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CHAPTER 3

      BY THE time Rand had walked to Brennan's place he looked and felt suitably beat-down and sweaty, and he figured he smelled about right, too.

      It was around six in the afternoon, but the sun was still fairly high in the summer sky, and the first cool breezes of evening were still hours away.

      The front porch of Brennan's frame house held a couple of bent willow chairs symmetrically placed on either side of the front door, which was flanked by two curtained windows. A long-haired dog that looked half collie and half German shepherd came racing around from behind the house, barking furiously but making no attempt to bite. Rand touched the dog's head and it jumped up on him for a decent pat.

      Before Rand could climb the three steps to the porch, the screen door opened and a sour-looking man in his early sixties came out. The white beard that spread across his skinny chest made him easily identifiable as Brennan.

      He fixed Rand with wary eyes. "What are you doing here? I don't give handouts."

      "I heard in town that you might have work for a good hand."

      Brennan studied him as though inspecting maggots on a side of beef. He took in Rand's worn-out clothes, and the boots that were so old their pointy tips turned up like elves' shoes. He looked at the beat-up suitcase with the broken handle that was held together with twine. He made a tisking noise, then called into the house, "Tom, get out here. It appears we've got another one."

      He was joined by a man bigger and younger than Rand who came out of the house holding a fried chicken-leg in his hand. He stared at Rand with suspicion.

      Rand figured they were wondering what brought a stranger to their door the day they had murdered a man and stolen a box of gold bars from him. But he looked too shabby to be the law coming after them.

      What's your name, Mister?" Brennan asked.

      "John Rand."

      "Where you from?"

      "Tulsa."

      "Ever worked as a cowboy?"

      Rand nodded. "Yes sir."

      "What's the first thing you do when you saddle a horse?"

      "Put the blanket on him."

      Brennan shook his head. "Naw, after you put the blanket and saddle on him, and you're cinchin' it up, what's the first thing you do then?"

      "Poke him in the belly with your knee to knock the air out of him so he won't be all puffed up and the saddle won't slip," Rand said.

      Brennan looked over at the big man next to him. "What do you think, Tom?"

      Tom evaluated the answer judiciously, nodded, and then, with his pinky extended, took a bite off the chicken leg.

      "Turn around," Brennan said. And Rand slowly revolved while they looked at him. "Those were pretty good boots when they were new," Brennan said.

      "Maybe. Got 'em second hand."

      "Can you read?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Drinkin' man?"

      "Not very."

      Brennan thought it over. He spat over the porch railing and wiped his mouth. "Twenty dollars a month and three meals a day. If you don't want to walk back to town, you can start tonight. Good enough?"

      Rand nodded extravagantly. "Yessir! Thank you."

      "My name's Mr. Brennan. Mr. Petrie here will take you to the bunkhouse. If you haven't ate yet, get yourself somethin'." Brennan went into the house. Before the screen door closed, Rand caught a glimpse of a woman who had been watching them.

      Petrie walked Rand toward a ramshackle house back by the corral. "I don't like Okies like you," he said ominously, "You already interrupted my supper, an' if you step out of line just one step, I'm gonna have to beat the shit out of you. Understand?"

      "Sounds fair," Rand said affably. He doubted Petrie could do it, even though the man was taller and heavier.

      Petrie looked at Rand curiously. Drifters generally assured him that they'd give him no trouble. They didn't say it sounded fair.

      The bunkhouse was a frame building about fifty yards from the house. Its door opened into a small living room sparsely furnished with a sofa, a couple of wooden chairs, an old floorlamp, and a radio on the table. There was a pile of pulp Westerns on the floor. The kitchen held a scratched and dented Frigidaire, some worn cabinets, and a small butane stove. A table and four chairs were in the center of the room. A narrow hall lined by closed doors led to a bathroom. Every window Rand saw had the shades rolled up, and was open to catch the cool air when it came.

      A bald-headed man, his shirt soaked with sweat, came in the back door through the kitchen.

      Petrie said, "Got you a new hand, Benedict. He's an Okie just passin' through. Work his ass off."

      Petrie frowned at Rand one more time and left the bunkhouse, heading back toward Brennan's place for more fried chicken.

      Benedict, who looked to be in his early fifties, stuck out his hand. "What's your name?"

      Rand took the proffered hand and shook it. "John Rand."

      "C'mon, I'll show you where you'll bunk. Petrie threaten to whup you?"

      Rand nodded. "He do that often?"

      "All the time. Whup and threat. Does 'em both. Just loves making himself unpopular."

      Benedict opened one of the hall doors, showing Rand a room furnished with a narrow bed and a scarred chest of drawers. A wire stretched across the one corner with a couple of empty clothes hangers on it. A window looked out on the corral and a barn.

      "This is your place. There's fresh sheets and stuff in the closet. Make yourself comfortable."

      Through the window, Rand could see a young cowboy unbridling a horse in the corral.

      "Who's that?" Rand asked.

      "Doak Vance. Been with us about four months. Says he always wanted to be a cowboy." Benedict spoke with a wry humor.

      As Benedict watched, Rand hung his hat on a nail and emptied out his suitcase and put his socks and underwear in a drawer.

      "What's your job?" Rand asked.

      "I'm the foreman."

      "I thought Petrie was."

      Benedict grinned and stepped out of the door to make sure Petrie hadn't come back. "He's the old man's nephew. We get along hunky-dory. I let him act important and he lets me do all the work."

      "Nice arrangement," Rand said.

      "Aw, Tom's just your ordinary run-of-the-mill mean-as-hell, bullying horse's ass. Pay no mind to him, but don't turn your back."

      Benedict led Rand into the kitchen and introduced him to Doak, who looked about seventeen and had a good-natured smile and a tentative handshake. The young man was at the table, making a sandwich out of an inch of baloney, mustard, strips of dill pickle and two thick slices of bread.

      "Help yourself if you're hungry," Benedict said.

      Rand, who hadn't eaten since breakfast, assembled a sandwich only slightly more modest.

      Benedict made coffee in a two-quart pot, and lit the stove with a kitchen match. "What brings you here, Rand?"

      "Bad economic conditions."

      "Same as me," Benedict said. "Roosevelt's gonna pull us through eventually - I hope."

      "There was a woman looking out the screen door when I talked with Brennan. Who's she?"

      "Brennan's wife."

      "Sometimes she makes us cookies," Doak volunteered.

      "She gets a lot of guff from the boss, but she takes pretty good care of us," Benedict said. "Sees to it we eat good. There's always cold cuts in the icebox, and usually steaks, too, if you want to fry one up. There's potatoes in the cupboard you can fry, and canned vegetables. Only rule is, make sure you turn off the stove because the old man hates to waste butane. And you got to wash every dish you use. That's my rule, strictly enforced."

      Rand nodded.

      "Go out and get acquainted with that gray gelding in the corral, he's yours while you're here. But turn in early; I'll roust you out tomorrow around 6 o'clock."

      Rand went out to the corral and looked at the gelding which appeared to him to be skittish and poorly broke. Rand was not overly fond of horses. He had been kicked, bitten, and frequently thrown by them when he was a kid working on a neighbor's ranch near Fort Worth. He hadn't ridden a horse in more than twenty years, and hadn't missed it a bit, but he figured he wouldn't have a problem.

      He went back and made his bed, and waited until Doak came out of the bathroom. Then he went in and slid the cloth curtain around the ring above the tub and turned on the shower. Doak had used almost all the hot water, and what came out grew increasingly cold. But after such a hot day, Rand was comfortable with it.

      After dark the temperature dropped sharply and he lay on top of a thin blanket and thought about Noreen Hood. He had been at her house for almost an hour, and the phone hadn't rung once. When his father had died back in Dallas, he had driven home for the funeral and to help his mother, and all the while he was there the phone had rung constantly, and the house had been filled with people trying to comfort her. Neighbors had brought more casseroles than they could eat in a week. But Noreen seemed to be completely alone except for Pritchard. Then he realized that word probably wasn't out yet. The local paper wouldn't be delivered until later in the afternoon.

      He put it out of his mind, thinking instead of Hannah. Why the hell couldn't they get on better, he wondered. It sure wasn't because he wasn't crazy about her - the most independent and contrary woman he had ever seen. But they squabbled all the time. About money, about the car, about the furniture they bought. She hadn't liked his line of work because sometimes it meant sitting out all night watching a window from a car, and sometimes he had gone drinking with men (and women) she didn't like. "We're like oil and water," he thought. "Shake us real hard and we'll mix for a couple of minutes, but - we just can't stay together."

      Yet he couldn't stand this being separated. Hannah was just right for him, he thought. Beautiful, smart, and also in some deep way that wasn't visible at first, she was good. She cared about the right things.

      He was still thinking about her when he fell asleep.

      Rand was shaken awake by Petrie, fully-dressed, yelling, "Get up, goddamn you. Put your clothes on, and go over to the boss's house, pronto!" The light bulb hanging from the ceiling was on and Rand decided it was real and not a dream. He was swinging his feet off the side of the bed, ready to duck a punch and return it if necessary, when Petrie left him. Rand heard him waking up Doak the same way in the next room. At least Petrie wasn't playing favorites.

      Benedict, looking grim and old, came down the hall tucking his shirt in his pants. "Old man wants to see us all right away. I don't know what's goin' on." he said breathlessly.

      They hurried over to the main house where Brennan stood in the dim yellow glow of the porch light waiting for them. He greeted Petrie angrily. "Took you long enough."

      Petrie didn't answer.

      Brennan paced back and forth on the porch while the men stood below him on the ground. A rifle leaned against the wall behind him. The dog Rand had petted that afternoon lay dead on the porch, its throat cut, and he felt a surge of anger and sadness when he saw the dull red blood that covered its neck and chest.

      "I been robbed," Brennan said, his voice trembling with rage. "Just a few minutes ago. Three men came in and woke me up and robbed me! They took a heavy box, and made me open the safe and took all my cash. They tied me and my missus up and drove off. I want that box and I want my money back, and I want them men caught! They killed my dog!" He picked up the dog's body and held it in his arms.

      Rand thought he had never seen a madder, more excited man. It looked as though the strings that held Brennan together had all broken, and he was flying apart. Having somebody steal a box of gold from you could do that to a man. Killing his dog would make it much worse.

      "I woke up with a goddam .45 stuck up my nose," Brennan furiously. "They had cloth sacks over their heads, but their leader had on a white shirt and black pants, and black street shoes. He spoke good English, but he could of been a Mexican. Another was a broken-down old Anglo cowboy, from the way he moved. He had a piece cut out of his right boot to make room for his little toe, and he limped on that foot. The third one was a cotton picker, from the scratched up look of his hands. Mexican probably. He had on worn-out dress shoes that looked too big and were laced with string."

      His eyes rested suspiciously on Rand for a moment. Then he must have realized Rand couldn't have anything to do with it because he hadn't had the means of contacting the robbers. It was just a coincidence that he'd come along this evening.

      "Me and Petrie are going to drive down to around Canutillo right now," Brennan said. "They're probably heading for El Paso or Juarez, and if they are, we can head 'em off. Benedict, you nose around Las Cruces and Old Mesilla, and Doak - you and the new man head along the farm road to Hill, La Luz, and Dona Ana. If you find 'em, follow 'em. And when they set, come back and get me. Don't call the law for any reason. This is between me and them."

      Brennan glared from one to the other. "And -" he hesitated. "I'll give the man that finds 'em one-hundred dollars - cash! So get goin!"

      Brennan laid the dog down gently, got his rifle, and strode off the porch, with Petrie following closely. They got into Brennan's black Hudson sedan and roared off toward the highway in a cloud of exhaust smoke and dust.

      Doak, who knew the area better than Rand, got behind the wheel of a ten-year-old GMC truck and gunned it down the dirt road until they got on the main road. It was still dark, with at least another half hour before dawn. As they passed the house, Rand saw Mrs. Brennan sitting in the darkness holding a rifle, just in case the robbers came back. She looked like a woman who spent a lot of time doing things she didn't like.

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