Riding for the Brand (Ss) (1986) (2 page)

Michael Latch had been the nephew of George Baca, a half-American, half-Spanish rancher who owned a huge hacienda in California. Neither Baca nor Tony Costa had ever seen Michael. Nor had the man named Walt, who apparently was the son of George's half-brother.

The will was that of Michael's father, Thomas Latch, and conveyed to Michael the deed to a small California ranch.

From other papers and an unmailed letter, Jed discovered that the younger of the two men he had buried had been Michael Latch. The other dead man and the woman had been Randy and May Kenner. There was mention in a letter of a girl named Arden who had accompanied them.

"The Indians must have taken her with them,"

Jed muttered.

He considered trying to find her, but dismissed the idea as impractical. Looking for a needle in a haystack would at least be a local job, but trying to find one of many roving bands of Comanches would be well-nigh impossible.

Nevertheless, he would inform the army and the trading posts. Often, negotiations could be started, and for an appropriate trade in goods she might be recovered, if still living.

Then he had another idea.

Michael Latch was dead. A vast estate awaited him, a fine, comfortable, constructive life, which young Latch would have loved. Now the estate would fall to Walt, whoever he was, unless he, Jed Asbury, took the name of Michael Latch and claimed the estate.

The man who was his new boss rode in from a ride around the herd. He glanced at Jed, who was putting the letters away. "What did you say your name was?"

Only for an instant did Jed hesitate.

"Latch," he replied, "Michael Latch."

Warm sunlight lay upon the hacienda called Casa Grande. The hounds sprawling in drowsy peace under the smoke trees scarcely opened their eyes when the tall stranger turned his horse through the gate. Many strangers came to Casa Grande, and the uncertainty that hung over the vast ranch had not reached the dogs.

Tony Costa straightened his lean frame from the doorway and studied the stranger from under an eye-shielding hand.

"Senorita, someone comes!"

"Is it Walt?" Sharp, quick heels sounded on the flat stoned floor. "What will we do? Oh, if Michael were only here!"

"Today is the last day"... Costa said gloomily.

"Look"... The girl touched his arm. "Right behind him! That's Walt Seever!"

"Two men with him. We will have trouble if we try to stop him, Senorita. He would not lose the ranch to a woman."

The stranger on the black horse swung down at the steps. He wore a flat-crowned black hat and a black broadcloth suit. His boots were almost new and hand tooled, but when her eyes dropped to the guns, she gasped.

"Tony, the guns!"

The young man came up the steps, swept off his hat and bowed. "You are Tony Costa? The foreman of Casa Grande?"

The other riders clattered into the court, and their leader, a big man with bold, hard eyes, swung down. He brushed past the stranger and confronted the foreman.

"Well, Costa, today this ranch becomes mine, and you're fired!"

"I think not."

All eyes turned to the stranger. The girl's eyes were startled, suddenly cautious. This man was strong, she thought suddenly, and he was not afraid. He had a clean-cut face, pleasant gray eyes, and a certain assurance born of experience.

"If you are Walt"... The stranger said, "you can ride back where you came from. This ranch is mine. I am Michael Latch."

Fury struggled with shocked disbelief in the expression on Walt Seever's face.

"You?

Michael Latch? You couldn't be!"

"Why not?" Jed was calm. Eyes on Seever, he could not see the effect of his words on Costa or the girl. "George sent for me. Here I am."

Mingled with the baffled rage, there was something else in Walt's face, some ugly suspicion or knowledge. Suddenly Jed suspected that Walt knew he was not Michael Latch. Or doubted it vehemently.

Tony Costa had moved up beside him. "Why not? We have expected him. His uncle wrote for him, and after Baca's death, I wrote to him. If you doubt it, look at the guns. Are there two such pairs of guns in the world? Are there two men in the world who could make such guns?"

Seever's eyes went to the guns, and Jed saw doubt and puzzlement replace the angry certainty.

"I'll have to have more proof than a pair of guns!"

Jed took the letter from his pocket and passed it over. "From Tony. I also have my father's will and other letters."

Walt Seever glanced at the letter and then hurled it into the dust. "Let's get out of here!"

He started for his horse.

Jed Asbury watched them go, puzzling over that odd reaction of Walt's. Until Seever saw that letter he had been positive Jed was not Michael Latch. Now he was no longer sure. But what could have made him so positive in the beginning?

What could he know?

The girl was whispering something to Costa.

Jed turned, smiling at her. "I don't believe Walt was too happy at my being here"... He said.

"No"... Costa's expression was unrevealing, "he isn't. He expected to have this ranch for himself."

Costa turned toward the girl. "Senor Latch? I would introduce to you Sefiorita Carol James, a ward of Senor Baca's and his good friend."

Jed acknowledged the introduction.

"You must bring me up to date. I want to know all you can tell me about Walt Seever."

Costa exchanged a glance with Carol. "Of course, Senor. Walt Seever is a malo hombre, Senor. He has killed several men, he is most violent.

The men with him were Harry Strykes and Gin Feeley. They are gunmen and believed to be thieves."

Jed Asbury listened attentively, yet wondered about Carol's reaction. Did she suspect he was not Michael Latch? Did she know he was not Latch? If so, why didn't she say something?

He was surprised they had accepted him so readily for even after he had decided to take the dead man's place he had not been sure he could go through with it. He had a feeling of guilt and some shame, yet the real Michael Latch was dead, and the only man he was depriving seemed to be a thoroughly bad one whose first action would have been to fire the ranch's foreman, a man whose home had always been this hacienda.

He had made a wild ride over rough country to get here in time, but over all that distance he had debated with himself about the rights and the wrongs of his action.

He was nobody, a drifter, worker at whatever came to hand, an adventurer, if you will, but not unlike hundreds of others who came and went across the West and more often than not left their bones in the wilderness, their flesh to feed the ancient soil.

He had not known Michael Latch, or what kind of man he had been, but he suspected he had been a good man and a trusted one. Why could he not save the ranch from Walt Seever, find a home for himself at last, and be the kind of man Michael Latch would have been?

All through that wild ride west he had struggled with his conscience, trying to convince himself that what he did was the right thing. He could do Latch no harm, and Costa and Carol seemed pleased to have him here, now that he had arrived. The expression on Seever's face had been worth the ride, if nothing more.

There was something else that disturbed him.

That was Walt Seever's odd reaction when he had said he was Michael Latch.

"You say"... Jed turned to Carol, "that Seever was sure he would inherit?"

She nodded. "Yes, though until about three months ago he was hating George Baca for leaving the ranch to you. Then suddenly he changed his mind and seemed sure he would inherit, that you would never come to claim your inheritance."

It had been about three months ago that Jed Asbury had come upon the lone wagon and the murdered people, a murder he had laid to Indians.

But leaving the corpses with their clothing and the wagon unlooted did not seem like any raiding parties of which he had known.

Three people murdered could Seever have known of that? Was that why he had suddenly been sure he would inherit?

The idea took root. Seever must have known of the killings. If that was so, then the three had not been killed by Indians and a lot remained to be explained. How did the wagon happen to be alone, so far from anywhere? And what had become of the girl, Arden?

If Indians had not made the attack and carried Arden off, then somebody else had captured her, and wherever she was she would know he was not the real Michael Latch. She would know Jed Asbury, for an impostor, but she might also know who the killers were.

Walking out on the wide terrace overlooking the green valley beyond the ranch house, Jed stared down the valley, his mind filled with doubts and apprehensions.

It was a lovely land, well watered and rich.

Here, with what he knew of land and cattle, he could carry on the work George Baca had begun.

He would do what Michael Latch would have done, and he might even do it better.

There was danger, but when had he not known danger? And these people at the ranch were good people, honest people. If he did not do more than save the ranch from Seever and his lawless crowd he would have adequate reason for taking the place of the dead man. Yet he was merely finding excuses for his conduct.

The guns he wore meant something, too.

Carol had recognized them, and so had Seever.

What was their significance?

He was in deep water here. Every remark he made must be guarded. Even if they had not seen him before, there must be family stories and family tradition of which he knew nothing.

There was a movement behind him, and Jed Asbury turned. In the gathering dusk he saw Carol.

"Do you like it?" She gestured toward the valley.

"It's splendid! I have never seen anything prettier.

A man could do a lot with land like that. It could be a paradise."

"Somehow you are different than I expected."

"I am?" He was careful, waiting for her to say more.

"You're much more assured than I expected you to be. Mike was quiet. Uncle George used to say. Read a lot, but did not get around much. You startled me by the way you handled Walt Seever."

He shrugged. "A man changes. He grows older, and coming west to a new life makes a man more sure of himself. She noticed the book in his pocket. "What book do you have? She asked curiously.

It was a battered copy of Plutarch. He was on safe ground here, for on the flyleaf was written, To Michael, from Uncle George.

He showed it to her and she said, "It was a favorite of Uncle George. He used to say that next to the Bible more great men had read Plutarch than any other book."

"I like it. I've been reading it nights."... He turned to face her. "Carol, what do you think Walt Seever will do?"

"Try to kill you or have you killed"... She replied.

She gestured toward the guns. "You had better learn to use those."

"I can, a little."

He dared not admit how well he could use them, for a man does not come by such skill overnight, nor the cool nerve it takes to use them facing an armed enemy. "Seever has counted on this place, has he?"

"He has made a lot of talk."... She glanced up at him. "You know, Walt was no blood relation to Uncle George. He was the son of a woman of the gold camps who married George Baca's half-brother."

"I see."... Actually, Walt Seever's claim was scarcely better than his own. "I know from the letters that Uncle George wanted me to have the estate, but I feel like an outsider. I am afraid I may be doing wrong to take a ranch built by the work of other people. Walt may have more right to it than I. I may be doing wrong to assert my claim."

He was aware of her searching gaze. When she spoke it was deliberately and as if she had reached some decision.

"Michael, I don't know you, but you would have to be very bad, indeed, to be as dangerous and evil as Walt Seever. I would say that no matter what the circumstances, you should stay and see this through."

Was there a hint that she might know more than she admitted? Yet it was natural that he should be looking for suspicion behind every phrase. Yet he must do that or be trapped.

"However, it is only fair to warn you that you have let yourself in for more than you could expect.

Uncle George knew very well what you would be facing. He knew the viciousness of Walt Seever. He doubted you would be clever or bold enough to defeat Seever. So I must warn you, Michael Latch, that if you do stay, and I believe you should, you will probably be killed."

He smiled into the darkness. Since boyhood he had lived in proximity to death. He was not foolhardy or reckless, for a truly brave man was never reckless. He knew he could skirt the ragged edge of death if need be. He had been there before.

He was an interloper here, yet the man whose place he had taken was dead, and perhaps he could carry on in his place, making the ranch safe for those who loved it. Then he could move on and leave this ranch to Carol and to the care of Tony Costa.