Riders of the Coyote Moon by L. P. Holmes

Author:L. P. Holmes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2014-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Tippo Vance put his shotgun away.

Cap Lovelock slapped the bar. “This time I buy.”

“Leave me out,” said Mason Garr harshly. “Too much pushin’ and haulin’ goin’ on. I’ll drink any place I want, when I want. But I’ll buy my own.” He swung his head. “Canby, I didn’t admire you just now. Chelso didn’t even know what was comin’. No, I didn’t like that.”

Canby shrugged. “Do you know why Sandy Foss came in here and tackled De Lacca in the first place?”

“No, I don’t. All I can say is that it was a damned fool play on Foss’s part. He should have known Chelso would take him apart. Yeah, Foss was a fool.”

“Not in my book. He wouldn’t be riding for me anymore if he hadn’t done just what he did. Sometimes, Mason, you talk before you know what you’re talking about. Go find the answer and then see what you think.”

The crusty cattleman threw both hands in the air, turned, and stamped out. George Winter hesitated a moment, then followed him. Bert Lanifee leaned against the bar a little wearily.

“Once,” he said, “this was a good range and a quiet one.”

“One or two rotten spuds can raise hell with a barrel of good ones,” observed Cap Lovelock. He added, almost plaintively: “I’d still like to buy that drink.”

* * * * *

The Teepee crowd stayed in the Stag Head only long enough to get Chelso De Lacca reasonably on his feet again, then they rode out of town, De Lacca hunched low over his saddle horn, obviously a sick man.

From the doorway of Bob Stent’s store Cap Lovelock watched them go. “Yes, sir, Bob,” said Cap, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, “you never saw nobody knocked stiffer’n De Lacca was. Reese just hauled off with that full quart bottle and sure mashed De Lacca’s ears back.”

Bob Stent, as even-tempered, amiable, and fair-minded a man as ever walked, watched the receding riders with an ominously cold eye.

“If Chelso De Lacca ever puts foot in this store again, he goes out a dead man.”

Mary Stent, starting to come into the store by the back way, heard both remarks. She hesitated, slipped quietly back to the kitchen, pensive and sober.

Milt Parrall rode into town, saw Chris Lanifee sitting on the hotel porch in Billy Eustace’s favorite chair. He started to ride by, then, as though coming to some decision, spun his horse abruptly in to the rail, and swung down. He pulled up a chair beside Chris.

“Comes a time, Chris,” he said abruptly, “when a man has to know just where he stands.”

Chris, startled, looked at him narrowly, then away. “Your tone,” she said quietly, “hardly attracts me. Don’t count on anything, Milt.”

Parrall swung an impatient hand. “I got to know,” he burst out, “one way or the other. Yes or no. Who is it? Me or Canby?”

Chris stiffened, color burning in her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know very well what I’m talkin’ about,” insisted Parrall, almost roughly.

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