by Ray Hogan
He watched Lynch’s slight figure dissolve into the shadows, listened idly to the dogs tracing the man’s passage with their successive barks, brought his eyes back to Duckworth’s. Homer Boyd, in company with Doc Hewlett, strolled along the street on the opposite side, bearing for a final nightcap at the Maricopa.
If he could manage to get something on Kit Canfield, could he expect Boyd and the rest of the merchants to stand by him? Or would they think only of their pocket-books and back the rancher?
He didn’t like the answer that came so readily to mind; a marshal would be easy to replace—a successful rancher pouring thousands of dollars into a town’s business firms each year would not. It would take something really serious to turn people from Kit. Fighting, drunkenness—such simple infractions as that were out; it would require a coldblooded killing, or the rape of a decent woman—preferably a young girl—to bring him down. And while he was capable of both he was much too clever to get caught at it.
But he had to find an answer. Canfield had thrown his cards face up on the table, made it plain what he intended to do; Huckaby had accepted the challenge, declared it a fight to the finish. He was only sorry that Kit’s encounter with Starbuck had ended as it had, wished instead, with no qualms, that it had gone a step farther, and the rancher, completely losing his head, had reached for his pistol. Starbuck, who undoubtedly was a gunman, would have shot him dead. That would have settled things once and for all.
He drew to quiet attention as Duckworth’s side door opened. The girl appeared, circled to the front of the saloon, and entered. She was back shortly, carrying a quart bottle of whiskey, and re-entered her quarters. She did not remain, however, simply left the liquor with Kit, and retracing her steps to the saloon, took her place behind the bar.
Kit evidently liked what he found in the girl, planned to spend the remainder of the night with her. She would probably be going off duty in another hour or two. Huckaby, disappointed, rubbed at his jaw, shrugged. He might as well give it up until morning. Maybe it would be smart to get with Duckworth’s new girl, see if something could be set up.
The door opened again. Canfield, bottle clutched in his hand, stepped out into the shadows lying alongside the saloon. He stalled for the space of time required to take a drink of the liquor, and then wheeling, circled back behind the building to the rack where his horse waited.
Shortly he was again in view, slumped in the saddle, the black he was riding moving at a tired walk as he turned into the street and headed south—for the Frisco House.
Virg Huckaby delayed until the rancher had been swallowed by the darkness beyond the church, and then, careful not to be seen by any of the few persons remaining abroad, he doubled back to the alley, and followed.
Eleven
Starbuck sat up, roused from a sound slumber by a pounding on his door. Reaching instinctively for the pistol hanging in its belt from the back of a nearby chair, he glanced to his left. That side of the bed was empty. Mason Lynch had not returned.
Frowning, he threw his legs over the edge, drew on his britches, and moved to the door, wondering, dully, if the hotel clerk had forgotten to give Mason the key left at the desk for him, wondering, also, what time of the night it was; somewhere around two or three o’clock, he guessed.
The insistent hammering came again. Shawn, now fully awake and cautious, stepped to the left of the panel.
“Who’s there?”
“Huckaby.” The lawman’s answer was quick, blunt. “Open up, Starbuck!”
Shawn thrust his forty-five under the waistband of his pants, picked up the extra key he had obtained, and turned the lock. In the dim glow of the hallway’s bracketed lamp, he saw the marshal, Fred Kemmer, and three or four other men. Their faces were grim.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, but a deep worry was beginning to move through him; this had something to do with Mason. Turning, he halted beside the table, struck a match to the lamp’s wick, and as the yellow glow spread over the room, came about. He saw then that Huckaby had his pistol in his hand, ready.
“Where’s Lynch?” the lawman demanded, eyes prowling the room.
Starbuck shook his head. “Not here yet. Wasn’t ready for sleeping when I was. Left him standing out there on the street.”
Kemmer, his fleshy face sallow in the weak light, nodded to the marshal. “That proves it. It was him that did it.”
“Did what?” Starbuck asked patiently. “Let’s have it, Huckaby—what’s this all about?”
The lawman leaned against the washstand, folded his arms across his chest. “You certain you don’t know?”
“How the hell would I know anything? Been in this bed since first part of the evening.”
“You prove that?”
“Say!” Kemmer exclaimed, a brightness coming into his eyes. “You maybe’ve got something there, Virg! Why couldn’t it’ve been him? He had trouble with Kit in my place. Could have hunted him up, finished him off.”
Huckaby, head cocked to one side, impassively studied Shawn. “You got an answer for that?”
Shawn stirred indifferently. “Might—if I knew what you’re getting at.” His hunch had been right, apparently. Something had occurred and they were suspecting Mason—even him—of doing it.
The lawman continued to stare for a long breath and then said, “Kit Canfield got killed tonight. Murdered.”
Starbuck came up slowly, but it was no big surprise; men such as Canfield never live to a ripe age. In that next moment the full implication of the lawman’s words and presence came to him.
“And you think Mason Lynch did it?”
“Or maybe you,” Kemmer said slyly.
Shawn favored the saloonman with a withering look. “You’re a damned fool, mister.” He put his attention on Huckaby. “You’re wrong, marshal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Mason wouldn’t have done it—I’m sure of that.”
“Why not? He still hated the Canfields—still packed that big grudge.”
“And Kit was killed with his own gun,” one of the other men said. “Means the man who shot him didn’t have no iron of his own. Virg has got Lynch’s over to his office.”
“That proves nothing,” Starbuck said, drawing on the remainder of his clothing, “except that Canfield knew whoever it was, figured him for a friend and let him get up close. Where’d it happen?”
“Out in front of the Frisco House,” Huckaby said. “Seems Kit was there late—stayed on quite a spell. Mason must’ve been there, too, waiting in the old stable across the road.”
The Frisco House ... the girl named Marie Hope . . . Shawn was thinking back, remembering what had been said about her. Once she had meant a great deal to Mason—it was possible she still did; in fact, he himself had suggested Mason should see her. And Virg Huckaby was aware of the connection, too, would be remembering.
“Anybody see Mason around there?” he asked casually.
Huckaby nodded slowly. “One of the women seen a man standing in the dark inside the stable. Claims she didn’t know him but she’d recognize him again, was she to see him.”
“Standing in the dark?”
“Expect there was a little light.”
Starbuck finished his dressing. “Somebody—but not exactly Mason Lynch. Way you’re all putting it, sounds like you’re sure it was him.”
“Mighty hard to believe it wasn’t,” Kemmer said. “I’ll lay you odds that Lynch came back here with that in his mind all the time—to square up with the Canfields like he started out to do ten years ago.”
Shawn strapped on his pistol. “That’s a bet I’d win. Mason’s had enough punishment. He’s not going to let something he no longer cares a whit about get him in trouble again.” Glancing up to Huckaby, he added, “What about me? Decided whether I’m guilty or not?”
The lawman shrugged. “I’ll tell you this—you ain’t out of the woods yet.”
“Well, if there’s any doubt, you might ask the clerk downstairs. He’ll tell you I never left t
he place after I turned in. Knew I’d be sleeping hard so I left the extra key for Mason at the desk.”
“Which he never come back and used,” Kemmer said pointedly. “Means he’s skipped out.”
“Not for sure,” Starbuck replied, stubbornly.
“Then where the hell is he?” Huckaby shouted, suddenly angered. “He ain’t here and we’ve looked all over town.”
“What about his horse? It gone?”
“Going there next,” the marshal said after a long breath during which he and Kemmer exchanged glances. Evidently they had overlooked that possibility, were trying now to make it appear no oversight. “Figured to come here first.”
Starbuck grunted, pulled on the old hat he still had not found time to replace, and turned to the door. It was a bit strange that the lawman had searched the town for Mason Lynch before coming to the most logical place to seek him—in his hotel room. And the part about his horse; that, too, would seem to be one of the things that would be checked on at the very beginning.
“You seem plenty sure it was Mason,” he said again. “Looks like you could’ve done more about it than just hunt for him.”
“He’s the one with the reason—”
“You telling me Kit Canfield didn’t have any enemies?” Shawn asked, eyeing the lawman narrowly as they moved down the hall and began to descend the stairs. “I got the idea he was a man with more’n his share. Pretty plain you’re included in that bunch, too.”
Huckaby’s expression did not alter. “Ain’t denying it. Never did like Kit. Always throwing his weight around. But I managed to get along with him.”
“Hell,” Kemmer said deprecatingly, “like to see the man who doesn’t have a few enemies. But Kit’s weren’t the murdering kind, just soreheads.”
“Any man with a grudge can turn into the murdering kind,” Starbuck said as they started across the lobby.
“And you’re claiming Mason Lynch wasn’t carrying one?”
“I am. Whole thing was a lost cause far as he was concerned. Same as told me he wouldn’t have his folk’s old place back as a gift.”
Kemmer laughed. “And you believed that?”
“Yes,” Shawn said quietly as they stepped out onto the porch of the Mogollon, “I believed him.” He pulled up short, anger and disgust stirring through him. Several men had gathered in the street, were waiting in the cool darkness. One, a coiled rope hooked over his left shoulder, was fashioning a hangman’s noose. Abruptly he wheeled to Huckaby.
“What kind of law is this?”
The marshal shook his head. “Not my idea. These men have got their minds pretty well made up.” Moving to the edge of the gallery, he motioned to the man with the rope. “Put that away, Harry. Ain’t going to be no lynching around here.”
Harry did not cease his methodic shaping of the knot. “Nothing wrong with being ready.”
Starbuck spat, dropped off the porch, and turned toward Fortney’s livery stable. No lights burned along the silent street, not even in the saloons, and the only sounds to be heard were those made by the men trooping along through the dust. Huckaby forged up to a position ahead of Shawn.
“Never mind,” he said drily, “I’ll take charge.”
“Then do it!” Starbuck snapped. “We find Mason at the stable, that bunch of vigilantes back there had better keep calm or I’ll use my gun!”
“You’ll do what I tell you—same as they will,” Huckaby said stiffly. “Thing I’m looking out for here is that you don’t get in the way, let him make a run for it if he’s holed up.”
“If I knew where he was, I sure wouldn’t be leading you and that crowd to him—”
“Didn’t figure you would, but was we to bump into him accidental-like, could be you’d try making it easy for him.”
Shawn made no reply not certain in his own mind how he would react if they did encounter Lynch. He felt sure the man was not guilty of Kit Canfield’s death, yet he could not forget Mason had practiced deceit on him after they had met. Even so, if it did develop that Lynch was guilty, he’d still be unable simply to draw back, see him pay for the crime at the hands of a hanging party.
Ahead of him the lawman halted. The wide, double doors of Fortney’s were open, as was customary on summer nights, but the lantern ordinarily hanging in the runway was missing.
Huckaby drew his pistol, glanced at Shawn. “Pretty sure he’s hiding in there. You want to try some talking, see if you can get him to give up without a fuss?”
Starbuck stepped into the opening. “Mason!” he called. “It’s Shawn. You in there?”
A muffled answer of some sort came from the tack room on the left. Instantly Huckaby whirled and hurried to it, the men behind him following quickly. Starbuck, off to one side, drew his pistol, waited. A match flared in the gloom, and shortly a lantern’s glow spread through the area.
“It’s Ernie!” a voice shouted. “He’s been tied up!”
Starbuck slid his weapon back into its holster; he had been certain it would be someone other than Mason Lynch, but he was taking no chance. Jaw set, he crossed the runway, shouldered his way through the men crowded around the door that led into the small anteroom. For the first time since Virg Huckaby and the others had appeared in his hotel quarters, he was having doubts. The answer would lie with the hostler; he wanted to hear it firsthand.
Huckaby was slicing through the light rope that bound the elderly man’s wrists, Kemmer was tugging at the gag. It came loose and the oldster hawked, spat angrily.
“Consarned stinking rag—”
“Who was it, Ernie?” Huckaby asked, closing his knife as the cotton strands parted. “You get a look at him?”
“Look—hell, I was talking to him!”
“Was it Mason Lynch?”
“That’s who it was—Mason Lynch! Come bustin’ in here all in a hurry for his horse. Tried to tell him that nag of his’n wasn’t in no shape to travel, but he wouldn’t listen. Saddled up and then, before he left, tied me good. Took my gun, too.”
Huckaby, a smugness spread across his features, glanced at Starbuck, turned back to the hostler.
“How long ago was this?”
“Couple—no, I reckon it was about three hours.”
Shawn felt Kemmer’s eyes upon him, heard the man say: “Reckon that ought to prove who did it. You satisfied?”
“Only proves that he’s gone—not that he did it,” Starbuck said. He realized he sounded thick-skulled and arbitrary but it was difficult to believe that Mason Lynch could have undergone so drastic a change in mind and outlook.
He swung to Huckaby. “Marshal, have you stopped to think that Mason might’ve heard about the killing, and knowing he’d be blamed first off, got scared and left town fast as he could? He hasn’t forgot that you had to keep a lynch mob off him ten years ago.”
“No, I reckon I haven’t,” the lawman drawled, “but I expect, was I to set my mind to it, I could come up with a whole bunch of fancy tales like that.”
“Could have been the way of it,” Shawn insisted, hanging on to his temper.
“If so, then he’d a been smart to come right to me, not make things worse by hightailing it out of town.”
“Time like that it’s not easy for a man to think straight.”
“Can’t see as it bales hay one way or another what we think,” Kemmer said. “Point is he’s gone—and while we’re standing here jawing, he’s putting miles between us.”
“That’s right,” one of the men in the crowd said. “Let’s get mounted up and a-going after him.”
“You see in the dark, Ike?” Huckaby asked in a mild voice. “That’s what it’ll take.” He came about to where the hostler was now sitting, chafing his ankles ruefully. “You got any idea what direction rode off in, Ernie?”
“Nope. Throwed back there in the corner like I was, I couldn’t see nothing.”
Huckaby rubbed at his chin. “Well, he won’t be traveling fast. We can start tracking him soon’s it’s daylight.” He glan
ced toward the street. A half-dozen riders were wheeling in from the west, slowing, and then pounding on for the stable when they caught sight of the gathering.
“It’s Barney,” the rider called Harry, still fiddling with his rope, said. “Got some of the Box C boys with him. Somebody must’ve sent word to him.”
“I did,” the lawman said. “Right after Kit was found.”
“He won’t be much for waiting around for morning,” Kemmer said. “He’ll decide quick it was Lynch who done it when he hears he’s lit out. He’ll want to do something about it right now.”
“You figure he can see in the dark like Ike?” Huckaby demanded sarcastically. “We’ll go after him, but there ain’t no use starting—”
“You got him?” Barney Canfield’s hard voice shouted from the runway.
“Who?” the marshal asked.
“Lynch—who the hell you think? Was him that did it, wasn’t it?”
“Way it looks,” Ike said before Huckaby could speak. “He’s long gone.”
The rancher strode angrily into the crowd of men. “Gone?”
“Sure is. Come and got his horse and run for it. Tied up Ernie so’s he couldn’t set up a holler.”
“Then let’s get a posse mounted and start beating the brush,” Canfield snapped. “Sooner we get after him, sooner we can nail him down.”
“Posse won’t be necessary,” Starbuck said, raising his voice above the hubbub. Moving through the gathering, he halted in front of Huckaby. “Marshal, I want you to deputize me. I’ll go after Mason by myself. Like to see him brought in alive.”
Twelve
The silence following Starbuck’s words was long and complete. Barney Canfield broke it. “The hell you will!”
A welter of words broke out, some angry, all frankly skeptical. Shawn waited until the racket had died off.
“I’ll tell you this, marshal,” he said, “you let this mob find him and you’ll have a dead man on your hands—an innocent dead man.”