“That’s a fact,” the stranger said with a nod.
Her father’s sigh seemed to start down at his toes. “Except for the loyal handful I’ve got left, Gauge has run our men off. If we take any real losses in cattle, the Bar-O is finished. That leaves our ambitious sheriff a wide-open market. Then he’ll buy up our banknotes on the cheap, and force us out.”
The stranger was frowning. “You have no money in reserve?”
Not bothering to mask her bitterness, Willa said, “We did have. Now it’s being paid to you — ten thousand dollars.”
He lifted an eyebrow. Sipped more coffee. Said, “That could have paid off a pile of banknotes.”
Cullen shook his head morosely. “Not when you’re dead, my friend. Harry Gauge is responsible for the killings of seven of my people. Do I have to tell you that there’s nothing he won’t stop at?”
“No,” the stranger said.
Willa said, coldly, “So, in case you’re wondering? That money you took from us is blood money.”
He met her hard gaze. “You sound like you have a bad taste in your mouth, Miss Cullen.”
She met his. “Hired killers affect me that way.”
“Willa!” her father said. “This man is our guest. And he’s one of us now.”
With a bitter, little smile, she said, “I’m sure our new friend doesn’t mind my frankness. Do you, Mr... Banion, is it?”
“Strong-minded females affect me,” the stranger said, letting her second question pass. He had a last sip of coffee, and got to his feet. “You might be surprised how... Good evening, Miss Cullen. Mr. Cullen. Mr. Murphy.”
Willa, surprised by his suddenness, said, “You’re going?”
He walked slowly for the door, spurs jangling. “Yes. Been an interestin’ visit. Thanks for the java. And the food for thought.”
Her father was on his feet now as well. “Just a moment, please!... Sir, where are you going?”
“Back to town. See if I can find a room. Been a busy day.”
“And tomorrow...?”
“I’ll be around.” He was at the door. “I intend to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”
He took his hat off the hook, snugging it on as her father approached him, moving quickly through a world he knew well. “Wait!... Wait a minute.”
The stranger turned to him. “Yes?”
“So, are you Banion? Or are you...? Which... which one are you?”
“The other one,” the stranger said, then tipped his hat to Willa and went out.
The remaining three exchanged exasperated expressions.
Then she followed him out to their horses, her footsteps echoing off the plank porch. Glancing back at the house, she saw Whit stepping out, but she shook her head at him. Glumly, Whit stepped back in, closing the door.
“You’re just... riding off?” she said, at the hitching post where he was untying.
He wasn’t looking at her. “You need to make up your mind.”
“About what?”
Now his eyes were on her. “Do you or don’t you want me to help your father?”
“Well, I... of course, I...”
An edge came into his voice. “You come to town to find me, bring me out here, then you needle me like...” Then he grunted something, not quite a laugh.
She turned her back to him, folded her arms; it was chilly, after all, and a bit of a shiver got into her words: “Maybe... maybe I don’t know what I want.”
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You want your father’s ranch preserved. I understand. Anybody would.” His hand left her shoulder. “But... you’re awful damn picky about how.”
She shook her head, keeping her back to him. “Paying a hired killer... it makes us as bad as the people we’re trying to fight. Worse, because we know better. I want to hold on to this land. I want that more than anything. But doesn’t how we do it matter?”
“Ask the Indians.”
She whipped around to face him, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring. “You low-down, nasty... I ought to...”
“Let me.”
He put an arm around her waist and drew her to him and kissed her, long and a little rough, yet something about it struck her as very... sweet.
Then he was up on his horse, tipping his hat to her again, before riding off.
And she was standing there with her fingers on her lips, still not knowing what to think, thoughts and emotions fighting for control of her, neither winning.
Just as the stranger was riding into town — heading for the livery stable and the stall that awaited the dappled gelding — he noticed a shopkeeper, claw hammer in hand, out after dark taking down the boards from his store windows.
“For the sheriff keeping such a quiet town,” he said to the shopkeeper with a grin, “you folks have to go to a whole lot of trouble.”
“Sure do, mister,” the shopkeeper said, a small, skinny man with a trim mustache. He gave up a defeated, little smile. “Every payday, it gets good and rowdy in this town.”
The man was in a half-unbuttoned threadbare shirt tucked into his paint-stained pants, obviously his fix-’er-up clothes. He added another board to the pile flush against the outer wall of his establishment.
The stranger asked, “Is it worth the trouble?”
“Too much invested to move,” he said, pausing between yanking nails. He heaved a disgusted sigh. “Once a month, same darn thing — payday and hooraw. Harry Gauge waits till the cowboys’ money is gone, and the town’s half-wrecked, before quieting it down again.”
A churn of wheels, rattle of reins, and clopping of hooves announced a wagon rolling into town. An older rancher at the reins, it pulled up alongside where the shopkeeper was at work and just behind the mounted stranger. Something in the open back of his wagon was covered with a tarp — from the shape, might be a body.
The rancher said, “Hey, Warren — remind me where the doc’s office is, would you?”
The shopkeeper shook his head. “Why bother, Burl? He’s out with the Haywood baby, or least he was.”
The rancher sighed and shrugged. He had a full, well-trimmed gray beard and had seen more in his time than most had forgot. “Well, hell... not that Doc Miller could’ve done this feller any good, anyways.”
The shopkeeper came closer, tapping his palm lightly with the hammerhead. “Who you got back there?”
“Old Swenson. Dead as they come.”
“Shame! What the hell happened?”
The rancher shrugged again. “Found him out near the relay station. Looks like he was drunk. Anyways, smells like he was drunk. Fell off his horse, maybe. Hit his head on a rock, likely.”
The stranger was climbing down off his horse. “You mind if I take a look?”
The rancher frowned. “Don’t know as it’s your business, mister.”
“Do you know that it isn’t?”
The rancher thought about that, and — perhaps realizing that this was the man who’d shot down four of Harry Gauge’s roughneck deputies today — said, “Have at, mister.”
“Thanks.”
The stranger got up into the wagon and flipped back the tarp. He knelt near the body. Warren, the shopkeeper, folded his fingers over the far-side edge of the wagon and peeked in, like a kid over a fence.
The corpse was on its belly, slack face to one side, mouth open as if seeking the air it could no longer inhale; the wound was well-exposed. This was a man in his fifties or older, weathered and wrinkled and gray. And out of his misery.
The stranger said, “If it was a rock, sure had a funny damn shape to it.”
The rancher, still seated on the buckboard, glanced back and said, with just a hint of impatience, “How’s that?”