by L. P. Holmes
“Can do,” agreed Wall. “I’m sticking close to these parts now until something breaks in Jerry’s trouble. Tres, shall we ride?”
* * * * *
For the next two weeks Dave Wall lived life as he had dreamed of it, back through the dark, grim, lonely years while riding the hard, troubleshooting trails for Luke Lilavelt. He sent Holt Ashabaugh over to take care of Henry Laramore’s job and he and Tres Debley tied into the ranch work. The big chore was the cutting and stacking of tons of wild hay, sun-dried and lush along the meadows of Magpie Creek. It was good to work with a freedom of spirit, to leave his guns off, and not have to be continually throwing the weight of his will and commanding purpose against sullen, hard, dangerous men. It was good to relax completely, mind and body, to let the sweat flow, with the sweetness of earth’s growing bounty lifting to his nostrils. It was good to sit up to the warm, savory supper table and talk over the simple earthy problems of everyday ranch work at a slow leisure with Judith and Tres Debley. It was good to have the twins skylarking about, to hear the small treble of their childish shouts, and to have them ride on the seat of the hay wagon with him.
Into this small circle of activity, Tres Debley fitted with a quiet, unassuming ease. Watching, Wall saw a new content settle in the wind- and sun-puckered eyes of lean, dependable Tres. And one day Tres said: “This is the way the Lord intended a man should live, Dave. For all these years I’ve chased up one trail and down another, never knowing exactly what it was I hoped to find, yet knowing I’d never be content until I did. And right here, all about me, is what I’ve been looking for.”
Judith, thought Wall, was a champion, all right. Regularly she went into town to see Jerry, always taking with her some tasty dish she’d cooked especially. Proud she was, as she had always been, and now she showed her pride by being faithful through everything to the man of her heart. Wall knew that secretly she was undergoing a lot of punishment, but she kept it well to herself. Outwardly she was cheerful and smiling. But more than once Wall saw her furtively wiping her eyes after putting her small brood to bed for the night.
Wall would have liked to comfort her, but he was wise enough to know that words of sympathy wouldn’t help at all. This was something that just had to be wearied out.
And then, one evening, Sheriff Cole Ashabaugh rode out. “Word’s come up from the south concerning Jerry,” he told Wall. “Judge Masterson wants to see you, Dave. Tonight.”
“Good or bad word, Cole?” asked Wall tautly.
“Not rightly sure,” said Ashabaugh slowly. “Kinda depends on how long and far a man can hate, I guess.”
Wall buckled on his guns and drew Tres Debley aside. “Keep an eye on things, cowboy. This trail is only beginning to open up. And you’re riding it with me. That’s a promise.”
“I’ll be here,” nodded Tres. “When you want me … holler.”
There was a tall, ramrod-straight man with grizzled hair and a bitter, hawkish face with Judge Masterson when Dave Wall and Cole Ashabaugh clanked into the judge’s office. There was a faint air of tension and hostility in the atmosphere and in the yellow glow of the lamplight. Wall thought Judge Masterson looked more stern than he’d ever seen him.
The judge shook hands and then said brusquely: “Meet John Ogden. Mister Ogden, this is Dave Wall, brother-in-law of Jerry Connell.”
John Ogden made no attempt to shake hands. Gray, stern, relentless eyes burned at Wall, who murmured: “Ogden! The town marshal of Round Mountain was named Ogden.”
“My son,” said John Ogden harshly. “And he was shot down like a dog in performance of his duty. Shot down by a crowd of drunken, worthless thieves and hold-up men. Considerable years ago that happened. But I haven’t forgotten or forgiven, and I never will. I’ve dedicated every dollar I own and all the balance of my life to bringing to justice the killers of my son. It seems that at last the law has caught up with one of them. I’ve come up here from New Mexico to arrange for extradition. I want this fellow Connell back at the scene of the crime where I can go to work on him. I’m telling you this, Mister Wall, so you’ll have no false ideas as to exactly where I stand and what I propose to do. This Connell may be your brother-in-law, but Charles Ogden was my son.”
A cold current ran up Dave Wall’s spine. If he had ever listened to a man’s inflexible, cold, unalterable determination to exact vengeance, he was listening to it now. He searched John Ogden’s face and could find no slightest sign of mercy in that bitter, hawkish visage. A little desperately he said: “Jerry Connell did not kill your son, Mister Ogden. Jerry never fired a shot. The shooting was done by a man named Big George Yearly.”
John Ogden made a harsh, dismissing gesture. “So you say. But you don’t deny that Connell was one of the gang?”
Wall turned to Judge Masterson. “Have you told the entire story to Mister Ogden as Jerry gave it to you, sir?”
“I’ve sketched the high points, no more,” answered the judge. “I think perhaps it might be well to have Jerry tell it himself. Sheriff Ashabaugh, will you bring Mister Connell here?”
Cole Ashabaugh went out. Dave Wall built a cigarette, trying to fight back the panic in him. This sort of thing was the last he dreamed would happen—not a man as cold and inflexible as this one, bound on vengeance.
Not another word was spoken in Judge Masterson’s office until Cole Ashabaugh returned with Jerry. The moment Jerry came through the door, John Ogden fixed him with a cold, implacable stare.
Quietly Judge Masterson explained matters to Jerry. Then he added: “Will you give us your story again, Mister Connell … exactly as it happened?”
Jerry faced John Ogden and gave it, simply and quietly. But when Jerry finished, there was no slightest break in Ogden’s manner or expression.
“You were one of them,” was Ogden’s harsh comment. “You were an accessory. In my eyes every man in that gang was equally guilty. Judge Masterson, I demand that we get along swiftly with the matter of extradition. Aside from that there is nothing more to say.”
Judge Masterson steepled his fingers, pursed his lips, and his eyes took on a cool glint. “On the contrary, Mister Ogden … there is much more to be said. I have told you about Mister Connell’s excellent reputation hereabouts. I’ve told you of his record of hard work, reliability, and accomplishment. I’ve told you of his local reputation as a solid, law-abiding, desirable citizen. I wanted you to hear his own story from his own lips. I also told you about his fine family, his wife and children. I had hoped all these things would have some effect upon your judgment and generosity. Apparently there has been no effect.” The judge paused, sat a little straighter in his chair. “I can sympathize fully with your natural grief at the death of your son, but the fact remains that Mister Connell did not fire the fatal shot … he did no shooting at all.” “So he claims,” rapped John Ogden. “He could be lying and probably is.”
“I choose to believe otherwise,” said Judge Masterson. “I believe that Mister Connell has given us the exact truth of that affair. Oh, I admit to your premise that he stands accessory before the law. But true justice, Mister Ogden, is always tempered with understanding mercy. You, apparently, do not feel that way. So you leave me with but one alternative. If you refuse utterly to view this thing in a more fair and generous light … if you persist in your demands for immediate extradition, then, sir, I must warn you that you are in for the fight of your life.”
Judge Masterson got to his feet, spread his hands on his desk, and leaned forward with a startling belligerency. “I can, Mister Ogden … and I will, dig up delays and points of law until you choke on them, sir. You are fighting for the memory of a dead son, riding a malevolent vengeance that hardly becomes a man of your age. While I am fighting for the rights of a living man, for the happiness and future of his family. If I had the slightest feeling that Jerry Connell had contributed directly in the murder of your son, I would hand him over to you without a
word. But I do not feel that way. So, sir … do we talk this over in a new and understanding light, or is it to be a battle?” The judge’s eyes had locked with those of John Ogden and for a long moment the clash of wills hung, hard and inflexible. It was Ogden who finally looked away. Then the judge said, his voice growing mellow again: “The man who killed your son, Mister Ogden, was named Yearly. Known as Big George Yearly. He was the leading sinister influence in the whole affair. Why not concentrate your efforts in running him to earth?”
“I have made that effort and I’m continuing it,” growled Ogden. “The fellow seems to have dropped completely from sight. However, I intend to continue my efforts until I locate him or know beyond doubt that he is dead. As for the custody of this fellow, Connell, there you shall have your fight, Judge Masterson. I haven’t gone as far as I have on this issue to back away from it because of a fight. You’ll hear from me, make up your mind to that.”
Ogden whirled, put another hard and measuring stare on Jerry Connell, then stamped out.
Judge Masterson looked at the empty doorway for a long moment. Then he murmured: “That man is to be pitied. He’s eating himself up with a black obsession.”
Dave Wall took a short turn up and down the room. “How long can you hope to hold up extradition, Judge?”
The judge settled slowly back into his chair, as though a little weary. “Not as long as I’d like to, I’m afraid. Part of my recent defiance was sheer bluff and I’m afraid John Ogden knows it. Oh, I can win some delay. A few weeks, maybe a month. But that is all. If there was only some chance of locating this Big George Yearly and rounding him up. Could we put the actual killer of his son before John Ogden, that might solve everything for us.”
“After all these years I’d call it almost an impossibility to locate Yearly,” said Jerry Connell dully. “For all we know, Yearly could be dead. Judge, you’ve been mighty fine about this, but it looks like … well …” Jerry shrugged a little hopelessly.
Dave Wall looked at his brother-in-law. Jerry’s shoulders were slumped and he was staring straight ahead, as though seeing nothing but black shadows. The fight, thought Wall grimly, was going out of Jerry.
Cole Ashabaugh cleared his throat. “Mind if I put in my two-bits’ worth, Judge? To me there is one angle of this affair that don’t add up right. Me, I’ve been wondering how Luke Lilavelt got hold of that Wanted dodger on Jerry in the first place. Lilavelt is a cowman and in the general run of things would have no reason at all to be interested in anything like that. Particularly a dodger from out of state. Yet he turns up with this one on Connell. How and where did he get it?”
A gleam came into Judge Masterson’s eye. “Sheriff,” he murmured, “that’s using your head. Go on, man. Where else does your thinking lead you?”
Ashabaugh turned to Jerry. “If I remember right, you said that Yearly and three others went into that deadfall at Round Mountain and that only Yearly came out alive. In which case, only you and Yearly lived through the mix-up. That’s the way it was?”
“Yes,” said Jerry, slightly wondering, “that’s the way it was, Cole. But what …?”
“Supposing,” cut in Ashabaugh, “that I’m Big George Yearly. I’m on the dodge for killing a town marshal. Riding on my shoulder all the time is the realization and the fear that someday, somewhere, I’m going to be picked up. I’m drifting here, drifting there, covering up my trail. One day by chance I happen to run across the only other living member of the gang who was in the mix-up. He doesn’t see me, but I’m dead sure of him. That man hadn’t had much to do with the affair. He wasn’t actually in on the attempted hold-up, and he didn’t do any shooting. But he knows that I’m the one who killed the town marshal. In a court of law he’s the one witness who could actually put a rope around my neck.” Cole Ashabaugh paused, built a cigarette, then went on. “While that man lived, he would be mighty dangerous to me. But to kill him would open the trail again, hotter than ever, for by now he’s a family man, a ranch owner, and a man in good standing in his particular neighborhood. But if I found a way to tip the law off about him without showing myself in the picture, then the law could gather him in and prosecute him and maybe that would satisfy the law and leave it not near so anxious after my skin. At any rate, he’d go over the road even if he wasn’t hung, and with him out of circulation there’d be no chance of him seeing and recognizing me, and by turning state’s evidence on me, get off easy himself. Is that kind of thinking too far-fetched, Judge?”
Judge Masterson, his eyes pinched down, considered for a time in silence. Then he shook his head. “No, Sheriff … not too far-fetched at all. It makes sense. It is logical. Over the years I’ve seen the truth arrived at through premises built up on far sketchier foundations than that. That fear, which always rides with the guilty, causes them to do strange things. More than one culprit who, as far as the law is concerned, has dropped completely from sight and been virtually forgotten, has betrayed himself by some move calculated to cover a trail more thoroughly that has already dimmed out to nothing. Why shouldn’t Big George Yearly make the same mistake?”
Cole Ashabaugh nodded. “That’s clearing it up, Judge.”
“The big point, of course,” said the judge, “is that Luke Lilavelt could have some idea of the present whereabouts of Big George Yearly … that it was Yearly who put the dodger in Lilavelt’s hands?”
“Right,” affirmed Ashabaugh. “Yearly could easily have got hold of such a dodger. Lots of times they’re posted in public places. For that matter, I’ve known of outlaws who were packing around a dodger concerning themselves when picked up. The mind of a hunted man can cook up some queer twists.”
The judge stirred briskly. “Right or wrong, this line of reasoning at least gives us something to go on. Sheriff, I want Luke Lilavelt brought before me. I want to ask that man some very pointed questions.”
“He may not be easy to find,” said Ashabaugh slowly. “He left town the night before I went after Jerry with that warrant and I haven’t seen him since. I know his office has stayed locked up, and when I checked at the room he keeps in the hotel, that hasn’t been used, either. But I’ll sure start looking for him.”
Dave Wall had been a silent but intent listener. Now he spoke up. “I don’t think that would be the right move, Cole … your going looking for Lilavelt, I mean. Because you’re the known law. The word goes out that you’re trying to locate Lilavelt, and Yearly, if he is somewhere in these parts, he might spook and pull out. It’s the law he’s afraid and suspicious of, remember. On the other hand, if I’m looking for Lilavelt, that would shape up as a personal angle between Lilavelt and me, and Yearly would have no cause to get too excited over it. Besides, I know Luke Lilavelt better than any other man. I know how his mind works. I know all his spreads and how the trails run. Let me go after Lilavelt … let me bring him in.”
“Why now,” exclaimed Judge Masterson, “that is clear thinking, too, Mister Wall! And there would be a sort of sublime justice in it, all things considered. I think you’re right. Sheriff, I suggest we put Wall on the trail … er … slightly irregular, I admit … but this is a case that demands emergency measures.”
Cole Ashabaugh put a long glance on Dave Wall. “Understand, killing Lilavelt wouldn’t solve anything, Dave. We got to have him able to talk.”
“Clear enough,” assented Wall.
“All right,” said the sheriff. “If it suits the judge, it suits me.”
It was close to midnight when Dave Wall got back to the ranch. Everything was dark. Wall quietly put up his horse, then went over to the saddle shed where Tres Debley bunked, and shook him awake. He told Tres all that had taken place in Judge Masterson’s office.
“This changes our plans some, cowboy. You’ll have to stick on here until Holt Ashabaugh gets through with his chore for Henry Laramore and comes back here,” Wall ended. “I’ll try and keep in touch with you. I don’t know how long a
nd far I’ll have to ride to locate Lilavelt. One thing is certain. He’s got to be around somewhere. He can’t afford to stay out of sight too long and let all his business interests go to pot.”
Tres said: “I’ll stick until Ashabaugh gets back. Then I’ll do some riding myself. Probably back into the Crimson Hills. For I got a guy I want to find, too, remember. Hippo Dell. I owe that hombre a going-over with a pick handle and I won’t be happy until I pay that debt. The Crimson Hills is Dell’s country, so that’s where I start looking. Maybe by this time he’s back at the old headquarters.”
“He’s a tough one,” reminded Wall. “You should remember that.”
A ripple of remembered feeling pulled Tres’ lips thin. “Next time it’ll be different,” he said with some harshness.
Chapter Nine
For the next two weeks, Dave Wall rode more miles than ever before in his life during an equal period of time. All were trails he had covered before in the service of Luke Lilavelt, but never at such a driving, unrelenting pace as now. He left gaunted, weary horses behind him and drove ahead on fresh ones. He rode himself down to sheer rawhide and sinew, while sun and wind burned him black. And he rode with a bright and brittle alertness at all times, for each one of Luke Lilavelt’s far-flung cattle headquarters could be a deathtrap for him under Lilavelt’s orders.
Anywhere along the trail some Window Sash rider, for the sake of a few extra dollars, could be watching and waiting for him, a rifle always ready. There were, he thought grimly, quite a few like Joe Muir on Luke Lilavelt’s payroll. On the other hand, there were also men like Tom Burke and Tres Debley. Men with a restless, perhaps unruly streak in them, men who could be tough enough if the occasion warranted, yet men who would balk at shooting another man in the back just because Luke Lilavelt wanted it so.