Cowboy Roundup

The Spring at Sloan Pond by Lee Crittenden-2

By dusk he was in sight of the broken-down shack and the barn and the rough corral that was home.

When Isaac ran off his oldest boy, that left Nick and his sister, Joy, to look after their dad when he got trampled by a wild steer and ended up a cripple. The old man couldn’t afford to pay wages after that, and the cow hands he’d had on the ranch had all left. Nick was twenty-two, but he couldn’t look after the whole place by himself, and so the homestead started to run down worse than ever—the barn losing shingles off the roof and the fences sagging. Then the drought set in, and the trouble had started with Eisner.

Joy had already lit the kitchen lamp, and she came to the door when she heard the horses.

“Nick?” she called.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”

“You’re back early.”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Let me get the horses up, Joy.”

He unloaded the pack and carried the goods into the house, looked after the horses and let them loose in the barn corral. Joy had supper ready when he got into the house, and the good smell of sourdough biscuits and bacon filled all the nooks and crannies of the kitchen, as did the heat from the cooking. The three of them sweated through the meal.

Isaac Bain was a thin shell of what he’d been just five years before. He was humped and crooked, hardly able to walk, but usually his eyes were sharp and alive under his bushy brows, and his opinions were still full of fire and brimstone. That night he seemed exhausted, plagued by the heat, and he only asked about the cows.

“Yes,” said Nick. “I told the sheriff,” and left it at that.

The old man went right to bed, or at least into the back of the house where it was cooler. Joy started to clear the dishes.

“So,” she said. “What happened in town?”

Nick tipped his chair back against the wall and told her, keeping his voice low enough that the old man wouldn’t hear. “I don’t like those hired hands of Eisner’s,” he said.

“Hired guns.”

“We don’t know that,” he said.

“Don’t we?” She snorted. “They’re a bunch of low-life outlaws.”

Nick frowned. “Some of them might be straight,” he said.

Silence closed down on the kitchen. It was cooling off some now, the fire dying down. Joy’s back was bowed as she washed up the dishes, and tendrils of her brown hair straggled out from the pins.

“Nick,” she said. “I don’t like the mood you’ve been in.”

“What’s that?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve got that same streak of wildness in you that…well, you know. You’re just a lot like him.”

“This whole thing’s going to blow up soon,” he said. “I know it’s that spring.”

“The spring?”

“Eisner, and that partner of his, Burke—they want our land. It’s the cause of this trouble.”

Raidy Hart, with his smart mouth and cutting tongue, had contributed the clue, and after it came to him, Nick had to wonder why he’d never figured it before. There were other springs on the range, but none of them so dependable. The insight didn’t help him decide what to do about it. Instead it was Hart that stayed with him, the width of the boy’s shoulders, the color of his eyes, and that curious magnetism…

The hound let out a growl just then. He was just under the window, and it wouldn’t have carried far. Nick let down his chair from against the wall.

“I forgot to hang up the tack,” he said.

Joy’s eyes flicked around, but she didn’t say anything. Nick got up and out the door, stood on the porch a minute like he was enjoying the night air, looking the place over. The dog was old, didn’t stir much from the porch, but still he had a good nose. If he hadn’t sounded off, it meant something was either cross or down wind, still a distance away. Maybe in the clump of pines off to the west, away from the trampled, bare yard of the house.

The night was dark, lighted by the spray of stars overhead, but a glow to the east meant the moon was rising. A slight wind tugged at his shirt. Nick headed for the barn, walking easy enough, but sweat prickled on him, cold and uncomfortable between his shoulder blades. He lit the lantern and left it in the hallway, stepped into the tack room. He slid out into the corral, light-footed around behind the barn.

It was darker within the trees, but open enough that he could see the glowing windows of the house, light coming through the c****s and knotholes of the barn. Fallen needles muffled his steps as he slid through the copse and the humped shapes of manzanita brush. It was quiet—only the wind. He shifted to get the light out of his eyes. The brush crackled behind him, and he crouched, grabbed for his gun. He caught the glow of green eyes close to the ground. It was only a weasel.

“Damn,” he said.

He let his breath out, surprised at the way he’d reacted. Then he felt the cold muzzle of a six-gun slide up against his spine.

“Don’t move.”

It was a whisper. Nick eased up his hands, caught sideways motion, a reach for his gun. Just then the hound sounded off with a deep-chested bay.

It was enough of a chance. He swung his elbow hard, felt it connect in a solid slam. He had his hand on the gun then, swung his right leg, and heaved. They went down. Nick landed on top, but he lost the gun, heard it slide. He cursed, but then he needed all his breath.

The man under him was lighter than Nick was. Stunned by the fall, he’d felt limp and still for a second. But then, tight and muscular, he coiled like a spring, and Nick had lost the advantage. They thrashed and tumbled, grunting, came up against a tree. Then Nick was pinned, and the voice hissed in his ear.

“Hold still, dammit. I just want to talk.”

Nick recognized the voice, the smell of tobacco and sweat, and he went lax with surprise. The weight was gone off him then, and he lay there panting, wondering what the hell.

In a minute he had his breath back and he heaved up.

“Hart?”

A shadow leaned against the tree. “Just keep the hell away from me.”

“What?”

“I think you broke my ribs.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

“Look, I’m trying to do a good deed,” Hart said. “And this is what I get for it?”

Nick sat there, studying the shadows. A horse snorted in the brush now and stamped, unattended, disturbed by the fight.

“You want to talk?” he asked finally.

Hart moved. “Where did my gun go?” he asked. “I don’t like sittin’ here without it.”

He lit a match, found it not far away.

“Eisner wants your land,” he said, standing up and shaking out the flame.

“I know that,” said Nick.

“Well, he’s going to try for it tonight.”

“What?” said Nick. “How?”

“He’s going to drive stock with the brands doctored onto your range, and then in the mornin’ he and the sheriff will come out and find them, sort of by accident.”

Nick only sat there.

“It’s not just Eisner,” Hart went on. “That new partner of his, Burke, is the one behind it. The man’s a swindler, got his hand in two or three other shady deals hereabouts. Are you listenin’ to me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Nick, and then catching up suddenly, he shoved to his feet. “So what are you here for?” he asked flatly.

“Damned if I know,” said Hart. “The sheriff’s got you tried and hung already.”

“So?”

Hart seemed to consider it, said something under his breath.

“What?”

“They’ll be along after midnight,” Hart said. “I guess I’ll go out with you to stop ‘em. Can the old man ride and shoot?”

“No,” said Nick.

“Send him and your sister to town, then.”

Nick spun on his heel, started for the house. When he realized Hart hadn’t moved, he stopped and turned back. He didn’t want the man behind him.

“Come in to the house,” he said.

Joy made a move forward when Nick ducked back through the doorway, but then she stopped short, seeing the shadow of another man on the porch.

Nick said, “This is Raidy Hart.” Then he turned himself, and had a hard look at Hart.

He hadn’t been sure of much out in the dark, with only a voice to go on. Nick halfway expected the boy to look sullen and shifty, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked wary, but generally civil. He even took off his hat.

“Joy,” said Nick. “There’s going to be trouble tonight.” He believed that much, at least. Will you take Dad into town? Find some place to stay?”

Her face jerked back to him, suddenly dark. “Where?” she said. “The hotel? We haven’t got any money.”

They stood there for an awkward minute. Then Hart dug in his vest pocket and held out a gold piece, but Joy’s face only darkened the more.

“I won’t take it from you,” she spat.

“Joy…” said Nick.

Hart’s eyes had narrowed and his face flushed a little. He laid the coin on the table. “Take it, ma’am,” he said. “I’m workin’ off old debts.”

Joy turned and went into the back to wake Isaac.

“I’ll help you with the team,” said Hart, and slid out the door.

They brought the buckboard up in front of the porch to get Isaac into it, and Nick handed Joy the old man’s Colt.

“Will you be all right?” he asked, worried about this now.

“I’ll wait ‘till I hear,” said Joy, and then they were gone.

The two men stood there, listening for the last creak of the wheels, and then Hart shifted, glanced into the kitchen.

“Is there anythin’ to eat?” he asked.

Nick turned, thinking the boy was expecting too much. It was hard to drop the weeks of animosity, and it must have showed in his eyes. “I guess,” he said finally.

“Where’s the pump?”

“Over there,” said Nick, and Hart went to wash up.

His hair was damp when he came back, and his eyes turned an amber color in the lamplight. Nick could see a shadowy bruise rising along Hart’s jaw, where his own elbow must have hit. It didn’t seem to affect Hart’s appetite. He ate everything that was set out. Nick sat in the chair across the table and waited for Hart to finish.

“Tell me,” said Nick, as Hart leaned back finally and started to roll a cigarette with brown, long-fingered hands, “what debts it is you’re working off.”

Hart’s eyes flickered across to him, and then back to the makings. “You don’t need to know,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” said Nick. “I want to hear it. Otherwise, I figure you’re leading me into a trap.”

It was what he was thinking. He’d expected some denial, or maybe a slick evasion, but instead it made the boy angry.

“You go to hell then,” Hart said, and the ugly, dangerous expression came back to his eyes.

“You hate all of us,” Nick guessed. “I can see it clear as day. You expect me to trust you?”

Hart’s face seemed deadly.

“We might as well have it out now,” said Nick, unusually angry and ready to fight. He leaned forward. “What are you doing this for?”

It was Hart that looked away first. “I knew your brother,” he said. And then suddenly he shoved up from the table, stalked the length of the room.

“You’re right,” he said, standing there. A gust of wind bellied the curtains, guttered the lamp flame. “I came here to give you trouble,” he said. “But I found out you were like to lose the land, and I couldn’t stand that.” He whirled and paced back, stopped too near. “Keith used to send money every month,” he said. “You know it, don’t you? He cared about the old man, regardless of what he did.”

Isaac had sent the money back.

Hart braced one hand against the wall and leaned over Nick, too close, crowding him. Nick didn’t move.

“You’re a cool one,” Hart said, seeing it, “like Keith always was.” He stood there another second, and then he leaned over suddenly, and kissed Nick on the mouth.

Nick jerked up both hands to knock him away. But Hart had expected it, and his elbows were in the way. He leaped back then, out of reach, but in the last instant his teeth had drawn blood.

“You son of a b***h,” said Nick, wiping his mouth.

“Damn you,” Hart said. He took a breath. “I’ve got to see to my horse.” He turned then, and went out the door.

Nick found he was shaking. Well, it all made sense. He’d always known there’d be someone like that. It was why the old man had run Keith off, after all. But Nick had always expected it would be an older man. It left him feeling strange, disoriented, like the world had dislocated somehow.

Hart was gone for a while, and when he came back his anger seemed burnt out. He only looked tired, and he fell into the chair by the table and leaned his head back against the wall.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to tell you anything, Nick. But listen. Nothing’s going to happen until after midnight. I was up the last two nights prowlin’ under peoples windows, and now I’m dead on my feet. Have you got a place I can sleep for an hour?”

“You can sleep in my bed,” said Nick finally.

After that he sat in the kitchen alone, just thinking. Eventually he must have dozed off himself. He jerked up to find the wick had burnt low, and more like an hour and a half had passed.

Raidy Hart had taken off his clothes, and lay stretched on top of the blankets. The moon was well up now. Light spilled through the window, outlined the curved musculature of his shoulders, the rounded sweep of his back. His dark gun hung on a chair, well within reach.

“Raidy?” Nick said, at the door.

There was no response, so he went on in, laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Hart moved then, but it wasn’t a start, as Nick half expected. He sighed and rolled backward, caught the hand and pushed it further down.

Nick wasn’t surprised this time, and he didn’t struggle or jerk away. He only stood there, feeling something quiver up through him—something that belonged, like it had always been there. He straightened up, began to unbutton his shirt with trembling hands. Raidy Hart laughed softly and slid back on the blanket, giving him room.

Nick felt awkward and fumbling, but the kid knew what he was doing. He kissed Nick again, without biting this time, and his hands slid downward in a long caress. He pinched Nick’s n*****s and stroked the ridged muscles of Nick’s belly. Nick was so hard that he hurt. He groaned when Hart took his c**k and compressed the head, traced the line of the foreskin with one light finger, the tiny line of the slit. The boy began to work his hands up and down, generating a warm, sweet friction.

They kissed again and Nick reached for Hart, running his hands through the long, thick hair and across the lean shoulders, down the slender flanks. He moved more urgently after that, massaging the tight buttocks, the hard muscles of Hart’s naked thighs. He found the tight ball sack, and the boy spread his legs wide for Nick to touch it. He followed the curve of scrotum and found Hart’s c**k was as big as his own, and just as hard. He held it, began to rub, but then the boy pushed his hands away and shifted directions on the bed. Hart leaned over Nick, a dark shadow against the window, and squeezed his balls, sucked the erection into his mouth, right down into his throat. Nick thought he would come right then, felt his balls get hard, but after a second the pressure eased off some, and he touched Hart’s c**k again, hanging above him now.

That only excited him more. Waves of lust rolled over him as he took Hart’s c**k into his own mouth, felt himself sliding deeper into the warm wetness of the boy’s throat. He began to thrust hard with his hips then, going deeper still, and in minutes he had to come, gushing in a rush of pleasure like he’d never felt before. Hart kept up the pressure through it all, massaging his balls as he groaned and bucked.

“Do you want it?” Hart asked then, and Nick said, “Yes,” without knowing what it was, really, that he wanted. He found out, though, gasping and hurting as the boy rolled him over and shoved that big erection into him.

“Wait,” he said. “Stop,” and Hart did.

“It only hurts for a minute,” Hart said, trembling himself, stroking Nick’s back with light, eager hands, urging Nick to relax. He was right. The pain turned to a kind of pleasure, and Nick wanted more of it as Hart thrust in harder. It ended finally as the boy came suddenly deep inside him, arching and shuddering at the peak of it, yelling, and then easing down slowly into peace and stillness.

Afterward, they lay a while in the darkness, resting side by side, and then Hart sighed and pushed up, looking for his tobacco pouch. His face lit briefly as he struck a match, and then he blew smoke into the moonlight.

“Believe me now?” he asked, cool and casual again.

“Yeah,” said Nick.

“Well,” Hart said, “it’s time we got up.” He didn’t move.

“Where are they coming through?” asked Nick.

“s**t. I don’t know,” said Hart.

“You don’t know?”

The cigarette glowed as he drew on it, dropped in an arc.

“Well. I’ve been thinkin’,” Hart said. “The river road’s too open, too many folks goin’ by. They wouldn’t come over the hills, either. Punchin’ cows at night’s no picnic; they’d never keep ‘em together. They won’t come by here, so they’ve got to come down the ravine.”

Nick stirred. “That’s rough driving even in the daytime.”

“They don’t have to come all the way, just get ‘em past the fence. Your line’s not the best up that way.”

That stung. Nick sat up sharply and reached for his pants.

“I do the best I can,” he said. “Get the hell out of my bed.”

Hart only laughed, and reached to stub out his cigarette.