Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  "He apologized."

  "He did not apologize for suspecting me of trying to have him killed in a cowardly and underhanded way!"

  "Well, apparently somebody did try; and a Paradine at that!"

  The Colonel looked at his daughter sharply. "You're taking a great interest in Boyd Cohoon this morning, after making a public show of yourself over him last night. If Paul should hear of it—"

  Claire laughed shortly. "Paul will undoubtedly hear of it, trust the neighbors for that. But I seem to be . . . to be developing a conscience, Dad. I couldn't quite bring myself ... Taking five years of a man's life under false pretenses is bad enough, without watching him be killed on my doorstep as well."

  "Are you sure it's a conscience you're developing, my dear?" the Colonel asked. "Are you sure it isn't just curiosity?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have seen it before," her father said. "Every time a young girl gets engaged to be married, all the men she can't have suddenly begin to look very interesting to her, much more so than when she was free to take her pick of them."

  Claire laughed. "You're being ridiculous, Dad," she said firmly. "I wouldn't marry Boyd Cohoon if he was the last man on earth. Let that hussy have him. But it was my doing that he went to prison, and I can't forget it. So you'd better tell Francis to curb that sick pride of his. If he tries any more tricks, I'll go to Paul 'and tell him the truth about what happened five years ago!"

  She was gone before her father could open his mouth to protest. He stood where he was until he heard the front door close; then he picked up his coffee cup and started to drink absently, discovered the cup was empty, set it down, and walked quickly out of the room. In the library, the revolver with the three fired chambers still lay upon the desk, uncleaned, as he had put it down the night before. He regarded it for a moment, and turned to speak to the houseman who was passing.

  "Go up to Mr. Francis's room, Fernando, and tell him I want to see him here at once."

  "But Señior, he is not there. He is not home yet."

  "Oh," said the Colonel, and after a moment, "very well, Fernando."

  He seated himself at the desk, brought the proper equipment from a lower drawer, and began to clean the revolver, discovering that the night's neglect had already allowed the primer and powder residues to attack the bore. This saddened him: the weapon was an old companion. It had seen honorable service in the war—and his service in the war had been honorable, the Colonel reminded himself firmly, to the very end. Well, almost to the end. It was only when defeat and ruin had become bitter facts that had to be faced...

  "You wanted to see me, sir?"

  He looked up, to see his son in the doorway. The boy's clothes looked as if he had slept in them. His hair was untidy, and his eyes had a puffy look. But his voice, as always, was cool and insolent.

  "I met Fernando in the hall. He said—"

  "Where have you been?"

  "l spent the night with a friend, sir."

  The Colonel said, "No doubt. You seem to have a great many hospitable friends these days, Francis, or is it always the same one? Never mind. Come here. Tell me, when was the last time you saw this gun?"

  The boy moved forward, and stopped by the desk, finding it necessary to steady himself against it. He looked at the revolver, and laughed aloud.

  "So he brought it here. I should have guessed that he would, when I learned it was gone. Our Mr. Cohoon has a direct mind, doesn't he?"

  "Francis, think carefully before you speak. Are you admitting that you took my gun and gave it to a—"

  "Dad, stop sounding like a policeman." Francis regarded his parent across the desk. "I borrowed your gun, certainly. If that is a crime, sir, I apologize; but I'd got a little drunk the night before and lost mine in a card game. I needed a weapon to wear until I could win it back—which I did last night." He laughed. "So there I was, sitting with two guns in my belt, and this easterner came in asking for Boyd Cohoon in a blustering manner. He'd had some drinks up the street, and I guess they don't teach them to hold their liquor back there. Cohoon had taken that new girl outside. Somebody headed the fool in the right direction, just to see the fun. He was a poor-looking specimen; I doubt he'd had a fight since he was six years old; Cohoon could have held him off with a finger and blown him over with a breath. So, having a gun to spare, I slipped outside and passed it to him as he went by, to make things a little more interesting."

  They faced each other for a long moment; it was the Colonel whose glance dropped away. There was a silence, during which Francis moved to a nearby chair and sat down, lying back and stretching out his legs gratefully.

  "Don't lecture me on gratitude, Dad," he said presently. "I asked nothing of Boyd Cohoon, and owe him nothing. If you want to hand him money to spend on his pet songbird, that's up to you. If Claire wants to create a public scandal by using her charms to save him from arrest..."

  The Colonel licked his lips and said, "I'm not concerned with whether you like the man or not, Francis. I'm beginning to find him quite distasteful myself. But that's a different matter entirely from being a party to a treacherous attempt on his life. It reflects on the entire family—"

  "Why?" the boy asked coolly. "What's a little more treachery to us, sir? Isn't our whole life—our position here—built on treachery? I'm surprised to hear you use the word, sir." He rose deliberately to his feet, while the Colonel sat pale and speechless. Half way to the door, he paused. "I'll admit that you have grounds to criticize my judgment; I should have given the easterner my own gun, which was unmarked. I apologize for then mistake." The boy regarded his father calmly. "For that alone. Nothing else. The only crime is being caught. Isn't that right, sir?" He turned away.

  The boy stopped. The Colonel rose slowly, leaning against the desk for support. "I've long wanted to talk to you about this. Francis to explain—" "Mother has explained it quite adequately, sir," Francis said. "She's quite bitter, of course; I have taken that into account. She feels that you betrayed a sacred cause. Personally, I have nothing but admiration for a man who can get away with a whole wagon-load of gold. There's only one question I've been wanting to ask, sir. You must have had some assistants; did you divide with them, or did you"— his glance touched the revolver on the desk—"or did you insure their silence by more permanent means?"

  Colonel Paradine braced himself against the desk. He ignored the question that brought up ugly memories he had tried for twenty-odd years to erase from his mind.

  "It wasn't anybody's gold, Francis," he said. "I want you to understand that. I was in command of the escort; we were to buy supplies; but long before we reached our destination there were no longer any supplies or troops to receive them. It would have done nobody any good but the Yankees. And there was nothing left at home, nothing. The war had been through there; your mother and the baby—that was before you were born—were living on the charity of friends...."

  The boy facing him smiled thinly. "Why, there's nothing to apologize for, Dad," he murmured. "We've lived off that money ever since, Mother and Claire and I, even after we learned where it came from. None of us have gone off to starve in honorable poverty, have we? That leaves us small room to criticize." He hesitated, and spoke in a different tone: "But as far as Boyd Cohoon is concerned, shouldn't we look at the matter practically? It seems to me that my little effort last night can be criticized only on the grounds that it failed."

  "What do you mean?"

  Francis said, "Well, aren't you pretty well involved in some of Paul Westerman's mining ventures, the Lucky Seven in particular? I suppose you know that Cohoon can cut the profits of that mine to a trickle by denying Paul passage across the Grant."

  The Colonel was shaken. "What's this about the Grant? What has Cohoon to do with the Lucky Seven? It's several miles west of his boundary line, as I understand it."

  Francis regarded his parent with youthful contempt. "You mean you put money into it without riding out to take a look? Or even glancing at a map?" />
  "Paul assured me—"

  "He's assured a lot of people; that's the way he got rich, Why, it's a simple matter of geography, sir—" The boy went on to explain the situation. "So you see, Cohoon's got the Lucky Seven practically bottled up, if he wants to be stubborn like his dad. Of course Paul will fight, but fighting can be expensive. . . Another thing; if my dear sister makes much more of a fool of herself over the man, Paul may decide to find himself a wife with a little more discretion, even if he doesn't start wondering just what's the tie-up between his future in-laws and this handsome ex-convict. And if Cohoon should ever chance to mention where he got the ten thousand dollars he bestowed on his dark-haired canary.

  I understand the marshal paid us a visit last night, at Claire's urging. Did he happen to ask about the money?"

  "Why, no. He just stayed a minute."

  "Well, he'll be back, sir." Francis smiled unpleasantly.

  "He's been showing some interest in that money; he seems to think it may possibly have been part of the Lucky Seven payroll that was stolen. He's bound to turn up something pointing to this house. When he comes, are you going to tell him who gave Cohoon the money—and, why?"

  16

  DINNER AT the Van Houcks' was a meal involving a large quantity of food and an extended period of time. There was pie for dessert.

  "There!" Mrs. Van Houck said, sliding the last segment on to Cohoon's plate. "Now you will not neglect your old friends to go staying in hotels and eating in cafés where they boil everything in stale grease, hein! Now you know this is your home whenever you're in town, and don't wait for some man to shoot a hole in you to come here!"

  Cohoon said, "Thanks, Aunt Marthe. I ..." He hesitated, searching for the proper words.

  "Ah, eat your pie and be quiet," said Mrs. Van Houck. "Too much talk at the table is bad for the digestion. I get more coffee."

  Van Houck asked, "Did you have any success today?"

  "I saw Westerman," Cohoon said. "The next move—if there's going to be one—is up to him."

  "Your dad would turn over in his grave, to know you'd given permission for those wagons to cross the Grant."

  Cohoon said, "Father was stubborn, and he loved to fight. I'm not stubborn, and I don't like to fight. I've got two jobs, Uncle Van: to get the ranch back on its feet, and to find a murderer—in that order of importance. I'm not going to take on a quarrel with Paul Westerman about where he runs his wagons as well. There's only one man I want a fight with, the man who shot down Father and Jonathan; and if I could turn him over to the law without a fight, I'd do that. As far as Westerman's concerned, he started hating me because of a mistaken belief, for which I was responsible. There's more between us now, maybe, but I can't forget that the initial fault was mine, and make some allowances." He grimaced wryly. "Besides, the ranch can use the money Westerman's going to pay for the privilege of continuing to use that road. I've made one big, expensive gesture for my pride's sake since I got back', I can't afford another."

  Van Houck was silent, possibly fitting these words into the pattern of what he already knew and guessed. There had never been any open discussion. of the past between them. He asked no questions about it. Presently he said, "How did you make out hiring riders to work for you?"

  "I got a couple of hands lined up," Cohoon said. "All of our old crew seems to've drifted away, though."

  "They were encouraged to drift," Van Houck said. "At least, they couldn't seem to stay out of trouble with Jack Rudy, Westerman's segundo, and his gang of hardcases. It could be that somebody was afraid they might have seen too much, the day of the murder. They were first to pick up the trail, remember?"

  Cohoon glanced at the older man sharply. "Uncle Van, you just keep pointing me at Westerman and shoving like hell. What's the matter, is his new store causing you trouble?"

  The old trader said, "Ah, perhaps I am prejudiced, my boy To me, the man is a crooked tinhorn gambler with a holdout ace and a nasty little derringer up his sleeve. . . But let's not fight about Paul Westerman." He hesitated, and went on in a slightly different tone. "Come into the other room' Boyd. I have all the papers on your dad's affairs and what I've done with them since his death."

  Cohoon glanced at the windows, and said, "They'll keep Van It's dark, and I'd better be on my way; I'd like to get out of town without leading a parade, for a change."

  "But—"

  Rising, Cohoon clapped Van Houck on the shoulder. "Uncle Van, I don't need to see any papers."

  "You need to see these." The older man's voice had changed still more, so that Cohoon looked down at him quickly. "You will have to look at them carefully, Boyd, and then you must decide if you should have me put in jail. . ." He checked himself quickly, as his wife came back into the room with two cups of coffee, which she held out to them, laughing.

  "Take them into the living room, so I don't fall over you while I clean up in here."

  Her husband and Cohoon obediently carried the cups into the other room. Van Houck lowered himself into a deep leather chair, and looked up at Cohoon with misery in his eyes. There was a lengthy silence.

  "Marthe doesn't know," the old man said at last. "It was . . . it was Westerman, and his new store, and his low prices. He loses money on everything he sells, Boyd; I know, because I have tried to meet the prices and it is not possible. He is trying to drive me out of business—me, Van Houck, who was here before there was even a town on this spot! I once said I had money in the bank in Tucson. That was a lie; it is all gone. So . . . so I borrowed from the other account, your dad's account...."

  After a moment, Cohoon said, "Why would Westerman want to drive you out of town, Uncle Van?" The older man did not speak, and Cohoon went on: "Would it have anything to do with the Grant?"

  "Well—" Van Houck hesitated. "Well, he did come in and talk to me after your dad's death, in the smooth and slippery way he has—"

  "About what?"

  "About . . . about forgetting to pay the taxes, so that . so that the property would come up for sale. . . . I didn't do it, Boyd. The receipts are on the desk; you can see them for yourself, all in order. I wouldn't—"

  "l know," Cohoon said gently. "And it was after that the new store went up?" The old man nodded unhappily. "Is there any money left?" Cohoon asked.

  "Why, yes," Van Houck said. "There is what I told you. But there was a great deal more, as the papers will show—"

  "To hell with the papers," Cohoon said. "What are you getting all upset about, Uncle Van? You've lent money to us more than once; now you've borrowed some. I'll take out my interest in Aunt Marthe's apple pie. It you want to make it look legal in case something should happen to me, draw up some kind of a paper and I'll sign it next time I'm in town." He found his hat, and started for the door, and looked back at the old man still sitting there. "Damn it, Uncle Van," he said angrily, "I've got few enough friends left; I can't afford to lose one because of a bit of money. Clean out the whole damn account if you like, but stop looking at me like I was an Apache on the war path."

  "Boyd, I—"

  Cohoon said, "I'll see you in a couple of days. Tell Aunt Marthe good-by for me."

  He picked up the bedroll he had set by the door earlier, threw it over his shoulder, and left the house. Outside it was dark. The Van Houcks' place was near the edge of town, which, blocked here by the same arroyo that cut Creek Lane farther west, had not grown much in this direction. As he lashed the bedroll behind his saddle, Cohoon could look out over the desert to the north and east. A sliver of a new moon hung in the sky near the horizon, enlarged to unreal proportions by some trick of the desert air. He mounted, and headed past the outlying buildings in that direction, meaning to circle the town in preference to riding through it and having his departure noted.

  After a moment he glanced back and saw the light in Van Houck's living room, where the old man was doubtless still sitting, staring miserably at the wall. Reflecting on this situation, somewhat grimly, he did not pay much attention to his surroundin
gs, so that when a small boy darted out of the shadow of a nearby shack, and the horse shied, he was almost unseated. It took him a second or two to bring the animal under control.

  "Watch where you're running, kid!" he snapped at the child, who was watching with bright-eyed interest this activity for which he was responsible.

  "That's a no-good horse, si?" the boy said. "My uncle, he sell you a better one. You are the señior Cohoon?"

  "l am the señior Cohoon."

  "Nan wants you at the Double Eagle. Come to the side door. At once, muy pronto."

  As be had come, the kid darted away. Cohoon started to shout a question after him, but thought better of it. He hesitated a moment, then sighed and swung the horse around. A warning instinct caused him to follow the outskirts of town westward, rather than head directly for his destination; enough questionable things had happened during the past few days to make it seem unwise to ride blindly into a dark alley on the word of a small, unidentified boy.

  At the point where Creek Lane found its end against the arroyo, Cohoon dismounted, and tied the horse by the adobe shack from behind which, the previous evening, the wild-eyed youth from the east had opened fire with Colonel Paradine's revolver. The memory made caution seem even more advisable. A dirty alley ran behind the palaces of pleasure on the east side of Creek Lane. Cohoon moved down it deliberately, gradually engulfed by darkness, and the sound of music, laughter, and loud voices from the surrounding buildings, that made his hearing useless. At the rear of the saloon adjoining the Double Eagle, Flagler's place, he paused to look the neighborhood over as far as the scant light allowed.

  The space between the two buildings was less than ten feet, and totally unilluminated except by a narrow strip of night sky. He could barely make out the shape of the dance-hall's side door. A dozen men could be standing in the darkness on either side, totally invisible. It they weren't, Cohoon reflected, he was certainly wasting a lot of time. He felt the gun at his left hip, loosening it in the holster, but the dark was no place for firearms and there would be women in the buildings on both sides, neither of which looked as if it had been constructed stoutly enough to stop a stray bullet. He reached back for the knife, therefore, crouched, and threw himself past the corner at a run, sprinting for the dimly visible doorway ahead: If you were going to act like a suspicious damn fool, there was no sense making a halfway job of it.