WHERE THE LONG GRASS BLOWS
 Chapter
One
(may be abridged)
There was a lonely place where the trail ran up to the sky, turning sharply
away at the rimrock where a man could see all the valley below, a splendid green of
forest and meadow fading into the purple of the farther mountains. It was a place where
a man could look down upon eagles, soaring far below, yet thousands of feet above the
valley's floor. Here at sundown a man came riding.
Bill Canavan rode a horse strangely marked, a true leopard Appaloosa . . . white
with black spots except for a splash of blue roan on the left hip. He drew up where the
trail turned, and sat his saddle, looking over the valley below. The gelding, nostrils
spreading to catch whatever scent there was, pricked its ears and looked eagerly toward
the wide valley below.
The rider was a tall man, narrow of hip and broad of shoulder, his features blunt
and rugged, not handsome but strong. There was a tough, confident look about him, and
he looked upon this valley now as Cortez might have looked when first he saw the Valley
of Mexico.
Bill Canavan came alone, but he did not come seeking favors, nor even work. He
came as a conqueror.
For Bill Canavan had made his decision. At twenty-seven he was sitting in the
middle of all he owned, a splendid Appaloosa gelding, a fine California saddle of
hand-tooled leather, a .44 Winchester rifle and two walnut-butted Colt .44 pistols.
These were his all. Behind him was a life that began with birth in a covered wagon
rolling westward, a boyhood in the gold and silver boom camps of California, Nevada,
Montana and Colorado, a cattle-drive over the Chisholm Trail another over the
Goodnight-Loving Trail, shotgun guard on a stage and scouting Indians for the Army.
He had fought rustlers and Kiowas, Comanches and Apaches, Sioux and Blackfeet, with
nothing to show for it but a few scars here and there and his memories of hunger, thirst,
cold, of hard winters and dry range and long dusty drives. Now his decision was made.
He was going to ride for himself and fight for himself.
Bill Canavan was a young man with a plan. He wanted not wealth but a ranch, a
well-watered ranch in good stock country, and he intended to settle for nothing less.
The fact that he was down to his last three dollars meant nothing, for his mind was made
up. And back down the trail there were men who could tell you that Bill Canavan with his
mind set on something was a force with which to reckon.
Yet he was not riding blindly into a strange land. For, like the tactician he was,
he had gathered his information carefully, judged the situation, the terrain, the time and
the people, and now he was ready. He knew that he rode into a valley at war, that blood
had been shed and that armed men rode its trails night and day. He wanted peace,
seeking it he had come to a land at war.
A faint smell of woodsmoke drew his attention to the edge of the meadow. He drew up,
then walked his horse over to where the fire had been. The earth was much trampled and
the grass torn. Studying the scene, his attention held for an instant on a blackened ring
at one side and back from the fire.
His eyes glinted with hard humor. "A cinch-ring artist," he said to the
gelding, "dropped her there to cool and singed the grass."
There had been two men here, his eyes told him. Two men and two horses. A big man
with small feet. . . the impressions were deeper and he had mounted the largest horse.
He studied the scene. If cinch-ring branding was one of the local customs, it was
an unusual one. In most parts of the country it was an invitation to a hanging.
The procedure was simple enough. One took a cinch-ring from his own saddle gear
and holding it with a couple of sticks---after it was red hot, of course---he used it
like any other branding iron. A good hand with a cinch-ring could easily duplicate any
known brand, depending on his degree of skill.
Bill Canavan glanced around. If he were found on the spot it would require
explaining, and at the moment he had no intention of explaining anything.
Not three miles away lay the cowtown known as Soledad. To his right, and about
six miles away, was an imposing cluster of buildings shaded beneath a fine grove of old
cottonwoods. Somewhat nearer and also shaded was a somewhat smaller ranch.
Beyond the rocky ridge that stretched an anxious finger into the lush valley was
Walt Pogue's Box N spread.
The farther ranch belonged to Charlie Reynolds; his CR brand was the largest in
the area. The nearer ranch belonged to Tom and Dixie Venable.
"When thieves fall out," he said aloud, "honest men get their dues.
Or so they say. Without laying any claim to being more than average honest, I've got a
hunch I'll be around to pick up the pieces. There's trouble coming, and when the smoke
of battle blows away I'll be top-dog on one of those ranches.
"They have it all. They have range, money, power. The have gunhands riding
for them, but you and me, Rio, we've only got each other. There's an old law, Rio, that
only the strong survive. Those ranches are held by men who were strong, some of them
still are. They were strong enough to take the land from smaller, weaker men. That's
the story of Reynolds and Pogue. They rustled cows until they grew big enough and now
they sit on the housetops and crow. Or they did until they began fighting each
other."
"Your reasoning," the cool voice behind him was feminine, "is
logical, but dangerous. I would suggest that if you must talk to your horse you be
sure his are the only ears present!"
She sat well in the saddle, poised and alert. There was a quirk of humor at the
corners of her mouth, and nothing of coyness or fear in the manner. Every inch of her
breathed of quality, but a quality underlaid with both fire and steel.
"That's good advice," he said. "It's a bad habit a man gets into,
talkin' to his horse. Comes of riding alone too much."
He was looking at her with very real appreciation. Women of any kind were scarce,
but such women as this--
"Now that you've looked me over," she suggested cooly, "would you
like to examine my teeth for age?"
He was not embarrassed. "No, ma'am. Now that I've looked you over I'd say
you're pretty much of a woman. The kind of a woman who's made for a man!"
She smiled obviously pleased, but she changed the subject. "Just which ranch
are you thinking about? Where do you intend to be top-dog when the fighting is over?"
"Well, now, I haven't rightly made up my mind. I'm a right choosy man when it
comes to horses, ranches and women!"
"Yes?" She glanced at the gelding. "I'd say your judgment of horses
isn't obvious by that one. Not that he isn't a beauty, but I think you could do better.
I never did favor those off-colored horses."
"I doubt if I could do better," Canavan said. "And I'd bet a little
money he could outrun that beauty of yours, here to Soledad."
Her eyes flashed. "You're an idiot. Flame is the fastest horse in this
country! He comes of racing stock!"
"He's a fine horse, but I'd bet my saddle against a hundred dollars that my
Appaloosa will kick dust in his face before we get to Soledad."
There was scorn in her laughter. "You're on!" she said, and her red
horse gave a great bound and hit the trail running. That jump gave the bay a start, but
Bill knew his gelding.
"Come on, boy! We've got to beat that horse! We need the money!" Rio,
seeming as always to understand, stretched his legs and ran like a scared rabbit.
As they swept into the main road, and into full sight of Soledad, the bay was
leading by three lengths. But despite the miles behind it, the Appaloosa loved to run
and he was running now.
The gelding had the blood of Arabians in his veins, and he was used to rough
country and the off hand style of cow camp racing. The road took a small jog but Bill
Canavan did not take the horse around. Instead he cut through the rocks and mesquite
and hit the road scarcely a length behind the big red horse.
In Soledad, men were coming out into the street now, watching the racers come toward
them. With a half to go the red horse was slowing. He was a sprinter, but he had been
living well with too little running, while the gelding was just beginning to run. Neck
stretched out, the gelding ran hard and Canavan leaned forward to cut the wind resistance
and lend some impetus with his weight. The mustang pulled up alongside the bay horse,
and neck and neck they raced up to town. With the nearest building only a few yards
ahead, Canavan spoke to the Appaloosa.
"Now, Rio! Now!"
With a lunge the spotted horse was past and went racing into the street, leading
by a length.
Canavan eased up and let his horse run down the street abreast of the red horse.
They slowed to a canter, then a walk. the girl's eyes were wide and angry.
"You cheated! You cut across the bend!"
He chuckled. "You could have, ma'am. You got off to a running start, left
me standing still."
"I thought you wanted a race!" she said scornfully. "You
cheated!"
Bill Canavan pulled up sharply, his eyes hard. "Obviously, ma'am you come
from a long line of sportsmen! You can forget the bet!"
The sarcasm cut like a whip. She opened her mouth to speak, suddenly ashamed of
the way she had acted. After all, she had taken advantage at the start, and it was only
fair--
He had turned his horse away and was walking off down the street, and for an
instant she was about to follow. Impatiently, she tossed her head. Let him go, she
thought. . . who does he think he is anyway?
Yet she turned once more to look back. Whowas he, anyway?
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