Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “All I know is that part of it wasn’t set up by Ben. It was set up by Evans.”

  “Evans?”

  Shevlin was startled. Evans was the shyster lawyer with whom Ray Hollister had been a partner.

  Evans?

  He suddenly realized several things, all at once. But there was a question to be answered. “Where is Evans?” he asked. “What happened to him?”

  Mason chuckled. “Now there is a question. What did happen to him? Seems that about the time they ran Ray out of town, Evans went too. Or so they say. Nobody saw him go, and Evans wasn’t the type to run.”

  There was no use wasting any more time here. Mike Shevlin turned toward the door. “Mason, take my advice and get out of town. You’re on short time here—you delay a little bit and you’ll be caught right in the middle of it.”

  Shevlin went out and closed the door behind him.

  The town was dark, and it was silent, but the silence was that of waiting. It was a silence that seemed poised on the brink of evil.

  Shevlin went to his horse and gathered the reins. Yet he hesitated, taking stock of the situation. There was Dr. Clagg—he would stay home this night to protect his home and to protect Laine, and he was a good man, a solid man… .

  Wilson Hoyt? There was no telling about him. But Ben Stowe would be about, and Gentry, and Ray Hollister.

  His thoughts kept returning to Evans. He had known the shyster, as had everyone in Rafter. It was well known that he had a hand in all manner of underhanded things, and he was supposed to have been engaged in smuggling. That didn’t make a lot of sense, this far from any border, but it was the gossip. Mason said that Evans had arranged the hiding place for the gold … did Mason know that, or was he merely guessing?

  Shevlin, his pistol easy in its holster, looked toward the livery stable. He liked that stable—a man could go a lot of directions under cover from there.

  He walked down to the street and went across it, taking his own, unhurried time, but his scalp prickled with every step.

  The chair beside the stable door was gone, but as he passed under the light and went into the stable, Brazos said, “Shevlin, you sure give a man the willies. You could get yourself killed thataway.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Reminds me of a time down Texas way, the night the lid blew off on the Sutton-Taylor feud.”

  A little wind blew down the street fluttering a bit of white paper. A sign creaked rustily, and in one of the stalls a horse stamped and blew.

  Standing in the darkness, just inside the door, Shevlin caught a faint glimmer of light reflected from steel, steel that moved and rattled very faintly. A rider sat his horse in the gap between the buildings.

  Swiftly, his eyes went up the street, measuring off the gaps. There could be eight or nine riders waiting there.

  Brazos had seen what he had seen, and he spoke quickly. “No miners in town tonight, Mike. Nary a one.”

  Shevlin absorbed that. Of course. Ben Stowe would hold them, armed and in readiness. There was no longer a light in Stowe’s office, nor in the jail office. The only light was the lantern burning over the door.

  Mike Shevlin knew enough of Ben Stowe to know he would try to win with one strike, one decisive blow that would cripple the attacking force beyond recovery. He would want a massacre.

  It would end the opposition to him, and it would also keep any stories from leaving the town. Prolonged fighting would attract attention; but a quick, sharp fight—one that was soon over—could be brushed off in the local papers as trouble with rustlers or thieves.

  Yet there were men on those horses who had once ridden beside Shevlin, good men, honest men, even though they were wrong-headed in this case. He had to stop them.

  Ray Hollister would strike at Stowe’s office for the records, and at the mines themselves—first the Sun Strike, then the Glory Hole. And Stowe would be waiting, his men armed, no doubt, with shotguns, and hidden all around the collar of the shaft up there, around the mine office, the hoisthouse, and the blacksmith shop. They would be hidden, with protection, and they would be shooting at mounted men outlined against the faint light.

  “I’m going across the street,” Shevlin said.

  “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Only,” a voice said behind them, “if he tries to leave this stable.” It was Babcock.

  “Babcock,” said Mike, “if you’ve got any regard for your friends, you’d best get over there and stop them. Stowe’s ready for them.”

  “You mean he was ready,” Babcock said. “This time we caught him off guard.”

  “Have you seen any miners around, Babcock? If I was Ray Hollister I’d start looking at my hole card.”

  “Ray’ll take care of himself.”

  “You bet he will. But where does that leave the rest of you? You’ve pulled Ray out of more than one mess his fool ideas got you into, so you’d better move fast. If you start up to the mines they’ll cut you to doll rags.”

  “I don’t reckon.”

  Down the street there was a faint shuffle of movement, and Shevlin knew the sound, for he had often heard it at night out on a cattle drive, or when he was bedded near the remuda. Men on horses were moving about.

  “You’d better stop them,” he said again.

  Babcock shifted his feet. “Ease up, now. Nothing and nobody is going to stop Ray this time. You’re out of this, Shevlin, so keep out.”

  “For God’s sake, man! Do you really think Ray Hollister is doing this for the cattlemen? Who do you think brought Ben Stowe in in the first place?”

  “He brought himself.”

  “Babcock, don’t let loyalty to Hollister kill your friends. You’ve always been loyal to him, but Ray never thought of anybody but himself. It was the firm of Hollister and Evans who brought Ben Stowe in to head the gunmen who fought the cattle outfits.”

  “That’s a damned lie!” Babcock said hoarsely. “Now you shut your mouth!”

  “I don’t lie, and you know it. Hollister brought Gentry in, too, along with Ben. You’re here tonight, Babcock, to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for Ray. He hopes to get rid of Stowe and get back in the saddle himself.”

  Babcock’s face was set in stubborn lines. There was no arguing with the man, and in not many minutes it would be too late; but Mike Shevlin knew better than to make a wrong move against Babcock now. The cowhand was tough and seasoned, and wily as an old wolf. And that reminded Shevlin of Winkler. Where was the old wolfer, anyway?

  The livery stable was dark and still. It was almost as if all were serene. There was the smell of hay and manure, the pleasant smell of horses and a horse barn. The light of the lantern glowed feebly above the door.

  It was past two o’clock in the morning; maybe almost three. A good two hours remained before daylight, ample time for whatever mischief was to be done under cover of darkness.

  Now in the spaces between the buildings riders could be made out, three abreast in the first opening, two in the next. Others, judging by the sound, were walking their horses slowly up the street.

  “Babcock,” Shevlin said, “you’re sitting in on a wake. Out there in that dusty street you’ll see the end of the cattle business in Rafter. You’re a stubborn man, and you’ve been loyal for a long time to a shadow; but stop and think, man.

  “You were at Rock Springs the night I whipped Ray. You know Ray never saw the time when he could stand with the big cattlemen in the old days, but he’s got Eve Bancroft convinced now that he was a big man. Babcock, be honest … did you ever know anybody who was afraid of Ray Hollister?”

  “That don’t cut no ice.”

  “You two worked together for a long time,” Mike went on, looking hard at Babcock, “but if you’d admit it to yourself, you were the one who built that outfit of his while Ray played the big man. You did the work, managed the place, hired and fired most of the time.”

  Babcock made no reply. Shevlin looked along the street again. It was not over two hundred yards fr
om here to the mine buildings, but from the moment the men passed the livery stable they would be in at least partial light for the rest of the distance. Anyone who passed this point in full view was a dead man.

  “Bab, is Joe Holiday out there?”

  “What if he is?”

  “I recall a time when Joe pulled a crazy steer off you … saved your bacon. You going to let Joe get killed?”

  Babcock shifted his feet.

  “Bab, you’re a good Injun when it comes to scouting. There was a time you’d never have walked into this with your eyes shut. You’d have scouted the lay-out before you made a move.”

  Shevlin was sure he had Babcock worried, and he pressed the advantage. “Bab, you can make fifty dollars mighty easy. I’ve got it here, and I’ll lay it two to one you’ll find fifty, maybe a hundred armed men up at the head of that street.”

  “You’re bluffin’.”

  “Call me.”

  Brazos spoke for the first time. “You call him, Babcock, and I’ll lay you another fifty you made you a bad bet. They’re up there all right.”

  “Hell,” Babcock said, “I couldn’t stop them! Ray’s got ’em itching for it. The way they feel they’d charge hell with a bucket of water.”

  The riders were coming on now, a solid rank of them, wall to wall on the street, walking their horses. And as they drew nearer, the rider waiting between the buildings started to move out to join them.

  “Look!” exclaimed Brazos.

  The silent cavalcade had stopped abruptly, almost opposite the livery stable.

  A blocky, powerful figure had stepped from the restaurant, a toothpick between his teeth. He stood now in the center of the street—dark, silent, but somehow indomitable.

  It was Wilson Hoyt.

  CHAPTER 10

  HOYT WORE TWO six-shooters, and a third was thrust into his waistband. In his hands was a Colt revolving shotgun.

  He said not a word. He just stood there, letting them see him, letting them count the odds for themselves. Every man there knew they could ride him down: the question was, who was to die in the process? How many shots could he get off before he went down?

  The range was point-blank, and just enough to get a fair spread on his shot; they would be slugs, heavy enough to kill a man. If he could get off two shots he could empty three to six saddles at that range; and he might get out of the way and keep shooting.

  Mike Shevlin, watching from the darkness, knew how they felt. Of the forty or so men out there, only two or three might die, but which ones?

  Wilson Hoyt spoke suddenly, quietly, and he showed his shrewdness in not even glancing toward Ray Hollister. Hollister was the sort that would feel he had to prove himself, no matter who got killed; so Hoyt deliberately threw the responsibility to another.

  “Walt Kelly,” he said, “you turn this outfit around and ride back where you came from.”

  “Get out of the way, Hoyt!”

  “Don’t be a damn’ fool, Walt,” Hoyt replied in a reasonable tone. “You know this is my job. Did you ever hear of me quitting on the job?”

  Mike Shevlin stepped out from the stable. “Back up, boys. That crowd up the street are waiting there in the dark, just praying for you to ride up.”

  Eyes had turned toward him. Some of them were hard, hating eyes, some questioning, some even hopeful. In any such crowd there are always a few who do not want the thing to happen, who are wishing for something, anything, to stop it before it goes too far. These found their hope in Hoyt, and now in Shevlin’s backing of Hoyt.

  But Ray Hollister had been ignored too long. “He’s a damn’ liar!” he yelled. “There’s nobody up there! Come on, let’s go!”

  There was a noticeable surge in the crowd, and Hoyt’s shotgun lifted. “If any of you boys are friendly to Walt Kelly,” he said, “you’d better tell him goodbye … and there’s a couple more had better say it for themselves.”

  Hoyt had made his mistake. As a crowd, they could hold back and acquire no blame, but now he had named an individual, and one of the best among them. Walt Kelly could not hold back now.

  “Damn you, Hoyt!” he said. “Get out of the way. I’m riding!”

  “What about Arch, Walt?” Shevlin’s voice carried easily.

  All his life Walt Kelly had been father as well as big brother to Archer Kelly. And it was Arch’s name that made him hesitate now.

  At that instant a rider thrust forward from the crowd. It was Eve Bancroft, and her face was white with fury. “You yellow-livered coyotes!” Her voice was hoarse with anger. “Come on, Ray! We’ll show ’em!”

  She slapped the spurs to her horse and he leaped forward. Hoyt sprang to grab her bridle, but she was past him and charging up the street.

  Ray Hollister made one lunge to follow, then pulled up.

  Eve Bancroft, her gun blazing, went up the street, and the waiting miners could not see she was a woman. She rode full-tilt into a ripping wall of lead that struck her from the saddle, tearing with hot metal claws at her flesh. She half-turned before she fell clear, and the scream that tore from her throat, a scream of agony and despair, echoed in the street.

  From the darkness where the miners lay, a voice called out in horror. “It’s a woman! My God, we’ve killed a woman!”

  The eyes of the cattlemen looked at the still figure lying in the street a hundred yards away. And then as one man they looked at Ray Hollister.

  Every man of them knew that Eve Bancroft had ridden up the street because she believed in Hollister, and she had invited him to ride with her.

  He sat his horse, staring at her body as if he couldn’t believe it, scarcely aware as the riders one by one turned and rode away. He had brought her to this, and in the moment of need, he had failed her. He had let her ride alone.

  Hoyt moved suddenly. “Hollister, get out of here. If I ever see you again I’ll shoot you like a mad dog. I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  People, mysteriously absent until now, began to appear on the street. Two of the women went to Eve’s body. Nobody needed to ask if she was dead, for no one could have ridden into that burst of fire and survived.

  Shevlin moved up beside Hoyt. “I tried to stop her!” Hoyt said. “Damn it, I tried!”

  “Nobody could have stopped her then,” Shevlin said. “Nobody but Ray.”

  People were gathering in clusters on the street, talking. Ben Stowe was nowhere in sight.

  “He didn’t do a damn’ thing,” Hoyt said. “He just sat there and watched her go.”

  “He started,” somebody said. “He started, and then he quit … he quit cold.”

  Mike Shevlin turned away, but Hoyt stopped him. “Do you think this will end it?”

  “Has anything changed?” Shevlin asked. “A girl’s dead that should be alive, but the situation’s the same. Hoyt, you take it from me. Throw Ben Stowe in jail. Then call a meeting of half a dozen of your best citizens and get this thing cleaned up.”

  Hoyt hesitated, staring gloomily before him. “Arrest Ben Stowe? He hired me.”

  “Hired you to do a job.”

  Shevlin walked off. He was going back to the claim. Tomorrow was another day, and he had a job to do; and what better place to do some thinking than there with a shovel in his hands?

  Suddenly he thought of Burt Parry. Where was he? He had left the claim for town, but Shevlin had seen nothing of him … and the town was not that big, not unless he had a girl and was staying with her.

  But Shevlin realized that he himself wanted no more of the town, or its people. He had not liked Eve Bancroft, but she had been young and alive, and she had believed in her chosen man. To waste such a faith … that was the sad thing, and he had no stomach for what had happened.

  All he wanted now was to ride away to where the mountains reached for the sky, where the pines brushed at the clouds. He paused by the stable, and his thoughts were gloomy. He was an old lobo who ran the hills alone, and he had best get used to the idea. There was no use looking into the eyes
of any girl. He was the sort who would wind up in the dead end of a canyon, snarling and snapping at his own wounds because of the weakness they brought.

  There was nothing here he wanted, nothing but for that old man up on the hillside to rest easy, not buried as a man who died in a gunfight, but as one shot down with empty, innocent hands. For old Eli had never been a man of violence, just as Mike himself was his opposite, a man who walked hard-shouldered at the world.

  He got the black horse from the stable and rode him out of town. He avoided the trails, scouting wide upon the grassy hills, and riding the slopes away from the tracks left by horses and men.

  When he came to the canyon he had to take the trail, and it was then his horse shied. He drew up, trusting his horse. He sat the saddle silently, listening to the night. At first he heard no sound, and then only a brushing whisper, as of a horse walking past brush that touched his saddle as he went by.

  Mike Shevlin stayed still and waited. He was anxious to be back at the claim, and he was irritated at this interruption. There was a faint gray in the far sky, hinting at the dawn that would come soon.

  Then he saw the horse, a horse with an empty saddle, head up, looking toward him. The horse whinnied, and his own replied. Coldly, he still waited, his Winchester up and ready for a quick shot.

  Nothing happened… .

  He walked his horse nearer, and saw the white line of the trail, and something dark that lay sprawled there. Shevlin had seen many such dark sprawlings in the night, and he knew what lay there. He stepped down from the saddle, for his horse warned him of no other danger.

  He knelt and turned the man over on his back. Then he struck a match, and looked into the wide-open dead eyes of Gib Gentry.

  Shevlin struck another match. The front of Gib’s shirt, where the bullet had emerged, was dark with blood, almost dry now. In the flare of the match he saw something else.

  Gib had crawled after he had fallen. He had crawled four or five feet, and one hand was outstretched toward a patch of brush.

  Striking yet another match, Shevlin looked at that outstretched hand and saw, drawn shakily in the sand under the edge of the brush: Shev look out. Lon C——