The Brannon outfit -- known as the Slash-B because of its brand -- reached Hondo Creek before sundown.
The herd was watered and then thrown onto a broad grass flat which was to be the first night's bedground.
Two of the new hands, a Mexican named Jose Amado and a kid known only as Laredo, were picked for the first trick of riding night herd.

The rest of the crew offsaddled their mounts and turned them into the remuda.
They got tin cups of coffee from the big pot on the coosie's fire, rolled and lighted brown-paper cigarettes, lounged about.
There was some idle talk, a listless discussion of this or that small happening during the day's drive.
But they deliberately avoided the one subject that had them all curious: the failure of the boss's wife and son to join the outfit.
It especially bothered the older hands.

The cook, Mateo Garcia, had arrived there long before the herd.
He'd started a fire and put coffee on, and now was busy at the work board of his chuck wagon.
He was readying a batch of sourdough biscuits for the Dutch oven.
Supper would be ready within the hour.

The Maguire family was setting up a separate camp nearby.
Billie had unhitched the mules from both Tom Brannon's and his father's wagon.
Hank had gathered wood for a cookfire, and his wife was busy at it now.
Conchita kept an eye on the twins and little Elena, trying to keep them from falling into the creek by which they persisted in playing.
Conchita nagged at the younger children, attempting without success to keep her thoughts off Tom Brannon.

Tom Brannon had caught up with the outfit shortly after the Maguires joined it, which had been at midday.
He'd come alone, without his wife and child.
He'd been in an angry mood: Conchita had thought his face almost ugly with the anger in him.

She wondered what had taken place in town, between him and his wife.
She wished that she could talk to her mother about it.
Not that her mother knew what had happened, but they could speculate upon it.
But her mother would rebuke her if she mentioned it, and say that it was none of her concern.

"Pat, get out of that creek!
You too, Sean!
Elena, you'll get mud all over your dress"!

Even as she called to the children, Conchita let her gaze seek Tom Brannon.
Tomas, she called him -- as the Mexican hands did.
He was in earnest conversation with her father and the old vaquero, Luis Hernandez.
Whatever they are talking about?
Conchita wondered.

It bothered her that she probably would never know.
Certainly, she wouldn't dare ask her father afterward.
He would tell her not to pry into grownups' affairs -- as though she were a little kid like Elena!

At the moment, the three men were not saying much of anything.
They were sitting on their heels, rider-fashion, over by the still empty calf wagon.
Brannon was hunkered down with his broad back to the left rear wheel, with the other two facing him.
He held a cigarette in his right hand.
It was burning away, forgotten.
His face was clouded with unhappiness.

He'd told Hank Maguire and Luis Hernandez about his wife's refusal to come with him and about what he now intended to do.
They were considering it gravely, neither seeming to like what he planned.

Finally Hernandez said, "I could offer you advice, Tomas, but you wouldn't heed it".

"Let's hear it, anyway".

"Wait a little while.
Let Senora Brannon live in her father's house for a time.
Give her time to miss you.
Maybe she will then come to you.
After all, you want the senora as much as you want the boy.
You need her even more than you need him".

"She won't change her mind", Brannon said.
"John Clayton will see to that".

"But after a time away from you."

"A year, Luis?
Five?
Ten?
How long should I wait"?
"Maybe in a year, Tomas."

"In a year she'll like living in Clayton's house too much to come back to me", Brannon said flatly.
"And the boy will be too much under his influence by then.
I've got to take Danny away from Clayton before I lose him altogether.
Hell, in a year or five or ten, the boy will have forgotten me -- his own father"!

"But to take him and leave his mother behind is not good".

"In my place, you'd follow such advice as you give me"?

Hernandez looked suddenly uncertain.
"That I can't answer, for I can't imagine something like this happening to me.
Maybe I should withdraw my advice -- no"?

Brannon looked at Hank Maguire.
"And you?
What would you do in my place"?

Hank shook his head.
"I don't know, Tom.
Like Luis, I can't see something like this happening to me.
With Maria and me, there's never any problem.
Where I go, she goes -- and the kids with us.
You're going to need your woman.
And the boy will need his mother.
If you take the one, you'd better take both".

Brannon shook his head.
"I won't force Beth to come against her will.
But I'm going to have my son".

They were silent for a little while, each looking glum.

Finally Luis Hernandez said, "What must be, must be.
I am with you, of course, Tomas".

And Hank Maguire added, "So am I, Tom".

"All right", Brannon said, rising.
"We'll ride out as soon as we've had chuck".

Brannon timed it so that they rode in an hour after nightfall.
They had for cover both darkness and a summer storm.
During much of the fifteen-mile ride they had watched a lurid display of lightning in the sky to the east.
Later, they'd heard the rumble of thunder and then, just outside Rockfork, they ran into rain.
Those who had slickers donned them.
The others put on old coats or ducking jackets, whichever they carried behind their saddle cantles.

There were seven of them, enough for a show of strength -- to run a bluff.
It was to be nothing more than that.
There was to be no gunplay.
If the bluff failed and they ran into trouble, Brannon had told the others, they would withdraw -- and he would come after his son another time.
He didn't want to put himself outside the law.

With him were Hank Maguire, Luis Hernandez, and Luis's son Pedro.
The Ramirez brothers were also along.
The seventh man was Red Hogan, a wiry little puncher with a wild streak and a liking for hell-raising.
They were all good men.

It was dark early, because of the storm.
Also because of the storm, the streets of Rockfork were deserted.
Lighted windows glowed jewel-bright through the downpour.
They reined in before the town marshal's office, a box-sized building on Main Street.
A lamp burned inside, but Brannon, peering through the window, saw that the office was empty.
He'd hoped to catch Jesse Macklin there.

"Probably just stepped out", he said.
"Maybe to have supper.
Red, come along.
The rest of you wait here".

With Red Hogan, he rode to the Welcome Cafe.
Hogan got down from the saddle and had a look inside.
"Not there", he said, getting back onto his horse.
"Maybe he's at the hotel".

They rode to the Rockfork House, a little farther along the opposite side of the street.
They reined in there, Brannon remaining in the saddle while Hogan went to look for Jesse Macklin in the hotel dining room.
Brannon had no slicker.
He'd put on his old brown corduroy coat and it was already soaked.
But he felt no physical discomfort.
He was only vaguely aware of the sluicing rain.
He hardly noticed the blue-green flashes of lightning and the hard claps of thunder.

Hogan reappeared, stopped on the hotel porch, lifted a hand in signal.
Brannon dismounted and climbed the steps.

"He's finished eating", Hogan said.
"Sitting with a cup of coffee now.
It shouldn't be long".

It seemed long, at least to Tom Brannon.
He and Hogan waited by the door, one to either side.
Macklin was the third man to come out, and he came unhurriedly.
He was puffing on a cigar, and he was turning up his coat collar against the rain.
It was not until he moved across the porch that he became aware of them, and then it was too late.
They closed in fast, kept him from reaching inside his coat for his gun.

"Just come along", Brannon told him.
"Don't start anything you can't finish".

"Now, listen" -- Macklin began.

"We'll talk over at your office".

"Brannon, I warn you"!
"Let's go, Marshal", Brannon said, and took him by the arm.

Hogan gripped the lawman's other arm.
They escorted him down from the porch and through the rain to his office.
The other five Slash-B men followed them inside, crowding the small room.
His face was stiff with anger when they let go of his arms.
He looked at each of them in turn, Brannon last of all.

"I'll remember you", he said.
"Every last one of you.
As for you, Brannon" --

"Put your gun on the desk, Marshal".

"Now, hold on, damn it;
I won't" --

Red Hogan's patience ran out.
He lifted the skirt of Macklin's coat, took his gun from its holster, tossed it onto the desk.
"Too much fooling around", he said.
"Don't press your luck, badge-toter".

Brannon said, "Now the key to the lockup, Marshal".

"Key"?
Macklin said.
"What for"?

"Can't you guess"?
Brannon said.
"We're putting you where you won't come to harm.
Come on -- the key.
Get it out"!

"Damned if I will.
Brannon, you've assaulted a law officer and" --

They moved in on him, crowded him from all sides.
No man laid a hand on him, but the threat of violence was there.
His face took on a sudden pallor, became beaded with sweat, and he seemed to have trouble with his breathing.
He held out a moment longer, then his nerve gave under the pressure.

He swore, and said, "All right.
It's here in my pocket".

"Get it out", Brannon ordered.
Then, as Macklin obeyed: "Now let's go out back".

Resignedly, Macklin turned to the back door.
They followed him into the rain and across to the squat stone building fifty feet to the rear.
The door of the lockup was of oak planks and banded with strap iron.
It was secured by an oversized padlock.
Macklin balked again, not wanting to unlock and open the door.
They crowded him in that threatening way once more, forced him to give in.
Once the door was open, they crowded him inside the dark building.
He was uttering threats in a low but savage voice when they closed and padlocked the door.

They returned to the street, mounted their horses, rode through the rain to the big house on Houston Street.
Its windows glowed with lamplight.
Deputy Marshal Luke Harper still stood guard on the veranda, a forlorn, scarecrowish figure in the murky dark.
He came to the edge of the veranda, peered down at them with his hand on his gun.

"Don't try it", Brannon told him, dismounting and starting up the steps with his men following.
"Don't get yourself killed for something that doesn't concern you".

He strode past the now frightened man, entered the house.
Miguel and Arturo Ramirez remained on the veranda to keep Harper from interfering.
The others followed Brannon inside.
They trailed him across the wide hallway to the parlor, four roughly garbed and tough-looking men who probably had never before ventured into such a house.
They brought to it all the odors that clung to men like themselves, that of their own sweat, of campfire smoke, of horses and cattle.
They tracked mud on the oaken floor, on the carpet.
Their presence fouled the elegance of that room.

And their arrival caught John Clayton and Charles Ansley off guard.