He sat down. “I tire quicker than I once did. So you’re Gentry! Betty London told me about you. She thought you were dead. There was a rumor that you’d been killed by the Indians in Wyoming.”

“No, I came out all right. What I want to know, rememberin’ yuh said yuh were a lawyer, is what kind of a claim they have on my ranch?”

“A good one, unfortunately. While you and your uncle were gone, and most of the other men in the locality, several of these men came in and began to brand cattle. After branding a good many, they left. They returned and began working around, about the time you left, and then they ordered your uncle off.

“He wouldn’t go, and they took the case to court. There were no lawyers then, and your uncle tried to handle it himself. The judge was their man, and suddenly half a dozen witnesses appeared and were sworn in. They testified that the land had been taken and held by Soderman, Olney and Hardin.

“They claimed their brands on the cattle asserted their claim to the land, to the home ranches of both London and Gentry. The free range was something else, but with the two big ranches in their hands, and the bulk of the free range lying beyond their holdings, they were in a position to freeze out the smaller ranchers. They established a squatter’s right to each of the big ranches.”

“Can they do that?” Tack demanded. “It doesn’t seem fair!”

“The usual thing is to allow no claim unless they have occupied the land for twenty years without hindrance, but with a carpetbag court, they go about as they please. Judge Weaver is completely in Van Hardin’s hands, and your Uncle John was on the losing side of this war.”

“How did Uncle John get killed?” Tack asked.

Childe shrugged. “They said he called Soderman a liar and Soderman went for his gun. Your uncle had a gun on him when they found him. It was probably a cold-blooded killing because Gentry planned on a trip to Austin and was going to appeal the case.”

“Have yuh seen Bill London lately?”

“Only once since the accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yes, London was headed for home, dozing along in the buckboard as he always did, when his team ran away with him. The buckboard overturned and London’s back was injured. He can’t ride any more, and can’t sit up very long at a time.”

“Was it really an accident?” Tack wanted to know.

Childe shrugged. “I doubt it. We couldn’t prove a thing. One of the horses had a bad cut on the hip. It looked as if someone with a steel tipped bull whip had hit the animal from beside the road.”

“Thorough,” Tack said. “They don’t miss a beat.”

Childe nodded. Leaning back in his chair he put his feet on the desk. He studied Tack Gentry thoughtfully. “You know, you’ll be next. They won’t stand for you messing around. I think you already have them worried.”

Tack explained about the man following him, then handed the note to Childe. The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm, sounds like they had some reason to soft pedal the whole thing for awhile. Maybe it’s an idea for us. Maybe somebody is coming down here to look around, or maybe somebody has grown suspicious.”

Tack looked at Childe thoughtfully. “What’s your position in all this?”

The tall man shrugged, then laughed lightly. “I’ve no stake at all, Gentry. I didn’t know London or your Uncle John, either. But I heard rumors, and I didn’t like the attitude of the local bosses, Hardin and Olney. I’m just a burr under the saddle with which they ride this community, no more. It amuses me to needle them, and they are afraid of me.”

“Got any clients?”

“Clients?” Anson Childe chuckled. “Not a one! Not likely to have any, either! In a country so throttled by one man as this is, there isn’t any litigation. Nobody can win against him, and they are too busy hating Hardin to want to have trouble with each other.” “Well, then,” Tack said, “yuh’ve got a client now. Go down to Austin, demand an investigation. Lay the facts on the table for them. Maybe yuh can’t do any good, but at least yuh can stir up a lot of trouble. The main thing will be to get people talking. They evidently want quiet, so we’ll give them noise.

“Find out all you can. Get some detectives started on Hardin’s trail. Find out who they are, who they were, and where they came from.”

Childe sat up. “I’d like it,” he said ruefully, “but I don’t have that kind of money.” He gestured at the room. “I’m behind on my rent here. Red owns the building, so he lets me stay.”

Tack grinned and unbuttoned his shirt, drawing out a money belt. “I sold some cattle up north.” He counted out one thousand dollars. “Take that. Spend all or any part of it, but create a smell down there. Tell everybody about the situation here.”

Childe got up, his face flushed with enthusiasm. “Man! Nothing could please me more! I’ll make it hot for them! I’ll—” He went into a fit of coughing, and Tack watched him gravely.

Finally Childe straightened. “You’re putting your trust in a sick man, Gentry!”

“I’m putting my trust in a fighter,” Tack said drily. “Yuh’ll do!” He hesitated briefly. “Also, check the title on this land.” They shook hands silently, and Tack went to the door. Softly, he opened it and stepped out into the cool night. Well, for better or worse the battle was opened. Now for the next step. He came down off the wooden stair, then walked to the street. There was no one in sight. Tack Gentry crossed the street and pushed through the swinging doors of the Longhorn.

The saloon and dance hall was crowded. A few were familiar faces, but they were sullen faces, lined and hard. The faces of bitter men, defeated, but not whipped. The others were new faces, the hard, tough faces of gun hands, the weather beaten punchers who had come in to take the new jobs. He pushed his way to the bar.

There were three bartenders now, and it wasn’t until he ordered that the squat, fat man glanced down the bar and saw him. His jaw hardened and he spoke to the bartender who was getting a bottle to pour Gentry’s rye.

The bartender, a lean, sallow faced man, strolled back to him. “We’re not servin’ you,” he said, “I got my orders!”

Tack reached across the bar, his hand shooting out so fast the bartender had no chance to withdraw. Catching the man by his stiff collar, two fingers inside the collar and their knuckles jammed hard into the man’s Adam’s apple, he jerked him to the bar. “Pour!” he said.

The man tried to speak, but Tack gripped harder and shoved back on the knuckles. Weakly, desperately, his face turning blue, the man poured. He slopped out twice what he got in the glass, but he poured. Then Tack shoved hard and the man brought up violently against the backbar.

Tack lifted his glass with his left hand, his eyes sweeping the crowd, all of whom had drawn back slightly. “To honest ranchers!” he said loudly and clearly and downed his drink.

A big, hard-faced man shoved through the crowd. “Maybe yuh’re meaning some of us ain’t honest?” he suggested.

“That’s right!” Tack Gentry let his voice ring out in the room, and he heard the rattle of chips cease, and the shuffling of feet died away. The crowd was listening. “That’s exactly right! There were honest men here, but they were murdered or crippled. My Uncle John Gentry was murdered. They tried to make it look like a fair and square killin’, they stuck a gun in his hand!”

“That’s right!” A man broke in. “He had a gun! I seen it!” Tack’s eyes shifted. “What hand was it in?”

“His right hand!” the man stated positively, belligerently. “I seen it!”

“Thank you, pardner!” Tack said politely. “The gun was in John Gentry’s right hand—and John Gentry’s right hand had been paralyzed ever since Shiloh!”

“Huh!” The man who had seen the gun stepped back, his face whitening a little.

Somebody back in the crowd shouted out, “That’s right! You’re durn tootin’ that’s right! Never could use a rope, ’count of it!”