she
shuddered to think of his being shot down as if he were of no more importance
than a pesky varmint.
Leaving the kitchen, Rachel wandered aimlessly from task to
task, unable to concentrate on the simplest chore until, at last, she took up a
basket of mending and went to sit on the front porch. Even then, her thoughts
were at the Slash W. In her mind’s eye she pictured Tyree riding up to the big
white house. Saw him warning Walsh to stay away from the Lazy H. Saw Walsh’s
gunhawks rise to the challenge. Saw them go down in a hail of lead from Tyree’s
Colt. Saw Walsh go down, last of all…
John Halloran was also finding it difficult to concentrate
on the tasks at hand. Doubts and second thoughts crowded his mind as he
considered the consequences of what he had done. He had bought a man’s death
for five hundred dollars, with no guarantee that the man who died would be
Walsh. A sudden cold fear washed over Halloran with the realization that,
should Tyree be killed, Walsh would come after the Lazy H with a bloody
vengeance. Hiring Tyree had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now
it seemed wrong, so very wrong.
Finally, like Rachel, Halloran stopped pretending that this
day was like any other and joined her on the front porch. Face drawn, he stared
at the land he was trying so desperately to hang onto. Acres of good grazing
land stretched away as far as the eye could see. Large, well-built corrals were
situated below the house; two corrals for holding stock, a third for breaking
and branding young horses and cattle. Behind the house, a large barn sheltered
a half-dozen horses, including his own buckskin gelding and Rachel’s dainty
blood bay mare. Adjacent to the barn was a large tack room. And beyond that, a
storage shed for tools and the like. A small graveyard stood on a grassy knoll
behind the smokehouse.
The ranch house itself was a fairly large, two-story
structure built of wood and native stone. It featured a large parlor, a
spacious, sunlit kitchen, a formal dining room— because Ellen had wanted one so
very much—and three good-sized bedrooms. He remembered how thrilled Ellen had
been when the house was finally finished. Nights, they had sat on the front
porch, listening to the crickets and holding hands as they dreamed of filling the
house with children. Strong sons and beautiful daughters. But after Rachel
there had been no children for a long time. And then, when Rachel was ten, God
had blessed them with a son. But Tommy had lived only a few short years. There
had been no more children after Tommy, and Rachel became dearer than ever.
Lost in thought, Halloran stared at the whitewashed crosses
that marked the final resting places of his wife and son. If only Ellen were
still alive. He needed to talk to her, needed to ask her advice. She had been a
quiet, sensible woman, wise beyond her years, endowed with a keen insight into
other people’s thoughts and actions. Always, when he had needed to make a
decision, he had first discussed it with Ellen.
Halloran glanced at Rachel. She was absorbed in mending one
of his shirts, and he smiled at her fondly. She had Ellen’s incomparable
beauty, but the resemblance ended there. Ellen had been a quiet woman—serene,
peace-loving. But Rachel was a fighter and could be as stubborn as an Army
mule. She would never agree to sell out to Walsh, he knew that without
question, and the thought gave him strength. By damn, they would hang onto the
Lazy H come hell or high water, and if Logan Tyree couldn’t whip Job Walsh,
then, by thunder, they’d find someone who could!
It was shortly after noon when Tyree rode into the yard.
Dismounting, he hitched his horse to the rack, climbed the porch steps to stand
hipshot against the railing, thumbs hooked over his gunbelt. His grin was cold
as glacier ice as he remarked, tonelessly, “Walsh won’t be giving you any more
trouble.”
The words hung in the air like a death knell. For a moment,
Rachel and her father
shuddered to think of his being shot down as if he were of no more importance
than a pesky varmint.
Leaving the kitchen, Rachel wandered aimlessly from task to
task, unable to concentrate on the simplest chore until, at last, she took up a
basket of mending and went to sit on the front porch. Even then, her thoughts
were at the Slash W. In her mind’s eye she pictured Tyree riding up to the big
white house. Saw him warning Walsh to stay away from the Lazy H. Saw Walsh’s
gunhawks rise to the challenge. Saw them go down in a hail of lead from Tyree’s
Colt. Saw Walsh go down, last of all…
John Halloran was also finding it difficult to concentrate
on the tasks at hand. Doubts and second thoughts crowded his mind as he
considered the consequences of what he had done. He had bought a man’s death
for five hundred dollars, with no guarantee that the man who died would be
Walsh. A sudden cold fear washed over Halloran with the realization that,
should Tyree be killed, Walsh would come after the Lazy H with a bloody
vengeance. Hiring Tyree had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now
it seemed wrong, so very wrong.
Finally, like Rachel, Halloran stopped pretending that this
day was like any other and joined her on the front porch. Face drawn, he stared
at the land he was trying so desperately to hang onto. Acres of good grazing
land stretched away as far as the eye could see. Large, well-built corrals were
situated below the house; two corrals for holding stock, a third for breaking
and branding young horses and cattle. Behind the house, a large barn sheltered
a half-dozen horses, including his own buckskin gelding and Rachel’s dainty
blood bay mare. Adjacent to the barn was a large tack room. And beyond that, a
storage shed for tools and the like. A small graveyard stood on a grassy knoll
behind the smokehouse.
The ranch house itself was a fairly large, two-story
structure built of wood and native stone. It featured a large parlor, a
spacious, sunlit kitchen, a formal dining room— because Ellen had wanted one so
very much—and three good-sized bedrooms. He remembered how thrilled Ellen had
been when the house was finally finished. Nights, they had sat on the front
porch, listening to the crickets and holding hands as they dreamed of filling the
house with children. Strong sons and beautiful daughters. But after Rachel
there had been no children for a long time. And then, when Rachel was ten, God
had blessed them with a son. But Tommy had lived only a few short years. There
had been no more children after Tommy, and Rachel became dearer than ever.
Lost in thought, Halloran stared at the whitewashed crosses
that marked the final resting places of his wife and son. If only Ellen were
still alive. He needed to talk to her, needed to ask her advice. She had been a
quiet, sensible woman, wise beyond her years, endowed with a keen insight into
other people’s thoughts and actions. Always, when he had needed to make a
decision, he had first discussed it with Ellen.
Halloran glanced at Rachel. She was absorbed in mending one
of his shirts, and he smiled at her fondly. She had Ellen’s incomparable
beauty, but the resemblance ended there. Ellen had been a quiet woman—serene,
peace-loving. But Rachel was a fighter and could be as stubborn as an Army
mule. She would never agree to sell out to Walsh, he knew that without
question, and the thought gave him strength. By damn, they would hang onto the
Lazy H come hell or high water, and if Logan Tyree couldn’t whip Job Walsh,
then, by thunder, they’d find someone who could!
It was shortly after noon when Tyree rode into the yard.
Dismounting, he hitched his horse to the rack, climbed the porch steps to stand
hipshot against the railing, thumbs hooked over his gunbelt. His grin was cold
as glacier ice as he remarked, tonelessly, “Walsh won’t be giving you any more
trouble.”
The words hung in the air like a death knell. For a moment,
Rachel and her father
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