“You reckon that was Arch?” asked Mitch eagerly. “I heard about it. Folks seemed to think it was Frank and Jess.”
“I don’t think they were in that one. Although they’ve done some jobs since then. Arch went out in ’66, you know.”
Mitch exclaimed, “I heard. The Feds got him. I see one or two of the boys now and then. Dozen or so of ’em settled down in Texas. Shep Gregory said two-three years ago no one’d seen you in several years. Reports about you here and there. Uh — you’ve got quite a rep—”
Fletcher’s mouth became a thin line “Because I was with Charlie, certain tough customers make a try for me now and then.”
“But you haven’t got any guns, Donny,” Mitch said speculatively.
“I have, the same old Navy Colts I always had But — I carry them in. my saddle bags. Today—” He stopped
“You were the best revolver shot with Quantrell,” said Johnson.
“There was too much shooting,” Fletcher said steadily.
Mitch Johnson looked shrewdly at Fletcher, then wisely lapsed into silence. Fletcher rode beside him. His mind was on places far away, on things he had seen. But even so, he was aware of the country through which he was riding. The long grass came almost to his stirrups. It was green and full, splendid range for cattle.
Here and there were patches of trees. It was good country. A man could do worse than settle here. Fletcher had traveled much. He had seen so much land and so many places. He couldn’t, like the Wandering Jew, ride on forever. Sometime, somewhere, he had to stop. Unless — the bullet that had his initials on it, cut him down. And somehow, he didn’t feel that that bullet was yet moulded. There had been times when its arrival would have been a blessing; when he’d been tired of it.
III
Riding home after witnessing the burning of Karl Hawkinson’s house, Ethel Morgan could not keep her thoughts off the ragged man, Donny Fletcher. He had seemed, at first acquaintance, to be such an inconspicuous, shabby stranger. Learning that he’d stood idly by and watched the burning of the Hawkinson house, she had been scornful of him.
He had gone to extreme lengths to avoid physical encounter with Daggett and Sutton. And then — when they had pressed him too far — he’d shown the steel in him. Ethel had been horrified. Learning then, his identity — a name that was almost legendary — she’d been shocked — and a little thrilled. She didn’t think now, of his shabby appearance. She thought of his speed in combat, his ruthless efficiency. That he had killed a man, hadn’t disturbed her too greatly. If anyone had needed killing, Jim Sutton had. This was a raw country. Men settled their own differences. Might was right. There were shootings every week.
Perhaps — perhaps this county needed a man like Donny Fletcher. Things were at sixes even now. There were men here, and women, too, who wouldn’t stand for their houses being burned over their heads, as had Hawkinsons. And Ozzie Kohl was no longer working under cover, picking quarrels with ranchers, forcing them to sell to him. He had come into the open. Daggett and Sutton had burned Karl Hawkinson’s house in broad daylight with the owners present. They had been sure there would be no retaliation. They only law in the county was Kohl law.
When she neared the whitewashed adobe ranchhouse that had been home for the last six years, she saw her father, riding toward it from another direction. Fifty, he rode his horse like a cavalryman. Before the war he had been a school teacher in a little Illinois town. The occupation seemed too humdrum for him, after three years of campaigning. When Ethel’s mother had died in ’67, Captain Morgan had closed out his affairs in the middle west and had come, with Ethel, to this new country. There had been land then, for the taking. Cattle could be bought for a dollar a head. Steers were still cheap here, although by driving them overland, up the Chisholm Trail, they could be sold very profitably. The captain sent a herd up the trail every year. He had prospered until Ozzie Kohl had spread out his long noose. And now—
Ethel hailed her father. He turned his horse and rode to meet her. “Karl Hawkinson’s house was set on fire by Jim Sutton and Dave Daggett,” Ethel told him quickly.
Captain Morgan said something under his breath. “So they’ve come out into the open.”
“Yes — but Sutton’s dead. He and Daggett picked a fight with a stranger and Sutton got killed.”
“Good,” snapped the captain. “Although I suppose Daggett got the stranger?”
“No — the last I saw of Daggett he was running for his life. I — the man’s name is Donny Fletcher, father.”
Her father’s eyes widened. “Donny Fletcher? I wonder — if it would be the Donny Fletcher of Missouri, the man who—”
“Yes — he admitted that he fought with Quantrell.”
The captain whistled. “He was one of Quantrell’s lieutenants. I’ve heard it said he was the best revolver shot among the guerrillas. And he’s here now?”
“He was. I believe he rode on. I... I saw the fight. He was swift as lightning.”
“That’s the Fletcher, all right. I’d like to have seen him. We fought Quantrell at Lone Jack. I may have seen this Fletcher then.”
A frown creased Ethel Morgan’s forehead. “Father, are we going to have trouble with the Kohls? They’ve wanted to buy this ranch and — well, I’m worried.”
They had reached the ranchhouse. Captain Morgan dismounted lightly and turned to help his daughter, but Ethel had beaten him to the ground.
“Speak of the devil,” said Captain Morgan.
Ethel heard the pounding of the hoofs and turned to the south. “Both of them,” she said.
Captain Morgan grinned. “Shall I get the shotgun?”
Ethel bit her lip, “You’d think it would have penetrated his thick head by this time. Well—”
The Kohls, father and son, approached rapidly and dismounted. Oscar Kohl, or Ozzie, as he was usually called, was a squat, tremendously broad shouldered figure with a huge shock of blond hair. He was in his middle fifties, a bluff, unscrupulous man who had in recent years acquired a Napoleonic complex.
His son was the physical opposite of Ozzie Kohl. Eddie was tall and thin. His hair was blond like his father’s, but sparse. He had a long nose and very little chin.
His eyes were on Ethel Morgan, the moment he dismounted from his horse. They were small and bright. He licked his lips. “Hello, Ethel,” he said.
“Hello, Eddie,” she replied. She always called him Eddie, because she had heard that he liked to be called Ed.
She walked to the veranda of the adobe house and sat down in a wicker chair. There was no other chair near, but Eddie followed and stood, looking down at her. There was a foolish expression on his face.
“There’s a dance in Spring Valley on Saturday,” he said. “I was wondering, uh, if you’d go to it with me.”
Ethel said, “No — I’ve made previous arrangements.”
“Who’s taking you?”
“My father.”
Eddie Kohl frowned. “Your father — but you said — aw, shucks, why don’t you go with me?”
Ethel looked toward her father. He had walked toward the bunkhouse with Ozzie Kohl, was listening calmly while the older Kohl talked and gesticulated excitedly.
“To put it bluntly, Eddie, I’m not overly fond of the Kohls, today. You see, I saw Karl Hawkinson’s house burn down.”
“But what’s that got to do with me — us?” demanded Eddie. “I didn’t set Hawkinson’s house on fire.”
“Jim Sutton did.”
“Daggett told a different story. He said he and Sutton got there too late to do any good.”
“Did Daggett tell you how Sutton got killed?”
“Yes, he said some gunfighter came along and shot down Sutton without a chance.”