down a calf-killing wolf. So he let Uncle Jeff go to town alone, though he made sure my uncle left his gun at home.
Tobe Farrington waited around till the dance had been a good while. That way, when he did show up he would get more attention. And get it he did. Folks said the hall fell almost dead silent when Farrington walked in. Dancers all stopped. Everything stopped but the old fiddler, and his eyes were so bad he couldn’t tell a horse from a pig at forty feet. Farrington just stood there till he spotted Uncle Jeff over by the punch bowl. Then he saw Delia Larrabee sitting at the south wall, waiting for Uncle Jeff to fetch her some punch. Farrington walked over, bowed and said, “You’re the prettiest girl in the crowd. I believe I’ll have this dance.”
Uncle Jeff came hurrying back. He had his fists clenched, but Delia Larrabee shook her head at him to make him stop. She stood up right quick and held up her hands as a sign to Farrington that she would dance with him. She knew what Farrington really wanted. To refuse him would have meant a fight.
But Farrington didn’t mean to be stopped. When that tune ended, he kept hold of her hand and forced her into another dance. Uncle Jeff took a step or two forward, like he was going to interfere, but she waved him off. That dance finally ended, but Farrington didn’t let her go. When the fiddle started, he began dancing with her again. Uncle Jeff had had enough. He hollered at the fiddler to stop the music.
By that time nobody was dancing but Farrington and Delia Larrabee, anyway. Everybody else had pulled back, waiting.
Uncle Jeff walked up to Farrington with his face red. “All right, I’m callin’ your hand. Turn her loose.”
Farrington gripped her fingers a little tighter. “This is too pretty a gal to waste her time with a little greasy-sack rancher like you. I’m takin’ over.”
Uncle Jeff’s picture shows that he had a powerful set of shoulders. When he swung his fist on somebody, it left a mark. Tobe Farrington landed flat on his back. By instinct he dropped his hand to his hip. But he had had to check his pistol at the door, same as everybody else. With a crooked grin that spelled murder, he pushed to his feet.
Delia Larrabee had her arms around Uncle Jeff and was trying to hold him back. “Jeff, he means to kill you!”
Uncle Jeff put her aside and looked Tobe Farrington in the eye. “I left my gun at home.”
Farrington said flatly, “You could go and get it.”
“All right. I will.”
Farrington frowned. “On second thought, Barclay, it’d still be nighttime when you got back. Night’s a poor time for good shootin’. So I tell you what. I’m goin’ home. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll come back to town. Say at five o’clock. If you still feel like you got guts enough, you can meet me on the street. We’ll finish this right.” His eyes narrowed. “But if you decide not to meet me, you better clear out of this country. I’ll be lookin’ around for you.”
They were near the door, where the guns were checked. Farrington took his, strapped the belt around his waist, then drew the pistol. “So there’s no misunderstandin’, Barclay, I want you to see what I can do.”
Thirty feet across the dancehall was a cardboard notice with the words FORT STOCKTON. Farrington brought up the pistol, fired once and put a bullet hole through the first O. Women screamed as the shot thundered and echoed.
Uncle Jeff waited a few seconds, till the thick smoke cleared. “Let me see that thing a minute,” he said. Farrington hesitated, then handed it to him. Uncle Jeff fired twice and put holes through the other two Os.
Folks always said afterward that Farrington looked as if he had swallowed a cud of chewing tobacco. He hadn’t realized Uncle Jeff was that good.
Uncle Jeff said, “I’ll be here. Just be sure you show up.” Right then he would have taken on Wild Bill Hickok.
He didn’t go home that night. He knew Papa would argue and plead with him, and he didn’t want to put up with it. He stayed in town with friends. Next morning he was out on the open prairie beyond Comanche Spring, practicing with a borrowed pistol.
Delia Larrabee had tried a while to reason with him. She told him she would go anywhere with him—California…Mexico—if he would just go, and do it right now. But Uncle Jeff had his mind made up. He would have done this a long time ago if it hadn’t been for Papa. So Delia got her father to take her out in a buckboard in the dark hours of early morning to tell Papa what had happened.
“You’ve got to do something,” she cried. “You’re the only one who can talk to Jeff.”
Papa studied about it a long time. But he knew Uncle Jeff. The only way Papa would be able to stop him now would be to hog-tie him. And he couldn’t keep him tied forever.
“I’ll try to think of something,” Papa promised, “but I doubt that anything will stop it now. You’d best go on home.” There was a sadness about him, almost a giving up. He sat at his table a long time, sipping black coffee and watching the morning sun start to climb. It came to him that Farrington was only doing a job for Port Hubbard, and all that Port Hubbard really wanted was to see the Barclay brothers leave the country. If it came to that, Papa had rather have had Uncle Jeff alive than to own the best eight sections in Pecos County.
He knew Jeff wouldn’t listen to him. But maybe Farrington would.
Papa saddled up and started for the frame shack on Farrington’s four sections. He still had the saddle gun he had used for hunting the wolf. He didn’t really intend to use it. But there was always a chance Farrington might decide to make a clean sweep of the Barclay brothers while he was at it.
Not all the wolves had four legs.
Farrington’s shack had originally been a line camp for Hubbard on land inside Papa’s claim. When Papa took up the land, Hubbard had jacked the little house up and hauled it out on two wagons. The only thing left on the old campsite was a ruined cistern, surrounded by a little fence to keep stock from falling in. Papa had always intended to come over and fill it up, when he had time.
Now, he thought, there won’t be any need to fill it up. It’ll be Hubbard’s again.
He saw smoke curling upwards from the tin chimney, and he knew Farrington was at home. “Farrington,” Papa called, “it’s me, Henry Barclay. I’ve come to talk to you.”
Farrington was slow about showing himself, and he came out wearing his gun. Distrust showed all over him. His hand was close to the gun butt, and it went even closer when Papa’s horse turned so that Farrington saw the saddle gun.
“It’s past talkin’ now, Barclay. There was a time we could’ve worked this out. But not anymore.”
“We still could,” Papa said. “What if we give you what Hubbard wants? What if we sell our land to him and clear out?”
Farrington frowned. “Why should I care what Hubbard wants?”
“We don’t have to play games, Farrington. I know what you came for, and you know I know it. So now you’ve won. Leave my brother alone.”
“You’re speakin’ for yourself. But your brother may not see it your way.”
“He will, even if I have to tie him up and haul him clear to California in a wagon.”
Farrington
