Free Novel 1956 - Silver Canyon (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

up and left. I knew that out on the street they would be talking…about how I’d eaten at the same table with Maclaren and Canaval, how I’d told off Morgan Park—and that I was looking for the killers of old man Ball.
    Canaval finished his meal and sat back, rolling a smoke.
    â€œHow was it with Rollie?”
    So I told him and he listened, smoking thoughtfully. He would fill in the blank spaces, he would see what happened in his mind’s eye.
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œBack to the Two-Bar.”
    Maclaren’s face mottled. He was a man easy to anger, I could see that.
    â€œGet out…you’ve no right to that ranch. Get out and stay out.”
    â€œSorry…I’m staying. Don’t let a little power swell your head, Maclaren. You can’t dictate to me. I’m staying…the Two-Bar is mine. I’ll keep it.
    â€œFurthermore, I’d rather not have trouble with you. You are the father of the girl I’m going to marry.”
    â€œI’ll see you in hell first!” This was what he had said to me before.
    I got to my feet and put a coin on the table to pay for my meal. The shave and haircut, the meal and the rest had made me feel better. But I was still weak, and I tired fast.
    Katie O’Hara was watching me, and as I turned toward the door she was smiling. It was good to see a friendly smile. Key Chapin had said nothing, just listened and waited.
    Outside the door I looked carefully along the street. By now they would know I was in town. I saw no CP horses, but that meant nothing, so turning, I walked up the street, then went down the alley and to my horse.
    There was a man waiting for me, sitting on the back steps of the barber shop. He had a face like an unhappy monkey and his head as bald as a bottle. He looked up at me.
    â€œBy the look of you, you’ll be Matt Brennan.”
    His shoulders were as wide as those of Morgan Park himself, but he was inches shorter than I. He could not have been much over five feet tall, but he would weigh an easy two hundred pounds, and there was no fat on him. His neck was like a column of oak, his hands and wrists were massive.
    â€œKatie O’Hara was tellin’ me you were needin’ a man at the Two-Bar. Now, I’m a handy sort. Gunsmith by trade, but a blacksmith, carpenter, holster, and a bit of anything you’ll need.”
    â€œThere’s a fight on.”
    â€œThe short end of a fight always appealed to me.”
    â€œDid Katie O’Hara send you?”
    â€œShe did that, and she’d be takin’ it unkindly of me if I showed up without the job.”
    â€œYou’re Katie’s man, then?”
    His eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid there’s no such. She’s a broth of a woman, that Katie.” He looked up at me. “Is it a job I have?”
    â€œWhen I get the ranch back.”
    â€œThen let’s be gettin’ it back.”
    He led my horse and a mule from the stable. The mule was a zebra dun with a face full of sin and deviltry. He had a tow sack tied before the saddle, another behind. He got into the saddle and sat by while I mounted.
    â€œMy name is Brian Mulvaney, call me what you like.”
    Two gun butts showed above his boot tops. He touched them, grinning wisely.
    â€œThese are the Neal Bootleg pistol, altered to suit my taste. The caliber is .35, and they shoot like the glory of God.”
    â€œNow this,” and he drew from his waistband a gun that needed only wheels to make it an admirable piece of artillery, “this was a Mills .75. Took me two months’ work off and on, but I’ve converted her to a four-shot revolver. A fine gun.”
    All of seventeen inches long, it looked fit to break a man’s wrist with recoil, but Mulvaney had the hands and wrists to handle it. Certainly, a man once blasted with such a cannon would never need a doctor.
    Mulvaney was the sort of man to have on your side. I’d seen enough of