those Herefords of his. Anyway, he had his chance and turned it down." Riley stared at him, waiting.
"He turned it down because he said the man didn't live who could bring those cattle down here without paying damages to every farmer between here and there."
"So why tell me?"
McCarty smiled faintly. "I thought you might have some other ideas."
Chapter 7
The Boxed 0 ranch house was wide and sprawling. Oliver was a Gentile from Illinois, and one who had been friendly to the Mormons through their difficulties there and in Missouri; as a result had been disliked by some of his neighbors. Migrating west, he had settled among the Mormons, and his ranch had for fifteen years been a headquarters for the settlers in the vicinity and a hotel for travelers through the country.
At first these had been very few, then the flow of travel increased, but settlers were few and far between in the vast, wide-open country where he had chosen to live. Dan Shattuck had been his first actual neighbor, and their ranches were miles apart. From the first, Oliver's ranch had been different from others in the Southwest, for, like his Mormon friends, he did not rely strictly on beef cattle. He had planted corn, wheat, and rye, and he had grown vegetables, raised chickens, and kept bees. From the beginning, the operation had been successful, self-supporting after the first year, and a money-making venture in most of the years, that followed.
Gaylord Riley stopped in a cottonwood grove a few miles from the ranch and peeled off his range clothes. He took a dip in the stream, then dressed in the black broadcloth suit he had bought on his last trip to California. He packed his range clothe s in his slicker and rolled them behind his saddle, remounted, and rode on to the Oliver ranch.
Half a dozen buckboards already stood in the ranch yard, and the hitch-rail and corral fences were lined with the mounts of the cowhands and others who had ridden in from around the country.
He hesitated in the darkness after tying his horse. He brushed his clothes with his hand, tried the crease in his sombrero, and ran a finger around inside his shirt collar. It was a long time since he had worn a collar and tie.
The last time had been in Los Angeles when the Colburn gang had ridden into town for a celebration. Unknown there, they had passed themselves off as ranchers and horse buyers from Arizona, and had taken rooms at the fashionable Pico House. They had come to town to relax, smoke good cigars, eat meals they did not have to cook, and drink the best of wine.
Now, standing there in the darkness, looking at the laughing, talking groups on the wide verandas, Riley was glad he had had those few weeks on the coast. It had given him one of the few chances in his life to meet people other than cowhands or outlaws.
There had been little enough to do but attend the new Merced Theatre next door to the hotel or stand on the walk outside and watch the stages come in from Wilmington, but it had given him the chance to meet people. Surprisingly, it was Kehoe who taught him what he needed to know, for the tall Irish outlaw had the manners of a gentleman when in company, and carried himself with a certain elegance that Riley had done his best to imitate.
It was Kehoe with his easy, friendly ways and polished manner who made friends, and they were invited, Kehoe and himself, to some of the best homes in town.
Nevertheless, he had never gotten over a certain shyness when among strangers, and now he walked slowly toward the house, realizing he would know no more than one or two of the people here.
Everyone was welcome, he understood that, but he was wary of encountering someone who might know him from elsewhere. It was this as much as his natural shyness that held him back.
Finally, after one reassuring touch on his gun to make sure he had it, he approached the house. People glanced at him, and several turned to look after he passed. Self-consciously, he went up the steps. The
"He turned it down because he said the man didn't live who could bring those cattle down here without paying damages to every farmer between here and there."
"So why tell me?"
McCarty smiled faintly. "I thought you might have some other ideas."
Chapter 7
The Boxed 0 ranch house was wide and sprawling. Oliver was a Gentile from Illinois, and one who had been friendly to the Mormons through their difficulties there and in Missouri; as a result had been disliked by some of his neighbors. Migrating west, he had settled among the Mormons, and his ranch had for fifteen years been a headquarters for the settlers in the vicinity and a hotel for travelers through the country.
At first these had been very few, then the flow of travel increased, but settlers were few and far between in the vast, wide-open country where he had chosen to live. Dan Shattuck had been his first actual neighbor, and their ranches were miles apart. From the first, Oliver's ranch had been different from others in the Southwest, for, like his Mormon friends, he did not rely strictly on beef cattle. He had planted corn, wheat, and rye, and he had grown vegetables, raised chickens, and kept bees. From the beginning, the operation had been successful, self-supporting after the first year, and a money-making venture in most of the years, that followed.
Gaylord Riley stopped in a cottonwood grove a few miles from the ranch and peeled off his range clothes. He took a dip in the stream, then dressed in the black broadcloth suit he had bought on his last trip to California. He packed his range clothe s in his slicker and rolled them behind his saddle, remounted, and rode on to the Oliver ranch.
Half a dozen buckboards already stood in the ranch yard, and the hitch-rail and corral fences were lined with the mounts of the cowhands and others who had ridden in from around the country.
He hesitated in the darkness after tying his horse. He brushed his clothes with his hand, tried the crease in his sombrero, and ran a finger around inside his shirt collar. It was a long time since he had worn a collar and tie.
The last time had been in Los Angeles when the Colburn gang had ridden into town for a celebration. Unknown there, they had passed themselves off as ranchers and horse buyers from Arizona, and had taken rooms at the fashionable Pico House. They had come to town to relax, smoke good cigars, eat meals they did not have to cook, and drink the best of wine.
Now, standing there in the darkness, looking at the laughing, talking groups on the wide verandas, Riley was glad he had had those few weeks on the coast. It had given him one of the few chances in his life to meet people other than cowhands or outlaws.
There had been little enough to do but attend the new Merced Theatre next door to the hotel or stand on the walk outside and watch the stages come in from Wilmington, but it had given him the chance to meet people. Surprisingly, it was Kehoe who taught him what he needed to know, for the tall Irish outlaw had the manners of a gentleman when in company, and carried himself with a certain elegance that Riley had done his best to imitate.
It was Kehoe with his easy, friendly ways and polished manner who made friends, and they were invited, Kehoe and himself, to some of the best homes in town.
Nevertheless, he had never gotten over a certain shyness when among strangers, and now he walked slowly toward the house, realizing he would know no more than one or two of the people here.
Everyone was welcome, he understood that, but he was wary of encountering someone who might know him from elsewhere. It was this as much as his natural shyness that held him back.
Finally, after one reassuring touch on his gun to make sure he had it, he approached the house. People glanced at him, and several turned to look after he passed. Self-consciously, he went up the steps. The
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