Range Of Golden Hoofs Read online

  That was true. Buster had regained his feet. His hat was in his hand, placed there by some bystander, and he stared at it foolishly. His companion had risen from the street and, eyes still bewildered, was staring at Buster. The man Fitzpatrick had discouraged was gone, merging with the crowd.

  “Three of ’em,” a voice said. “Did you see it start, Fred? He knocked two down just like that.”

  “It was them that started it, Sheriff,” Fitzpatrick repeated earnestly.

  Youtsey stood undecided, glaring at Dan. “You can’t pull a thing like this in my town,” he declared hotly. “Shea, I’ll…”

  “What’s the trouble here?” a voice boomed. Men moved away. Through the lane that had opened for him Don Martin O’Connor moved majestically. “What’s the trouble?” he repeated as he stopped. “Mr Shea’s a friend of mine, Sheriff. I hope nothin’s happened to him.”

  The belligerence faded from Youtsey’s face as he looked at Martin O’Connor. His voice was obsequious. “Some drunks tried to jump Mr Shea. I was just goin’ to arrest ’em. You want to make a complaint, Mr Shea?”

  Dan shook his head. He was staring unbelievingly at Youtsey. Youtsey, flushing under the stare, turned back to the onlookers. “Go on now,” he ordered sharply. “Nothin’ to stand around here for. Go on now!”

  Martin O’Connor slipped his hand familiarly under Dan’s arm. “I was just going to hunt you up,” he announced. The hand urged Dan forward. Fitzpatrick, a smile glinting in his eyes, fell in place on Dan’s right. Again a way opened, and the three passed through.

  They went to Fitzpatrick’s saloon. There, in the coolness of the barroom, away from all the crowd, they stopped. O’Connor, releasing Dan’s arm, boomed his laughter.

  “What started it?” he demanded, the laughter done, but a chuckle still in his voice. “I didn’t see the whole thing. I’m too old to run like a boy. What happened, Shea?”

  “They were drunk,” Dan said curtly. “I lost my temper.”

  Fitzpatrick’s drawl was dryly humorous. “I’d say you mislaid it, anyhow. They called him a lousy sheepman an’ he didn’t like it.”

  Don Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Ain’t you a sheepman?” he demanded.

  “I’ll take what they said from nobody!” Dan’s temper was beginning to rise again. “I’m obliged to you, Don Martin. The sheriff was going to try to arrest me until you came along. I’m grateful. I…”

  “Now wait a minute,” Martin O’Connor interrupted, the twinkle growing in his eyes. “Ain’t you a sheepman?”

  “I haven’t any sheep,” Dan Shea said. “They started to curse me and I wouldn’t stand for it. That’s all. I’m obliged to you, but…”

  “An’ whose fault is it that you’ve no sheep?” There was a note of asperity in O’Connor’s voice. “Your wits aren’t as quick as your fists, Shea. Here I am with nobody at Rancho Norte, an’ you with no sheep. Now what do you think of that?”

  “But you said you were coming to town to see a man,” Dan reminded. “You said you had a man in mind for the place.”

  “An’ I had,” O’Connor agreed. “There was an Irish lad I had in mind. I hinted an’ talked, an’ the thickhead wouldn’t say a word.”

  “You mean…?” Light began to dawn on Dan Shea. “Would you take me for a partidario on Rancho Norte, Don Martin? Would you?”

  Don Martin O’Connor’s great hand descended between Dan Shea’s shoulders, almost driving his breath away. “An’ who else?” O’Connor boomed. “Who else did you think I had in mind? Of all the dumb ones! An’ Irish too!”

  “Then…” Dan Shea began and caught his breath. “Then you’ll…”

  “From now on, Mr Shea,” Don Martin O’Connor interrupted gravely, “they’ll be speakin’ the truth when they call you a sheepman. You can still resint the ‘lousy.’” His great hand shoved against Dan Shea’s back, and his laughter boomed. “We’ll take a drink on it,” he completed when his glee was satisfied. “You an’ your friend. Come on now.” Again his great laugh rang out.

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  MASTER OF THE HUNT

  El Puerto del Sol engulfed Dan Shea. Like some insatiable monster it took him into its maw. His energy became fuel for El Puerto del Sol, his intelligence a part of its intelligence. His labor, his sweat, his thought, his very being belonged to the grant. And as young Dan Shea became a part of El Puerto del Sol, so, too, El Puerto entered into his blood and became a part of him.

  Martin O’Connor wasted no time in using his new partidario. Dan Shea, installed at Rancho Norte, sleeping in a tent among the cottonwoods along the creek—Hilario Bargas, his wife Domisinda and their numerous brood living in the rock house and caring for the new patrón—went immediately to work. The lambing was still in progress, and Dan plunged into it, a new broom sweeping clean, a fresh strong tide in the affairs of the ranch.

  With the lambing finished other work pressed. As a partidario, Dan Shea had sheep to receive. So now Martin O’Connor and his mayordomo, Salvador Ocano, grizzled and sharp faced, came to Rancho Norte, and following them came Dan’s sheep. There was dust in the corrals, and ewes blatted and lambs used their small high voices. Sheep were mouthed and counted and marked and released in the care of herders who worked for the new partidario. The work was endless and the sun was high and hot. And then suddenly that seemingly endless work was done and Dan Shea stood beside Martin O’Connor and watched the last of his sheep go trailing out toward the east and the good grass along the Packsaddles.

  “Now,” Martin O’Connor announced, “we’ll take a rest, the two of us.”

  Dan stared at the departing sheep, then he looked at the big man beside him. “I’d like to know why you did this for me, Don Martin,” Dan said slowly.

  O’Connor stared out across the barren earth toward the creek and the cottonwoods. “You’re Irish,” he answered shortly. “So am I.”

  Dan waited. Presently O’Connor continued, his voice slow, as though he were finding the words somewhere in his mind. “You’re honest an’ you’ll fight. That much I know. Someday I’ll be gone and Marillita will have El Puerto del Sol. O’Connors ain’t liked in this country, Dan.” His blue eyes, frank and open, searched Dan’s face.

  A long silence held between them, both men thinking of the words that had been spoken. Then Dan Shea made his answer, vowing his fealty and binding himself, voicing the grip that El Puerto del Sol had upon him and he upon El Puerto del Sol.

  “She’ll have one.”

  That was all he said. It was enough. All the strength of Dan Shea, all his skill, all his wisdom, was promised in those words. And Martin O’Connor, looking at the man who stood beside him, was satisfied. Here was the man he wanted, the man in whose hands he could place all this vast domain that he had erected and fought for and for which he would die. There was no doubting Dan Shea. He stood sturdy and foursquare, facing the future: his future and that of El Puerto del Sol.

  “It’s a sudden country,” Martin O’Connor said. “Things happen quick sometimes. Come now, Dan. We’ll go to the hacienda. Marillita will be expectin’ us. You’ve neglected her these past weeks. Come now.”

  And so at Don Martin’s behest Dan went to the hacienda. He made himself as presentable as possible before he left Rancho Norte, but for all that he was a wild enough figure when he stopped his horse beside Don Martin’s stables. Hair long and beard curling blackly on his face, clothing clean enough but rough, hat a battered pancake atop his head, rifle in his saddle boot, Dan Shea was as typical of the time and place as was the great house itself. Marillita saw him so and smiled and, not waiting for his coming, went to her room.

  Before the evening meal Don Martin’s servant trimmed Dan’s beard and hair. His boots were greased with tallow and his clothing set to rights so that when he appeared in the patio some of the roughness was lost. Martin O’Connor nodded approvingly at Dan’s appearance, and when his daughter came to join them O’Connor’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, albeit he said not a wo
rd. The girl was dressed in her best, in clothing that had come across the continent by railroad and wagon train, and she was beautiful as sunrise. Her hair, its redness gleaming with gold, was ordered carefully; her dress emphasized rather than concealed, and her smile when she greeted Dan Shea was the smile of a great lady condescending to a subject. Dan was properly impressed and throughout the meal spoke very seldom and ate but little, keeping his eyes on the girl.

  That night, pleading fatigue, Martin O’Connor went early to his room and, with his light extinguished, sat beside his window and listened to the voices in the patio, Dan’s deep, masculine rumble and the lighter tones of Marillita. Occasionally O’Connor smiled.

  For two days Dan Shea stayed at the hacienda of El Puerto del Sol. On the morning of the third day he bade his host and hostess good-by and rode back to Rancho Norte.

  The rock house was deserted when he arrived. Hilario was not at the corrals nor was Domisinda in the kitchen. Even the children were gone. Dan walked all around the house and to his own bedroom beside the creek and found no one. But there were voices coming from a grove of trees further along the stream, and when he reached the grove he found his absent ones. There was a wagon amid the cottonwoods, and horses grazed there and, when Dan approached, a great dog, tall as a calf and heavy, barred his way silently, with fangs exposed. Dan regarded the dog and the wagon and the group about it and walked forward fearlessly. The dog gave way and Dan, stopping beside the group, spoke a greeting.

  “Good day, sir.”

  Hilario fell back a step and then retreated ignominiously to the corrals. Domisinda, seeing her patrón, shrilled to her brood and scurried away toward the house and, from the wagon tongue where he had been seated, a small, sandy man arose and, taking his pipe from between his teeth, answered the salutation.

  “Good day.”

  Dan stood, undergoing the inspection of shrewd blue eyes. When it was finished the small man advanced a step. “Mr Shea?” he said.

  Dan nodded briefly.

  “I am Esme Perrier.” The small man’s hand was outstretched. Dan took it.

  “I’ve made myself at home here,” Perrier announced.

  “You’re quite welcome,” Dan said formally.

  The dog that had met him pushed against his hand, lowering her head to do so.

  “Mind your manners, Mab!” Perrier ordered.

  Dan’s hand fondled the dog’s ears. At the end of the wagon there were others, great gaunt brutes, their muzzles grizzled, their bodies covered with coarse, straight hair.

  “Why,” said Dan Shea, “they’re wolfhounds.”

  A twinkle came into Perrier’s blue eyes. “Irish wolfhounds,” he corrected. “Sit down, Mr Shea.” His gesture as he indicated the wagon tongue was courtly.

  Dan sat down. Mab, following him, crouched at his feet and looked up with liquid eyes. Automatically Dan’s hand sought her head, working the silky ears. Perrier, legs widespread, arms crossed, pipe in hand, stood looking at his guest and the dog. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen Mab do that before,” he said querulously. “Would you mind an experiment, Mr Shea?”

  “No.”

  “Puck. Here!”

  From the dogs at the wagon end one great fellow arose and, stately as royalty, came to his master. Perrier looked at Dan. “Call him,” he directed.

  “Puck, come here!” Dan ordered.

  Without hesitation the great dog left Perrier and approached. He lowered his head, allowing Dan to scratch behind his ears and then, tongue lolling with evident enjoyment, stretched himself at Dan’s feet.

  Perrier puffed twice upon his pipe, removed it, looked at its brown bowl as though he had never seen the pipe before and spoke again. “I would not believe this unless I saw it,” he stated.

  “The dogs?” Dan questioned.

  “The dogs. They’ll go to no one but me.”

  Dan stroked Puck’s head the while Mab looked on jealously. “I’ve a way with dogs,” Dan said.

  “It’s evident.” Perrier knocked out his pipe against the heel of his hand and seated himself. “You’re new here, Mr Shea,” he announced.

  “Yes,” Dan agreed. “I’ve taken Rancho Norte to run for Don Martin.”

  “You’ve no objection to my hunting?” Perrier asked.

  “I’ll be glad to have you hunt.”

  “Perhaps you’ll join me?” The blue eyes were sharp.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Esme Perrier cocked one booted foot across the other, clasped his hands above his upraised knee and leaned back. “Perhaps you’ll care for some explanations?” he asked.

  “Not unless you choose.” Dan was smiling.

  “Why, then I’ll choose.” The blue eyes were bright and twinkling. “I’ve hounds here, and horses. I hunt wolves and coyotes. I’m master of the hunt. You understand, Mr Shea?”

  “Yes.” Dan smiled. “You hunt wolves and coyotes.”

  “You’re Irish, Mr Shea?” Perrier’s smile was easy as Dan’s own.

  “American. My father was a Limerick man.”

  Perrier clasped his hands together. From the end of the wagon, silent footed as a cloud, a man appeared. “Robert,” Perrier announced, “Mr Shea will be my guest at dinner.”

  “Yes sir.” Robert’s sunburned face was blank.

  “You’ll stay?” Perrier eyed his guest.

  “Thank you,” Dan Shea responded.

  “Wolves and coyotes,” Perrier said. “They’re quite different from the fox. You’ve hunted foxes, Mr Shea?”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Ah well, you’ll find this exciting enough. I’ve a horse that’s up to your weight, I believe.”

  “I’ve horses,” Dan Shea responded.

  Perrier disregarded the statement. His eyes ran over Dan’s long body. “Wellington will carry you nicely,” he announced. “I’ll expect you at seven, Mr Shea.”

  Dan recognized dismissal. He got up and nodded briefly. “At seven,” he said. “Good-by, Mr Perrier.”

  Perrier made no answer. Dan touched each dog as they stood beside him, nodded again and walked out of the grove.

  Back at the house Hilario and the details of Rancho Norte engulfed Dan Shea. Hilario had visited each band of sheep and now reported. Shea listened and asked questions, nodding approval at the answers. The details of his home-coming attended, Dan took Hilario with him to a spot some little distance from the house. Here he stopped and gestured. “I want to build a house here, Hilario,” he announced. “A small house of rock. Can it be done?”

  “¿Por qué no?” Hilario responded. “My cousin Anastacio is a rock mason. But why a house, Señor Dan?”

  Dan Shea bent and picked up a stick. “Because I want it,” he answered. “Here, Hilario. I want the house so.” With Hilario following, Dan Shea drew a pattern on the dusty ground, a long wall, a shorter wall: three rooms in all.

  Hilario bobbed his head. “Si,” he approved. “Si, Señor Dan. Mañana…”

  “Tomorrow then,” Dan Shea said. “We’ll get the rock from the hill.”

  Dan presented himself at the grove promptly at seven. There was a table laid close beside the wagon, and a fire burned in a pit behind it. With all the ceremony of a man welcoming another to his home, Perrier greeted his guest and led him to the table. They sat down together, and the silent Robert served them.

  When the meal was done Robert brought wine, and Perrier, rising, lifted his glass. Dan Shea, too, arose.

  “To a pleasant meeting,” Perrier said, and they drank.

  Dan Shea did not stay long following the meal. Perrier talked briefly of wolves and their habits, of horses, of dogs, of the country as seen from the viewpoint of a hunter. Dan listened, rarely adding a word. The lantern suspended above the table, burned yellow, and insects besieged it. At nine o’clock Dan bade his host good night, promising to be on hand early the following morning. Walking back to his camp beside the creek, he considered Perrier, his dwelling, his occupation and hi
s reticence. Curiosity piqued Dan Shea. What was Perrier’s background? The small, blue-eyed man and the immaculate, silent servant formed an enigma that Dan Shea could not penetrate or solve.

  With the rising sun of a new day throwing light into his eyes, Dan got up and dressed. He ate breakfast hastily and then, saddling a horse at the barn, mounted and rode to the grove. Perrier, meeting him just at the edge of the trees, frowned and shook his head when he saw Dan’s horse.

  “He’ll hardly carry you over rough country,” Perrier announced. “No matter. I’ve a horse that will.”

  Dan dismounted and, leading his horse, followed the slight man. Perrier took him into the grove, stopped and, pointing to one of three horses that were tied side by side, said: “Take Wellington there. He’s in need of riding.”

  Robert, booted, with a cap on his head, appeared on the scene. “Shall I change the saddle, sir?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” Dan ordered. “I’ll attend to it.”

  Perrier stood by, smiling, while Dan Shea shifted his saddle from one horse to the other. When the girths were tight the small man said: “If you’re ready?”

  Leading Wellington, Dan followed Perrier.

  Perrier’s horse was a bay, a magnificent animal at least seventeen hands high and weighing perhaps twelve hundred pounds. The little man went up like a jockey, settled himself on the flat saddle and nodded to Dan. Dan, too, mounted, feeling the spring steel of his horse beneath him and, still with Perrier leading, they left the grove, the dogs following silently behind them.

  They rode toward the east, Perrier restraining his horse, Dan feeling Wellington’s pull against the bit. Once they were clear of the ranch Perrier occasionally rose in his stirrups to scan the country and, atop a ridge, they paused.

  “They run by sight,” Perrier said, speaking of the dogs. “I’ve often thought that foxhounds would be better but…Hullo! there’s one!”

  He pointed to the east. Below them in the valley, shielded from the sun, there was motion. Dan could see an animal, minute in the distance, moving along through the oak brush. Perrier swung his horse until his right side was toward the valley and called sharply: “Puck!”