Marauders' Moon Read Online Free PDF

broken-arched gait that was little more than a creep. A bulbous, purple-veined nose was ample testimony to his drinking habits, but for all of that, his bleared eyes were shrewd, his comments, made in a thick, whisky-muted voice, dry and sharp. His derby was green with age, and he wore it squarely on his bald head.
    Webb looked over the horse Tolleston hired for him. It was a bay, chunky, big of chest, a stayer.
    â€œI’ll send it back tomorrow, Iron Hat,” Tolleston said.
    â€œYou better trade him,” Iron Hat said lazily, indicating Webb.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIf he ever gets out of gun range with his horse you’ll play hell catchin’ him on that nag of yours.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with my horse?” Tolleston demanded belligerently.
    â€œNothin’. Only the bay is better. You better trade him.”
    Tolleston said grimly, “He won’t get out of gun range.”
    â€œNo, but I reckon he’d feel a lot better if you took the best horse. So would I,” Iron Hat said. He turned to Webb. “I’ll pasture your roan.” And he turned and walked away, leaving Tolleston grim-jawed and surly.
    Once away from Wagon Mound, riding through a rolling country whose rises were stippled with scrub piñon and cedar, Webb observed the country with the practiced eyes of a cowman. The grama grass was thick and deep, and while many of the arroyos they crossed were dry, a good many more ran water, and lots of it. It was typically good range of the Southwest, with the exception that it had a wealth of water along with its shelter and feed. Far to the north and west, thrusting their jagged peaks to the cavalcade of swollen clouds, lay the Frying Pans. Their lower reaches were black in the distance, indicating full timber, but halfway up their slopes it gave way to gaunt and barren rock, as if the desert beyond were waging a war which had already won it the peaks and half the slopes.
    Fat, solid cattle spooked away from them, and once, surprising a cow with her calf as they climbed out of an arroyo, their horses were chased a short way. As the cow stopped, regarding herself the victor, Tolleston smiled, and Webb expected him to comment on the shape of the stuff they had seen.
    Instead, Tolleston said, “What brung you into that gang over in Wintering, Cousins?”
    â€œHell with you,” Webb said calmly.
    Tolleston ignored this. He said, “Ever work on a cow outfit?”
    â€œSome.”
    â€œBreak horses?”
    â€œA few.”
    â€œAny job you can’t do around an average spread?”
    â€œCook for money.”
    â€œGood,” Tolleston said. “I don’t reckon you’ll have to here.”
    They did not speak again until late afternoon, when they had forked off three separate wagon roads, each time the trail becoming fainter. Then, topping a rocky rise, Tolleston pulled up and waved off to the north. “That’s the Broken Arrow,” he said, not without pride.
    Before them, at one edge of a deep and wide, grassy valley knifed by a willow-bordered creek, lay the ranch buildings of the Broken Arrow. To Webb, who had traveled through a large part of cattle land, the place spoke to him in his own language. The house itself was a two-story stone affair with a gallery running across the front, and adobe wings branching off on either side. Giant cottonwoods cast their lace umbrellas over it, leaving it deep in shade. Off to the north lay the cluster of sheds and corrals, all solid, all well kept. Between the two lay the long adobe bunk house and cook shack adjoining. All of it had been built for an eye to utility, yet it had achieved a kind of rough beauty that was not all age, and it made Webb look again at Tolleston.
    Afterward, riding through the valley and crossing the plank bridge that spanned the creek in front of the house, Webb saw that it held as much as it promised. While all of it had the indolent, mellow air of a