COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1963 by Kingsley West.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      CHAPTER ONE

      LATIGO Lansen backed away and filled his lungs. Blood from the arm wound dripped on the ground. He stared at the body of the Apache. His legs hurt and trembled. “No, sir!” he shouted in tremendous relief. “Nobody’s killing me!”

      The gelding watched and came close. Latigo walked from the dead Indian to the stream, stripped off the shirt, washed his chest and shoulders and bathed the stab wound. Wind came back and fluttered the feather in the red man’s hair. He didn’t bury the Indian and the sky turned copper and black before he slept. Tomorrow had better be good.

      His name was Lat, which was short for Latimer Lansen, but nobody ever called him that. Latigo was the name that stuck to him like a burr and suited him well. He was twenty-six years old, tall and straight-backed in the saddle, with a flat stringy body that needed a solid month of woman’s cooking. His belly was lean and liked cold water. Long legs reached from narrow hips that were easy on a saddle and his hands knew their way about a horse or a gun. Close to his knee in the saddle holster hung a Winchester model 1866, well used and all the better for that.

      He crossed the wide hardpan flat behind the ranch-house and reined. He leaned hands on horn and cantle and twisted in the saddle. There were no cattle anywhere, no noise, no blue smoke climbing from the chimney, the air curious and silent.

      In front of the house waited two wagons and a buck-board loaded and ready to move. Two lighter squaw-hitched riding horses stood by the tail of the buckboard. The door of the house stood open and as Latigo rode close a man came out carrying a gunnysack bundle, then a young fellow followed by a woman.

      The man was tall and straight and brown-faced with a grey moustache and walked boldly. Latigo touched the brim of his hat. All three hesitated and then came on. The woman and the boy nodded greetings but the man’s face did not change much.

      “Mind if I water my horse?”

      The man nodded permission and the boy pointed with the gunnysack pack he carried. “Sure. Find all the water you want over there.”

      “Thanks. You mind if I get down? Been riding a long time.”

      The man moved his head. His expression lost edge; hesitation left his eyes. “Sure, son. Get off your horse. Not every day we see strangers that are welcome.”

      Latigo led the gelding to water and walked back. The man waited for him and the woman and the boy stood by the buckboard. He touched his hat again to the woman. “ ’Day, ma’am,” he said.

      She packed the gunnysack bundle into place. “Haven’t a thing to offer, neighbour,” she said, eyes troubled but brave. “Right sorry about it, seeing you’re a stranger and all.”

      “Nothing left in the house at all,” added the boy.

      “Wasn’t hoping for food, ma’am,” said Latigo. “Had coffee a little while ago.”

      The older man’s face was friendly enough, trouble on his mind and signs of worry on his forehead. The boy looked eighteen, all bone, strong as an ox and six feet tall, as good to look at as a good new day. Latigo reckoned he was the son. “You folks moving?” he asked.

      The man nodded. The woman’s lips puckered and her eyes moved away. The boy bristled with anger. His hands clenched. He glared at his father. The man breathed deeply but the boy was ready to talk. “Yes, mister,” he said. “That’s what we’re doing . . . moving!”

      The father spoke quietly. “That’s no way to talk, son,” he said. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. What we’re doing is best for all of us.”

      The boy’s eyes blazed. Yellow hair fell across his forehead. He glared at Latigo, then at his father. “Aren’t you angry, Pa?” he demanded. “Aren’t you real honest-to-God spitting mad?” He waited seconds. There was no answer. Straight as a pine tree, he turned to Latigo. “Wouldn’t you be, mister, if it was you?”

      Latigo looked from the father to the angry youth. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said. “I’m a stranger.”

      The man worked roughly at the gunnysack bundles behind the seat of the buckboard. “I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of talk, son,” he said. “I told you. Now let it be!” He strode towards the house and slowed after five paces.

      “We’re running away, Pa!” cried the boy. “That’s what we’re doing. We’re letting them run us off our own land!”

      The man stopped walking. Latigo turned in time to see pride leave the rancher’s shoulders and his hands tighten. The man turned and sighed deeply, brown face lighted by sunshine.

      The boy’s eyes brightened. “Pa, I’m on your side,” he said loudly, earnestly, face creased and finely chiselled. “I’ll do anything you say, anything at all. I’ll go if I have to but, Pa, I don’t want to run away!” His eyes never left his father’s face and his hands pleaded. The woman began to cry a little. She turned to the buckboard and rested forehead on hand.

      “If you folks are in trouble I’m sorry I butted in,” said Latigo. “You want me to, I’ll go.”

      “No,” said the father. “It’s none of your doing. Ma is sorry she can’t be hospitable but,” he paused and breathed and looked at the loaded wagons, “as you can see, mister, we’re leaving.”

      “We don’t have to, Pa,” said the youth.

      The man’s eyes burned with anger he did not feel. “It’s the only thing I can do, son!” he said sharply, hurt because he had to say it and because the boy was his son.

      The youth moved and stood before Latigo. “Mister, will you stay for a minute? Will you listen if I tell you?”

      “Do anything I can,” said Latigo.

      “There, Pa, there! You hear what the man says!”

      “It’s none of his business, son!”

      The boy was quick. He held Latigo’s arm and addressed his father. “Let me tell him, Pa. Just so he’ll know!”

      The woman turned from the side of the buckboard. “Let the boy speak, Andrew. He’s got a right. . .”

      “Thanks, Ma,” said the youth and waited for a sign from his father.

      The older man regarded Latigo. “You’re a stranger, mister. I guess there’s no harm in telling you.”

      The woman was quiet, waiting. The boy’s eyes stayed on Latigo. The father did the telling. “I’m Andrew Hemingway,” he said. “This here is my wife, Emily, and this is Buck, my boy. He’s eighteen years old. That’s why I’m doing what I am.” He walked from the wagon to the fence of an empty corral. Latigo and the boy followed. “Nearly all you can see was my land. All that range ahead of you, right down to the big arroyo. You can’t see it but it’s there.” He turned and pointed to the house. “Then out to the butte. From there east to where my marker is set up. South of us there’s wooded country and a creek that runs into the Gila river .