Kenton turned back into the room. Teller was seated at the table, his face sick but his eyes blazing with hatred as he looked at Sam Harden.
Jesse Kenton repeated, "You didn't have to do that, Sam." "No, I didn't," Sam agreed. "But I always did hate to see a man hit when he couldn't protect himself."
"We'll never come to any agreement," Kenton said, and strangely he seemed uncertain of himself. "If we can't get together on something we'll be up the creek without a paddle."
"What'd you have in mind, Jesse?" Sam asked.
"Why, to keep this Texas hombre out for one thing," Kenton said in a puzzled voice. "We ain't got grass for our own, let alone for some dust buster's cows."
"And how was you aimin' to keep him out?"
"We all act together," Kenton said. "We pool all our men. We ride out there and turn him back. He don't turn back—" He looked at Sam with hard eyes.
"I'm getting out of here," Balfont said in a shaky voice. "Me too," Reno said, "soon's I finish this here cigar and get another drink."
Balfont didn't look at them as he hurried out of the room with his head down.
"What's spookin' him?" Kenton asked, "Dub or what I said?" He hit the table with his fist. "We'll all go under if it's every man for himself. We'll never make it, I'm warnin' you, Sam."
Sam didn't answer but turned out of the room to follow Balfont. Outside, in the night, Sam's horse whickered softly.
Balfont stood there beside the horse, his head down. He straightened and turned to face Sam. "Thanks for knocking up that gun," he said. "He'd of got me sure at that range." His voice choked down. "As if I wasn't already all broke up. About Liz."
"It was her choice, George," Sam said. "Why don't you try to forget it?"
"She was sick," Balfont said haltingly. "She was sick in her mind, Sam. Trouble was, I knew it and couldn't do anything about it."
"The talk that's going around is that you got her in trouble, George. And then dropped her." It was hard for him to say it.
"That's a damn lie," Balfont snapped. "We were good friends, Sam, and that's all! Liz hated the life she had to live. She hated having Dub Porter for a father. And she hated this crappy town with a passion."
"Dub thinks different," Sam answered. "He'll try again."
"I know." Balfont's voice was tinged with agony. "He'll try again and all I can do is protect myself." He went close to Sam. "You didn't see it, Sam, because you were busy with Porter. Marv Teller got his gun and was going to shoot you in the back. Kenton stopped him, took his gun away from him."
"Maybe I owe Kenton something," Sam said wryly, not liking the thought.
"He didn't do it for you," Balfont retorted.
"Kenton's meeting blew up right in his face," Sam said,not knowing if he was pleased or not. "Wait a minute, George." He called out as Balfont moved away.
"What?" he asked, turning.
"What was the news you and Reno were about to tell when Porter walked in?"
"Oh, that? Just that Tex Cooney and a couple of his trail hands are in The Mint. Looking for Kenton—or you." Sam whistled. 'Wonder how far out his herd is," he mused.
"Wonder where he ever heard of this valley he's claiming." "I believe Fill McGee told him," Balfont said.
"Why would an old-time cattleman like Fill do something like that?"
"Can't say for sure but I have an idea," Balfont said without hesitation. "Fill has had a couple of lawyers back in Washington working to have the Crow Reservation opened up for some homesteading. Everybody knows he hasn't got a chance, and I think Fill has finally given up on it, too. His plan now is to get the ranchers hereabouts fighting among themselves. When the smoke lifts he'll move his kinfolk, or whoever those people are, in on our range." Even in the darkness he sensed Sam's doubt and added hurriedly, "He has the law behind him, Sam. We've no more right to the land we're using than that bunch of settlers out there."
"Don't I know it," Sam said gloomily. "But I can't see Fillmore McGee going to all that trouble—"
"Here's the clincher, Sam. The postmaster told me Fill wrote somebody down in Texas. I didn't think of it until this Cooney showed." He was silent and then said in a tired voice, "I'm going home, Sam."
He walked out of the alley, caught up by a hopeless rush of emotion, stemming from Liz Porter's death by her own hand.
It's all
such a
waste,
he thought, as he untied his horse from the rail and mounted. He had no desire to return to the lonely ranch on Limber Creek, but what else could he do? He turned his horse away from the light, laughter and music of The Mint and rode out of town.
Sam watched him from the mouth of the alley and then led his own horse to the Stockman's Hotel down the street. He tied the animal, crossed the walk and mounted the steps, then pushed open the door to the hotel lobby.
Molly McGee came to meet him. "He's still sleeping, Sam. I think he's settled for the night. And maybe tomorrow. He'll have a head big as a watermelon in the morning."
"Good," Sam said. "I hope he's sick as a dog."
She laughed. "You don't mean that, Sam."
"Yes, I do. He's never been anything but a headache for me. He has one of his own coming."
"How did the meeting go?" she asked.
He thought about what Balfont had told him. Molly was McGee's daughter, his flesh and blood. Anything she learned she'd pass on to Fill. "Not much of a meeting," he said carelessly. "It sort of broke up when Dub Porter tried to shoot George."
Molly gasped and then said indignantly: "And his own daughter not even buried yet!"
"I hadn't thought of it like that," Sam confessed, shook by Molly's sudden ire. She was usually as calm as a summer breeze.
"Dub Porter's failed as a father. He won't be responsible for what happened. He wants someone else to take the blame."
A slim girl in a black dress came down the stairs. Sam recognized her as the Keefe girl who sang in The Mint. Her brother, he remembered, had been killed in a homestead shack on Kenton's land. He watched her as she hurried out of the hotel.
"I didn't know she lived here," he said.
"She doesn't," Molly said tartly. "She's visiting a—a sick friend."
Sam chuckled quietly.
"Oh, Sam!" Molly said with quiet reproach.
"Look, Molly, do you know a cattleman named Cooney from Texas?" He didn't really expect an answer and was surprised when she nodded.
"He's a friend of Paw's," she said. "They met at an association convention back in St. Louis years and years ago and they've always wrote back and forth a couple of times a year."
"Did you know Cooney was settling in Crazyhorse?" Sam asked.
She laughed uncertainly. "My, you sound riled. Of course I know. Fill told him to stay put, that the range was burned out. But you know a cattleman. You can't tell 'em a thing."
Sam shook his head and turned away. She called after him, "Clay's in town and looking for you."
Sam stopped short and swung around. He'd sent his foreman to Canada to learn about leasing conditions up there. Clay had been gone nearly two weeks. "Where is he now?"
She said, "He came in, making the rounds. I told him about the meeting in the back room of The Mint. You'll probably find him somewhere along the street, Sam."
Sam left the hotel and walked hurriedly to The Mint. He stood there just inside the door, blinking in the smoke and shutting his ears to the hum of voices and the noises of a saloon gambling hell. Three strangers stood by the pianola, evidently waiting for Eddie Dulin to show. The girl in black stood at the other end of the instrument, also waiting.
Sam went to the end of the bar and looked at the faces lined up and down the length of it. He didn't see Clay Bassett there. He stepped back and saw the foreman enter. He motioned to him and Clay headed his way, showing evidence of hard travel in his dusty clothing and unshaven face.