Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
Silently Hunter looked over the rest of the men.
“I assume you boys know what the Ladder S is up against,” Hunter said.
Some of the men nodded. Others just waited.
“Miss Sutton will pay fighting wages,” Hunter said. “No booze allowed.”
“What?” asked two of the riders.
“Is she runnin’ a church or a ranch?” demanded a rider who looked to be younger than Mickey.
“You don’t like the rules, ride on,” Hunter said.
One of the men grumbled, reached back into a saddlebag, and pulled out a pint bottle that had about half an inch of whiskey left in it. He poured the whiskey onto the ground.
Hunter looked at the boy who had wondered whether the Ladder S was a church or a ranch.
“What about you, son?” Hunter asked.
“What about me?” the boy retorted.
The kid had lank blond hair and eyes that were sullen, defiant, and oddly weary.
“Morgan,” Hunter said.
He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to.
Morgan reined his horse over to the boy’s, reached into the saddlebag with his right hand, and pulled out a nearly full pint bottle of whiskey.
“What the hell ya think you’re—” began the boy.
His words were chopped off by the sight of the six-gun that had appeared magically in Morgan’s left hand.
“Morgan is Miss Sutton’s first hire,” Hunter said calmly. “He’ll be my
segundo
. Any of you boys don’t like taking orders from a colored man, ride out now and no hard feelings.”
None of the riders moved to leave, including the boy
who was still staring at Morgan with a combination of dismay and awe.
“Johnny, Reed, Blackie,” Hunter said, nodding to three men who wore remnants of southern uniforms, “you’re hired. Put your gear in the bunkhouse and your horses in the corral back of the barn.”
The three men nodded and reined their horses toward the corral.
“Johnny?” Hunter said.
The slender, chestnut-haired man looked over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”
“Any chance that your brother Alex will show up?” Hunter asked.
“Comancheros got him last year. He was chasing some story about a redheaded child. He just couldn’t believe Susannah died with the others.”
“
Damn
,” Hunter said softly. “Sorry to hear that. Alex was a fine man.”
“That he was, for all the good it did him.”
When Hunter turned back to the waiting men, his expression was bleak.
Curious, Elyssa looked between Johnny and Hunter. She sensed the deep currents of emotion running between them, emotions that neither man put into words. She wondered if they ever had.
Or could.
“All right,” Hunter said curtly. “I don’t know any of you, so I’ll have to ask which of you boys favor the long gun.”
Five of the remaining men spoke up.
A look passed between Morgan and Hunter. The black rider lifted his reins. His wiry pony loped out of the barnyard down toward the cottonwood trees.
When Morgan was about four hundred yards away, he reined in, stood on the saddle, and balanced the bottle
of whiskey on a broad branch. Glass glittered in the sunlight.
“One shot each,” Hunter said. “Notch the branch as close as you can without hitting the bottle. You on the left. Start now.”
The man sighted and fired with an ease that spoke of long familiarity with rifles.
Bits of bark leaped, but only Morgan saw.
“Less than an inch!” hollered Morgan.
“Next,” Hunter said.
The second man fired.
The top inch of the bottle exploded.
The rifleman said something beneath his breath and sheathed the weapon with a disgusted look on his face.
“Next,” Hunter said.
The shooting continued until the fifth man was done. Two of the men notched the branch less than a finger’s width from the bottle.
“If any of you boys fancy yourself with a six-gun, too,” Hunter said, “go to the cottonwood.”
Two of the riflemen left for the cottonwood tree, including the man who had shot the top off the bottle.
Silently Elyssa looked from Hunter to the men and back again, wondering what he would do next.
“I suppose if I walk off, you’ll just follow me,” Hunter said.
“Of course. The Ladder S is my ranch. I’ll hire the men you choose, but at the very least I have the right to see how skilled they are.”
“You’ll get that fine silk all dirty.”
Elyssa looked at Hunter in disbelief.
“The cow took care of this ‘fine silk’ with one swipe of her grimy tail,” Elyssa retorted.
Hunter looked at the shotgun in his hands and fought not to smile. The graceful gold and silver tracings on
the barrel reminded him that it was Elyssa’s gun he carried, not his own.
Fancy gun for a fancy lady
, Hunter thought acidly.
Silk and fire and the kind of body that haunts a man
.
Damn
!
“Stay behind me,” Hunter said, his voice rough. “Six-guns are chancy things, especially if a man is in a hurry.”
Without looking at Elyssa again, Hunter walked to the cottonwood where the riders were gathering. Elyssa had to hike up her skirts and all but trot to keep up with him.
“All right, Morgan,” Hunter said. “Let’s see if your Arkansas toothpick still has a good edge.”
Smiling, Morgan unsheathed a knife whose blade was as long as his forearm. With quick, hard strokes, he carved the Ladder S brand into the cottonwood’s bark.
“Back up about forty feet,” Hunter said to the men. “When I say so, draw and fire.”
The men backed their horses, spread out slightly, and waited. Morgan went to stand beside Elyssa. He lifted his hat in silent greeting, but his eyes never left the horsemen.
“Fire!” Hunter said.
Shots shattered the quiet. The area between the two S-shapes of the Ladder S brand exploded into leaping bits of bark. Quite a few bullets ended up outside the brand as well.
“Cease firing!” Hunter commanded.
The men holstered their guns and turned toward Hunter. He signaled to Morgan.
“At the bottle.
Now
,” called Morgan.
One of the riders got off two shots before the other men recovered and began firing. The quickest man was the same one who had shot the neck off the bottle with a rifle.
“What’s your name?” Hunter asked.
“Fox.”
“Well, Fox, you’re pure hell on bottles.”
The other men smiled.
Hunter smiled in return, briefly.
“You’re hired, Fox,” Hunter said. “So are you two.”
Hunter indicated the riders who had been almost as quick as Fox to get back into action with their six-guns.
“What about the rest of us?” asked the kid.
As he spoke, he reined his horse over until it was all but standing on Hunter’s feet.
“Oh, Lordy,” Morgan muttered. “That boy must have et a full plate of stupid for breakfast.”
Elyssa looked at Morgan, who was slowly shaking his head. She started to ask what he meant, but Morgan was already talking.
“What’s your name?” Morgan asked the kid.
“Sonny.”
“Well, Sonny, you’re buying a pig in a poke.”
The kid stared at Morgan.
“What does that mean?” Sonny demanded.
Morgan shook his head.
“I’ll take the shotgun, Colonel,” Morgan said. “Hate to get such a pretty piece all dirty.”
Without looking away from the kid, Hunter handed the shotgun back to Morgan.
If it hadn’t been for the profound weariness in the boy’s eyes, Hunter simply would have told him to ride on. But Hunter had seen too many like Sonny in the war, good boys who had been pushed too hard by life.
Some of the boys shattered like glass. Others pushed back savagely until they were too tired to care any longer. Then they either found relief or died.
“You’re not gun-handy enough for fighting wages,” Hunter said calmly to Sonny. “But we need cowhands. If you want a job, take it and welcome.”
“No woman’s fancy man is going to lord it over me,” Sonny snarled, reaching for his gun.
Hunter moved so fast his hands were a blur. Before the kid knew what had happened, he was facedown in the dirt, gasping for the breath that had been driven from his lungs by Hunter’s fist.
A long sigh of relief hissed out of Morgan. He knew what every other man there was just figuring out—Sonny had never been closer to dying than when he drew on the man called Hunter.
Hunter sat on his heels near the gasping boy and waited until Sonny’s eyes focused on him.
“As I mentioned before,” Hunter said, “you’re not as gun-handy as you think you are.”
Slowly understanding dawned on the boy. He had been laid out like a fish for filleting by a man whose hands moved so fast Sonny hadn’t even seen them strike. If Hunter had chosen to use his six-gun rather than his fists, Sonny would be dead.
The boy went white and began to sweat.
“Well, at least he didn’t eat second helpings of stupid,” Morgan said.
Hunter’s black mustache shifted to reveal a slow, thin smile.
“Guess not,” Hunter said.
With deceptive ease he stood up, hauling Sonny with him. Then Hunter stepped back two paces.
“Kid, you’ve got two choices,” Hunter said. “You can apologize to Miss Sutton or you can go for your gun again.”
After a shaky breath, Sonny turned to Elyssa. Red climbed up his unbearded cheeks.
“I’m plumb sorry, ma’am. I was in the wrong. I had no call to speak about you like that.”
Elyssa let out a shaky breath of her own. She was still stunned by Hunter’s speed.
And by his restraint.
“It’s all right,” she said, smiling gently. “I know it won’t happen again.”
“No, ma’am. It sure won’t.”
The men who were within range of Elyssa’s smile stared, entranced by the promise of feminine warmth and tenderness.
Elyssa didn’t notice the men’s reaction, for she was concerned only with defusing the situation.
But Hunter noticed the other men’s response to the feminine promise in Elyssa’s smile. His hand drifted down to the butt of his six-gun.
The motion drew every eye.
“Any man,” Hunter said, “who passes remarks about Miss Sutton will answer to me or Nueces Morgan.”
“Nueces?” the kid asked, shocked again. “From down Texas way?”
Morgan nodded.
“Suffering Jesus,” the kid said in a low voice. Then, instantly, “Excuse me, ma’am. I was just plumb surprised to find myself standing this close to a famous gunfighter.”
“Of course,” she said absently.
In truth, Elyssa hardly noticed Sonny’s apology. She was too busy registering the looks of surprise and calculation that were passing among the other men.
Though Morgan said not a word, his black eyes were alive with silent laughter.
“The boy’s got promise,” Morgan said to no one in particular.
For a moment Hunter didn’t speak. He simply looked at the kid. Then he looked at Morgan.
“You want to take him on?” Hunter asked.
“Someone’s got to. Enough boys already died dumb. Be nice to teach one how to live smart.”
“You listening, Sonny?” Hunter asked.
The kid nodded.
“Morgan just offered to show you the ropes,” Hunter said. “You interested?”
“Suffering Je—er, yessir!”
“You’ll never find a man with more cow savvy than Morgan. Listen to him and you’ll be a top hand.”
“Cows?” Sonny asked unhappily.
“Cows.”
“Cows,” Sonny agreed, sighing. He turned to Morgan. “Well, I’ll be pleased to learn whatever you want to teach me. It beats all heck out of being dead.”
Elyssa laughed. It was a sound as contagious and feminine as her smile had been.
The men looked at her, then looked away quickly. None of them wanted the kind of trouble Hunter could deliver.
“The rest of you men can hire on here as cow punchers,” Hunter said, “or try your luck with the Culpepper bunch, or ride on out of the Ruby Valley altogether.”
The men nodded.
They understood what Hunter didn’t say. If the men weren’t working for the Ladder S and he saw them again, he would assume they had joined the Culpepper gang.
Enemies, in a word.
“If it comes to shooting, I’ll see you get a bonus,” Hunter said, “but it won’t be the same as fighting wages.”
One of the three Mexicans spoke up in a soft, Spanish-accented voice.
“We are the Herrera brothers,
señor
. We hear what happen to your family in Texas. It is the same with our own. We do not need gunfighter pay to kill
los diablos
.”
For a moment Hunter was very still. Then he nodded.
“From the look of your rigs,” Hunter said, “you’re top hands. The Ladder S can use you.”
“
Gracias, señor
.”
“Pick out a bunk and feed your horses. We’ll begin rounding up cattle and mustangs after lunch. You can draw straws to see who has the night watch.”
As the men rode off to the corral, Hunter turned to Morgan and held out his hand. Morgan shook it and then thumped Hunter on the shoulder with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Sure glad Case got you out of that prison camp,” Morgan said. “It was no place for man nor beast.”
“Amen.”
Hoping that the men would forget her presence and continue to talk about the past, Elyssa stood very quietly. She was intensely curious about what Hunter had done before he fought on the wrong side of the Civil War.
“Heard you were set up to trail one of the first herds from Texas to the Kansas railhead,” Hunter said to Morgan.
“Yessuh. Good pay, but tiresome. Some of those boys are dumber than cows.”
“You’d rather fight than ride drag, is that it?”
“That’s a fact, Colonel.”
“Just call me Hunter. Everyone else does…to my face. Only the devil knows what they’ll call me in the bunkhouse.”
Laughing, shaking his head, Morgan turned to Elyssa and tipped his hat.
“You’re a fortunate girl to have Hunter Maxwell as your ramrod. He’ll take care of that Culpepper trash, mark my words.”
Elyssa watched as Morgan went to his horse, glided into the saddle, and trotted off to the corral. She turned to Hunter with a considering look.