The Overlanders by Nelson Nye

drive would run into trouble; he was as certain of this as he was of Ben’s enmity. Just why Hollis should hate him he could not quite fathom but he had no doubt at all concerning the inevitability of gunsmoke.
    In a way he could almost welcome this for it would shake down the crew and show him what he had to work with. Crotton’s bunch were as solidly rugged as anything Bill was like to throw against them and intrenched, besides, in a tradition of past victories. Crotton’s empire was no greater than his ability to hold it and he would know that once the bars came down every neighbor and pushed-out squatter would throw their weight against him. Thus Grete could see in the imminent prospect of bracing a fragment of Bill’s owlhoot legion a very real value to the plans he had shaped; but there was also grave danger. This crew might run out on him. They might not be willing to defend horses with their lives. They might not be able to, and they might — it was certainly possible — use the confusion of any conflict to put a bullet through his back.
    These were things he had to think about.
    He was still thinking about them without having reached any useful conclusions when he came at early dusk upon the camp to discover Idaho, with folded arms, sardonically eyeing a pair of angry-faced strangers. “There’s the boss,” Idaho nodded. “Dump your troubles on him.”
    “What’s gnawing you?” Grete said, staring down at the pair.
    Both were chunky-built men, heavily armed and cocked for killing. There was enough facial resemblance for Grete to mark the pair as brothers. Each had a fist belligerently spread within short reach of a pistol. The younger of the two, tipping up his scrinched face, threw his words at Grete in a voice that gave notice to nothing but rage. “You fellers have got your guts, by grab!”
    “What’s the rub?”
    “We don’t want no outside horse stock in here. We’re ranchin’ this valley!”
    Farraday said reasonably, “We’re heading for the pass. I’ll be out of —”
    “You’re gettin’ out right now! Get them animals turned around! You’re goin’ back where you came from!”
    The man was riled enough to die for it. Grete, considering him solemnly, shook his head. “That’s not hardly possible, mister. We’ll be gone in the morning —”
    “I don’t doubt that! And with half our stock! I know you damn Texicans! By grab, I tell you right now —”
    “You ain’t tellin’ nobody, Fatso.” Idaho had a gun in his fist and no hold on the hammer but the tension of his thumb.
    “Wait a minute,” Grete said. They could do it this way and likely make it stick, but not for long. The mares needed rest, they had to have grass and water. If he ran this wild-eyed pair off now they’d be back before morning, and probably with help. There was a better way. He made himself smile. “Have you looked over our stock?” he asked conversationally.
    The older man nodded. “You’ve got some good blood there. We don’t like to be so feisty mean but we’re in horses ourselfs and we don’t aim —”
    “You won’t lose any stock to us,” Grete cut in. “As a matter of fact, if you’ll privilege us with a stake of grass and water and room for these mares to rest up a few hours, you can have your pick of any pair takes your fancy.”
    Sary had come up with Ben while they were talking but Grete didn’t look to see how she was taking this. He didn’t look at Idaho, either, but prayed like hell the pistoleer would string along, at least to the extent of keeping his mouth shut.
    Idaho did, but Ben Hollis chucked in his two and one half cents worth. “Over my dead body!” he snarled, thrusting himself forward like an overgrown lout of a kid in front of company.
    Farraday could cheerfully have brained the sonofabitch. Instead, he ignored him, appraising the older brother’s curious stare, observing the younger brother twisting about for another look at the mares he’d come in with