by L. P. Holmes
“You’ve got to admit that Hack Asbell has given cause for being cussed,” said Brink Carling. “His men haven’t been exactly gentle with some of the folks.”
“True enough,” Bruce admitted. “But Hack’s changed. He told me himself that he’s got no quarrel with you settlers about this basin land. He’s satisfied with the range he’s got north of Hayfork River. But somebody has been slow-elking some of his beef, and naturally that burns him plenty. And you can’t blame him for that.”
“Then why don’t he sell us some beef?” growled still another of the settlers. “He’s got plenty of it, and we got none. A few beefsteaks under their belts would change the attitude of a lot of folks toward Asbell.”
“That’s going to be done,” said Bruce. “Within a couple of days you’ll be able to buy all the Rocking A beef you want, right over Pat Donovan’s counter. You can spread the word to that effect.”
Pete Martin came doggedly back to the other issue. “How do you figure to go about running down them responsible for Jake Hendee?”
“By riding, looking, listening, and reading signs,” said Bruce. “I’ll probably have some of the Rocking A ’punchers riding with me. But we don’t want every settler we pass to be suspecting us of being out on some sort of dirty work. That’s where you men come in. Talk a little tolerance among the other settlers and make them realize we’re out to help their interests instead of to hurt them. Rocking A doesn’t like to be accused of things they haven’t done. They want to prove somebody has been lying. Rocking A knows that you settlers are in Indio Basin to stay. Rocking A intends to stay in business, too, and has sense enough to know they’ve got to be on terms of friendship with the basin folks to do this. There’s no mystery about Rocking A’s new attitude. It’s plain common sense. Well?”
Pat Donovan spoke up. “I’ve been running this store here in Starlight long before any settler ever put foot in Indio Basin. I’ve known Hack Asbell for years. He’s a stubborn man but a square one. His given word is beyond question. You have it now through Martell here. You’d be fools not to believe it.”
“I’ve got one more question,” said Brink Carling. “Why wasn’t Jason Spelle included in this gathering? Jason is one of us and a mighty influential man across Indio Basin. He could do more to spread good will for the Rocking A than any man I know. How about that, Martell?”
Pat Donovan spoke quickly. “Suppose I answer that, Brink Carling. Nobody can accuse me of prejudice. I run my store, meet every man fair. I’ve got no ax to grind with anybody. But I have a mind that asks questions of itself. I ask myself just what Jason Spelle wants out of this basin? As far as I can find out, the man has staked or filed on no land. And if he doesn’t want land in this basin, what does he want? I hear him constantly preaching against Hack Asbell and the Rocking A. Why? What has Hack Asbell ever done to him personally? I say this Jason Spelle is one big question mark to which I get no satisfactory answer. Bluntly put, I mistrust the man, just as I mistrust any man who would be all things to everyone else and nothing to himself. Human nature just doesn’t run that way. Now can you find a better answer, Brink Carling?”
There was a long moment of taut silence. Then Pete Martin said harshly, “Damn you, Donovan … you’ve made me uneasy in my mind.”
Sam Otten said, “Pat, you admit to thoughts I’ve had myself, but never had nerve enough to speak. Friends, it’s a question we can all ponder on. Just what does Jason Spelle want in Indio Basin?”
A sound came in from the dark street, the pound of heavy hooves running. Pat Donovan went to the door and looked out. A heavy workhorse came to a lumbering stop in front of the store. A man dropped off the animal, ran across the store porch. Donovan let him in. A settler, a waspy man, small and thin-faced. Donovan knew him and called him by name.
“Moss Riddle! What’s all the hurry about, man?”
“Dopkins,” panted Riddle. “Feller on the next quarter section to me. Lynched! That damned Rocking A again!”
“Another … lynched? How do you know?”
“How do I know? Goddamn it, man … I saw him … hangin’ to his own wagon tongue. Where’s Jason Spelle? He’s got to know about this.”
Bruce Martell was now at Moss Riddle’s side, towering over him. And when Riddle, seeing that Jason Spelle was not in the store, would have hurried out, Bruce caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“Wait a minute, friend. I want to know more about this. You say you saw a man who’d been lynched. You said Rocking A did it. I want to know about that.”
Moss Riddle spat at Bruce like an angry cat, tried to pull away. “You damned saddle pounders … damned murderin’ whelps! Lynchin’ decent settlers in the dark. Who in God’s name do you think you are? Get your hands off me!”
But Bruce pulled Riddle deeper into the room. Over his shoulder he said bleakly, “Lock that door again, Pat. All right, friend. Now let’s have the story … all of it.”
“That’s right,” said Pete Martin. “Let’s have it.”
Riddle was quieting a little, so Bruce let go of him. The waspy settler brushed a hand across his eyes as though trying to push aside an ugly picture.
“The wife an’ me had just turned in. There was a shot over at Dopkins’ camp. Right after that, I heard horses runnin’ like a bunch of riders was fadin’ out. Rememberin’ Jake Hendee, I figgered I better go have a look. The wife felt that way, too. So I did. An’ there was Dopkins, like I said, hangin’ to his own wagon tongue. I hotfoot back to my own camp, git up on one of my wagon team, an’ come on into town. That’s it. Now where—?”
“Just a minute,” cut in Bruce. “You said the Rocking A was there. That a guess?”
“Guess, hell!” snapped Riddle. “I know they were. There’s a horse layin’ there by Dopkins’ camp … a saddled horse. Dead. It packs a Rockin’ A brand. I stumbled right over it. I lit a match an’ took a look. A sorrel bronc’, branded Rockin’ A. With the saddle still on it. And the initials HA stamped on the saddle cantle. HA … Hack Asbell. I figger that when they jumped him, Dopkins got off a shot an’ killed Asbell’s horse. Now, do you still say I’m guessin’?”
It filled the room like a dark tide, the massed and rising judgment of these settler men. Bruce Martell felt it pushing at him, measuring and weighing him. He swung a slow glance around, met the suspicion and bitter anger in their eyes.
“Something you should know,” he said grimly. “A chore Hack Asbell asked me to do before I left Rocking A headquarters this evening. I was to stop in at Joe Leggett’s livery barn and pick up Asbell’s horse. It’s been there ever since he rode it in the day of that mob affair. When I got Asbell out of town that night, I took him on my horse. So tonight I’m to pick up his horse. A sorrel, and the gear would naturally be Asbell’s own saddle. Now we hear that a horse lies dead, out at this Dopkins’ camp, with the saddle still on it. A strange thing, strange enough to stand looking into. I want you men to come with me while I ask this Joe Leggett some questions.”
Surprisingly it was gaunt Ezra Banks who nodded agreement to this. “A fair request,” he boomed. “And makes sense.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” snapped Moss Riddle. “I want to find Jason Spelle and—”
“You’ll come along with us,” broke in Bruce. “Don’t make me take you by the scruff of the neck. There’s a lot riding on what this night shows. Either I’ve been lied to and made a fool of, or the boot is on the other foot. Gentlemen, come along.”
They did, to a man, with Pat Donovan dousing the store lights, locking up, and moving out with the rest.
They found Joe Leggett already asleep on his bunk in the stable harness room. Somebody found a lantern and lit it. Joe Leggett blinked stupidly into the light.
“Hack Asbell left a horse here, along with the saddle gear,” said Bruce curtly. “Where’s the bronc’ and gear, Leggett?”
The stable ow
ner mumbled under his breath, dug into a pocket of his shirt, and brought out a scrap of paper. He handed it to Bruce.
“When I come back from getting my evening grub, this was stuck in the crack of the door of this room. That’s all I know.”
Bruce smoothed the paper, held it close to the lantern. He read the scrawl on it aloud.
Joe,
The boss sent me in after his sorrel bronco. I’m leaving this so you’ll know the bronco wasn’t stolen.
Carp Bastion
A murmur ran through the listening settlers.
“You see!” spat Moss Riddle. “The Rockin’ A was ridin’ tonight an’—”
“Shut up!” snapped Bruce. “Joe, what time was it you went to eat?”
“Right after dark,” blurted Leggett. “Getting close to seven, I guess. My usual time. I always eat a little late, what with the usual evening chores around the stable keeping me busy.”
“Was Hack Asbell’s horse here when you left?”
“Sure was. It was next to the last horse I grained before heading for the nose bag myself.”
“Thanks, Joe,” said Bruce. He turned to the settlers. “You have Joe Leggett’s word for it that Hack Asbell’s horse and gear were right here in this stable between six and seven o’clock tonight. Now here is a note left for Joe when he came back to explain how the horse disappeared. It seems to have been written and signed by Carp Bastion of the Rocking A. Only there is one big thing wrong with the picture. I ate my supper in the cook shack of the Rocking A this night. That was between six and seven o’clock. And at that time Carp Bastion was sitting across the table from me. Carp is an ordinary mortal human. He couldn’t have been in two places at once. What do you think, gentlemen?”
“Godfrey,” muttered one of the settlers. “I don’t know what to think!”
“I know what you’re thinking, Martell,” said Pete Martin. “You’re thinking that that note is a fake. You’re thinking that Asbell’s horse was lifted by somebody, taken out to the Dopkins camp, shot, and left there as planted evidence against the Rocking A. Right?”
“Exactly right. Has anybody got a better guess?”
“You could be lyin’,” said Moss Riddle acidly. “I don’t trust no saddle pounder.”
“You’ll have to trust me tonight, friend,” Martell told him harshly. “For I’m going out to the Dopkins camp, and you’re going to show me the way.”
Brink Carling spoke up. “I want to see this myself. Ezra Banks and me come into town in my spring wagon. We got room for three or four more if anybody else is interested.”
“I came in my own buckboard,” said Pete Martin. “I can take a couple.”
“Joe,” said Pat Donovan, “hook a team to that three-seated carryall of yours. I’ll haul the rest of the boys.”
They headed out through the wide night, three loaded wagons and Bruce Martell in his saddle, riding beside Moss Riddle—who sat his barebacked heavy-wagon horse in an uncomfortable, hunched, and angry silence.
Cold satisfaction lay in Bruce Martell. It had cost the life of another settler, but here, thrust right into his hands, was evidence that the most doubting of the settlers in those following wagons could not ignore or misread. Those behind the dark trails being cut across the basin land had overreached this night. They had schemed deeply, but their scheming had backfired, because they could not know that Bruce Martell had eaten supper at the Rocking A at a time to prove that the note left at Joe Leggett’s door was a flat lie.
The Dopkins camp lay still and cold under the stars. They gathered in a group and looked at the figure hanging from the propped-up wagon pole. Then they cut the rope and lowered the figure to the earth. They had brought lanterns and some of them began looking over Dopkins’ wagon and effects. Bruce Martell headed the group that gathered around the dead Rocking A horse. The animal had been shot through the head, almost between the eyes, in fact.
Bruce Martell let out a little exclamation, held the lantern close.
“Take a good look,” he said. “The hair around that bullet hole is slightly scorched. The gun that killed this horse wasn’t over two feet away when the shot was fired. Ask yourselves if Dopkins could have been that close? I don’t think so. But somebody else, say a man in a saddle and leading this horse, could have been. Remember these items, gentlemen.”
They went back to the wagon where Brink Carling, Sam Otten, and Pat Donovan had concluded their search and were now kneeling beside Dopkins’ body.
“We found nothing of interest in the wagon,” said Donovan. “But look here.”
Dopkins’ shirt had been pulled out of his jeans and hung loose. Pat Donovan had pulled it up to expose the dead man’s middle. Around his waist on his undershirt lay a stain of sweat and dust and a darkness that could have been oil, worked from a belt of some sort.
“’Tis just such a mark that a money belt would leave,” said Donovan slowly. “But there is no money belt now. I would say that this poor devil was robbed as well as murdered.”
“Just like Jake Hendee was robbed!” burst out Sam Otten savagely. “Just like Jake Hendee was murdered.”
“The evidence,” said Bruce Martell, “is adding up. But there has to be more. How much more of this night can you men spare?”
“All of it,” said Brink Carling, “if it’ll prove who did this damnable thing.”
“That will come,” Bruce told him. “But first I want to prove who did not do it. Put a blanket over this unfortunate and come along.”
They rode and drove the longer miles farther out from town. They crossed the river and climbed the long slope to Rocking A headquarters. Bruce went into the sleeping bunkhouse, lit a lamp, and called the settlers in. Sleep-befuddled, tousled heads lifted from bunks, staring and bewildered.
“What the hell, Bruce?” stuttered Carp Bastion. “What is this, a raid?”
“No raid, Carp. Nothing to get excited about. What did you boys do after I left this evening?”
“Played poker and went to bed. Why?”
There was no guile in Carp Bastion. He was speaking the simple truth, and every settler knew it.
Brink Carling said, “This is the man supposed to have written that note, Martell?”
“This is the one.”
“What note?” blurted Carp. “What the devil’s this all about?”
“Forget it and go back to sleep,” said Brink Carling. “Sorry to have disturbed you men. I’m convinced. Rocking A had nothing to do with that deal. I’m going home. Martell, drop by my camp in the morning, will you?”
“I’ll be there,” agreed Martell. “I’d take you in to see Hack Asbell, only Hack ain’t as young as he used to be and he got a mean knock on the head with that rock. He needs his sleep.”
“I’m convinced,” said Carling again. “I don’t need to see anything more. Something has been accomplished this night.”
The wagons rattled away. Martell put up his horse and went back to the bunkhouse, to be bombarded with a hundred questions. He told the story tersely and the import of it cooled even Carp Bastion’s explosive nature.
“What’s it goin’ to mean?” asked Carp.
“Maybe gun smoke along the trail,” Martell told him.
Butte Allen was sharp-minded. “Riders are pulling this dirty work, Bruce. The settlers won’t ever be able to run them down. Only other riders can do that. Which could mean … us.”
“That’s probably what it will amount to, Butte.”
“Me,” growled Carp, “even when I make a darn fool of myself, I’m willin’ to stand and face judgment and take all the blame comin’ my way. But when anybody pulls a crooked deal and then tries to make it look like I done it … that guy I want to get my hands on, even if I have to chase him across the hot hinges of hell. So, whenever you say ride, Bruce … I’ll be Johnny at the cookie jar.”
Chapter F
ourteen
Bruce Martell rode into the Carling camp a couple of hours after sunup. In the distance a buckboard was just topping a roll of prairie in the direction of town, a thin funnel of dust lifting behind it. Brink Carling was standing, sober and grave of face, staring after the vanishing rig. He turned and lifted a hand to Bruce as the black horse came to a halt.
At the fire, Tracy Carling was bending over a steaming washboiler while, a little to one side, Aunt Lucy was up to her elbows in a galvanized washtub of snowy suds. A wash line, strung from one end of the big wagon to a post driven in the ground, was already aflutter with drying clothes.
Bruce lifted his hat to the two women, then swung down and faced Brink Carling. He jerked his head at the distant rig and said, “Early company, eh?”
Carling nodded. “Jason Spelle. The man’s hard to convince.”
“He knows about last night, then?”
“Yes. The word has spread. Probably Moss Riddle saw to that. Spelle said things are pretty angry in town.”
“Of course he’s insisting that Rocking A was responsible?” said Bruce dryly.
“That’s right.” Carling stared at the ground, frowning. “He insists that I and the rest were fooled last night.”
“Do you think you were?”
“I know we weren’t,” said Carling quietly. “A man must believe the evidence of his own eyes and ears and cold judgment. But Spelle is hotheaded and hates Rocking A and everything connected with it. Frankly I don’t know why he should.”
“Did you tell him what you and the other settlers who were in on last night’s doings have made up your minds to?”
Carling nodded. “I told him. I asked him to give us a helping hand in quieting so much of this suspicion and animosity toward Rocking A.”
“And he wouldn’t agree to that, of course?”
“No, he wouldn’t. You seemed sure of that. Why?”
Bruce shrugged, building a smoke. “I had a real good look at him when I faced him across Hack Asbell’s senseless body. There are times when, no matter how carefully a man guards against it, he lets the curtain lift a little to show what’s behind it. Spelle did, at that moment.”