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As he had talked both Sebastian and Jen had listened raptly.

Now he finished by saying bitterly, “Maybe I've got a devil in me. Maybe I'll roast in hell for even thinking Callie would do this, let alone telling you about it. But now you know what I think and why I think it.”

When he looked at Jen her glance shifted away from him to her father and now Reese looked at him too. His lip lifted preparatory to speaking. “Maybe I've got a devil in me too, Reese. Maybe I'll roast in hell too for believing you, because I do,” Sebastian said.

Reese said bitterly, “A sane man would resign this office, but it's too late for that now.”

“If you move against them, they'll kill you, Reese,” Jen said.

Reese glanced at her. “If I don't move against them, I ought to kill myself.”

Both Jen and her father remained silent and Reese, purged of part of his burden, was content to be silent too. It was Jen who broke the long silence first.

“What's your move against them, Reese?”

Reese grimaced in disgust. “We have to forget Reston's murder—if it was a murder. We can't produce his body or a witness to the crime. I'll have to put that in my hip pocket until Buddy or Orv accuse each other. Proof of their rustling is what I'm after.”

Sebastian raised a hand and labored into speech. “What Jim Daley is after, you mean, don't you?”

Reese frowned. “Both of us.”

“No, just Jim Daley.”

Half in anger Reese said, “Are you trying to protect me, Counsellor? Are you trying to make it look as if it will be Jim Daley's doing and not mine? If you are, the answer is no. This is my job, not Jim's.”

“I wasn't thinking that way,” Sebastian said haltingly. “If you get evidence against them, the defendants will be the officers of the Hoad Land & Cattle Company. Jen tells me that Callie has been named president in the papers of incorporation. She'll appear as defendant in court and by law a husband cannot testify against his wife, just as she cannot testify against him, so it had better be Jim Daley who gives the evidence.”

Reese's sagging jaw opened his mouth a little as he looked at Sebastian, comprehending at last. “So that's the reason,” he said almost inaudibly.

“Reason for what?” Jen asked.

“The reason for Callie being named president of the Hoad Land & Cattle Company. It never made sense till now.”

He caught Sebastian's look of pity, and it angered him. He was the author of his own mistakes, and he would rather be an object of contempt than of pity.

“I won't do that to Jim,” he said flatly. “The Hoads have tried for him already, and I broke it up. If they guessed what he was after this time they'd walk in his house and shoot him in bed.”

Jen said, “How do you plan to get this proof of rustling, Reese?”

Reese looked at her almost with anger. Was she trying to divert him, or was she trying to quell a bootless argument? He could see no guile in that face he loved, and his anger drained away. He said reasonably, “By my count there are twenty-three Hoads in this County—real Hoads by blood or Hoads by marriage. Like me.”

“That's self-pity,” Jen said swiftly.

Reese corrected her. “That's self-hate, but let me go on. Together they have seven spreads. I'm going to ride each range. On one of them I hope I'll find R-Cross cattle. It's simply a riding job, Jen.” Now he looked at Sebastian. “If there's an arrest to be made, Counsellor, I'll do it, not Jim Daley.”

Sebastian smiled resignedly and shook his head before he struggled into speech. “I've got a better idea, Reese. If you find evidence, why not have the prosecutor with you when you find it.”

“Jen?” Reese asked in surprise.

“Why not?” Sebastian asked. “If she's there, you won't be required in court to testify to anything.”

Reese looked at Jen who seemed as surprised as he was. Before either of them could speak Sebastian said, “Amelia will be here for another ten days. She can feed me and tuck me in bed, like she used to do when I was a little tad. Jen's tired and bored and I'm bored with her. Take her with you, Reese.”

Reese looked at Jen now and saw her expression change from disapproval, to thought, to pleasure. “What about it, Jen? We can loaf on a horse all day and anybody will put us up at night.”

“Do it, Jen. That's an order from the District Attorney.”

4

Inevitably there was one of the Hoad clan employed by Sutton County, since any man elected to a county office and wishing to be re-elected could not overlook the Hoad block of votes and the simplest way to acquire and hold them was to give a Hoad a job.

Washington Plunket was a county maintenance worker. He was the son of Sarah Hoad Plunket, whose sister was Amy Bashear and whose brothers were Orville and Ty Hoad. His was the title given the man who janitored the court-house, repaired bridges when they needed it, served papers when they had to be served, ran errands for the brand inspector, cleaned the town's irrigation ditches, kept the ditch books and was the cemetery sexton. In a country where denim pants, cowman's boots and shapeless Stetsons made up the countryman's dress, and a dark suit was the, uniform of a townsman, Wash Plunket clothed his big frame with bib overalls, shod his large feet with ploughman's square-toed boots and crowned his thatch of pale Hoad hair with a farmer's straw hat. At twenty-eight he seemed twice his age: a morose man, possibly made so by the memory of the graves he had dug that reminded him of the end of man. A surly, hard-drinking bachelor, he slept on a cot in the court-house basement and acted as night jailer.

Orville Hoad knew his habits well, having been in his custody for fourteen nights, so that he was sure Wash would be at Tim Macey's Saloon precisely when darkness fell and the saloon lamps were lit. As Orville rode into town that evening, he was pondering what Callie had told him less than an hour ago. Reese, Callie said, had gone off somewhere and he wouldn't tell her where. At Ty's place Callie had been jumpier than usual. She had scornfully told her father and Orville that it was just as she had predicted: Reston hadn't shown up and Reese had left, probably to hunt the rustled cattle. Orv had soothed her by telling her the cattle were sure to be out of the way by now and would be out of the county by late tomorrow.

But Callie's guess as to the reason for Reese's absence was only a guess, and Orv wanted information.

As he reined in before Macey's Saloon and dismounted, he remembered his parting with Wash Plunket. It hadn't been very friendly. Their disagreement had started when Orv had asked Wash to sneak him in a gun, and Wash had refused. Then he had asked Wash to smuggle in a file, and again Wash refused. To Orv it was unthinkable for a Hoad to refuse help to another Hoad. While Wash agreed with this, he had pointed out that if he helped Orv, he himself would take Orv's place in jail. It didn't make much sense, Wash had said, to change one Hoad for another. Besides that, his job and his freedom would be gone. To ease the harshness of his answer, he kept Orv supplied with liquor the whole two weeks of his stay in jail. But Orv had never wholly forgiven him.

Tonight Orv was warned of the crowd inside Macey's by the babble of voices that could be heard on the street. He shouldered his way through the swing doors, a gaunt, commanding man with sly, fanatic eyes that searched the room for his big nephew. Wash was, Orv saw, at the back end of the bar by himself.

Orv pushed down the too narrow aisle that separated the now filled twin card tables and the bar. The low-ceilinged, draftless room trapped and held the smoke from the cigars and pipes and it was mingled with the rank stench of the several cuspidors inside the bar foot rail.

When Orv halted by Wash, his nephew greeted him with a barely civil nod. His beak nose in the sallow face was less flamboyant and pronounced than Orv's, but he was unmistakably a Hoad.

“Reckon I owe you some drinks, Wash—a lot of them,” Orv said pleasantly.

“Some, likely.”

“Well, let's catch up,” Orv said and he rapped a coin on the counter to attract the bartender's attention. When a bottle of whisky was brought, Wash's glass re-filled and Orv's filled, Orv knocked off his drink and poured another. Wash watched him gloomily, content to let his drink rest for the moment.

Orv said then, “What's the talk over at my old boarding-house, Wash?”

“Ain't any. Daley's still creaking around with a sprung back and that's about it.”

“Good time to pick a fight with him.”

“You aim to?”

“I could work up to it,” Orv said judiciously. Then he added, “But not with Reese in town.”

“He ain't, if that's all that's holding you up.”

“Where is he? I stopped by Callie's and he wasn't there.”

“Gone.”

“Where to?”

Now Wash took his drink, let it settle, then said, “Ain't heard.”

“The hell you ain't,” Orv scoffed amiably. “You know when anybody in that court-house scratches hisself.”

Wash shrugged. “Ask Daley. He's out on the street.”

Orv looked at him carefully, surprised at his insolence. “Something eating you?”

Wash nodded. “A little.”

“What is it?”

“Take another drink and let's go outside and talk about it.”

This puny saloon whisky really wasn't worth drinking, Orv thought, but he poured out two shots. He was wondering idly what was troubling Wash. They drank and then Orv paid and led the way through the saloon and outside. There were a few people on the street but not many. Orv moved away from the saloon doors and the racket inside, then halted. Wash pulled up beside him.

“All right, what is it?”

“Well, it's you and Buddy,” Wash said. “You told Ab and Marv not to tell me about this here stampede.”

“And they told you,” Orv observed.

“Hell, I'm their brother, ain't I? I got the same Hoad blood as them?” He paused. “You trying to keep me out?”

“Nothin' like that,” Orv said with a shake of his head. “You're at the court-house. You see Reese and Daley every day. If you don't know nothing, you can't give away nothing.”

“Think I'd tell?” Wash asked angrily.

“Not on purpose, but other things will give a man away besides his mouth.”

“Like what?” Wash challenged.

“Well, if you ain't too young to understand this, here's some. From now on you'll start dodging Reese and Daley on account of they might ask you something about us. They'll notice that too. You'll start looking them in the eye longer than you have to, just to prove you got nothing on your mind and they'll see that too. If Ab and Marv had kept their mouths shut, you'd've gone on acting natural like.” He paused. “Make sense?”

Wash pondered a moment and Orv could see by the faint light cast through the saloon window that he was impressed. Finally he nodded and said, “For a fact.”

“Now where's Reese?” Orv asked.

“Day before yesterday Reese come up to the court-house about daylight. I seen him through the basement window. He was leading a second horse that was saddled. While he was getting something from his office I got some clothes on. After he come out and headed for the street, I grabbed me a shovel and went outside. I got around the corner of the building in time to see him turning.”

“What was the shovel for?” Orville interrupted.

“I'm coming to that. I handle the town ditches, Uncle Orv. Anybody sees me with a shovel, they figure I'm changing water or some ditch trouble's come up.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I followed him. When I got to the corner I seen his two horses tied in front of Truro's, so I sat down against a tree and waited. Pretty soon him and that Truro woman come out, along with a little old lady. Reese and this woman mounted, and the old lady waved goodbye. Then they rode east and turned north on Grant Street.”

Orv grunted in disgust. “And if Ab and Marv hadn't told you about us, you'd have went up and asked Reese where they were going, wouldn't you?” When Wash didn't answer, Orv persisted. “Wouldn't you? Natural thing to do. But knowing what you did, you were afraid to.”

Wash said angrily, “Goddamn it, Uncle Orv, you ain't my Pa!”

Orville said, “No, but I'll do what he'd do,” and without further talk he drove his fist into Wash's shelving jaw. Wash staggered back off balance and fell. His straw hat sailed onto the boardwalk. Cursing now, Wash came to his feet and made his charge. The impact of his collision with his uncle knocked off Orv's hat. They wrestled a moment, then Orv pushed away, anchored himself, then moved ahead at Wash, arms windmilling. The racket of their boots on the plankwalk brought out the first spectators from Macey's and they in turn passed the word inside. Jim Daley, who had been cruising the opposite side of the street, now crossed the road. Tim Macey came out and put himself between the fight and his threatened windows.

The fight was a savage one and both men seemed to be enjoying it. For Orv it was an assertion that he was still the old bull who could dominate the herd. For Wash it was a challenge, an assertion of his independence.

Orv fought the only way he knew how: a free-swinging, free-kicking style acquired in a hundred brawls in backwoods moonshine camps, in cross-roads bars and at school house dances. He made no attempt to parry or dodge Wash's pitcher-size fists. It was part of Orv's pride that he could and should take any punishment for the chance to give it in return. Wash's blows, even when solidly planted, seemed to glance off Orv's lean and sinewy frame and to Jim Daley, who by now was leaning on the tie-rail with folded arms, he was a marvel.

The two men were ringed now by spectators, one of whom, seeing Jim Daley, asked, “Ain't you going to stop this, Jim?”

“Stop two Hoads fighting?” Jim asked incredulously. “I hope they hack each other to pieces.”