He stared stubbornly at the table. Finally, he said, “I’ll think it over. It’ll take some time.”
“It’ll take you just two minutes,” I said, laying it on the line.
He stared hard at me, his knuckles whitening on the arms of the chair. Suddenly, reluctantly he grinned. Sinking back into his chair, he shrugged. “You ride a man hard, Sabre. All right, peace it is.”
“Thanks, Pinder.” I thrust out my hand.
He hesitated, then took it. Katie O’Hara filled his cup.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got to make a drive. The only way there’s water is across your place.”
“What’s wrong with that? Drive ’em across, and whatever water your herd needs is yours. Just so it doesn’t take you more than a week to get ’em across.”
Pinder smiled bleakly, but with humor. “Aw, you know it won’t take more’n a day.” He subsided into his chair and started on the coffee.
Jake Booker had been taking it all in, looking from one to the other of us with his sharp little eyes.
Canaval opened the door and stepped in, looking pale and drawn, followed by Tom Fox. “Miss Olga could have signed for me,” he said. “She’s the owner.”
“You sign, too,” I insisted. “We want to cover every eventuality.”
Booker was smiling. He rubbed his lips with his thin, dry fingers. “All nonsense,” he said briskly. “Both the Bar M and the Two Bar belong to me. I’ve filed the papers. You’ve twenty-four hours to get off and stay off.”
“Booker,” I said, “has assumed we are fools. He believed, if he could get a flimsy claim, he could get us into court and beat us. Well, this case will never go to court.”
Booker’s eyes were beady. “Are you threatening me?”
Sheriff Will Tharp came into the room. His eyes rested on Jake but he said nothing.
“We aren’t threatening,” I said. “On what does your claim to the Bar M stand?”
“Bill of sale,” he replied promptly. “The ranch was actually left to Jay Collins, the gunfighter. He was Maclaren’s brother-in-law. His will left all his property to a nephew, and I bought it, including the Bar M and all appurtenances thereto.”
Canaval gave me a brief nod. “Sorry, Jake. You’ve lost your money. Jay Collins is not dead.”
The lawyer jumped as if slapped. “Not dead? I saw his grave!”
“Booker,” I smiled, “look down the table at Jay Collins.” I pointed to Canaval.
Booker broke into a fever of protest, but I was looking at Olga Maclaren. She was staring at Canaval, and he was smiling.
“Sure, honey,” he said. “That’s why I knew so much about your mother. She was the only person in the world I ever really loved … until I knew my niece.”
Booker was worried now, really worried. In a matter of minutes half his plan had come to nothing. He was shrewd enough to know we would not bluff, and that we had proof of what we said.
“As for the Two Bar,” I added, “don’t worry about it. I’ve my witnesses that the estate was given me. Not that it will matter to you.”
“What’s that? What’d you mean?” Booker stared at me.
“Because you were too greedy. You’ll never rob another man, Booker. For murder, you’ll hang.”
He protested, but now he was cornered and frightened.
“You killed Rud Maclaren,” I told him, “and, if that’s not enough, you killed one of Slade’s men from ambush. We can trail your horse to the scene of the crime, and, if you think a Western jury won’t take the word of an Indian tracker, you’re wrong.”
“He killed Maclaren?” Canaval asked incredulously.
“He got him out of the house on some trumped-up excuse. To show him the silver, or to show him something I was planning … it doesn’t matter what excuse was used. He shot him, then loaded him on a horse and brought him to my place. He shot him again, hoping to draw me to the vicinity as he wanted my tracks around the body.”
“Lies!” Booker was recovering his assurance. “Sabre had trouble with Maclaren, not I. We knew each other only by sight. The idea that I killed him is preposterous.” He got to his feet. “In any event, what have the ranches to do with the silver claim of which you speak?”
“Morgan Park found the claim while trailing a man he meant to murder, Arnold D’Arcy, who knew him as Cantwell. Arnold had stumbled upon the old mine. Park murdered him only to find there was a catch in the deal. D’Arcy had already filed on the claim and had done assessment work on it. Legally, there was no way Park could gain possession, and no one legally could work the mine until D’Arcy’s claim lapsed. Above all, Park wanted to avoid any public connection with the name of D’Arcy. He couldn’t sell the claim, because it wasn’t his, but if he could get control of the Bar M and the Two Bar, across which anyone working the claim must go, he could sell them at a fabulous price to an unscrupulous buyer. The new owner of the ranches could work the claim quietly, and by owning the ranches he could deny access to the vicinity so it would never be discovered what claims were being worked. When D’Arcy’s assessment work lapsed, the claims could be filed upon by the new owners.”
“Booker was to find a buyer?” asked Tharp.
“Yes. Park wanted money, not a mine or a ranch. Booker, I believe, planned to be that buyer himself. He wanted possession of the Bar M, so he decided to murder Rud Maclaren.”
“You’ve no case against me that would stand in court!” Booker sneered. “You can prove nothing! What witnesses do you have?”
We had none, of course. Our evidence was a footprint. All the rest of what I’d said was guesswork. Tharp couldn’t arrest the man on such slim grounds. We needed a confession.
Tom Fox leaned over the table, his eyes cold. “Some of us are satisfied. We don’t need witnesses an’ we don’t need to hear no more. Some of us are almighty sure you killed Rud Maclaren. Got any arguments that will answer a six-gun? Or a rope?”
Booker’s face thinned down and he crouched back against his chair. “You can’t do that! The law! Tharp will protect me!”
Sighting a way clear, I smiled. “That might be, Booker. Confess, and Tharp will protect you. He’ll save you for the law to handle. But if you leave here a free man, you’ll be on your own.”
“An’ I’ll come after you,” Fox said.
“Confess, Booker.” I suggested, “and you’ll be safe.”
“Aw! Turn him loose!” Fox protested angrily. “No need to have trouble, a trial an’ all. Turn him loose! We all know he’s a crook an’ we all know he killed Rud Maclaren! Turn him loose!”
Booker’s eyes were haunted with fear. There was no acting in Tom Fox and he knew it. The rest of us might bluff, but not Fox. The Bar M hand wanted to kill him, and, given an opportunity, he would.
Right then I knew we were going to win. Jake Booker was a plotter and a conniver, not a courageous man. His mean little eyes darted from Fox to the sheriff. His mouth twitched and his face was wet with sweat. Tom Fox, his hand on his gun, moved relentlessly closer to Booker.
“All right, then!” he screamed. “I did it! I killed Maclaren. Now, Sheriff, save me from this man!”
I relaxed at last, as Tharp put the handcuffs on Booker. As they were leaving, I said, “What about Park? What happened to him?”
Tharp cleared his throat. “Morgan Park is dead. He was killed last night on the Woodenshoe.”
We all looked at him, waiting. “That Apache of Pinder’s killed him,” Tharp explained. “Park ran for it after he busted out of jail. He killed his horse crossin’ the flats an’ he run into the Injun with a fresh horse. He wanted to swap, the ’Pache wouldn’t go for the deal, so Park tried to dry-gulch him. He should have knowed better. The Injun killed him an’ lit out.”
“You’re positive?” D’Arcy demanded.
Tharp nodded. “Yeah, he died hard, Park did.”
The door opened and Jonathan Benaras was standing there. “Been scoutin’ around,” he said. “Bodie Miller’s done took out. He hit
the saddle about a half hour back an’ headed north out of town.”
Bodie Miller gone! It was impossible. Yet, he had done it. Miller was gone! I got to my feet. “Good,” I said quietly, “I was afraid there would be trouble.”
Pinder got to his feet. “Don’t you trust that Miller,” he said grudgingly. “He’s a snake in the grass. You watch out.”
So, there it was. Pinder was no longer an enemy. The fight had been ended and I could go back to the Two Bar. I should feel relieved, and yet I did not. Probably it was because I had built myself up for Bodie Miller and nothing had come of it. I was so ready, and then it all petered out to nothing at all.
Olga had the Bar M, and her uncle to run it for her, and nobody would be making any trouble for Canaval. There was nothing for me to do but to go back home.
My horse was standing at the rail and I walked out to him and lifted the stirrup leather to tighten the cinch. But I did not hurry. Olga was standing there in front of the restaurant, and the one thing I wanted most was to talk to her. When I looked up, she was standing there alone.
“You’re going back to the Two Bar?” Her voice was hesitant.
“Where else? After all, it’s my home now.”
“Have … have you done much to the house yet?”
“Some.” I tightened the cinch, then unfastened the bridle reins. “Even a killer has to have a home.” It was rough, and I meant it that way.
She flushed. “You’re not holding that against me?”
“What else can I do? You said what you thought, didn’t you?”
She stood there, looking at me, uncertain of what to say, and I let her stand there.
She watched me put my foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but she did not. Yet, when I looked down at her, she was more like a little girl who had been spanked than anything else I could think of.
Suddenly I was doing the talking. “Ever start that trousseau I mentioned?”
She looked up quickly. “Yes,” she admitted, “but … but I’m afraid I didn’t get very far with it. You see, there was …”
“Forget it.” I was brusque. “We’ll do without it. I was going to ride out of here and let you stay, but I’ll be double damned if I will. I told you I was going to marry you, and I am. Now, listen, trousseau or not, you be ready by tomorrow noon, understand?”
“Yes. All right. I mean … I will.”
Suddenly we were both laughing like fools and I was off that horse and kissing her, and all the town of Hattan’s Point could see us. It was right there in front of the café, and I could see people coming from the saloons and standing along the boardwalks, all grinning.
Then I let go of her and stepped back, and said, “Tomorrow noon. I’ll meet you here.” And with that I wheeled my horse and lit out for the ranch.
Ever feel so good it looks as if the whole world is your big apple? That was the way I felt. I had all I ever wanted. Grass, water, cattle, and with a home and wife of my own. The trail back to the Two Bar swung around a huge mesa and opened out on a wide desert flat, and far beyond it I could see the suggestion of the stones and pinnacles of badlands beyond Dry Mesa. A rabbit burst from the brush and sprinted off across the sage, and then the road dipped down into a hollow. There, in the middle of the road, was Bodie Miller.
He was standing with his hands on his hips, laughing, and there was a devil in his eyes. Off to one side of the road was Red, holding their horses and grinning, too.
“Too bad!” Bodie said. “Too bad to cut down the big man just when he’s ridin’ highest, but I’ll enjoy it.”
This horse I rode was skittish and unacquainted with me. I’d no idea how he’d stand for shooting, and I wanted on the ground. Suddenly I slapped spurs to that gelding, and, when the startled animal lunged toward the gunman, I went off the other side. Hitting the ground running, I spun on one heel and saw Bodie’s hands blur as they dove for their guns, and then I felt my own gun buck in my hand. Our bullets crossed each other, but mine was a fraction the fastest despite that instant of hesitation when I made sure it would count.
His slug ripped a furrow across my shoulder that stung like a thousand needles, but my own bullet caught him in the chest and he staggered back, his eyes wide and agonized. Then I started forward and suddenly the devil was up in me. I was mad, mad as I had never been before. I opened up with both guns. “What’s the matter?” I was yelling. “Don’t you like it, gunslick? You asked for it, now come and get it! Fast, are you? Why you cheap, two-bit gunman, I’ll …!”
But he was finished. He stood there, a slighter man than I was, with blood turning his shirt front crimson, and with his mouth ripped by another bullet. He was white as death, even his lips were gray, and against that whiteness was the splash of blood. In his eyes now there was another look. The killing lust was gone, and in its place was an awful terror, for Bodie Miller had killed, and enjoyed it with a kind of sadistic bitterness that was in him—but now he knew he was being killed and the horror of death was surging through him.
“Now you know how they felt, Bodie,” I said bitterly. “It’s an ugly thing to die with a slug in you because some punk wants to prove he’s tough. And you aren’t tough, Bodie, just mean.”
He stared at me, but he didn’t say anything. He was gone, and I could see it. Something kept him upright, standing in that white-hot sun, staring at me, the last face he would ever look upon.
“You asked for it, Bodie, but I’m sorry for it. Why didn’t you stay to punching cows?”
Bodie backed up another step, and his gun slid from his fingers. He tried to speak, and then his knees buckled, and he went down. Standing over him, I looked at Red.
“I’m ridin’,” Red said huskily. “Just give me a chance.” He swung into the saddle, then looked down at Bodie. “He wasn’t so tough, was he?”
“Nobody is,” I told him. “Nobody’s tough with a slug in his belly.”
He rode off, and I stood there in the trail with Bodie dead at my feet. Slowly I holstered my guns, then led my horse off the trail to the shade where Bodie’s horse still stood.
Lying there in the dusty trail, Bodie Miller no longer looked mean or even tough, he looked like a kid that had tackled a job that was too big for him.
There was a small gully off the trail. It looked like a grave, and I used it that way. Rolling him into it, I shoved the banks in on top of him, and then piled on some stones. Then I made a cross for him and wrote his name on it, and the words: HE PLAYED OUT HIS HAND. Then I hung his guns on the cross along with his hat.
It was not much of an end for a man, not any way you looked at it, but I wanted no more reputation as a killer—mine had already grown too big.
Maybe Red would tell the story, and maybe in time somebody would see the grave, but if Red’s story was told, it would be somewhere far away and long after, and that suited me.
A stinging in my own shoulder reminded me of my own wound, but when I opened my shirt and checked my shoulder, I found it a mere scratch.
Ahead of me the serrated ridges of the wild lands were stark and lonely along the sky, and the sun behind me was picking out the very tips of the peaks to touch them with gold. Somehow the afternoon was gone, and now I was riding home to my own ranch, and tomorrow was my wedding day.
THE END
Riders of the Dawn Page 17