Mankiller, Colorado. William W. Johnstone

granite.

      “Did Joe tell you we almost got in a shootout with Case Ridley and three of his men?” Bo asked.

      Peeler nodded. “He mentioned it.” A grin spread across his face. “I sure would’ve liked to have been there when Ridley had to take water and run.” Big John slapped a hamlike hand against his thigh in amusement. “Mighty funny, and the joke’s all on him!”

      “Because that fence really is in the wrong place, isn’t it?”

      Peeler sobered and frowned at Bo. “What do you mean by that?”

      “You’re trying to put one over on Ridley by taking more range than you agreed to. You figure once the fence is there and you have men patrolling it, there won’t be anything Ridley can do about it.”

      “That’s not any of your business, Creel. You just do what you’re told and don’t worry about anything else.” Peeler snorted in disgust. “Hell, you’re lucky that I gave a couple of broken-down old saddle tramps like you and your friend any kind of job at all. If you don’t like what you’ve been doing, you can help old Jonas muck out the stables, by God! See if you like shoveling horse shit better.”

      “Now wait a minute, boss—” Scratch began.

      “Wait a minute, hell! I’m not used to anybody questioning what I do, and I’m sure not gonna take it from some crazy old codger.”

      “I’m not that much older than you,” Bo said, tight-lipped.

      “Well, maybe it’s not the years so much as it is the miles.” Peeler waved a hand. “You two get out of my sight. You can spend the next few days working in the barns with Jonas. It’s probably all you’re good for, anyway.”

      Scratch had had just about enough of being talked to like that. He put a foot on the bottom step and said, “Now look here—”

      Bo stopped him by taking hold of his arm. “Let it go, Scratch.”

      Scratch looked over at him in surprise. “What, all of a sudden you’re the voice of reason again? I swear, Bo, you’ve got as changeable as the wind.”

      “I’m just too tired to argue about this anymore. Let’s go to the bunkhouse.”

      Scratch hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “All right. I reckon it ain’t worth fightin’ over.”

      Behind them, Big John Peeler laughed. “That’s right. Just like Ridley will wise up and decide that extra ground isn’t worth a range war.”

      Bo stopped in his tracks. He looked back. “You’re admitting that the fence isn’t in the right place? That you’re grabbing that range just to spite Ridley?”

      “Well, what of it?” Peeler shot back at him. “I knew when he saw where you fellas were building the fence, he’d come out there and start blustering around. That’s why I had Joe and some of the boys ready for him.”

      “Then I was right,” Bo said quietly. “Scratch and I were just bait that you dangled in front of Ridley.”

      “What of it? What else are a couple of old fools like you good for, anyway?”

      Scratch made a grab for Bo’s arm but missed. With speed that belied his age and weariness, Bo bounded up the steps to the verandah and charged Big John Peeler. He slammed into the surprised rancher and drove him backward so that Peeler fell and both men crashed through the doorway, disappearing into the house.

      CHAPTER 3

      For a few stunned seconds, all Scratch could do was stand there and stare. Then he regained his wits and hurried up the steps. He saw Bo and Peeler rolling around on the floor just inside the door, wrestling and slugging at each other.

      Some of the cowboys gathered around the buck-house in the fading light, smoking and talking while they waited for the supper bell to ring, must have seen the way Bo had charged Big John. They let out indignant yells and ran across the ranch yard toward the house.

      “Bo! Damn it, Bo!” Scratch jerked the door open more. It had torn loose from its top hinge and flopped around, getting in his way. He gave it a vicious yank that tore the other hinge free and shoved the door aside. “Bo!”

      Bo didn’t pay any attention. He hammered his fists into Peeler’s body. Even though the rancher was bigger and younger, Bo’s actions had taken him by surprise, and Bo clearly had the upper hand in the fight.

      Scratch bent down, hooked his hands under his friend’s arms, and hauled Bo off Peeler, lifting him and dragging him back toward the door. At that moment, the group of cowboys pounded into the house.

      Joe Archibald was one of them, and when he saw his boss lying on the floor, bloody and battered, and Scratch holding Bo back, he jumped to the correct conclusion. The segundo yanked his gun from its holster and leaped toward Bo, yelling, “You son of a bitch! I’ll beat you within an inch of your life!”

      Scratch twisted around, still holding Bo with his left arm. His right hand flashed toward his hip, and the ivory-handled Remington on that side seemed to leap out of its holster as if by magic and appear in Scratch’s hand. Archibald came to a sudden, startled stop as he found himself staring down the long barrel of the .44.

      “Nobody’s beatin’ anybody,” Scratch said in a flinty voice. “This has gone on long enough.”

      Archibald lowered his gun and used his other hand to point past Bo and Scratch at Peeler, who lay there groggy from the punches Bo had landed. “Your pard jumped the boss! You reckon we’re gonna let him get away with that?”

      “Big John…had it coming,” Bo panted. “He knew he told us to put that fence…in the wrong place. He was just…trying to get the best of Ridley.”

      “I don’t care what he did. He’s the boss. We do what he says.” Archibald made a curt gesture to his companions. “Some of you help Mr. Peeler up, damn it.”

      Three of the men went around Bo and Scratch, all of them warily eyeing the gun in the hand of the silver-haired Texan. They took hold of Big John and lifted his considerable bulk to his feet, then stood there bracing him as he shook his big, square head like an old bull.

      “I told you earlier that if you don’t like the job, you can draw your time and ride on,” Archibald continued. “Well, you’re not even gonna do that. You don’t get any wages for attacking the boss. Just gather your gear and get off this spread…now.”

      “You can’t do that,” Scratch argued. “Lord knows Peeler wasn’t payin’ us much. Slave wages is more like it. But what we earned, we got comin’.”

      “You’re lucky you don’t get a rope and a necktie party! Or I can send somebody into Socorro to fetch the sheriff, and you can spend the next six months locked up in jail for attackin’ one of the county’s leading citizens. Would you like that better, Morton?”

      Bo said, “Let go of me, Scratch.”

      “You ain’t gonna go loco again if I do?”

      “No, I reckon that’s over and done with.”

      Scratch released his grip on Bo, who looked around and then bent over to pick up his hat, which had fallen off when he tackled Peeler. He brushed off the hat and straightened a dent in it, then put it on and said, “We’ll go.”

      “Wait a minute,” Scratch objected. “Peeler owes us money.”

      “I don’t want his money. I just want to be away from here.”

      Archibald sneered. “We want you away from here, too, Creel. You’ve got the place stinkin’ of old man.”

      Scratch gave the segundo a hard look. “This old man got the drop on you, mister, when you already had your gun out.”

      Archibald didn’t like being reminded of that. He glared at Scratch.

      “Step