Jane shot Reilly a frightened glance and then complete defeat glazed her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. She came near Seever and he took her arm. He backed up until he stood just in the hall. “Now be smart,” he said, “or I’ll have to sacrifice this little honey. You know what I mean.”
“We know,” Reilly said, and watched them retreat down the hall. The sound of them moving off the porch and into the rig was loud in the quiet. Then the horses wheeled and raced from the yard.
Ernie Slaughter dashed his chair aside and slammed out the back door. He walked rapidly across the yard and Reilly tracked him, afraid that he would catch up a horse to follow Seever.
Reilly saw Ernie come against the corral and bend his head down, and then he turned away. He said, “I’m goin’ back to town.”
“That makes two of us,” Milo said.
Reilly studied him as he had done a dozen times, trying to fathom what motives drove the boy along such reckless paths. He didn’t know any more than he knew about his own yearnings when he was that age. Reilly decided that he liked Milo because the kid was more like him than he cared to admit.
Ernie still leaned against the corral, head down, when Reilly and Milo saddled their horses and rode back over the Buckeye road. The night wind had a bite to it and they unrolled their coats.
Finally Milo said, “She went with him because she was afraid. Besides, she ain’t the kind a man can push over.”
“No,” Reilly admitted. “She’s not that kind.”
The ride was a silent one after that, for neither felt the inclination to talk. When they arrived and dropped their horses off at Cannoyer’s abandoned stable, Reilly was in a vicious frame of mind. The streets were bare and there were few customers in the stores. The hardware was closed and darkened. Only the hotel, saloon and mercantile showed lights.
They walked down the street and met Harry Peters coming out of the restaurant. He paused with his back to the wind to light up a fresh cigar. When he saw Reilly and Milo he looked mildly surprised. “I thought you’d be home now,” he said, and pulled his collar up. “Feel that? Be snow in the pass in a few days. I can always tell.”
“To hell with the snow,” Reilly said. “You see Burk Seever come in town a while ago?”
“No,” Peters said. “Can’t say as I have. Indian Jim came in this afternoon with a mad on about something. He’s over in Burkhauser’s now drinking it off.”
“It’s Seever I’m looking for,” Reilly said, and walked on. He traveled the length of the side street to the two-story house sitting on the corner. At the front gate he said, “Wait here,” and walked on alone.
He saw a light burning in one of the upstairs windows. He knocked heavily, then watched a bobbing light descend the winding stairs. A voice close against the door said, “Who is it?”
“Reilly.”
The lock turned and Sally stepped aside. She wore a white robe over her flannel nightgown and her hair was braided down her back.
“Where’s Burk?” Reilly asked.
“I don’t know and don’t care,” she said. “I keep the house locked to him.”
“There’s something I want to see him about,” Reilly said, then cocked his head around as a quick rattle of gunfire broke out on the main street. He jerked the door open and bolted halfway down the path while Sally called, “Reilly! Damn you, Reilly, come back here!”
Reilly was surprised to find Milo still at the gate, for somehow he had connected the shooting with Milo. Another shot splintered the night, and together they cut through the alley and came out near the harness maker’s.
Burkhauser’s saloon doors flapped, testifying to someone’s hasty exit. A shot ripped through the building and light faded from one of the windows as a lamp came down with a tinkling crash.
“Indian Jim!” Reilly said. He started across the street just as a man filled Burkhauser’s doorway.
Indian Jim saw Reilly crossing over and swung his Spencer repeater to his shoulder. Milo Bucks yelled and Indian Jim’s attention wavered. With two targets and a belly full of whiskey he had a difficult time picking one. By the time he had swung the gun to Milo, then back to Reilly, Reilly had disappeared.
Cursing, Indian Jim took another shot, this time at Milo, but Milo Bucks eased himself into a dark doorway and let the night hide him.
Once in the alley, Reilly ran along the darkened pathway until he came to the rear door of Burkhauser’s saloon. He let himself in through the crowded storeroom. A twist of the knob told him the back door leading into the main room was unlocked. He pushed it open a crack, drawing his gun with his other hand.
Indian Jim fired again at Milo Bucks and Reilly peered out. The man’s back was toward him and from the corner of his vision, Reilly saw Burkhauser crouched behind the bar. Milo, still on the other side of the street, yelled something and Indian Jim ripped the tube from the buttstock, inserting seven more blunt cartridges. He levered one into the chamber, cocked the Spencer and fired one more shot.
Reilly opened the door, slipped out and ducked behind the bar to his left. The sawdust muffled his spurs, but he took them off anyway and eased along, his gun still ready.
He heard some muffled cursing from the doorway, and then Indian Jim came back into the room, his footsteps dragging along the foot rail.
“Burkhauser! You sonofabitch! Where are you, Burkhauser?”
Reilly canted his head and glanced into the back bar mirror. From his position he could see the top of Indian Jim’s head and he gathered himself for a rush. The man hooked one arm against the bar for support and stood with his back to it. Holding the Spencer out at arms’ length, he fired through the batwings and laughed when splinters flew.
Reilly raised himself then, and saw in an instant that he had read the mirror backward. Expecting Indian Jim to be to his right, he was shocked to see him to the left, and Jim whirled as Reilly stretched to connect with his arcing gun.
He missed Indian Jim’s head and struck his shoulder with the barrel. The man cried out and dropped the Spencer and Reilly came over the bar, clubbing with the gun again. He caught Indian Jim squarely this time and the man wilted, his head rapping the brass spittoon as he fell.
Reilly called to Milo Bucks and Milo came over. Peters paused on the hotel porch, then followed Milo. Burkhauser darted frantically about, counting the damage in his mind.
Harry Peters stopped just inside the door and looked quite impersonally at Indian Jim.
Reilly said, “Where were you when the shooting started?”
“In bed, asleep,” Peters said with no apology in his voice. “By the time I got my pants on, you’d already crossed the street and come in the back way. Rather than interfere with your play and get you killed, I waited.”
Milo leaned against the bar and looked at Indian Jim’s rifle. He said, “That’s twice I damned near got killed with that thing.” He picked it up, carried it outside and hammered it to pieces on the metal ring atop the hitching post by the watering trough. He threw the pieces in the gutter and came back in.
Milo Bucks threw a pail of water in Indian Jim’s face and Jim tried to sit up.
“Now we’ll get him to say a few words,” Reilly stated.
“No rough stuff,” Peters warned. “Testimony got that way won’t hold up in court.”
Reilly’s temper slipped. “You played it nice and safe, Peters, and I got him. Now you just go back to bed and I’ll finish the job.”
“Gladly,” Peters said. “I want no part of it.” He turned away to the door and paused there. “In the event that you do learn anything of value, you’ll let me know, won’t you?” He smiled and tapped his inner pocket. “After all, I have the badge.”
After he had gone, Milo said, “Now ain’t he the fancy one?”
Indian Jim was standing against the bar now, bracing himself with both hands. “Better get him outside,” Burkhauser said. “He
looks like he’s goin’ to be sick and I got enough mess in here.”
Reilly and Milo took Jim through the storeroom into the alley. Indian Jim was sick. When his spasms subsided, Reilly said, “Let’s have a little talk, Jim.”
“Nothing to say,” Indian Jim said, and Reilly hit him. He cascaded backward into a stack of empty beer barrels, which fell over on him. When the last one stopped rolling down the alley, Reilly pulled him out of there and said, “I won’t ask you again, Jim.”
Jim bled from the nose and sniffed like a small boy with a cold. He said, “What you want to know?”
“Who’s the top man?”
Indian Jim shook his head and Reilly hit him flush in the mouth. Reilly had a hold of his shirt front, which ripped but held. Indian Jim’s head snapped back and blood spurted from a cut lip.
“What the hell,” Jim said, “I’m finished anyway. Horgan’s the man you want. Him and Winehaven and Henderson.”
“Henderson?”
“Sure,” Indian Jim said. “He can ride where he pleases so he spots the herds that ain’t protected. Horgan’s bunch does the actual movin’. Winehaven butchers what can’t be doctored so the brands won’t show. The rest Seever peddles to the reservation.”
“You said you were finished,” Reilly reminded him. “What’s that mean?”
“Horgan shoved me out because I let you two get away the other day,” Indian Jim said, then laughed. “You’re real tough, Reilly, and half smart. You figured out how the brands got changed, but that ain’t smart enough. You want to know somethin’? Horgan’s bunch is raidin’ your place right now. When you get back, Childress’ cattle is goin’ to be gone.”
“Why you—” Reilly began, but Indian Jim held up his hands.
“I give it to you straight, Reilly, what you wanted to know. Don’t I get some kind of a break?”
Reilly pondered this, then said, “Bring his horse around here, Milo.” And after Milo ducked through the saloon he told Jim, “I’ll give you a head start. You’re gettin’ off lucky.”
“I know it,” Jim said, and scrambled to his feet. They stood there in the darkness until Milo came back with Indian Jim’s horse. Jim mounted and rode out of town.
Reilly and Milo walked across the street. They found Harry Peters in the lobby of the hotel. He studied Reilly and said, “Well, what did you learn?”
“Horgan’s the boss,” Reilly said. “So’s Seever, Winehaven and Henderson.” He explained their parts in the rustling. “You’re a federal officer, Peters. You’d better see that Indian agent too.”
“And the proof?” Peters inquired very gently.
Reilly stared at him then, trying to remember something else Indian Jim had said—something important—but it wouldn’t come to him. “To hell with you,” Reilly said. “I told you the facts. Now do what you damn please about it.”
“What about the herd?” Milo asked Reilly.
“What herd?” Peters took his cigar from his mouth and sat straighter in the chair.
“I got it from Jim that Horgan is runnin’ off Childress’ herd, the ones that are winterin’ out on my place.” Reilly bit his lower lip. “Someone is goin’ to get hurt for this, Harry.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I’m sure as hell goin’ to find out,” Reilly said. “And while I’m at it, I’ll give you some advice: Do somethin’ about Henderson while I’m gone.”
Peters sighed. “Taking to running the marshal’s office now, Reilly?”
“You’ve set still long enough,” Reilly said, and moved to the door with Milo. He turned there, that vague thing Indian Jim mentioned almost on the tip of his tongue. Then it receded.
They got their horses from the stable and rode out of town at a fast trot. A deep impatience began to churn in Reilly and he urged the horse to a faster pace. Milo increased his to match and they ran on into the night.
* * * *
As soon as Reilly and Milo had cleared town, Harry Peters left the hotel and walked along the quiet back street to the jail. He paused by the door and withdrew the .38 from beneath his armpit. He broke it open, then replaced it in the spring holster, leaving his coat open.
He rapped on the jail door and heard Henderson’s answering grumble. Then the lock snapped and he stepped inside. Henderson popped a match on his thumbnail, lifted the lamp chimney and stood squinting at the light.
“What the hell was all the shooting about?” Henderson asked, plainly not giving a damn.
Peters smiled. “That was your friend, Indian Jim, shooting up the bar. The shooting you didn’t hear was done with his mouth in an alley. Reilly and Milo heard him spout off.”
“About the bunch?” Henderson’s eyes were wary now.
“I’m afraid so,” Peters said. “This might make it awkward for you, Jack.”
“I suppose it will,” Henderson agreed. “You don’t like this, do you, Harry?”
“I never like it when people get caught,” Peters said. He leaned against the wall. “What are you going to do about it, Jack?”
“Pretty sudden,” Henderson hedged. He picked up a pair of pants from the foot of his bed and stepped into them. Next he donned his shirt and stood with the suspenders around his hips, tucking in the tail.
“What do you think I ought to do, Harry?”
“I’m a federal officer,” Peters said quietly. “You know what I have to do, Jack.”
“Damn,” Henderson said. “What the hell got into Indian Jim anyway?”
“Reilly,” Peters said. “He got into you four years ago and he was bound to do the same now. The man don’t let go, Jack. You ought to have known that.”
“I guess,” Henderson said, and put on his boots. He sat there on his bed, his big hands outstretched, bracing himself. “I know you too, Harry. You don’t like to let go either.”
“That’s right,” Peters said. He rotated the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Hurry up and make up your mind, Jack.”
“You going to give me any kind of a break?” Henderson’s hand moved slightly, almost twitching.
“You think you got one coming?”
“Yeah,” he said. “The thing’s coming apart. Why pick on me?”
“Better come along now,” Peters murmured, and he watched Henderson. He saw the refusal in the man’s eyes before his hand darted under the pillow. When Henderson pulled the gun, Peters had him beat.
He shot three times, double action, three times fast, and then watched Henderson wilt and strike the floor on his back.
“You damn fool,” Peters said to Henderson’s corpse. “You knew it had to be done this way, didn’t you?”
He reloaded the gun with loose cartridges from his pocket, put it away and let himself out. The night held a definite chill so he pulled his collar tighter. Then he retraced his steps to the hotel to make out his report.
* * * *
Reilly saw the glow of the fire three miles away and nearly killed the stud running him. He tore into the yard, Milo right behind him, and flung off when he saw Walt Slaughter.
Ernie lay face down on the ground, and in the flickering firelight, the bullet hole in his side showed the white splintered ends of ribs. Walt stood there, saying nothing.
The outbuildings were just piles of glowing ashes, but the house and barn, being larger, still burned with hellish fury. Reilly did not look toward the holding pasture. He knew the herd was gone.
“All the horses were turned out before the barn caught,” Walt said, and motioned limply toward Ernie. “He got it then. I was holed up by the well.”
“You see ’em?”
“Horgan’s bunch.” Walt looked tired and there was no life in his voice. “I was supposed to get it too, but it didn’t work out that way.” He gulped audibly. “Why did it have to be him?”
“There�
�s no answer to some things,” Reilly said, and nudged Milo. “Go saddle me a fresh horse, kid.”
“You goin’ after Horgan?”
“That’s right. Now do as I told you.”
“I’ll saddle two horses,” Bucks said.
Reilly’s voice followed him across the yard, hard and without room for argument. “I said one horse. You’re needed here.”
For a moment Reilly thought Milo would take it up, but he just shrugged and mounted his own horse. Shaking out his rope, he rode off to where the horses milled a quarter mile from the barn.
Walt spoke, almost to himself. “People’s lives get all twisted up. Sally and you. Ernie and Jane. Why couldn’t she have stayed with him, Reilly? What kind of a little tramp is she?”
“I think she loved him,” Reilly said. “I only hope he never lost faith in her.”
“He didn’t talk at all last night,” Walt said. “From then on he never said a word.”
Of course not, Reilly thought, and raised his head as Milo came back leading a calico gelding. Reilly switched saddles and retied his blankets and coat. “Let me have your rifle,” he said to Walt and Walt handed over a single shot Sharps carbine.
After mounting, Reilly dropped the rawhide thong over the saddle horn and let the carbine dangle by his leg. “I’ll be back,” he said.
“A two man job,” Milo reminded him. “You’ll never drive that herd back by yourself.” He squinted at Reilly. “Or were you just aimin’ to kill Horgan and let the cattle go to hell?”
Reilly’s lips tightened because Milo’s talk had pushed his reason back in place. He had intended to kill Max Horgan and let it go at that. “Catch up another horse,” Reilly said.
“I’m in this,” Walt said. “Can’t we bury him now?”
Reilly stepped out of the saddle and left the horse ground tied. “Get a shovel, Milo.”
“Where? The tool shed’s burned up.”
“There’s an old plow in back of the barn. We’ll make a Joe McGee hitch and scoop out a trench.” Milo shrugged and crossed the yard again.
The rig couldn’t be called fancy. The harness was rope and rolled blankets bound with leather strips. The horse didn’t like it and it took fifteen minutes of fighting to convince her otherwise.
The Sixth Western Novel Page 70