Borden Chantry

by Louis L'Amour

  “No, he won’t,” Billy said grimly. “He won’t use no fifty-two no more. Because I got it.”

  “What?”

  Billy flushed. “Marshal, I maybe shouldn’t ha’ done it, but I swiped his rifle. That night in the barn? He’d hidden his rifle in that ol’ barrel, an’ I got it before he could get back. That was me in the barn that night when he slugged you. He never seen me, on’y we nearly run together in the barn. But I got that rifle and got out.”

  Borden Chantry had felt like swearing only a few times in his life. But this was one of the times when he wanted to do a really first-rate job of cussing.

  “Damn it, Billy, you’re concealing evidence! You could go to jail for that!”

  “I know it,” Billy said glumly. “I was sore. I wanted I should shoot him with his own gun, so I cached it.”

  “Billy, that rifle may be an important clue. I must have it. But above all, I don’t want anyone, and I mean anyone, to know you had it or that you were in the barn that night. Do you understand?”

  “You think he’d try to kill me, Marshal?”

  “He most certainly would, Billy, and we’ve had enough killing. Now where is the rifle?”

  “Right there in the barn. I never taken it out. It’s a-layin’ atop one o’ them rafters, the third one from the door. I got up on the manger and laid her right there so’s he wouldn’t catch me with it.”

  “Billy…who is he?”

  “Durned if I know! I never did git to see him! It was all dark in there, an’ then I heard something stirrin’ an’ I was just a-waitin’ for a chancet to run. When it come, I taken out.”

  “Billy, I want you to think. I want you to try to remember. There just might be something…Billy, did you know Pin Dover?”

  “Sure! He punched cows with Pa. When he come to town, they used to talk over the old times. Pin was down to Mora when the land grant fights were on, an’ Pa knowed a lot of the folks who were in on that fight.”

  “Did they ever mention anybody here in town who had been in Mora?”

  “No…nobody I can recall. I did hear Pa say one time that Hyatt Johnson had been down there. He was some sort of friend to the man who brought in all those folks to squat on the land.”

  Chantry finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I’ll eat breakfast at the Bon-Ton. You can tell Bess when she gets up. I’ve got to see a man.”

  “You going to get that rifle?”

  “You ain’t just a-whoofin’. I’m going to get it right off.”

  He started walking. The town was waking up. A couple of men were on the boardwalk, sweeping it off. Hurley was sweeping in front of the Corral Saloon, and Ed was in front of the Bon-Ton.

  “Can you fix me some eggs?” Chantry let his eyes run along the street toward the bank. It was early. Hyatt would not be in yet. Which meant he would be at home where he could see anybody at the freighter’s barn…but so could others.

  “Make those egss over about medium, Ed,” he said, “with a slab of ham…a thick slab. I’m going over to the barn for a minute.”

  He crossed the street and walked along south of the Corral Saloon, then went to the barn.

  All was dark and still. Light fell through a few cracks and there was still a smell of hay and of leather hanging about the place.

  The third rafter…it was a likely place. He got up on the edge of a stall and reached it easily. He had just stepped down when somebody spoke.

  “What have you got there?”

  It was Lang Adams.

  “Howdy, Lang! Had breakfast? I just ordered me some ham and. Come on over and I’ll stand treat.”

  Adams shook his head doubtfully. “Bord, you’re the hardest man to find…I was hunting you yesterday, and nobody had any idea where you were. Why, I went all over town!”

  “I rode out to Ed Pearson’s place.” He was carrying the rifle in his left hand, muzzle down. “Somebody shot him.”

  “Him, too? I don’t like it, Bord. I’m in the notion of going up to Denver until this is all over, or to Fort Worth or somewhere. This man doesn’t care who he kills.”

  “You sure it’s a man?”

  “Why, sure. Why I never thought…What gave you the idea it might not be?”

  Chantry shrugged. “We can’t rule anybody out, and a woman can pull a trigger as well as a man.”

  They walked to the Bon-Ton and took seats.

  Breakfast came and they carried on a casual conversation of horses, cattle, range conditions and new arrivals.

  “Boone Silva’s in town,” Chantry commented. “Huntin’ me.”

  “Boone Silva? Who is he?”

  “Nobody much. He’s packed a gun in a couple of range wars and done some shooting for hire here and there, but somebody sent for him. Somebody from town. So far as I know the man most wanted dead right now is me. Anyway, Boone and me had a talk about it.”

  “A talk?” Lang was shocked.

  “You mean the man’s hunting you, and you actually talked to him? Where was this?”

  “Out at Pearson’s. I reckon I’ll have him to handle one of these days. Maybe sooner than late.”

  “But he’s a gunfighter, Bord. I never heard that you were—”

  “Oh, I guess I can handle myself. Anyway, I never did set up to be a gunfighter…I don’t think anybody does, really. It just sort of happens that way, and when a man wins a few fights he gets a reputation whether he wants it or not. I always shied away from anything of the kind.”

  “You be careful.”

  “He won’t give me any trouble. In fact, I think I’ll just throw him in jail until this is all over.”

  Lang Adams swore. “Bord, you beat all. You mean you’d try to arrest him? Boone Silva? He’d kill you.”

  The idea had come to Chantry as he talked, and instantly, the practicality of it struck him. He had his hands full trying to find a murderer without worrying about a gun battle with Silva. And he had nothing but impatience for such men, anyway. Fortunately, there were few of them, and jail was the place.

  He got up suddenly. “Lang, you finish your coffee. I’ve got a job to do.”

  He walked out on the street. Silva would likely be at the hotel.

  Borden Chantry walked to the hotel and switched the register around. Boone Silva was in Room 12.

  Elsie came up, touching her hair with quick fingers. “Anything I can do for you, Marshal?”

  “Has Silva gone out?”

  “No…no, he hasn’t.” She looked at him quickly. “Borden, there isn’t going to be any trouble, is there? I just finished patching up the bullet holes from the last fight. Now I don’t want—”

  “Relax, Elsie. I just want to talk to the man.”

  He went down the hall and tapped on the door. “Water an’ towels!” he said. “Water an’ towels!”

  “Don’t need any!” Silva’s voice was irritable. “Let a man sleep!”

  “Boone? This is Chantry. I want to talk to you.”

  Borden had his six-shooter in his hand, and when the door opened, so did Silva. They faced each other with scarcely three feet between them, both holding .44-calibre weapons.

  “I’m arresting you, Silva,” Borden said mildly. “Taking you down to jail where you can stay out of trouble.”

  “I’m not in trouble.”

  “Preventive medicine, Silva. Let’s just say we have a quiet town here, with no business for paid gunmen, and we want to keep it that way. Now give me your gun and come along.”

  “Like hell!”

  Borden Chantry smiled. Such men as Boone Silva liked to kill, but they trusted in their speed and marksmanship—and in the present case there was a chance for neither. Whatever skill Boone might have was negated by the reason of position. At the distance neither man could miss, and at the distance both would probably die. And Borden Chantry was banking that Silva did not want to die.

  His was a slight advantage due to the fact that he knew a good deal about Silva, and Silva didn’t know much about him. Si
lva did not know how crazy he might be, and the very fact that Chantry had approached him in this manner indicated that Chantry didn’t care…Although as a matter of fact he did care, and very much.

  “You’ll die, too,” Silva said.

  “Sure…but it’s my job. You can make a buck anywhere, Silva. This is only one more town to you, only one more job.”

  “You scared to meet me out in the street?”

  “I’m meeting you right here, Silva. Now hand me that gun—or die.”

  For just a moment, Silva stared at him. Then slowly, very carefully, he reversed his gun.

  “Take your finger out of the trigger guard, Silva. Hand it to me by the barrel only.”

  Chantry took the gun and Silva said, “Now let me get my pants on.”

  “No, Silva. Just as you are, in your drawers.”

  “Damn you, I’ll—!”

  “After you get out, Silva. Not now. Come on.”

  Prissy was sweeping the boardwalk in front of the post office. And George Blazer had come to the door of the stage office to carry on a conversation with Hyatt Johnson, who was crossing from the store to the bank. All conversation stopped when Boone Silva walked up the street in his long underwear, barefooted and furious. Borden Chantry walked two feet behind him, his pistol in its holster, Boone’s gun in his waistband.

  Lang Adams came to the door of the Bon-Ton, coffee cup in hand, Ed beside him. Lang stared, then he swore softly.

  “Ever see the like?” Ed commented, pleased. “We got us a marshal, Lang. That Boone Silva will never live this down…never!”

  “There’s only one thing he can do now,” Lang said. “He’s got to kill Chantry.”

  It was Big Injun who opened the door for them, but Kim Baca was seated on the settee at one side of the room. He looked up, grinning. “Howdy, Boone! Welcome to the ol’ homestead!”

  “Go to hell!” Boone said irritably.

  He walked into the cell and the door clanged shut behind him. The key turned in the lock.

  “You’ll never get away with this, Marshal. What charge are you holding me on?”

  Chantry smiled. “I’ll think of something, Boone. Disturbing the peace, maybe, or loitering. Or indecent exposure. You see, Boone, I’m doing this for your own good. There have been several murders committed around here, and we don’t know who did them. Folks are getting mighty upset about it, and they want to see somebody in jail for them, or hung for them.

  “I can prove you were at Pearson’s and Pearson was killed, so you’re the only tangible thing they have to put a hand on.

  “We can’t prove you killed those other folks, but you can’t prove you didn’t. You might be able, given time, to prove you were somewhere else when some of them were killed, but that would take time, and you mightn’t have that time.

  “So,” Chantry kept his face straight, “I just had to save you, Boone. I had to keep your neck from being stretched, and the only way I could do it was throw you in jail. Even if that’s not strictly true, it gives you something to feel good about.

  “The grub’s not bad here. There’s magazines and newspapers around, and you look tired, Boone. I think you need a rest. So just lie back there on your bunk and relax. Later, when I have time, I’ll bring your clothes to you. For now you’ll do just fine.”

  He walked into the outer office, closing the door behind him. Baca looked up, quizzically. “You haven’t headed him off, Marshal, just postponed it. Now, when he gets out, he’ll have to kill you.”

  “One thing at a time, Baca. One thing at a time.”

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  YOU ASKED THAT I should keep an eye on things,” Baca said then. “It was almighty quiet around, Marshal. Your wife took the buckboard out…drove into the country, but she wasn’t gone long.”

  Bess? Where would she be going?

  “Anybody else?”

  “Well, I didn’t see the banker around. I dropped in on Blazer…he was there. And that youngster who’s living at your place…the McCoy kid? He was all over town. I never did see such a busy kid.”

  Of course, one man could not watch everywhere. And the murderer must have been alert, curious as to why Kim Baca had been released, and therefore wary. And there was always the arroyo behind the town. It was all too easy to slip into that arroyo and simply vanish.

  Seated at the battered desk in the office, Chantry tipped back in his chair and closed his eyes. Yet he was not asleep, and did not plan to sleep. Slowly, methodically, he went over the impressions he had, and the little, so very little evidence.

  He now had the .52-calibre the murderer had used on some occasions, but he had no record of such a gun. And no one to whom he talked remembered having seen it.

  He got up suddenly. “Hold the fort,” he said, “I’ll be at the Bon-Ton.”

  He went out on the street and stood there, looking up and down, thinking. A vague impression was stirring around in his mind. He knew several people who had some connection with Mora, but how many might have a connection of which he knew nothing?

  Revenge was always a possibility as a motive for murder. But the revenge killer usually committed his act where the victim would know who was killing him, and why. Not always, of course.

  Chantry considered himself no kind of a thinker, yet it seemed to him that it all came back to some reason that lay outside of the town itself. Somebody, somewhere, wanted to keep something covered up.

  Because he or she feared arrest? Or because he or she stood to gain by keeping something under cover?

  Most of the dealings—financial and otherwise—were known to everybody in a small town. Not much could be concealed. So who in the town stood to gain anything? Enough of anything to make murder acceptable?

  Pin Dover had returned from Mora and shortly after had been killed.

  George Riggin had been on the verge of uncovering the killer, and he had been killed…by accident or otherwise.

  Joe Sackett had ridden into town from Mora, and he had been killed.

  Johnny McCoy had seen or known something, and he had been killed. Johnny had also been to Mora and was acquainted with Dover.

  Now Ed Pearson had been killed…because he knew something? Might know something? Or just to get him out of the way so that Borden Chantry might be killed?

  There had to be a design, a pattern, somewhere. When you trailed a man or an animal, you had to figure out where that man or animal might be going. And if you could, that was a help.

  So where was the murderer going?

  Why did people kill? Hate, revenge, jealousy, and for money…those were the obvious reasons.

  But who hated Pin Dover? Nobody. Who wanted anything he had? Nobody. A kill for revenge? Dover had been around for years, and if the killer was a local man, why had he waited?

  Joe Sackett had been a stranger, so nobody had reason to hate him.

  The only fact was Mora…and again Chantry came to the conclusion that all of them had been killed for something they knew—or that the killer suspected they knew.

  It must be a question of money.

  Putting the thought aside, he returned to Pin Dover. His had been the first killing, and on his return from Mora.

  The thought came to him suddenly and he shook it off. Ridiculous!

  He walked slowly along the street to the Bon-Ton.

  * * *

  BOONE SILVA LAY on his back in his cell in his underwear. His fury was wearing off, and good sense was taking over. He had the cunning of a wild animal, knowing what was good for him and what was bad. He lived dangerously, but with an inner wariness that kept him ever on the alert.

  Now he admitted, with grudging admiration, that Chantry had taken him fairly. He went over it again in his mind…Should he have gambled and fired?

  No. Had he done so he now would be dead…By this time, buried. And he was very much alive. Would Borden Chantry have fired? He asked himself that question and remembered Chantry’s eyes…Yes, Chantry would have fired.
It took nerve to face a man like that, at point-blank range.

  Now at a distance…That would be a different story. Boone Silva had killed a number of men, but he was faster than most, and a much better shot, so his chances were good—far better than average. When he drew a gun on a man, that man was dead.

  Sometimes he had tried to imagine a man faster than himself. Silva could not make himself believe such a man existed…or that if he was faster, he could shoot straighter.

  Someday, out on the street, he would meet Borden Chantry.

  His mind reverted to the job that brought him to town. He had come to kill Chantry. He would get five hundred dollars when it was done.

  The arrangements had been made in the usual way. There was a hole in the rock out at Mesa de Maya that was his post office, a place where a select few people knew he could be reached. He had gone to that hole in the rock one day and found a name and a town and a note that meant five hundred dollars when Chantry was dead.

  It was all very simple. When he had done his job, he would ride to a certain saloon and would pick up an envelope.

  Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. At thirty dollars a month, the going wage for a cowhand, it was almost two years’ work.

  He thought of Borden Chantry again. They had said he was a rancher, temporarily marshal. That might very well be true, but Borden Chantry was no bargain. Boone Silva wanted, for his pride’s sake, to face him in the open and shoot him down. But his animal caution told him that would be foolish—very foolish, indeed. When they let him out of jail he would say, “No hard feelin’s, Marshal,” and ride out of town. Then he’d circle around, have a fast horse ready and another one five miles away. And then, with one shot from his rifle, he’d cut Chantry down…and be out of the Territory before they knew what had happened.

  Five hundred dollars was a lot of money only if you lived to spend it.

  A faint curiosity stirred him. Who was it that wanted Chantry dead?