just-poured drink to see a lean-bodied, thin-faced man slide quickly from his chair and go out a side door.
No one seemed to see him go but the stranger, who was the kind of a man who had learned to notice such things, to live with awareness, to recognize an enemy where others would see nothing but another human being. Too long he had walked the ragged edges of death, going quietly in where others shrank back.
Only he had noted the hostility in the man's gaze, and the furtiveness he had been unable to disguise.
The stranger swallowed his drink, then turned quietly and went outside, unnoticed. For such minor altercations were not unusual, and there had been no shooting. Some would say that the stranger had backed down, others would realize that he had merely sidestepped a killing. But in any event it was over and nothing amiss had happened.
In the street, he paused. The thin-faced man was talking to three men who stood across the street in front of the Spur Saloon. He caught their eyes as they looked and sized him up, but he knew none of them. The trouble was, he was sure the thin-faced man had known him ... or suspected him of being someone he should know.
He ought to leave town, and leave now, yet there were things he needed to know, and this was the best place to discover them. The stranger would wait a little longer.
Although he had not known the three men across the street, he had recognized their type. All three were cowhands, but the kind who relied more on what they could do with guns than what they could do with ropes or branding irons.
Idling in front of the stage station a few minutes later, he saw Steve Lord coming toward him. He knew him, as he had known Webb Steele from descriptions given him before he arrived in Texas.
He was lighting a cigarette when Steve Lord stopped before him.
"You're a gunfighter ... Lord said. "You could have killed me."
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you? I made a fool of myself. I was talking when I should have been listening."
The stranger smiled. "Why? Any man can make a mistake. You may be Chet Lord's son, but I think you can make your own tracks."
"Thanks. That's the first time anybody said that to me."
"Maybe they should have. Knowing you can act the man makes it easier to do it And knowing it is expected of you helps. Many a man is brave just because people expect it of him."
"Who are you"..."... Steve Lord asked.
"Sometimes they call me Lance. Is that enough for you?"
"It's enough. And about that job. If you want it, we'd like to have you. I may not be so good with a gun but I know when another man is. And we want you on our side."
"I wasn't planning on going to work right now ... Lance said. I've got a few dollars and I'm figuring on taking it easy for awhile."
"Look, we'll pay well, and I'd rather have you on our side than the other."
"Maybe I won't ride for either side. This sounds like a shooting war you're talking about, and I've had enough of that for a long, long time."
"You've got to go one way or the other ... or leave the country. I'm giving it to you straight If you don't sign on with either side, one or the other will shoot you on sight, just suspecting you're riding for the others."
Lance shrugged. "Well... I don't know. What kind of a fight is this, anyway?"
"It's a three-cornered fight, not just two. Webb Steele has about forty riders . . . that's twice what he needs for the stock he runs. We've about the same number, and we don't need them all either, except as warriors.
"Between us, we split the Live Oak country.
That's kind of a loose name for a big spread of country that runs from the Rio Grande to way north of the Neuces. Some folks name another section of country the Live Oak, but for us, this is it "It's always been a rough country, what with the border bandits on both sides stirring trouble, and Indians raiding into the area. Once this fight warmed up, a bunch of the boys began to choose sides, and some of them don't care who wins as long as
No one seemed to see him go but the stranger, who was the kind of a man who had learned to notice such things, to live with awareness, to recognize an enemy where others would see nothing but another human being. Too long he had walked the ragged edges of death, going quietly in where others shrank back.
Only he had noted the hostility in the man's gaze, and the furtiveness he had been unable to disguise.
The stranger swallowed his drink, then turned quietly and went outside, unnoticed. For such minor altercations were not unusual, and there had been no shooting. Some would say that the stranger had backed down, others would realize that he had merely sidestepped a killing. But in any event it was over and nothing amiss had happened.
In the street, he paused. The thin-faced man was talking to three men who stood across the street in front of the Spur Saloon. He caught their eyes as they looked and sized him up, but he knew none of them. The trouble was, he was sure the thin-faced man had known him ... or suspected him of being someone he should know.
He ought to leave town, and leave now, yet there were things he needed to know, and this was the best place to discover them. The stranger would wait a little longer.
Although he had not known the three men across the street, he had recognized their type. All three were cowhands, but the kind who relied more on what they could do with guns than what they could do with ropes or branding irons.
Idling in front of the stage station a few minutes later, he saw Steve Lord coming toward him. He knew him, as he had known Webb Steele from descriptions given him before he arrived in Texas.
He was lighting a cigarette when Steve Lord stopped before him.
"You're a gunfighter ... Lord said. "You could have killed me."
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you? I made a fool of myself. I was talking when I should have been listening."
The stranger smiled. "Why? Any man can make a mistake. You may be Chet Lord's son, but I think you can make your own tracks."
"Thanks. That's the first time anybody said that to me."
"Maybe they should have. Knowing you can act the man makes it easier to do it And knowing it is expected of you helps. Many a man is brave just because people expect it of him."
"Who are you"..."... Steve Lord asked.
"Sometimes they call me Lance. Is that enough for you?"
"It's enough. And about that job. If you want it, we'd like to have you. I may not be so good with a gun but I know when another man is. And we want you on our side."
"I wasn't planning on going to work right now ... Lance said. I've got a few dollars and I'm figuring on taking it easy for awhile."
"Look, we'll pay well, and I'd rather have you on our side than the other."
"Maybe I won't ride for either side. This sounds like a shooting war you're talking about, and I've had enough of that for a long, long time."
"You've got to go one way or the other ... or leave the country. I'm giving it to you straight If you don't sign on with either side, one or the other will shoot you on sight, just suspecting you're riding for the others."
Lance shrugged. "Well... I don't know. What kind of a fight is this, anyway?"
"It's a three-cornered fight, not just two. Webb Steele has about forty riders . . . that's twice what he needs for the stock he runs. We've about the same number, and we don't need them all either, except as warriors.
"Between us, we split the Live Oak country.
That's kind of a loose name for a big spread of country that runs from the Rio Grande to way north of the Neuces. Some folks name another section of country the Live Oak, but for us, this is it "It's always been a rough country, what with the border bandits on both sides stirring trouble, and Indians raiding into the area. Once this fight warmed up, a bunch of the boys began to choose sides, and some of them don't care who wins as long as
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