NINETEEN
When I awakened, bright sunlight was filtering through a couple of cracks in the roof, and I lay there, feeling soreness in every muscle. I watched the motes dancing in the stream of light and then rolled over. The loft was like an oven. Sitting up, I gingerly touched my face with my fingers. It was swollen and sore. Working my fingers to loosen them up, I heard a movement on the ladder. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Morgan Park staring at me. And I knew that I looked into the eyes of a man who was no longer sane.
He stood there, his head and shoulders visible above the loft floor, and I could see the hatred in his eyes. He made no move, just looked at me, and I knew then he had come to kill me.
I could have knocked him off the ladder. I could have cooled him, but I could not take that advantage. This was one man, sane or insane, whom I had to whip fairly or I would never be quite comfortable again. There was no reason in it. He had taken advantage of me ... it was simply the way I felt.
Poised for instant movement, I knew I was in trouble. I knew now what enormous vitality that huge body held, and that he could move with amazing speed for his size.
When he came off the ladder, I got to my feet. When he moved I could see he was stiff, also. Yet I was in better shape. My workouts with Mulvaney had prepared me for this.
He did not rush me when he had his feet on the loft floor. He just stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at me. And the advantage was with him.
One side of the loft, where the ladder was, opened to the barn. A fall from there would cripple a man. The rest of the loft, except for a few square feet, was stacked with hay. With his size and weight, in these close quarters, the advantage was on his side.
My mouth was dry and I dearly wanted a drink. He faced me, and I knew at the instant when he was going to move. He came toward me, not fast, taking his time. Morgan Park had come for the kill.
He moved closer, and I struck out. He took the blow on his shoulder and kept coming in, forcing me back into the hay. Suddenly he lunged and swung. I rolled inside the punch but his weight knocked me back into the hay, for I could put no power into my punches.
With cold brutality he began to swing, his eyes lit up with sadistic delight. Lights exploded in my head, and then another punch hit me, and another.
Deliberately I slid down the side of the hay, and threw my weight against his legs. He staggered and, unable to reach me, backed off a step and swung his leg to lack. I threw my shoulder into him, and he fell back to the floor. Jumping past him, I grabbed a rope and slid down to the barn floor.
He turned and started down the ladder. Near the door I heard someone yell, "They're at it again!" And then Morgan Park came for me.
Now it had to be ended, once and for all. Moving away from his first punch, I stabbed a left to his cut mouth, starting the blood again. He was slower than he had been yesterday, and the blood seemed to bother him. I feinted, then hit him solidly in the ribs. Rolling at the hips, I threw three solid punches to the midsection before he grabbed me, then I twisted away and hit him in the face.
He seemed puzzled. He wanted to kill, but I was being careful to avoid his hands. He swung, and I slipped inside the punch with a right to the chin.
He stopped, and I stepped in wide-legged and hit him with both fists on the chin, and he went down. I stepped back and allowed him to rise.
Behind me a crowd had gathered, but it was a silent crowd this time, a crowd awed by what they were seeing.
Morgan Park got up, and when he came off the floor he rushed, head down and swinging. Sidestepping swiftly, I thrust out a foot and he tripped, falling heavily. He got up again, stolidy, with determination. When he turned toward me, I hit him.
The blow struck his chin solidly, like the butt of an axe striking a log. He fell, not backwards, but on his face. He lay there quiet and unmoving, and I knew my fight was over.
Sodden with weariness and for once fed up with fighting, I picked up my hat and walked by the silent men. I got my rifle again and shoved it in my saddle boot. Nobody said anything, but they stared at my battered face and torn clothing.
At the door I met Sheriff Will Tharp coming in. He stopped, measuring me. "Didn't I tell you to stop fighting in this town, Brennan?"
"What am I to do? Let him beat my head off? He followed me here."
"Better have some rest," Tharp said then. "When you're rested, ride out of town for a while."
When I was in the doorway, he stopped me again. "I'm arresting Park for murder. I have official confirmation on your message."
All I wanted just then was a drink of cold water. Gallons of it.
Yet all the way to Mother O'Hara's I kept remembering that bucket of water dashed over me in the saloon. Had that really been Moira, or had it been an illusion?
When I had washed my face and patched my shirt together I went into the restaurant. Key Chapin was there.
He said little, watching me eat, passing things to me. My jaw was sore and I ate carefully.
"Booker's still in town," Chapin said. "What's he want?"
Right then I didn't care. But as I drank my coffee, I began to wonder. This was my country now, my home. It did matter to me, and Moira mattered.
"Was I crazy, or was Moira in there last night?"
"She was there, all right."
Refilling my cup, I thought that over. She was not entirely against me then.
"You'd better get over to Doc West's. That face needs some attention."
Out in the air I felt better. With food and some black coffee inside me I felt like a new man. The mountain air was fresh and good to the taste, and even the sun felt good.
I walked along the street .Out of the grab bag of the world I had picked this town. Here in this place I had elected to remain, to put down my roots, to build a ranch. Old man Ball had given me a ranch, and I had given my word. Here I could cease being a trouble-hunting, rambunctious young rider and settle down to a citizen's life. It was time for that, but I wanted one more thing. I wanted Moira.
Doc West lived in a small white cottage surrounded by rose bushes. Tall poplars stood in the woodyard and there was a patch of lawn inside the white picket fence. It was the only painted fence in town.
A tall, austere man with a shock of graying hair answered the door. He smiled at me.
"No doubt about who you are, Brennan. I just came from treating the other man."
"How is he?"
"Three broken ribs and a broken jaw. The ribs were broken last night, I'd say."
"There was no quit in him."
"He's a dangerous man, Brennan. He's still dangerous."
After he had checked me over and patched up my face, I got back on my feet and buckled on my guns. My fingers were stiff. I kept working them, trying to loosen up the muscles. What if I met Jim Finder now? Or that weasel, Bodie Miller?
Picking up my sombrero, I remembered something. "Have Tharp check Morgan Park's boots with those tracks Canaval found. I'm betting they'll fit."
"You think he killed Maclaren?"
"Yes."
On the porch I stopped, gingerly trying to fit my hat over the lumps on my skull. It wasn't easy. Scissors snipped among the rose bushes. Turning I looked into the eyes of Moira Maclaren.
Her dark hair was piled on her head, the first time I had seen it that way. And I decided right then it was much the best way.
"How's Canaval?" I asked.
"Better. Fox is running the ranch."
"He's a good man."
My hat was back in my hands. I turned it around. Neither of us seemed to want to say what we were thinking. I was thinking that I loved her, but I was afraid to say it.
"You're staying on at the Two-Bar?"
"The house is finished." When I said that, I looked at her. "It's finished ... but it's empty."
Her voice faltered a little, and she snipped at a rose, cutting the stem much too short.
"You ... you aren't living in it?"
"Yes, I'm there, but you aren't."
So there it was, out in the open again. I turned my hat again and looked down at my boots. They were scuffed and lost to color.
"You shouldn't say that. We can't mean anything to each other. You ... you're a killer. I watched you fight. You actually like it."
Thinking it over, I had to agree.
"Why not? I'm a man ... and fighting has been man's work for a long time on this earth."
"It's bad ... it will always be bad."
I turned my hat, then put it on. "Maybe ... but as long as there are men like Morgan Park, Jim Finder, and Bodie Miller, there must be men to stand against them."
She looked up quickly. "But why does it have to be you? Matt, don't fight any more! Please don't!"
I drew back a little, though I wanted to go to her and take her in my arms.
"There's Bodie Miller. Unless someone kills him first, I'll have to face him."
"But you don't have to!" Her eyes flashed angrily. "All that's so silly! Why should you?"
"Because I'm a man. I can't live in a woman's world. I must live with men, and be judged by men. If I back down from Miller, I'll be through here. And Miller will go on to kill other men."
"You can go away! You can go to California to straighten out some business for me! Matt, you could—"
"No, I'm staying here."
There were more words, and they were hard words, and then we parted, no better off.
But she had started me thinking about Bodie Miller. He was riding his luck with spurs, and he would be hunting me. Remembering that sallow-faced killer, I knew we couldn't live in the same country without meeting. And my hands were bruised, my fingers stiff.
Bodie Miller was full of salt now. I'd have to ride the country always ready. One moment off guard and I would have no other moments, ever.
How could I live and not kill?
Yet when I rode up to the ranch I was thinking of a dark-haired girl tall among the roses.