by Burt Kroll
“What about you, Si?” he demanded. “Have you ever seen those two around here?”
The town marshal shook his head emphatically. “They’re total strangers to me. I get to see everyone who rides in here, and they haven’t showed themselves before, that’s a fact.”
“So why should total strangers show up on this range to shoot me up?” Merrill demanded.
“Could they be from your past, Ward?” the sheriff demanded. “I reckon you made some bad enemies while you were law dealing?”
“Hell, I quit that business ten years ago!” Merrill shook his head. “I don’t figure anything has sprung out of my past after all these years.”
“It’s worth thinking about,” Oakley persisted. “Are you sure you don’t know either of them from way back?”
Merrill shook his head. “They’re strangers to me. I never forget a face. So if they are strangers around here then someone local has brought them in against me.” He looked at Kester as he spoke, keeping his expression blank but suspecting the town marshal of being the guilty man.
“Who in hell would want me out of the way?” he demanded.
“Beats me,” Oakley said, shaking his head. “You ain’t made any enemies around here.”
“I’ve been around this town all hours of the day and night and talked to everyone at different times of the day,” Kester said. “I never came across one single person who had anything bad to say against you, Ward.”
“Someone’s got it in for me and they’re covering it pretty well,” Merrill said. “But I’ll get to them, or him, whoever it is. I’ll put a man on my spread to take care of the daily chores while I try to run this business down to earth.”
“I agree with you,” Oakley said firmly, “and I figure you need the protection of the law while you’re doing it. Let me swear you in as a deputy sheriff, Ward, while you’re out on the trail, huh?”
“Okay.” Merrill spoke without hesitation. “But it’ll only be a temporary measure, Walt, and don’t forget it. I’ll clean up this trouble and then get back to living my own life.”
“That’s all I ask,” the sheriff said. “Raise your right hand.” He paused while Merrill did so, then swore him in as a deputy. He went to the desk and jerked open a drawer, taking out a deputy’s law star, and he pinned it solemnly to Merrill’s shirt-front. “There you are,” he said with great satisfaction. “Now go out and get them, Ward.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave those two dead men out there for you to handle. Perhaps you’ll also arrange for Pop’s funeral, huh? I won’t be around for it. I’m gonna get me some supplies from the store and set out to stay on the range until I’ve located those hard cases. I’ll bring them back dead or alive, or I won’t come back myself. When you see me again, this will be settled one way or another.”
“Just take it easy,” the sheriff warned. “Unless I miss my guess you’re up against a nasty business, Ward, and you better not go at it bald-headed. Watch your step, huh?”
“You don’t have to warn me,” Merrill said bitterly. “I’ll do it right. Now I’ll be on my way. I’ll stop off at the store. Lonnie has got to be told about Pop, and that’s a chore I sure don’t fancy doing. But a man’s got to face up to the facts, I guess. I’ll be seeing you. I don’t know when, but I’ll be around later.”
He turned and went out into the night, leading his horse along the street, and he sighed heavily as he paused outside the store and peered back at the burdened horses standing in front of the jail. He could see the shapeless mass of Lorimer’s body draped across his saddle, and his lips twisted. Two men had already paid the price for his pard’s death, but he would not rest until the others were accounted for, and with that grim vow under his belt he entered the store, which was about to close, and steeled himself for the chore he had to do.
Five
Merrill rode out of town after dark and made his way back to the stand of trees where the ambushers had struck. He camped there and lay in his blankets, thinking of the way his son had taken the news of Pop Lorimer’s death. The boy’s grief had hurt, and Merrill was so angry with the unknown men, who had arrived to blight his life that he could hardly relax sufficiently to sleep, but the knowledge that a hard day awaited him with the coming of the sun forced him to make an effort, and he slept lightly until dawn. Then he made breakfast and was ready to take out on the trail by the time the first rays of the sun showed across the eastern horizon.
He rode on to the gully where he had killed two of the three men, and when he cast around and checked out prints, eliminating those of the two men he had got, he found himself left with the rider of the horse that had a loose right rear shoe. He tightened his lips as he considered that the hard riding the unknown man was doing could only adversely affect the shoe, and with a little luck, the horse would either cast the shoe or become lame. He continued up the gully and emerged upon the range again, the tracks quite plain before him. The rider had traveled fast and his imprints were deep and well defined even after the passage of a night.
Merrill rode steadily, pacing himself, aware that he needed to come up with the man and yet conserve the energy of his horse for any emergency. It was likely that the other three men who had first been with the bunch were waiting somewhere, and when the two groups joined, they might ride back to look for two of their number. If Merrill came face to face with them, he wanted at least an even chance of matching them, and had no desire to ride into another ambush. But he was bleak and alert, and anyone crossing his trail would have to be fast or have a lot of luck to take advantage of him.
The trail led him across the range, past his own place, which he left on his right about five miles distant, and on across rougher country. But they were not riding away from town, he soon discovered. The single line of tracks was edging around in a wide circle to aim for Portville, and Merrill cursed these roundabout tactics, which added miles to his trip and wasted so much time. If he had known his quarry was returning to town, he could have stayed there and looked around for the man. He had something more to go on now, he realized, for he had seen the man and could remember how he had been dressed and what his horse looked like.
The man, although crouching in his saddle, had been wearing a white Stetson and a green shirt. The horse was a buckskin, and it would be a much simpler matter to find a buckskin with a right rear loose shoe. He smiled grimly to himself when he reached a spot where it was obvious his quarry had camped the night before. Merrill examined the area meticulously, even to the extent of getting down on his hands and knees and crawling over the ground while his keen blue eyes looked for evidence of the man’s passing. He found some empty cartridge cases lying in the tall grass near the burned-out camp-fire, and decided that the man had reloaded his spent chambers. He pocketed the cases, for if he managed to find the weapon that had fired them, he would be able to compare the cases with another from the weapon, and that might tell him something.
He rode on, hoping against hope that he would come up with his quarry short of town, for it would be almost impossible to pick out the man amongst the townsfolk, while on the range it would be an easy matter to determine if he had come across the man he sought, if he found someone dressed similarly and with a buckskin.
When he topped a rise and saw a small spread in the distance, with the tracks leading straight towards the place, he proceeded with caution, riding into the yard with his Winchester loose in its boot and his sixgun eased in its holster. He saw a buckskin horse in the small corral to the left of the house, and wanted to take a look at its right rear foot to see if the shoe was loose. But there was a man emerging from the barn doorway, a double-barreled Greener 12-gauge shotgun in his hands. He eyed Merrill with great suspicion as he reined up, and Merrill was busy observing his surroundings although he appeared to keep his eyes upon the man.
“Howdy,” he greeted, aware that the man was looking at the deputy star he was wearing. “Mind if I get down and water my horse? Sure is hot for riding.”
“
Sure. Get down and rest. Could you do with some coffee and food?” The man looked up at the position of the sun and nodded. “It’s about time for the noon meal. I’m Joel Raynor. I ain’t seen you around before, although Sheriff Oakley drops by from time to time.”
“I only put on this badge yesterday,” Merrill replied, dismounting but not relaxing his alertness. “But I’ve been in the county at least ten years and I don’t recall seeing around Portville.”
“I been here about five years, but I don’t use Portville for my business dealings. It’s nearer for me to ride into Birch Creek, west of here.”
Merrill nodded as he led his horse to the water-trough. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Raynor. I’m Ward Merrill.” He watched the man closely as he spoke, hoping for some sign that his name was known here, but the nester merely nodded and held out a gnarled hand.
“Right pleased to see you, Merrill. You’re always welcome. Don’t see many faces passing through here.”
“You had someone though earlier,” Merrill observed. He described the man he was trailing.
“Him! Yeah can’t say I liked the looks of him. He was a bit shifty-eyed for me, and looked like he might be a long-rider. I figgered he was on the dodge from the law. Are you looking for him?”
“I’d like to come up with him for a chat,” Merrill admitted. “That buckskin in your corral belonged to him, didn’t it?”
“You know quite a lot about him.” Raynor nodded. “Yeah. He was riding the animal when he showed up. It was going lame on him. Got a loose shoe.”
“Right rear foot,” Merrill supplied, and the nester grinned.
“Yep. You sure got him pegged all right. I traded him a black hoss for the buckskin. You ain’t gonna tell me the buckskin was stolen from some place, are you?”
“Not to my knowledge. I wanta talk to him about a shooting. Did you get a bill of sale for the buckskin? Did the man give you a name at all?”
“Sure. There’s no way I’d take a horse off a man passing through without he gives me something in writing. Come on over to the house and I’ll show you the paper we signed. He’s got a copy and so have I.”
Merrill was relieved by the news, and followed the man across to the house. He was expecting to see a woman and a family, but the place seemed deserted, and Merrill kept his right hand close to the butt of his sixgun as he peered around. The nester took him into an untidy office and opened a drawer to produce a scrap of paper. It had a few scribbled words upon it stating that an exchange of horses had been made, and it was signed by Raynor. But it was the other signature that interested Merrill, and he stared at it, trying to make out the name.
“You can’t tell by looking at his writing, but the name is Chet Wood. He told me. Said he was heading west, looking for a riding job, although I didn’t believe that.” “Why not?” Merrill demanded.
“I got a good look at his hands, and he ain’t worked for any ranch, unless he carried a gun for the rancher. Had hands like a woman, soft and unspoiled. I figured he was a gunhand, but I wanted to get rid of him and was pleased when he finally rode out.”
“What about the black you let him have?” Merrill asked. “Can you pick out its tracks in your yard and show them to me? I may want to trail it.”
“Sure thing. But let’s eat first, huh? You won’t be riding on an empty stomach.”
“I’ve got some food with me, and I’m in a hurry,” Merrill replied.
They went out to the yard and Raynor pointed out the tracks made by Wood when he left. Merrill dropped to one knee and studied them, taking note of them. Then he swung into his own saddle and rode on.
“How far do you reckon I’m behind him?” he called over his shoulder as he left the yard.
“Four hours. Good luck to you.”
“Much obliged to you. May be seeing you later.” Merrill faced his front and rode on, keeping an eye on the tracks. He rode as fast as he could without losing sight of the tracks, but his quarry was making no attempt to conceal his progress, and Merrill was hopeful of coming up with him.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Merrill breasted a hill and found himself looking down upon a small town. It was Birch Creek, he knew, although he had never visited it. He had heard about it but never found the necessity for visiting it because Portville was nearer to his own spread. He straightened himself in the saddle, for the sun was hot, had been a burden all through the long day, and he rode on down the slope into the dusty main street. He pulled into the stableyard and got down stiffly from his saddle, trailing his reins as he looked around.
A man appeared from the barn and approached, eyeing the law star on Merrill’s shirt front.
“Howdy,” he greeted. “You’re a stranger in these parts.”
“I’m well known over at Portville,” Merrill replied. “Is there a lawman in town?”
“Jake Linnaker is the town marshal. You got trouble on your hands?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Tell me if you’ve seen a man riding a black horse passing through within the past four hours.”
“Feller wearing a green shirt?” came the terse reply, and Merrill straightened his shoulders and dropped his hand to the butt of his gun.
“That’s right.”
“The black is in the barn, resting up, and the man went along to the saloon along the street. Told me he was figuring on riding out come dark.”
“Thanks.” Merrill turned away, wondering what he should do. If he took the man now, he would lose the opportunity of trailing him to the next link in the chain. There had to be someone he contacted for orders, and that someone could turn out to be Si Kester.
He walked along the street until he reached the saloon, and the building was gloomy inside with the slanting rays of the westering sun shining along the street. He peered over the batwings, studying the few men inside, and quickly spotted the man with the green shirt seated at a table with a bottle of whisky before him. He was drinking steadily, his hat pushed forward over his eyes, but he seemed to be alert and missed nothing going on around him. He had all the earmarks of a long rider, as Joel Raynor had said, and Merrill clenched his teeth as he told himself that here was one of the men who had taken a hand in the killing of Pop Lorimer.
He pushed open the batwings and crossed the threshold, a big, easy figure, and moved towards the bar, watching the man out of a corner of his eye. He knew his entrance was observed, and he saw the man stiffen and begin to ease a hand towards his waist. Merrill halted and turned swiftly to face him directly.
“Make a move towards your gun and I’ll draw on you,” he snapped.
His harsh voice cut through the mumble that filled the saloon, and men paused in what they were doing and turned to look, quickly moving back when they saw a fight building up. The man at the table froze at Merrill’s words, although his expression hardened, and then he forced a grin.
“You talking to me, mister?” he asked. “I’m just sitting here minding my own business.”
“I’m not concerned with what you’re doing now,” Merrill replied “What interests me is what you were doing yesterday, in the company of two other men. They’re both dead, and I’ve followed your trail to this saloon. When you changed horses at Raynor’s place you signed yourself Chet Wood. Is that your real name or not?”
“You’re wearing a law star,” came the smooth reply. “Mebbe you’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anyone by the name of Chet Wood, and I never met anyone called Raynor.”
“The horse you left at Raynor’s place in exchange for the black you put in the stable here had a loose shoe when it was at my own spread before the shooting yesterday. You’ve got a lot to answer for, Wood. Now stand up from that table and keep your hand away from your gun. I want to take you in alive.”
The man waited for a moment, then shrugged slightly and arose. He was wearing a gun on his right hip, and kept his hand away from the butt. He stood beside the table watching Merrill, and the rest of the saloon waited with bated breath to s
ee what would follow.
“Are you arresting me?” Wood demanded.
“Looks that way to me. Reach across with your left hand and ease your sixgun clear of its holster then drop it on the floor. When you’ve done that you can kick it to one side. Do it now and do it slow.”
The man stared at Merrill for a moment longer, then made a lightning play for his holstered gun. Merrill was half expecting such a move and drew his Colt fast, cocking the hammer as it cleared leather. He was faster by a long rope, and had the gun steady and ready for action before Wood could clear leather. Wood stared into the muzzle of the .45 then let go of his own weapon, which thumped upon the boards.
“You’ve got some sense, then,” Merrill said slowly. “Now get your hands up to your shoulders. My pard was killed in that ambush and I’m sure looking for an excuse to bore you.”
Wood remained motionless, his hands high, and a ripple of sound ran through the saloon. It was obvious the action was over, and some of the witnesses returned to what they were doing. The arrest of a man was commonplace.
“Over here,” Merrill said, moving back, and Wood came towards the door. “You recognized me, huh? How come you know me, a stranger? Who pointed me out to you and why?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the steady reply. “I still figure you’re taking me for someone else.”
“Leave the saloon and make your way to the law office,” Merrill directed him. “Try anything and you won’t live to see the sun rise tomorrow.”
They departed from the saloon and walked through the growing shadows. There was a lamp burning in the law office and Merrill directed his prisoner to open the door. They entered the building and a tall, thin man got to his feet and stared at them. His keen brown eyes noted the badge on Merrill’s shirt front and he relaxed slightly. He was wearing a town marshal’s star.
“I’d like to lodge this galoot in your cells overnight, Marshal,” Merrill said quietly. “He goes by the name of Chet Wood. I got him on suspicion of taking part in an ambush that resulted in murder.”