Kenton stared at Sam Harden, his eyes narrowed under bushy, blond brows. He deliberately took out his watch; the lamplight glinted on it as he flicked the cover open. His eyes returned to Harden and he said,
"
I'll give him five minutes . .."
Sam returned the stare. "Don't wait," he said in a hard, flat voice. "Dick's drunk and won't be here."
"It's his range, too," Reno Milser said petulantly. "I say—"
"Don't say it right now," Kenton said, shaking the paper, his face ugly with anger. "I want to read this juicy bit to all of you before we go into anything else." He looked at them, first one then another, scowling darkly. He shook out the paper, cleared his throat and read in a heavy monotone: "I, the undersigned, do hereby notify the public that I claim the valley off from Crazyhorse Creek, six miles east of Crossroad Corners, to the source of the creek south of the railroad, as stock range. Signed, John Cooney, also known as Tex and Texas John Cooney." Kenton lifted his head and glared at them as though they were responsible for the published notice of preemption.
All of them stared back at him.
"There goes our winter range!" Reno Maser complained. "It's not enforceable in any court of law," George Balfont said uncertainly.
Sam looked at him, wondering if George was thinking about Liz Porter. What went through that handsome head? But he said, "Not any more than our claim is." His voice was unchanged, hard and flat.
Jesse Kenton shifted his angry glance to Sam. "Whatever you do Sam, don't go maverick on us now."
"We don't have to worry about Sam," Balfont said quickly when he saw Sam's face redden.
Irritation washed over Kenton's face. He slammed the paper on the table. "Reno, tell Leo to bring us a bottle and glasses," he said. "We can at least have a drink to loosen us up for this damned business."
"Not for me," declared Sam Harden. "I want to be stone-cold sober when I talk about this, Jesse. What's on your mind is killing business." It didn't help to remember that Pony Keefe had been murdered not a month ago under mysterious circumstances while everyone nodded knowingly and whispered, Kenton knows all about that, in a dark manner.
Reno was already on his way out of the room. George Balfont said quickly, lunging out of his chair, "I'll go with you, Reno."
When they were alone, except for Marv Teller, Kenton said, confidentially, "Sam, when it comes down to cases, there's just you and me. Reno's an old man but he's sparkin' a young girl, from one of the families Fillmore McGee brought in. He's going to have his hands full, Reno is; wait and see. And George Balfont—Liz Porter killed herself today. As for Dub Porter, you know him.
"That leaves it all to you and me, Sam. Fighting on two sides, this Texas John on the one hand and Fill McGee on the other. It's going to take all we have to pull it through. Why, God, even without this other trouble this drought and market drop would near do us in!"
"What're you trying to tell me, Jesse?" He glanced at the silent Teller and noted that the man's eyes had lost the dull sheen usually present.
Kenton relaxed visibly and laughed shortly. "The land is kind of like a woman," he said, finally. "Only more so, Sam. Land is more than money, more than food for a hungry man, more than a woman to a raunchy, horny trail hand."
"Not to me," Sam said bluntly. "I saw my own father kill himself working for more and more land."
"That's what I mean," Kenton said in a kindly voice, in a manner he thought fatherly. His losses this year made him feel anything but fatherly, but he had things to do and this man standing before him seemed necessary to his plans.
"That's exactly what I mean, Sam. You don't understand. You had that big ranch handed to you and Dick on
a
silver platter. I knew your old daddy—"
"And he knew you, Kenton," Sam said. "You got plans, count me out. I'll kill my own snakes."
"You're pushing thirty, Sam," Kenton said, dangerously quiet. "Time you started acting like a grown-up."
Sam had often had that same thought but it was different the way Kenton said it. Before he could frame a reply Reno and Balfont came through the door. Reno carried a bottle of whiskey and George held four glasses in one hand. Reno deposited the bottle on the table and Balfont clattered the glasses beside it.
"Go ahead, Jesse," Balfont said. "Pour up."
"Tell him, George, go on, tell him," Reno said around his stump of a cigar.
These are the men, Sam thought with something akin to despair, that the job of holding this country together falls on.
Kenton looked up expectantly. "What's this?" he asked in a sharpened voice.
George Balfont didn't have the opportunity to tell Kenton anything. They all turned their heads automatically at the
slim man who suddenly appeared in the doorway. He wore a derby over near-white hair that fell to the velvet collar of his long coat. Ruffles peeped from the cuffs of the same
velvet and laced the shirt below the flowing tie. He wore a diamond stickpin and a diamond ring. His trousers were tailor-made, and fitted his legs tightly. His soft black leather boots were immaculate. Lazily, he brushed back his coat with his two thumbs and stuck them into his belt.
"George," he said in a soft, almost pleasant drawl, "I want to
see
you outside."
Dub Porter stared at Balfont with frosty gray eyes and unsmilingly waited for an answer.
Balfont's throat worked as he attempted a smile. "This is not the time, Dub," he said huskily. "I'm—I'm sorry. More than I can tell." His smile disappeared and sweat stood on his brown forehead. "This is not the time," he repeated.
Dub Porter shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands. It seemed almost like magic the way the derringer appeared in his right hand. He raised it with a practiced movement. "All right, then," he said.
II
SAM HARDEN
was standing nearest Porter. He moved like the slashing attack of a tiger. The derringer boomed in the
closeness of the room and the bullet tore into the planking of the upper wall. Harden held the hand holding the two-shot pistol in an iron grip and, without stopping the motion of his body, pinned Porter against the wall.
The slim gambler didn't resist the weight and strength of the big man. Relaxed, he stared at Sam with frosty gray eyes. "There'll be another time, Sam," he said.
All the others except Balfont were talking excitedly. He was white-faced and shaking.
Teller moved in then, with his pistol raised. He aimed a smashing blow at Porter's head. Sam moved and took part
of the brunt of the blow on his shoulder. At the same time he kicked out. Teller fell to the floor with a strangled cry, writhing in agony, his hands clasped between his legs.
"You didn't have to do that, Sam!" Jesse Kenton yelled in a high-pitched, ranging voice.
Sam kicked again and the pistol Teller had dropped skittered across the room and bumped against the wall. He twisted the derringer out of Porter's long slim fingers and dropped in in the side pocket of his coat. He pushed and shoved Porter to the door.
"You'd better get out of here, Dub," he said, and shoved the gambler, a push that propelled him a half dozen feet down the hall.
Dub Porter turned slowly, unruffled, shot his cuffs and straightened his coat. "I'll kill him sooner or later," he said and then he turned away, striding toward the noise of the outer room.
Leo Maury, owner of The Mint bustled back. "Heard a shot," he said. "What—"
"Go on, Leo," Kenton barked. "Nothin' happened. Gun went off, that's all. Nobody hurt."
Leo looked at all of them and turned away, not saying a word. The men in the room represented a large portion of the trade he enjoyed and he wasn't about to question them.