The last word trailed off into a meaningless scrawl.
Shevlin straightened up and looked around. Even in the few minutes since he had first seen the horse, it had grown faintly light, and the country around was slowly defining itself. The half-hour before daybreak brought out a pale gray world with dark patches of brush. Only one or two late stars showed in the sky.
Leaving his own horse, he walked to Gentry’s mount. There was blood on the saddle, blood down one side of the skirt. Walking still further back, Shevlin saw where the horse had shied at the bullet, and there he found a spot or two of blood. Gentry had come no more than a dozen yards before toppling from the saddle.
Mike Shevlin pushed his hat back and lifted his face to the fresh coolness of the morning breeze. He looked about him.
There were no other tracks. The hidden marksman had been sure of his shot, or else he had not dared to risk a closer approach to make certain of a kill.
Gib Gentry was dead—but how did that fit into the larger picture? Gentry had been Stowe’s strong right hand. Why should he be killed? Gentry had owned the express and freight line, and was necessary to any movement of gold. Looked at coldly, his death was inopportune. The time for it was not now.
Shevlin did not trust Stowe, and he was sure that Stowe would kill any man with whom he had to share as soon as that man was no longer necessary. But as Shevlin saw it, Gentry was necessary… . And why kill him here?
He might have been followed from town, and if he had been killed intentionally, he obviously had been followed. But this was not a place where Gentry would normally come, so far as Shevlin knew.
So what was the alternative? Gentry must have been killed by mistake. Shot in the dark, mistaken for someone else.
What someone? The answer was plain. For Mike Shevlin himself.
That also made sense of Gentry’s message. Gib had been riding to warn him, and he had been mistaken for Shevlin and killed.
Lon C—— … Shevlin knew no such name. Yet Gib had evidently thought the name would mean something to him, or he would not have tried so hard to write it.
With the toe of his boot, Shevlin erased the name written in the sand. Then he hoisted Gib’s body to the saddle, tied it there, and hung the bridle reins over the pommel. Gentry’s horse would go home.
All was dark and silent when he rode up to the claim. He stripped the rig from his horse and picketed it on a grassy slope near the spring, where it could drink from the run-off. He waited in the darkness, listening. After a while he walked back to the cabin and turned in.
He awakened with the sun shining in his eyes through the open door. Burt Parry was standing outside, looking up the canyon, a peculiar expression on his face. For some reason that expression surprised Mike Shevlin.
At that instant Parry seemed anything but the casual man he had been before. He was holding his Winchester in a position to throw it to his shoulder for a quick shot.
Unable to restrain his curiosity, Shevlin swung his feet to the floor. The bunk creaked and Parry looked around quickly.
“Thought I saw a deer,” Parry said, lowering the rifle. “We could use some venison.”
“Now that’s an idea!” Shevlin exclaimed. “How about me going for a hunt?”
Parry chuckled. “You tired of mucking already? I’ll have another round of shots ready to fire almost any time.” He took Shevlin’s appearance in at a glance. “You look like you could use some sleep. What time did you get in?”
“Daybreak, or thereabouts.”
He expected a comment on the happenings in town, but none came. He volunteered nothing, and the two men ate breakfast, talking idly of the mining claim and Parry’s plans for doing some exploration work in an effort to find the lode he hoped would lie deeper in the mountain.
There was only one explanation for Parry’s lack of interest: he simply did not know what had happened in town. And that meant he had not been in Rafter at all.
Where, then, had he been?
CHAPTER 11
DELIBERATELY, MIKE SHEVLIN offered no comment on the happenings in Rafter, and Burt Parry asked no questions. But Mike knew that the town and all the country around must be talking with excitement about the killing of Eve Bancroft.
The killing of a girl in a western town was itself enough to start such talk, but Eve Bancroft was owner of the Three Sevens. It was not the largest ranch in that region, but it was one of the big ones.
As he worked, Mike Shevlin tried to find a way through this situation, but there seemed to be none. He had attempted to stir up the hornet’s nest, but the cattlemen and Ray Hollister had done more than he ever could have. Yet nothing in the situation had changed.
A girl was dead. Ray Hollister was disgraced. Eve Bancroft had called upon him to back his words with action and he had welshed. He had hung back, and Eve had ridden to her death.
What they might have done had Hoyt not been there, Shevlin could not guess. Hoyt could stop them, as he never could have stopped Eve, for to lift his hand against a girl, a decent girl, was unthinkable to a man of Hoyt’s stripe. And Ben Stowe, solid, unshaken, still sat his throne in the center of the community.
Shevlin’s thoughts returned to Gib Gentry. Without a doubt, Gib had been riding to warn him when he was killed, and without a doubt he had been killed by mistake for Shevlin. Somebody had been lying in wait, and by now that somebody knew he had killed the wrong man.
Each time Shevlin wheeled a load to the end of the dump, he took his time to breathe in plenty of the fresh air, and to look around. It was very quiet. Parry had gone off again, and Mike was alone at the claim, but there was work enough to keep him busy until mid-afternoon, barring the unexpected.
He wondered what effect Eve’s death would have on the people of Rafter. They were not all bad—in fact, they were no worse than most people in most towns. Perhaps a few more had been willing to go along than would usually be found, but there must have been some dissenting opinions, even though the people who held those opinions had kept still.
Such fear as he had seen in Rafter could not continue very long. The people were wary, they doubted every stranger; they lived with the worry that at any moment the house they had built would come tumbling about their ears.
He was working close against the face of the drift, scraping up the last of the rock, when it came to him.
Lon Court …
Of course. He had heard the name. Gentry had scratched Lon C into the sand before he died, and Shevlin remembered that he had once heard talk of Lon Court, a killer, a man who worked for big cattle outfits, or anyone else who had need of his services. A mysterious, solitary man who could be hired to kill. He was just such a man as Ben Stowe would have hired.
Undoubtedly Court had scouted the mining claim. He might even now be lying up on the lip of the canyon across from the tunnel mouth, and with every barrow of rock Shevlin had wheeled out he had been a sitting duck.
There was no longer any hesitation in Mike Shevlin, for he knew now what he must do. He must get out of the tunnel and get to his guns, and he must get out of the canyon, which was a death trap with a man like Court stalking him. And then he must find Court and kill him.
There was no alternative, no other way possible, for Court would never quit once he had undertaken a job. He, Mike Shevlin, must hunt the hunter, stalk the killer, and he must kill him.
He put down his shovel. The last barrow could stand where it was. There was, of course, a chance that Lon Court was not waiting on the hill opposite; he certainly would not be unless there was an easy escape from it. Trust a killer like Lon Court to take no unnecessary risk.
Shevlin went as far along the tunnel as he could without getting into the sunlight, and then he squatted down and peered out, keeping well in the shadow. By squatting, he could see the rim without going further. He stayed there and studied it for a long time.
No brush grew on the rim, and there were no boulders, no spot where water had cut into the rim and made a place w
here a man might lie concealed. Flattening himself tight to the wall, Shevlin worked his way to the tunnel mouth. Then he emerged quickly and went toward the cabin, making three sudden turns for objects in his path, turns sufficient to make timing his movements awkward for anyone watching. Once inside the cabin, he stripped off his shirt, washed his chest and shoulders, then combed his hair, and belted on his gun. He thrust a second six-shooter into his waistband and took up his rifle.
The black horse was picketed on the grass near the spring, but the killer must descend into the canyon to get a good shot at him there. Mike Shevlin did not think Lon Court would take such a gamble.
He went to his horse, took the saddle from a shelf in the rock close by, and saddled up. The horse tugged toward the run-off stream, so while he let the gelding drink, Shevlin listened.
That canyon worried him, and he recalled the sudden cessation of sound from the birds that he had noticed. Something—and he was sure it had been a man—had walked up that canyon in the late afternoon.
Leaving the black with trailing reins, he went down to the bottom of the canyon and worked his way across it. Here and there were the tracks of small animals … a porcupine or badger whose tracks were somewhat smudged … many quail tracks … the tracks of a prowling coyote … and on the far side where a dim trail wound under the rim, the smudged tracks of a tall man’s boots.
So someone had gone up the canyon. The tracks were a day or two old; but searching further, he found other, more recent ones.
He had turned to go back to his horse when he happened to look down the canyon. Standing on the old dump—the place Parry had said was the discovery claim of the Sun Strike—was Parry himself. He held a rifle, and he was staring down the canyon toward the claim.
Gathering the bridle reins, Shevlin started along the path from the spring to the claim. He watched Burt without turning his head toward him, striving to appear unaware of the other man’s presence.
Suddenly, Parry heard him, and turned sharply. He held his rifle ready, and Shevlin was himself poised to drop to one knee and fire, if it came to that. He had no idea why Parry might decide to shoot, but the other man’s oddly secretive manner made him wary.
Parry spoke. “I was looking for you. Did you finish up at the claim?”
“Sure … all but the last wheelbarrow. I just played out, figured to go in after it later. You been in town?”
Parry’s eyes searched his. “There was hell to pay. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I knew Eve. She offered me a job, you know, and I was kind of upset over it. Just didn’t feel like talking about it. Besides, I figured you knew.”
They walked back to the claim. Burt Parry’s open, casual manner returned. “Too bad,” he said; “she was a pretty girl.”
Mike Shevlin paused. “Burt,” he said, “have you ever been in a western town when a good woman got killed?”
“No … why?”
“You’ve got something to learn. Even when any kind of a woman is killed or hurt, I’ve seen a town go wild. Believe me, there’s a lot of talking and thinking, and checking of hole cards going on in that town and in all the Rafter country right now. This ain’t over—not by a long shot.”
Parry’s brow furrowed, but then he shrugged. “Hell, I’m out of it. I’ve never mixed in their squabbles.”
“That won’t cut any ice. Vigilantes have a way of lynching the wrong folks. You ever hear of Jack Slade? He got drunk on the wrong night and raised a lot of hell, so when they started lynching the Plummer gang they just hung him, too, on general principles.”
Parry scowled, and rubbed his jaw. They paused at the cabin. “You riding in?”
“Uh-huh.” Mike let his eyes scan the rim with a swift but careful glance. “And I may just scout me a quick way out of this country. I might decide to tuck in my tail and run.”
He had no such intention, but he trusted no one any longer, and it was just as well to keep his plans to himself. And he had several things to do that might keep him out of town.
RAFTER CROSSING LAY in a shallow valley, with the Sun Strike Mine occupying a bench south of the town; further back and somewhat higher was the Glory Hole. The ridges were timbered, except for the one where the mines were located, but in the low country there were no trees except along the infrequent water courses. Here were cottonwoods or low-growing willows.
Mike Shevlin had punched cows over this country for several years, which was to say that he knew it intimately. When a cowhand hunts strays, gathering stock for a roundup or a cattle drive, he works every draw, every canyon. Soon there’s not an inch of the country he hasn’t seen, or that hasn’t been described in detail by other cowhands. But today Mike Shevlin was not hunting strays, he was hunting a man.
Hiding out in wild country is not as simple as it may seem, for a man must be in the proximity of water. And for a man who does not wish to be seen, that means a water hole that is off the line of travel, and out of the area covered by drifters or cowhands working the range. Such a man must have not only water, he must have freedom from observation, easy access to and from his hide-out, and especially a good field of observation to watch anyone who might be approaching.
Such places were few in this region. The need for water limited them drastically, for water was scarce, and most places where it could be found had been settled on. There were only a few other places that remained, and Mike Shevlin believed he knew them all. As he rode he took them one by one and examined them with care, and when he had ridden six miles he had eliminated all but one.
Boulder Spring was not as remote as such places usually are; it was only off the beaten track. Moreover, in that particular area, water was not scarce. Anyone riding to Boulder Spring from any one of three directions must cross a small stream, and in the fourth direction there was a good water hole. It was the perfect hide-out, and there was no reason for anyone to go there at all.
It lay several miles off the travel routes in a huddle of low ridges and hills, a patch of heaped-up, sunburned boulders, browned by time and the wind and sun. Around them lay an acre or so that was flat sand grown up with a little mesquite, a little cholla, and some cat-claw. On the ridges juniper grew.
In among the rocks, and not easily found, was a cold spring of very good water. Wind blew through the rocks and over the spring, so the air right at the water was always cool, and often cold.
In under the boulders were several low caves where a man might bed down, and each of them had more than one approach. On low ground nearby, in the open but actually difficult to see, were places where a man might leave a couple of horses.
Most of the Rafter range that lay in this direction had been abandoned since the mines started up and old Jack was killed, and few riders would be rustling around near Boulder Spring.
Though Lon Court might have holed up at any of the other spots, Mike Shevlin was gambling that Boulder Spring was the place.
Next he reviewed the little he knew of Lon Court. The man was not a gunfighter—he was a killer. He hunted men the way old Winkler hunted wolves; he stalked them, and killed them when he could do so safely. That did not imply the man was a physical coward, and Shevlin was sure he was not. To Lon Court killing was a business, and he took no chances on being wounded or being seen by his victims or by anyone else. The very nature of his calling depended on being unknown.
To secure his own safety, Mike Shevlin knew he must find Lon Court before the killer found him, but there was little time, for he must also find the gold.
He was sure that Gib Gentry had been deliberately set up in the freighting business so the gold could be shipped with maximum security and a minimum of talk, and now that Gentry was out of the picture, who would take over? Who would handle the shipment? And might they not direct every effort toward getting the gold out of the country while they could?
He had tried to stir things up so that Ben Stowe would be forced to make a move, yet now Stowe might settle right back and wait, for he was a cann
y man, and not one to be hurried.
Suddenly, the horse’s ears came up sharply. Shevlin slowed his pace a little, searching the country.
He stopped none too soon, for even as his own mount became motionless, a rider emerged from a draw about two hundred yards off. He was a tall man riding a long-legged grulla, a tough, mouse-colored mountain horse. The man wore a narrow-brimmed hat and a nondescript gray coat. And he was following a trail.
Shevlin’s position was excellent. His horse had come to a dead stop, half sheltered by boulders, stunted juniper, and low brush. He spoke softly to his horse, and sat his saddle, waiting.
The man held a rifle in his right hand, and he rode slowly, checking the trail from time to time. He was surely following someone, following with great care, and it was Shevlin’s guess that the man’s quarry was not far ahead of him. And at the same instant Mike Shevlin realized with startling clarity that this was Lon Court.
He was as positive of it as if the man had been identified by a pointing finger. Everything about him filled the picture Shevlin had made from bits he recalled hearing; coupled with this was the man’s presence here, and his manner.
Mike Shevlin slid his rifle from its scabbard and let the rider take a little more lead.
Then he started his own horse down the trail after him.
CHAPTER 12
HE LEFT THE trail to his horse, hardly daring to shift his attention from the man ahead of him for a moment. He would get only one chance if Lon Court saw him, for the man would shoot—instantly, and with accuracy.
Who was the man following? Obviously it was someone only a short distance ahead, or he would be riding with greater speed. He was keeping his eyes on the trail left by the rider, and he too was taking no chances.
The man’s horse, the nondescript clothing—neither of them stood out. He merged into the background of desert and boulders, so that at a greater distance than he was from Shevlin he would have been scarcely visible.
The day was warm. Sweat trickled down Mike Shevlin’s neck, beaded on his forehead. He shifted his hands on the Winchester and dried his palms on his shirt front. By now Court was slanting up the hill, as if about to top out on the crest.
Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0) Page 10