"So?"

"You won't get no help in this town." He took a taste of his whiskey and shuddered as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "The merchants are all for the Texans, but the farmers and land speculators are against them."

Madison took a deep swallow from his gla.s.s. He didn't know what was worse, teasing himself about Fern or listening to this hayseed ramble on about the close-held sentiments of the citizens of Abilene.

"'Course, you can't blame the farmers, not when your herds trample their fields."

"More crops are destroyed by your own people wintering over longhorns than by Texas herds," Madison told the man. "Besides, the drovers pay for the damage their herds do." He knew because he had asked. He hadn't spent all his time in Abilene running afoul of his family and Fern Sproull.

"Sure you do, but it don't make the farmers like you 'cause of it."

Obstinate people. You'd think they wouldn't care what happened to their crops as long as they got paid for them. But that was the att.i.tude he'd seen everywhere since he got here. All temper and emotion. n.o.body seemed capable of rational thinking.

That described himself as well when he was around Fern. He couldn't understand how she could get to him so easily. Usually he was an even-tempered man not p.r.o.ne to senseless outbursts.

"You think your brother did it?"

"Would I be here if I did?"

"Sure. Blood's thicker than water."

"Not always," Madison said, remembering George's chilly greeting and Hen's open animosity.

"Who do you think done it?"

Madison looked deep into his gla.s.s. He had no idea who had killed Troy, and he wasn't likely to find out as long as the killer thought he was safe. Even if he could prove that Hen had been elsewhere the night of the murder, the killer only had to remain quiet and no one would ever discover his ident.i.ty. Something had to be done to cause him to make a mistake, and maybe this talkative hayseed was just the person to make the murderer believe that his secret was no longer safe.

"Can you keep this-close to your vest?" Madison asked in a conspiratorial tone.

"Won't utter a peep," the man a.s.sured him, his eyes alive with curiosity.

Chapter Eight.

''I've been looking around the Connor farm, and things don't add up the way they're supposed to," Madison confided. "I think somebody killed Troy Sproull somewhere else, took his body to the Connor place, and then tried to blame it on Hen."

The man's eyes grew wide with surprise. "Who?"

"That's what I've got to find out. Do you know anybody who wanted Troy Sproull dead?"

The man's sharp bark of laughter caused several heads to turn. "Just about everybody in d.i.c.kinson County," he said, dropping his voice into a whisper. "Troy was real mean, and he'd cheat his mother. n.o.body liked him. Not even his uncle."

Great. I've got a murder victim the whole state of Kansas wanted to see dead.

"Baker Sproull fired him sometime back in the spring. Troy swore he'd kill him for it, but n.o.body took him serious. He was always wearing to kill somebody. Can't think of anybody who liked him."

"Fern Sproull thinks he was some kind of saint."

"He weren't too nice to her either, but she always did take his part. Never could figure it."

Neither could Madison. He tried to pay attention as the man rambled on, relating one disreputable incident from Troy's past after another, adding name after name to the list of people who had a grievance against him, but he found nothing more than petty irritations. And no one seemed to have a reason to try to blame the murder on Hen.

Instead of listening, Madison found himself wondering why anyone as rigidly moral as Fern Sproull would champion a man who apparently had no morals at all.

" . . . hated Buzz Carleton. They bristled at the sight of each other . . ."

Why did Fern like her cousin so much? Or maybe more accurately, why did she dislike Hen, or the Randolphs, or Texans, so much she wanted to see Hen hang whether he was guilty or not?

" . . . surprised when he went to work for Sam Belton. Never figured Troy to be a draw for farmers looking to buy land. More likely to shoot them for trying to fence in the range . . ."

Two men came up to the bar, a cross between farmers and cowhands, if Madison was to judge by the look of them. He moved over to give them room.

"If you need to know anything about anybody else, you just ask me," Madison's companion continued. "I was here when the buffalo still crowded the plains. Ain't n.o.body I don't know something about."

"Who're you talking to, Amos?" one of the newcomers asked.

"This here's George Randolph's brother," Amos said rather proudly. "You're drunk," the man replied. "Hen Randolph is in jail."

"This ain't Hen. It's another brother."

"I know them Randolphs breed like rabbits, but the rest of them is still in Texas."

"I'm Madison Randolph," Madison said, "and any resemblance I may have to a rabbit is probably due to the quality of whiskey in this establishment."

"This is Reed Landusky," Amos informed Madison. "He owns a place next to Baker Sproull. He and Pike sometimes work for Fern."

Madison turned back to Reed only to find him in whispered conversation with Pike.

"That's got to be him, I tell you," the medium-sized dirty blond was saying to Reed. "It couldn't be n.o.body else."

"Fern wouldn't go off with n.o.body who looks like a squirrel."

"You seem to be on terms with an unusual number of rodents," Madison observed.

"Are you the dude who brung Fern back so banged and bruised she can't ride?"

"I'm the dude who brought her back to town after she fell off her horse," Madison said.

"Fern never fell off no horse," Pike stated emphatically. "She rides like she was born on one."

"Perhaps she was reborn since you saw her," Madison said.

"A smart one, are you?"

"I have it on good authority that that has been one of my failings since childhood."

He ought to leave before he said something that would cause trouble. The more he drank, the sharper his tongue became.

He got that from his father.

But a stubborn streak wouldn't let Madison stir from the spot. It was unthinkable he should run from anybody. If Reed and Pike wanted trouble, they could have it.

He got that from his father, too, and neither Harvard nor Boston had been able to take it out of him. He sometimes wondered if it ever could.

"Maybe you thought there was nothing wrong with having a little fun with the local females while you were here," Reed said.

Madison was stunned that any stranger would presume to pa.s.s public judgment on his morals, but he was infuriated they would so thoughtlessly include Fern in their loose talk.

"I'm not familiar with local customs, but it's not my habit to abduct innocent females to satisfy my carnal appet.i.tes. Nor, I'm certain, is Miss Sproull in the habit of allowing herself to be abducted."

Reed pushed up against Madison, jostling his hand, causing him to spill his brandy.

"You're about to find out one custom we got hereabouts."

"What's that?" Madison inquired. "Rudeness or clumsiness?"

"We don't take kindly to fancy swells. .h.i.tting on our women," Reed said, crowding Madison a little more. Pike positioned himself on the other side.

Madison was hemmed in.

He felt an upsurge of energy, a feeling almost of euphoria rising in him. In Boston he would have had to control his anger and work it out in the boxing ring. Here there was no such restraint. He felt his muscles gather, his grip tighten on his gla.s.s. He was ready to fight.

"Miss Sproull suffered no harm at my hands. She fell when her horse stumbled. I brought her to town because her father was away from home."

"The last dude who tried something like that was carried out of here on his back," Reed said. I have every intention of walking," Madison said. He could feel antic.i.p.ation in every limb. He wanted the fight. He wanted it now.

Reed grabbed a handful of Madison's shirt. "I'm going to wipe the floor with you. When I get through there won't be enough for your brother to sweep up."

Madison felt the dead calm he always felt before a boxing match. His concentration narrowed until nothing existed for him except Reed. "Remove your hand, or I shall remove it for you."

"You remove it for me," Reed said, laughing. "Did you hear that, Pike? He's going to remove it for me. And how do you propose to do that?"

"Like this."

Reed looked mystified when Madison merely grasped the wrist of the hand holding Madison's shirt. But the moment Madison found the exact pressure point he was seeking and his fingers closed in a viselike grip, Reed turned dead white. The veins stood out on his neck as he struggled to keep his hold, but it was useless. His hand popped open like a lock when the key is turned. The men in the saloon stared at him in disbelief.

"Now I would appreciate it if you would drink your whiskey and leave," Madison said, smoothing his shirt.

"I'm going to kill you," Reed exploded.

"Allow me to remove my coat first," Madison said.

"It don't matter what you're wearing. You're going to be dead."

"He's the best fighter in town," Amos warned as Madison took off his coat, folded it with great care, and placed it on the bar. "He'll murder you."

"You ain't doing it in here," the bartender objected. "Aw, let him, Ben," one of the customers asked. "He won't last long, and we ain't had no fun in days."

"You'll pay for anything you break."

"We'll take it out of his pockets before we throw him into the street."

Madison could feel exhilaration in every part of his body. This must have been the way his father felt when he was about to fight. No fear, no worry, just barely-contained antic.i.p.ation.

"Who wants to go first?" Madison asked.

"Don't make no difference," Amos predicted gloomily. "Either one of 'em will kill you."

"He's mine," Reed said, coming at Madison with a rush.

I want every man in this room to understand that Miss Sproull received no harm at my hands," Madison announced to the spectators as he easily danced away from Reed. "And that I intend to batter this man's face in for impugning her reputation."

"Stand still and fight," Reed shouted. He charged Madison again.

The series of blows that landed on Reed's chin came with blinding rapidity. Reed tried to overpower Madison with his greater size and strength, but he couldn't pin him down. Pike started to enter the fray when it became clear that Reed was getting the worst of it, but the bartender held him back with a shotgun pointed at his belly.

"He asked for it. Now you let him get all he can stand."

He didn't stand long. Less than two minutes later Reed was on the floor.

"What did you do to him?" Pike demanded. "You musta done something. You couldn't never beat Reed in a fair fight."

I didn't do anything except apply some scientific knowledge of boxing," Madison told him. "I went through three years at Harvard without defeat."

"You won't go much longer," Pike said, and reached for his gun.

Faster than the eye could follow, Madison charged Pike and they both went down in a heap. The sound of the gun discharging in the close confines of the saloon reverberated in everyone's ears, and Pike slumped to the floor. Madison got to his feet. The gun slid from Pike's slackened grip.

"You killed him," the bartender said, swinging his shotgun toward Madison. "You jumped him and killed him."

"It has apparently escaped your notice that I'm not armed."

"You killed him with his own gun," one of the onlookers shouted.

"Let's lynch him!"

The chorus of a.s.sent was deafening.

"Anybody got a rope?"

"I got one outside on my saddle."

"Get it. Well hang him from the rafter."