Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs
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ten. He couldn't tell. But they had drawn into the ranch. When he arrived in front of the main house, he saw the shadowed horses waiting and heard talk coming out of the open front door. He eased himself, thought it over a long moment and hailed the place. The talk cut off. A man blocked the area of light coming through the portal and then swiftly moved away from it, standing on the porch.
"Light and come in," was the curt welcome.
Charterhouse sidled his pony to the end of the porch and stepped off. "Passing through," was all he said, considering he had stated his needs sufficiently for any man versed in range hospitality. But the host's reply seemed long in coming and reserved in manner. "Step in," was all he said.
Charterhouse walked through the door, expecting to confront others. But the room was empty. A whisky bottle and several glasses were on a table, some half filled; tobacco smoke still curled in the light. Swinging about, he saw Shander follow through and stop, queerly watchful. "So—the stranger?" he muttered.
"Sure seems like I keep butting into the same list of people around here," rejoined Charterhouse gravely.
"Population of Casabella ain't so large," said Shander rather dryly. "And most of us shift ground in a hurry. You are welcome to my place. I'll have one of the boys put up your horse."
Warning struck Charterhouse like the clang of a fire bell. "If you don't mind," he answered, "I'll partake of a bite and pass on. Night riding's easy on the horse."
Shander's lips twitched sardonically. "Reckon that would depend what sort of night riding it was, wouldn't it?" A new idea diverted his line of thought. "I came out of Angels right behind you. Funny I didn't draw abreast along the way."
"Me, I cut for the timber country and then swung east."
"That would be in Box M territory," suggested Shan-der, eyes riveted on his guest. Charterhouse saw suspicion coiled in the man's eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed. "I found out about that later."
"How so?" asked Shander, driving the question home.
"Committee came out and spent a few minutes of their good time instructing me as to Casabella's lines and corner posts." Charterhouse rolled a cigarette, grinning slightly as if the memory amused him. But his nerves kept tightening up as he stood there facing that gaunt rancher with the sick body and burning glance. And though the house was quite still, he felt the presence of a great many other men just beyond sight, listening in on his words. Shander cleared his throat.
"I'll not bother you with rules," said he with plain courtesy. "Come along and I'll see you get a snack." He led the way through a back door into a dining room and lifted his voice. "Vasco—boil the coffee." And he bowed his head slightly at Charterhouse. "Excuse the lack of company. I've got a little business to take care of."
He went out as a Mexican came in from the kitchen and laid a platter of boiled beef and potatoes in front of Charterhouse. The latter fell to, not yet rid of the feeling he was under observation. Judging from the stacked dishes the men of the outfit had already eaten. Savoring his meal with the gusto of a hungry traveler, he heard footsteps tramping through the front room. Somebody swore and a general murmur of conversation eddied meaninglessly back to him. Vasco returned from the kitchen with a tin of pie and the coffee pot, leaving both for Charterhouse's pleasure. Dallying with his food, Charterhouse posted up his silent observations.
"Den of forty thieves. Couldn't of horned into a worse joint. Everything I do today is wrong and getting wronger. I don't feel right and I don't feel very damned safe. Sooner I ride off the better it's going to be. But I ain't so sure—"
He rolled a cigarette and rose to go into the front room. He knew he would face additional men but he was not prepared for the crowd that fronted him when he pushed open the door. Fifteen or twenty of them, with here and there an individual he thought he had previously seen in Angels. But familiar or strange, they were a woolly, bitten lot, a stolid and unpleasant set of characters. Nor was it reassuring to realize that they had come out of hiding; either they felt he was harmless or could soon be rendered harmless. Shander lolled in a chair and waved at the center table.
"Help yourself to the bottle. Welcome to the party."
Charterhouse grinned. "Should of brought my invite. Must have left it home on the bureau top."
"Doubt if it makes any difference," said Shander, hard amusement cropping out. "Main point is you're here and among friends."
"I was wondering about that last point," mused Charter-house, helping himself from a bottle.
"You're not deaf or dumb," said Shander, "and you seem able to add round numbers. So you can make up your own mind about the friend business. Said you come through the timber and circled east at the Bowlus place?"
"I came through the timber," replied Charterhouse. "I don't make this Bowlus place you mention. But there was a house off a ways."
"See anybody there?"
Charterhouse liked the tang of his liquor and decided for another, all the while feeling the increased pressure of attention from these taut-cheeked men. He was going through the grist mill, no doubt of that.
"No-o, it looked like empty country to me."
"How many in the Box M party that stopped you?" Charterhouse considered. "Six, eight—ten, I gather."
"Any familiar faces?"
"Seastrom...Haggerty."
This seemed to contain meat. There was a slight shifting, a covert passage of glances. Through the smoke he made out a white- faced youngster sitting in a dark corner and staring at him like an unwinking reptile. Shander pressed on.
"Which way did they go after they left you?"
"Struck westward," stated Charterhouse and put down his glass very carefully. "And with that answered, school's out for old man Charterhouse's little boy."
Shander's mouth tipped down at the corners. "Considered you've paid for your supper, uh?"
"In my country," Charterhouse drawled, "a guest owns the house as long as he is in it, no questions asked, no pay taken."
"Nice sentiment—for a peaceful land," admitted Shan-der and seemed to be unpleasantly affected by the remark. He rolled his cigar between fingers. "But we have to do different in Casabella."
"I am making a stab at playing neutral, Shander. What I see or hear I keep to myself."
"Also impossible in Casabella."
"I have bought no chips in this game," Charterhouse remarked.
"Beg to differ. You have."
"As how?"
"By stepping into Angels, for one thing. By having your nose blistered at Nickum's hands for another. By having your horse stole. By being chased across the deadline. If I'm any judge of human nature, you can't truthfully say it is your intention to ride out of Casabella and call it quits."
"It was a point I was debating," admitted Charter-house.
"I was betting you'd already made up your mind," countered Shander, seeming to enjoy himself. Light gleamed against his eyes. "Sit down and take life easy."
"I'd prefer to ride," said Charterhouse with a great deal more casualness than he felt.
"Couldn't think of turning a guest out this late. It wouldn't be seemly. I've had one of the boys put up your horse."
"In other words, I do what I'm told," challenged Charterhouse.
"Good guess. You're old enough to know why?"
"I have been known to do some private thinking," agreed Charterhouse. "Well, I never argue with a better run of cards than mine And if this whisky holds out, what difference does it make?"
Shander's sick face broke into lines of cynical humor, and he was on the point of speaking again when the youngster in the dark corner