Raw Land Read Online Free

scowled.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œI wish I knew,” Becky said. “I’m only telling you. And warning you, too. Because Dad can’t stop Pres. And Pres hates you.”
    â€œThanks,” Will said.
    The conversation was switched to other things, and Will listened carefully for further light on what had been said. But Becky Case wouldn’t talk about it any more. It was as if she had only wanted to tell him everything she knew, so he might be warned.
    It was almost noon when the shape of the country began to change. Clay dunes and long ugly limestone outcrops began to appear along the road, and the trees were stunted and discouraged-looking. This was the first hint of the Sevier Brakes, that wide, bleak wasteland of myriad canyons, of fantastic wind erosions, of sparse grass, and of mysterious trails that few men knew. It was hot here, shut off from the breezes of the bench, and the faint wagon road twisted and turned into rougher country. Will recalled Chap’s description of it last night. “It’s worn out, dead, evil,” and thought how right he was.
    And then, almost at high noon, the team climbed a steep grade that put them on a short and bare mesa, and from its farther edge they could see Will’s place, the Pitchfork brand.
    It lay on the bare floor of a bleak valley backed up against a red-clay ridge, a black cut of a canyon to the west. The house itself was stone, with slab wings and a slab roof that had taken on the color of the red clay of the canyon floor. It was ugly, with no vegetation except an occasional mesquite bush around it. It lay there raw and naked under the high sun—the house, a root cellar dug into the slope of the ridge, a wagon shed, a windmill, and the rickety barns and corrals bleached a bone-white and tinted also with the dust of the red clay.
    Becky Case studied it in silence and looked obliquely at Will.
    â€œI can’t see what Pres would want with that. I can’t see what you’d want with it, either.”
    Will only shrugged, keeping his attention on the narrow and worn wagon road that snaked down to the valley floor. They crossed a dry wash that came out of the dark canyon; they pulled up beside the corral in the shade of the barn.
    Three punchers and one fat little Mexican came out of the house. Will advanced to meet them, Becky following a little way behind, and sight of the man approaching first brought a wide and friendly smile to Will’s face.
    â€œHowdy, Milt,” Will said, and gripped the man’s hand.
    Milt was a little shorter than Will, lean, and his flashing smile was affectionate. His blue eyes were bold, almost arrogant. His lean face was burned a deep brown and he was clean-shaven. He wore his worn Levis and faded checked shirt with a certain elegance, and he gripped Will’s hand with both hands. Then his eyes shifted to Becky, appraised her briefly, and then he said, “Will, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a bride with you.”
    Becky Case flushed, and Will, too, was embarrassed. “Becky, this is Milt Barron, my foreman. This is Miss Case, our neighbor and not my wife.”
    Becky shook hands with Milt, and Will turned to greet the other three men. Pinky Sharp, little and bowlegged and ugly, got his name from his bright-red hair. Ollie Gargan was a sour-faced, rawhide-lean man with a ruff of stiff gray hair. The third man, in a singlet, was Pablo, a grinning Mexican, fat and merry-looking and dark as an Indian. Becky met them all, and then Will led the way to the house. Milt was beside Becky. The others drifted off toward the corrals.
    The main room of the house in the stone part of it looked as if it had never known a woman’s touch. There were no rugs, no curtains, and solid, heavy tables and stump chairs. Bridles, guns, odd pieces of leather, and old magazines littered the big room, and in one corner four saddles were stacked.
    Milt cleared a chair for