CHAPTER 1
It was the town, all right. Stace could just make out the fly-speck buildings strung out along the slash of the railroad where it cut the yellow smudge of trail coming out from the foothills. But it must be a good two days' ride and at least three thousand feet straight down.
Except for the railroad and the fly-speck town, the flats below were as brown and empty as a miscolored sea. The plain seemed to shimmer with heat and melt into the brown horizon.
Summer had already left the mountains. The days had been cool and the nights frosty. The aspens were fading to a pale yellow. There was a dusting of white on the peaks above.
Stace had been riding for days up along a broad, clear river that watered a meadow between the double crest of the mountains. The river had gotten narrower and faster as he rode upstream. Gradually the meadow had given way to scrub and finally to pine and aspen forest as he moved higher. It was beautiful country, but utterly empty except for jackrabbits, antelope, and mountain sheep.
But he had picked up a cattle trail which to his surprise got bigger as he followed it upward. Now he could see why. Though the valley tilted up towards the south, it ended abruptly in a jumble of peaks at the closed end and dropped away to the plain below. There must be a trail down to the flats that was steep but easy enough for cattle.
As he looked down at the town, Stace pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through matted hair. He straightened his hat and adjusted the gun at his thigh. He hoped he would not have to camp out again tonight. It would be nice to ride into town without two weeks of trail dust all over him. He ran his palm over his chin. And with a shave, too. Some men looked rugged with several days' growth of whis- kers, but Stace never thought he was one of them. He thought he just looked unshaven.
"Come on, Mizpah, we might as well start down." Stace patted his horse and picked his way through the jumble of rocks back down from the overlook to the trail. Mizpah was a big horse. He needed to be, because his owner was big. He was a dark chestnut with black mane and tail. There was not a spot of white on him anywhere.
The trail that dropped out of the mountains was wide and pounded smooth, so they made good time. It was dimpled with the prints of thousands of hooves. Stace figured that if he had come through a few days earlier, the high meadows would not have been empty. It seemed early to have left the high country. Maybe the autumn had fooled them and come up with a surprise Indian Summer. More likely, the drovers had to make allowances not only for getting the cattle out of the mountains before winter set in, but rounded up and shipped East while trains could still get over the Great Divide.
They descended in lazy loops, cutting back and forth down the face of the escarpment. Sometimes the trail descended far back into canyons cut into the mass of the mountain, and sometimes it ran along the sheer face of the cliff, with a thousand foot drop practically under them.
And all the time the air got warmer and warmer in spite of the hastening evening. It was like coming down into a different world. The trees gave way to scrub, and the scrub to brush, and there were different cactus for each level. Though it was not a hard trail, Mizpah foamed and lathered.
Toward sunset, Stace found himself riding along the crest of a low ridge above a shallow watercourse. The trail doubled back up the watercourse a while to lose altitude and then came out again right beside where the water would have been if there had been any. He came out into a little plateau well down the mountain but still above the foothills.
The sun was low, but the air had not begun to cool off much. At the far end of the plateau was a house. It was a simple hut of uncut stone with a sod roof. A woman had spied Stace when he had first turned out onto the plateau, and now she and her husband were standing in front of the hut, waiting for him.
"Howdy," said Stace when he got close.
"Evenin', Mister," the man said. He watched Stace politely but carefully, like a cow pony new off the winter range in the spring. Stace was surprised that he spoke unaccented English. He had taken the pair for Indians. They were dressed Indian- fashion. But up close Stace saw that though the man was dark from a lifetime of sun, his lined face was the face of an Anglo. But Stace was right about the woman. Though she was not young, Stace guessed that she was a lot younger than her husband.
"I don't think I can make it all the way to town tonight," Stace said. "Would you be willing to put us up?"
The man looked at the woman and said something in a strange tongue. The woman's shrug said it was up to the man. He thought a long time before he spoke.
"We cain't offer you much, but I reckon you're welcome to what we have," he said.
"Anything at all will be more comfortable than another night on the trail," Stace said. "I saw the town from the top of the trail, and figure it's another day's ride."
"You never been hereabouts before?"
"No, I haven't."
The old man softened. "Then you ain't one of the Colonel's men?"
"The Colonel?"
"Colonel McFarlie. It's his town."
"No," said Stace, "though he's probably the man I'm looking for. Does he own the Double Bar M?"
"That's the man. You don't know him?"
"No. I just heard there's a big spread down here whose boss is a big man in the territory."
"That's the Colonel, all right. They's none bigger."
The woman made a sign to the man and went inside the hut.
"Come in," the man said. "You can sleep in the loft. It was our son's bed. I'll see to your horse."
Stace saw that the old man was relieved to learn he was not one of McFarlie's men. He felt a little foolish walking around with guns on, so he slipped off his belt and shoved it into his bedroll.
The old man noticed that Stace did not have his gun on when he went out to help with Mizpah. "You an outlaw?" he asked bluntly.
"Why, no," Stace said, taken a bit by surprise. "Not really. I got in a fight, but he lived. His pa was somebody, so it seemed best to move on. Would it make a difference?"
"Not out here," the man said, busy with the horse. "I reckon everybody out here is runnin' from something or he wouldn't be out here. That's a fine critter you got."
"Thanks," said Stace. "Mizpah's been a good friend." He patted the horse on the nose, and Mizpah nuzzled his shoulder.
"McFarlie likes a man with a reputation," the old man said, "but he don't abide no nonsense between his men. He keeps a firm hand in."
"What kind of a man is McFarlie?"
"Oh, he's decent enough, I suppose, though he's not above letting his men throw their weight around. You learn not to test a man's sense of fair play too much out here."
"How much spread does he have?"
"Depends on who you ask. But well up into the mountains you came out of and most of the flats."
"Does he own this plot?"
"He says so."
"But you don't?"
The old man looked at Stace as if to say, if you're fixing to work for the man, I can hardly tell you everything. Stace shrugged.
"Well, 'tain't no secret," the old man said after a while.
"When I first come out here there warn't no other white man this side o' Topeka. I was a trapper. I'd a wife back East, but she died. I lived amongst the Injuns and did them favors as come my way. When I got ready to settle down, Chief Yellow Thunder give me his daughter and this bit o' land. He figgered it was his to give.
"I been here twenty years before McFarlie ever set eyes on this place. That was when the railroad opened up the country, made cattle raising out here a moneymaking proposition. He has a deed from the railroad for the whole country. He don't reckonize my claim."
"But he hasn't run you off?"
"No. I'll say that for him. My puny plot don't count for much, though it has a good spring. So he waters his cows here on the way up and the way down and leaves me alone the rest o' the year."
When they got back to the hut, the woman showed Stace to a lean-to where she set out a tub of hot water. He was glad to get out of his smelly clothes and into the steaming tub. He almost fell asleep soaking, but he woke with a jerk when the woman crept in and began picking up his clothes.
"Hey, what are you doing?" he yelled, but she did not seem to understand English, and he couldn't very well jump up and stop her. He was wondering what he was going to do for clothes when the old man came in with what looked like a nightshirt and some old overalls.
"My son's," he said. "They won't hardly fit, but they'll do for tonight."
He was right. They didn't fit. Stace felt foolish in pantlegs up to his shins and sleeves that hardly came below his elbows. He saw the woman smile behind her shoulder when he came into the hut. He was glad there was nobody else to see him besides the old couple.
There was chicken and beans and squash. Stace wondered how often they had chicken for supper.
"Do you still do any trapping?" he asked as they ate.
"Not really," the old man said. "I'm too old for the mountains."
"How do you live?"
"Oh, it don't take much when you're old. I sell a few pelts and things. Mostly we make do with what we have."
Poor folk, to have lost their only son. Stace changed the subject.
"How come the town is in the flats? It must be hot as the devil."
"If you'd come through a month from now, you'd know," the old man said. "Once it starts to snow, the high country is sealed in tight. It's only hot down here about three or four months. The soil ain't much on the flats, but there's water if you dig for it. You'll be coming out into the winter pasture just below here."
"Where's the ranch house?"
The old man scrunched back in his chair. "It's off to the right in the last low hills. But you'd better ask for the Colonel in town. He don't cotton to strangers less'n he knows 'em."
"Thanks for the advice," Stace said. "I suppose the cattle are all out of the high country now."
"All he could round up, anyhow. They come through a week or so ago. The Colonel's probably shipping 'em out right now."
"Isn't it early?"
"Not for these mountains. This hot spell is late. Last year this time they was two foot of snow in the mountains. They's a beast lives up there. He comes down in the meadows soon as the weather turns. Kills a lot o' cows and skeers hell out'n the rest."
"What sort of beast?"
"Don't know for sure. A big grizzly, mebbe. The Injuns say he cain't be kilt. I never seen him, but I heard him and seen his trail o' blood. He'll come down here if the winter gets hard enough. He'll raid the Colonel in his own barnyard."
"Aren't you afraid of him?"
The old man spat into the fireplace.
"Naw. In a way, McFarlie protects me. Why bother with my scrawny cow when there's a lot fatter beef just below? If the hunting stays good in the high country, he won't come down, though. Not if McFarlie warn't too greedy about gettin' every last cow down. He hasn't bothered us for four-five years now."
It was time for bed. The old man showed Stace to the pallet of straw in the loft. After all those nights on bare ground, it was like a hotel.
CHAPTER 2
Stace woke to the smell of cornbread and coffee. The morning was crisp and dewy before the sun had a chance to bake out the brown earth.
He found his clothes, freshly washed, laid out on the foot of the bed. Good, he thought, he would not have to look like a trail bum as he rode into town.
"Mornin', Sonny," said the old man when Stace came down the ladder. "I thought I was gonna have to roust you. You'll be wanting an early start if you reckon to make it to town today."
He had just come in from milking and was pouring the milk through a cloth into a wide, shallow crock.
"Been so long since I climbed into a bed, I hated to climb out again," Stace said. "Can I really make it to town today?"
"From here to town, but not t'other way. They's a lot of downhill yet. But you got a good hoss. I fed him."
"Thanks. Would it be all right if I shave?"
"Sure thing," the old man said. He got a tin wash pan and poured out some hot water from a kettle on the hearth. The woman was busy making breakfast and took no notice of the men. The old man put the pan of water on a bench outside by the door and hung a mirror on a nail in the door post. The level rays of the sun came right over Stace's shoulder, and he shaved in their reflection onto his chin.
He shaved and combed his hair in the mirror. He looked at his deeply sunburned face and adjusted his neckerchief. He wished he had a bigger mirror. His broad shoulders did not fit the frame.
"Shore be you're a fine sight," the old man said wistfully. "I 'spect some daddy is proud."
Stace blushed and backed away from the mirror. He had forgotten the old man behind him.
"The way you look counts for a lot when you're new in town. People usually don't hang back to discover the finer shades of character."
"That's true," said the old man with a shade of regret in his voice. "I reckon we turn into what we look like. But come on in. Grub's ready."
There was coffee and eggs and a kind of griddle cake that was not corn after all.
"It's acorns," the old man said. "That's what comes of having an Injun for a wife. What white woman would think of it? and you only got to pick 'em up off'n the ground."
"It's very good," Stace said and meant it. "I suppose if you know how to live off the land out here, you can live pretty well."
"Oh, there's stuff out here Injuns eat that I wouldn't touch," the old man said, winking broadly at his wife. But she presented a broad and expressionless back to him.
"Can you tell me what's in town?" Stace asked.
"Besides the depot, there's just a trading post and a place to eat. It's a kind o' saloon and boarding house where folks can eat during the train stop and McFarlie's men eat when they're in town.
"Town's really part o' McFarlie's ranch. There's a couple of smaller spreads to the south of the flats that trade and ship there, but mostly it's just McFarlie."
"Will there be any of his men in town?"
"More'n likely. They're probably shipping out cattle now. There's no hotel or anything, but Gus at the saloon can put you up. If you really want to meet McFarlie, let Gus know. It's the only way. He don't just ride around shakin' hands with every stranger passing through."
"Thanks for your hospitality. I appreciate your help."
"That's okay," the old man said. "We don't get much company, and it's a site lonely now our boy's gone."
Stace wanted to leave something, but he knew that if he offered money, the man would feel obliged to refuse. So he put a dollar on the shelf by the bed when he was packing his bedroll.
He saddled Mizpah and was ready to move off when the woman tugged urgently at her husband's sleeve. She seemed anxious, and stood clasping and unclasping her hands a couple of steps behind her husband. Stace waited for the old man to speak.
"It's our boy," the old man said.
Stace was surprised. He had just taken it for granted that the son was dead.
"My woman hopes--" The old man went on, groping for words, "that as a favor--in memory of your own maw--" He had trouble going on.
"Yes?" said Stace helpfully.
"--that when you throw things at our boy, you will not throw too hard so as to hurt him too much."
"Why should I throw things at your son?"
"They all do--all the Colonel's boys. They don't mean no harm, I reckon--it's just their way o' having fun. But a big, strong feller like you--if you would only throw small things, it wouldn't hurt him so much."
"Where is your son?"
"He works at the saloon. He went to work there last year. He cleans up and washes dishes. The boys have gotten into the habit of throwing their old bones and bottles at him. Please be kind to him."
"What's his name?"
"Rabbit."
"Rabbit!" said Stace in surprise.
"That's what they all call him. Always did coming through here, 'count of he's so skittish. I got in the habit of calling him that, too."
Stace shook his head in wonderment.
"When I meet our son," he said, "I'll remember your kindness to me."
"God bless you," the woman said. It was the only thing she ever said to him.
Stace rode off. He looked back and saw the man and woman watching him. They stood and watched him as long as he was in sight.
CHAPTER 3
The foothills lasted longer than Stace figured when he had seen them from above. Several streams brought water down from the mountains, but instead of forming a river, they sank into the loose soil. Stace saw some cows in the distance and decided this was the winter range. The hills were golden brown except for wisps of purpley green trees along the folds of the hills. The hills gave way to the flats and the dry grass to sagebrush.
By now the sun was high and the air hot. It was late in the afternoon when he finally came to the town.
Stace had seen lots of one-street towns, but this was a no-street town. Its handful of buildings were set down anywhere on the hard-packed desert floor. They were grouped loosely around a scraggly clump of cottonwoods that would shade the town pump if they ever got high enough. Right now the town center was the windmill about as high again as the clump of trees around it.
Stace tied Mizpah to the hitching post under the trees and let him cool off before he gave him a drink. Along the railroad tracks opposite was a long low building which was a combination train depot, general store, post office, and Western Union. Next to the depot was a blacksmith shop and stable, and beyond that the holding pens and loading dock. Stace could hear cows complaining and the occasional shouts of the cowboys. On the other side was the saloon, a low shed of a building with smoke pouring out of a chimney at the rear. There were a few houses scattered behind it, some fitfully shaded by cottonwood saplings.
The only other important building was a grand two-story edifice set a little way back from the town pump in its own cluster of cottonwoods. It was a wooden building painted white with fancy jig-saw work on the porch and under the eaves and a little cupola perched on its roof. It was surrounded by an iron spike fence with marble corner posts. But the front gate stood open, as if there was not really anything in town worth keeping out. At first Stace thought the town had delusions of grandeur, and this was a court house put up on speculation of the area ever attracting enough settlers to make up a county. But a closer look revealed that the pile was a private home.
Stace recalled that the old man had said McFarlie's house was in the hills. But there was nobody else this house could belong to. McFarlie must have built this for a town house.
Stace went over to the saloon. It was not more than a frame shed, but it boasted the fanciest pair of swinging doors this side of St. Louis, rosewood all carved with rosebuds and cupids. Stace thought maybe they are importing a whole saloon from back East one piece at a time, and the swinging doors were all they could afford so far.
Inside, the saloon had only a packed dirt floor and two lines of plank tables running the full length of the room. At the far end was the bar. It was a rough lumber counter with oil-cloth glued to the top.
Nobody was around, but the smell of supper hung on the stale hot air.
"Anybody here?" Stace called.
A man in a big apron came in from a door behind the bar. The apron was the dirtiest piece of cloth Stace had ever seen up to that minute. The man behind it was surprised to see a stranger.
"Can I get a beer?" Stace asked.
"Sure," said the man. "I'll get you a cool one."
He disappeared again. That must be Gus. He looked as if this was the last place in the world he wanted or expected to be. After a few minutes he appeared again with a bottle cool from the cellar and a glass.
"You just passing through?" Gus inquired, ignoring the absurdity that this town could possibly be on the way to anywhere else.
"I think I'm here," Stace answered, pouring out the beer into the glass, careful not to let it foam too much. "What's the name of this place?"
"The railroad calls it McFarlie Station, because they think they got to call it something. I don't recollect nobody else calling it anything."
"That's the place all right. Are you Gus?"
"My fame has spread far and wide," said Gus, wiping the spot where the bottle had formed a ring of sweat with the tail of his dirty apron. "Just how far has it spread?"
"As far as I know, only half-way up the mountain. I stayed the night there. The old man told me you could tell me how to see McFarlie."
"What do you want to see him for?"
"I heard he has two heads."
"That may be, but the good one don't like to be pestered by every passing saddle tramp."
"Do I look like a saddle tramp?"
"You didn't come by train," Gus answered, as if that was how you told.
"I wouldn't be wasting his time."
"Who wouldn't be wasting his time?"
"The name's Stacy."
"He might be in tomorrow. If I happen to see him, I'll mention you to him."
"Much obliged. Any place I can put up in the meantime?"
"Well, this town don't boast a proper hotel. But I suppose I could let you have a bed. I live around in back."
"Thanks. Say, something smells good. What's the chance of supper?"
"The boys eat at six," Gus said. "Nothing's ready till then. You want anything else right now?"
"No thanks. I'll just drink this and cool off. It's been a long ride. Say, what's with the fancy doors?"
"It's from where everything comes from around here." Gus told him. "The railroad. Somebody ordered it down the line. I reckon the vein run out and the town died before the doors come. The railroad dropped it off here." With that, Gus disappeared into the kitchen.
Stace picked up his beer and ambled back between the rows of tables. His eyes were getting used to the half-darkness, and he could see what was in the room. There wasn't much more to see.
In the corner next to the swinging doors, there was a pile of trash that he had not seen when he came in. He moved closer and saw it was a pile of boxes and bones and broken bottles. In the middle, he thought he saw something move, a furry thing. He reached in and grabbed it. It was the top of a head. Attached to it was the dirtiest, greasiest critter Stace had ever seen.
"Yecch!" Stace said in disgust. The critter began to whimper.
"I spent the whole day on it," it whined. "Now you knocked it over."
"Knocked what over?" Stace cried. He had the critter by the collar. He was rapidly re-evaluating the absolute condition of Gus's apron. The critter was flailing and thrashing about, not really trying to hit Stace or break away. It just didn't seem to be able to keep still.
"Oh, yessir. I swear! Please don't hurt me!"
"Just settle down, will you? I'm not going to hurt you," Stace said with disgust. "But you can't spend the rest of your life in a pile of trash. You must be Rabbit."
"Yes," squealed Rabbit. "They'll kill me if'n I don't hide."
"No, they won't. Phew, you stink! How long since you've had a bath?"
"I'll just get dirty again!" protested Rabbit.
"Come on!" Stace dragged Rabbit up to the bar and called out, "Gus!"
Gus reappeared.
"Gus, you got some cleaning stuff?"
"What kind of stuff?" Gus stared at Rabbit as if he had never laid eyes on him before.
"Soap and maybe a big brush."
Gus went into the kitchen and came back with a bar of lye soap and a stiff hog-bristle brush.
"This do?"
"Just fine," said Stace. He took them in one hand and Rabbit in the other and headed for the swinging doors.
He went straight for the horse trough, and before Rabbit knew what was going on, he was head first into the trough. He came up sputtering and choking.
"Hold still!" Stace commanded. "And don't splash or I'll take off your hide.
He started to lather Rabbit all over, clothes and all.
"These the only duds you got?"
"Yes!" sputtered Rabbit.
"I'll have to get more. Off with them."
"Right here? In the middle of town?"
"Why not? Except for Gus's wife, I don't guess there's a female within ten miles. Besides, you'd be more respectable stark naked than the way you are."
Rabbit mumbled and grumbled, but he peeled off his we clothes and huddled in the trough. Stace went across to the general store and came back in a little while with a flannel shirt and a pair of pants. It was a rough guess on the fit, but they would do.
In the light, with the grease rubbed off, Rabbit turned out to be a kid of maybe fourteen, taller than Stace had guessed, but skinny as a pole. His hair was so long and matted that Stace borrowed shears from Gus and chopped most of it off. It wasn't pretty, but it was a lot more sanitary.
"I hope you know what you're doing," muttered Gus.
"Before you cook a rabbit," Stace told him, "You have to clean and dress it."
CHAPTER 4
The cleaning was only a superficial help to Rabbit's general appearance. Of course the ill-fitting clothes didn't help much. Stace had encountered many half-breed people in the West, and many were right good looking, but Rabbit had inherited all the wrong features from either side. He had a great beaked nose and not much chin and big crooked teeth that seemed to spill out of his mouth. Maybe it was because he was very young and all skin and bones. Stace hoped so.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Rabbit asked Stace.
"Because I met your folks and they were kind to me."
Rabbit hung his head and said nothing.
"How did you get yourself in this mess?" Stace went on.
"I was just trying to earn money so's I could get out of this place."
"How were you coming along?"
"Well--not too good yet. I gotta pay for what I break."
Stace looked at Gus, who looked at the ceiling and shrugged.
"You could get to be an old man here," Stace remarked.
"
What are you fixin' to do now?" Stace whimpered.
"I'm going to take care of my horse. You are going to clean out the horse trough and then get rid of that trash pile. Gus, can I stable my horse across the way?"
Gus nodded. Rabbit scampered off to do what he was told.
When Stace got back, Rabbit was putting bones and broken bottles into the boxes.
"Do you have to help serve supper?" Stace asked him.
"No," said Rabbit.
Gus was getting the tables ready.
"The boys can't keep from tripping him up," he said.
Rabbit finally got the corner cleared out and the trash stored outside.
"Is it supper time?" Stace asked.
"The boys'll be coming in any time," Gus told him. "You want to start?"
"Rabbit and I will have our supper down here," Stace said, pointing to the far end of the other table. Rabbit came in from taking out the last box of trash. He was getting greasy again. Stace shook his head in exasperation.
He led the bewildered Rabbit to the outside bench near the door, away from where the cowboys sat. He sat Rabbit firmly down on the end of the bench and climbed into place beside him. Rabbit started to get up, but Stace pressed him firmly down by the shoulder.
Gus stared for a minute and then stuck his head in the kitchen. "Get out the tin plates tonight, Maw!"
Stace and Rabbit had just started to eat then the cowboys filed in to supper. There were five of them.
They glanced at the two figures in the half-gloom, but they did not recognize Rabbit. He was ready to bolt, but Stace held his wrist in an iron grip under the table. He had to keep one hand on Rabbit and eat left-handed. Rabbit was shaking so hard he could not even pretend to eat.
"Don't fret so," Stace whispered into his ear. "Just eat your supper. Everything's going to be all right."
The cowboys climbed into their places at the far end of the room. They looked down at the two strangers with open curiosity, particularly at Stace, who was big and well-dressed for a cowboy.
"Say, Gus, who's the dude?" one of them said more loudly than he needed to for Gus to hear.
Gus shrugged. "Rode in this afternoon," he mumbled.
"Come far, Stranger?" another called out to Stace. Stace gestured to show his mouth was full.
Under his careful nonchalance, he had been sizing up the five cowboys, measuring them for the showdown which he had been around long enough to know was coming. The two with their backs to him looked harmless enough. The hearer was a sickly-looking man with hollow eyes. He looked sixty and was maybe thirty-five. He kept coughing into his bandana.
The other was a cheery red-headed fellow who was also old as cowboys go--past thirty, anyway. He looked as if he didn't have a mean streak but would go along with somebody else's bad joke.
Facing Stace and Rabbit on the near side was the youngest, a kid about eighteen. He looked as if he might be new to the crew and afraid of not being a good sport. Probably not overly bright. That sort can be dangerous, Stace thought, if somebody eggs him on.
Next to him was a fellow with thick yellow hair and a shadow of red beard. He was the one who had called Stace a dude. He had a pasted-on grin, but his eyes were hard. A natural-born bully, Stace thought.
On the far end was the cowboy Stace sized up as the one to watch. He looked just a bit older than the kid, but much older in the world. He looked as if he didn't like being young. He had a thin face and piercing eyes and a pinched, hungry look. He shoveled down his food rapidly, as if he could not get enough to eat.
While they were hungry, the cowboys paid little attention to Stace. They concentrated on piling up their plates and carving huge chunks off the beef shank roast in front of them. The kid worked on the bone, scraping off the last of the meat. He picked it up, about the size of a billy club.
"Here's a bone for our dog," he said, and turned toward the corner where the trash pile had been. "Hey, where's our dog tonight? What's become of his kennel?"
They all noticed then that the corner was swept clean.
"Hey Gus! You finally kick that cur out?"
But the hungry one was staring hard at Stace and the stranger sitting next to him.
"He's sitting over there," he said in a hard, cold voice.
"Hey, it's Rabbit!" the kid yelled out. "Sittin' right there at table like a human bean."
Rabbit tried to bolt, but Stace held him firmly by the wrist. He shook so hard the silverware on the table rattled.
"Hey Rabbit, what are you doing there? Where's your pigpen?"
"Mister, what are you doing, eating with the livestock?"
"Eating with pigs! Oink! Oink!"
It went on like that, getting noisier and noisier. Rabbit was sweating with terror, but Stace kept eating.
Gus tried to keep the lid on, plying the men with seconds of bread and apple butter; but he didn't know anything about Stace and was afraid of getting the boys more worked up. In the end, he retreated to the kitchen with a nervous eye on things from just the other side of the doorway.
The sandy-haired loudmouth reached across the kid and picked up the beef shank.
"Here, doggie. Here's your bone!" he shouted at Rabbit and threw the bone as hard as he could at him.
It might have hit him, too, but Stace reached up at the last moment and grabbed it right out of the air. In the same motion, he sent it flying back with tremendous force straight at the thrower. The fellow didn't even have a chance to throw up his hand. The bone struck him full in the face, and he went flying backwards over the bench.
They all sat for a moment in stunned silence, staring at the gap where their pardner had been sitting. The kid climbed off the bench and disappeared behind the table. His head reappeared over the edge, his eyes wide toward Stace.
"He's dead! You've kilt him!"
The others made moves to get up, but they changed their minds when the saw that Stace had quietly laid his gun on the table by his left hand. His right hand was still clasped on Rabbit's wrist, twisting it around so that Rabbit couldn't stand up, which he seemed very anxious to do.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Stace said, calmly.
The cowboys half stood and half sat between the idea of avenging their fallen pardner and an equal desire not to risk their necks for a silly act of bravado. Stace watched the hungry cowboy. There was a moment when he might have acted, but the moment passed.
Finally, the cheerful-looking redhead said rather lamely, "The Colonel won't take kindly to your killing one of his boys."
"That's a matter I would be happy to talk over with the Colonel personally."
"You fellows better run along," Gus said nervously from the door. "I don't want no more trouble."
"But we can't just let him walk way from this!" shouted the kid. He said it to Gus, not Stace.
"He ain't going nowhere," Gus said. "His horse is in the stable."
Grumbling, the four survivors decided they weren't looking for one brief moment of glory, so they picked up their fallen comrade and carried him out of the swinging doors, one limb to each man.