"I know about it," Sam said. He moved slowly, feeling his way, though he could see fairly well. The shotgun nudged his back.
"Don't get no funny notions, mister. I mean it."
"I wasn't about to," Sam said, and stepped across the creek which had no water; it was only a dry bed like most of the streams these days.
Nearing the fire he could see three men, sitting on upended blocks of wood. They stood up as Sam approached. He counted six wagons scattered through the grove. Beyond, but not far enough away to kill the smell, were a pair of mules, a yoke of oxen, horses and a scattering of mulch cows. Sam decided they must have brought their hay with them, seeing a small stack in the center of the rope corral.
Sam hauled up short at the fire, surprised as a tall bearded man stepped toward him. He stared hard at Fillmore McGee. His eyes shifted beyond and he saw McGee's black buggy horse hitched to the dusty buggy.
"I found him prowlin' around the old barn," the man with the shotgun said. The other two men stared at Harden without emotion. One of them sat down again.
"All right, Bert," McGee said, "Good work. Now, go on back, son." To Sam he said, "Come on by the fire, Sam. Have a cup of coffee."
Sam shook his head and looked around. Bert was gone with his shotgun. None of these men appeared to be armed nor were they hostile that he could tell. He saw a farm woman sitting by one of the wagons, shelling peas in a pan gripped between her knees. The dry sound of the peas rattling in the pan came faintly to him.
"What do you want, Sam?" McGee asked quietly. He had a burring voice. It was said that McGee came from England as a boy. Sam didn't know. He remembered McGee as a local eccentric, a prosperous cattleman who drove his black buggy horse Charlie at a dead run all around the country.
McGee had sold out four or five years before to Kenton and Milser, the two men splitting McGee's cattle and land evenly. He then moved into town, bought the Stockman Hotel, and dealt in cattle. He also was a representative of the Chicago brokers. Beyond that, Sam knew as little of McGee as the rest of the inhabitants of the country did.
"I wasn't looking for trouble," Harden said.
"Nobody does. Sit down even if you don't want coffee." He resumed his seat on a block of wood and gazed into the fire. "Sorry about Bert bringing you in. This camp has had trouble in the past and the good people here felt it necessary to post a guard."
Sam took a step toward the fire. 'What's going on around here, Fill?" he asked quietly. "What do these people want?"
"They're looking the country over," McGee said genially. "Waiting for the Crow Reservation to be opened up for settlement. This is McWharter and Evans, Sam, two good farmers from out of Iowa, looking for a home same as the rest of them."
Sam looked at McWharter and Evans and they nodded solemnly. McWharter wiped a hand across his mouth. "That's a pretty slim hope," Sam observed.
"Oh, I don't know. It's been done before. It'll be done again, like as not."
"Where'll the Crow go?"
McGee shrugged. "They got land to spare, Sam. All that grass up there." His black eyes glinted. "Don't you wish you had that grass for your hungry cows?"
"I don't wish for what's not mine."
"Not even to feed hungry animals? Sam, this country is in the grip of money-mad greedy men. There's steers on this range that was bought back east on borrowed money and brought out here. Speculators, that's what. There'll be heads rolling one of these good days. There'll be an accounting, boy!" McGee's voice had risen until his roar filled the night, sounding like a judge rendering a verdict of hellfire and damnation. He settled back.
"It's a bad year for anyone to be moving around," Sam said mildly.
"It's a bad year any way you put it," McGee answered. "These greedy-gut men who have more stock than they can take care of, they're the ones who'll suffer, Sam. Along with the cattle, of course. A man who has more stock than he can feed and shelter is guilty of criminal negligence." He eyed Sam and added, "And ought to be run out of business." "You're working yourself up to a boil," Sam said. "I can't figure what you're driving at, McGee."
"I get worked up," McGee admitted. "Can't seem to help myself. It's an inhuman business the way it's run. Time for a change."
"You made a pile out of cattle in your time," Sam said. "Now you're out of the business you turn sour on it. And there's something else, McGee. What is it?"
McGee smilingly denied it with a shake of his head. "You can hear all kinds of rumors, Sam. Some of that gossip gets back to me."
"You've not denied the rumors," Sam pointed out.
"No. People will believe what they want to believe no matter what I say."
Sam poked at the fire with the toe of his boot. "I guess I'll say good night," he said. He had a feeling of frustration, growing out of this night's activities.
This small camp, here in the grove on the edge of town, was unsettling, too. The apparent aimlessness of the people was cause for his concern. He knew they were not here without purpose. Some plan was working. In Sam Harden was a streak that couldn't abide mystery. He had to know what was going on.
"You're free to go when you will," McGee said, and there was a note of mockery in his tone.
Sam leaned his head forward. "Where'd you get the hay in that rope corral?"
McWharter, like a man eager to please, said, "We cut it up in them high meadows, Mr. Harden."
"And hauled it down," Evans added.
Sam looked at each of them, nodding. "Good night, men," he said, and turned away from the fire.
The girl was standing there, watching him; as he turned, she came closer to the fire. Sam halted, waiting for he knew not what.
"What're you doin' runnin' around this time of night?' Evans asked in a quarrelsome voice.
The woman by the wagon spoke for the girl. "Can't keep her tied up forever, Pop. I let her go for a walk."
The girl was smiling at Sam, her head tilted. "Good evenin', Mr. Harden," she said and there was a mischievous note in her voice. "I'll bet you're surprised I know your name."
Sam touched his hat brim and bent his head. She was about twenty; the shapeless homespun she wore couldn't hide the fact that she had womanly curves.
"Go on, Hannah," Evans said in a rough voice. "He'p your ma shell them beans."
"Don't need no help, Pop," the woman called in an unruffled voice. "Hannah, get a bucket of water from the water barrel and then go on to bed. Mornin' comes early."
Hannah Evans gave Sam a tantalizing smile and darted away.
Sam again turned away and walked out into the darkness. He didn't see the guard, Bert, as he sought his horse. Clay Bassett's roan was not in front of the barn. He felt leaden-hearted at the thought that Clay was ready to sell him down the river for a section of ground. His fists clenched involuntarily. It'd probably be Flag land, a piece of Sam's own ranch.
He mounted the gelding and rode out to the wagon track and pulled rein. He sat the saddle, his hands on the horn, debating, pulled one way and then the other. At last he shook his head and lifted the reins, turning the gelding toward Crossroad Corners.
He'd at least have it out with Clay. Tonight.
The gelding stiffened under him, raised its head and neighed. Sam stood in his stirrups as an orange flame boomed in the night and a gunshot sounded. It was as though a giant hand swept him from the saddle and down into darkness.
IV
AFTER
his fellow ranchers left the back room of The Mint, Jesse Kenton made the unpleasant discovery that his day was ruined. The monthly poker game with Doctor Sawyer, Ketterman, Sheriff Alonzo Winner and Bob Shannon, the freight line owner, had produced more winnings than usual. The biggest portion of the chips in the game was stacked in front of Kenton and that didn't lessen his angry restlessness.