Court dismounted and, rifle in hand, moved to the top of the ridge. He was easing his rifle to his shoulder when suddenly he seemed to freeze, his attention riveted on something beyond the ridge.
Mike Shevlin’s horse was in sand now, walking carefully and making no sound, and Shevlin was closing the distance between them, drawing steadily nearer the sniper on the ridge.
When still perhaps sixty yards off, Shevlin drew up and dismounted, trailing his reins. He desperately wanted to know what lay beyond that ridge, to see who it was that Court was stalking, but there was no possibility of that.
Lon Court was as dangerous as a cornered rattler, and never so dangerous as he would be now, if caught in the act. Only his concentration on his job had permitted Shevlin to come so close as this.
The warm air was still. The only sound was a cicada singing in the brush near the road. Shevlin, careful not to start a stone rolling to warn Court, worked his way silently along the slope. Then he paused and, choosing two small pebbles from the gravel near his feet, he flipped one at Court’s horse. The grulla jumped and snorted.
Lon Court whipped around as quick as a cat, looking toward the horse.
“Over here, Lon!”
Lon Court wheeled and fired in the same instant, but he fired too soon. His bullet was a little high, but Mike Shevlin’s was more carefully aimed. Pointed for the middle of Court’s chest, it struck the hammer on the rifle and deflected upward, ripping Court’s throat and jaw.
Desperately, Court tried to work his rifle, then he dropped it and grabbed for his six-shooter. He was on his feet, standing with them slightly apart, the old narrow-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. His yellow mustache showed plainly.
Shevlin stepped off to his right and fired again, the bullet turning Court, whose shot went wild. Court brought his gun back on target just as Shevlin fired his third shot, putting it right through Court’s skull.
Mike walked up to the dead man and looked down at him. He felt no regret or pity. Lon Court had chosen his path with his eyes open, and must have known that someday it would end just as it had. In his time he had killed a lot of men, and now he lay dead himself, killed by one of those he had been sent to get.
Returning to his horse, Shevlin mounted up and went over the ridge. In the valley beyond there was a dim trail, an old trail. On it he found the tracks of a horse, and followed them.
When he had gone only a few feet he saw where the horse had dug in hard and taken off on a hard run. The rider must have been at that point when he heard the shots.
Shevlin was almost on the edge of town, still following the tracks, before he caught sight of the rider. It was Laine Tennison.
She pulled off to the side of the trail and waited when she saw him coming.
“Scare you?” he asked.
“Was that you back there?”
“Uh-huh. I was one of them.”
She looked at him searchingly. “What happened?”
“There was a man named Lon Court. Been around for years. He hires out to big cattle outfits or anybody who has killing they want done. He was laying for you.”
“And you stopped him?”
“Don’t make a lot of it. I was on his list, too.”
“You … you killed him?”
“Ma’am,” Shevlin said dryly, “you never get far talking things over with a man holding a gun. And this here man wasn’t much given to talk.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
“As a result of that? Well, when a man like Lon Court dies nobody cares much. Not in this country, in these times.
“As to what will happen, I wouldn’t know. We’re going to ride into Rafter, you and me, and this time you’re going to stay there with the Claggs, and don’t leave there or I’ll quit the whole thing. I can’t be running around looking after you, with everything else I’ve got to do.”
The streets were strangely empty when they came into town. After leaving Laine at the Claggs’, Mike Shevlin rode to the sheriff’s office.
Wilson Hoyt looked up sourly, and with no welcome. “All right, what’s your argument?”
“I just came in to report a shooting. Lon Court is dead.”
Hoyt knew the name. He turned the idea over in his mind, growing angrier by the minute. “Who the hell brought him in here?” he said.
“Somebody who wanted Laine Tennison killed. Somebody who wanted me killed, and who killed Gib Gentry by mistake.”
“You think Court killed Gentry?”
“The only man who was supposed to be riding that trail that night was me,” Shevlin said. “Only Gentry was coming to see me—to warn me, in fact.”
Wilson Hoyt considered this. He put it together with a few other facts. Gib Gentry had been drinking the night before he was killed, but that was not unusual, for Gib had been hitting the bottle a lot these last few months.
Hoyt had, in his slow, methodical, yet thorough way traced Gentry’s movements. Nobody had anything to conceal and they trusted Hoyt, as they had, for the most part, liked Gentry. Gentry had been a rough-and-ready but free-handed man who made no enemies. The last man who had spoken to Gentry was Brazos, when Gib got his horse, and Gib had definitely been riding after Shevlin.
What disturbed Hoyt was the knowledge that just before Gentry went to the stable for his horse he had a brief talk with Red, and then Red had ridden off out of town. Shortly after, Gentry had gone for his horse.
“Lon Court hadn’t been in town,” Hoyt said. “I didn’t even know he’d been in the country. If I had, I’d have run him the hell out of it.”
“Lon Court never rode a mile without being paid for it,” Shevlin said. “Who do you think stands to gain by having me killed? By having Laine Tennison killed?”
“Where does she fit into this?”
“Somebody thinks she might be an owner. Clagg Merriam learned the other night that she had wealthy connections in Frisco. The Sun Strike is owned in Frisco.”
“They wouldn’t murder a woman.”
“You forget mighty quick. What about Eve Bancroft?”
“That was a mistake.”
Wilson Hoyt looked up at Shevlin sharply. “Clagg Merriam? What the hell has he got to do with this?”
“He’s the man behind Ben Stowe.”
Hoyt’s little world of certainties was toppling. “Like hell!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Merriam scarcely knows Ben—and he’s a respected man.”
Mike Shevlin did not feel like arguing with him. He would leave it to Hoyt’s solid common sense. He was tired, but there was much to be done.
He leaned over the desk. “Hoyt,” he said, “your nice playhouse is ruined for good, and you might as well look at it straight. Maybe you can pull this town out of the hole it’s in … maybe you can’t. I figure most of these folks—even those who’ve been shutting their eyes to what goes on—are good folks, given a chance.
“But Eve Bancroft is dead, and that’s getting to them. They won’t stand still for it, the way I see it. All you’d have to do would be to get up and make a stand, and you’d have them behind you. If you don’t, your rep as a town pacifier is finished, because there’ll be more killings.”
“You said Court was dead.”
“Do you think he would have to do it all? I know Ben, Hoyt; I’ve known him a long time. He’s a mighty tough man, grown tougher with years, and he plays hard. Believe me, they got Gib by mistake, but I’d lay a bet he was on the list to die … after he’d done his job for them.”
It made sense, of course. Wilson Hoyt was a man of no illusions, and once he faced the situation he would see the thing straight. Like many another man, he faced the fact of change reluctantly. He had had two good years in Rafter, relatively peaceful years, and although he must have known the situation could not last, he had been willing to go along with it. His own job was to keep the peace, not to be a guardian of morals … that was the way he had allowed himself to think.
But now he could no longer stand aside. He had made
a move; he had averted the calamity of a street battle between miners and cattlemen—and Eve Bancroft had been killed. He had believed it was over then, but here was Mike Shevlin, assuring him it had only begun.
Lon Court was dead, but that had happened out of town, and was not his concern. The presence of Lon Court was, for somebody within the town had brought him here.
And now Shevlin had brought Clagg Merriam into the picture. Hoyt hated to think Merriam was involved, yet in the back of his mind he must have sensed it all the time. His surprise had been purely vocal … within himself he had felt no such surprise. A man could not move around such a small town without knowing a great deal that was not on the surface.
“All right, Mike,” Hoyt said at last, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He looked up with sudden discouragement. “Hell, Mike, what’s a man to do? I figured this was my place to roost. I thought I’d dug myself in for life.”
“Maybe you have. Look at it this way, Hoyt. You straighten up this mess, straighten out the town, and with no more fuss than necessary, and you may be home. They may want you to stay.”
Wilson Hoyt nodded slowly, doubtfully. As Shevlin walked out, Hoyt stared bleakly across the street at nothing at all.
BEN STOWE PUSHED the heavy ledgers away from him and pulled open the drawer where he kept his cigars. He selected one, bit off the end, and lit up. Then he sat back and put his feet up on his desk, inhaling deeply. He exhaled the smoke slowly and stared out of the window toward the mountains.
Clagg Merriam was right. They would have to ship some gold. Their working capital was finished. Without cash from somewhere, they could buy up no more gold; and when they stopped buying they would lose control, once and for all. When gold was shipped from the town through business channels, questions would be asked, men would come flooding in.
The deals for the mines must be closed at once, but there had been no response from San Francisco since his last offer. Were they investigating? And if so, who?
Clagg Merriam, he knew, was worried about Laine Tennison, the pretty girl over at the Doc’s place… . Well, Lon Court would take care of that.
Ben Stowe scowled with irritation. That damned Gentry! He would have to go riding out just when Court was expecting Mike Shevlin. Ben was not in the least disturbed by Gentry’s death, for the time had been appointed … but he had needed him to handle the gold shipment first.
With Gib Gentry dead, all his nicely arranged setup was spoiled. Moreover, who did he know who could be trusted with that much gold? Above all, trusted not to talk, and trusted not to let it be taken away from him?
He could handle it himself, but the town needed a tight rein right now, and he dared not be away. And most important, the offer might come from the mine owners, and he must act promptly.
Who, then, could he get?
Wilson Hoyt would be perfect, but Hoyt had been acting strange the past few days, and Ben Stowe hesitated to approach him. Hoyt, he felt, was an honest man, or he seemed to be, but he had always been a man who kept his eyes strictly on the job, and did not worry about anything outside it.
Mike Shevlin …
Ridiculous as the idea was, Ben kept coming back to it, for Mike had the guts to deliver that gold, come hell and high water; and Mike wouldn’t talk. Of all the men he knew, Mike Shevlin was the best man to handle that gold.
The trouble was, Mike was bucking him.
Ben Stowe glanced at the gathering ash on his cigar. Carefully, he assayed all he knew of Mike Shevlin. He had been a tough kid, handy with a gun, and not above driving off a few cows once in a while. He had balked at outright robbery when the rest of them went into it; but that, Ben decided, was mostly because Mike had just wanted to drift—he just wanted to get out and see more country.
Ben had heard a lot of the conflicting stories about Mike Shevlin. He had been mixed up in some cattle wars, in some gunfighting, and he had ridden the side of the law a time or two. That needn’t mean a thing, for Ben knew of several outlaws who had been town marshals, and good ones.
He had never really liked Mike Shevlin, but this was not the time for that. Suppose … just suppose … that he made an offer? Gib’s piece of action, for instance?
There were not many who could turn their backs on a quarter of a million dollars. Of course, Shevlin would never live to collect, no more than Gib Gentry would have.
What fool would give up money of that kind when he could keep it for himself?
But one other thing worried him. Ray Hollister was still out there, and Hollister had to die.
CHAPTER 13
WHERE WAS RAY Hollister now? Three men were thinking about that.
Mike Shevlin, riding back to the claim in the canyon, was asking himself that question. Ben Stowe, in his office, was worrying about the same thing; and Wilson Hoyt, turning his mind from his recent words with Shevlin, thought again of Hollister.
Not one of them believed he was through. Mike Shevlin, riding warily, and well off the trail, knew that Ray Hollister would never be able to convince himself he was through in Rafter. The thought of going elsewhere would not occur to him, or if it did, it would be dismissed.
Like many another man, he was committed to the home grounds. He could not bring himself to move, although all the world offered a fresh start—new ranges, new towns, places where he was unknown, and where his abilities might have made a place for him.
Right now Hollister was sitting beside a fire in a remote spot among the bare hills. He was alone except for Babcock, and Babcock was for the first time looking on his boss with some doubt.
Only a part of his doubt was the result of his conversation with Shevlin in the stable. His loyalties were deep-seated, and he hesitated, feeling uncertain for the first time in years.
“Where the hell is Wink?” Hollister said, looking up.
“He’ll be along.”
Winkler had gone down to the Three Sevens to pick up some grub. They had nothing to eat and he knew the cook there. Winkler would have to be careful, for there would be no friendly feeling for them at the Three Sevens. Nor at any of the other ranches, for that matter.
Ray Hollister looked haggard, his face was drawn, his eyes deep sunken. “Bab,” he said, “they’ve got to move the gold. And if they try to move it, we can get it.”
Babcock straightened his thin frame and went over to the nearby brush to pick up sticks for the fire.
“If we can get that gold,” Hollister went on, “we’ll have them where the hair’s short.”
“How’ll they move it?” asked Babcock.
“Gentry’s freight outfit. That was why he was set up that way.”
Babcock had squatted on his heels to pick up the sticks, but now he turned his scrawny neck and looked back at Hollister. “That’s good figurin’. How’d you know that?”
“I know plenty.”
Babcock came back to the fire and added some of the fuel to it. Then he squatted down beside it.
Ray Hollister had forgotten, for the time being, that Babcock knew nothing of his previous arrangements with Ben Stowe. He was thinking aloud rather than planning; and weariness as well as the defeats of the past days had dulled his senses.
Babcock had room for two loyalties and no more, and he believed them to be one and the same. He was loyal to Hollister, and he was loyal to the cattle business. He had grown up around cattle, had worked cattle since he was a child, and had never considered anything else. The discovery of gold at Rafter was a personal affront. He disliked the miners, disliked the camp followers, and most of all he disliked the dirty machinery and the pound of the compressor. When the mines began using great quantities of water and returning some of it muddy and filthy, he was deeply angered.
He had known of the firm of Hollister and Evans, but he had believed it to be a land and investment operation. He had largely ignored it, for Ray was always going off on some new scheme, but he always came back when the scheme proved to be a swindle or a fool notion. While Ray
Hollister took off on his other activities, Babcock was minding the cattle.
After the water was polluted, it had been necessary to drive the cattle back from the stream where they had always watered, something it was not easy to do. The only other water was too far away for the good of the stock, and the grass there was poor. He could have used Hollister’s help then, for they were short-handed; several of the newer boys had gone off prospecting … as if they knew anything about finding gold!
With the hands that remained Babcock had pushed the cattle back from the water with only a few lost, and there had been a time when he had been up to his ears in work far on the other side of the range. Anyway, Babcock himself had never been much of a hand for raising hell in town.
Now, Babcock’s mind had not let go of Ray Hollister’s comment on why Gentry had been set up that way. Of course, he thought, it was something a man might guess at, or figure out. He looked across the fire at Hollister, considering him thoughtfully, and remembering what Shevlin had said.
He was a man slow to arrive at any conclusion, and he was taking great care in trying to think this matter out. But as he considered it, little bits and pieces of half-forgotten conversations returned to mind.
“They’ve got to move it!” Hollister exclaimed again suddenly. “They daren’t take a chance on running short of cash, or being caught with the gold.” He looked shrewdly at Babcock. “Bab, we could have a piece of money out of this.”
“I’m no thief.” Babcock spoke irritably, for he did not like to have his thinking interrupted. “That money ain’t mine.”
“It’s not theirs, either,” Hollister protested, and then added, more slyly, “Without that money those mines won’t operate long.”
That made a kind of sense, Babcock agreed. “It would be guarded,” he suggested.
Hollister dismissed that with a wave of the hand. “Of course it would. But we’d have surprise on our side, and that counts for a lot.” He paused. “We’d need a couple of good men, aside from you and Wink and me.”
Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0) Page 11