Such places were few in this region. The need for water limited them drastically, for water was scarce, and most places where it could be found had been settled on. There were only a few other places that remained, and Mike Shevlin believed he knew them all. As he rode he took them one by one and examined them with care, and when he had ridden six miles he had eliminated all but one.
Boulder Spring was not as remote as such places usually are; it was only off the beaten track. Moreover, in that particular area, water was not scarce. Anyone riding to Boulder Spring from any one of three directions must cross a small stream, and in the fourth direction there was a good water hole. It was the perfect hide-out, and there was no reason for anyone to go there at all.
It lay several miles off the travel routes in a huddle of low ridges and hills, a patch of heaped-up, sun-burned boulders, browned by time and the wind and sun. Around them lay an acre or so that was flat sand grown up with a little mesquite, a little cholla, and some cat-claw. On the ridges juniper grew.
In among the rocks, and not easily found, was a cold spring of very good water. Wind blew through the rocks and over the spring, so the air right at the water was always cool, and often cold.
In under the boulders were several low caves where a man might bed down, and each of them had more than one approach. On low ground nearby, in the open but actually difficult to see, were places where a man might leave a couple of horses.
Most of the Rafter range that lay in this direction had been abandoned since the mines started up and old Jack was killed, and few riders would be rustling around near Boulder Spring.
Though Lon Court
might have holed up at any of the other spots, Mike Shevlin was gambling that Boulder Spring was the place.
Next he reviewed the little he knew of Lon Court
. The man was not a gunfighter—he was a killer. He hunted men the way old Winkler hunted wolves; he stalked them, and killed them when he could do so safely. That did not imply the man was a physical coward, and Shevlin was sure he was not. To Lon Court
killing was a business, and he took no chances on being wounded or being seen by his victims or by anyone else. The very nature of his calling depended on being unknown.
To secure his own safety, Mike Shevlin knew he must find Lon Court
before the killer found him, but there was little time, for he must also find the gold.
He was sure that Gib Gentry had been deliberately set up in the freighting business so the gold could be shipped with maximum security and a minimum of talk, and now that Gentry was out of the picture, who would take over? Who would handle the shipment? And might they not direct every effort toward getting the gold out of the country while they could?
He had tried to stir things up so that Ben Stowe would be forced to make a move, yet now Stowe might settle right back and wait, for he was a canny man, and not one to be hurried.
Suddenly, the horse’s ears came up sharply. Shevlin slowed his pace a little, searching the country.
He stopped none too soon, for even as his own mount became motionless, a rider emerged from a draw about two hundred yards off. He was a tall man riding a long-legged grulla, a tough, mouse-colored mountain horse. The man wore a narrow-brimmed hat and a nondescript gray coat. And he was following a trail.
Shevlin’s position was excellent. His horse had come to a dead stop, half sheltered by boulders, stunted juniper, and low brush. He spoke softly to his horse, and sat his saddle, waiting.
The man held a rifle in his right hand, and he rode slowly, checking the trail from time to time. He was surely following someone, following with great care, and it was Shevlin’s guess that the man’s quarry was not far ahead of him. And at the same instant Mike Shevlin realized with startling clarity that this was Lon Court
.
He was as positive of it as if the man had been identified by a pointing finger. Everything about him filled the picture Shevlin had made from bits he recalled hearing; coupled with this was the man’s presence here, and his manner.
Mike Shevlin slid his rifle from its scabbard and let the rider take a little more lead. Then he started his own horse down the trail after him.
Chapter 12
HE LEFT the trail to his horse, hardly daring to shift his attention from the man ahead of him for a moment. He would get only one chance if Lon Court
saw him, for the man would shoot— instantly, and with accuracy.
Who was the man following? Obviously it was someone only a short distance ahead, or he would be riding with greater speed. He was keeping his eyes on the trail left by the rider, and he too was taking no chances.
The man’s horse, the nondescript clothing, nothing of them stood out. He merged into the background of desert and boulders, so that at a greater distance than he was from Shevlin he would have been scarcely visible.
The day was warm. Sweat trickled down Mike Shevlin’s neck, beaded on his forehead. He shifted his hands on the Winchester and dried his palms on his shirt front. By now Court was slanting up the hill, as if about to top out on the crest.
Court dismounted and, rifle in hand, moved to the top of the ridge. He was casing his rifle to his shoulder when suddenly he seemed to freeze, his attention riveted on something beyond the ridge.
Mike Shevlin’s horse was in sand now, walking carefully and making no sound, and Shevlin was closing the distance between them, drawing steadily nearer the sniper on the ridge.
When still perhaps sixty yards off, Shevlin drew up and dismounted, trailing his reins. He desperately wanted to know what lay beyond that ridge, to see who it was that Court was stalking, but there was no possibility of that.
Lon Court
was as dangerous as a cornered rattler, and never so dangerous as he would be now, if caught in the act. Only his concentration on his job had permitted Shevlin to come so close as this.
The warm air was still. The only sound was a cicada singing in the brush near the road. Shevlin, careful not to start a stone rolling to warn Court, worked his way silently along the slope. Then he paused and, choosing two small pebbles from the gravel near his feet, he flipped one at Court’s horse. The grulla jumped and snorted.
Lon Court
whipped around as quick as a cat, looking toward the horse.
“Over here, Lon!”
Lon Court
wheeled and fired in the same instant, but he fired too soon. His bullet was a little high, but Mike Shevlin’s was more carefully aimed. Pointed for the middle of Court’s chest, it struck the hammer on the rifle and deflected upward, ripping Court’s throat and jaw.
Desperately, Court tried to work his rifle, then he dropped it and grabbed for his six-shooter. He was on his feet, standing with them slightly apart, the old narrow-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. His yellow mustache showed plainly.
Shevlin stepped off to his right and fired again, the bullet turning Court, whose shot went wild. Court brought his gun back on target just as Shevlin fired his third shot, putting it right through Court’s skull.
Mike walked up to the dead man and looked down at him. He felt no regret or pity. Lon Court
had chosen his path with his eyes open, and must have known that someday it would end just as it had. In his time he had killed a lot of men, and now he lay dead himself, killed by one of those he had been sent to get.
Returning to his horse, Shevlin mounted up and went over the ridge. In the valley beyond there was a dim trail, an old trail. On it he found the tracks of a horse, and followed them.
When he had gone only a few feet he saw where the horse had dug in hard and taken off on a hard run. The rider must have been at that point when he heard the shots.
Shevlin was almost on the edge of town, still following the tracks, before he caught sight of the rider. It was Laine Tennison.
She pulled off to the side of the trail and waited when she saw him coming.
“Scare you?” he asked.
“Was that you back t
here?”
“Uh-huh. I was one of them.”
She looked at him searchingly. “What happened?”
“There was a man named Lon Court
. Been around for years. He hires out to big cattle outfits or anybody who has killing they want done. He was laying for you.”
“And you stopped him?”
“Don’t make a lot of it. I was on his list, too.”
“You ... you killed him?”
“Ma’am,” Shevlin said dryly, “you never get far talking things over with a man holding a gun. And this here man wasn’t much given to talk.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“As a result of that? Well, when a man like Lon Court
dies nobody cares much. Not in this country, in these times.
“As to what will happen, I wouldn’t know. We’re going to ride into Rafter, you and me, and this time you’re going to stay there with the Claggs, and don’t leave there or I’ll quit the whole thing. I can’t be running around looking after you, with everything else I’ve got to do.”
The streets were strangely empty when they came into town. After leaving Laine at the Claggs’, Mike Shevlin rode to the sheriff’s office.
Wilson Hoyt looked up sourly, and with no welcome. “All right, what’s your argument?”
“I just came in to report a shooting. Lon Court
is dead.”
Hoyt knew the name. He turned the idea over in his mind, growing angrier by the minute. “Who the hell brought him in here?” he said.
“Somebody who wanted Laine Tennison killed. Somebody who wanted me killed, and who killed Gib Gentry by mistake.”
“You think Court killed Gentry?”
“The only man who was supposed to be riding that trail that night was me,” Shevlin said. “Only Gentry was coming to see me—to warn me, in fact.”
Wilson Hoyt considered this. He put it together with a few other facts. Gib Gentry had been drinking the night before he was killed, but that was not unusual, for Gib had been hitting the bottle a lot these last few months.
Hoyt had, in his slow, methodical, yet thorough way traced Gentry’s movements. Nobody had anything to conceal and they trusted Hoyt, as they had, for the most part, liked Gentry. Gentry had been a rough-and-ready but free-handed man who made no enemies. The last man who had spoken to Gentry was Brazos, when Gib got his horse, and Gib had definitely been riding after Shevlin.
What disturbed Hoyt was the knowledge that just before Gentry went to the stable for his horse he had a brief talk with Red, and then Red had ridden off out of town. Shortly after, Gentry had gone for his horse.
“Lon Court
hadn’t been in town,” Hoyt said. “I didn’t even know he’d been in the country. If I had, I’d have run him the hell out of it.”
“Lon Court
never rode a mile without being paid for it,” Shevlin said. “Who do you think stands to gain by having me killed? By having Laine Tennison killed?”
“Where does she fit into this?”
“Somebody thinks she might be an owner. Clagg Merriam learned the other night that she had wealthy connections in Frisco. The Sun Strike is owned in Frisco.”
“They wouldn’t murder a woman.”
“You forget mighty quick. What about Eve Bancroft?”
“That was a mistake.” Wilson Hoyt looked up at Shevlin sharply. “Clagg Merriam? What the hell has he got to do with this?”
“He’s the man behind Ben Stowe.”
Hoyt’s little world of certainties was toppling.
“Like hell!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Merriam scarcely knows Ben—and he’s a respected man.”
Mike Shevlin did not feel like arguing with him. He would leave it to Hoyt’s solid common sense. He was tired, but there was much to be done.
He leaned over the desk. “Hoyt,” he said, “your nice playhouse is ruined for good, and you might as well look at it straight. Maybe you can pull this town out of the hole it’s in ... maybe you can’t. I figure most of these folks—even those who’ve been shutting their eyes to what goes on—are good folks, given a chance.
“But Eve Bancroft is dead, and that’s getting to them. They won’t stand still for it, the way I see it. All you’d have to do would be to get up and make a stand, and you’d have them behind you. If you don’t, your rep as a town pacifier is finished, because there’ll be more killings.”
“You said Court was dead.”
“Do you think he would have to do it all? I know Ben, Hoyt; I’ve known him a long time. He’s a mighty tough man, grown tougher with years, and he plays hard. Believe me, they got Gib by mistake, but I’d lay a bet he was on the list to die ... after he’d done his job for them.”
It made sense, of course. Wilson Hoyt was a man of no illusions, and once he faced the situation he would see the thing straight. Like many another man, he faced the fact of change reluctantly. He had had two good years in Rafter, relatively peaceful years, and although he must have known the situation could not last, he had been willing to go along with it. His own job was to keep the peace, not to be a guardian of morals ... that was the way he had allowed himself to think.
But now he could no longer stand aside. He had made a move; he had averted the calamity of a street battle between miners and cattlemen—and Eve Bancroft had been killed. He had believed it was over then, but here was Mike Shevlin, assuring him it had only begun.
Lon Court
was dead, but that had happened out of town, and was not his concern. The presence of Lon Court
was, for somebody within the town had brought him here.
And now Shevlin had brought Clagg Merriam into the picture. Hoyt hated to think Merriam was involved, yet in the back of his mind he must have sensed it all the time. His surprise had been purely vocal ... within himself he had felt no such surprise. A man could not move around such a small town without knowing a great deal that was not on the surface.
“All right, Mike,” Hoyt said at last, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He looked up with sudden discouragement. “Hell, Mike, what’s a man to do? I figured this was my place to roost. I thought I’d dug myself in for life.”
“Maybe you have. Look at it this way, Hoyt. You straighten up this mess, straighten out the town, and with no more fuss than necessary, and you may be home. They may want you to stay.”
Wilson Hoyt nodded slowly, doubtfully. As Shevlin walked out, Hoyt stared bleakly across the street at nothing at all.
Ben Stowe pushed the heavy ledgers away from him and pulled open the drawer where he kept his cigars. He selected one, bit off the end, and lit up. Then he sat back and put his feet up on his desk, inhaling deeply. He exhaled the smoke slowly and stared out of the window toward the mountains.
Clagg Merriam was right. They would have to ship some gold. Their working capital was finished. Without cash from somewhere, they could buy up no more gold; and when they stopped buying they would lose control, once and for all. When gold was shipped from the town through business channels, questions would be asked, men would come flooding in.
The deals for the mines must be closed at once, but there had been no response from San Francisco since his last offer. were they investigating? And if so, who?
Clagg Merriam, he knew, was worried about Laine Tennison, the pretty girl over at the Doc’s place. ... Well, Lon Court
would take care of that.
Ben Stowe scowled with irritation. That damned Gentry! He would have to go riding out just when Court was expecting Mike Shevlin. Ben was not in the least disturbed by Gentry’s death, for the time had been appointed ... but he had needed him to handle the gold shipment first.
With Gib Gentry dead, all his nicely arranged setup was spoiled. Moreover, who did he know who could be trusted with that much gold? Above all, trusted not to talk, and trusted not to let it be taken away from him?
He could handle it himself, but the town needed a tight rein right now, and he dared n
ot be away. And most important, the offer might come from the mine owners, and he must act promptly.
Who, then, could he get?
Wilson Hoyt would be perfect, but Hoyt had been acting strange the past few days, and Ben Stowe hesitated to approach him. Hoyt, he felt, was an honest man, or he seemed to be, but he had always been a man who kept his eyes strictly on the job, and did not worry about anything outside it.
Mike Shevlin ...
Ridiculous as the idea was, Ben kept coming back to it, for Mike had the guts to deliver that gold, come hell and high water; and Mike wouldn’t talk. Of all the men he knew, Mike Shevlin was the best man to handle that gold.
The trouble was, Mike was bucking him.
Ben Stowe glanced at the gathering ash on his cigar. Carefully, he assayed all he knew of Mike Shevlin. He had been a tough kid, handy with a gun, and not above driving off a few cows once in a while. He had balked at outright robbery when the rest of them went into x; but that, Ben decided, was mostly because Mike had just wanted to drift—he just wanted to get out and see more country.
Ben had heard a lot of the conflicting stories about Mike Shevlin. He had been mixed up in some cattle wars, in some gunfighting, and he had ridden the side of the law a time or two. That needn’t mean a thing, for Ben knew of several outlaws who had been town marshals, and good ones.
He had never really liked Mike Shevlin, but this was not the time for that. Suppose ... just suppose ... that he made an offer? Gib’s piece of action, for instance?
There were not many who could turn their backs on a quarter of a million dollars. Of course, Shevlin would never live to collect, no more than Gib Gentry would have.
What fool would give up money of that kind when he could keep it for himself?
But one other thing worried him. Ray Hollister was still out there, and Hollister had to die.
The High Graders Page 11