by Ray Hogan
The Mexican shrugged, ambled off in the direction of the barn.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” the man in the checked vest said.
“Best thing,” Canfield said in a confidential way. “You ain’t around—you ain’t apt to get in no trouble. Where’ll you be—just in case I want you?”
“Across the border—little town called San Plomo. Been there a couple of times before. Plenty of senoritas and plenty of that Mex brandy.”
“Maybe too much. Stuff can loosen a man’s tongue”
“Never got that much yet. Wouldn’t make no difference, anyhow. Most of the Mexes there are friends of mine, and what’s not don’t savvy anything but their own lingo. Don’t work up a sweat over it.”
“I won’t,” Barney Canfield said. “Some place special in this San Plomo burg you’ll be living?”
“Corrasco’s—just ask anybody for him. Sounds like maybe you are figuring on paying me a call, asking things like that.”
“Nothing for sure—just never know what might turn up. I—”
The cook came from his kitchen, glanced about, and locating Canfield, started toward him at the painful, halting gait of an old bronc-stomper, crippled by his trade, now compelled to follow a less rigorous way of life.
“Mr. Canfield, when’s them fellows coming? Got everything all set?”
Conversation between the rancher and the rider had ceased at the cook’s appearance. Canfield removed the cigar from his mouth, spat.
“They’ll be along, George. You in a hurry?”
“Nope—sure ain’t going nowheres. Sort of like to keep my vittles tasty, howsomever.”
“They’ll eat them, no matter what.”
The cook, head cocked to one side, was staring at the departing rider. “You leaving?”
“Sending him out to look over some new range,” Canfield replied quickly before the other man could speak. “Aim to be adding to the herd. Got to have more grass.”
The cook jutted his chin at the blanket roll cinched tight behind the rider’s cantle. “If you’ll be gone for a spell, you’ll be needing grub.”
Checked-vest shrugged. “Figured to swing by on my way out.”
George nodded, sucked at his colorless lips. “How long’ll you be gone?”
“Couple, maybe three days.”
The older man bobbed his head. “It’ll be in a sack, laying on the table, if it happens I ain’t handy,” he said and turning, hobbled off toward his kitchen.
Canfield watched him briefly, until he was out of earshot, then came back to the rider. “Best you forget that. Pick yourself up some supplies next town you hit. Huckaby and the others’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“I’m ready to pull out soon’s I’ve got my money.”
Canfield shifted his cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth, flicked a glance at the kitchen, then to the bunk-house. No one was in sight, and apparently reassured, he dug inside his shirt front, withdrew a leather pouch. Shielding his movements with his body, he passed the bag to the man in the checked vest.
“Thousand there—gold and bills.”
The rider hefted the pouch in his left hand as if calculating its weight. “How much gold? Don’t cotton to paper money. Some places just plain won’t take it.”
“About half. Be no trouble if you work it right. Stop in the first bank you come to on your way south, swap it for gold. Don’t be a damned fool and try changing it all in the same place—they might get the idea you’d pulled a holdup somewhere. Go to three or four different banks.”
“Lot of trouble. Would’ve been better if it was all gold.”
“Scraped up what I could. Didn’t have much time.”
The rider shrugged, tucked the pouch inside his shirt, leisurely rebuttoned it. “You and me are all square now for what I borrowed?”
“Every nickel,” Canfield said. “You don’t owe me nothing. All them advance wages, all them loans I gave you to pay off your debts are wiped out. We’re even.”
Shawn Starbuck had listened to the conversation in grim silence, aware that Mason also was equally shocked. It was evident that the man in the checked vest was the one Lynch had seen shoot down Kit Canfield—and it was just as clear that Barney had hired him to do it. One brother murdering another . . . Cain and Abel. To Shawn, spending his life searching for a brother, it was hard to understand how such could come to pass.
Everything that Barney had said and done in town had been pure play-acting, designed to cover over the crime he had planned and brought to be. Whether he had long schemed to rid himself of his brother—stepbrother, in reality—in order to have the Box C all for himself, or had simply taken advantage of Mason Lynch’s return to strike, there was no way of knowing. The timely appearance of Lynch—a convicted killer of one Canfield, and a known hater of all—unquestionably fit perfectly into whatever he had in mind.
It had worked out well for him. Kit had been murdered and Mason Lynch had fled. Townspeople, the merchants, his own hired hands, Marshal Virg Huckaby himself had accepted what appeared to be strong evidence—actual proof in the eyes of some—that Mason was the killer, and the posse had taken to the saddle at once determined to run him to earth.
It wouldn’t have mattered to Barney Canfield, Shawn realized, whether Mason Lynch was caught and hanged on the spot, or brought in alive to face justice. Mason, with the stain of one Canfield killing already upon his brow, would stand no chance when it was pointed out he still felt his family had been swindled by the three brothers, had declared so publicly. A judge and jury would fall for such simple, straightforward logic and Mason would again pay a stiff price—perhaps with his life this time.
But something had happened that morning to disturb the web Barney Canfield had woven, and set up an uneasiness in the man. It could have been something as simple and ordinary as hunger. Huckaby, perhaps noting that his posse members had been given no opportunity for taking breakfast, and, understandably, in need of food, suggested that time out should be taken to repair that oversight. And as the Box C was the nearest source for food, the men should go there.
Canfield would have had no choice except to agree, but the knowledge that the man he’d hired to kill his brother was still on the premises, and as yet unpaid for his sanguinary labors, dawned upon him. Such opened up any number of dire possibilities—chief among them being a slip of the tongue on the part of the murderer after which the truth would find its way out.
He had then hurried on ahead on the pretext of advising his cook of their coming and seeing to it that all would be in readiness so no undue loss of time would occur. His real purpose had been one of a wholly different nature, however—that of paying off the killer and getting him off the ranch before the posse could arrive.
That, likely, was as close to the true story of what and how it had happened as he could guess, Shawn concluded. And now that he had it squared away in his mind to his conscience’s satisfaction, he felt he could make a move, do what must be done. The killer could not be allowed to ride off—that was certain. In some way he must be delayed, held until Virg Huckaby arrived.
“That sonofabitch,” he heard Mason Lynch mutter. “Was him all the time—Barney. Had Kit shot down, then unloaded the blame on me. I’m going to—”
“Easy,” Shawn cautioned, laying his hand on Mason’s arm. “Anything that’s done now we want the marshal in on. Only way we can be sure you won’t be faulted again.”
Lynch drew back. “You mean we ought to just set here, wait for that posse? Hell, that killer’ll be long gone by then. It’s what Barney came back for—get him out of the way.”
“We can’t let him get away but the minute we make a move, we’ll have all hell on our hands. Canfield gives one yell and all the hired hands on the place come boiling out to help him. Far as they know, you’re the killer and it’ll look to them like you’re here to put a bullet in Barney—with me siding you. They’ve all got me pegged for a gun-slinger hired to help.”
Mason re
laxed. “Guess you’re right, but I ain’t seen nobody else around but the cook and that Mex yard hand.”
“What about the night crew? Won’t they be in the bunkhouse?”
Mason nodded. “Forgot about them. Been so long since I was around a ranch, sort of slipped my mind. Yeah, they’ll be there. Probably a half-dozen men—maybe more. Makes the odds plenty bad.”
“If we had some way to keep Barney and the killer quiet. Expect we’ll need to hold them for only a few minutes. Huckaby and that posse can’t be far off.” Shawn paused, aware of Mason’s probing gaze. “Something bothering you?”
Lynch smiled in a strange, wry manner. “You talking about holding them—maybe having to step out there and pin down eight, even ten guns, just the pair of us—that’s what. It’ll be one hell of a long shot with the odds all wrong—and you sure don’t owe me nothing, not after the way I’ve done. Best thing you can do is sit tight, not go risking your hide. I made this trouble for myself. Up to me to handle it.”
“I’ll own up there’s lots of places I’d rather be right now than here,” Starbuck said wryly. “But a man’s bound to help when he has to—and wrong’s wrong no matter who it happens to.”
“Stay out of town—I want you to be damn sure of that!”
Barney Canfield’s voice lifted suddenly as if spurred by anger. Shawn tensed, watched the man in the checked vest reach for the rope linking the black to the hitchrack. He and Mason would have to act; the posse would not be arriving in time.
“Quit fretting about it. I’ll be lining out due south. First town I’ll hit will be Rock Crossing—then it’ll be Tucson. What about old George? Ain’t he liable to fuss about me not coming by for that sack of grub?”
“I’ll get in there, hide it. He’ll think you came in when he wasn’t around. Adios.”
“Adios,” the rider said, and started to mount.
Starbuck touched Mason’s arm lightly, drew his pistol and sprang upright.
“Forget it,” he said in a hard, low-pitched voice and vaulted over the top bar of the old corral. “You’re both standing where you are until the marshal gets here.”
Nineteen
Barney Canfield’s jaw sagged. His eyes flared in surprise. The man with him fell back a step, arm going down smoothly, fingers reaching for the pistol on his hip.
“Don’t—” Shawn warned softly.
The rider froze. Starbuck risked a side glance at Lynch. Mason was crouched beside him, weapon steady and leveled. There had been a bad moment when he thought the man, out of pure hate, was going to lose control, start shooting and arouse the others on the ranch; but he had not and now seemed to be all right.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Starbuck said, adding quickly, “No—not up!” when Canfield started to extend his arms above his head. Anyone looking toward them from the bunkhouse, or elsewhere in the yard, would simply think they were four men in conversation; with arms raised they would immediately realize something else was taking place.
Canfield, fists clenching and releasing at his sides nervously, glared at Shawn. “You must be loco! You think you can hold a gun on me right here in my own yard and get away with it?”
“We’re doing it,” Mason said laconically.
“Not for long!” the rancher countered. “Right about now I’d say three, maybe four of my boys have got you lined up in their sights. All I’ve got to do is give them the signal—”
“And you’re a dead man—right along with us,” Starbuck finished coldly.
Sweat was standing out in large beads on Canfield’s forehead. He slid a look at the man in the checked vest, shook his head.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded, striving to make his voice carry a note of indignation. “You here to finish me off—kill off the last of the Canfields?”
Shawn laughed humorlessly. “You’re too late with that crock of bull, friend. Mason saw your hired gun there shoot down your brother. We both watched you pay him off and heard you tell him to get out of the country. We’re holding the pair of you until Huckaby gets here. So what’s it sound like to you?”
“A pack of goddam lies—that’s what! Me—have my own brother bushwhacked? You’re worse than plain loco!”
“Maybe so, but it tots to something that’s pure sense and easy to figure, and I reckon it will to the marshal and his posse when they get here, too.”
The rider with Canfield shifted gently on his feet. “Well, I ain’t in the notion to hang around and find out,” he drawled. “And the way things are, I guess I’ll just climb onto my horse and ride on.”
Starbuck’s jaw hardened. “Be a mistake to try.”
“Misdoubt that. There’s two of us and two of you. I figure that jailbird ain’t much good with a gun, him not having much to do with one for a long time. On top of that I can see a couple of the boys a-watching us. Way I see it, odds are all in my favor.”
“And far as Huckaby’s concerned,” Barney Canfield put in, “it’s going to be maybe another half-hour before he shows up—and you sure ain’t going to be able to hold us here like this for that long.”
“You think we can’t?” Shawn asked quietly. “Make your move—find out.”
But he knew Canfield was right. Standing in the open, in full view of anyone on the ranch, they were in a desperate situation. It was only necessary for some of the Box C men to grow suspicious, circle the buildings, and come in on them from the rear. He and Mason were then as good as dead.
Shawn centered his attention on the rider with Canfield. If trouble came now it would come from him; he had the look of wildness in his eyes, the offhanded way of a man not afraid to dare the risks.
“Got to move them out of here,” he said to Mason. “Need to get under cover—fast.”
“We could back them into the barn, hold them in one of the stalls.”
“How about that hostler? He in there?”
“I see him working in one of the corrals, out back.”
Starbuck bobbed his head at the rancher and his hired gun. “Start walking,” he ordered, motioning with his weapon.
The two came away from the rack slowly. Sweat was glistening on their faces, and they carried themselves loosely, arms hung forward. Immediately Starbuck stepped to the side, endeavoring to block the view of anyone looking from the upper yard.
“Get there at the door,” Shawn said to Mason. “I’ll herd them by—you take their guns—”
Lynch nodded his understanding, started to cross over, going in between the two men and the horse standing at the rack.
“Watch out!” Starbuck warned suddenly, seeing the danger.
In that same instant the man in the checked vest lunged backwards, smashed hard into Mason. Spinning, he drew his pistol, made a dive for the shelter of the small shed a long stride away.
Shawn fired as he saw the rider whip up his gun, lay a shot at him. He couldn’t see Barney Canfield, knew only that the rancher had flung himself to the opposite direction, where Lynch, caught against the black gelding, was struggling to regain his balance.
Guns blasted from behind him. He heard a groan but there was no time to wheel, see if it was Mason or Canfield who’d been hit. The man behind the shed was firing at him now and someone near the bunkhouse was opening up. The shots had brought the rest of the Box C crew into the fight.
Ducking low, he lunged for protection of the log water trough a short distance to his right. Bullets dug into the hard-packed soil around his feet, whirred by him, thudded dully into the wall of the barn beyond him. He heard someone yelling and then the rider behind the shed stepped fully into the open. His pistol was leveled. The big, round O of the weapon’s muzzle seemed only an arm’s length away.
Shawn dipped low, threw himself forward, fired as he went down. The man buckled, clutched at his chest. He staggered back, fell behind the shed.
Shawn rolled frantically, gained the protection of the trough. His pistol was empty, he was sure. Heaving for breath, he lay full leng
th, began to rod the spent casings from the forty-five’s cylinder, glanced to his left. Mason, prone in the dust, one arm bloodied and tight against his side, was endeavoring to crawl to the barn. Bullets were stabbing into the ground about him.
Shawn, his weapon reloaded, came to a crouch, and keeping low, broke clear of the water trough and ran toward Lynch. He reached the man’s side, bent swiftly, caught him under the arms. Ignoring the crackling guns, he started for the barn, eyes only absently noticing Barney Canfield’s crumpled shape near the hitchrack.
Shocking pain in his leg, hot and numbing, brought him to a halt. Taking a firmer grasp of Mason, he tried to continue, discovered his leg would not respond.
“Get away from me!”
He became aware of Mason’s voice, yelling at him through the dust and drifting smoke.
“Leave me be—ain’t a chance of me making it!”
Shawn shook his head stubbornly, released his grip on the man’s arms. If he stayed low, he’d not be so easy a target. Flat on his belly, he extended his hand to Lynch,
“Hang on—I’ll drag you—”
“No—dammit—you go on—”
Starbuck seized Lynch by the wrist, began to work his way toward the open doorway of the now close-by structure. Another bullet ripped into him, catching him high in the shoulder, paralyzing his muscles, causing him to drop his weapon. Releasing his hold on Mason, he twisted around, tried to recover the forty-five—recoiled as a booted foot stamped down upon it.
Grim, he looked up. Barney Canfield, pistol clutched so tightly in his hand the knuckles showed white, blood streaking his face where a bullet had stunned him—but only temporarily—was standing over him.
“Damn the both of you!” he yelled in a trembling voice. “You ain’t telling nobody—nothing!”
Starbuck jerked back, attempted to get his hand upon the weapon trapped beneath the rancher’s foot—winced as the deafening report of a pistol slammed against his eardrums. But there was no shocking impact of a bullet, no pain. He brushed at the sweat and dust blinding him. Canfield had twisted half about, was staring with unseeing eyes at Mason Lynch. Smoke trickled from the barrel of the weapon in his hand. His glance caught Shawn’s and he smiled grimly as Canfield stumbled off to one side, fell heavily.