Ramrod

by Short, Luke;

  “You all right, kid?”

  It was Bill Schell, and Dave stared at him stupidly and licked his lips so he could speak. Bill turned and said sharply, “Give me a hand here, Harry.”

  They lifted him out, hurting him, of course, and laid him against a sloping bank, and Bill Schell struck a match.

  Dave squinted against the light and answered Bill’s question then. “All right,” he whispered.

  “I’d of took it easier if I’d knowed, Bill,” Harry said earnestly.

  “I couldn’t risk Lilly,” Bill said. “I been tryin’ to catch you all night.”

  They were silent a moment, and then Harry said in a low voice, “You can’t move him, Bill.”

  “I got to.” Dave felt Bill’s hand pinching his cheek and he opened his eyes. “All right,” he said again.

  “Kid, I’m goin’ to tie you on a horse. Can you do it?”

  Dave couldn’t answer, and Bill moaned a little in despair, and swore with a dark and bitter vehemence. “Help me, Harry,” he said, rising.

  They got Dave on a horse, hurting him again, and now he had one memory; it was his ride back from the Breaks. He grabbed the mane of his horse with his free hand, and Bill tied his legs together under the belly of his horse.

  Harry said, “Where you takin’ him?”

  “You’re a friend of mine, Harry, but not that good a friend,” Bill said. “One more thing, too.”

  “What?”

  “If Frank Ivey ever hears of this, Harry, I’m goin’ to kill you. Damn dead, too.”

  “He won’t,” Harry said. “I don’t love the man.”

  “I said dead,” Bill reiterated.

  They moved away, and presently Dave felt his horse walking, and again he slipped off into the nightmare of fever. Of that night, he later remembered nothing at all beyond being placed on a horse. He was aware that time had passed only when Bill took him off the horse, which hurt savagely. It was daylight and then it was suddenly dark again, and he felt solid ground under his back.

  Bill’s face, weary and sober, came into focus in the half-light of where he lay.

  “Want to eat?” Bill said.

  Dave shook his head and Bill’s swift grin crossed his face. “You can sleep, kid.”

  He must have looked puzzled, because Bill said, “It’s an old mine above Relief, kid. You’re all right.”

  He must have thought so, because he slept.

  20

  The wagonload of her things arrived at 66 in early morning, and Connie, as the wagon approached, saw an outrider with it whom she identified as her father.

  It drew into the yard and the team was halted by the porch under the warm sun. Connie, leaning against one of the porch posts, said, “Morning, Pop.”

  “Morning, Connie.” Ben gestured toward the wagon. “Still want this stuff?” he asked mildly.

  The aching uncertainty she had gone through yesterday when no word of Dave had come to her, and the sleeplessness of last night had both combined to put Connie’s nerves on edge. There was a hardness in her voice as she said, “I do. I told you I did.”

  Ben said, “Unload it, Fred,” to the hand driving the wagon, and then he shuttled his puzzled glance toward Connie. “A house is all right. What do you do for cattle, though?”

  “Jim Crew will take care of that,” Connie said.… “Put it on the porch, Fred.”

  She noticed both her father and Fred Lindstrom looking strangely at her, and Ben said, “You ain’t heard, then? Jim Crew is dead.”

  “No,” Connie said quickly.

  “Frank got him when Jim went to arrest him.”

  For a long stunning moment, Connie did not move, and then an overwhelming feeling of guilt flooded over her. She turned and put her face in her hands as if to hide, and Ben dismounted and hurried onto the porch to her. The agony of that brief moment was sharp and terrible to Connie, and when she felt her father’s arms about her she clutched the lapels of his coat tightly, shivering uncontrollably.

  “I thought you knew,” Ben said gently.

  Then the panic started, slow and insidious and ugly, and her body was rigid against her father’s. Nobody ever, ever must know, she thought wildly. It was a fear, gray and monstrous, that held her now. She had killed Jim Crew, and nobody must ever know. She made a violent effort to stop her shaking, but she would not look up at her father. He stroked her hair as he had done when she was a child, and slowly, then, a kind of reason came back to her, and she sighed shudderingly. It came to her then that this was the ultimate test of her strength; this was what she must fight for with all the cold cunning she could bring to bear. She straightened up after long minutes of gathering her courage, and pulled away from her father, and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Ben said gravely, “Frank has gone crazy mad.”

  “He’ll pay,” Connie said dully. “He’ll pay.”

  “How?” A note of pleading crept into Ben’s voice now. “Connie, you’re not safe from him here. Take my word for it.”

  Connie turned and walked into the living room, and Ben tramped in after her. She went down in the nearest chair and stared dully at the floor, trying to beat her mind into action, and Ben watched her gravely.

  “He was camped in town last night with his crew, looking for Nash. He thinks—”

  “Did he find him?” Connie asked swiftly.

  “No. Nobody knows where he is. Frank thinks he stampeded your cattle and saddled Bell with the blame. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Connie whispered, and then she cried in wild protest, “Oh, Pop. Let me alone. Let me alone!”

  Ben stepped out onto the porch and Connie sat there alone feeling only a kind of numb despair. Slowly, then, she tried to separate her torments. There was Dave, sick and hurt, and Frank Ivey in town looking for him. There was nothing she could do except hope blindly that Bill and Rose could keep him hidden, could nurse him and save him for her. She had to believe that, or she would go crazy.

  And then, the other thing, the thin dismal fear came back again, and her mind wrestled with it cunningly. She thought There are only four of them that know. Peebles and Bailey and Bill Schell and Link Thoms. The first two won’t tell because they’re guilty with me. Link Thoms is mine. It’s Bill Schell I can’t be sure of. She thought of Bill Schell then with a searching pessimism. He was Dave’s closest friend, and wouldn’t he, seeing the sorry mess she had made of this, tell Dave of her guilt in Crew’s death? Bill was impulsive and strange, and he could not be trusted. Yet if he told Dave of her scheming, she was lost, and she did not want to live if Dave learned her share in this.

  She listened now to her father and Fred unloading the wagon, and she speculated desperately on a way to stop Bill. And then it came to her with a suddenness that brought her to her feet. Of course! She had a hold on Bill, the same kind of hold he had on her. For she was sure of his guilt in Ed Burma’s death, and she would buy his silence with her knowledge. She must find Bill and Dave. She would nurse Dave herself, show him her love, and she would seal Bill Schell’s lips forever.

  She turned now and ran out onto the porch, and saw her father and Fred Lindstrom both standing by the wagon, facing the far end of the house, listening. Then the sound of swift-running horses came to her, and within seconds three horsemen rode around the end of the house at a dead run on their way to the corrals. Connie came up by Ben, and at that moment Frank Ivey and Jess Moore rounded the end of the house and Jess, too, cut toward the corrals. Frank, seeing them, yanked his horse around and came up to the porch.

  He said to Fred Lindstrom, “You stay set,” and then looked over at Ben and Connie.

  His heavy face, shadowed by the Stetson he wore squarely on his head, was cold and expressionless, and his glance raked Connie harshly and clung to her.

  Ben said warningly, “Be careful around here, Frank.”

  Ivy laid his glance on Lindstrom and said, “Don’t unload,” and then he kicked his near foot from the stirrup and put a heavy hand on the sadd
le horn.

  “Your man Nash made a mistake, Connie,” Frank said heavily. “You got him here?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll look.”

  Now from the barn, Moore and the other two Bell hands were driving Peebles and Bailey, both afoot and both with hands high over their heads, toward the house.

  They halted by Frank, and Ivey said, “Two of you search the house,” and Moore and another man dismounted and went around Connie and Ben into the house.

  Frank looked again at Connie. “You’re pullin’ out of here, Connie. I’ll wait for you to go.”

  “No, I’m not,” Connie said quickly.

  Frank didn’t even answer, only turned his head to regard Peebles and Bailey. “You two are finished on the Bench. Get out today.”

  Connie said now, looking squarely at Peebles, “Maybe he’s right, Tom. He’s killed Jim Crew, so you can’t appeal to law.”

  Peebles eyed her searchingly, and she knew he understood her. It was all the warning she could give them that her orders, which they had carried out, had resulted in the death of Jim Crew. Peebles licked his lips and said, “Now?” and looked at Frank, and Frank said flatly, “Now. Saddle up a horse for Connie.”

  Peebles and Bailey, their guards following them, tramped back to the corral, and now Ivey turned again to Connie.

  “Your man Nash killed Cates, all right. Trouble was, Red hit him too.”

  “Red Cates?” Ben said, with a rising inflection.

  Frank didn’t even look at Ben, but watched Connie. “I’ll get him, Connie. Doc lied for him and Rose Leland lied for him, and he got out of Signal. But I’ll get him. There aren’t”—he ceased talking, and looking at Connie’s face now he said—“So you knew he was there.”

  Connie didn’t answer him. She knew the relief that was flooding over her had shown in her face for Frank to see. Frank said slowly, “Worried, Connie?” Still she did not speak, and Frank said, “There aren’t many places a hurt man can hide from me. I’ll find him.”

  Moore and his companion, Josefa following them, stepped out onto the porch, and Jess said, “He ain’t here.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Frank remarked, and he looked at Josefa. “Get in the wagon,” he said to her, and she climbed off the steps and went over and got into the wagon.

  Now Peebles and Bailey, with the two Bell hands, rode up, leading Connie’s horse.

  Frank said to her, “Get on your horse, Connie.”

  “No.”

  “I’m burning the place.”

  Connie knew then she couldn’t fight him. He was out to destroy 66 while he could, and she had no weapons with which to defend herself.

  Ben said mildly, “Frank, this is all goin’ to catch up with you. Don’t do it.”

  “Get on your horse, Connie,” Frank repeated, ignoring Ben. “Don’t go to the Ridge camp, either. I’ve got that.”

  Connie went out to the horse Peebles was holding. She put out her hand and he took it awkwardly and she said, “Thank you, Tom. If I were you I’d ride as far away from here as a horse would take me.”

  A faint smile touched Peebles’ lips. He understood her, and said dryly, “I aim to.”

  She shook hands with Bailey then, and was handed into the saddle.

  Lindstrom, with Josefa beside him, turned the wagon around, and Ben mounted his horse. Connie put her horse beside her father’s and was riding out when Frank called, “Connie!”

  She halted and he rode up beside her, while Ben went on.

  Frank looked at her with a kind of hunger in his bold eyes, and he said quietly, “What’s the use, Connie? It’s still not too late to stop this.”

  Connie didn’t even answer him. She moved her horse on and caught up with her father. They rode in silence a ways, and Connie was aware that Ben was watching her. Ben said then, “Well, Frank’s done what I couldn’t, Connie. He’s brought you home.”

  Connie reined up and looked at her father. “You’re wrong there, Pop. I’m not going home.”

  She pulled her horse around and cut off north and Ben called, “Connie! Connie! Where are you going?”

  Connie didn’t answer him. She was headed for town to find out from Rose where Bill Schell and Dave were hiding. When she crossed the Ridge she turned to look back at 66, hidden behind the low hills. A lazy column of brown smoke was lifting into the still morning as 66 burned.

  Rose left Bondurant’s with her small package of groceries and turned toward home, and as she passed the Special she experienced again that small glow of pleasure that had been with her all day. Dave had got out safely. She knew that, because this morning Frank Ivey had made a second search of her house, evidence in itself that he had not found Dave. There was a flaw in her feeling, of course, for Dave was still sick and hurt. But somewhere deep within her Rose had a faith that he would be all right. He was well hidden, and time would work for him, and Frank Ivey did not know where to look for him.

  She passed Lilly’s and cut across the lot, and discovered now that she was dead tired, and she did not care. Halfway across the lot, she heard her name called, and turned and saw Connie Dickason running toward her. Connie wore an apron over her housedress, and she was breathless as she halted in front of Rose.

  “Rose, you’ve got to tell me where Bill and Dave are,” Connie said, and her voice was both sharp and angry.

  “Of course I will,” Rose said slowly. “Is anything wrong?”

  Something in the gentleness of her reply must have shamed Connie, for the color crept into her cheeks. She brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Rose. I’m almost crazy with worry, I guess.”

  “Come along,” Rose said, and took her arm.

  Connie said, with a burst of bitterness, “I was burned out today, Rose. Frank paid me a visit.”

  She told Rose of what had passed at 66, and her words were angry and sharp with passion, and as Rose opened the door and let Connie in ahead of her, she felt a sudden and inexplicable weariness with Connie. What did 66 matter, except that it had almost got Dave killed, and had brought torment to all of them? She was suddenly aware that Connie had ceased talking long ago, and she looked over and saw Connie standing in the middle of the floor, her eyes bright with a suppressed indignation.

  “I guess I’m tired, Connie,” Rose said apologetically. “I wasn’t listening.”

  “That’s hardly it,” Connie answered. “It doesn’t matter to you, that’s all.”

  Rose looked at her curiously, and said with blunt honesty, “That your place was burned? No, I don’t suppose it does.”

  “It was my home,” Connie said coldly. “Everything I—”

  A vast impatience seemed to unfold in Rose, and she cut in on Connie’s words. “It wasn’t your home, Connie. Walt Shipley left it to you. It was something you could spend like money if it would beat Frank Ivey.”

  She was sorry she had said it as soon as she had finished, but in a way she wasn’t either. She saw the momentary surprise in Connie’s face that soon gave way to a look of anger.

  “You don’t like me, do you, Rose?” Connie asked then.

  Rose drew a deep breath, and she knew she had a grip on her temper now. She wasn’t going to argue with Connie, and yet she wasn’t going to give in.

  “That doesn’t matter, either,” Rose said slowly. “What does is that it’s time someone looked at reality, Connie.”

  “Let’s look at it, then.”

  Rose debated a moment, and then a kind of resignation came to her. She’d tried to help Connie, she would not any more. She said calmly, “All right. I used to pity you, Connie. You got a rough deal from Ben and Frank, and nobody could blame you protesting. But your protest has cost the lives of too many men, and it will cost more. Is it worth it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not if Frank gets Dave.”

  “Now we’re talking your kind of reality,” Connie said, with an open malice.

  Calmly, Rose nodded. “He�
��s the only thing that counts to me.”

  “And I happen to feel the same way about him.”

  “Not the same, Connie. You happen to want him, along with revenge, and power.”

  The cool accusation, spoken without any passion, brought a light of recklessness to Connie’s eyes. She said wickedly, “You’ve told him that, I suppose.”

  “I’ve never told him anything about you.”

  “Since you want him, too, I’m surprised at that.”

  Rose smiled faintly. “You don’t tell a man about any woman, Connie. He has to find out for himself.”

  Connie said wickedly, “I don’t know so much about getting men, Rose. I’ve never had your practice.”

  Rose felt a swift anger then, and she said, “Then I’ll tell you how not to get one, Connie. You don’t let him break himself on your greed and ambition.”

  Connie said slowly, “Maybe I do. We’ll see.” She looked hotly at Rose, and then said, “I suppose you won’t tell me now where he and Bill are?”

  “Why, yes,” Rose said slowly. “They were going to hole up in the old St. Louis mine above Relief.”

  “Thank you,” Connie said, and turned to the door.

  “Wait, Connie,” Rose said.

  Connie turned belligerently to face her, but Rose spoke without anger and with a deep seriousness. “You love Dave, you say. Then remember this! Frank Ivey will watch you. The only way he can get to Dave is to follow someone who goes to him.”

  “Are you trying to frighten me out of seeing him?”

  “You love him,” Rose said quietly. “It’s up to you.”

  She and Connie regarded each other a silent moment, and Connie turned and went out.

  21

  Dave’s fever broke in the evening. He woke from sleep to find himself alone, and for many minutes he looked about him in the half-light of the drift, trying to orient himself. The telltale pick and drill marks on the sides of the drift told him he was in a mine. Behind him, far back in the bowels of the mountain, he could hear the constant drip of water. He saw the canteen then, and gingerly sat up and reached for it. Holding it between his knees, he took the cap off and drank deeply time and again. Afterward, he was glad to lie down, for the movement exhausted him. He was tired to the bone, drained of strength by the fever, but he felt clean and tired and faintly sleepy. His back was still wet from the sweat not yet dried, and his clothes seemed stiff with it.