“Did you tell D’Arcy about it?”
“No.” There was a shadow of worry on her face. “Matt, I never saw him again.”
I looked at her quickly. “You mean, he never came back?”
“Never. And he didn’t write.”
We walked down the Wash, talking of the ranch and of my plans. It was a quiet, pleasant hour, and a rare thing for me, who had known few quiet hours since coming to Hattan’s Point, and who could expect few until this was settled and I was accepted as the owner of the Two-Bar, and a man to be reckoned with.
When she was mounting to leave, I asked her, “This D’Arcy���where was he from?”
“Virginia. He had served in the Army, and before coming out here he had been stationed in Washington.”
Watching her ride away, my mind turned again to Morgan Park. He might have frightened D’Arcy away, but it was a matter to think about.
Behind Morgan’s questions, and behind the disappearance of D’Arcy, there might be something sinister, something that Park did not want known. And yet he had been here during the night and hadn’t killed me. Was it because he could not get a good shot? Or for another reason? Did he want me alive?
Mulvaney and I worked steadily around the place, but I rested from time to time, for my strength had not yet returned. We accomplished a lot, and by nightfall our foundation was finished and the shape of my house was plain to see.
Mulvaney was a steady and tireless worker. We each went to the rim of the Wash from time to time to look around the country, although the foundations of the house were almost as high as that rim now.
Toward evening, mounted on a gray horse, I scouted the country with care. I found tracks that must have been those of Morgan Park’s horse, for they were the tracks of a big horse, the kind it would take to carry the weight of the man. I studied them, wanting to know them again. For in the back of my mind I had a plan shaping.
There were four sides to the question here at Hattan’s. Jim Finder and his CP, Maclaren and the Boxed M, myself on the Two-Bar, and Morgan Park.
Finder could understand nothing but force. Maclaren, when he saw he could not win, would back off. He could be circumvented. But Morgan Park worried me.
It would be a good thing to learn something about Morgan Park.
There had been a Major Leo D’Arcy at Fort Concho, in Texas. A sharp, intelligent officer with a good bit of experience. The name was not too uncommon, but Major D’Arcy had, I believed, been from Virginia. He would not be a brother, unless a much older brother. He might be the father, or an uncle. And he might be no relative at all, but it was a chance, and I had to begin somewhere.
We cut hay for the horses that we had to keep in the corral, and by the time the moon was rising we were eating a leisurely supper.
“I’m going to Silver Reef tomorrow, Mulvaney. I’m sending a couple of messages.”
“Have yourself a time. I’ll be all right.”
He looked down at the Wash in the moonlight. “It’s a fine place this. I’d like to stay on.”
“And why not? I’ll be needing help.”
I told Mulvaney about Morgan Park being near us in the night, and I could see he did not like it. We would have to be careful.
Rolled in my blankets I lay long awake, looking at the stars. The fire burned low … a coyote yammered at the moon, and somewhere a quail called inquiringly into the night.
Mulvaney turned and muttered in his sleep. And nothing moved along the western rim.
Into my mind came again the face of Morgan Park, square, brutal, and handsome. It was a strong face, a powerful face, but what lay behind it? What was there in the man? Who was he? Where had he come from? What was his stake here? And what had become of Arnold D’Arcy? Far off, the coyote called … slow smoke lifted from the embers, and my lids grew heavy.
Chapter Eleven
SKIRTING WIDE, I had left Hattan’s Point to itself, and cutting through the broken land of bare rock and sand, I’d come to the trail to Silver Reef, and had seen no man during my riding.
It was very hot, and it was still. Jagged ridges thrust themselves from the earth, their crevasses and deep-furrowed sides filled with blown white sand. A dust devil danced before me and I pushed on, seeing the roofs of the town take shape.
There was no sound but that of my horse’s hoofs on the hard-packed trail as I walked him down the last slope to Silver Reef.
The town lay sprawled haphazardly along the main street. There were the usual frontier saloons, stores, churches, and homes. The sign on the Elk Horn caught my attention, so I swung my horse into the shade in front of the saloon and dismounted.
“Rye?”
At my nod, the bartender served me. He was a bald-headed man with narrow eyes.
“How’s things in the mines?”
“So-so. But you ain’t no miner.” His eyes took in my cowhand’s clothing, and I knew he had seen my two tied-down guns when I came in.
“This here’s a quiet town. We don’t see many gun handlers around here. Place for them is over east.”
“Hattan’s?”
“Uh-huh. I hear both the Boxed M and the CP are hirin’ fightin’ men.”
“Have one with me?”
“Don’t drink. Seen too much of it.”
My rye tasted good and I asked for another. That one I held in my fingers, stalling for time and information. It was cool inside the saloon, and I was in no hurry. My messages I would send in a few minutes. Meanwhile it was good to relax.
“Couple fellers from Hattan’s in town the other day. Big man, one of them.”
Inwardly, I poised, waiting. Somehow I knew what was coming.
“Biggest man I ever saw.”
Morgan Park in Silver Reef…
“Did he say anything about what was going on over at Hattan’s?”
“Not to me. The feller with him was askin’ after the Slade boys. They’re gunmen, both of ‘em.”
“Sounds like trouble.”
I tossed off my drink and refused another when he gestured with the bottle. “Not a drinking man myself. Maybe a couple when I come to town.”
“Could be trouble over there at Hattan’s.” The bartender put his forearms on the bar. “That big feller, he went to see that shyster, Jake Booker.”
“Lawyer?”
“An’ a crook.”
The bartender was not disposed to let me go so easily. The saloon was empty and he felt like talking. Pushing my hat back on my head, I rolled a smoke, and listened.
Morgan Park had visited Silver Reef several times, but had not come to the Elk Horn. He confined his visits to the office of Jake Booker or to the back room of a dive called The Sump. The only man who ever came with him was Lyell, and the latter occasionally came to the Elk Horn.
The bartender talked on, and I was a good listener. He was no well of information, but the little he did know was to the point, and it helped to make a picture for me.
Morgan Park did not want to become known in Silver Reef. In fact, nobody knew his name. He had his drinks in the back room of The Sump, and if he was known to anyone aside from Booker, it was to The Sump’s owner. He rarely arrived during the day, usually coming in before daylight or just after dark. His actions were certainly not those of a man on honest busines.
When I left the saloon I went to the stage station and got off my message to Leo D’Arcy. Then I took pains to locate The Sump and the office of Jake Booker.
Night came swiftly, and with darkness the miners came to town and crowded the streets and the saloons. They were a rough, jovial crowd, pushing and shoving but good-natured. Here and there during the early evening I saw big-hatted men from the range, but they were few.
Silver Reef was booming, and money was flowing as freely as the whiskey. Few of the men carried guns in sight, and probably the majority did not carry them at all. Several times I saw men watching me with interest, and it was always my guns that drew their attention.
One hard-faced young
miner stopped in front of me. His eyes looked like trouble, and I waited no action with anyone.
“What would you do without those guns?” he asked.
I grinned at him. “Well, friend, I’ve had to go without them a time or two. Sometimes I win … the last time I got my ears beat down.”
He chuckled, his animosity gone. “Buy you a drink?”
“Let’s go!”
He was urging a second one on me that I didn’t want, when a group of his friends came in. Carefully, I eased away from the bar as they moved up, and lost myself in the crowd. I went outside and started up the street.
Turning at Louder’s store, I passed under a street lamp on the corner, and for an instant stood outlined in all its radiance. From the shadows, flame stabbed. There was a tug at my sleeve and then my own gun roared, and as the shot sped, I went after it.
A man lunged from the shadows near the store and ran, staggering, toward the alley behind it. Pistol ready, I ran after him.
He slipped and went to his knees, then came up and plunged on, half running, half falling. He brought up with a crash against the corral bars and then fell, rolling over. Apparently he had not even seen the corral fence.
He got his hands under him and tried to get up, then slipped back and lay still. His face showed in the glow of light from a window. It was Lyell.
His shirt front was bloody and his face had a shocked expression. He rolled his eyes at me and worked his lips as if to speak. He had been hit hard by my quick, scarcely aimed shot.
“Damn you … I missed.”
“And I didn’t.”
He stared at me, and I started to move away. “I’ll get a doctor. I saw a sign up the street.”
He grabbed my sleeve. “Don’t go … no use. An’ I don’t want to … to die alone.”
“You were in the gang that killed Ball.”
“No!” He caught at my shirt. “No, I wasn’t! He … he was a good old man.”
“Was Morgan Park there?”
He looked away from me. “Why should he be there? Wasn’t … his play.”
He was breathing hoarsely. Out on the street I could hear voices of men in argument. They were trying to decide where the shots had come from. In a matter of minutes somebody would come down this alley.
“What’s he seeing Booker for? What about Sam Slade?”
Footsteps crunched on the gravel. It was a lone man coming from the other direction and he carried a lantern.
“Get a doctor, will you? This man’s hurt.”
He put down the lantern and started to run. I took the light and began to uncover the wound.
“No use,” Lyell insisted, “you got me.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading for belief. “Never ambushed a man before.”
I loosened his belt, eased the tightness of his clothing. He was breathing hoarsely and his eyes stared straight up into darkness.
“The Slades are going to get Canaval.”
“And me?”
“Park wants you.”
“What else does he want? Range?”
“No.”
He breathed slowly, heavily, and with increasing difficulty. I could hear the boots coining, several men were approaching.
“He … he wants money.”
The doctor came running up. In the excitement I backed away, and then turned and walked off into the darkness. If anybody would know about Park’s plans it would be Booker, and I had an idea I could get into Booker’s office.
Pausing in the darkness, I glanced back. There was a knot of men about Lyell now. I heard somebody call for quiet, and then they asked him who shot him. If he made any answer, I didn’t hear it. Either he was too far gone to reply, or had no intention of telling. Standing there in the darkness, I studied the situation.
The trip had been valuable if only to send the message, but I had also learned something of the plans that Morgan Park was developing.
But why … why?
He wanted to be rid of Canaval. That could only indicate that the Boxed M gunman stood between him and what he wanted.
That could mean that what he wanted was on the Boxed M. Was it Moira? Or was it more than Moira?
Park had seemed to be courting Moira with Maclaren’s consent… so why kill Canaval?
Unless there was something else, something more that he wanted. If he married Moira, Maclaren would still have the ranch. But if Maclaren were dead…? Lyell had said, though, that what Morgan Park wanted was money.
Booker’s office was on the second floor of a frame building reached by an outside stairway. Once up there, a man would be trapped if anyone mounted those stairs while he was in the office.
Standing back in the shadows, I looked up. I never liked tight corners or closed places … I was a wide open country man.
It was cooler now and the stars were out. There was no one in sight. Now was my chance, if there was one for me once I started up those stairs.
Up the street a music box was jangling and the town seemed wide awake. In a saloon not many doors away a quartet was singing, loudly if not tunefully, but in the streets there was no movement.
Booker had friends here and I had none. Going up those steps would be a risk, and I had no logical story. He was an attorney I had come to consult? But the lights in his office were out.
Yet, waiting in the shadows, I knew that I had to go up those stairs, that what I needed to know might be found there.
Glancing up the street, I saw no one. I crossed to the foot of the steps and, taking a long breath, I went up swiftly, two at a time. The door was locked, but I knew something of locks, and soon had the door opened.
It was pitch dark inside and smelled of stale tobacco. Lighting my way with a stump of candle, I examined the tray on top of the desk, the top drawer, and the side drawers. Every sense alert for the slightest sound, I worked quickly and with precision. Suddenly, I stopped.
In my hand was an assayer’s report. No name was on the report, no location was mentioned, but the ore that had been assayed was amazingly rich in silver. Placing it to one side and working swiftly through the papers, I came suddenly upon a familiar name.
The name was signed to a letter of one paragraph only … and the name was that of Morgan Park.
You have been recommended to me as a man of discretion who could turn over a piece of property for a quick profit, and who could handle the negotiations with a buyer. I am writing for an appointment and will be in Silver Reef on the 12th. It is essential that my visit as well as the nature of our business remain absolutely confidential.
It was very little, yet a hint of something. The assayer’s report I copied swiftly, and put the original back in the desk. The letter I folded and placed carefully in my pocket. Dousing the candle, I returned it to the shelf where I had found it.
The long ride had tired me more than I had realized, and now I suddenly knew what I needed most was rest. Before anything else, I must conserve my strengh. The wounds had left me weak, and although the good food, the fresh, clear air, and the rugged living were quickly bringing back my vitality, I still tired easily.
Turning toward the door, I heard a low mutter of voices and steps on the stair.
Swiftly I backed away and felt for the knob of a door I had seen that led to an inner room. Opening it, I stepped through and drew the door softly closed behind me. I was barely in time.
My hand reaching out in the darkness touched some rough boards stacked against the wall. The room had a faintly musty smell as of one long closed.
Voices sounded closer by and a door closed. Then a match scratched and a light showed briefly around the door. I heard a lamp chimney lifted and replaced.
“Probably some drunken brawl. You’re too suspicious, Morgan.”
“Lyell didn’t drink that much.”
“Forget him. … If you were married to the girl it would simplify things. What’s the matter, Brennan cutting in there, too?”
“Shut up!” Park’s voice was ugly. “Say that aga
in and I’ll wring you out like a dirty towel, Booker. I mean it.”
“You do your part, I’ll do mine. The buyers have the money and they’re ready. They won’t wait forever.”
There was silence, the faint squeak of a cork turning in a bottle, then the gurgle of a poured drink.
“It’s not easy … he’s never alone.” It was Morgan Park’s voice.
“You’ve got the Slades.”
A chair scraped on the floor. A glass was put down, and then the door opened and both men went out. Listening, I heard their descending footsteps. From a window I saw them emerge into the light and separate, one going one way, one the other.
At any moment, Booker might decide to return. Swiftly opening the door, I went down the steps two at a time. When I came back to the street it was from another direction, and only after a careful checkup.
There was nothing more for me in Silver Reef. I must be getting home again. Only when I was in the saddle did I sort over what I had learned. And it was little enough.
Nobody knew who had killed Lyell, but Morgan Park was suspicious. Yet he had no reason for believing that I was even in the vicinity.
Lyell had denied his presence at the killing of Ball, which might or might not be the truth. Dying men do not always tell the truth, but his manner when questioned about Park’s presence caused me to wonder.
Morgan Park and Booker had some sort of an agreement as to the sale of some property which Park could not yet deliver.
When he had said, “He’s never alone” he could not have meant me. I was often alone.
It was not much to work with, and riding along through the night I told myself I must not jump to conclusions, but the man who was never alone could easily be Maclaren.
Or it might be someone else. It might be Key Chapin. Yet the remark about being married to the girl would not fit Chapin … or would it? Certainly. Maclaren’s son-in-law would be a protected man in a well-nigh invulnerable position.
The more I thought of it, however, the more positive I became that the man must be Maclaren. That would be why the Slades were to kill Canaval.
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