Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

The girl murmured "good night" and turned in. Charterhouse saw her face white and troubled as she passed the door; troubled and grieving over the bloodshed that inevitably marched nearer, because she was a woman. Nickum knocked the ashes from his pipe and silently followed her. Charterhouse swung along the porch to his own room, entered and pushed the door nearly shut. Through the small aperture remaining he watched the yard with a close attention. A man slipped from another dark angle and crossed quickly to the bunkhouses; instead of going into any of them, he disappeared somewhere beyond. A great deal later, when Charterhouse was in bed, he heard spaced shots come faintly off the prairie. His mouth tightened.

"There's a leak around here," he mused.

Meanwhile, Sherry Nickum stood in front of her mirror and studied the dark reflection thrown back. In the course of this eventful day she had discovered something that both stirred and depressed her. A struggle as old as the ages, yet as new as each life took hold of her heart. Until it was settled she would never walk without one certain picture in her mind—tall and exuberant Buck Manners standing so indolently sure of himself in front of Clint Charterhouse whose clean-chiseled features seemed wistfully pointed to the promise of happiness hiding beyond the elusive horizons. She too heard the spaced shots; and her eyes clouded.

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"Consider Charterhouse to speak for me on any occasion when I am not personally with you," said old John Nickum, facing the assembled Box M riders. "When he gives an order, you are to obey it without qualification. Is that clearly understood? I want no doubts on the subject. This applies to everybody, no exceptions. From now on he is my right-hand man."

In the hot morning's sun he looked grim and gray; overnight he had aged. But the fighting flare was in the chilly eyes and the boom of his voice was as aggressive as ever. The group of men—Charterhouse counted forty in that crowd—stood silent. Haggerty shifted, no light relieving the sour, stringy face.

"I'm to work with him?" demanded the foreman, pitching the question in a surly tone.

Nickum stared down at the man long enough to make the silence oppressive. "I thought I made myself plain, Haggerty. You work under him, and no debate about it."

"I thought I was foreman of this outfit, Nickum."

"You still are—unless the job don't satisfy you. In that case—''

"I said nothing about not being satisfied," retorted Haggerty. "But it's a funny pass when a foreman don't run the spread direct under the owner. Charterhouse ain't friendly to me, and it goes hard on a man to take orders thataway."

Nickum turned to Charterhouse. "Want to declare yourself on that point?"

"Yes," said Clint. "Haggerty's got nothing to fear if he'll play poker with me. We had a run-in on the prairie and I took exception to some of his remarks. I still do. But this is business, and I'll hold down my private opinions if he'll do the same."

"Hear that, Haggerty?" challenged Nickum.

"I heard," grumbled the foreman. "Agreeable to me."

"Now," went on Nickum, "I have got news for you boys. We are going to bust this country wide open. We're going to smash the outlaws if we have to wreck Casabella to do it. The gun's out. Anybody that happens to be a mite squeamish can bunch the job now. The rest of you will hold yourself ready to ride at any time, day or night. This morning Charterhouse and me are taking a little trip toward Angels. Haggerty, you pick ten men and cruise over toward Dead Man. Be back by noon. Look for anything interesting. Seastrom, you stick around the house and watch. Fitzgibbon."

A small, bald and oldish puncher with incredibly bowed legs inclined his head. "Yes, sir?"

"Take four-five riders and hit north and see how our stock lays up yonder. Also be back by noon. I want nobody ambling off alone from now on."

"You and Charterhouse are riding pretty light," observed Seastrom. "Ought to have somebody else along."

"Never mind," countered Nickum. "I've been shot at before. Come on, Charterhouse."

The two wheeled and trotted away from the home quarters side by side. All the prairie lay fresh before them. Dead Man's Range was clear on the east and the pine ridge stood up in the more immediate southwest, to which they were now going. For almost an hour they went racking along without a word, covering eight or nine miles and bringing the trees within a short hail. Nickum seemed plunged in unpleasant thoughts and Charterhouse had no desire to break in. For himself, he surrendered his senses to the clear, heady feel of the morning. Sun beating down warmly, the soft air pungent with earth's smell, and the vast distances reassuring him of the old, old freedom. It was a beautiful country; one he never wanted to leave. He brought himself out of a comfortable indolence to see Nickum dropping slightly behind. The old man appeared a little paler than usual.

"No hurry," grunted Nickum. "We'll take it easier. When a man rides the saddle forty years he gets some churned up inside. I'm about arrived at my rocking chair days, Charterhouse, and by gosh, I hate to think of it! I'd slice off all but ten acres of this range to be twenty years younger."

"That's why I cut loose and drifted," mused Charter-house. "Wanted to kick up my heels before the sun went down."

"That's the way I was," replied Nickum with gruff regret. "Always wanted to feel my oats. Well, I got nothing to complain about. Lived a pretty full life. Came in here before the Indians left. Wild country and wild men. Even wilder than they are now. This present breed of rats can't teach me any tricks. I learned 'em all from tougher eggs than they ever will be. But I wish I was younger. Hell to want to be able to do things you can't any more. Ride forty miles, dance all night, and ride forty miles back to work all day. One time Buck Manners' dad and me hugged the lip of a water hole and fought a young army of rustlers ten straight hours." He checked his impulse toward reminiscence. "I brought you out here to show you some trails leading around Red Draw and through the pines. It's where we will do a lot of riding. Curly's hanging around Dead Man, but that don't fool me. He'll hook up with Shander's outfit and break for these pines. It's better shelter, closer to Box M and offers all of 'em a better chance to lick me. You've got to know where the best hiding places are."

"I overheard Shander and Curly speak of having thirty or thirty-five men in Dead Man."

Nickum was frowning at him. "Why didn't you spill that last night when Manners asked you?"

"We-ell," reflected Clint, hazel eyes narrowed against the increasing heat, "I sort of figured the information belonged to you privately. You're paying me, not Manners."

"Don't get any fool notions about him," emphasized Nickum. "That boy's straight as a string. I know that breed. Sorry you mistook his caliber. I'll tell him about that crew when I see him next. It's his right to know."

"You're the doctor," acquiesced Clint. "I thought I'd tell you first. Do what you want."

"So they figure to swamp me?" growled Nickum. "Well, I'll sprinkle some bait and bring that bunch right where I want. Should have cracked Curly in the head five years ago, before he got big ideas about himself. Now he's powerful and it'll take blood spilling. There's a lesson for you, Charterhouse. Never get tender-hearted over a crook. It only means a worse fight later on."

"Did you hear some shots beyond the ranch last night?" queried Charterhouse.

Nickum stared straight ahead for a matter of two or three minutes. "So you heard that, too? My boy, I made no mistake in picking you. I heard 'em. I know what it means. More than that, I've known I had some traitors in my outfit for a long time. That's what makes an old man out of me. Traitors on Box M and no way of catching on who they are. Damn that brand of a yellow belly!"