"Yes."
She rose and patted his shoulder as she passed behind his chair and went to the front window. She pulled back the edge of the blind and looked down the road at the town lights.
"Do you have a horse?"
"Outside of town."
"Then you had better get to him. And ride as far away as you can." She turned and met his eyes. "Don't come back, Will-Joe. I ask you as a friend."
He pushed back the chair and stood. He clasped his wrist and stared at the wound, and then he looked up. "I didn't think before about why he did it. You are not safe."
She forced a smile. "He can't do anything to me… you're the one in danger."
"You too." A quiet stubbornness pinched his cheeks. "If it would help, I can stand trial. It would all come out then, what he did."
"But there's no proof. Except your word—" She hesitated.
"The white man's law is for white men."
"Yes, and you would be obliged to give yourself up to the sheriff. You'd wait trial in his jail. You see?"
"There would never be a trial." He shook his head. "But the mountains are my home. He will not find me in them. Unless I let him."
Alarm flared in her. She could only look at him wordlessly, helplessly.
"I will not run from him again, Miss Bethany."
Will-Joe left the McAllister house as he had entered it, by the back door. He stepped out into the quiet darkness and heard Miss Bethany's soft admonition to be careful. And she closed the door behind him. He stood listening a moment, picking out no particular sound and yet aware of a hundred distinct sounds, voices of the night.
He cut to his right through the darkness, going across an adjacent yard almost at a crouch through the brush and weed tangles. He had left his horse back in some trees at the other end of town. Close to the road, on the chance he might have to get away fast. At the same time, against any possibility of the animal being discovered, he hadn't wanted to leave him near Miss Bethany's home. If he should be seen getting away, it was important for her sake that nobody guess he had come to visit her.
He was glad he had come and that she had listened well. It had made any risk worth the while. It was all-important that she, of all people, believed in him. More: she was warned against a danger that he had not previously considered. How could he have been so stupid as not to realize Ulring's motive for murder? True, she would know worry now—but better to be aware of a danger and perhaps be able to fight it.
Perhaps she was right and she personally had nothing to fear from Ulring. But Will-Joe wasn't so sure. Tsi Tsosi was a man to go after what he wanted with a one-track fury. And if he couldn't get it one way…
Close by, a dog began to bark.
Will-Joe came to a dead stop and slipped down on his haunches in the weeds. He couldn't see the dog; had it picked him up? The barking ceased now, but as he moved on it resumed again, even more furiously. Will-Joe lifted into a half-trot, crossing another yard slantwise. He wanted to skirt wide of the main street, at the same time keeping toward the rear of the buildings wherever he could.
The dog was coming after him, the barking getting closer. Then it was racing at his heels, a light-colored feist of a mutt who worried his legs furiously. Its feral, shrill yapping was enough to raise half the town.
A couple houses to Will-Joe's back, a door opened; light streamed out. "Mustard!" a man called.
Will-Joe hauled up under a shadowy clump of cottonwood and turned, pulling his knife. Would he have to kill the dog to shut it up? Mustard began veering back and forth and around him, snapping at his shins.
He swung at the animal. It leaped away and stood a few yards off, barking and bristling. Another door banged open; a man sleepily demanded what the hell was going on.
Will-Joe shrank away from the trees and swung toward the main street, away from the residential area. He had to move at a gingerly pace in the dark, and Mustard followed him. Its owner called again, adding some choice expletives. Mustard broke off and trotted away, satisfied that it had put the run on a prowler.
Will-Joe pushed on as fast as he dared, his senses pitched to a hard tingling alertness. No telling how many people, curious about the racket, would be coming to their doors. The moon had emerged from behind a cloud bank; it burst across the landscape like a silvery lamp. In the open now, Will-Joe could distinguish details clearly; he picked up speed, but kept in the shadow behind a row of main street buildings. He was running as he came past a corner.
He slammed full-tilt into a man coming through the alley. Their bodies collided head-on and smashed together, knocking both of them sprawling.
Will-Joe lay stunned on his belly for several moments, sparks pinwheeling in his eyes. Then, getting his hands under him, he pushed to his feet, grabbing at the wall for support. He looked down at the man groaning on the ground. Liquid was gurgling from a bottle; he had a raw ripe whiff of it. A drunk, he thought. The man had come staggering up the alley to finish his bottle in the weeds at the back.
Still dazed, Will-Joe pushed away from the wall, stepped over the drunk and moved on. He tried to hurry, but he had banged his knee somehow; all he could manage was an awkward shuffle.
The livery corral was just ahead, and he made a swing outward to avoid it, but the smell or sound of him disturbed the horses. They began snorting and milling. A lantern bobbed in the rear archway of the barn, throwing out a saffron pool of light.
"Who's that there? What're you doing?"
It was Claude Warhoon's voice, and now Claude spotted him in the open moonlight and yelled: "Hold up there!" He pounded out of the archway at a run, skirting around the corral. Will-Joe saw light streak the barrel of a pistol in his fist.
He limped furiously on, but the thud of feet told him Claude was coming too fast, and now he pulled his own pistol and wheeled. Claude pulled up about ten yards away. He held the lantern high.
"Who'n hell are… Jesus! It's—"
His arm straightened; Will-Joe heard the metallic rasp as a pistol hammer was eared back. He melted to the ground as the gun roared. Claude fired again. The shot was low and wide, but it flung dirt over him.
He did not think. It was no time to think. His arm was cramped against his side with his pistol and he arced it around and up, and saw Claude's shape blot darkly beyond the sights, and he shot.
Claude grunted and dropped the lantern. Then he was going boneless and falling, and his body toppled across the lantern.
Will-Joe scrambled up. He limped on toward the trees that hid his horse, the sweat cold as ice on his body. He heard another voice yelling now. And that was Ulring's.
Ulring was slumped deep in his saddle, almost half-dozing, as he rode into town from the north. Christ, but he was tired. His mind clutched at ragtag ends of thought that kept slipping from his mental grasp. Anger and frustration beset him. And gut-deep exhaustion. Some learned bastard ought to write a treatise on the anatomy of exhaustion, he thought. The kind of dead aching fatigue that ate into every pore of a man's being. A thing as much of the mind as of the body. For a man driven toward an insensate goal could never rest; his obsession wore at him as steadily as did his physical fury.
He had not wanted to return to town, but he had reached his limit. His senses kept whirling into a sick dead blur; his body was almost numb to sensation. He was too used up to register normal impressions any longer—much less maintain the trigger-pitch of alertness he needed. The goddam proverbial needle in the hay had nothing on that siwash kid. And if he did get lucky and suddenly encounter him, the kid would have all the edge. Hell! He needed a hot bath, a filling meal, and about twenty hours in a good bed. Then—
The shots whacked like the cracks of a bullwhip across the night. Two of them, spaced a little apart.
Ulring straightened, looking around. He shook the fog from his brain. He was almost abreast of the livery barn, and his mind raced back and evaluated the sounds. Gunshots? Close… damned close… just beyond the barn.
He dropped to the g
round and ran for the livery archway, pulling his gun. He stopped inside the barn. A big lantern slung from a peg threw out a rancid glow. Nobody here. He moved down the runway. Horses stamped restively; the hot close stinks of the barn, dung and straw and ammonia, surrounded him. He passed through the far archway and halted again.
"Anyone out there?"
Abruptly then, he heard a horse running. He broke into a run, cutting around the corral. He saw a man's body darkly crumpled against the dusty moon sheen of the ground. And froze, gun out and up, listening. But the tattoo of hoofs was already dying away in the night.
Ulring went on a few steps, then halted and knelt, turning the body over. Metal tinkled; a coal oil stench rose. Moonlight hit the dead face. Claude. His torn throat glistened with a black wetness. A bullet must have gone through his jugular.
Ulring sized it at once. Claude had heard something suspicious and had come out with the lantern. Ulring took the gun from his limp hand and sniffed it. The first shot had been Claude's, and he had missed. The prowler, whoever it was, hadn't.
Who had it been? Maybe, Ulring thought. A small rising excitement bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. Maybe. Claude wasn't the type to cut down on a mere prowler. And even if it hadn't been the kid… who was to say?
Voices from the street. Men were gathering out there, asking questions. A smile tightened his mouth. He would give them a few answers. He straightened up and holstered his gun, gazing down at the body a speculative moment. Then he rammed Claude's gun into his belt under the skirt of his coat and tramped back into the barn and out to the street. He headed for the knot of men pulling together in the outspilling light in front of the Pink Lady.
"Here comes… hey, it's Ulring," someone said.
"Frank!" Bert Stang hailed him. "You hear them shots?"
Ulring reached the group. He ran a grim eye over their faces, then jerked his head backward toward the barn. "Claude's back there. One of you come with me. We'll fetch him in."
"Jeez," a man twanged. "Claude get hurt?"
"He's dead," Ulring said quietly. "It was that breed bastard. He shot Claude dead. I saw it."
"I don't believe it," Bethany said.
Ulring ran a thumb along his mustache, then dropped his hand heavily to his knee. He gazed at her face, trying to discern what lay behind it. She was pale but composed. The slim hands knotted together in her lap were white-knuckled with strain. He leaned forward a little, the leather-rigged chair creaking to his weight.
"Beth, what do you want to hear? What else can I tell you? I rode in, I heard the shot. I saw the kid bending over Claude's body—"
"You saw him?"
"Square under the moon, plain as day. He cut and ran. I shot at him and missed and he got to his horse. Lord, Claude wasn't even armed."
"You told me."
She rose and walked across the parlor and back, kneading her hands together, not looking at him. Ulring got to his feet and stared at her, his eyes cold and baffled.
"No mistake this time. It was plain damned cold-blooded murder. I guess that doesn't matter to you."
"Frank, stop it!" She whirled to face him, her throat muscles flexing. "Of course it matters. I liked Claude. What do you expect of me?"
"That you quit making excuses for that murdering breed."
She bit her lip and frowned at her hands. "I think, Frank, that you had better leave."
"Beth, Lord A'mighty." He spread his big hands palms up. "I didn't mean to be rude, but look—I don't mean to sound brutal either—you have to stop finding excuses for that kid. Listen, it's understandable. I'm a stubborn lad myself. When I've been wrong about someone, I have a hard time bringing myself to admit it."
"Do you?" Her gaze lifted and locked his: her eyes were like clear crystal. "Not a very pleasant feeling, is it?"
Something in it struck him curiously. His right fist at his side crushed gently around the brim of his hat. "You know, I wonder something. What Cantrell was doing in town. I hadn't really thought about it."
"I suppose he had his reasons."
"You never know about an Injun." He watched her face. "But he's not dumb, is he? You said so. Now sneaking back to a place full of his enemies. That's dumb. Course he could have been looking to steal food. If he was white, I'd even count it likely. But a siwash like that, he could live off the country easy as not."
"Frank, do you mind? I'm rather tired…"
"Did he come here to see you?" He shot the words like bullets. "Is that it, Beth?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
His stare whiplashed her face: it was smooth as pale china. Her tone was tart and faintly impatient, and he could read nothing else into it. If he was here, Ulring thought, he gave you an earful. You'd only lie about it if you believed him.
Aloud, he said calmly: "Well, it was just a thought. He was heap big protégé of yours, and I had the idea he thought as much of you as you did of him."
"You'd have to ask him about that, Frank."
"Have to find him first." He grinned crookedly and walked to the door, clapping his hat on his head. "G'night, Beth…"
He headed slowly toward his office. She knew. No mar to her dissembling, but he was sure of it. If for no better reason than that her reaction had been too finely controlled, altogether too natural to be believable. Prepared. She must be afraid, too, and had hidden it perfectly. Afraid… she had a right to be. Ulring slowed; his fingers curled into his palms. Fury like a white-hot light flooded his mind. He wanted to turn back, to take her white throat between his hands and shake it out of her. He wanted to…
No. Let it go. He was in deep enough already. First came the kid. He had been in town tonight, Ulring felt unshakably sure —he had seen Bethany, he had shot Claude. Earlier, he had been worrying that the kid had fled the country. He did not want that; it was a loose end. He wanted everything tied up securely. Already the kid had talked. To Bloodgood. Now to Bethany.
It was like a noose drawing perceptibly tighter, and time was running out. Now his cherished goal was slipping away: Bethany. No, by God! She was his. Would be, one way or the other. If, in the end, he couldn't have her, no other man would.
First he had to get that goddam kid. But could he? Another posse was his for the asking, and this time they would stick: everyone had liked Claude, and the second killing had crystallized a certainty that nobody was safe with a breed killer at large. Everyone was all wrought up. But the quarry had proved too elusive and too lucky up till now, and he might well continue to be.
Ulring tramped onto the porch of his office, unlocked the door and lighted the wall lamp. He closed the door and went to his desk and dropped into the swivel chair. His arms felt like dead weights as he took Claude's gun from his belt, opened a drawer and laid it inside, afterward lifting out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured a drink and stared heavily at the wall. Christ… tired. His thoughts were like congealed glue. Better sleep on all of it. He slapped the cork back in the bottle and started to return it to the drawer.
The latch clicked. His nerves jumped like released springs. His eyes flew to the door. It was moving slowly ajar. His hand moved into the open drawer and closed over Claude's pistol. When the door had opened a foot, Caspar Bloodgood came sideways through it.
"How-do, boy."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"You got a memory needs weeding out." Bloodgood padded halfway across the room and dropped on his haunches facing the desk, rifle across his knees. "Catched myself some firewater at Stang's pizen parlor. Catched an earful too. Heerd you folks hit a chuckhole of excitement."
"Listen, old man—"
"I'm talking. Come down day before yestiday, but you wa'n't about. Heerd you found the kid where I figgered, hey?"
"All right, then you heard he got away."
"No fault o' mine you couldn't pluck a goose you got handed on a platter. Wa'n't nothing said 'bout whether you got him. Pony up."
Ulring's fingers twitched with a raw impulse. He d
amped it down and slid the drawer gently shut, then rubbed a fist along his jaw. He stared thoughtfully at the mountain man.
"All right. It slipped my mind, and that's the truth. But you'll have to wait till morning. When the bank opens, I'll get your five hundred dollars."
Bloodgood chuckled rustily. "Billy-be-damn right you will. Only I'd hazard there's a whoop'n' a holler more'n that sitting in your craw."
"You think so?"
"I told you that Injun son 'ud have you jaspers eating your own dust. I 'low it has got through to you that you ain't gonna tree no red coon 'thout proper help. You are singing softer."
Ulring smiled. "Like a book, Caspar. That's how you read me. All right, let's not spar words. Five hundred in the morning, as agreed. Another five hundred when you've brought me his scalp."
Bloodgood shook his head. His hat canted deeply over his brow, putting one eye in shadow; the other gleamed like a knife. "Take more'n that, sonny. I been talking around, putting bits'n' pieces together. I 'low I have cinched onto why you wanted McAllister dead. It's that woman o' his, ain't it? That's a reason a heap o' folks might believe if it was to get told about you done for that dude your own self."
"I see." Ulring grooved his underlip with a thumb. "Keep-still money, is it? A thousand after the job—for the kid and your silence. That's flat; not a dollar more. I'll have to float a loan as it is. Take it or leave it."
"Sure, sonny. I ain't greedy. Fifteen hunnerd'll bind my jaw tighter'n a swig of alkali juice."
"It won't be easy. He'll have guessed it was you that tipped me off about him being in John Thunder's village."
Bloodgood's beard split in a stained grin. "Shoot, sonny, you leave me worry 'bout that. I 'uz coming't' town 'long the north road when I heard them two shots. Pulled often the road when I heard some 'un coming like they was a burr up his ass. Kid lit out past me so close I could 'most a touched him."
"You saw him—you had a chance—"
"This child never pizened a varmint that don't clear bounty. How you want his scalp cured, cousin?"
"You can leave it on him," Ulring said coldly. "When you come for the rest of your money, you'll take me to where the body is. When I've seen it, I'll hand you the balance. The thing is, Bloodgood, I want the kid to just drop out of sight. Let people guess. I don't want him found… ever."
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