Free Louis L'Amour by Hanging Woman Creek

out to her brother’s place.”
    It wasn’t until I’d said it that I remembered Bohlen had been one of the men who had said a lot about Farley. In fact, he had done everything but flatly accuse him of rustling.
    “Don’t take her out there,” he said, and that brusque way of his fired me up. Anyway, he wasn’t my boss.
    “She asked me, and I’m taking her,” I said.
    Roman Bohlen’s eyes turned mean. “By God, Pike, I told you—”
    “I heard you,” I interrupted, “and what I do is none of your damned business!”
    For a minute there I thought he was going to take a punch at me, but he just shrugged and said, “Take her, and be damned.”
    As I turned away I heard him say, “If he worked for me, Justin, I’d fire him.”
    “I’d play hell getting anybody else for that camp, and you damn well know it. Besides, he’s a good man.”
    “Maybe … I just wonder why he’s so willing to take the job. And he must be kind of thick with Farley to be taking that woman out there.”
    Whatever was said after that I didn’t hear, and didn’t want to hear. I was afraid I’d go back and take a punch at Roman Bohlen; and if I did, I’d get licked.
    Bohlen was as big as Butch Hogan, but a whole lot faster. Fact was, he had whipped Hogan a year or so back, and whipped him beautifully. I’d seen it.
    Right then it came to me that I’d better get busy with Eddie Holt. If he could show me something about fighting, I’d better have him do it. It was beginning to look as if I’d need it.
    When we rode out of town I wasn’t thinking about the woman beside me. I was worrying some about what Roman Bohlen had said about Farley. Bohlen was a good hater; and when he made up his mind to believe something, there was no changing him.
    Ann Farley drew a deep breath. “Oh, this air!” she exclaimed. “It’s no wonder Philo loves it. It’s such a beautiful country!”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking about the air or the country just then; I was thinking about Roman Bohlen.

CHAPTER 8

    S HE WAS SLIM and tall, and she had the kind of red hair they call auburn—a lot of it. Her eyes were almost violet, and there were a few freckles over her nose.
    “You come clear from Ireland?” I asked presently.
    “Yes.”
    “You must think a sight of him.”
    “He’s my brother,” she said. Then she added, “Although he’s almost like my father, for he always took care of me.”
    “No other kinfolk?”
    “Oh, yes, there’s Robert. He is the oldest, but he’s never been well. He was thrown from a horse when he was a boy, and he’s been crippled since.”
    We rode on, putting the miles behind us. She sat her horse well, and I was not surprised, for the Irish have many good horsewomen among them, and Philo was a fine hand with any kind of horse flesh, too. He had gentled some bad ones, and I really mean gentled. He was not given to rough-breaking them the way we in Montana did.
    She was a lady, every inch of her, I could see that, and there was something clean and fine about her that made a man look twice.
    “You took a chance,” I said, “speaking to a stranger that way.”
    She flashed me a quick smile. “But you are not exactly a stranger, Mr. Pike. You were pointed out to me. And when your name was mentioned I remembered my brother had written about you.”
    “Who pointed me out?”
    She hesitated briefly, and then said, “It was Mr. Fargo.”
    “Jim Fargo?” I was plain astonished.
    “He … he works … worked for a firm our lawyer sometimes employs. When our lawyer discovered I was coming to Miles City, he suggested I look him up. Mr. Fargo would have taken me himself, but he was busy. He pointed you out, as I’ve said.”
    We went on talking, and somehow the miles slipped away quicker than ever before. She got me to talking about myself, and I told her about Eddie, and how we met, and what he had advised, and what I had been thinking about a place of my own.
    “It won’t be no