He struggled upright. The liquid was bitter but not unpleasant. It warmed his throat, chest and stomach. He lay back down.
"I can
see
you tried to stop 'em," she said. "Wonder you didn't get killed."
"I tried," Sam said. He felt her hands, surprisingly gentle at his head, and then he slept.
Sam slept through the night and by morning he had only a throbbing headache. He had breakfast with the Hurts.
"I done buried him," Hurt said bluntly. "It's a hell of a country to live in so I guess he's not so bad off."
"Oh, Hurt, don't say such awful things," protested Mrs. Hurt.
"S' truth, so help me. Don't know what we gonna do now." "The Lord'll provide, Hurt," the fat woman said unconvincingly. "He allus has."
"Amen," Hurt said.
"What's that noise?" Sam asked, cocking his head at the unfamiliar sound.
"Windmill," Hurt said briefly. "I dug a well for Reno first week I was here. Got water at sixty-six feet."
Sam walked to the door. The windmill was a quarter of a mile away and the brisk wind spun the blades until they blurred. Water being pumped out of the ground. He whistled in amazement, not at the water, but the long string of wagons spotted a mile apart until they disappeared over a ridge. "What's the wagons doing out there just standing there?" he asked.
"Silage. Reno ordered it from Iowa. Brought in two carloads, got two more comin' next week. Hauled it in from the railroad in wagons and unloaded it right where the stock feed."
"Reno never said a word about all this," Sam said bitterly. "You his partner?" Hurt asked.
Sam shook his head. "Not partners in the legal sense. But, man, in this country—"
"He was your competition," Hurt observed. "This drought ain't gonna last forever. The market back east is comin' back when the panic's over. Anybody got nice fat beef then, well, he'll be sittin' in clover."
"I'm beginning to find out a few things," Sam said, and didn't voice his thoughtful hope that it wasn't too late.
"You goin' back to town now?" Hurt asked, when Sam headed 'for the corral.
Sam shook his head. "I'm heading to Balfont's on Limber Creek."
Hurt followed him as he cut out the Apaloosa and saddled it. He mounted, thanked Hurt and cut across country toward Limber Creek.
Balfont wasn't at his ranch. The small knot of dread in Sam got bigger and he dwelled on the fact that he could spend the rest of the week looking for Balfont in the canyons that stretched from the creek clear to the other side of the mountain.
He was adjusting his saddle blanket when a Balfont hand, a 17-year-old named Chinch rode in.
"Where's George?" Sam asked, after the usual greetings were over.
Chinch's fuzzy and freckled face was solemn. "Mr. Balfont ain't been back since he went into Crossroad Comers some few days ago."
Sam felt the knot in his belly enlarge. "You sure?"
The boy nodded. "Yes, sir. There's just two o' us hands left, me and Spike. We didn't find him in town. An' ain't nobody seen him. Plain up and disappeared."
Dub Porter,
Sam thought. But Dub wasn't the kind of man to ambush another. Or was he? Sam was beginning to believe he didn't know much about people. He dropped his stirrup and mounted, nodding to Chinch. "If he shows up tell him I got to see him. It's real important."
"Sure will, Mr. Harden," Cinch said and waved a farewell. He wanted to ask Sam about his clothing being torn but he had been taught not to ask personal questions. He watched Sam ride in the direction of Flag ranch and shook his head in bewilderment. There was a lot of talk going around and a man just didn't know what to believe.
It was dark when Sam rode into Flag. Tired and discouraged he off-saddled the Apaloosa and turned it into the barn, thinking he'd lug water later. It came to him as he forked hay down that the hounds hadn't come baying and then there was that hurt remembrance that they'd never greet him again.
He hung up the fork, uneasy, wishing he had the extra pistol in the house. He hadn't been
able
to find the one he lost the night before. He walked toward the house, stopping as a dark shape detached itself from the dark blot of the house and came toward him.
"Harden?" It was a slow drawl, unfamiliar to him.
He was alert, his spine tingling again. "Yes, I'm Harden." "Cooney here. I been waitin'."
Texas John Cooney. Another problem. Sam went ahead once more. "You alone, Cooney?"
"Sure am." He fell in beside Sam and they walked together to the back door.
Sam went in and, knowing his house, went directly to the table. Cooney was a dark silent shape in the open doorway. Sam got a match from his pocket, wiped it alight and put the flame to the wick. He eased the globe chimney back on and adjusted the wick before he turned.
"Come on in," he said.
The string-thin man lounged into the room and put his hat on the floor. "Thought maybe I could talk better comin' out here," he said.
"Had supper?" Sam asked.
Cooney nodded. "Et before I left camp," he said.
"I'm going to fix a bite," Sam said. "Talk away, Cooney." Cooney stared at him. "Been tanglin' with a wildcat?" he asked.
"We all have our troubles," Sam said, and began building a fire in the cook stove. When he had it blazing he clattered the stove lid into place and fanned the smoke from around his head.
"Seems you have more than your share, from what I hear."
"Quit beating around the bush," Sam said. "Tell me what you want." The stove was heating and he put the coffeepot on and broke two eggs in a frying pan and placed a cover over them. He turned and let his glance rest on Cooney.
"All right, I will. I don't want trouble but I got to get my cows settled on that range. I brung 'em a right far piece."
"I can't give you permission," Sam said.
"Yeah, but you can stay out o' any fight that might start."
Sam studied him. "You think there'll be a fight?"
Cooney slowly uncoiled himself and stood up from the chair he had taken. "Kenton will have one. But he's afraid o' you. With you out o' it I might have a chance."
Sam laughed. "Kenton afraid of me? Who's been feeding you that stuff?"
"I see things by lookin' around," Cooney said. "You're a reasonable feller, I know. You're big as Kenton—"
Sam interrupted. "I can't do a damn thing about it," he said flatly. Cooney hadn't moved his cattle into the valley or he wouldn't be here now. He suddenly wished Texas John had gone somewhere else to resettle.
"Maybe you can't," Cooney said. "That'd be bad. There's a bunch o' farmers waitin' around here to claim some land. Maybe I'll he'p 'em along, though God kmows I don't want 'em bustin' sod any more than you do."
"This land's all taken."
"So's mine down in Texas," Cooney said bleakly. "But I got no more right to it than a hound dog has to heaven. I'm askin' you for the last time: stand back and call off the others. I'll take care o' Kenton."
"There's nothing I can do," Sam said with finality.
"All right, then," Cooney said and his eyes grew hot. "Don't blame me for anythin' that happens." He stepped to the door, jerked it open and said, "Boysl"
The dark, wide man came first and he had a pistol in his hand and there was something of Marv Teller's eagerness about him. The other two also had their pistols out. They came swiftly across the room while Harden stood there wishing he had a gun.
"What's the deal, Cooney?" Sam asked; with the three guns on him a helpless feeling held him tight.
"I'm takin' you with me," Cooney said. "I'll hold you out in my camp 'til I get m' cows settled where I aim to put 'em.
"
Nothing to lose,