"Rye," he said, then let his eyes drift over the room. They found Zabrisky and rested there, then examined both Burns and Briscoe.
Briscoe, who was the youngest of the three, saw him first, and spoke in an undertone to the others.
Zabrisky turned his eyes toward the bar.
Nolan Sackett looked down the room at him and said, "Folks down the trail said somebody up here was huntin' a Sackett."
"So?" It was Zabrisky who spoke.
"I'm Nolan Sackett, of the Clinch Mountain Sacketts, and I've come a fur piece jus' to he'p my kinfolk."
Also Zabrisky had not yet had too much to drink, but what he'd had was working on him. What sanity remained warned him that he was drawing fighting wages to kill Tell Sackett.
Furthermore, there was nothing about this big, uncurried wolf that appealed to him. The name Nolan Sackett had rung a bell ... it was a name known wherever outlaws congregated, from Miles City to Durango in Mexico.
The ^w that came over the grapevine was loud and clear: Nolan Sackett? Leave him alone.
"We're not huntin' you," he said.
"Mister, you're huntin' a Sackett, an' the one you're huntin' would, man to man, make you eat that six-gun you're packin'. Howsoever, when you hunt one Sackett, you just naturally make the rest of us feel the urge.
"Now, I don't know if I'll make it up there in time to he'p, so I figured to trim off the edges, like. You look maverick to me, so I figured to put the Sackett brand on you."
There were five other Lazy A gun-handlers in the room. Swandle was at the bar, almost in the line of fire.
For the first time in his life, Also Zabrisky was prepared to talk himself out of a hole. He was a money-fighter, and there was nothing in this but trouble with a capital T. He started to speak, but his gun holster was in his lap, the butt within easy inches of his hand. Suddenly he thought, The hell with it!
And he grabbed the bone handle of his six-shooter.
Zabrisky's eye was quick and accurate, but he never saw the draw that killed him. He saw Sackett's hand move and then he was blinded by a stabbing light from the gun muzzle and the wicked blow of a .45 slug taking him in the stomach.
"What ...?" He wanted to know what was happening to him, but only the dead could have told him.
He started to go down, heard the stabbing roar of guns, and clawed his fingers into the boards of the saloon floor.
Burns was down. In a hurried move backward, his chair had tipped, and when he came up he caught a bullet over the right eye.
At the moment of drawing, Briscoe had thrown himself aside, getting out of the line of fire, but in so doing he lost his grip on his gun. It lay on the floor, inches from his hand. He looked at the gun, then at Nolan Sackett, who stood with his big feet apart, the six-shooter easy in his fist.
"Go ahead, son," Nolan said mildly, "go right ahead an' pick it up. Nobody gets to live forever."
Briscoe was sweating. The gun was close.
He could grasp, tilt, and fire. He had a hunch he could do it and kill Nolan Sackett.
His ambition told him to go ahead and grab, but his body had better sense, and his muscles refused to respond. Slowly, he sagged back.
Nolan Sackett took a quick step forward.
"Here, boy. You might as well have it." He tossed the gun to Briscoe, and the gunman leaped back as if it were red-hot, letting the pistol fall to the floor.
Nolan Sackett shook his head reprovingly. "Son, you take it from me. Don't never tie one of those on again.
Somebody will feed it to you."
He turned back to the bar and was startled to see a tall elegant young man in a tailored broadcloth suit, a black planter's hat, and Spanish-made boots holding a gun on another table of riders.
The gun was beautifully made, inlaid with gold, and it had pearl grips. Its mate was in its holster, butt forward, on the stranger's left side.
Without averting his eyes from the men at the table, the stranger said, "How are you, Nolan? I am Parmalee Sackett, from under the Highland Rim."
"A flat-land Sackett? I heard tell of 'em. Never did meet up with one before."
"These lads were getting a bit restless,"
Parmalee Sackett said. "It seemed a good idea to restrain them."
He holstered his pistol. "I'll buy a drink, Nolan, and if these boys gets fractious, we'll share and share alike."
"Only if you let us in," came a voice from the doorway. They turned to face the newcomers.
Orlando Sackett and the Tinker, newly arrived in Globe, walked across to the bar, and were greeted.
Parmalee Sackett turned to Swandle. "I understand you are one of the owners of the Lazy A?"
Swandle straightened up. "I am not wearing a gun."
"This isn't gun trouble," Parmalee replied. "This is business. How much of an outfit do you have?"
"We drove in three thousand head, or a mite over. We lost cattle on the drive."
"You want to sell out?"
"What?" Swandle stared at him. "Sell out to y?"
"Why not? You've got everything tied up in that herd, or so they told me. They also told me they doubted if you had anything to do with this trouble."
"I didn't. I'll take an oath. This was Allen's doing."
"All right, I'll buy you out, lock, stock, and barrel."
"You'd become a partner of Allen's?"
"That's right."
"Look," Swandle protested, "the cattle are scattered. Nobody has tried to do a thing with them since this trouble started. The remuda is worn to a frazzle, chasing this kin of yours, and Allen won't listen to anyone. He's obsessed ... or scared to death."
"The way it looks to me you can stay in and take a gamble on losing it all, or you can sell out now."
"I bought cheap and I'll sell cheap. We picked our cattle up in Chihuahua for little or nothing."
"Name your best price."
Swandle hesitated, but he knew he was going to accept. A few hours before, he had been debating the question of riding out and just leaving it all behind. In fact, he had been thinking that way for several days past. Now he had his chance to ride out with enough to start elsewhere.
What was the real truth of the matter he did not know. He only knew that Tell Sackett's story had sounded convincing, and that Allen had been acting very queer. He also knew that most of the old hands, the hands hired in Texas, had gone. The ones who remained were hired gun hands or no-account drifters.
He had tried reasoning with Allen, but the man would not listen. He had offered to give Allen a note for his, Allen's, share of the cattle and outfit, but Allen had refused to either sell or buy.
Swandle's reputation was good. This he knew, and he knew that in the West even more than elsewhere business was done on reputation.
Now he named his price, and it was low. It was low enough so Parmalee Sackett would not back out, even if he were so inclined. "You've no idea what you're getting into," Swandle warned.
"Van Allen is a dangerous man, and he's half-crazy now. All he can think of is killing Tell Sackett."
"If he hasn't killed him by now, he won't."
Parmalee Sackett took a letter from his pocket. "Do you know Fitch and Churchill, the Prescott attorneys?"
"I've done business with them."
"They represent me. Their offices are over the Bank of Arizona, and there is money enough on deposit there to cover this. Take this over to Tom Fitch or Clark Churchill--and you can write me out a bill of sale now."
Swandle stood at the bar and asked for a sheet of paper. When Parmalee Sackett had glanced over the bill of sale, he turned on the Lazy A riders.
"You have heard us make a deal. I am now an equal partner in the Lazy A, and as of now, you are fired. As I understand it, you were hired without the knowledge of Mr. Swandle for a purpose having nothing to do with handling cattle. Therefore, if you are to be paid, you can collect from Mr. Allen ... or you can go into court and sue me."