Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  They went out. The afternoon was waning, but it was still too early for lights to be burning. Williamson led Bradway upstairs in the Aldham hotel and, without the formality of knocking, pushed open the door to McKeever’s room. Linc followed. It was a corner room with two windows; McKeever, his thin face pale and drawn, sat propped up by pillows. A dark-visaged little man arose hastily as the two men entered.

  “Howdy, Mac,” said Williamson, then testily to the little man: “Sealover, I told you to stay away from my patient. You upset him.”

  Linc stepped from behind the portly doctor. “Ahuh. So this is Mr. Sealover. I’ve a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Who’re you?” demanded Sealover, warily, as if he suspected the identity of this visitor.

  “You know damn well who I am.”

  “Sealover, thet’s Bradway, the cowboy who shot me,” spoke up McKeever, and it was evident that interest if not pleasure attended the introduction.

  “Sealover, I’ve been looking for you,” said Linc quietly.

  “Well, you’ve found me,” said the little man. “And what do you want with me?”

  “I want an explanation of your part in the Haskel deal.”

  The beady-eyed little man had a bold front which did not deceive the Nebraskan. Here was evidently another accomplice of Emery’s who did not strike Lincoln as one to respect.

  “What do you mean by the Haskel deal?”

  “Don’t try to put me off. You got him over here to kill me, one way or another.”

  “I did no such thing. I told Haskel there was a wild gun- toting cowboy over here who had won a pile of money. Haskel said that was just his meat.”

  “But Haskel told me before he died that you came after him, and that Emery was behind it,” said Lincoln.

  “Well, he lied, that’s all,” returned Sealover, pale to his thin lips.

  “Men like Haskel don’t lie when they are dying, unless loyalty is involved. It seems he had no compunction about implicating you and Emery.... You’re the one who’s lying.”

  “Bradway, I’m not an armed man,” protested Sealover. “A fact which you seem to take advantage of.”

  “Yeah? Listen, you shifty-eyed little skunk,” said the cowboy contemptuously. “Make sure you pack a gun next time you run into me. Because I’m sure going for mine. Now get out pronto!”

  Sealover, haggard and worried, hastily left the room, banging the door behind him.

  “My word, Bradway, but you’re an outspoken fellow!” said Williamson, admiringly.

  “Bradway, you’re no friend of mine,” spoke up McKeever, with a red spot on each of his cheeks, “but I’ve got to thank you for scaring the liver out of Sealover. I enjoyed it.”

  “Humph! Then Sealover isn’t a friend of yours, either?” returned Lincoln.

  “I’ve never been so hard up for friends as to need him.”

  “Who is he, anyway?”

  “Outside of being a four-flush gambler, that’s another question.”

  “Oh, I see.... Here’s your little gun, McKeever, that you were fool enough to draw on me the other night. It’s not loaded, so don’t make the mistake a second time,” said Linc, and laid the little derringer on the table beside McKeever’s bed.

  “I’m not liable to,” replied the gambler, constrainedly. “Did you expect to find Sealover here? Or what brought you?”

  “No. Meeting him was just some of my luck. I brought your gun back, and I wanted to apologize.”

  “To me! — For what?” asked McKeever, in amazement.

  “I thought you might have killed my friend Weston with that little gun. Found out you hadn’t.”

  “Weston? Oh, I see!... No, I’m glad to say I didn’t kill him.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t tell you. But as a matter of fact I don’t.”

  Bradway pondered a moment, then sat down near a window. “Doc, you attend to your patient, and then please leave me alone with him for a few minutes.”

  “Well, I reckon that’ll be all right, considering,” returned the doctor. “Mac, you seem to be doing fine. Let me look you over once more.”

  Bradway gazed out of the window at the street below. The sun had set. Above the town the hills were bathed in golden light and the peaks were rosy red. South Pass had ended the day’s toil, and was ready for what the night might bring. Presently Dr. Williamson appeared ready to depart, but before he left he asked Lincoln not to excite his patient. When he was gone Lincoln stood up.

  “McKeever, you tried to pull a gun on me and I shot you. I’m sure you won’t try that again, because you know what another attempt would cost you. So we are quits — if you want to leave it so.”

  “Thank you, Bradway, I’d prefer it to be quits.”

  “Fine. Calling it quits means one less enemy for me, and it means a better chance of your dying a natural death.... Of course, I figure you belong to Emery’s outfit here, whatever it is. I’d like to ask you a few questions, in spite of that.”

  “Go ahead. But you’ll be wasting your breath,” replied McKeever, apparently intrigued in spite of his resentment.

  “Is there any particular reason for you to be loyal to this coyote Emery?”

  “None whatever. Rather the contrary. But a gambler’s honor, you know.”

  “Is there any particular reason for you to be loyal to Kit Bandon?”

  “Hell no! She made a fool of me,” rejoined the gambler, not without heat. “Same as she did of Lee, and other of his cattlemen friends, as she is doing to Emery, and will probably do to you.. . . Still and all...”

  He made a slight gesture with his thin white hand. His eyes were dark and unfathomable.

  “You are forearming me, McKeever,” went on Lincoln. “I take it Kit Bandon likes men, likes to gamble with them and their gold — and their lives. And she is a little on the fickle side.”

  “You said a heap, cowboy. I hope to enjoy seeing her face when I repeat that to her.”

  “I find her an interesting woman, McKeever.... Would you — for a price — tell me a few things about her?”

  “No. Not for all the gold in South Pass.”

  “Why not? Are you afraid?”

  “Men don’t betray Kit Bandon — and live,” returned the gambler, quietly.

  “Which is equivalent to admitting there is something to betray,” said Bradway, quickly. “Thanks for letting that slip.... But does your code of honor apply equally to Emery?”

  “What do you want to know?” queried McKeever, curiously.

  “His relation to Kit Bandon?”

  “Ask her.... She’s the only person who can tell what her relations are to anybody.”

  “I see. The observer might be all wrong.... But — do you know that Emery did not shoot Weston?”

  “No!”

  “Weston was shot by someone else!” flashed Lincoln.

  “I can’t say. All I know is that Weston was shot by somebody for cheating at cards.”

  “Somebody! I’m looking for that somebody.... That somebody hauled Weston to South Pass in a wagon — dead!”

  It was a random shot, inspired by Bradway’s suspicion that his friend might not have been killed in the Leave It. McKeever’s astonishment was clear evidence that he knew Weston had not been murdered there.

  “Who told you that?”

  “That’s my business.... McKeever, I see you know more than you care to divulge. I hold it against you.”

  “If you know so damn much why do you pester me with questions?”

  “I’m determined to get to the bottom of this murder. The safest thing for you to do is come clean with what you know.”

  “Bradway, I swear to God I don’t know who killed Weston — or how it was done,” protested McKeever, weakly, and it was obvious that he was telling the truth.

  “All right. I believe you that far,” concluded Bradway. “But you know something which would give me a clue.”

  “Hell, man, wh
at do you take me for? Suppose I do? I’m not beholden to you.”

  “No, but you’re beholden to your life! Think that over, before I find some excuse to draw on you again.”

  Lincoln rose and left the room without bothering to say good- by. The corridor outside was quite dark. He felt his way to the stairway, his gun out, peering into all corners as he crept cautiously down the bare wooden stairs. Reaching the street without incident, he crossed to the other side, making his way toward the rendezvous with Vince. It was early and the restaurant was empty. While Linc waited outside in the shadow for Vince he thought over the events of the afternoon. His visit to McKeever had been vastly worthwhile, could deduce from this encounter was further substantiation of Kit Bandon’s power to hold the loyalty of men. In view of her acknowledged treatment of them, this loyalty seemed extraordinary. Emery was the only one who had hinted at her double dealing, yet even he had withheld something that might have discredited her. A threat was one thing; but betrayal another. Kit Bandon cast an incredible spell over men; nevertheless Linc felt certain that someone of them would, sooner or later, betray whatever there was to reveal concerning her strange actions.

  Vince came along to find Linc still turning matters over in his mind. “Kinda ponderin’ myself, pard,” he said soberly, after a look of understanding at his friend. “Let’s go feed. Mebbe thet’ll help.”

  “Lordy! I clean forgot I was hungry,” laughed Lincoln. They repaired to the little restaurant up the street, ordered their supper and finished it almost in silence. Fifteen minutes later they were outside again.

  “What’s yores, pard?” queried Vince, gruffly.

  “My what?”

  “Wal, I’m no mind reader. But you shore seem to have aplenty to think about.”

  “Ha! — Let’s mosey out of this parade.... A man can’t think and watch a hundred gun hands at the same time.”

  A cold night wind whipped down from the mountains; the roar of the brook vied with the hum of the town; the throng thinned as they climbed to the outskirts.

  As they left the town behind, Linc told Vince of Doc Williamson’s disclosure.

  Vince grunted, “By gun!... Pard, I reckon thet jest about settles it!”

  “Then I went with Doc to see McKeever,” continued Bradway, “and he told of the meeting with Sealover, and the subsequent talk with the gambler.”

  “Wal, it’s one step more, but a step in the dark. This shore is the underhandedest deal I was ever in.... Pard, I picked up a speck of information while you were havin’ yore seance with Sealover.”

  “Yeah? — Every little bit helps.”

  “I run into Bill Haynes,” continued Vince, after taking a slow deep breath. “Bill is a big hombre, broad as a wagon end. Red- faced an’ one-eyed. You’ll know him when you see him. He hit it rich up at the diggin’s, an’ then bought cattle. His ranch is about twelve miles down this creek. I did Bill a good turn once an’ he’s a friend of mine. Wal, he gave me what he said was good advice to rustle out of this neck of the woods.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. But I reckon there’s something afoot thet’d make it healthier for me to leave.”

  “Vince, have you made any enemies among the cattlemen?”

  “Ahuh.”

  “You been cutting your eyeteeth as a rustler?”

  “How’d you guess it, pard?” queried Vince, bitterly.

  “What’s more, you have been stealing mavericks,” accused Linc.

  Vince did not reply.

  “I had that figured pretty pronto.... Could you pay for those mavericks and square yourself?”

  “Lord no, not even if I wanted to! An’ I’d go to hell first.”

  “Can they prove you rustled mavericks?”

  “Ketched me red-handed, thet is, one rancher did.”

  “That’s bad. In fact, it’s mighty serious. Why did he let you off?”

  “Wal, out heah in Wyomin’ the cattlemen haven’t come to hangin’ rustlers yet. But they’re comin’ to it pronto.”

  “Perhaps you’d better show this range your dust.”

  “Nope. I’m standin’ by you, pard. Besides, I’m good an’ sore.”

  “At whom?”

  “Wal, I’ll let you figger thet out yoreself, seein’ how smart you are.... Bill give me some other news thet I reckon he went out of his way to tell. Lee fired his foreman Thatcher. You met Thatcher.... Bill didn’t make anythin’ much of this. Mebbe he reckoned I’d see through it. An’ you bet I did. It shore hints of a hell of a mess thet’s brewin’ round South Pass.”

  “Thatcher? — Fine type of cowboy, I thought,” declared Lincoln.

  “They don’t come any better. Lee knows thet.”

  “Could it be that Thatcher side-stepped a little over some mavericks?”

  “Hell! It could be, only it ain’t. Lee fired Thatcher for refusin’ to belong to thet secret rider outfit he’s organizin’.”

  “Are you sure of that?” cut in Bradway, snapping his fingers.

  “I could swear to it. An’ it proves jest what I was thinkin’, pard. Lee jest cain’t raise no band of night-ridin’ cowboys on this range.”

  “Lee struck me as a strong and resourceful cattleman. He’s a Texan. I’ll bet he does raise that vigilante bunch.”

  “Umpumm, pard. Anywhere else in Wyomin’ mebbe, but shore not heah.”

  “Vince, do you realize what a — a strange — what a hell of a statement that is?” demanded Linc.

  “It’s a hell of a country, pard,” returned his comrade, evasively. “But neither it nor anyone in it can fool you very long.... Tomorrer you’re gonna see Lucy. Wal, thet’s fine. Give her my love. An’ make hay while the sun shines! I’ll set tight an’ have more to tell you when you come back. Be orful careful, pard. Good night.”

  They parted, each going in a different direction. The June night was cold, and Linc almost wished he had brought his sheepskin-lined jacket. He reached his lodging room unobserved.

  “This mess grows stickier and stickier,” he muttered as he undressed. “But it’ll be coming to a boil pronto, if I figure things right.... So Vince was a maverick rustler? Caught but not punished, except to go jobless in the future on this range. Queer as hell! But why should they be so hard on Vince? Every cowboy who ever forked a horse has stolen a calf or two.... By thunder! I’ve got it — or I’m close to it. Vince sold his stolen mavericks to Kit Bandon... and so have other cowboys!”

  Linc was only thinking in the dark. But it made sense. Cowboys were a canny lot. They would stick together, and some who were not guilty would protect those who were. Thatcher cautioning Smeade that night was an example. Smeade, of course, had been doing the same as Vince.

  “Only a two-bit rustling at that,” muttered Bradway, as he crawled wearily into bed. “Only flea bites to cattlemen like these, running stock in the thousands.... But if all the cowboys on the range took to maverick stealing — Lordy, that would be something!... Still, couldn’t that beautiful woman work a hundred cowboys as easily as a few?”

  The Nebraskan resolved to go down into the valley in order to find out. It meant riding and keeping out at night, camping in secluded spots, scout work with which he had plenty of experience.

  “But if this cowboy-maverick angle is what I figure it, could that be what’s behind Lee’s organization of vigilantes?” After a moment he answered his own question: “Hell no! Cattlemen would be crazy to organize a secret band of cowboys to spy on other cowboys. It’d mean a war.... No, that’s something else. More cattle stealing has been going on than has been admitted or more is expected. Lee wants to clean up something pronto. I should think he’d get the other ranchers in with him. Still, he’s a Texan.... Tomorrow I’ll ask Lucy.... Maybe she has heard about it.”

  Thoughts of Lucy and their rendezvous tomorrow drove everything else out of the cowboy’s mind. As he lay there in the dark, he determined not to waste any time in courting Lucy. He would sweep her off her feet. The very suddenness o
f it might be in his favor. Lucy had indicated that she liked him; by her own confession she had made a hero of him. Well and good, he would not only let her continue to believe that, but he would try to do something to warrant it. He found himself dreading another meeting with Kit Bandon as keenly as he longed for the next opportunity to be with Lucy. Lincoln did not doubt his honesty as a man or his quickly-born love for this lonely girl who had been loved by his best friend. What he doubted was the power to continue to be steel and flint to this seductive Bandon woman if she flung herself at him again. What if Kit Bandon actually had fallen in love with him! It was possible, and might actually be true because he was one cowboy who — apparently — had not been overwhelmed by her beauty and charm. As he drifted off to sleep it was with the realization that it would be very foolish to take Kit Bandon’s outspoken flattery to heart. And it was with the determination that hereafter he would keep Kit Bandon at a distance.

  Early next morning Lincoln bolted a hurried but hearty breakfast, then went over to the merchandise store, where he purchased saddlebags, a rubber-lined blanket, and a small stock of supplies. Any night now he might be kept out in the open, and he wanted to be prepared. At the livery stable he found his saddle, bridle, and a bag of grain, thoughtfully placed within easy reach by Vince. He led Bay from the stall and fed him. After saddling, he adjusted the saddlebags and packed them. It was still early morning when Bay and his rider took the trail west out of South Pass.

  The sun rose behind him as he topped the gray rise of land. Once out of sight of town the silence and austerity of the vast open sage country enveloped him. A band of antelope stood with twitching ears to watch him pass. He descried deer down in the brushy draws; coyotes skulked through the sage, and jack rabbits darted across the trail. The sunrise-flushed peaks of the Wind River Range rose, grandly aloof in their beauty and isolation. It was a glorious June morning. And it was good to be on the trail again.

  In due course he arrived at the rocky point with its fringe of dwarf pines where he was to meet Lucy. As he paused a hawk sailed above in the clear blue sky peering down for its prey. Dismounting behind the cover of the trees, he tethered Bay and set about collecting wood for his signal fire. He kindled it a few feet from the rim, throwing on several armfuls of green brush to make a smoke. Then he went to the spot where Lucy had shown him the valley of the Sweetwater.