand to help her, she took it and stepped lightly into the street, and all Indianola stopped in its stride.

  Jessica Trescott, of the Virginia and New York Trescotts, stepped down onto dusty Main Street of Indianola and looked about her, in no way disturbed by the shabby little western town. She had dignity as well as elegance and charm, and no amount of heat, dust, or travel could wilt any of it.

  There were a dozen women along the street, and each paused, some of them peeking around parasols, some frankly staring, for Jessica’s clothes had come from Paris. Not Paris of last year or two years ago, but the Paris of today, almost of tomorrow. She wore an all-beige dress with black pleated ruching at the hem, on the caught-up apron part, and the tight-waisted jacket. The straw hat was worn well back on the coiffure which was done with a chignon. There was an embroidered veil and a small velvet bow on the hat.

  That was the moment when Mady Coppinger rode up to the hitching rail and swung down. She turned, and found herself facing the vision of all she had ever wished to be, and she stared, resentfully admiring.

  Jessica Trescott smiled. “How do you do? I am Jessica Trescott. That hotel over there…is it a good place? I mean a clean place, and a respectable one?”

  “Yes, it is,” Mady answered. Then she added in a tone that sounded sullen, “I am Mady Coppinger.”

  “Mady—! But of course! You are Mr. Kittery’s fiancée. Then maybe you can tell me where I can find Tappan Duvarney?”

  Mady Coppinger’s interest in the question did not seem very marked. “He’s coming up the trail now,” she said. “He should be in town before sunset.”

  “Do you know Tappan? I mean, if you know him—”

  “I know him, and you can have him.”

  Jessica smiled again. “That’s the general idea, Mady. Why else would I come here?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mady said, “why anybody would come here who could be anywhere else.”

  The porter from the hotel had crossed to pick up Jessica’s carpetbag and small trunk. The men from the stage office were handing down still another trunk, and then a third.

  “Are those all yours?” Mady asked.

  “All mine. After all, you can’t expect a girl to come unarmed and defenseless into a country like this, can you?” She turned to follow the porter. “Mady, I’m going to freshen up, and then I wish you’d join me—I am going to have tea, or something. Frankly, I’m famished!”

  Then she was gone, leaving a faint scent of perfume behind her, and Mady looked after her enviously. Turning toward the boardwalk, she stopped abruptly. Ev Munson was standing there, grinning at her, his dark eyes dancing with amusement.

  “That’s quite a woman, Mady,” he said; “quite a woman.”

  Mady replied sharply. “She’s Tap Duvarney’s girl, if you want to know. They’re to be married.”

  He still grinned at her. “Young to be a widow,” he said, “and she’s goin’ to be one before she’s ever a wife!”

  Mady stepped up on the boardwalk. “You got anything to tell me, Mady?” Ev Munson asked.

  She hesitated, her eyes straying after Jessica, who had paused in the doorway to glance back. She made a move as if to draw away from Ev, then stopped. After all, Jessica had no idea who Ev was…what could it matter?

  She stayed there, still looking across the street, standing near Ev but not seeming to be talking to him. “Duvarney’s coming into town tonight,” she said, “…with a herd.”

  “A herd?” Ev Munson was incredulous. “They’re makin’ their gather down to Horseshoe Lake. We already seen them. Our boys are on their way down.”

  “Have it your way, but you be around tonight and you’ll see the herd come in. This is just a part of it that Duvarney brought over from Matagorda Island.”

  “How many’s with him?”

  “Three or four, I think. They’re all strangers except Welt Spicer.”

  “Strangers?” There was disappointment in Ev’s tone. “Are you sure?”

  “Ev”—Mady looked around at him for the first time—“I want my money now.”

  “Money?” Ev said. “Now look, honey, you know damn well—”

  “I want my money, Ev. You promised. You promised me two hundred dollars if I’d tell you where they all were and what they were doing. You promised me that two months ago.”

  “Sure, honey. Now you just wait—”

  “I’m not waiting, Ev. I want my money, and I’m going to have it. I’m going to New Orleans.”

  He gave her a wicked smile. “Suppose you don’t get it? You goin’ to tell Tom on me? Or that Duvarney fella?”

  “No, Ev.” Her eyes sparked. “I’ll tell Jackson Huddy!”

  The taunting smile vanished. “You’ll do nothin’ of the kind, damn you! You’ll—”

  “I want my money, Ev,” she repeated. “I want it tomorrow. No,”
she said with sudden anger, “I want it tonight, and I want every last cent of it. What I’ve been doing is a pretty mean thing, but I need that money, and if I don’t get it I’ll go straight to Jackson Huddy and tell him. You know how he is about breaking your word; and above all, how he is about women. He’d kill you, Ev.”

  “Like hell!” Ev’s eyes slanted up the street. “I think I could beat him, anyway. I’m faster than he is.”

  “Want me to tell him that too? Anyway, it doesn’t matter how fast you are, he would kill you. He would kill you whenever he was of a mind to and you’d never know he’d done it.”

  Ev swore under his breath. “All right, I’ll get your money. You just wait. I’ll bring it by the ho-tel tonight.”

  She walked away, and Ev stood there staring along the street, eaten by anger and hatred. He had been top man among the Munsons, top man with a gun at least, until Jackson Huddy came along. Since then he had taken second place, and he did not like it. At the same time, Jackson Huddy was all that kept them going, for a good half of the Munsons wanted no part of the Kitterys. It was only the fact that Huddy would do most of the killing and take most of the risks that held them together.

  Tom Kittery was supposed to be fast, but it was not Kittery who worried Ev Munson, it was Jackson Huddy. Huddy gave no man a fair chance, but Ev did not dare try to kill him, for without Huddy the Munsons would have to back up and sit down and shut up. Jackson Huddy’s reputation and the fear that ringed around him gave them all a sort of courage.

  *

  ONCE IN HER room, Jessica did not take time to change. She freshened up a bit, brushed her hair, and replaced her hat. But she did take time to open her trunks and hang out some of her dresses to get the wrinkles out of them. She would have to see if she could hire somebody to do some pressing for her, and some laundry. If not, she would do it herself. She never had, but she could.

  Thoughtfully, she considered Mady Coppinger. Why had she turned away so guiltily when Jessica saw her with that man? Because Jessica knew she was spoken for by Tom Kittery? Or was it something else?