Nick Story said, “She’s not Tave Lockyear’s child. She’s mine, isn’t she? I’m her real father.”
He swiveled his head around and looked up at her. She was watching him; there was something faraway in her eyes.
She said, “Yes, Nick.”
“You didn’t have to marry Tave just to give her a name. You could have been married to me, even if I was in prison.”
She said, “Do you know what Tave would have done to you if I had done that?”
His downcast eyes were remote. “Sometimes I wish he had. I’d rather have left you a widow than see you married to him.”
“I couldn’t make that choice,” she said. “I’m not made that way, Nick. Marrying you would have been killing you.”
“Does he know? About Carolyn?”
“He’s always suspected that you were her father.”
“But you never admitted it to him.”
“No.”
Story nodded. He got out of the chair and crushed his cigarette into the ash tray. In a matter-of-fact voice he said, “I want you to go outside and pick her up and take her away this morning. I don’t want either of you to be here.”
She said, “Is there anything I can say or do that will change your mind about this?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I’ve thought it out,” she said. “I can’t come to you if you’ve murdered him.”
Story said drily, “I don’t intend to murder him, Julianne. Tave sentenced himself to be executed, seven years ago. I’m only the instrument of justice.” He did not laugh.
“I wish I had it in me to warn him,” she said. “But I had to choose between loyalty to him and loyalty to you. There was only one choice. I won’t say anything to him, Nick. But if you kill him, he’ll always stand between us. And Carolyn will know you killed him.”
“I promise you this,” said Nick Story. “I’ll give him the first shot.”
“How can that make a difference?” She shook her head.
“It will make a difference to me,” he said, “and to the world. Nobody will ever accuse me of murder. My hands will be clean. And you and I, Julianne—we’ll be rich.”
She said softly, “Don’t kill him, Nick.”
He cursed. “I’ve got no choice now, Julianne. It’s too late. If I don’t put Tave away, Matthew Dane will kill me.”
She pressed herself against him and pleaded. “Nick, why can’t we forget all of it? We’ll take Carolyn with us. We’ll run far away somewhere.”
His lip curled. “And scratch for a living? And leave Tave with the fortune he tried to build on top of my body?”
She turned away from him. “I have to think.”
He said, “Take Carolyn into town with you.” Without answering or looking at him, she removed her apron and left the house. He watched her take the little girl’s hand and go with her toward the horse barn.
Nick Story waited by the window until he saw them ride away from the ranch, the two of them, mother and child. Then he left the window and sauntered around into Tave Lockyear’s office.
Tom Monday was slouched back in a chair with his boots up on the corner of Lockyear’s desk. Lockyear was pacing back and forth. When Nick Story came in sight, Lockyear stopped pacing and glared at him. “Well?”
“If I’m a partner, I’ve got a right to share in the problems and decisions around here,” said Nick Story.
“You’re welcome to share in this one,” Lockyear said. He spoke as if he were spitting. “Your friend Six has posted all the bravos out of the basin. Sundown tonight, or he comes gunning for them.”
Story chuckled. “Is that what all the ruction’s about? You mean to tell me just one man has got all you tough fellows buffaloed?”
Tom Monday said, “I’d give myself a fifty-fifty chance up against Jeremy Six—that’s fifty-fifty if you’re an optimist. He’s good. Damned good with a gun. And you didn’t see the look in his eyes last night. Six has got himself a killer’s edge. I don’t know where he got it from, but that man doesn’t care whether he lives or dies. I mean really doesn’t care anymore.”
Story said, “Do you?”
“What do you mean? Sure I care. I’m no suicide.”
“You could have picked a line of work with a longer life expectancy,” Story pointed out. “I thought all you bravos were just itching to get yourselves killed.”
“A few, maybe. Britt Hazlitt and some like him. But me, I’m a fast gun and I get paid for it. Rich bastards like you two, you get sick and you call a doctor. It’s the same with hiring us. You pay through the nose to hire a gun like me.”
Story looked at Lockyear. “What are we paying him?”
“Two hundred a week.”
Story’s eyes swept Tom Monday up and down. “Not worth it,” he said mildly.
Tom Monday’s feet hit the floor. “Maybe you’d just like to find out, mister.”
Story said, “Nobody’s worth getting paid that kind of money just to complain how scared of Jeremy Six he is. Either you earn your pay or you don’t get paid, Monday.”
Lockyear’s face turned thoughtful. He said to Monday, “He’s got a point there.”
Story said, “A smart man would get the jump on Six. You might catch him by surprise if you went after him, instead of waiting for him to come to you.”
Monday looked uncertain. Lockyear planted his feet wide. “Do it. He’s right. Get up there to Rifle Gap. Call him out—get the sun in his eyes, do whatever you have to do. But kill Six, or cripple him. I want him out of this game. It’s complicated enough without him throwing in his two bits’ worth.”
Monday stood up. “If you say so. Mind if I take a couple of the boys with me?”
“I don’t care if you have to use the whole crew. Just stop Six. Stop him cold. And if you run into any Singletree people, take care of them for good measure.”
Monday’s eyes touched Story for a moment. Then, abruptly, the gunfighter smoothed his bright yellow shirt and tramped out of the house.
Nick Story lit a cigarette and squinted through the smoke at Tave Lockyear. “It’s a wonder to me how you ever built up an outfit this big, as stupid as you are.”
Lockyear said, “Nick, if a man was to believe your spouting, he’d have to believe the whole world was stupid as hell. All except Nick Story—the only smart man alive. I’ve got news for you, Nick.” Lockyear smiled slowly: the smile did not reach his eyes. “I’ve got news. You’re not quite as smart as you figured you were.”
“How so?”
“Remember you told me you’d deposited a sworn statement that would implicate me in those murders seven years ago? Well, it wasn’t too hard to figure out where you’d deposited it. Tom Monday found it for me.”
Story’s face had gone carefully blank. He removed the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand. Lockyear went around behind the desk and took a folded document out of a drawer. “See for yourself.”
Nick Story glanced at it. Lockyear was still smiling; he took it out of Story’s hand and made a point of lighting a match to the statement and letting it burn to charcoal on the desk top.
Then Lockyear said, “It was in Latourette’s office. Where else? But Latourette’s dead. Now you and me, we’re the only ones left alive to tell the tale.”
“And Julianne,” Story said. “Are you thinking about killing me, Tave? Because stop and think what she’d do to you then.”
“How can she? A wife can’t testify against her husband in California.” Lockyear was pleased and gloating. “But I’ll tell you what, Nick. We’ll just tear up our partnership agreement and I’ll let you go on your way. No hard feelings. I might even let you have a few hundred dollars to get started somewhere else.”
Story said, “Sure. Do you expect me to believe you won’t put a bullet in me the minute I turn my back on you? You can’t afford to let me get out of your sight alive, Tave, knowing what I know. So let’s not lie to each other.”
The little bonfire on the desk top fli
ckered out, leaving ashes and a charred spot on the desk. Story was not visibly shaken; the only sign of his shock was the rapid way he puffed on his cigarette.
Lockyear had the lapels of his coat turned back. The pearl grip of his shoulder-holstered revolver was plainly visible. Story’s own gun hung in its hip holster. Story dropped his cigarette on the floor. “It’s plain enough that only one of us is going to leave this room alive, Tave.”
“Uh-huh,” Lockyear agreed confidently.
“You can pull your gun any time,” Story said.
“You’d give me first crack? That’s not like you, Nick.”
“I promised Julianne.” Story grinned suddenly. “But then, Julianne isn’t here, is she? She and the little girl rode up to Rifle Gap. I told them to. I had a few things to say to you before I kill you, Tave. Let’s have this one for starters—Carolyn isn’t your little girl at all. You probably guessed that. You probably guessed she was my child, too. I just wanted you to know you guessed right.” Story’s face was taut. “How does that taste on your tongue, Tave?”
Lockyear’s lips pushed in and out. But, strangely, after a moment he regained his composure. Instead of flying into a rage, Tave only smiled slightly. “I had that figured out quite a while ago, Nick.”
“After I kill you,” Nick Story said, “I’m going to deliver Lance Head into Matthew Dane’s hands. You hate Dane, don’t you? It galls you to think of this place being given to that man without a shot fired. But that’s the way it’ll be, Tave. And after I’ve collected my share, I’m going to marry Julianne and take her away with me.”
Story drew a breath. “You can draw any time now, Tave. I’ve told you all of it. I just want you to taste your own bile before you die.”
“You’re a real smart fellow, Nick. I’ve always credited you that.” Tave’s smile was an odd thing; it began to give Story a definite sense that something was out of place. But he steadied himself: Tave was only trying to rattle him, to shake him up so that Tave could beat him to the draw. Nick Story settled his heels.
He said, “It won’t work, Tave. You’re a dead man right now.”
“Maybe—maybe,” Tave Lockyear murmured. His eyes went narrow.
Nick Story, watching Tave’s eyes, saw them shift, saw Tave’s glance shoot to the door behind Story. And then, in a flash, Story knew what it was—what the cause of Tave’s strange confidence was.
Story threw himself down flat, clawing up his gun. A six-gun roared in the room. Story saw Lockyear’s hand twisting the pearl-handled revolver out of the shoulder-holster. Story shot Lockyear, upward through the belly, and rolled over on his back, snapping his gun down toward the office door. As he rolled over, a gunshot slammed into the floorboard by his head.
That was Tom Monday in the bright yellow shirt, just outside the door in the hall, cocking his gun for the third shot. Story pulled the trigger.
The gun rolled out of Monday’s hand. Story’s bullet, hastily aimed, had missed the chest and torn through Monday’s forearm. Monday had his left-hand gun cocked; he got off one shot with it before Story fired again. The gun roared and Tom Monday fell.
All of it had taken a few seconds, that was all; Story rolled around again, cocking his gun, ready to face Lockyear; but Tave Lockyear was dead. The bullet had traveled up through his torso and into his head.
Story was dripping with sweat. His hands shook badly. He got to his feet and stood weaving crazily.
Tom Monday was on the hall floor, starting to curl up like a piece of bacon over the fire. His face was contorted with pain. Story stumbled toward him, pointing his gun at Monday. Monday lifted his left hand weakly. “Enough—enough, Story.”
“What was in that document you delivered to Lockyear? The one you found in the sheriff’s office?”
“I don’t know,” Monday said, talking through gritted teeth. “I didn’t open it. It had your name on it, that’s all I know.”
“You’ve just saved your own life,” Story told him. He leaned back against the wall and wiped his face. “Sweet Jesus.”
“Help me,” Monday said weakly. “For God’s sake help me.”
Story closed his eyes briefly. He breathed heavily; he leaned against the wall. Strength seemed to have flowed out of him. He could hear the advancing racket of running horses—that would be the crew, riding in to investigate the noise of shooting.
Story opened his eyes and looked at the shattered gunman. Tom Monday was an ex-gunfighter now. His right forearm was broken and his collarbone smashed by a bullet. Monday would probably live, but never to be a fast gun again. Story considered him thoughtfully. Monday groaned: “For God’s sake, Story …”
“You and Tave set that up this morning, didn’t you? He knew I had to be silenced. Well, to hell with both of you. I guess you weren’t worth your pay after all, were you?”
“Jesus!”
Monday looked as if he was trying to curl himself up into a ball. Then his legs stretched out straight and he arched his back against the pain. Story heard the crew riding into the yard. He took out his gun and looked at it. Tom Monday looked up and suddenly Monday’s mouth shot open. But before Monday could cry out, Nick Story shot him.
Story turned on his heel and walked forward through the house. He went out on the porch and waited for the crew to assemble. Then he spoke, stopping them in their tracks:
“The game’s over. Lockyear and Tom Monday had a falling out. They killed each other. A few of you might go in there and take the bodies out and bury them. I’ll pay you off.”
One of the bravos spoke: “What about the war? What about Matthew Dane?”
“War’s over,” Story said. “You’ll draw your time and that’s that, as far as Lance Head’s concerned. If you’re smart you’ll ride hell for leather out of the Basin. I imagine by now you’ve all heard about Six laying down the law.”
“Hell,” complained the bravo, “we’ve had a long ride for nothing, boys.”
“Quit bellyachin’, Chris. Were getting paid, ain’t we?”
Story paid them off from the cash drawer. Then he went over to the corral and saddled a horse. It was Tave Lockyear’s big palomino. He mounted and rode out of the corral.
Four men were carrying the bodies out of the house. Story said mildly, “Make sure none of the Lance Head herd attaches itself to you on your way out, boys.” He whipped the palomino out of the yard and spurred it to a gallop, pointing it across the Concho Basin toward Singletree ranch.
He found Matthew Dane alone at the ranch. Dane was sitting on the corral fence. “That’s a pretty horse. A real Sunday horse. Lockyear’s palomino, ain’t it?”
“It is,” said Nick Story. “I’ve come to keep our bargain.”
“You pullin’ my leg, Story?”
“Tave Lockyear’s dead.”
Dane fingered his jaw. “Think of that.” His eyes were grinning slyly. “How’d it happen?”
“He had an argument with Tom Monday. The two of them killed each other.”
“Sure they did,” Dane murmured. But the grin spread to his mouth. “Don’t make any difference, I reckon. If he’s dead he’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.”
“I’ve got the deed and my partnership papers in my pocket.”
“You’ll have to hang onto them until I can get the Hash Knife people together.”
“No hurry,” Story said with satisfaction. “Where’s your crew?”
“Out to have a little fun. I let them ride up to Rifle Gap to pull Jeremy’s Six’s fangs.”
Story cursed. “You fool. That’s all we need to blow the whole thing up in our faces. Do you think Hash Knife will touch this place with a ten foot pole if they massacre that town?”
“Who said anything about the town? They want Six’s scalp, is all.”
Story said, “Turn them loose on that town and they’ll burn it to the ground before they’re through.”
“Could be,” Dane said. “Can’t hurt to ride up there and calm them down, at least. Wait til
l I saddle up.”
Fourteen
Six was in the sheriff’s office, cleaning the over-and-under rifle-shotgun. The storekeeper, Lionel, knocked and came inside. Three or four men stood around the door; there were more of them out in the street. Six’s eyes glittered.
Lionel said, “We came down here to apologize. I shot off my mouth last night and I was wrong. The town needs cleaning up. What you said last night, that ultimatum you gave the bravos—it’s too late for anything less than that. You were right.”
“Thanks,” Six said without expression.
“We’ve been talking it over. Seems to us there’ll be a few gunnies scared enough to light out. But most of them won’t, not until they’ve found out how tough you are, anyway. We’re guessing a bunch of them will probably ride into town and call your bluff.”
“It wasn’t a bluff.”
“Sure. But maybe they don’t know that. Or maybe they figure they can beat you. Some of them maybe can, too. Hazlitt and Monday, for openers.”
“They can try,” Six said.
Lionel wiped his palm on his chest. “Well, what we come to tell you was this. We kind of figured that if a bunch of bravos come tearing into town, they’ll make a dump out of this town if they ain’t stopped. We had enough busted windows last night to last us a while. So we figure to stand back of you and fight for our own. It ain’t even your town, Six. If you can stand up for it, I reckon we can too. I’ve got fourteen men enough to get by.”
Six considered him gravely. Lionel said, “One other thing. I’m chairman of the township council. I hired Dan Latourette. I’m hereby appointing you sheriff. That makes it official.”
Six nodded. He swung his leg down off the desk and walked over to the door. Three men backed up to make room for him. He stood on the porch and considered the length of the street. “I’m obliged to you men for backing me up.”
Lionel came out beside him. “It’s our town, Sheriff.”
Six glanced at him but didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You people would get yourselves killed if you tried to stand face-to-face against those crews from the Basin.”
“You turning us down, Six?”
Marshal Jeremy Six #3 Page 10