Showdown at Gila Bend. Kingsley West

asked the question the rancher waited to hear. “Why?”

      The boy stared at the ground in shame, eyes burning at what his father would say. “We’re being driven out,” said Hemingway. Latigo looked over the rancher’s shoulder at the charred uprights of the barn. “Seven or eight years ago Matthew Kincaid came here. He was a cattleman same as the rest of us. We didn’t think anything was wrong until it was too late. He started buying up all the land. Then he brought in hired guns. If he couldn’t buy your land peaceable, he made you glad to sell. They drove off my beef cattle. They spoiled my water so my cattle died. They burned down my barn. Soon I couldn’t get anybody to work for me. Two of my cowhands were killed. I buried them down by the stream.” He paused, breathed deeply and lowered his shoulders, eyes avoiding his son, pride of living and fearlessness gone out of him. “I can’t fight back, mister. Too old to learn how. Been a peaceable man too long for that. Buck here would fight. He’s young, he wants to fight, but he’s all I’ve got so I won’t let him fight. Got his mother to think about.”

      “So you’re selling to Kincaid?”

      Hemingway nodded. “Nothing else for me to do. Not enough ranchers left in Gila valley to fight back. He went at us one at a time.”

      “Isn’t there a sheriff in Gila Bend?”

      “Sure, there’s a sheriff. There’s even a jail. The sheriff knows what’s good for him so he does what he’s told.”

      Hemingway walked away. The boy looked after his father. He didn’t smile when he nodded to Latigo. “Thanks for listening, mister,” he said. “All I wanted was for somebody else to know about it.”

      “That helps,” said Latigo and called his horse. He swung a leg across the saddle. “Where you headed now, Buck?”

      The youth hung thumbs in his belt, light strong on his long face and yellow hair, and shrugged. “Farther west, I guess. Maybe north. Don’t seem to matter much. This is where we’d like to be. You heard what Pa said. We’ve been here twenty years. Guess I was here before I was born.”

      Latigo tugged up the gelding’s head. “Don’t see how I can help, Buck. Would if I could.”

      Buck agreed. “I guess nobody can. Kincaid’s a big man.”

      “Thanks for the water.”

      The young fellow watched Latigo turn the horse. “You’re welcome. What’s your name, mister?”

      Latigo looked down. “Lansen,” I said.

      At the buckboard Hemingway raised his face to the light. “Why’d you come riding this way, son?”

      The sun was also in Latigo’s eyes. He tilted his hat forward and threaded rein leather through his fingers. “Own some land around here,” he said. “From what I remember, this was a good place to live.”

      “Keep riding, boy. They’ll have you out inside weeks.”

      “Maybe not,” Latigo said and thought about it. “Thanks for the water. My compliments to Mrs. Hemingway.”

      “ ’Bye, son.”

      Buck watched until Latigo was out of sight. His father addressed him and had to speak his name twice.

      Latigo rode across flats and came to the stream. Aspen and toyon berry grew close to the water. He reined at the two marked graves and looked back. Twenty years, he thought. He drew the Winchester from the scabbard and laid the gun across his thighs. Twenty years is a lifetime. Buck had been here before he was born.

      Four miles nearer the Gila river wind raised sand and dust in a cloud. He walked the gelding through patches of big-eared cactus that stood out like dead men or prairie witches with reaching hands, and waited for the wagon to come abreast out of the haze.

      The people on board weren’t old, the driver deep-chested, the woman round-faced and buxom. The man hauled on the reins and the team slowed to a halt. Flying sand beat against Latigo’s ears. He touched his hat to the woman. The man eyed him before nodding. The wagon was piled high with furniture and bedding. Latigo edged the gelding closer as the driver tipped his hat to keep off the wind. “Howdy, stranger.”

      “Howdy!” returned Latigo, voice loud. “Don’t figure to find out what’s none of my business, mister, but are you folks moving out of Gila valley?”

      “That’s what we’re doing, stranger.”

      Latigo bent his head and shouted. “You being driven out?” he asked. “Like the Hemingways?”

      The driver unbuttoned his coat to uncover the gun he wore. “Don’t reckon a man has to tell his business to every stranger he meets,” he said.

      “I’m not a stranger, mister,” corrected Latigo. “You don’t need to show your gun. I got an interest hereabouts and I aim to find out only what’s good for me.”

      “We’re leaving because there’s no future here for a man who can’t hire himself ten pairs of guns.”

      The woman touched the man’s arm. “We don’t aim to do any fighting, mister,” she said, concern but no cowardice in her voice. “Jed and me . . . we’re not married very long. We haven’t had our firstborn yet.”

      “Are you being driven out?” repeated Latigo. “I’m not belittling you, mister. All I asked was were you being driven out of Gila river valley?”

      The man worked with the reins in his hands. He spat over the side and eyed Latigo. “Sold my land legal,” he said crossly.

      Dust made the saguarro loom like yellow wraiths. The gelding was impatient. Latigo tightened rein and slapped a leg on flank. Then the wind died, the whine and whistle eased and red and pink cactus blossom bloomed big and rich again. “All I want to know is how to protect myself,” he explained.

      The man on the wagon leaned forward. The hostility left his face. He regarded Latigo with interest. “You know this country, mister?” he asked.

      “Know Gila river country,” said Latigo.

      The woman spoke. “Then you know what’s happening.”

      Latigo shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t. This here’s my home ground and I’m coming back. Rode past the Hemingways’ place a little while ago and they were pulling out. Then I meet you and you’re doing the same thing. I’m tired riding a horse, want to stand on the ground. I’d like to know what I’m up against.”

      The driver of the wagon eyed him levelly. “Kincaid’s his name. He’s driving everybody out.”

      “Everybody?”

      “He’s got hired guns, mister. The way it is now the fellow who points a gun at you is right. Never met the man yet who could talk back to the end of a shooting iron. With us it was easy. I was a small man, didn’t have much stake.”

      “Thanks,” said Latigo. “I’m obliged to you.”

      “Glad to meet with you,” said the woman.

      The man beat dust out of his clothes with the flat of his hat. “You’re not wearing guns,” he said. “That’s the first thing I’d think about if I was you.”

      “I’ll take care of it.”

      Sand fell from wheel rims as the wagon moved. The man leaned over to speak again. “See any Indians on your way?”

      “Killed one yesterday.”

      “You figure they’re running wild?”

      “There’s a big peace being made. If it works out the Apache will be over in Chiricahua country, near the mountains.”

      “Reckon we’ll be all right, then.”

      “Keep your gun handy.”

      “Sure will. Glad to have words with you, stranger.”