High Desert

by Wayne D. Overholser

  Flint was close. The nearness of his presence sent a warning impulse along Morgan’s nerves. He drew his Colt, his eyes scanning the lava, the million places along that ragged ridge where the gunman could hide while he laid his sights on the man he wanted to kill.

  Something had warned Morgan and his mind sought the source of that warning. It might have been the chattering of a squirrel or a jay, or a deer bounding through the timber. Then he caught it, the faint reflection of the sun on a rifle barrel poked through a hole in the lava ahead of him.

  Morgan went out of his saddle in a long leap, trying for a pine to his left. He heard the rifle, heard the snap of the bullet, and lunged for the tree. The second bullet got him in the shoulder and knocked him flat. Flint should have killed him then, and would have if his third shot had been less hurried. As it was, the slug kicked up dirt and pine needles just beyond Morgan’s head. He fell into a depression behind the tree and for the moment was out of Flint’s sight.

  Morgan pulled breath into his aching lungs, a little sick with the realization that death had missed by inches. Then he felt the blood from his shoulder wound and knew the sickness had a more tangible cause than relief.

  Boots scraped on the lava. Rocks loosened by a man’s feet clattered down the steep slope. Flint was coming after him. Morgan’s first thought was that Flint’s action was utterly senseless. Flint would be smart to ride on.

  Morgan eared back the hammer of his gun, ears keened for sound of the man’s movements. Then he understood. Flint was going downslope toward Morgan’s horse.

  Morgan struggled upright, swaying uncertainly until he laid the point of a shoulder against the trunk. Flint, hurrying toward the black, did not see him.

  “Turn around, Flint!” Morgan called.

  The gunman must have thought he had killed Morgan or had at least hit him hard enough to take him out of the fight. He wheeled, shocked into immobility, lips parted as he stared at Morgan. He dug for his gun, lunging forward in a wild leap. He got in one shot, a hurried desperate one, far wide of its mark.

  Morgan’s first bullet knocked him off his feet. Flint fought back to his knees and tilted his gun. Morgan fired a second time. Flint’s body gave with the impact of the heavy slug. He went flat, the power of self-movement forever gone from him.

  The hillside seemed to buckle before Morgan’s eyes. He dropped his gun and clutched the pine trunk for support. Then his fingers gave and he fell, his blood forming a slowly spreading stain on his shirt, shoulder aching with steady hammering throbs.

  Morgan lay there a moment, an inner warning beating along his spine. When he tried to get up, he found that his left arm was useless. He realized vaguely that he had to stop the blood, and worked his bandanna out of his pocket.

  Rolling it into a ball, he slid it inside his shirt against the wound. He lay there a moment, gritting his teeth against the pain that was rocketing through his body.

  The warning still tugged at his foggy consciousness. Then he knew what it was. Horses! Coming upslope. He picked up his gun and fumbled two loads into the cylinder. Old Broad and some of his men probably. He lay with his back against the side of the depression, trying to hold his gun steady, and knew it was no use. He couldn’t hit anybody if he had a shotgun.

  “Murdo!”

  It was Jewell Clancy’s voice. He didn’t try to understand why she was here. He accepted the fact that she was.

  “Here....” He tried to shout, but the word came from his throat in a hoarse whisper.

  He heard her steps then, saw her looking down at him, her face grave with concern. He tried to get up, but the world was falling apart. Her words — “Quick, Doc!” — seemed to come from a great distance and he fell sideward into an aching void that was without bottom....

  * * * * *

  It was dark when Morgan came to.

  He lay helpless for a time, aware of a throbbing pain, of thirst. He tried to remember what had happened. It came to him slowly, but he wasn’t sure whether it had happened in reality or in a nightmare. Time made a slow unmeasured passage.

  “Jewell!” he called.

  He heard her come to him, felt her cool hand on his forehead. She made him swallow something, and he fell back and was asleep again.

  They were strange, weird days. He twisted in a fever, found Jewell beside him when he called to her. Sometimes Doe Velie was there. Days and night were the same. He dreamed, wild aching dreams that always held a monster called failure. Broad Clancy had won.

  Slowly, reason returned and the world settled back into reality. Jewell told him she had brought Doe Velie from town and they had hidden in a cave while Clancy and his men searched, Clancy believing that Morgan had killed Rip.

  “I guess nobody knows about this cave but me,” Jewell said. “I come here lots of times. Stay overnight when I can’t stand home any more. That’s why I always kept food here. We won’t starve, Murdo.”

  He lay looking at her, weak, but not so weak he couldn’t admire her, even here in the gloom of the cave. He owed her his life, but he could do no better than say: “I’m beholden to you.”

  “If you do what you plan, Murdo,” she said, “I’ll be beholden to you.”

  “You’re Broad Clancy’s girl...,” he began.

  “I can’t help where life put me,” she said bitterly, “but I can help staying there. I’ve talked to Doc and Abel Purdy and some of the others. They hate Dad, and they hate what he’s done, and what he’s doing to the valley, but Doc’s the only one who has the courage to tell him. I think Purdy will someday. He says the valley could support hundreds of families and that’s the way it will be. That’s the dream I’ve had, Murdo. I guess Purdy gave it to me. Or maybe I couldn’t forget the day you and your father left because of what Dad had done. I was just a little girl, but it made too deep an impression for me ever to forget it.”

  “Looks like we dream the same kind of dreams,” Morgan said. “Broad had his chance, but he wouldn’t take it.”

  “He isn’t big enough to deal with a Morgan,” Jewell said, “and he isn’t a man to settle for half. When it’s over with, he’ll still run the valley or he’ll be dead.” She rose and looked down at Morgan, troubled. “Don’t judge all the Clancys by Dad,” she said, and went out for wood.

  Doc Velie came after dark, and when he had finished examining Morgan, he said with satisfaction: “Tough as a boot heel, Morgan. You’ll come through in good shape if you’ve got enough sense to listen to me.”

  “Don’t know ’bout that,” Morgan said.

  “Then you’ll be dead,” Velie snapped. “I’ve got a letter for you that I took the liberty of opening. In case you didn’t know it, I’d like to see this land sale come off the way it ought to. No sense of Broad Clancy acting like he was a combination of man, Creator, and devil. I want him trimmed down.”

  “Read the letter,” Morgan said.

  “It’s from a gent named Grant Gardner. Says here...‘Dear Morgan. I am glad to report that the sale of your land is progressing faster than we could reasonably expect. I can safely promise that every contract will be sold by August First. I will be in Irish Bend within a few weeks and we will make definite plans at that time for the drawing. If you want me to, I’ll take charge of the details, since it was an old story to me. As a matter of fact, I have already given orders for my men to be in Irish Bend in time to get everything set up before the First of September. There will be nothing for you to do but see that the peace is kept.’”

  Doc Velie laid the letter down. He kicked more wood on the fire. He looked at Morgan and cleared his throat.

  “Son, I don’t know all that’s going on,” he said bluntly, “but I do know that keeping the peace is going to be a big chore.”

  “Go on,” said Morgan. “What else does the letter say?”

  Doc Velie picked it up, and went on reading: “‘I am happy to say that I
am much more optimistic about the success of your venture than I was at the time we talked in my office. One reason for my optimism is our unprecedented success in selling your contracts. That can be accounted for by several dry years and the resulting crop failures in much of the Middle West. The second is your own record. I have checked it thoroughly. Even if this project fails, I hope you will consider a job with my organization. Cordially, Grant Gardner.’” Velie raised his eyes from the paper. “Who is this Gardner?”

  “A millionaire a few times over. If he likes the valley, he’ll build a system of ditches and reservoirs for us.”

  “Then we’d better make him like the valley. Now get this straight, Morgan. You’re well enough to take care of yourself. Jewell had better go back with me. Broad’s in town, catching up on his sleep and taking on more supplies. If Jewell shows up, he’ll think you’re dead or she couldn’t find you. Then he’ll call off his dogs. Jewell knows these hills better than anybody else. If she can’t find you, he’ll know well enough he can’t.”

  “Sure, I’ll get along,” Morgan said.

  “But, Doc..., ” Jewell began.

  “Now shut up!” Velie bellowed. “Listen, Morgan. This is more than your fight. If you lose, things go back the way they’ve been for years. If you win, this valley can be made the paradise Broad named it for. You go back in a few days and you don’t live ten minutes.”

  “I reckon I won’t be going back right away,” Morgan admitted.

  “I mean for you to make yourself scarce till the middle of August. I wrote to Gardner to hustle up here. Told him you’d been shot. He can do everything that needs to be done, can’t he?”

  “Yes, but....”

  “No buts. He said your job was to keep the peace. All right. It’ll take a well man to keep the peace in this valley when the settlers start rolling in. You won’t have your strength before the middle of August. Maybe not then.”

  Morgan rubbed a stubbly dark cheek, knowing that what Velie said was right, and at the same time feeling the pressure of his pride.

  “I’ve got to see Jim,” he muttered. “I let Tom get killed.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Jewell cried. “You were gone from the window when it happened. Rip drew first.”

  “I should have hollered to him,” Morgan said bitterly.

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference. Flint was behind him. He’d have shot Carrick in the back no matter what you did.”

  “They had Tom whipsawed all right,” Morgan said. “You tell Jim, will you?”

  “I’ve already told him,” Velie said. “I’ve told him where you are, and how bad off you’ve been. Now are you going to promise you’ll stay out of the valley, or am I going to have to send Jim up here to make you stay?”

  “I’ll stay,” Morgan murmured. He brought his gaze to Jewell’s face, troubled by the knowledge that Broad Clancy had built a wall between them. “No way out of it. Maybe me and Broad are both wrong. If it works out so Broad....”

  He stopped, failing to find the words he wanted, but Jewell nodded as if she knew what he wanted to say.

  “You’ve got to win, Murdo. I won’t apologize for Dad, and I know he won’t change. Do what you have to do....”

  XV

  Morgan rode back into Irish Bend before the middle of August, the uncertainty of what was happening and the pressure of what had to be done driving him into action. His wound was healed, the soreness gone, and strength was back in his whip-muscled body. Yet there was a difference in him that went deeper than the beard covering his face and the hungry leanness that gave his features a mild resemblance to those of a brooding hawk.

  He was a forward-looking man, never one to waste time in regrets. Still, Tom Carrick’s death weighed heavily upon him, a weight that the killing of Jaggers Flint had not removed.

  Racking his black in front of the barbershop, Morgan had a shave and haircut and sent the barber to the store for a new shirt while he had a bath. He was not certain whether the barber knew him or not, but the man was coolly distant, so he thought he had been recognized.

  It was no different now, and it wouldn’t be until they saw that Clancy was beaten. Then Murdo Morgan would have friends. Dozens of them.

  Morgan was leaning back in the zinc tub lathering his long body when he heard steps cross the barbershop toward the back room. The word was out that he was in town. He had left his gun belt over a chair within easy reach, an instinctive precaution that he had taken without thought.

  He lifted his Colt from holster, soapy thumb slipping on the heavy hammer as he tried to cock the gun. He cursed, wiped his hand on the towel, and had the hammer pronged back when the door opened.

  It was Doc Velie and Grant Gardner.

  “A fine note when a man can’t take a bath without being busted in on, isn’t it?” Velie asked complacently.

  Gardner paused in the doorway, suddenly embarrassed as if, in his anxiety to see Morgan, he had not thought how it would be.

  Morgan grinned. “Howdy, Doc.” Letting down the hammer, he laid his gun on the chair and held out a wet hand. “Howdy, Gardner.”

  “A fine note when a man greets his friends with a cocked gun, too,” Velie complained. “Isn’t it, Gardner?”

  “From what I’ve seen since I got to Paradise Valley,” Gardner said soberly, “I’d say it was a good idea to greet anybody with a gun until you know who it is.”

  Morgan laid his gaze on the capitalist’s face. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing,” Velie said quickly. “Broad decided you’re dead. Jewell had a row with him and moved to the hotel, but he’s got a man watching her. That’s why she didn’t come out to see you.”

  Gardner lifted a cigar from his pocket. “I’m used to situations like this. Fact is, I’ve had to do a little fighting on my own hook when I started carving up a cowman’s range.” He fished in his pocket for a match. “But this one’s the toughest deal I’ve been on. You’re still on top, Morgan, but a man’s luck doesn’t last forever.”

  “A man makes his own luck,” Morgan said. “I’ll make mine. Like you said in your letter, my job is to keep the peace.”

  “And a tough job it is with most of it still ahead of you,” Gardner stated. “Mine’s about finished. Every contract’s been sold. Next week we’ll put up the big tent and we’ll have a field kitchen for the settlers who aren’t equipped to cook their own meals. The hotel is far from adequate, so we’ll have to put up another tent for them to sleep in.”

  “Springs and mattresses, I reckon,” Velie grunted.

  Gardner waited until he had his cigar going. “Hay on the ground and they’ll be glad to get it. There is another problem, Morgan. Whenever you get a crowd like we’re going to have, you get several drifters and gamblers who have to be handled. I have a feeling you’ll be busy enough without taking care of the riff-raff.”

  “There’s a lawman here named Purdy,” Morgan said.

  Velie snorted. “Don’t figure on Purdy.”

  “A little confidence might go a long way with him,” Morgan murmured.

  “Purdy thinks too much,” Velie growled. “Reading and thinking don’t give a man nerve. Confidence don’t either.”

  “We’ll try him,” Morgan said sharply.

  Gardner shook his head doubtfully. “The barber’s back, Doc,” he said. “We’d better let the man dress.”

  “Nothing’s stopping him,” Velie snapped. He slid exploratory fingers over Morgan’s shoulder. “Don’t get the idea we came in here because we were so glad to see you. Just professional interest. Mmmm. I did a good job on you. Healed up fine. Surprising, considering you had to eat your own cooking after Jewell left.”

  “I didn’t stay there all the time. Rode over to Prineville. Then spent some time on the Deschutes.”

  “Couldn’t stay put, could you?” Velie’s eyes smoldered with ange
r. “Well, now that you’re back, see if you can stay alive. Blazer and Royce have been hanging around the Elite. Talking about what they’ll do to you if you show up. They never did take to the yarn that Flint had tagged you and you’d crawled off to die.”

  Morgan got out of the tub and reached for the towel. “See you later.”

  Gardner left the room, but Doc Velie paused in the doorway, eyes speculatively on Morgan.

  “Shut the door!” Morgan howled.

  “Shucks, you’re not so pretty,” the medico grunted. “I told you Jewell’s at the hotel.”

  “I heard you. Shut the door!”

  Growling something that didn’t reach Morgan as words, Velie slammed the door and left the barbershop.

  Morgan dressed and buckled on his gun belt, thinking with grim reluctance that Gardner had been right in saying the job of keeping the peace was a tough one, and that most of it was still ahead. He wondered how accurate Velie had been in his harsh judgment of Purdy. If the medico was right, he, Morgan, was wrong, but if Purdy had even a small part of a man’s natural heritage of pride, Murdo Morgan was right and Velie was wrong. He would have to know before the crowd came.

  Leaving the barbershop, Morgan paced along the front of the saddlery, eyes on the street. It was nearly as deserted as it had been the day he had seen Abel Purdy, but an apparently deserted town could be a dangerous one. Both Royce and Blazer, like Jaggers Flint had been, were the kind of men who would shoot him from a hiding place if they thought the law was too weak to handle them.

  By this time the news of Morgan’s presence would have swept the town like a prairie fire before a high wind. Pausing in front of the hotel, Morgan remembered there had been two horses racked before the Elite when he had ridden into town. Now the hitch pole was empty. He turned into the lobby, pondering this, but failing to see any danger in the incident.

  Jewell was not behind the desk. Disappointment built a gray uneasiness in him. He had not realized until he swung into the dining room how much he had counted on seeing her. When he had eaten, he asked for her at the desk.