Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

Remembering Buck Meems's talk, she studied Denver candidly. The puncher was right. Denver was not overly large. Her own father was as tall and as heavy. The comparison somehow surprised her, for she had always thought of Denver as being much the bulkier. The difference, she discovered, lay elsewhere—in Denver's big-boned wrists, in his sweep of shoulders, in the unsymmetrical boldness of his face. A scar shaped like a crescent lay on one dark cheek, black hair ran rebelliously along his head, and his eyes sat deep, violet eyes with flecks of other coloring in them. There lay the difference—there was the seat of that power which stamped him so definitely.

"When you get through with the inquest," he drawled, "I'd like to know the verdict."

She caught herself and looked down. "Apparently you read minds, David."

The shadows left his features; humor flashed from his eyes. "No, but I can read little girls' faces."

"Big girl in this case."

"Big girl it is, then." He leaned forward. "Why are you so all-fired anxious to grow up?"

"I have already grown up. I am twenty and as old and wise as I ever shall be. You ought to know that about women."

"Yeah? Where would I be getting my information?"

"I have been told you were rather successful with women," said Eve looking squarely at him. The shot struck him dead on. The deeply set eyes turned stormy and then swiftly cleared.

"Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see," he replied enigmatically. "And that doesn't sound good, coming from you, Eve."

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the girl. "Do you think I am a little dummy wrapped up in five yards of cloth? But I suppose I must be meek or get sent away from the table."

He chuckled. "I reckon you have grown up, for you've learned the trick of drawing a man off the trail. I asked you what was your all-fired hurry to blossom out as a lady. Ain't there grief enough in this world without hurryin' to meet it?"

"I think," said Eve, far more sober than she had been thus far, "I shall not tell you. Someday possibly you may learn for yourself."

"After I get more education?" he countered grimly.

Eve's father, Jake Leverage, came into the dining room and walked over to them. "One o' you two is in bad company," he observed amiably, "but I wouldn't swear which." He sat down and reached for a platter. "Goin' to beef much stuff this spring, Dave?"

"No. Market's too shot. Hold over until later."

"When a man talks that independent I reco'nize he ain't got any mortgages to worry about," grunted Leverage, parting his whiskers.

"I let the bankers do that worryin'," was Denver's dry response. "They seem to thrive and get rich doin' it, so why not let 'em?"

"You allus was a hand to run your own show," agreed Leverage. "But the more immediate question is, have you lost any stock through strange disappearance?"

"Rustlers don't seem to like my beef, Jake."

"Yeah? Well, yore lucky. I don't know what this country's comin' to. Somethin's got to be done to somebody. I ain't mentionin' any names but—"

"Do you happen to know of any names you might mention?"

Leverage looked a little uncomfortable, and Eve watched Denver with a wrinkle of thought on her forehead.

"Folks can do some pretty close guessin'," grunted Leverage. "And when fifteen-twenty people guess the same I'd say there must be a foundation o' fact. You goin' to the Association meetin'?"

"I'll listen in," assented Denver idly.

"There's got to be more'n just listenin' this time. You know as well as I do that this sort of horseplay can't go on. It comes right down to a proposition of who is goin' to run this country, the roughs and the toughs or the ranchers. It is a fine state of affairs when honest men raise beef for crooks to steal. I ain't in business for my health, ner I don't propose to play Santy Claus for Mister—" He checked himself from indiscretion and reddened.

"I see you have a particular gentleman in mind," suggested Denver.

"And his whole damned ring," added Leverage stoutly. "It's up to us to play a little game of root, hawg, or die."

"Takes three things to hang a man," opined Denver. "You've got to catch him, convict him, and find a big enough rope to hold him."

"The second item can be allowed as done right now. A good- sized posse can do the other two. I'll go so far as to furnish the rope myself. But you don't seem totally sold on the idee, Dave. Don't it mean nothin' to you? It had oughta. Yore eatin' pie from the same dish as the rest of us ranchers. It ain't no time to back and fill."

Denver looked at Eve, once more displaying the old temper of somber disbelief. "I believe in playin' my game and lettin' the other man play his. If the time comes when I've got a chore to do against a rustler I'll do it alone without askin' for help. Half of the big cattlemen in this county got their start by means of a quick rope and a careless brandin' iron. Now that these same dudes have got rich and turned honest they send up a tinhorn squawk every time they lose a calf. Let 'em haze their own rustlers instead of puttin' the chore on others."

"Wouldn't you hang a proved rustler?" demanded Leverage.

"I'd have to think about it," was Denver's slow reply. "A man would have to be considerably smaller and meaner than me—which is sayin' considerable—before I'd want to haul him out on a limb."

Leverage shook his head. "Hate to hear you say that. It's worse than a case of some fellow nibblin' a few head here and a few head there. It's organized outlawry we're goin' to have to fight. Root, hawg, or die. We run our business or they run us. I ain't able to get very soft-hearted over a crook under them circumstances."

"I guess I'll have to be pinched before I shout," drawled Denver, eyes following across the dining room. A man came in with a printed broadside and tacked it to the wall; black type announced to Sundown city the following entertainment:

LOLA MONTEREY!

AND THE WESTERN OPERA COMPANY

WILL PRESENT AT OUR OPERA HOUSE

THIS EVENING

AN OLD FAVORITE

CAVALIER OF SPAIN!

LOLA, SUNDOWN'S OWN SINGING BEAUTY,

COMES BACK TO HER BIRTHPLACE

AFTER A TRIUMPHAL TOUR

OF EUROPE TO PLEASE THE FOLKS

OF THE OLD HOMETOWN TONIGHT!

Jake Leverage scanned the notice. "They sure got the country plastered with them notices. I see 'em on every juniper shrub along the road. Been three years since we saw Lola in a play, ain't it, Eve? What's she want to come back to this sun-cooked scope of alkali-crusted land for, anyhow? I got no admiration for foreign places like Yurrup, but if I was a gal with Lola's talents I sure wouldn't waste no time around here. I'd go away and stay away."

Eve tried to catch her father's attention, but he went on blandly. "A great girl. I'm no hand for this fa-so-la music as a rule, but it was a genuine pleasure to sit back in the old Palace and hear her sing. Yes, sir. Well, I reckon you got to go to that, uh, Eve?"

He turned to his daughter and received in full measure the impact of her warning glance. She shook her head slightly, at which the old man muttered under his breath and combed back his mustache to drink the rest of his coffee. Eve's clear face seemed sharp and troubled as she watched Dave Denver. He had turned to the notice and was staring at it, all features caught up in a brooding, stormy expression. For a time he appeared to forget all others in the room, to forget that there were people around who might be interested in observing his reaction to Lola Monterey's name. Eve lowered her eyes to the table, knowing very well how many quick and covert glances were thrown toward Dave Denver. Lola was back, bringing with her a breath of the old story and the old gossip.

Denver squared himself to the table and reached for his cigarette papers. "Yeah," he observed casually, "she always had a fine voice. The outside world was her place."