“Damned if it ain’t the hero, come back from the war.”
Benton choked with rage.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Your old friend,” said the voice back of him. “Snake McAfee.”
“Look, Snake. I was just coming over to see Dan.”
“Just a friendly visit,” snarled Snake. “Damn funny way to go about it, listening at a window.”
He jabbed the gun into Benton’s back. “In you go. The boss will want to see you.”
Urged by the gun, Benton turned toward the door. Snake McAfee yelled and the door swung open. Bill Watson stood on the threshold, wonder on his face at the sight of Benton.
“Good evening, Bill,” said Benton.
Behind him McAfee jabbed with the gun and growled. “Get on in, damn you.”
Bill Watson stood to one side, triumph flaming across his face. His lips parted in a flabby, oily smile.
Benton stepped across the threshold, on into the living room. McAfee, gun still in his hand, slid along the wall, stood with his back against it.
Old Dan Watson sat stolid, red face turning purple, strong, pudgy hands gripping the arms of the rocking chair in which he rested. The banker’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut again, like a steel trap closing. Behind his back, Benton heard young Watson snickering.
“Found him listening just outside the window,” Snake McAfee told the room.
“What did you hear?” Old Dan Watson asked and his words were slow and ponderous, as if he had all the time in the world to deal with this situation and would not be hurried.
Benton flicked a look at Gray and saw the man was sweating, literally sweating in terror.
“No use of talking about what I heard,” said Benton. “Let’s talk about what we’re going to do.”
“Sensible,” Watson grunted and rocked a lick or two in the rocking chair.
“The two of you fixed it up between you to rob your neighbors,” said Benton, bluntly.
Gray half sprang from his chair, then settled back again.
“You can’t prove that,” he snapped.
Old Dan grumbled derisively. “He don’t need to prove it, Coleman. He won’t even have a chance.”
He twisted his massive head around to Benton.
“What did you come here for, anyway?”
“I came to make a deal.”
Old Dan rumbled at him. “Let’s hear your proposition.”
“You got the Crazy H for a couple thousand measly dollars,” said Benton. “You got cattle that were worth twice that or more, let alone the land.”
Old Watson nodded, eyes cold and hard.
“You got cattle in your trail herd out there that don’t wear your brand,” said Benton. “Take the ones you need to pay what the ranches around here cost and hand the ranchers back their deeds.”
Gray wiped sweat from his brow with a nervous hand.
“That’s fair,” he burst out. “That’s fair. After all, we can’t take advantage of a man who went out and fought for us.”
Watson shook his head. “No, the deal was legal. When I took over those cattle weren’t worth a dime because there was no place to market them. It’s not my fault that the cattle market changed.”
“Except,” said Benton, quietly, “that you knew it was going to change. You had word of what was going on up north. So you moved fast to take over everything that you could grab.”
Feet shuffled over by the window and Benton looked toward it. Snake McAfee leered back at him, gun half raised.
“I have just one thing to say to you,” said Watson, slowly. “Get out of the country. You’re a trouble-maker and you’ve had your warning. If you stay we’ll gun you down on sight like a lobo wolf.”
His hands pounded the arms of the rocking chair, his voice rising in old-man querulousness.
“You’ve been back just a bit more than a day, Benton, and you’ve already killed two of my men. I won’t stand for anything like that.”
“I killed them,” said Benton, coldly, “because I was faster on the gun than they were. And if you stay pig-headed, a lot more of them will die.”
Watson’s eyes narrowed in his monstrous face. “You mean that, don’t you, Benton?”
Benton stared straight at him. “You know I do, Dan. And what’s more, you’ll not move a single cow….”
Watson leaned forward, bellowing. “What’s that…”
Hoofs suddenly hammered in the yard outside the house, hoofs that skidded to a stop. Feet thumped across the porch and the door slammed open.
A disheveled rider blinked in the lamplight.
“The herd!” he yelled. “They stampeded it! It’s headed for the hills! Gang of riders…”
Dan Watson heaved himself upward with a grunt of sudden, violent rage. Snake McAfee was standing with gun arm hanging, staring at the rider.
Benton whirled, took one quick step, fist swinging to explode on Snake’s jaw. Snake crashed into the window as Benton leaped for the door, hands clawing for his guns. Behind him glass tinkled, smashing on the floor.
Benton saw the rider leaping at him, chopped down viciously with his gun barrel, but too late to stop the man. The gun smacked with a leaden thud across the hunched down shoulder, then the shoulder hit him in the stomach and sent him reeling back so violently that his hat blew off.
Stars exploded in Benton’s head. Stars and a bursting pain and a roaring wind that whistled at the edges. He felt himself falling forward, like a great tree falls, falling through a darkness that was speared with jagged streaks of pain.
And through the roaring of the wind that whistled through his brain he heard the high, shrill, excited voice of Young Bill Watson:
“That’s the way to kill the dirty son…”
Awareness came back. Awareness of the seep of light that ran along the boards, awareness of the hard lump that the gun made beneath his chest, where his arm had doubled and he had fallen on it, awareness of the rumble of voices that droned above him…voices that at first were misty sounds and then became words and finally had meaning.
“…You better put a bullet through him.”
That was the banker’s voice, hard and suspicious, but with a whine within it.
The elder Watson’s voice rumbled at him. “Hell, there ain’t no use. He’s deader than a fence post, as it is. Look at that head of his…split wide open.”
Young Bill Watson snickered, nastily. “When I hit ’em, they stay hit.”
“Still, just to be safe…”
The puncher’s frantic voice broke in. “Boss! The cattle!”
Old Watson’s voice bellowed. “Yes, damn it, I almost forgot.”
Feet tramped across the floor, jarring it.
“You riding with us, Gray?” Bill Watson asked.
The banker’s voice was hesitant. “No. Think I’ll head back for town. Got some business…”
The slamming door cut off his words.
Silence stalked across the room, a deathly, terrible silence.
A dark drop dripped down on the floor no more than an inch from Benton’s left eye. A drop that hit and spattered…and was followed by another.
Blood, thought Benton. Blood! Dripping from my head. From where Bill Watson’s gun butt got me.
His hand twitched beneath him and he gritted his teeth to keep it where it was, to keep it from reaching up and feeling of his head, feeling to see just how bad the head wound was.
A wave of giddiness swept over him and beneath him the floor weaved just a little. The blood went on, dripping on the boards before his eye, forming a little puddle on the floor.
A glancing blow, he thought. A glancing blow that ripped my scalp half off. Head must be in one hell of a mess to make them think I’m dead.