THE CARPETBAGGERS - 02

THE CARPETBAGGERS
HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 2  )

 
THE STORY OF NEVADA SMITH
BOOK TWO


ONE


IT WAS AFTER NINE O'CLOCK WHEN NEVADA PULLED the car off the highway onto the dirt road that led to the ranch. He stopped the car in front of the main house and got out. He stood there listening to the sounds of laughter coming from the casino.

A man came out on the porch and looked down at him. "Hello, Nevada."

Nevada answered without turning around. "Hello, Charlie. It sounds like the divorcées are having themselves a high ol' time."

Charlie smiled. "Why shouldn't they? Divorcin' is a pretty good piece of business for most of 'em."

Nevada turned and looked up at him. "I guess it is. Only, I can't get used to the idea of ranchin' women instead of cattle."

"Now, mebbe, you'll get used to it," Charlie said. "After all, you own fifty per cent of this spread. Time you settled down and got to work on it."

"I don't know," Nevada said. "I kinda got me the travelin' itch. I figger I been in one place long enough."

"Where you goin' to travel?" Charlie asked. "There ain't no place left. The country's all used up with roads going to every place. You're thirty years late."

Nevada nodded silently. Charlie was right but the strange thing was he didn't feel thirty years late. He felt the same as he always did. Right for now.

"I put the woman in your cabin," Charlie said. "Martha and I been waitin' supper for you."

Nevada got back into the car. "Then I better go an' get her. We'll be back as soon as I git washed up."

Charlie nodded and went back inside as the car started off. At the door, he turned and looked after it as it wound its way up the small hill toward the back of the ranch. He shook his head and went inside.

Martha was waiting for him. "How is he?" she asked anxiously.

"I don't know," he answered, shaking his head again. "He seems kinda mixed up an' lost to me. I just don't know."

The cabin was dark when Nevada went in. He reached for the oil lamp beside the door and put it on a table. He struck a match and held it to the wick. The wick sputtered a moment then burst into flame. He put the chimney back on and replaced the lamp on the shelf.

Rina's voice came from behind him. "Why didn't you turn on the electricity, Nevada?"

"I like lamp light," he said simply. "Electric light ain't natural. It's wearin' on the eyes."

She was sitting in a chair facing the door, her face pale and luminous. She was wearing a heavy sweater that came down over the faded blue jeans covering her legs.

"You cold?" he asked. "I’ll start a fire."

She shook her head. "I'm not cold."

He stood there silent for a moment, then spoke. "I’ll bring in my things an' wash up. Charlie and Martha waited supper for us."

"I’ll help you bring them in."

"O.K."

They came out into the night. The stars were deep in the black velvet and the sound of music and laughter came faintly to them from down the hill.

She looked down toward the casino. "I'm glad I'm not one of them."

He handed her a suitcase. "You never could be. You ain't the type."

"I thought of divorcing him," she said. "But something inside me kept me from it even though I knew it was wrong from the beginning."

"A deal's a deal," he said shortly as he turned back into the cabin, his arms full.

"I guess that's it."

They made two more trips silently and then she sat down on the edge of the bed as he stripped off his shirt and turned to the washbasin in the corner of the small bedroom.

The muscles rippled under his startlingly white skin. The hair covering his chest was like a soft black down as it fell toward his flat, hard stomach. He covered his face and neck with soap and then splashed water over it. He reached for a towel blindly.

She gave it to him and he rubbed vigorously. He put down the towel and reached for a clean shirt. He slipped into it and began to button it.

"Wait a minute," she said suddenly. "Let me do that for you."

Her fingers were quick and light. He felt their touch against his skin like a whisper of air. She looked up into his face, her eyes wondering. "How old are you, Nevada? Your skin is like a young boy's."

He smiled suddenly.

"How old?" she persisted.

"I was born in eighty-two, according to my reckoning," he said. "My mother was a Kiowa and they didn't keep such good track of birthdays. That makes me forty-three." He finished tucking the shirt into his trousers.

"You don't look more than thirty."

He laughed, pleased despite himself. "Let's go and git some grub."

She took his arm. "Let's," she said. "Suddenly, I'm starving."

It was after midnight when they got back to the cabin. He opened the door and let her enter before him. He crossed to the fireplace and set a match to the kindling. She came up behind him and he looked up.

"You go on to bed," he said.

Silently she walked into the bedroom and he fanned the kindling. The wood caught and leaped into flame. He put a few logs over it and got up and crossed the room to a cupboard. He took down a bottle of bourbon and a glass and sat down in front of the fire.

He poured a drink and looked at the whisky in the glass. The fire behind it gave it a glowing heat. He drank the whisky slowly.

When he had finished, he put the empty glass down and began to strip off his boots. He left them beside the chair and walked over to the couch and stretched out. He had just lighted a cigarette when her voice came from the bedroom door.

"Nevada?"

He sat up and turned toward her. "Yeah?"

"Did Jonas say anything about me?"

"No."

"He gave me a hundred thousand dollars for the stock and the house."

"I know," he replied.

She hesitated a moment, then came farther into the room. "I don't need all that money. If you need any— "

He laughed soundlessly. "I'm O.K. Thanks, anyway."

"Sure?"

He chuckled again, wondering what she would say if she knew about the six-thousand-acre ranch he had in Texas, about the half interest in the Wild-West show. He, too, had learned a great deal from the old man. Money was only good when it was working for you.

"Sure," he said. He got to his feet and walked toward her. "Now go to bed, Rina. You're out on your feet."

He followed her into the bedroom and took a blanket from the closet as she got into bed. She caught his hands as he walked by the bed. "Talk to me while I fall asleep."

He sat down on the side of the bed. "What about?" he asked.

She still held onto his hand. "About yourself. Where you were born, where you came from—anything."

He smiled into the dark. "Ain't very much to tell," he said. "As far as I know, I was born in West Texas. My father was a buffalo-hunter named John Smith and my mother was a Kiowa princess named— "

"Don't tell me," she interrupted sleepily. "I know her name. Pocahontas."

He laughed softly. "Somebody told you," he said in mock reproach. "Pocahontas. That was her name."

"Nobody told me," she whispered faintly. "I read it someplace."

Her hand slipped slowly from his and he looked down. Her eyes were closed and she was fast asleep.

Quietly he got up and straightened the blanket around her, then turned and walked into the other room. He spread a blanket on the couch and undressed quickly. He stretched out and wrapped the blanket around him.

John Smith and Pocahontas. He wondered how many times he had mockingly told that story. But the truth was stranger still. And probably, no one would believe it.

It was so long ago that there were times he didn't believe it himself any more. His name wasn't Nevada Smith then, it was Max Sand.

And he was wanted for armed robbery and murder in three different states.


TWO 


IT WAS IN MAY OF 1882 THAT Samuel Sand came into the small cabin that he called home and sat down heavily on a box that served him for a chair. Silently his squaw woman heated some coffee and placed it before him. She moved heavily, being swollen with child.

He sat there for a long time, his coffee growing cold before him. Occasionally, he would look out the door toward the prairie, with its faint remnant patches of snow still hidden in the corners of rises.

The squaw began to cook the evening meal. Beans and salt buffalo meat. It was still early in the day to cook the meal, because the sun had not yet reached the noon, but she felt vaguely disturbed and had to do something. Now and then, she would glance at Sam out of the corners of her eyes but he was lost in a troubled world that women were not allowed to enter. So she kept stirring the beans and meat in the pot and waited for his mood and the day to pass.

Kaneha was sixteen that spring and it was only the summer before that the buffalo-hunter had come to the tepees of her tribe to purchase a wife. He had come on a black horse, leading a mule that was burdened heavily with pack.

The chief and the council of braves came out to greet him. They sat down in a circle of peace around the fire with the pot of stew cooking over it. The chief took out the pipe and Sam took out a bottle of whisky. Silently the chief held the pipe to the glowing coals and then, when it was lit, held it to his mouth and puffed deeply. He passed it to Sam, who puffed and in turn passed it to the brave seated next to him in the circle.

When the pipe came back to the chief, Sam opened the bottle of whisky. He wiped the rim of it carefully and tilted it to his lips, then offered it to the chief. The chief did the same and took a large swallow of the whisky. It burned his throat and his eyes watered and he wanted to cough, but he choked back the cough and passed the bottle to the brave seated next to him.

When the bottle came back to Sam, he placed it on the ground in front of the chief. He leaned forward and took a piece of meat out of the pot. He chewed elaborately on the fatty morsel with much smacking of his lips and then swallowed it.

He looked at the chief. "Good dog."

The chief nodded. "We cut out its tongue and kept it tied to a stake that it would be properly fat."

They were silent for a moment and the chief reached again for the bottle of whisky. Sam knew it was then time for him to speak.

"I am a mighty hunter," he boasted. "My gun has slain thousands of buffalo. My prowess is known all across the plains. There is no brave who can feed as many as I."

The chief nodded solemnly. "The deeds of Red Beard are known to us. It is an honor to welcome him to our tribe."

"I have come to my brothers for the maiden known as Kaneha," Sam said. "I want her for my squaw."

The chief sighed slowly in relief. Kaneha was the youngest of his daughters and the least favored. For she was tall for a maiden, almost as tall as the tallest brave, and thin, her waist so thin that two hands could span it. There was not enough room inside her for a child to grow, and her face and features were straight and flat, not round and fat, as a maiden's should be. The chief sighed again in relief. Kaneha would be no problem now.

"It is a wise choice," he said aloud. "The maiden Kaneha is ripe for child-bearing. Already her blood floods thickly to the ground when the moon is high."

Sam got to his feet and walked over to the mule. He opened one of the packs and took out six bottles of whisky and a small wooden box. He carried them back to the circle and placed them on the ground before him. He sat down again.

"I have brought gifts to my brothers, the Kiowa," he said. "In appreciation of the honor they show me when they allow me to sit in their council."

He placed the whisky bottles in front of the chief and opened the little box. It was filled with gaily colored beads and trinkets. He held the box so that all could see and then placed it, too, before the chief.

The chief nodded again. "The Kiowa is grateful for the gifts of Red Beard. But the loss of the maiden Kaneha will be a difficult one for her tribe to bear. Already she has won her place among us by her skills in her womanly crafts. Her cooking and sewing, her artistry in leather-making."

"I am aware of the high regard in which the Kiowa hold their daughter Kaneha," Sam said formally. "And I came prepared to compensate them for their loss."

He got to his feet again. "For the loss of her aid in feeding the tribe, I pledge the meat of two buffalo," he said, looking down at them. "For the loss of her labor, I give to my brothers this mule which I have brought with me. And to compensate them for the loss of her beauty, I bring them—"

He paused dramatically and walked back to his mule. Silently he untied the heavy rolled pack on its back. He carried the pack back to the seated council and laid it on the ground before them. Slowly he unrolled it.

A sigh of awe came unbidden from the circle. The chief's eyes glittered.

"... the hide of the sacred white buffalo," Sam said. He looked around the circle. Their eyes were fixed on the beautiful white skin that shone before them like snow on the ground.

The albino buffalo was a rarity. The chief that could be laid to rest on such a sacred hide was assured that his spirit would enter the happy hunting grounds. To the skin-traders, it might be worth almost as much as ten ordinary hides. But Sam knew what he wanted.

He wanted a woman. For five years, he had lived on these plains and had been able only to share the services of a whore once a year at trading time in the small room back of the skin-trader's post. It was time he had a woman of his own.

The chief, so impressed with the munificence of Sam's offer that he forgot to bargain further, looked up. "It is with honor that we give the mighty hunter Red Beard the woman Kaneha to be his squaw."

He rose to his feet as a sign that the council was over.

"Prepare my daughter Kaneha for her husband," he said. He turned and walked toward his tent and Sam followed him.

In another tent, Kaneha sat waiting. Somehow, she had known that Red Beard had come for her. In keeping with maidenly modesty, she had gone into the waiting tent so that she might not hear the bargaining. She sat there calmly, for she was not afraid of Red Beard. She had looked into his face many times when he had come to visit her father.

Now there was the sound of babbling women coming toward the tent. She looked toward the flap. The bargaining was over. She only hoped that Red Beard had at least offered one buffalo for her. The women burst into the tent. They were all talking at once. No bride had ever brought greater gifts. The mule. Beads. Whisky. The hide of a sacred white buffalo. Two buffalo for meat.

Kaneha smiled proudly to herself. In that moment, she knew that Red Beard loved her.

From outside the tent came the sound of the drums beginning to beat out the song of marriage. The women gathered in a circle around her, their feet stamping in time to the drums.

She dropped her shift to the ground and the women came close. One on each side of her began to unplait the long braid that hung past her shoulders. Two others began to cover her body with grease from the bear, which was to make her fertile. At last, all was done and they stepped back.

She stood there naked in the center of the tent, facing the flap. Her body shone with the grease and she was straight and tall, her breasts high and her stomach flat, her legs straight and long.

The flap opened and the medicine man entered. In one hand he carried the devil wand, in the other the marriage stick. He shook the devil wand in the four corners of the tent and sprang twice into the air to make sure there were no devils hovering over them, then he advanced toward her. He held the marriage stick over her head.

She looked up at it. It was made of highly polished wood, carved into the shape of an erect phallus and testes. Slowly he lowered it until it rested on her forehead. She closed her eyes because it was not seemly for a maiden to look so deeply into the source of a warrior's strength.

The medicine man began to dance around her, springing high into the air and mumbling incantations over her. He pressed the stick to her breasts, to her stomach, to her back and buttocks, to her cheeks and to her eyes, until now it was covered with the bear grease from her body. Finally, he leaped into the air with a horrible shriek and when his feet touched the earth again, everything was silent, even the drums.

As in a trance, she took the marriage stick from the medicine man. Silently she held it to her face, then her breasts, then her stomach.

The drums began again, beating slowly. In time with their rhythm, she lowered the stick between her legs. Her feet began to move in time to the drums, slowly at first, then faster as the drums picked up tempo. Her long black hair, which hung to her buttocks, began to flare out wildly as she began to move around the circle of women, holding out the marriage stick for their blessing and cries of envy.

The circle completed, she once more stood alone in its center, her feet moving in time with the drums. Holding the marriage stick between her legs, she began to crouch slightly, lowering herself onto it.

"Ai-ee," the women sighed as they swayed to the tempo of the drums.

"Ai-ee," they sighed again in approbation as she lifted herself from the stick. It was not
seemly for a maiden to be too eager to swallow up her husband.

Now they held their breath as once more the stick began to enter her. Each was reminded of her own marriage, when she, too, had looked up at the circle of women, her eyes pleading for help. But none dared move forward. This the bride must do for herself.

Through Kaneha's pain, the drums began to throb. Her lips grew tight together. This was her husband, Red Beard, the mighty hunter. She must not disgrace him here in the tent of women. When he himself came into her, instead of his spirit, the way for him must be easy and quick.

She closed her eyes and made a sudden convulsive movement. The hymen ruptured and she staggered as a wave of pain washed over her. The drums were wilder now. Slowly she straightened up and removed the marriage stick. She held it out proudly toward the medicine man.

He took it and quickly left the tent. Silently the women formed a circle around her.

Naked, in its center so she would be shielded from other eyes, she walked to the tent of the chief.

The women stood aside as she entered. In the dim light, the chief and Sam looked up at her. She stood there proudly, her head raised, her eyes respectfully looking over their heads. Her breasts heaved and her legs trembled slightly. She prayed that Red Beard would be pleased with what he saw.

The chief spoke first, as was the custom. "See how profusely she bleeds," he said. "She will bear you many sons."

"Aye, she will bear me many sons," Sam said, his eyes on her face. "And because I am pleased with her, I pledge my brothers the meat of an additional buffalo."

Kaneha smiled quickly and left the tent to go down to the river to bathe. Her prayers had been answered. Red Beard was pleased with her.

******

Now she moved heavily, swollen with his child, as he sat at the table wondering why the buffalo didn't come. Something inside him told him they would never come again. Too many had been slain in the last few years.

At last, he looked up from the table. "Git the gear together," he said. "We're moving out of here."

Kaneha nodded and obediently began to gather up the household things while he went out and hitched the mules to the cart. Finished, he came back to the cabin.

Kaneha picked up the first bundle and started for the door when the pain seized her. The bundle fell from her hands and she doubled over. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with meaning.

"You mean now?" Sam asked, almost incredulously.

She nodded.

"Here, let me help you."

She straightened up, the seizure leaving her. "No," she said firmly in Kiowa. "This is for a woman, not for a brave."

Sam nodded. He walked to the door. "I'll be outside."

It was two o'clock in the morning when he first heard the cry of a baby from inside the cabin. He had been half dozing and the sound brought him awake into a night filled with stars. He sat there tensely, listening.

About twenty minutes passed, then the door of the cabin opened and Kaneha stood there. He struggled to his feet and went into the cabin.

In the corner on a blanket in front of the fire lay the naked baby. Sam stood there, looking down.

"A son," Kaneha said proudly.

"Well, I’ll be damned." Sam touched it and the baby squalled, opening its eyes. "A son," Sam said. "How about that?" He bent over, looking closely.

His beard tickled the baby and it screamed again. Its skin was white and the eyes were blue like the father's, but the hair was black and heavy on his little head.

The next morning they left the cabin.


THREE


THEY SETTLED DOWN ABOUT TWENTY MILES OUTSIDE of Dodge City and Sam started to haul freight for the stage lines. Being the only man in the area with mules, he found himself in a fairly successful business.

They lived in a small cabin and it was there Max began to grow up. Kaneha was very happy with her son. Occasionally, she would wonder why the spirits had not given her more children but she did not worry about it. Because she was Indian, they kept to themselves.

Sam liked it that way, too. Basically, he was a very shy man and his years alone on the plains had not helped cure his shyness. He developed a reputation in the town for being taciturn and stingy. There were rumors floating around that actually he had a hoard of gold cached out on his place from the years he was a buffalo-hunter.

By the time Max was eleven years old, he was as lithe and quick on his feet as his Indian forebears. He could ride any horse he chose without a saddle and could shoot the eye out of a prairie gopher at a hundred yards with his .22. His black hair hung straight and long, Indian fashion, and his eyes were dark blue, almost black in his tanned face.

They were seated at the table one night, eating supper, when Sam looked over at his son. "They're startin' up a school in Dodge," he said.

Max looked up at his father as Kaneha came to the table from the stove. He didn't know whether he was supposed to speak or not. He kept eating silently.

"I signed you up for it," Sam said. "I paid ten dollars."

Now Max felt it was time for him to speak. "What fer?"

"To have them learn you to read an' write," his father answered.

"What do I have to know that fer?" Max asked.

"A man should know them things," Sam said.

"You don't," Max said with the peculiar logic of children. "And it don't bother you none."

"Times is different now," Sam said. "When I was a boy, there warn't no need for such things. Now ever'thing is readin' or writin' "

"I don't want to go."

"You're goin'," Sam said, roaring suddenly. "I already made arrangements. You can sleep in the back of Olsen's Livery Stable durin' the week."

Kaneha wasn't quite sure she understood what her husband was saying. "What is this?" she asked in Kiowa.

Sam answered in the same language. "A source of big knowledge. Without it, our son can never be a great chief among the White Eyes."

This was enough reason for Kaneha. "He will go," she said simply. Big knowledge meant big medicine. She went back to her stove.

The next Monday, Sam brought Max over to the school. The teacher, an impoverished Southern lady, came to the door and smiled at Sam.

"Good morning, Mr. Sand," she said.

"Good mornin', ma'am. I brought my son to school."

The teacher looked at him, then at Max, then around the yard in front of the school cabin. "Where is he?" she asked in a puzzled voice.

Sam pushed Max forward. Max stumbled slightly and looked up at the teacher. "Say howdy to yer teacher," Sam said.

Max, uncomfortable in his clean buckskin shirt and leggings, dug his bare feet into the dirt and spoke shyly. "Howdy, ma’am."

The teacher looked down at him in stunned surprise. Her nose wrinkled up in disgust. "Why, he's an Indian!" she cried. "We don't take Indians in this school."

Sam stared at her. "He's my son, ma'am."

The teacher curled her lip cuttingly. "We don't take half-breeds in this school, either. This school is for white children only." She began to turn her back.

Sam's voice stopped her. It was icy cold as he made probably the longest speech he ever made in his life. "I don't know nothin' about your religion, ma'am, nor do I mind how you believe. All I do know is you're two thousand miles from Virginia an' you took my ten dollars to teach my boy the same as you took the money from ever'body else at the meetin' in the general store. If you're not goin' to learn him the way you agreed, you better take the next stage back East."

The teacher stared at him indignantly. "Mr. Sand, how dare you talk to me like that? Do you think the parents of the other children would want them to attend school with your son?"

"They were all at that meetin'," Sam said. "I didn't hear none of them say no."

The teacher looked at him. Sam could see the fight go out of her. "I'll never understand you Westerners," she said helplessly.

She looked down at Max disapprovingly. "At any rate, we can't have him in school in those clothes. He’ll have to wear proper clothes like the other children."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said. He turned to Max. "Come on," he said. "We're goin' to the store to get you regular clothes."

"While you're at it," she said, "get him a haircut. That way, he won't seem any different from the others."

Sam nodded. He knew what she meant. "I will, ma'am," he said. "Thank you, ma'am."

Max trotted along beside him as they strode down toward the general store. He looked up at his father. It was the first time he had thought about it. "Am I different than the others, Pa?"

Sam looked down at him. It was the first time he'd thought about it, too. A sudden sadness came into him. He knelt down in the dust of the street beside his son. He spoke with the sudden knowledge that came from living off the earth.

"Of course you're different," he said, looking into Max's eyes. "Everybody in this world is different, like there are no two buffalo alike or no two mules. Everybody is alike an' yet everybody is different."

By the end of Max's first year in school, the teacher was very proud of him. Much to her surprise, he had turned out to be her best pupil. His mind was quick and bright and he learned easily. When the term ended, she made sure to get Sam's promise that his son would return in the fall.

When the school closed down for the summer, Max brought his clothing back from Olsens' and settled down. During that first week, he was kept busy repairing all the damage done to the cabin by the winter.

One evening, after Max had gone to bed, Kaneha turned to her husband. "Sam," she said in English.

Sam almost dropped the leather harness on which he had been working. It was the first time in all their years together that she had called him by name.

Kaneha felt the blood rush into her face. She wondered at her temerity. Squaws never spoke to their husband except in reply. She looked down at the floor in front of her. "It is true that our son has done well in the school of the White Eyes?"

She could feel his gaze boring into her. "It's true," she heard his voice reply.

"I am proud of our son," she said, lapsing into Kiowa. "And I am grateful to his father, who is a mighty hunter and great provider."

"Yes?" Sam asked, still watching.

"While it is true that our son learns many things in the school of the White Eyes that make mighty medicine, there are things also that he learns that disturb him greatly."

"Such as?" Sam asked gently.

She looked up into his face proudly. "There are some among the White Eyes who say to our son that he is less than they, that his blood does not run red like theirs."

Sam's lips tightened. He wondered how she would know this. She never came into town, she never left the place. He felt a vague guilt stir inside him. "They are stupid children," he said.

"I know," she said simply.

He reached out his hand and touched her cheek gratefully. She caught his hand and held it to her cheek. "I think it is time we send our son to the tents of the mighty chief, his grandfather, so that he may learn the true strength of his blood."

Sam looked into her face. In many ways, it was a wise suggestion. In one summer with the Kiowa, Max would learn all the things he needed to survive in this land. He would also learn that he came from a family that could trace its blood further back than any of the jackals who tormented him. He nodded. "I will take our son to the tents of my brothers, the Kiowa," he said.

He looked at her again. He was now fifty-two and she was little more than half his age. She was still straight and slim and strong; she had never run to fat the way Indian women usually did. He felt his heart begin to swell inside him.

He let the harness drop from his hand and he drew her head down to his chest. His hand stroked her hair gently. Suddenly he knew what he had felt deep inside him all these years. He turned her face up to him. "I love you, Kaneha," he said.

Her eyes were dark and filled with tears. "I love you, my husband."

And for the first time, he kissed her on the mouth.


FOUR 


IT WAS ABOUT TWO O'CLOCK on a Saturday afternoon three summers later when Max stood on a wagon in the yard back of Olsen's Livery Stable, pitching hay up into the open loft over his head. He was naked above his buckskin breeches and his body was burnt a coppery black by the blazing sun that hung overhead. The muscles rippled easily in his back as he forked the hay up from the wagon.

The three men came riding into the yard and pulled their horses up near the wagon. They did not dismount but sat there, looking at him.

Max did not interrupt his work and after a moment, one of them spoke. "Hey, Injun," he said. "Where is the Sand boy?"

Max threw another forkful into the loft. Then he sank the pitchfork into the hay and looked down at them. "I'm Max Sand," he said easily, resting on the fork handle.

The men exchanged meaningful looks. "We're lookin' fer yer pappy," the man who had spoken before said.

Max stared at them without answering. His blue eyes were dark and unreadable.

"We were over at the stage line but the place was closed. There was a sign there that said your pappy hauled freight."

"That's right," Max said. "But this is Saturday afternoon an' he's gone home."

One of the others pushed forward. "We got a wagonload of freight we got to get over to Virginia City," he said. "We're in a hurry. We'd like to talk to him."

Max picked up the pitchfork again. He tossed another forkful of hay into the loft. "I'll tell him when I get home to-night."

"We cain't wait that long," the first man said. "We want to make the deal and get on out of here tonight. How do we find your place?"

Max looked at them curiously. They didn't look like settlers or miners or the usual run of people that had freight for his father to haul. They looked more like gunmen or drifters, the way they sat there with their guns tied low on their legs, their hats shading their faces.

"I'll be th'ough here in a couple of hours," Max said. "I’ll take you out there."

"I said we was in a hurry, boy. Your pappy won't like it none if he hears we gave our load to somebody else."

Max shrugged his shoulders. "Follow the north road out about twenty miles."

Without another word the three turned their horses around and began to ride out of the yard. Their voices floated back on the lazy breeze.

"Yuh'd think with all the dough ol' Sand's got buried, he'd do better than bein' a squaw man," one of them said.

Max heard the others laugh as he angrily pitched hay up into the loft.

 ******

It was Kaneha who heard them first. Her ears were turned to the road every Saturday afternoon for it was then that Max came home from school. She went to the door and opened it. "Three men come," she said, looking out.

Sam got up from the table and walked behind her and looked out. "Yeah," he said, "I wonder what they want."

Kaneha had a premonition of danger. "Bolt the door and do not let them enter," she said. "They ride silently like Apache on the warpath, not open like honest men."

Sam laughed. "You're just not used to seein' people," he said. "They're probably jus' lookin' for the way to town."

"They come from the direction of town," Kaneha said. But it was too late. He was already outside the door.

"Howdy," he called as they pulled their horses up in front of the cabin.

"You Sam Sand?" the one in the lead asked.

Sam nodded. "That's me. Whut kin I do for you gents?"

"We got a load we want hauled up to Virginia City," the man said. He took off his hat and wiped his face on his sleeve. "It's pow'ful hot today."

"It shore is," Sam nodded. "Come on inside and cool off a bit while we talk about it."

The men dismounted and Sam walked into the cabin.

"Fetch a bottle of whisky," he said to Kaneha. He turned back to the men. "Set yourself down. What kind'a freight yuh got?"

"Gold."

"Gold?" Sam asked. "They ain't enough gold out heah to haul in a wagon."

"That ain't what we hear," one of the men said. Suddenly there were guns in their hands. "We hear you got enough gold buried out heah to fill up a wagon."

Sam stared at them for a moment, then he laughed. "Put your guns away, gents," he said. "Yuh don' believe that crazy yarn, do yuh?"

The first man came slowly toward him. His arm flashed and the gun whipped across Sam's face. Sam fell backward against the wall. He stared up at the man incredulously.

"Yuh’ll tell us where it is befo' we through," the man said tightly.

 ******

The air in the cabin was almost unbearably hot. The three men had drawn off into a corner and were whispering among themselves. Occasionally they would glance across the room at their captives.

Sam hung limply, tied to the support post in the center of the cabin. His head sagged down on his naked chest and the blood dropped down his face, matting on the graying red hair of his beard and chest. His eyes were swollen and almost closed, his nose broken and squashed against his cheek.

Kaneha was tied in a chair. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on her husband. She strained to turn her head to hear what the men were saying behind her but she could not move, she was bound too tightly.

"Mebbe he ain't really got the gold," one of the men whispered.

"He's got it all right," the first one said. "He's jus' tough. Yuh don' know them ol' buffalo hunters like I do."

"Well, you ain't never goin' to make him talk the way yuh're goin'," the short man said. "He's gonna die first."

"He'll talk," the first man answered. He went to the stove and took a burning coal from it with a pair of fire tongs. He walked back to Sam and pulled his head back against the post by his hair. He held the tongs in front of Sam's face. "Wheah's the gold?"

Sam's eyes were open. His voice was a husky croak. "They ain't none. For God's sake wouldn't I tell yuh if they was?"

The man pressed the burning coal against Sam's neck and shoulder. Sam screamed in pain. "They ain't no gold!" His head fell sideways. The man withdrew the burning coal and the blood welled up beneath the scorched flesh and ran down his chest and arm.

The man picked up a bottle of whisky from the table and took a swig from it. "Th'ow some water on him," he said. "If'n he won't talk for hisself, mebbe he'll talk for his squaw."

The youngest man picked up a pail and threw water over Sam. Sam shook his head and opened his eyes. He stared at them.

The oldest man put the bottle down and walked over to Kaneha. He took a hunting knife from his belt. The other men's eyes followed him. He cut the rope that bound her to the chair. "On yer feet," he said harshly.

Silently Kaneha rose. The man's knife moved quickly behind her and her shift fell to the floor. She stood there naked before them. The youngest man licked his lips. He reached for the whisky and took a drink, his eyes never leaving her.

Holding Kaneha by the hair, his knife to her back, the oldest man pushed her over toward Sam. They stopped in front of him.

"It's been fifteen years since I skinned an Injun, squaw man," he said. "But I ain't fergot how." He moved swiftly around in front of her, his knife moving lightly up and down her skin.

A faint thin line of blood appeared where the knife had traced from under her chin down her throat through the valley between her breasts across her stomach and coming to a stop in the foliage of her pubis.

Sam began to cry, his own pain forgotten, his body wracked with bitter sobs. "Leave her be," he pleaded. "Please leave her be. They ain't no gold."

Kaneha reached out her hand. She touched her husband's face gently. "I am not afraid, my husband," she said in Kiowa. "The spirits will return evil to those who bring it."

Sam's face fell forward, the tears running down from his eyes across his bearded and bleeding cheeks. "I am sorry, my dear one," he said in Kiowa.

"Tie her hands to the legs of that table," the older man commanded.

It was done quickly and he knelt over her, his knife poised at her throat. He looked back up toward Sam. "The gold?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. He could not speak any more.

"My God," the youngest man said in a wondering voice. "I'm gittin' a hard on."

"That's an idee," the man with the knife said. He looked up at Sam. "I'm shoah the man wouldn' min' if’n we used his squaw a little bit before we skinned her. Injuns are downright hospitable that way."

He got to his feet. He put the knife on the table and unbuckled his gun belt.

Kaneha drew back her legs and kicked at him.

He swore softly. "Hold her laigs," he said. "I'll go first."

******

It was almost seven o'clock when Max rode up to the cabin on the bay horse that Olsen lent him. The cabin was still and there was no smoke coming from the chimney. That was strange. Usually, his mother would be cooking when he got home.

He swung down off the horse and started for the cabin. He stopped suddenly, staring at it. The door was open and moved lazily in the thin breeze. An inexplicable fear came into him and he broke into a run.

He burst through the door and came to a stop in surprised shock, his eyes widening in horror. His father hung tied to the center post, his mouth and eyes open in death, the back of his head blown away by the .45 that had been placed in his mouth and fired.

Slowly Max's eyes went down to the floor. There was a shapeless mass lying in a pool of blood, which bore the outline of what once had been his mother.

The paralysis left him at the same moment he started to scream, but the vomit that rose in his throat choked off the sound. Again and again he gagged until there was no more inside him. He clung weakly to the side of the door, the sour stench from his stomach all around.

He turned and staggered blindly out of the cabin. He sank to the ground outside and began to cry. After a while, his tears were gone. He rose to his feet wearily and walked around to the back of the house to the watering trough.

He plunged his head in and washed the vomit from his face and clothing. Then, still dripping, he straightened up and looked around.

His father's horse was gone but the six mules were browsing unconcernedly in the corral and the wagon was still under the lean-to in back of the cabin. The four sheep and the chickens of which his mother had been so proud were still in the pen.

He wiped his arms across his eyes. He had to do something, he thought vaguely. But he couldn't bring himself to bury what was in the cabin. They weren't his mother and father; his parents could never look like that. There was only one thing to do.

He walked over to the stack of firewood and gathered up an armful. Then he walked back into the house and put it down on the floor. It took him almost a half hour until firewood lay covering the floor like a blanket, three layers thick. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment then turned and went outside again.

He took the harness down from the lean-to wall and hitched the mules up to the wagon. He picked up a crate and went through the pen, throwing all the chickens into it. He placed the crate in the wagon. Then one by one, he lifted the sheep into the wagon and tied them to the floor rings.

He led the team of mules and the wagon around to the front of the cabin and tied the bay horse's lead to the back of the wagon. Then he walked them all to the road about two hundred yards from the house and tethered the team to a small scrub tree and went back to the house.

He picked up the pitch bucket and went inside. Slowly he smeared the pitch over the firewood that lay on the floor. He kept his eyes down and away from the bodies of his parents. He stopped at the door and smeared the last of the pitch on that.

He hesitated a moment, then remembering something, he went back into the cabin. He reached up on the shelf where his father had kept his rifle and pistol but they were not there. He pushed his hand farther along the shelf and felt something soft. He took it down.

It was a new buckskin shirt and breeches his mother had made for him. It was bright and soft and clean-chamois colored. Again his eyes filled with sudden tears. He rolled it up under his arm and went back to the door.

He held a match to the pitch stick until it was blazing brightly. After holding it for a second more to make sure, he threw it into the cabin and stepped back from the open door.

He looked up at the sky in sudden surprise. The sun had just gone down and night had fallen in quick anger. The stars stared balefully down on him.

A cloud of heavy, billowing smoke poured out of the doorway. Suddenly, there was a crack like thunder and a flame leaped through the doorway as the tinder-dry wood caught fire.

He walked down to the road and got up on the wagon and began to drive to town. He did not look back until three miles later, when he reached the top of a small rise.

There was a bright-orange flame reaching high into the sky where his home had been.


FIVE 


HE DROVE THE WAGON INTO THE YARD BEHIND Olsen's Livery Stable. Then he got down and walked across to the house that stood next to it. He climbed up the back steps and knocked at the door.

"Mister Olsen," he called out.

A shadow darkened the light of the window. The door opened and Olsen stood there.

"Max!" he said. "What you doin' back here?"

Max stared up into Olsen's face. "They killed my ma and pa," he said.

"Killed?" Olsen exclaimed in surprise. '"Who killed?"

Attracted by the sound of her husband's voice, Mrs. Olsen appeared in the doorway behind him.

"The three men," Max said. "They asked me an' I gave them the directions to my house. An' they killed 'em." He hesitated a moment and his voice almost broke. "An' they stole Pa's hoss an' took his rifle an' pistol, too."

Mrs. Olsen saw into the shock that lay behind the boy's façade of calm. She pushed her husband out of the way and reached out to Max. "You come inside an' let me fix you somethin' hot to drink," she said.

He looked into her eyes. "They ain't time, ma'am," he said. "I got to be gettin' after them." He turned to Olsen. "I got the mules an' the wagon an' four sheep an' sixteen chickens outside in the yard. Would you give me a hundred dollars an' the pinto for 'em?"

Olsen nodded. "Why, sure, boy," he said. The mules and the wagon alone were worth three times that. "I’ll even give you the big bay if you want. He's a better hoss. An' I'll throw in a saddle, too."

Max shook his head. "No, thank you, Mr. Olsen. I want a pony I can ride without a saddle an' one that's used to the plains. He won't have as much to tote an' I'll move faster that way."

"All right, if that's the way you want it."

"Can I have the money now?" Max asked.

"Sure, boy," Olsen answered. He turned back into the room.

Mrs. Olsen's voice stopped him. "Oh, no, you're not," she said. She drew Max into the house firmly. "First, he's goin' to eat something. Then he's goin' to sleep. Time enough in the morning for him to start."

"But they'll be further away by then," Max protested.

"No they won't," she said with woman's logic. "They got to stop to sleep, too. They won't be any further ahead of you then than they are right now."

She closed the door behind him and led him over to the table. She pushed him into a chair and placed a plate of soup in front of him. Automatically he began to eat.

"I’ll go outside an' unhitch the team," Mr. Olsen said.

When he came back into the house, Max was sleeping, his head resting in his crossed arms on the table.

Mrs. Olsen gestured her husband to silence. "You just can't let him go after those men by himself," she whispered.

"I got to go, ma'am." Max's voice came over her shoulder.

She turned around and looked at him. "You can't," she cried out. "They're grown men an' they'll hurt you. Why, you're just a boy!"

He looked up into her face and she was aware for the first time of the pride that glowed deep in those dark-blue eyes. "They hurt me all they're goin' to, ma'am," he said. "I'm 'bout sixteen, an' with my mother's people, a boy ain't a boy no more once he's sixteen. He's a man."

On his second day out of Dodge, he slowed his pinto to a walk and studied the side of the road carefully. After a few minutes, he stopped and dismounted. He looked along the edge of the road carefully.

The four horses had stopped here. They had milled around for a little while and then two of them had gone back onto the road toward Virginia City. The other two had gone eastward across the plains.

He remounted and rode along the plains, his eyes searching out the trail until he found what he was looking for. One of the horses had been his father's. He recognized the shoe marking in the soft earth. It was lighter than the other marking, which meant he was not being ridden, but led. It also meant that the man up ahead must have been the leader, otherwise they wouldn't have let him take the horse, which was the most valuable thing they had stolen.

A few miles farther along the trail, he saw some horse droppings. He stopped his horse and jumped down. He kicked at the dung with his foot. It was not more than seven hours old. They had wasted more time along the trail than he'd thought they would. He got back on the pinto and pushed on.

He rode most of that night, following the trail in the bright moonlight. By the evening of the next day, he was less than an hour behind his quarry.

He looked up at the sky. It was about seven o'clock and would be dark soon. The man would be stopping to make camp if he hadn't already. Max got off his horse and waited for night to fall.

While he sat there, he cut a forked branch from a scrub tree and fitted a round stone onto it. Then he bound the stone to the crotch with thin strips of leather, winding them down the branch to make a handle. When he was finished, he had a war club as good as any he'd learned to make the summer he spent with the Kiowa.

It was dark then and he got to his feet, fastening the club to his belt. He took the horse by the halter and started forward cautiously on foot.

He walked slowly, his ears alert for any strange sound, his nostrils sniffing at the breeze for the scent of a campfire.

He was in luck, for he caught the scent of the campfire from about a quarter mile away. He tied the pinto to a bush and pulled the rifle from the pack on the horse's back. Silently he moved forward.

The whinny of a horse came to his ears and he dropped to the ground and peered forward. He figured the horses were tied about three hundred yards ahead of him. He looked for the campfire but couldn't find it.

Cautiously he made his way downwind from the horses in a wide circle. The smell of the campfire was strong in his nostrils now. He raised his head from the tall plain grass. The campfire was about two hundred yards in front of him. He could see the man, sitting hunched over it, eating from a frying pan. The man was no fool. He had picked a camp site between two rocks. That way, he could be approached only from in front.

Max sank back into the grass. He would have to wait until the man was asleep. He stretched out and looked up at the sky. When the moon was up, a few hours from now, it would be time for him to move. Until then, it would do no harm for him to rest. He closed his eyes. In a moment, he was sleeping soundly.

His eyes opened suddenly and he stared straight up at the moon. It hung white and high in the sky over him. He sat up slowly and peered over the grass.

The campfire was glowing faintly now, dying slowly. He could see the shadow of the man lying near the rocks. He started to inch forward. The man snored lightly and turned in his sleep. Max froze for a moment, then the figure was still again and Max inched forward a little farther. He could see the man's outstretched hand, a gun at the tip of the fingers.

He crawled around behind and picked up a small pebble from the ground beside him. Silently he took the war club from his belt and got up into a half crouch. Holding his breath in tightly, he threw the stone near the man's feet.

With a muttered curse, he sat up, looking forward, his gun in his hand. He never knew what hit him as Max brought the war club down on his head from behind.

Max came back with the pinto about the time that dawn was breaking in the east. He tied his horse to the scrub near the others and walked back to look at the man.

His eyes were still closed. He was breathing evenly though there was a smear of blood along his cheek and ear where the club had caught him. He lay naked on his back on the ground, his arms and legs outstretched tautly, staked to the ground.

Max sat down on the rock and began to whet his knife along its smooth surface. When the sun came up, the man opened his eyes. They were dull at first, then gradually they began to clear. He tried to sit up and became aware that he was tied down. He twisted his head and looked at Max.

"What's the idee?" he asked.

Max stared at him. He didn't stop whetting his knife. "I’m Max Sand," he said. "Remember me?"

Max walked over to him. He stood there looking down, the knife held loosely in his hand. There was a sick feeling inside him as he looked at the man and pictured what must have happened in the cabin. The image chased the feeling from him. When he spoke, his voice was calm and emotionless. "Why did you kill my folks?"

"I didn't do nothing to them," the man said, his eyes watching the knife.

"You got my pa's hoss out there."

"He sol' it to me," the man replied.

"Pa wouldn' sell the on'y hoss he had," Max said.

"Let me up outa here," the man screamed suddenly.

Max held the knife to the man's throat. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"The others did it!" the man screamed. "I had nothin' to do with it. They wanted the gold!" His eyes bugged out hysterically. In his fear, he began to urinate, the water trickling down his bare legs. "Le' me go, you crazy Injun bastard!" he screamed.

Max moved swiftly now. All the hesitation that he had felt was gone. He was the son of Red Beard and Kaneha and inside him was the terrible vengeance of the Indian. His knife flashed bright in the morning sun and when he straightened up the man was silent.

Max looked down impassively. The man had only fainted, even though his eyes stared upward, open and unseeing. His eyelids had been slit so they could never again be closed and the flesh hung like strips of ribbon down his body from his shoulders to his thighs.

Max turned and walked until he found an anthill. He scooped the top of it up in his hands and went back to the man. Carefully he set it down on the man's pubis. In a moment, the tiny red ants were everywhere on the man. They ran into all the blood-sweetened crevices of his body, up across his eyes and into his open mouth and nostrils.

The man began to cough and moan. His body stirred. Silently Max watched him. This was the Indian punishment for a thief, rapist and murderer.

It took the man three days to die. Three days of the blazing sun burning into his open eyes and blistering his torn flesh while the ants industriously foraged his body. Three days of screaming for water and three nights of agony as insects and mosquitoes, drawn by the scent of blood, came to feast upon him.

At the end, he was out of his mind, and on the fourth morning, when Max came down to look at him, he was dead. Max stared at him for a moment, then took out his knife and lifted his scalp.

He went back to the horses and mounted his pinto. Leading the other two animals, he turned and rode north toward the land of the Kiowa.

The old chief, his grandfather, came out of his tepee to watch him as he dismounted. He waited silently until Max came up to him.

Max looked into the eyes of the old man. "I come in sadness to the tents of my people," he said in Kiowa.

The chief did not speak.

"My father and mother are dead," he continued.

The chief still did not speak.

Max reached to his belt and took off the scalp that hung there. He threw it down in front of the chief. "I have taken the scalp of one of the murderers," he said. "And I come to the tent of my grandfather, the mighty chief, to spend the time of my sorrow."

The chief looked down at the scalp, then up at Max. "We are no longer free to roam the plains," he said. "We live on the land that the White Eyes allow us. Have any of them seen you as you approached?"

"None saw me," Max answered. "I came from the hills behind them."

The chief looked down at the scalp again. It had been a long time since the scalp of an enemy hung from the post before his tepee. His heart swelled with pride. He looked at Max. The White Eyes could imprison the bodies but they could not imprison the spirit. He picked up the scalp and hung it from the post then turned back to Max.

"A tree has many branches," he said slowly. "And when some branches fall or are cut down, other branches must be grown to take their place so their spirits may find where to live."

He took a feather from his headdress and held it toward Max. "There is a maiden whose brave was killed in a fall from his horse two suns ago. She had already taken the marriage stick and now must live alone in a tent by the river until his spirit is replaced in her. Go now and take her."

Max stared at him. "Now?" he asked.

The chief thrust the feather into his hand. "Now," he said, with the knowledge of all his years. "It is the best time, while the spirit of war and vengeance still rages like a torrent in
your blood. It is the best time to take a woman."

Max turned and picked up the lead and walked down through the camp with the horses. The Indians watched him silently as he passed by. He walked slowly with his head held high. He reached the bank of the small river and followed it around a bend.

A single tent stood there, out of sight of the rest of the camp. Max walked toward it. He tied the horses to some shrubs and lifted the flap of the tent and walked in.

The tent was empty. He lifted the flap again and looked out. There was no one in sight. He let the flap down. He walked to the back of the tent and sat down on a bed of skins stretched out on the floor.

A moment later the girl came in. Her hair and body were wet from the river and her dress clung to her. Her eyes went wide as she saw him. She stood there poised for flight.

She wasn't much more than a child, Max saw. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at the most. Suddenly he knew why the chief had sent him down here. He picked up the feather and held it toward her. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. "The mighty chief has put us together so that we may drive the devils from each other."


SIX


ASTRIDE THE WIRY PINTO, MAX CAME DOWN THE RAMP from the railroad car behind the last of the cattle. He waited a moment until the last steer had entered the stockyard and then dropped the gate behind it. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve and looked up at the sun.

It hung almost overhead, white hot, baking into the late spring dust of the yards. The cattle lowed softly as if somehow they, too, knew they had come to the end of the road. The long road that led up from Texas, to a railroad that took them to Kansas City, and their impending doom.

Max put the hat back on his head and squinted down the fence to where the boss sat with the cattle-buyers. He rode down toward them.

Farrar turned as he stopped his horse beside them. "They all in?"

"They all in, Mr. Farrar," Max answered.

"Good," Farrar said. He turned to one of the cattle-buyers. "The count O.K.? Eleven hundred and ten head I make it."

"I make it the same," the buyer said.

Farrar got down from the fence. "I'll come over to your office this afternoon to pick up the check."

The buyer nodded. "It'll be ready."

Farrar got up on his horse. "C'mon, kid," he said over his shoulder. "Let's get over to the hotel and wash some of this steer-shit stink off’n us."

"Man," Farrar said, after a bath. "I feel twenty pounds lighter."

Max straightened up from putting on his boots and turned around. "Yeah," he said. "Me, too."

Farrar's eyes widened and he whistled. Max had on an almost white buckskin shirt and breeches. His high-heeled cowboy boots were polished to a mirror-like sheen and the kerchief around his throat was like a sparkle of yellow gold against his dark, sun-stained skin. His hair, almost blue black, hung long to his shoulders.

Farrar whistled again. "Man, where'd you get them clothes?"

Max smiled. "It was the last set my ma made for me."

Farrar laughed. "Well, you shore enough look Injun with them on."

Max smiled with him. "I am Indian," he said quietly.

Farrar's laughter disappeared quickly. "Half Indian, kid," he said. "Your pappy was white and he was a good man. I hunted with Sam Sand too many years to hear you not proud of him."

"I am proud of him, Mr. Farrar," Max said. "But I still remember it was white men killed him an’ Ma."

He picked his gun belt up from the chair and strapped it on. Farrar watched him bend over to tie the holster to his thigh. "You still ain't give up lookin' for them?" he asked.

Max looked up. "No, sir, I ain't."

"Kansas City's a big place," Farrar said. "How you know you'll find him here?"

"If he's here, I'll find him," Max answered. "This is where he's supposed to be. Then I'll go down into West Texas an' get the other one."

Farrar was silent for a moment. "Well, dressed like that, you better look out he don't recognize you and find you first."

"I'm hopin' he does," Max said quietly. "I want him to know what he's dyin' for."

Farrar turned away from the bleak look in the boy's eyes and picked up a shirt. Max waited quietly for him to finish dressing. "I'll pick up my time now, Mr. Farrar," he said when the man had pulled on his trousers.

Farrar walked over to the dresser and picked up his poke. "There you are," he said. "Four months' pay—eighty dollars—an' the sixty dollars you won at poker."

Max put the money in a back pocket without counting it. "Thanks, Mr. Farrar."

"Sure I can't talk you into comin' back with me?" Farrar asked.

"No, thank you, Mr. Farrar."

"You can't keep all that hate in your soul, boy," the older man said. "It ain't healthy. You'll only wind up harmin' yourself."

"I can't help that, Mr. Farrar," Max said slowly. His eyes were empty and cold. "I can't ferget it's the same breast that fed me that bastard's usin' to keep his tobacco in."

The door closed behind him and Farrar stood there staring at it.

 Mary Grady smiled at the boy. "Finish your whisky," she said, "while I get my dress off."

The boy watched her for a moment, then drank the whisky quickly. He coughed as he went over to the edge of the bed and sat down.

Mary looked over at him as she slipped the dress up over her head. "How are you feelin'?"

The boy looked at her. She could see the vagueness already in his eyes. "All ri', I guess," he answered. "I ain' used to drinkin' so much."

She came over and stood looking down at him, her dress over her arm. "Stretch out and shut your eyes. You'll be all right in a few minutes."

He looked up at her dumbly, without response.

She put out her hand and pushed his shoulder. A hint of awareness sparked in his eyes. He tried to get to his feet, his hand locked around the butt of his gun, but the effort was too much. He collapsed, falling sideways across the bed.

Expertly Mary bent over him and lifted his eyelid. The boy was out cold. She smiled to herself and crossing to the window, looked out into the street.

Her pimp was standing across the street in front of a saloon. She raised and lowered the shade twice in the agreed signal and he started toward the hotel.

She was dressed by the time he got up to the room. "You took long enough gettin' him up here," he said surlily.

"What could I do?" she said. "He wouldn't drink. He's just a kid."

"How much did he have on him?" the pimp asked.

"I don't know," Mary answered. "The money's in his back pocket. Get it an' let's get out of here. This hotel always gives me the creeps."

The pimp crossed to the bed and pulled the money out of the boy's back pocket. He counted it swiftly. "A hundred and thirty dollars," he said.

Mary went over to him and put her arms around him. "A hundred and thirty dollars. Maybe we can take the night off now," she said, kissing his chin. "We could go over to my place and have a whole night together."

The pimp looked down at her. "What? Are you crazy?" he rasped. "It's only eleven o'clock. You can turn three more tricks tonight."

He turned to look down at the boy while she picked up her pocketbook. "Don't forget the bottle of whisky," he said over his shoulder.

"I won't," she answered.

"He don't look like no cowboy," he said. "He looks more like an Indian to me."

"He is," she said. "He was looking for some guy who had a tobacco pouch made from an Indian woman's skin." She laughed. "I don't think he even wanted to get laid. I got him up here by lettin' him think I knew who he was lookin' for."

The pimp looked down thoughtfully. "He's carryin' a gun, too. It should be worth somethin' to the guy he's lookin' for to know about him."

"You know who he's lookin' for?"

"Maybe," the pimp said. "C'mon."

 ******

It was almost two o'clock in the morning before the pimp found the man he was looking for. He was playing cards in the back of the Golden Eagle.

The pimp touched him on the shoulder cautiously. "Mr. Dort," he whispered.

"What the hell do you want?"

The pimp licked his lips nervously. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dort," he apologized quickly. "I got some information that I think you ought to have."

The pimp looked around the table nervously. The other men stared at him. "Maybe it's better private like, Mr. Dort," he said. "It's about that tobacco pouch."

He pointed to the table where it lay.

Dort laughed. "My Injun-tit tobacco pouch? Somebody's allus tryin' to buy it. It ain't for sale."

"It's not that, Mr. Dort," the pimp whispered.

Dort turned his back to him. "What the hell are you tryin' to tell me?"

"I figger it's worth somethin'—"

Dort rose swiftly. He grabbed the pimp's jacket and slammed him tightly against the wall. "What should I know?" he asked.

"It should be worth something, Mr. Dort," the pimp said, his eyes wide in fright. Dort was one of the worst killers in town.

"It'll be worth something," Dort said menacingly. "If you don't talk real quick—"

"There's an Indian kid in town lookin' for you," the pimp said in terror. "He's packin' a gun."

"An Injun kid?" Dort questioned. Slowly his grip relaxed. "What did he look like?"

Quickly the pimp described Max.

"His eyes, was they blue?" Dort asked harshly.

The pimp nodded. "Yeah. I saw them when he picked one of my girls up in the saloon. That's how come I didn't know he was Indian at first. You know him?"

Dort nodded without thinking. "I know him," he said. "That was his mother's."

All their eyes were on the tobacco pouch now. Dort picked it up and put it in his pocket.

"What're you goin' to do?" the pimp asked.

"Do?" Dort repeated dully. He looked at the pimp, then at the table of men around him. He couldn't run away now. If he did, everything would be gone. His reputation, his position in this oblique society.

"Do?" he said again, this time with growing strength and conviction. "I aim to do what I shoulda done a year ago. Kill him." He turned back to the pimp. "Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him," the pimp said eagerly.

The others at the table looked at each other for a moment, then silently got to their feet. "Wait for us, Tom," one of them called. "This oughta be some fun."

When they got to the hotel, Max had already left. But the hotel clerk told them where they could find him tomorrow. At the stockyards at two o'clock. The clerk was supposed to meet him there and collect a dollar for the room.

Dort threw a silver dollar on the counter. "There's your dollar," he said. "I'll collect it for you."

******

Farrar leaned against the fence, watching Max cut the prime steers into the feed pen. A man was leaning on the fence next to him. "That boy's got a sixth sense with a horse," Farrar said, without looking at him.

The man's voice was noncommittal. "Yeah." He finished rolling a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. "Got a match?"

"Why, sure," Farrar said, reaching into his pocket. He struck a match and held it toward the man. His hand froze as he saw the tobacco pouch in his hand.

The man followed his gaze. "What you lookin' at?"

"That tobacco pouch," Farrar said. "I ain't seen nothin' like it."

The man laughed. "Ain't nothin' but an ol' squaw tit," he said. "They the best things for keepin' tobacco moist an' fresh. They ain't much for wear, though. This one's gettin' awful thin."

Suddenly, Farrar turned from the fence to signal Max. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said.

There was a rustle of movement behind him and Farrar became aware of the other men. He watched helplessly as Max dropped the gate on the last of the steers and rode over to them.

Max got off his horse and tied it to a post. "All finished, Mr. Farrar," he said with a smile.

"That was good ridin', boy," the man said. He threw the tobacco pouch to Max. "Here, have yourself a smoke."

Max caught it easily. "Thanks, mister," he said. He looked down at the pouch to open it. He looked up at the man, then down at the pouch again, his face going pale.

The pouch fell from his fingers and the tobacco spilled onto the ground. He stared up at the man. "I never would've known you, you hadn't done that," he said softly.

Dort laughed harshly. "It's the beard, I reckon."

Max started to back away slowly. "You're one of them, all right. Now I recognize you."

"I'm one of them," Dort said, his hand hovering over his gun. "What're you goin' to do about it?"

Unconsciously Farrar and the others moved to the side. "Don't do anything, Max," Farrar called hoarsely. "That's Tom Dort. You got no idea how fast he is."

Max didn't take his eyes from Dort's face. "It don't make no difference how fast he is, Mr. Farrar," he said. "I'm goin' to kill him."

"Go for your gun, Injun," Dort said heavily.

"I’ll wait," Max said softly. "I want you to die slow, like my ma."

Dort's face was turning red and flushed in the hot sun. "Draw," he said hoarsely. "Draw, you goddam half-breed son of a two-bit Injun whore. Draw, damn you!"

"I ain' in no hurry to kill you," Max answered softly. "I ain' even goin' for your head or heart. I'm goin' to shoot you in the balls first, then a couple of times in the belly. I wanna watch you die."

Dort began to feel fear growing in him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the watching men. He stared at Max. The boy's face shone with hatred; his lips were drawn back tightly across his teeth.

Now, Dort thought, now. I might just as well get it over with. His hand moved suddenly toward his gun.

Farrar saw the movement but fast as he shifted his eyes, it wasn't quick enough to see Max's gun leap into his hand. It roared almost before Dort's gun had cleared its holster.

The gun fell from Dort's hand and he sank to his knees in the dirt, his hands grabbing at his crotch.

Max started walking toward him slowly.

Dort kneeled there for a moment in almost a praying position, then lifted his hand and looked at it. The blood ran down from his fingers. He stared up at Max. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed and grabbed for the gun in the dirt beside him.

Max waited until Dort lifted the muzzle toward him, then he fired twice again.

The bullets threw Dort over backward and he lay on the ground, his body twitching slightly. Max walked closer and stood over him, looking down, the smoking gun still in his hand.

******

Two days later, Max was given his choice of joining the Army or standing trial. There was a lot of talk about a war with Cuba and the judge was very patriotic. The chances were Max could have got off on self-defense, but he didn't dare take the chance even with witnesses.

He had a date he had to keep, with a man whose name he didn't even know.


SEVEN


NEVADA STIRRED RESTLESSLY, WITH THE VAGUE feeling that someone else was in the room with him. Automatically he reached for a cigarette, and when his hand hit empty air and fell downward against the side of the couch, he came awake.

It was a moment before he remembered where he was, then he swung his legs off the couch and reached for his pants. The cigarettes were in the right-hand pocket. He put one in his mouth and struck a match.

The flame flared in the darkness and he saw Rina sitting in the deep chair, looking at him. He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew out the match. "Why ain't you sleeping?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. "I couldn't sleep," she said. 'I’m afraid."

He looked at her quizzically. "Afraid, Rina? Afraid of what?"

She didn't move in the chair. "I'm afraid of what will happen to me."

He laughed quietly, reassuringly. "You're all set and you're young. You got your whole life in front of you."

Her face was a luminous shadow in the darkness. "I know," she whispered. "That's what I tell myself. But the trouble is I can't make myself believe it."

Suddenly, she was on her knees on the floor in front of him. "You've got to help me, Nevada!"

He reached out and stroked her hair. "Things take time, Rina," he said.

Her hands caught at his. "You don't understand, Nevada," she said harshly. "I've always felt like this. Before I married Cord, before I ever came out here. Even when I was a little girl."

"I reckon, sometime or other, everyone's afraid, Rina."

Her voice was still hoarse with terror. "But not like me! I'm different. I'm going to die young of some horrible disease. I know that, Nevada. I feel it inside."

Nevada sat there quietly, his hand absently stroking her head as she cried. "Things'll be different once you get back East," he said softly. "There'll be young men there an—"

She raised her hand and looked up at him. The first faint flicker of morning light illuminated her features. Her eyes were wide and shining with her tears. "Young men, Nevada?" she asked and her voice seemed to fill with scorn. "They're one of the things I’m afraid of. Don't you think if I weren't, I'd have married Jonas instead of his father?"

He didn't answer.

"Young men are all alike," she continued. "They only want one thing from me." Her lips drew back across her white teeth and she spat the words out at him. "To fuck! To do nothing but fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He stared at her, a kind of shock running through him at hearing her clear and venomously ladylike articulation of the so familiar word. Then it was gone and he smiled.

"What do you expect, Rina?" he asked. "Why are you tellin' me all this?"

Her eyes looked into his face. "Because I want you to know me," she said. "I want you to understand what I'm like. No man ever has."

The cigarette scorched his lips. He put it out quickly. "Why me?"

"Because you're not a boy." The answer came quickly. "You're a grown man."

"An' you, Rina?" he asked.

Her eyes became almost defiant but her voice betrayed her unsureness. "I think I'm a Lesbian."

He laughed.

"Don't laugh!" she said quickly. "It's not so crazy. I've been with girls and I've been with men. And I've never made it with a man, not with any man like I have with a girl." She laughed bitterly. "Men are such fools. It's so easy to make them believe what they want to. And I know all the tricks."

His male vanity was aroused. "Maybe that's because you ain't never come up against a real man."

A challenging note came into her voice. "Oh, no?" He felt her fingers lightly search his thighs beneath the blanket and find his phallus. Quickly she threw the blanket aside and pressed her head into his lap. He felt the movement of her lips, and suddenly he was angry.

He pulled her head back by the hair. "What're you tryin' to prove?" he asked harshly.

Her breath came hard and uneven. "That you're the man," she whispered. "The one man that can make me feel."

He stared at her, not answering.

"You are the one, Nevada," she whispered. "I know it. I can feel it down inside me. You can make me whole again. I’ll never be afraid any more."

She turned her head again but his hand held her firm. Her eyes were wide and desperate. "Please, Nevada, please. Let me prove how I can love you!" She began to cry again.

Suddenly, he got to his feet and went over to the fireplace. He stirred the coals alive, fed them kindling and another log. A moment later, a crackling heat came sparkling into the room. He turned to look at her. She was still sitting on the floor in front of the couch, watching him.

Slowly he walked back toward her. "When I asked you up here, Rina, I thought I was doin' the right thing." He sat down and reached for a cigarette.

Before he could light it, she held a match for him. "Yes, Nevada?" she questioned softly.

The flame glowed in his eyes and died as the match went out. "I ain't the man you're
lookin' for, Rina."

Her fingers touched lightly on his cheek. "No, Nevada," she said quickly. "That's not true."

"Mebbe not," he said and a slow smile came over his lips. "But I figger I'm too young. You see, all I want to do with you is — fuck, fuck, fuck!"

She stared at him for a moment and then she began to smile. She got up quickly and took the cigarette from his mouth. Her lips brushed fleetingly against his for a moment, then she walked to the fire and turned to face him. She put the cigarette between her lips and inhaled deeply.

Then she made a slight movement and the robe fell to the floor. The leaping fire turned her naked body into red gold. Swiftly she threw the cigarette into the fireplace behind her and started back toward him.

"Maybe it's better this way," she said, coming down into his outstretched arms. "Now we can be friends."


EIGHT


"THE SHOW'S IN TROUBLE," THE CASHIER SAID.

Nevada glanced at Rina. She was looking out the window of the ticket wagon, watching the last act of the Wild-West show going on in the arena. The faint sounds of the whooping and yelling drifted back to them on the still, warm air.

"How much trouble?" Nevada asked, his eyes coming back from her.

"Enough," the cashier said flatly. "We're booked in a week behind Buffalo Bill Cody's show for the whole summer. If these two weeks are any indication, we'll drop forty thousand this season."

A bugle sounding a charge hung in the air. Nevada shifted in his uncomfortable wooden chair and began to roll a cigarette. The performance was almost over now. The cavalry was coming to the rescue of the beleaguered pioneers. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

"How'd you let a stupid thing like that happen?" he asked, the cigarette dangling unlit from his lips.

"Wasn't my fault, Nevada," the cashier answered quickly. "I think the agent sold us out."

Nevada didn't answer. He lit the cigarette.

"What you going to do?" the cashier asked worriedly.

Nevada filled his lungs with smoke. "Play out the season."

"For forty grand?" The cashier's voice was shocked. "We can't afford to lose that much money!"

Nevada studied him. The cashier's face was flushed and embarrassed. He wondered why the man seemed so upset. It wasn't his money that was going to be lost.

"We can't afford not to," Nevada said. "We fold up, we lose all our top hands. They won't sign with us for next year if we dump 'em now."

Nevada got to his feet, walked over to the window and looked out. The Indians were riding out of the arena with the whooping cavalry hot after them. He turned back to the cashier. "I'm takin' Mrs. Cord down to the railroad station. I'll drop in at the agent's office after that. You wait for me here. I'll be back."

"O.K., Nevada," the cashier answered.

Nevada took Rina's arm as they went down the wagon steps. They cut across the field to his car. All around them hustled performers, hurrying their horses to the corral, racing to their wagons to change clothes, yelling to each other about their plans for the evening.

Rina turned to him as they reached the car. "Let me stay with you, Nevada, please."

He smiled slowly. "I thought we had that settled."

"But, Nevada," Her eyes grew serious. "There's nothing for me back East. Really. Here, at least, I can feel alive, excitement—"

"Stop actin' like a kid," he said. "You're a grown woman now. This ain't no life for you. You'd be sick of it in a week."

"I’ll buy half your losses this season if you let me stay," she said quickly.

He looked at her sharply. He thought she hadn't even heard the conversation back in the wagon, she had seemed so engrossed in the show. "You can't afford it," he said.

"And you can?" she countered.

"Better'n you," he said quickly. "I got more'n just the one thing goin' for me."

She stared at him for a moment, then got into the car. She didn't speak until they were at the station and she was ready to board the train.

"You’ll write me, Nevada?" she asked.

"I ain't much for writin'," he said.

"But you'll keep in touch?" she persisted. "You'll answer if I write you?"

He nodded.

"You'll let me come and visit you sometimes?" she asked. "If I’m lonely and frightened?"

"That's what friends're for," he said.

A hint of moisture came into her eyes. "You've been a good friend, Nevada," she said seriously.

She kissed him on the cheek and climbed up the steps of the Pullman car. At the door, she turned and waved brightly, then disappeared inside. He saw her face appear in the window for a moment as the train began to move. Then she was gone and he turned and walked out of the station.

He walked up a rickety flight of stairs that led into a dust-ridden corridor. The paint on the door was scratched and worn, the lettering simple and faded.

DANIEL PIERCE — BOOKING AGENT

The office lived up to the reputation of the corridor outside. A girl looked up at him from a littered desk. Her hair bore traces of its last henna rinse, the gum cracked in her mouth as she asked, almost hostilely, "What d'ya want?"

"Dan Pierce in?" he asked.

She studied Nevada for a moment, her eyes taking in his worn leather jacket, the faded Levi's, the wide-brimmed cowboy hat. "If you're lookin' for a job," she said, "there ain't any."

"I'm not lookin' for a job," he said quickly. "I’m lookin' for Mr. Pierce."

"You got an appointment?"

Nevada shook his head. "No."

"He don't see nobody without an appointment," she said brusquely.

"I'm from the Wild-West show," Nevada said. "He’ll see me."

A spark of interest appeared on her face. "The Buffalo Bill show?"

Nevada shook his head. "No. The Great Southwest Rodeo."

"Oh." The interest vanished from her face. "The other one."

Nevada nodded. "Yeah, the other one."

"Well, he ain't here," she said.

"Where can I find him?" he asked.

"I don't know. He went out to a meeting."

Nevada's voice was insistent. "Where?"

Something in his eyes made her answer. "He went over to Norman Pictures. He's on the back lot trying to sell them some client for a Western."

"How do I get there?"

"It's out on Lankershim Boulevard, past Universal, past Warner's."

"Thanks," he said and walked out.

******

He saw the big billboard in front of Universal as soon as he turned onto Lankershim.

UNIVERSAL PICTURES
THE HOME OF TOM MIX AND TONY
SEE
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
A UNIVERSAL PICTURE

A few minutes later, he passed another sign in front of Warner Bros.

WARNER BROS. PRESENT
MILTON SELLS
IN
THE SEA HAWK
A VITAGRAPH PICTURE

The Norman studio was about five miles farther down the road. The usual billboard was out in front.

BERNARD B. NORMAN PRODUCTIONS
PRESENT
THE SHERIFF OF PEACEFUL VILLAGE
WITH AN ALL-STAR CAST

He turned in at the big gate where a gateman stopped him.

"Is Dan Pierce here?" Nevada asked.

"Just a moment. I’ll see." The guard went back into his booth and checked a sheet of paper. "You must be the man he's expecting," he said. "He's on the back lot. Follow the road there right out. You can't miss it."

Nevada thanked him and put the car into gear. He drove slowly, for the road was filled with people. Some were actors in varying costumes but most seemed ordinary working men, wearing overalls and work clothes. He rolled past some very large buildings and after a few minutes was out in the clear. Here there was nothing but scrub grass and hills.

He came to another sign as he reached the foot of the first hill.

PEACEFUL SET
PARK CARS HERE

He followed the arrow. Just off the side of the road were a number of cars and trucks. He pulled in next to one of them and got out.

"Dan Pierce up there?" Nevada asked a man sitting in one of the trucks.

"Is he with the Peaceful crew?" the driver asked.

"I reckon," Nevada said.

"They're just over the hill."

At the crest of the hill, Nevada paused and looked down. A little below was a knot of people.

"Roll 'em, they're coming!" a heavy voice shouted.

Suddenly a stagecoach came roaring along the dirt road below him. Just as it took the curve, Nevada saw the driver jump off and roll to the side of the road. A moment later, the horses broke free of their traces and the coach tilted off the side of the road and went tumbling down the hill.

The dust had scarcely subsided when a voice shouted, "Cut! Cut! God damn it, Russell. You jumped too soon. The stage didn't go over the hill for a full forty frames after you!"

The driver got up from the side of the road and walked slowly toward the group of men, dusting his jeans with his hat.

Nevada started down the hill. He searched the crowd for Pierce, but didn't see him anywhere.

A man walked past, carrying a can of film. "Is Dan Pierce around?" Nevada asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. Ask him," he said, pointing at a young man
wearing knickers.

"Is Dan Pierce around?"

The young man looked up. "He had to go up to the front office for a phone call."

"Thanks," Nevada said. "I’ll wait for him." He began to roll a cigarette.

The stentorian voice was shouting again. "Is Pierce back with that goddam stunt man yet?"

"He went to phone him," the young man said. A startled look came to his face as he looked at Nevada again. "Wait a minute, sir," he yelled and started toward Nevada. "You the guy Pierce was expecting?"

"I guess so."

"Come with me," the young man said.

Nevada followed him into the group of men clustered around a tall man next to the camera.

The young man stopped in front of him. "This is the man Pierce was expecting, sir."

The man turned and looked at Nevada, then pointed at a cliff on the next hill. Below the cliff flowed a wide stream of water. "Could you jump a horse off that cliff into the water?"

Nevada followed the pointing finger. It was about a sixty-foot drop and the horse would have to leap out at least fifteen feet to land in the water.

"We have the stream dug twenty-five feet deep right there," the director said.

Nevada nodded. That was deep enough. "I reckon it can be done," he said.

The director broke into a smile. "Well, I'll be goddamned!" he roared. "We finally found us a man with balls." He clapped Nevada on the back. "You go over there and the wrangler will give you the horse. We'll be ready just as soon as we get this shot here."

He turned back to the cameraman. Nevada tapped him on the shoulder. "I said I reckon it can be done," he said. "I didn't say I'd do it."

The director stared at him curiously. "We're paying triple the stunt rate; isn't ninety dollars enough for you? O.K., I’ll make it a hundred."

Nevada smiled. "You got me wrong. I came out here lookin' for Dan Pierce. I ain't no stunt-rider."

The director's mouth twisted contemptuously. "You cowboys are all alike. All talk and no guts."

Nevada stared at him for a minute. He felt the hard knot of anger tightening inside him. He was tired of this, of the runaround he'd been getting ever since Pierce's office. His voice went cold. "It'll cost you five hundred dollars for me to take a horse off that cliff."

The director stared at him, then broke into a smile. "You must've heard that every man in Hollywood turned that jump down."

Nevada didn't answer.

"O.K. Five hundred it is," the director said casually and turned back to the cameraman.

Nevada stood near the horse's head, feeding him an occasional lump of sugar. The horse nuzzled his hand. He patted the horse's neck. It was a good horse. The animal responded quickly and there wasn't a frightened bone in his body.

"We're about ready," the director said. "I've got cameras covering you from every angle, so you don't have to worry which way to look. You go when I give the signal."

Nevada nodded and mounted the horse. The director stood limned against the edge of the cliff, his hand raised in the air. Suddenly, his hand dropped and Nevada dug his spurs into the horse. The animal leaped forward in almost a full gallop. Nevada gave him his head and led him into the jump.

Nevada took him high and the horse started down, his legs stiff, braced for a short fall. Nevada felt the great beast's heart suddenly pound between his legs as his hoofs didn't meet the expected ground.

The animal writhed in sudden panic as it began to tumble forward. Quickly Nevada kicked free of the stirrups and threw himself over the horse's side. He saw the water rushing up toward him and hoped he had jumped far enough so that the horse didn't land on top of him.

He hit the water in a clean dive and let the momentum carry him deep. He felt an explosion in the water near him. That would be the horse. His lungs were burning but he stayed down as long as he could.

At last, he had to come up. It seemed like forever till he broke the surface, gasping. He turned his head and saw the horse floating on its side, its head twisted in a peculiar manner. There was a look of great agony in its eyes.

He turned and swam quickly toward the bank. Angrily he strode toward the director.

The director was smiling. "That was great. The greatest shot ever made!"

"That hoss's back is probably broke!" Nevada said. He turned and looked out at the horse again. The animal was struggling to keep its head above water. "Why don't somebody shoot the poor son of a bitch?" Nevada demanded.

"We already sent for the wrangler to bring a rifle. He's back on the other hill."

"That hoss’ll be drowned before he gets here," Nevada snapped. "Hasn't anybody got a gun?"

"Sure, but nobody could hit him. A revolver's no good at that distance."

Nevada stared at the director. "Give me a gun."

Nevada took the gun and hefted it in his hand. He spun the cylinder. "These are blanks," he said. Someone gave him bullets. He reloaded the gun quickly and walked over to the side of the stream. He fired at a piece of wood in the water. The gun dragged a little to the left. He waited a moment until the horse raised its head again, then shot the animal between the eyes.

Nevada walked back and gave the director the gun. Silently the big man took it and held out a pack of cigarettes. Nevada took one and the director held the match for him. Nevada let the smoke fill his lungs.

A man came running up, gasping and short of breath. "I’m sorry, Mr. Von Elster," he said hoarsely. "I just can't locate that stunt man anywhere. But I’ll get you another one tomorrow."

"Didn't anybody tell you? He showed up already, Pierce. We just made the shot."

Pierce stared at him. "How could he? I just left him back at—"

The director stepped to one side, revealing Nevada. "Here he is. See for yourself."

Pierce looked at Nevada, then at the director. "That's not the one. That's Nevada Smith. He owns the Great Southwest Rodeo and Wild-West Show." He turned back to Nevada and stuck his hand out. "Good to see you, Nevada." He smiled. "What brings you out here?"

Nevada glared at him. The anger bubbled up again inside him. He lashed out quickly and Pierce hit the ground in shocked surprise. He stared up at Nevada. "What's got into you, Nevada?"

"What I want to know is how much the Cody show got into you!"

Von Elster stepped between them. "I’ve been looking for someone like you a long time, Smith," he said. "Sell your show and come to work for us. I'll pay you two fifty a week to start."

Pierce's voice came up from the ground. "Oh, no you don't, Von Elster. A thousand a week or nothing!"

Nevada started to speak. "You shut up!" Dan Pierce told him authoritatively. "I’m your agent and don't you forget it!" He turned back to Von Elster. "This stunt will be all over Hollywood in an hour," he said. "I could take him down the line to Universal or Warner's. They'd snap him up like that."

Von Elster stared at the agent. "Five hundred," he snapped. "And that's my last offer."

Pierce grabbed Nevada's arm. "Come on, Nevada. We'll go over to Warner's. Every studio's looking for somebody to give Tom Mix a little competition."

"Seven fifty," Von Elster said.

"For six months, then a thousand a week and corresponding increases semiannually thereafter."

"It's a deal," Von Elster said. He shook hands with Pierce and then turned to Nevada. He smiled and held out his hand. "What did you say your name was?"

"Smith, Nevada Smith."

They shook hands. "And how old are you, young fellow?"

Pierce answered before Nevada could speak. "He's thirty, Mr. Von Elster."

Nevada started to open his mouth in protest but the pressure of Pierce's hand on his arm kept him silent.

"We'll make that twenty-nine for publicity." Von Elster smiled. "Now, you two come on with me down to the front office. I want to tell Norman we finally found the Sheriff of Peaceful Village!"

Nevada turned away to hide a smile. He wondered what the men down on the prison farm so many years ago would have said had they known he'd finally turned up wearing a badge. Even if it was only in the movies.


CONTINUED IN
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