by Short, Luke;
Milt was mute. It was the truth, a truth that hadn’t dawned on him. He felt a loathing for Pres, but beyond that he had to admit Pres had done the only thing that would forestall Will’s getting the place.
Milt said, “Now what’ll happen to the place?”
“I dunno,” Pres said. “It’ll give us time, anyway.”
Milt said tonelessly, “You’re a hardcase, aren’t you, Pres? You’d kill any man that stands in your way, wouldn’t you?”
Pres was silent, uneasy.
“There’s nothin’ I can do about Hale,” Milt went on. “He’s dead, and I didn’t know you’d kill him or I’d never have told you what I did. But I’m goin’ to make you a promise, Pres.”
“Yeah?” Pres asked slowly.
“You hurt Will Danning, and, by God, I’ll kill you!” His voice was low, passionate, wild, and in it was more threat than was in his words.
Pres said uneasily, “Take it easy, Milt. Hell, I won’t hurt Danning. We can get the place now.”
Milt said nothing more. He turned on his heel and walked away. His thoughts were bleak and terrible as he tramped across the cinders to the boardwalk. He felt a guilt in Chap Hale’s death. True, the old man was eighty; death didn’t matter so much. But what did matter was that Pres was drawing him into something evil and sinister, and he was helpless to pull out. Slowly and irrevocably, he was being drawn into it.
He passed the sheriff’s office, and immediately afterward the door opened. He heard it shut, heard a woman’s footsteps on the boardwalk, and then a voice called, “Milt Barron!”
Milt waited. It was Becky Case, he saw, as she came closer. He touched his hat and smiled, feeling a lift at the sight of something as beautiful and clean as this girl.
She fell in beside him and said, “I just saw Will.”
“He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He had a message for you.”
Milt looked at her curiously, and Becky went on. “He said he wanted you to go out to the ranch tonight, right now, without coming to see him, even.”
Milt said uneasily, “Did he say why?”
“He said he was afraid to leave the ranch alone in case—well, in case it was raided again. By us, I suppose.”
Milt laughed boyishly. “That’s a funny message comin’ from the people he’s supposed to be afraid of.”
Becky laughed. They were even with the hotel now, and Milt wanted to go in and talk with her. He was hungry for a woman’s company, hungry for just a look at a pretty woman. There was a scattering of men in the lobby, Milt could see as he glanced through the lobby window.
And then, just as he was about to look away, he yanked his gaze back.
There, half turned to him, sitting under one of the overhead lamps and talking to a couple of men, was Charlie Sommers.
Milt felt his stomach coil in fear. He stared at the man, fascinated, and then Becky’s voice said, “You’ve been holding that door handle for a half minute, Milt. Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“Sure. Yes, sure,” Milt said hastily. He looked at Becky, a sick smile on his face, and touched his hat.
“Good night.”
He was gone down street, head turned toward the opposite sidewalk, before Becky had time to answer him.
Chapter Seven
FRAME-UP
A little before noon next day Will was hauled before the justice of the peace, whose chambers were the Masonic Hall over Dunn’s General Store, and fined twenty-five dollars. The fine was suspended, but not before the judge, true to Charlie Sommers’s prediction, gave Will a scolding for accusing innocent people of serious crimes. Will took it without a word, and afterward was freed. Sheriff Phipps, with Chap Hale’s murder on his hands, put in only a perfunctory appearance, warned Will to keep away from Harry Mygrave, and then went out to resume his investigation at Chap’s office.
Will went to the barbership to get cleaned up. Lying there in the chair, eyes closed, while the barber shaved him, he had several things to think about. First was Milt. Will had stayed awake far into the night trying to puzzle out why Milt would have wanted to see Chap. And did his talk with Chap have any connection with Chap’s death? With a stern impartiality, Will made himself consider that, but he couldn’t see any connection. Milt was with him when Chap was killed, and he’d joined in the hunt for the killer. No, Milt was clear—but why had he argued so violently with Chap?
The other thing that troubled Will was the disposition of the spread. Chap still owned it. There might be some tiresome court requirements to go through before Will could get it. However, Chap’s letters and the fact that he had accepted Will’s money would be proof enough to the court that the executors of Chap’s estate would be morally bound to turn over the spread to him.
He didn’t know what to think of Chap’s death. Who could have killed him, and why? Will met a blank there. He knew nothing about Chap, about his enemies. Chap had lived a lifetime here, and all men have enemies. Will didn’t have a clue to his death; only Phipps could unravel that killing.
The other thing that troubled him was the presence of Charlie Sommers. It could mean that he was on Milt’s trail, or it could mean nothing except that he was passing through on business of his office.
Before he ate Will had a drink in Mohr’s saloon and learned that Chap was to be buried early that afternoon from the small white church down one of the back streets. Will didn’t go to the services, but he was the first one at the small bleak cemetery out on the flats where the fresh earth from Chap’s grave was drying in the sun.
A lot of people were at Chap’s funeral, among them Phipps, Case and Becky, and Pres Milo. The words that were spoken there didn’t mean much to Will; he thought of Chap only as an old man with a passionate interest in justice, a man who had befriended him and counseled him—and whose counsel he had not followed. And during that service he made a private vow that he would get Chap’s killer if it turned out to be Milt himself. He would see Mygrave, too—sheriff or no sheriff.
After the services, Will hunted out Sheriff Phipps, who was dressed in a hot black suit. The old man looked sad, for Chap Hale was one of his friends. He greeted Will coolly when Will spoke to him, and led him out of the slow stream of people who were heading for their buggies and horses at the cemetery tie rail.
“I’d like to ask a couple of questions, sheriff,” Will began.
Phipps nodded.
Will asked, “Do you know the man that waited on the landing for Chap?”
Phipps angrily shook his head. “If I did, would I be here now?”
“Who are Chap’s heirs?”
“Relatives back East.”
“Who’s handlin’ his property?”
Phipps looked at him curiously.
“His executor is Angus Case.”
Will was inwardly dismayed at that, but his lean face was impassive. Only the gray eyes gave a hint of trouble as he thanked Phipps, and the sheriff went on.
Will saw Becky and Angus Case walking slowly toward their buggy, and he followed them, determined to learn everything now.
Case was just picking up the reins when he saw Will approach. Over his face came an expression of stolid dislike.
Will touched his hat to Becky and then said to Case, “I understand you’re Chap’s executor, Case.”
“That’s right.”
“I want to explain what you’ll find when you look over Chap’s papers.” Will said evenly. “He bought the Pitchfork place for me, you know.”
“So I heard.”
“But the title is still in his name,” Will said.
Case stared at him, frowning.
“How’s that?”
“Chap thought maybe after I’d seen the place that I’d change my mind about wantin’ it. So he bought it in his own name. I didn’t change my mind, and he was goin’ to make over the title to me. I don’t think he got around to it before he died.”
Case said slowly, “Then the spread ain’t yours legally?�
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“It was bought with my money, but the title’s in Chap’s name.”
Case looked at him a long moment, and then cleared his throat.
“You’ll get your money back,” he said.
Will flushed. “I don’t want the money, Case. I want the spread.”
Case said, smiling thinly, “I’m to be the judge of that, I reckon. As Chap’s executor, I have the right to dispose of the property.”
Will was getting mad, and he knew it and didn’t care. “You’ll sell it to me, Case, or I’ll make you!” he said thickly.
“How?”
“I’ve got Chap’s letters. I’ve got a receipt for the money spent. It’ll stand up in any court in the Territory. I’ll tell Chap’s heirs of this swindle.”
“It’ll have to hold up in court,” Case said grimly, “because that’s where it’ll wind up.”
“You’ll fight it then?”
“Till hell freezes over, and then I’ll buy it to keep it from you,” Case said curtly. “Good day.”
Will watched them drive off. Becky looked at him, fear in her eyes, and she smiled nervously. Will didn’t see her smile and wouldn’t have cared, anyway. Slowly, surely, he was growing to hate Case with a hatred that scared him. The thought that checked his anger was the knowledge that the court would award him the Pitchfork.
He stepped into the saddle and headed back for the main street. Once there, he wondered why he hadn’t ridden around the town to pick up the north road. He had no business here; he disliked the place, he wanted to get out.
Passing Dunn’s big store, idly watching the street, he saw the legend: Post Office printed under the sign: General Merchandise. He remembered then that he hadn’t called for his mail since he’d been here.
He swung down and tramped inside the big store. One front corner was walled off by racks of pigeonholes, and he stepped up to the wicket and asked for his mail.
One letter was waiting for him. He pocketed it absently in his jumper, turned to go, and found Mary Norman confronting him.
Mary said, “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Danning.”
“We’ve got nothin’ to talk about,” Will said coldly.
“Please,” Mary said, and she smiled. She was wearing a pale-yellow dress with a flower design spangled through it, and the men gathered around the cold stove in the center of the store were watching her. She was handsome, and the smile she turned on Will was melting. Will was uncomfortably aware that people were watching him, and he wanted to get away.
“Over here,” Mary Norman said. They went over to the counter opposite the post-office wicket, and Mary came close to him.
“Do you still think I tried to trap you by our talk the other day?”
“I do,” Will said coldly.
Mary Norman looked distressed. “But please, you’ve got to believe me, Mr. Danning. I wasn’t. I only wanted to learn about Murray.”
“Why ask me?” Will said wearily. “I told you what I knew.”
Mary Norman’s eyes were filling with tears.
“If I could only make you believe me!” she cried passionately. “I don’t want to live without him! I can’t!”
And then she began to cry.
Will was not prepared for this. He was aware that the men were watching him, and he was embarrassed. Mary’s sobbing, quiet as it was, could be heard halfway through the store.
Will made a clumsy, embarrassed, angry gesture, and said in a low, alarmed voice, “Quit it, now! Quit it!”
And then Mary Norman came into his arms and put her hands on his chest and wept bitterly. Will tried to back away, but she clung to him obstinately. A sudden anger made him put all pretense aside. He pushed her away, grabbed her shoulders, and shook her.
“Damn it, stop it!” Will said angrily. “I’ve told you what I know! I can’t tell you any more!”
Mary was still sobbing. She looked beaten and helpless, and Will knew that it was an act. She was trying by every scheme known to woman to pry information out of him.
Will heard somebody approach and he turned to find big Joe Dunn, the storekeeper, looking at him angrily.
“What are you doing to the lady?” he demanded.
Will said sardonically, “I just kicked her in the shins. What are you goin’ to do about it?”
“I’ll call the sheriff, mister, that’s what I’ll do,” Joe Dunn said.
Will shrugged and turned away from Mary.
“All right, call the sheriff. Call the governor. To hell with it!”
He tramped out of the store under the hard and threatening gaze of a dozen onlookers, his face a flaming red. He swung on his horse and headed out of town, swearing under his breath. Once outside of town he lifted the horse into a long lope. After five minutes running, the horse cooled off and slacked into a walk. Will’s anger was gone now.
It was only then he remembered the letter in his jumper pocket. He felt for it, but it wasn’t there. He pulled up and looked back down the road. He’d forgotten about the letter entirely, and in that long gallop it had slipped out of his pocket. He debated going back for it, and then decided against it. It was probably a saddle-company dodger, or something similar. He didn’t know anybody who’d bother to write to him, anyway. He rode on.
Back in Dunn’s store, Mary Norman stopped her crying as soon as it was decently possible. Joe Dunn, sad and clucking his sympathy, tried to comfort her. Mary wiped her eyes, straightened her back, and said sadly, “You’re so kind. Thank you so much.”
She went out under the sympathetic gaze of every man in the place. Once on the street, she hurried back to the hotel and went up to her room, locking the door behind her.
Only then did she look at the letter she had taken from Will’s jumper pocket when she leaned against him to cry. She was trembling so that she could scarcely open the letter. She was certain that it was from Murray. Hadn’t Charlie Sommers told her that he was sure Will either knew where Murray was or was in touch with him?
Mary ripped the letter open, and a paper fell out. She stooped to pick it up, and then her heart sank. It was a signed legal form, a deed made out to Will Danning. The other paper was a brief note. It said:
Friend Will:
I think you’d better have this now. Something queer is up, Will, but that’s your problem.
—Chap.
Mary sank down on the bed, bitter disappointment welling up within her. She threw the papers on the dresser and looked bleakly out the window. And then she began to cry; it was real this time—a bitter, heartbroken weeping.
Will rode into the spread after dark, tired and hungry. He offsaddled, turned his horse into the corral, and tramped up to the house and let himself in the cookshack.
Milt heard him and came out just as Will was pouring cold coffee into a cup. In his other hand was a cold biscuit.
Milt closed the door behind him and grinned affectionately at Will. He came over and sat on the table and said softly, “Old jailbird. Did you get fined?”
“It was suspended.” Will looked at him, trying to plumb behind the grinning, careless front of Milt’s good nature. “Did Becky Case get to you?”
Milt’s grin died, and his face was suddenly serious.
“I couldn’t figure it out and then I saw Sommers. Did he ask about me?”
Will nodded.
“Does he suspect I’m hidin’ here?”
“Said he was just passin’ through,” Will said. “You can have it for what it’s worth.”
Will drank his coffee and munched on the biscuit, and Milt regarded him somberly. “Still think it’s a good idea to stick, Will?”
Will didn’t look at him. “If we run away now, Sommers will think it’s on account of him.”
Milt didn’t say anything right away. He rolled a cigarette, and Will went on eating. He wondered if Milt was going to tell him of his call on Chap last night, and he soon saw that he wasn’t.
Will finished his coffee, rolled a smoke, and then touched a match to
it. He said then, “Milt, you and me have got somethin’ to settle. Right now.”
Milt frowned.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Just who’s boss around here?”
Milt studied him carefully, and then said, “That’s settled already, Will. You are.”
“Then you better keep your nose out of my business,” Will said bluntly.
The two friends looked at each other, and Milt’s eyes lighted up with a slow anger. His voice was calm, though, when he said, “You mean about keepin’ the place?”
“That, and other things.”
A long pause. “Like what?” Milt drawled.
“Goin’ to Chap behind my back.”
Milt’s eyes were steady on him, but Will could see the flush creep up under his tanned skin. He could see the anger in Milt’s eyes, too.
“So you know that, eh?”
Will nodded.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Milt said slowly. “I didn’t figure it was any of your business.”
Will said levelly, “You could have gone to Chap for only one thing I reckon. About buyin’ the place.”
“That was it,” Milt said curtly. “I told him not to sell it to you.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was your business,” Milt said. “But I wanted to try.”
Will took a long drag on his cigarette and studied the coal, then looked up at Milt’s wild dark face. “You’re scared,” he said.
“Sure I’m scared!” Milt said swiftly, angrily. “I’ve told you that!”
“You can’t run away from fear,” Will drawled gently. “It follows you.”
“Careful, fella,” Milt murmured.
“I’m not sayin’ you’re yellow,” Will explained grimly. “I’m just tellin’ you this because it’s the last time I aim to. You’ll have to fight this wherever you go, Milt. I haven’t got the money to move every time you get spooked. I won’t do it. I won’t let you do it. I offered to hide you, and I spent every dime I ever earned or could beg or borrow doin’ it. And I’m goin’ to keep hidin’ you, you understand? You let me do it. Keep out of my way.”
Milt’s face was wicked-looking with anger and humiliation, and Will’s hard gaze didn’t give him any mercy. They regarded each other a long time in that dim lamplight, and then Milt said softly, “You’re a hard man, Will—even to your friends.”