CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Matt Tyrell stared at the half empty bottle with bleary, redrimmed eyes. He leaned forward over the table, supporting his head in his hands. The two cowpokes sharing the table with him grinned and indicated the bottle.

“Time for another one, kid,” one of them drawled. “Then it’s your turn to deal.”

He shoved a greasy deck of cards towards Matt. Tyrell knuckled his eyes, and tried to focus on the cards. His head was swimming, and he hiccupped as he scratched his chin. Somewhere in the back of his whiskey soaked mind he knew he’d lost too much money already, and that he should quit and go home. But these were his new friends, and he didn’t want to let them down.

“Come on, have another drink,” the taller one of the two urged, pushing a full glass at him. “You’ll feel better.”

Matt snuffled and reached a shaking hand for the drink. A split second later glass shards and whiskey exploded around them as a shot smashed the glass to pieces. The two cowpokes stumbled to their feet as a second shot splintered the bottle, spraying them with liquor. The noise in the saloon died abruptly, and everyone eyed the man who had done the shooting.

“I’ll drop the first one that blinks,” Jess said coldly, his gun swinging in a slow arc covering the two men in front of him.

“What the hell…” one of them sputtered, wiping whiskey off his face. “The kid here’s just buyin’ us a few rounds… you got no call to…”

“I ain’t getting’ in a spittin’ contest with a snake,” Jess snarled. “I’m callin’ it, so clear out, both of you. Move!”

The last was a savage yell, and the two stumbled back, bumping into each other. They swore as they made their way to the door, but neither of them was inclined to take on the stranger with the promise of death in his eyes.

Jess watched them go, and swung his gun around to the rest of the patrons. They regarded him warily, some of them recognizing him, and spreading the word in quick whispers. A man, who had furtively dropped a hand to his gun, eased it away, nonchalantly hooking a thumb in his vest instead.

Matt Tyrell raised his watery eyes from the destruction on the table, and stared at the intruder. His brain fogged with alcohol he nevertheless knew that hard face. Hell, he couldn’t close his eyes at night without seeing it. The man had killed his brothers, and shot down his father… no… he couldn’t be here…

“Why’d you come, Jess?” he shouted hoarsely, lurching to his feet. “Wasn’t…wasn’t Laramie enough for you? You wanna finish the job?”

The silence in the saloon settled on Jess’ shoulders, and he felt the weight of their accusatory stares. Most of them knew the story of what had happened in Laramie, and they remembered the shooting of Billy Tyrell two years ago. Yet they mattered little to Jess, it was the disheveled young man, weaving on his feet that brought back the pain of the past two months. There wasn’t much left of the cleancut youth who had stood tall and straight on the side of law and order; that had been on the verge of gunning down his father to prevent him from committing murder. He was unkempt and unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of too much whiskey and not enough soap and water.

“It’s time to go home, Matt,” Jess said and holstered his gun.

“Home!” Matt laughed wildly. “What home? There’s…there’s nothing left to go home to. Get away from me, Jess, or I swear I’ll kill you where you stand!”

He took a few uncertain steps towards Jess, fumbling for his gun. Jess reached out and grabbed his wrist with one hand, and with the other he chopped him across the neck. Matt dropped like a felled ox, and Jess caught him and slung him over his shoulder. When he turned to face the crowd in the saloon they unconsciously moved aside for him. The bartender made a motion to reach under the counter, and then froze as a shot plowed into the wall behind him. No one was sure they had seen Jess draw, but his gun lay unwavering in his hand, covering them.

“Anyone else?”

He hoisted Tyrell into a more secure grip and backed slowly out of the saloon. On the sidewalk he almost bumped into the sheriff. John Carlin’s face turned grim when he saw the man responsible for the ruckus that had brought him running.

“Jess Harper!” he breathed, disbelief in his voice. “So help me if you’ve killed Matt…”

“Oh, he’s dead all right,” Jess drawled. “Dead drunk. I’m takin’ him home, Sheriff, so don’t get in my way.”

“Why should you care what happens to him?” Carlin said, nodding disgustedly at the unconscious Tyrell hanging over Jess’ shoulder. “Haven’t you done enough to him? Killed his whole family… and now I suppose you’ve come back to gloat, eh?”

“I got no time for you, Sheriff,” Jess said. “Step aside.”

Carlin chewed furiously on his lower lip, but the gun in Jess’ hand decided the issue, and he reluctantly moved back to let them pass. Keeping an eye on him, Jess headed for his horse. He slung Matt across the saddle and mounted up behind him. A sorrel with the Rocking T brand was tied up next to them, and Jess leaned down and grabbed the reins, pulling them loose.

“I don’t know what your game is, Harper,” Carlin growled, “But you step out of line just once, and I’ll have you back in jail before you know what hit you.”

“Don’t get in my way, Carlin,” Jess said coldly

Leading Matt’s horse Jess rode down Main Street, keeping a steady hand on Tyrell as his eyes roved warily, his hand never far from his gun. Passersby stopped up and stared, but no one made a move towards them.

Once outside of town, he picked up the pace, heading for the ranch. Jess shut his mind to the regret that welled up in him when he looked down at the young man draped across his saddle, and concentrated on the immediate future, which was to sober the man up.

A few miles out of town, he turned off the main road, and guided the horses along a narrow, overgrown trail. He knew the area well enough, and if his memory served him there was a small lake nearby.

He came upon it an hour later, and halted the horses. Matt made distressed, groaning noises as Jess eased him from the saddle, and slung him over his shoulder again. He walked down to the edge of the lake and with a mighty heave he tossed the young man unceremoniously headfirst into the cold water. It wasn’t very deep at that point, and Matt came up sputtering and yelling angrily.

“What the hell…are you crazy?”

He floundered around, lost his balance and went under again. He swallowed water and came up gagging. Jess stared grimly at him, then turned on his heel and walked over to Buck. He fished a small bar of soap and a threadbare towel out of his saddlebag, and then swung back to Tyrell, who was staggering towards shore, muttering and cursing to himself.

“Stay where you are!” Jess yelled. “You need a bath!”

“Damn you Jess,” Matt cried. “Damn you to hell, you got no right to do this! No right!”

“I got every right,” Jess said bitterly, reflecting on the truth of that statement. If it hadn’t been for him the boy wouldn’t be where he was now, a drunken sod without a family, about to lose his ranch, maybe his life, if he got in Tolliver’s way.

“I’m coming out,” Matt snarled and waded forward. A bullet plunking into the water behind him brought him up short, and he glared at Jess with sunken, bloodshot eyes.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, kid,” Jess drawled. “You can take a bath, or I can give you one. What’s it gonna be?”

Matt caught the soap Jess threw him and his whiskeysoaked mind weighed his chances and found them wanting. While Jess watched, he stripped off his vest and shirt and began to soap himself. If truth be told, it felt good, though he’d die before he admitted that. The Devil take Harper, he could settle with him later. He held his breath and ducked under, rinsing off the soap, getting it in his eyes and swearing as it stung him.

“Well, that ought to hold you for a while,” Jess grinned and holstered his gun. “Come on ashore, I’ll make some coffee. You got a change of clothes?”

Tyrell shook his head, and winced as too much bad whiskey made it ring like a Sunday church sermon. He turned a sickly green and staggered behind some bushes, and a few seconds later Jess heard him wringing his guts out. Grinning to himself he got a fire going and put the coffee pot on. He dug out a spare shirt from his bedroll and when Matt stumbled back into view he silently handed it to him, along with the towel.

“What happens now?” Matt asked sullenly as he stripped off his pants and hung them near the fire to dry. He shrugged into the shirt and sat down on a rock beside the fire tugging disconsolately at his damp longjohns.

Jess poured him a mug of coffee and he accepted it gingerly, his hands shaking. He carelessly took a big swallow, and scalded himself on the piping hot liquid.

“Shit!” he fumed and spat it out. Sudden, blind anger swept over him and he threw the cup aside.

“Goddamn you Jess, I don’t need any help… least of all from you,” he roared and launched himself at Jess.

He caught Jess off guard, and they crashed together, sending the coffee pot flying. They rolled on the ground, Matt flailing away with his fists, too angry to fight intelligently, and Jess hampered by not wanting to hurt him. Finally he landed a fist in the kid’s belly, sending the air whooshing out of him, and Matt doubled up, gasping. He stood on all fours, his head hanging down as he hiccupped and grunted, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, you’re a fine sight!” Jess said contemptuously. “Soaked to the gills with bad whiskey, you haven’t shaved in a week; your ranch is fallin’ apart,

yeah, you’re the best Tyrell of the lot, all right. At least your brothers had guts, and so did your Pa.”

Matt Tyrell flinched under the tongue lashing, but at the mention of this father he drew himself up. He shook away the wet hair that fell into his eyes, and his hands knotted into tight fists.

“Leave my family out of this,” he whispered hoarsely. “You got no call to even mention their names, Jess.”

“No call?” Jess said. He turned savage as the old, deadly anger choked his voice. “I spent two years in hell because of them. Two years where the only freedom was a few hours in a prison yard; where you couldn’t sleep nights because someone was always screamin’. You wanted to escape so bad it made you sick!”

He turned away from Tyrell, clenching his teeth as a flood of despair and helpless fury rushed through him. Matt, seeing Jess’ back was turned, stepped quickly to his horse, and eased his Winchester out of the scabbard. He hadn’t been able to do what his father wanted in Laramie, well, maybe it wasn’t too late to make up for it, maybe he’d sleep better at night.

“Some men could take it,” Jess murmured, more to himself. “They could wait it out… Every day I woke up and saw those bars I died a little more. I was ready to make a run for it, figured it was better to die trying than to rot in a cell for two years. Believe me, Matt; your father got his revenge.”

He broke off as his voice threatened to betray him, and turned to find Tyrell holding a rifle aimed at his chest. They stared at each other across the fire, the maverick veteran of too many gunfights and the young rancher who would rather read books than fire a gun.

Matt cocked the rifle and brought the barrel up two inches. A strange smile touched Jess’ lips, it was half sad, half dark and terrible, and it caught Matt like a physical blow. His throat constricted and sudden tears stung his eyes. The rifle wavered in his hands.

“Well, why don’t you finish the job?” Jess said quietly. He made no move towards his gun.

With a strangled sob, Matt threw the rifle aside and collapsed on the ground. He buried his face in his arms, and grief too long held in check, tore through him. His shoulders shook as he cried for his father and brothers.

Jess took a deep breath, and was wrung with pity for the young man. But it was better that he finally gave vent to his feelings; maybe now the healing could begin. He left Matt alone, quietly making up another pot of coffee and putting fresh wood on the fire.

Matt Tyrell finally brought his emotions under control, and stumbled to his feet. He wiped a sleeve across his tearstained face, and looked at Jess in embarrassment, but saw only understanding on the other’s face. Running his hands through his damp hair he sat down by the fire, and again accepted a cup of coffee from Jess.

“Careful now, it’s hot, remember?” Jess grinned.

Matt shot him a suspicious glance, and an uncertain smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he raised the cup to his lips. He sipped cautiously, grateful for the warm, strong brew.

Jess avoided looking at him, wanting to give him a chance to pull himself together. They finished the first cup in silence, and then Jess threw some bacon and beans into a battered pan, and soon the tantalizing aroma made Matt’s mouth water. He couldn’t believe he was hungry, but he was, ravenous in fact!

“Be ready in a minute,” Jess said shaking the pan gently. “Think you could eat somethin’?”

“If you’d asked me an hour ago I would’ve said no,” Matt said ruefully, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. His hands still shook slightly as the alcoholic residue churned around in his system.

“I know how you feel.” Jess handed him a heaping plateful. “Been there myself often enough.”

Matt quickly polished off his plate and helped himself to another mug of coffee. He noticed Jess had barely touched his food, and wondered about the man. What had brought him back to Bowdrie after all this time, here where the odds were he’d catch a bullet sooner or later? He shuddered as he realized how close he’d come to gunning him down in cold blood. If he had pulled the trigger his father would have won the game after all, from beyond the grave.

“You haven’t eaten anything,” Matt said, enjoying his coffee and the feeling of a solid meal under his belt.

Jess put his plate down, and rolled a cigarette. He watched the smoke trail off towards the darkening sky, still unsure where he stood with Matt Tyrell.

“Guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” he shrugged. He leaned back, suddenly tired. He’d spent the better part of a week in the saddle, taking little time to sleep and it was beginning to wear on him.

Matt regarded the drawn, exhausted face of the other man, and recalled how he had looked that day in Laramie, when they’d met on the street after Johnny had been killed, his eyes black with a mixture of pain, anger and despair. He found himself wanting to reach out to him now, but hesitated. Jess was a loner, always would be because of what he was. Gunfighters made few friends.

Matt sighed and wished his head didn’t hurt quite so much. The past two months drifted by, and he closed his eyes as the shame washed over him. A Tyrell, he had turned his back on the family name and soaked himself in bad whiskey and done his best to gamble away his father’s empire. He shook his head. It had been left up to him to carry on, and continue building up the ranch and the family business. All he had done so far was wallow in his own self pity.

“You’re bein’ too hard on yourself,” Jess drawled, eyeing him across the fire.

Matt looked up, startled, realizing Jess had read his mind like an open book. He smiled wryly.

“Why’d you come back, Jess?”

Jess seemed to be searching for an answer. He debated telling him about Cal Tolliver and his plans, but decided against it. Better leave it alone for the moment, and see how the situation developed.

“Jess?” Matt persisted. “Why’d you leave Laramie? I thought you and Sherman were friends.”

“Leave Slim out of this,” Jess said curtly, and threw his cigarette into the fire. “Look, kid, I was never cut out to be a rancher. I’m trailin’ west, I swung by here because… I owe you for what you did for me back there. Weren’t for you I’d be pushing up daisies by now.”

“Yeah, and my father would be on trial for murder,” Matt observed bitterly and climbed to his feet.

He weaved unsteadily, still shaky from weeks of overindulgence. Torn by conflicting emotions he walked away from the fire and stood looking out over the lake. It lay still and tranquil in the approaching dusk, a slight breeze teasing the treetops. The very peacefulness of the scene was a balm for his wounded psyche, and he drank it in deeply.

Jess remained where he was, watching the young man, suspecting the turmoil inside him. He could well understand how he felt, the kid had lost so much, and now he had to find a way to put the past behind him and cope with the future.

Jess reflected that he too had lost a great deal, perhaps in some ways more than Matt. There had been little warmth in his life, but for a short while the Sherman ranch had been a place where he might have had a chance to make a new life for himself. He smiled wryly as he lit another cigarette. Well, Laramie lay behind him, and he’d rather not reflect too closely on what lay ahead, not just yet. There were other, more pressing matters to take care of.

“You’ve heard the rumors that someone’s rustling my stock?” Matt said, squatting down and throwing more wood on the fire. It was almost dark now, and the air was noticeably cooler.

“Yeah, one of the regular stage drivers mentioned it when he came back from a run through Bowdrie,” Jess said. “Seems your ramrod has a hand in it.”

“Peters?” Matt shook his head. “I seem to recollect hearing words about that, but it’s hard to believe. He’s been with us for five years; he held the ranch together with just a handful of men after the others drew their pay. Weren’t for him I’d probably have lost it all by now.”

“I crisscrossed your property on the way here,” Jess told him. “Found a small box canyon on the northern perimeter. Narrow pass leadin’ in to a meadow, it’s like a natural corral. Counted over three hundred head of Rocking T beef.

Tyrell rocked back on his heels, a stunned expression on his face. He had known he was losing beef. In-between the drunken orgies there had been a few sober moments, but they never lasted long enough to do any good. He found it difficult to swallow that he could have lost three hundred head.

“You sure they’re ours?” He rubbed his hands together, suddenly cold.

“Prime whitefaces, all carryin’ your brand,” Jess replied. “Peters has just been bidin’ his time, waiting for you to drink yourself over the edge. Then he can take over the whole outfit, always claimin’ you asked him to handle your affairs.”

“Son of a bitch!” Matt grated. “After all this time, the trust my father put in him… I’m headin’ back, Jess. He won’t get away with this!”

“Whoa there, hold on, son!” Jess said quickly. “Don’t go off halfcocked. We can’t prove a thing against him yet. He’s waited this long, I think he’ll keep a little while longer. He has to drive that herd out of the territory. Ain’t that easy to find a buyer who won’t ask awkward questions. Give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” Matt demanded. “Just sit back and wait?”

“For the moment, yeah. I suggest we camp here tonight, and head for the ranch tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”

Matt looked at him sharply. The light from the fire flickered over the lean face, and he saw the sheer exhaustion in it, the chill blue eyes unguarded.

“How long you been riding, Jess?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Jess yawned. He reached out a hand and pulled his blanket and saddle towards him. He lay back and tucked the blanket around him. Jess shoved his Stetson down over his forehead and closed his eyes gratefully.

“Jess, when do you think we…?” Matt stopped seeing that the other man was already asleep. He grinned and rolled himself up in his own blanket. He lay quietly for a moment, watching the fire, drawing comfort from its warmth. He felt himself grow drowsy.

“’night, friend,” he murmured into the darkness.

ooo0ooo

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Mort Corey threw the reins over the rail and slapped the dust off his britches. He shivered against an early winter wind as he stepped up on the front porch of the little ranch house. The letter from the sheriff in Bowdrie lay uneasily on his mind as he debated the wisdom of bringing Slim into this. He tapped on the door, and heard Daisy Cooper’s light, quick footsteps.

“Why, Sheriff Corey,” she beamed. “What brings you out on such a cold day? Come in, come in.”

“Mrs. Cooper,” Corey nodded and stepped into the warm, comfortable room.

Slim looked up from his desk, and grinned when he saw the sheriff.

“Mort, you don’t know how glad I am to see you,” he sighed and pushed aside a pile of papers. “Nothin’ I dislike more’n sittin’ here trying to wade through all these company vouchers.”

“Big meetin’ coming up, I understand,” Mort said and accepted a mug of coffee from Daisy.

“Yeah, annual company policy pow-wow,” Slim said ruefully. “Wish I could avoid it, but there’s no way around this one.”

He got up and stretched wearily. Corey noticed he looked tired, and guessed he was back to doing the work of two men, now that he was alone again.

“You here on business or pleasure, Mort?”

The sheriff and he had been friends for a good many years, and he could see the older man was ill at ease about something.

“Well, I reckon it’s mostly business, Slim,” Corey said slowly. “It’s about Jess.”

Slim fetched up short and stared hard at the sheriff. Three weeks had gone by since they’d come back from town to find Jess gone, along with his gear and the big buckskin. He had left more than enough money for the horse, and Slim had forwarded the balance to Warden Sam Belden.

His note offered no explanation other than it was time to move on. The vase with wildflowers was on oddly touching gesture that had made Daisy sit down and cry. Mike refused to accept that Jess wasn’t coming back and often sat on the corral gate, with Buttons by his side, gazing up the road, waiting and wishing for his friend to return. He was so sure Jess would show up that so far Slim had not had the heart to tell him different. He suspected they had seen the last of him.

Jess had been right; he was a gunfighter, not a rancher. Slim remembered all too well the satisfied gleam in his eyes as he regained his speed with a gun. Yet the warmth and unselfishness that he knew was there saddened him. It was such a waste, he mused, thinking of the lonely trail Jess chose to ride.

“What about him?”

“I got a letter from Sheriff Carlin in Bowdrie,” Corey said. “Seems Jess rode into town, shot up the saloon and punched out Matt Tyrell. Carried the kid out of the saloon and rode off with him slung across the saddle. Now he’s working at the Rocking T.”

“Tyrell?” Slim repeated, disbelief in his voice. “It doesn’t make any sense, Mort. Matt made it very plain he didn’t want to see Jess again, ever. Why the hell would he go back there?”

“Yeah, well, there’s more,” Corey said, scratching at the back of his head.

“Go on,” Slim said grimly.

“Carlin’s got sources of information in some outlaw circles, and he did some checkin’ around. Before coming to Bowdrie, Jess stopped off at Trail’s End and met with Cal Tolliver. Rumor has it the outlaw’s planning a big job, and Carlin thinks Jess is part of it.”

Daisy caught the sheriff’s words as she came out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. She paled, and wiped her hands on her apron, in quick, angry gestures.

“Jess would never be party to anything illegal,” she said indignantly.

“Maybe not, Mrs. Cooper,” Corey said. “But don’t forget, he’s had one boot on either side of the law for a long time now. It doesn’t take much for a man to slide over on the wrong side.”

“Cal Tolliver,” Slim muttered. “You said they knew each other, Mort. No reason why Jess shouldn’t look him up, I reckon.”

He was clutching at straws, and knew it. So did the sheriff.

“No,” Mort conceded. “But someone’s rustling Tyrell beef in large numbers. Tolliver’s one of the few men around those parts who has the brains and the connections to move and sell a large herd. Seems the Tyrell ramrod, man called Rafe Peters, is involved too. Let’s face it, Slim, Jess has no call to like to name Tyrell.”

Slim shook his head irritably.

“Matt Tyrell did his best to avoid all the bloodshed, Mort. Saved Jess’ life, more’n likely. I don’t believe Jess would go gunning for him after what happened here, and I don’t think you do either.”

“Killing Matt’s father came close to breaking him,” Daisy said softly, remembering that awful day. “I only wish he had turned to us for help.

“He’s been a loner for so long I don’t think he knows how, Daisy,” Slim said. “Mort, there’s something else on your mind, let’s have the rest of it.”

“You’re going to that stageline company meetin’ in Bowdrie,” the sheriff ventured. “Carlin’s got no proof Peters or Jess is involved in the rustling operation, he wrote to me to see if I had anything he could pick Jess up for, which of course I don’t. I’d like you to look into things while you’re up there, Slim. Take a ride out to the Tyrell spread and see if you…”

“I won’t spy on him, Mort,” Slim said grimly.

“Slim, hear me out,” Mort begged, and held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to spy on anyone. Just look around a bit. Use your head; you might be able to prevent more bloodshed. All I’m askin’ is that you check it out on the quiet like. If the rumors are false, no harm done.”

“And if they’re not?” Slim said a bleak look on his face.

*****

Rafe Peters regarded the two men down by the corral, a surly expression on his coarse features. His small, piggy eyes were red-rimmed from last night’s outing in town. He was unshaven and smelled of stale sweat and beer. A tall, gangly man in his mid forties, dressed in dirty levis and undershirt, came out of the bunkhouse, a towel slung over one shoulder. He scratched his armpit absentmindedly, and squinted at Peters.

“Gettin’ to ya, ain’t he,” he said and nodded towards the corral.

“Shuddup, Tinker,” Peters snarled. “I’ll take care of Harper in my own good time. No one steps into my operation without my say-so.”

“Your operation?” Tinker drawled. “Shucks now, and here I been thinkin’ all along it was Tolliver’s. Have you told him that it’s your show?”

He snickered as he pumped water from the trough into a washbasin. Peters glared at him as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. The devil take Tolliver, he had no call to take authority away from him.

Harper had run the ranch with an iron fist since he took over. The corrals were repaired, the main house had a fresh coat of paint, and even the flowerbeds in front of the main house had been dug up and replanted. The remuda had a good supply of half-broke mustangs, and all the unbranded mavericks roaming the spread had been rounded up and marked with the Rocking T brand.

Peters hadn’t been able to talk to Matt alone since Harper arrived. The kid stayed sober and was working his tail off alongside that no-good gunslinger. The foreman couldn’t figure out what Harper’s game was. Why the hell go to all this trouble if he was working for Tolliver and they were planning to steal the kid blind? Just to be sure he wouldn’t get suspicious? ‘A man could carry things too far’, he thought angrily and spat in the dust.

Tinker glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and chuckled derisively. Peters had it coming. He had been riding high on the hog for too long, time someone took him down a peg or two. Like the foreman, he and the others wondered what Harper’s game was, but if Tolliver was an old crony of his, Tinker wasn’t one to cross him. Not when there was lot of money at stake.

Rafe Peters suddenly hitched up on his belt and headed for his horse. He swung into the saddle with an ease that belied his bulk, and ran the horse down the road and out the gate. Tinker wondered what had got into him, then shrugged and went back to his shaving.

“He’s in an all fired hurry,” Matt said, seeing Peters take off. He rubbed a hand across his aching neck. Hazing mustangs was backbreaking work, but he felt better than he had in a long time.

It was hard to believe that only a week had gone by since Jess had dragged him out of the Horseshoe Saloon and heaved him into the lake. He smiled ruefully at the memory as he glanced at Jess. Matt wished again that he could get the man to ease up and relax. He seemed driven, working harder than anyone else from sunup to sundown, it was almost as if he was afraid there wouldn’t be enough time to do everything. Hell, time was one thing they had plenty of!

They both kept a sharp eye on Peters, but so far he had made no suspicious moves. As for Jess, he grew more distant and brooding with each passing day. He delegated the work with a sure hand, and things got done. The hands had too much respect for his reputation for ruthlessness and gunplay to balk at his orders. Matt knew a lot of that reputation was undeserved, but once a man had been branded a fast gun he was often blamed for every fight and wrongdoing around him.

Matt knew Jess had damn well saved his ranch, not to mention his sanity. What had happened in Laramie was finally at an end, and he could look forward again. He had tried to tell Jess it was time that he too put the events behind him, but he was cut short. Matt suspected Jess was at war with himself and his feelings. He had been on his own for so long, running from the violence of his past towards a bleak future, but like Slim, Matt saw the finely tempered, unbending steel in him. Steel that in the end would keep him on the side of the law, the law he treated with such contempt.

Jess walked the buckskin up to the house. His face was strained as he turned and gazed after the foreman. ‘Where was Peters going’? He had been walking on the edge of a showdown since he got to the ranch. Tolliver had said a week, that meant tomorrow night. Was the ramrod heading for a meeting with the outlaw leader? Jess wanted to swing back in the saddle and follow Peters, but he didn’t dare leave the spread unguarded. He couldn’t tell Matt about his suspicions either; the kid might inadvertently give the show away. Wearily, he climbed the steps to the porch and went inside.

“Thought I’d send a couple of the men to the line shack on the East ridge tomorrow,” Matt said as they sat down to dinner. “Some fences are down.”

Gimpy ladled up a hearty stew for them and then retreated to the kitchen. He was a short, wiry Irishman with scarred knuckles from too many fights in the back alleys of his native land. His real name was Brendan O’Shea, but when a broken leg mended crooked, he became Gimpy. It was meant affectionately, and he didn’t mind it. If he had he could easily have whaled the tar out of anyone who cared to step forward.

He had first worked for Sarah Tyrell’s folks back east, and when she followed Hurd Tyrell westward, Gimpy went with her to look after her. He had been with the family for nigh on thirty years now, serving as cook, father confessor and teacher to all three of the Tyrell boys. To his sorrow and consternation the two youngest ones had turned away from him, but Matt, the oldest and his favorite, had spent hours sitting on his knee, listening to the tall tales he’d spun about the old country.

The Irishman remembered all too well the Billy Tyrell killing, and the trial that followed. He had been in the courtroom every day, and had watched sadly as the years that followed turned Hurd Tyrell from a hard but fair-minded man, into a stranger filled with hatred and bent on revenge.

Matt had blurted out the story of what had transpired in Laramie a few days after the funeral for his father and brother. Gimpy’s kind Irish heart had been filled with rage towards the man who had done this to the kid, but that was before he’d met him and got to know him. He had watched Harper turn Matt inside out and put him back on his feet again. He had sweated and worked the alcohol and grief out of his system; given Matt a reason to go on living and building, and Gimpy had put his anger aside and extended a grudging but friendly hand.

Try as he might though he couldn’t reach Harper. Once in awhile there would be a brief glimpse of humor, and those cold dark blue eyes would warm, banishing the haunted shadows. Gimpy had seen his share of fights and bloodshed, and sensed the violence in the other man, the cavalier disregard for his own safety, and he often wondered what drove the young man to return to Bowdrie.

The last few days he had been strained and irritable, taut as a wire stretched to the breaking point. Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Gimpy O’Shea stirred his stewpot, his superstitious Irish heart filled with foreboding.

“Jess, you haven’t heard a word I said,” Matt grinned, and pushed aside his plate. “And the way you’re treating Gimpy’s stew he’ll think you’re coming down with something, and bring out the castor oil.”

Jess looked up, his gaze unreadable. His mind was on Rafe Peters who had not returned. It gnawed at him. He was certain the ramrod had headed for a meeting with Cal Tolliver. Could he rely on the outlaw not to change his plans? He worried about the cash and gold in the safe in Tyrell’s study. Matt had told him it was pretty much all he had left. The reserves in Bowdrie National Bank had been gambled away. If Tolliver got hold of the contents of the safe it would wipe out the Rocking T. He frowned down at the food on his plate. Would Matt trust him enough to agree to move the money to a safer place?

“Jess, hey, what’s eatin’ you?” Matt asked, suddenly alarmed at the dark look on his friend’s face.

“Huh?” Oh, sorry, kid.” Jess pulled himself back to the present with an effort. “East ridge, you said? Guess we could spare Tinker and Judson. Shouldn’t take ‘em more’n a couple of days to swing through that area.”

Matt opened his mouth to tell him not to evade the issue, when they heard a rider coming up to the house.

“Must be Peters comin’ back,” Jess said quickly. Maybe he had been wrong after all. The man could just have gone into town for legitimate reasons. There was a knock on the door, and then they both stared in openmouthed surprise at the tall, lanky frame that filled the doorway.

“Slim!” Jess breathed, stunned, as he pushed away from the table.

“Hello, Jess,” Slim said and removed his hat. “Matt. Mind if I come in?”

“Hell no, of course not,” Matt smiled broadly. “Glad to see you. Make yourself right at home, Slim. How about a plate of Irish beef stew?”

“Sounds mighty good,” Slim grinned.

“I’ll be right back,” Matt said and headed for the kitchen. “Gimpy! We’ve got a guest for dinner.”

“Slim, what the hell are you doin’ here?” Jess said hoarsely. The immediate pleasure of seeing his friend vanished as he realized his presence could only complicate matters if things came to a head with Tolliver.

Slim hung his jacket on a peg by the door and came towards the table. He thought Jess looked strained and on edge, and noticed he wore his gun to the table. He had missed the hard-bitten maverick’s friendship, and swallowed as he remembered Mort Corey’s words about the rustling operation. He didn’t want to believe it, there had to be another explanation.

“Annual company policy meeting in Bowdrie,” he said evenly, and held out his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Jess.”

Jess ignored the outstretched hand and walked over to the window. He gazed into the night, his lips a thin, grim line. Damn the luck, he had to get Slim from here before Tolliver and his bunch showed up. He could handle Cal Tolliver on his own, but not if he had to worry about his friends getting caught in the middle. His hand closed on his gun.

Slim sensed something was wrong, but Jess’ stance brooked no interference. He let his hand drop and pulled out a chair.

“I heard you were working here, so I thought I’d stop by,” he said awkwardly into the silence. “Daisy and Mike said to say hello.”

Jess felt his throat constrict at the thought of Mike’s mischievous face, and angry at Slim for opening old wounds, he swung around to face him.

“Why don’t you stop meddlin’ in my affairs, Slim?” he snapped. “I left Laramie because it was time to move on. I can’t live like you. I’m a drifter, not a family man. Leave it at that!”

“Oh, I aim to, Jess,” Slim said. “If that’s what you really want. But if you left Laramie for any other reason than…”

Jess cut him off. “What other reason could there be?”

“Rumor has it you’re mixed up with Cal Tolliver’s bunch rustling Tyrell beef,” Slim shot back.

The door to the kitchen opened and Matt came in with a plateful of stew. He caught Slim’s last remark, and stood stock still. He looked at Jess and saw him turn white at Slim’s words. Matt put the plate down, his heart pounding wildly as his earnest young face tried to regain its composure. Jess took a few steps back, and with a sinking feeling Slim read the truth in his eyes. He was involved; up to his neck, it seemed. Matt drew a shaky breath and shook his head.

“Slim, you don’t mean that,” he said. “Jess would never…”

“Shut up, kid,” Jess said harshly. He was close to the window and his ears had picked up the drum of fast horses coming into the yard. He knew without looking what it meant; Peters had met up with Tolliver and persuaded him to move up the timetable.

They weren’t coming tomorrow night. They were already here.

His mind whirled, and he damned himself for having waited too long. Jess’ hand flashed down and the gun slapped into his palm. It was too late to run.

“All right, drop ‘em,” he snarled. “Now!”

“I might’ve known,” Slim said, numb with shock. He unbuckled his gunbelt and let it drop. “Mort was right. A leopard doesn’t change his spots so easy.”

“Don’t lecture me, Slim,” Jess said. “Matt, don’t try it!”

Tyrell had made a move towards his gunbelt, which was slung over the back of his chair. He drew back, and his gaze shifted from Slim to Jess. The front door slammed open, and Cal Tolliver strode in, closely followed by Rafe Peters.

“You’re early, Cal,” Jess drawled, willing himself to hold his gun steady.

The look on his friends’ faces was like a physical blow; Matt pale and devastated, still disbelieving. Slim stood tightlipped and grim, and the contempt in his eyes left no doubt about how he felt.

“Well now, Jess, boy,” Tolliver said genially, taking in the scene in the dining room. “Peters here was afraid we’d be too late. He seems to think you wanted to take over the whole play, but I can see you have things well in hand. Who’s this joker?”

He gestured towards Slim.

“Slim Sherman,” Jess replied. “I worked for him in Laramie. He was in town on business, stopped by to visit.”

“I’ll bet he wishes he hadn’t,” Tolliver grinned. “But, two hostages might serve us well should we run into trouble.”

“Hostages?” Jess echoed. “You’re not plannin’ to take these two along? They’ll only slow us down. Use your head, Cal!”

“That’s what I’m doin’,” Tolliver retorted. “They’re coming with us. What do you care what happens to ‘em, anyway?”

Jess shrugged, and reminded himself he’d have to step lightly around the outlaw leader. He was walking a tightrope between him and Peters as it was.

“I don’t,” he murmured. “Just don’t like complications is all.”

“There won’t be any,” Tolliver grunted. “My men have the place covered outside. Anyone else around I should worry about?”

“Just the cook,” Jess said. “He’s in the kitchen. Go easy on him, Cal, he’s old and lame.”

“I would never hurt a cripple,” the outlaw said sincerely. “Hank, go make sure he’s locked up where he can’t cause any trouble.”

One of his men disappeared into the kitchen, and they heard Gimpy’s loud, angry voice arguing with him. There was the sound of a blow, and an outraged yell. Jess tore forward and flung open the kitchen door.

“If you’ve laid a hand on him…” he began, then halted, an unwilling grin on his face.

Hank sat on the floor, nursing his head, a look of total surprise on his mulish features. Gimpy O’Shea towered over him, a large frying pan in his hand. He turned to Jess, and the grin on his face slowly faded when he saw the gun in his hand.

“You want to tell me what’s goin’ on around here, laddie?” he asked, waving the frying pan. “This joker ‘ere comes barging into my kitchen, ordering me about like he’s lord o’ the manor…”

“Gimpy, please,” Jess entreated. “Do like I tell you and no one will get hurt. Get into the pantry over there.”

He pointed his gun towards the butler’s pantry, an oddity that had been Sarah Tyrell’s idea. Gimpy stared at him, and then shifted his gaze to the people in the dining room. He saw the outlaws, and he saw Matt and Slim covered by their guns. Was this what had been troubling Jess all along? No, he wouldn’t believe it, not before he heard it from the lad’s own lips.

“Are they friends o’ yours then, Jess?” he asked quietly, lowering the pan. “Well, are they?”

His shrewd old eyes saw the anguish in the lean face, there was dark despair there that didn’t rhyme with the situation. Jess’ eyes bore into him, seemingly willing him to understand what he could not put into words

“Do as you’re told, Gimpy,” Jess said his voice raw.

Gimpy shuffled over to the pantry while Tolliver and Peters kept an eye on the Matt and Slim. He unlocked the door, and stepped inside. It smelled of flour and spices, and smoked meat. Jess had his back to the open door to the dining room; he had to take the chance.

“Gimpy, get Sheriff Carlin. Tell him box canyon on the north…”

“Come on, Jess, it’s time to get this thing movin’,” Tolliver said impatiently. “We’ve got a ways to go and I ain’t got all night to do it.”

“Comin’,” Jess muttered. He made a show of locking the door to the pantry, hoping no one would bother to check.

He avoided Matt’s eyes as he came back into the dining room. He couldn’t look at Slim, the utter contempt he read there was more than he could shoulder.

“Let’s get the gold, and hightail it,” Peters growled. “Come on, kid, you’re gonna open the safe for us.”

“Like hell,” Matt sneered. “You want the money, you work for it, Peters. You think you can get away with this… I’ll have the law on you before…”

Tolliver’s gun came up and he thumbed back the hammer. Jess stepped quickly between them, and put a restraining hand on the outlaw’s arm.

“No need for that, Cal,” he said easily. “I can open the safe. I seen the kid do it often enough.”

Matt’s face drained of color, and his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t wanted to believe Jess was any part of what was happening, but now he turned his back on the man he’d come regard as a friend.

“Come on, Cal,” Jess said savagely, and led the way into the study.

Covered by guns from three of Tolliver’s men Slim and Matt followed them, and then watched in stony silence as Jess knelt by the safe. His slim, sensitive fingers quickly spun the dial, then grasped the handle and pulled it open.

“Wowee, lookee here,” Call whistled, his eyes gleaming as they lit upon the neat piles of bills and stacks of gold coin. “Now ain’t that a purty sight!”

“Nice work, Jess,” Tolliver grinned appreciatively. “Knew I did the right thing when I took you on. Here, whyn’t you do the honors?”

He tossed Jess the saddlebags he had slung over his shoulder. Jess caught them and quickly filled them with the loot from the safe.

Matt was still too stunned, he couldn’t think clearly, his life seemed to have gone into a tailspin. Only a week ago Jess had picked him up out of the gutter, and now he was throwing him back there with barely a shrug.

As for Slim, his original feeling of contempt had given way to a disappointment so sharp it was almost a physical pain. After Jess’ actions back in Laramie he would never have believed him capable of turning his back on his friends this way.

“Why, Jess?” he asked. “Just tell me why. You want to be on the run for the rest of your life?”

“Shut up,” Jess said. “Just shut the hell up, Slim. You knew what I was when you took me on. You should’ve stayed out of it.”

“I can see that,” Slim said caustically.

“All right, men,” Tolliver said and gestured towards the door with his revolver. “Let’s ride!”

ooo0ooo

*********************************

Back to Original Stories Home

Back to Requiem Index

Part Thirteen