She propped a chair under the doorknob, then she sat down on the bed, and took off her shoes.
She must make no noise. It would not do to have anyone wondering who was in Mike Shevlin’s room after he had gone out.
It was no use to worry about Dottie Clagg, either. Dottie would be frightened, and worried sick, but if Laine went back to the doctor’s house she would only bring more trouble with her. She must trust in Shevlin, and wait.
She considered Shevlin. Although almost nothing personal had passed between them, a feeling existed that needed no words. From the first, she had been drawn to him. Lean and savage as he was, there was an odd gentleness in him, too, and a curious respect for her.
She tried to recall everything Uncle Eli had said about him, and thinking of this, she lay back on the bed. She did not see the knob turn slowly, did not hear the slight creak as pressure was put on the door to open it.
The chair under the knob remained firm, and the person outside the door ceased trying. Had she been awake, she might have heard his breathing, might have heard the soft creak of the floor boards as he retreated down the hall. But she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 18
RAFTER CROSSING CROUCHED in the darkness like a waiting cat. And like a waiting cat, its eyes missed nothing—or almost nothing. Mike Shevlin, refreshed after only three hours of sleep, walked toward the lighted window of Ben Stowe’s office. Around him there was a rustle of movement in the night—nothing a man could actually hear if he stopped to listen, but something of which he would be keenly aware.
Ben Stowe looked up when the door opened, and his eyes became wary when he recognized Mike Shevlin.
Mike leaned his big fists on the table. “Ben,” he said, “I’ll move your gold if you have it ready before daybreak.”
Stowe rolled his cigar in his mouth while he took a minute to consider what this might mean. What had happened to settle Shevlin’s mind so quickly? Could he have heard of the seizure of Doc Clagg and his party? That was unlikely because, as Stowe happened to know, Shevlin had gone to his hotel and had not left it until now.
“Look at it this way, Ben,” Mike continued. “If Hollister is still around, he will have spies in town. I’ve a hunch they won’t suspect me, but if we start now we can get into safe country before Hollister can get word and start moving.”
“That’s likely,” Ben agreed. He sat back in his chair and looked up at Shevlin. “Have you got any men you want to take along?”
“No, that’s your play. I’ll ramrod the job, you furnish the men. Let’s face it, Ben. With Gentry gone, I don’t have a friend in the country. I’ll take my cut from this deal and ride out.”
“All right, Mike. You be at the mouth of Parry’s canyon an hour from now. The gold will be there.”
“I’ll want pack mules—thirty or forty of them. That much gold, at present prices, will weigh a ton.”
“Any special reason for mules rather than a wagon?”
“They’ll be looking for a wagon, and I can take mules where no wagon could go.” Shevlin lowered his voice. “I’m going over the ridge, Ben.”
“You’re crazy! There’s no trail.”
“Ben, I punched cows all over this country, much more than you ever did, and I know a trail that even Ray Hollister won’t know.”
“All right.”
Ben pushed back his chair and stood up. “Don’t try anything, Mike. I need you, but I don’t trust you. You go along with me, and you’ll be in at the payoff. But try a double-cross, and you won’t live twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t be foolish, Ben. Where else could I get that kind of money?”
Shevlin walked to the door, then turned. “By the way, Ben, who is Burt Parry? Is he your man?”
“Parry? Just an eastern pilgrim who thinks he knows mining.” Suddenly Ben Stowe read something else into the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered, that’s all. That claim where he had me working … there isn’t a sign of mineral over there, and I don’t think there ever was.”
When Mike Shevlin had gone, Stowe sat very still for a long time. He smoked his cigar for a while, then let it go out, and chewed for a while longer on the dead butt.
Burt Parry had seemed so much what he was supposed to be that after a few days of doubt, Stowe had largely ignored him. From time to time he heard that Parry was having a drink with Clagg Merriam, but it seemed of no importance. Clagg had lived much of his life in the East, and Parry was an easterner, so what was more natural than some casual talk between them? But suppose it was more than that? Suppose Parry had been imported by Merriam? Imported for a specific job—to watch over the gold, and perhaps to handle another task later?
Stowe realized now that his contempt for Merriam had blinded him to the depths that might lie within the man. He had been so sure that he was using Merriam, that he had not considered the other side of the coin. Suppose Clagg Merriam had been using him?
He, Ben Stowe, was operator of the mines … yes. But if suddenly the operation was taken out of his hands, if the governor suddenly sent a corps of investigators into the area, he alone would be sitting in a vulnerable position.
True, Clagg Merriam stood to lose all he possessed if anything went wrong, but Merriam might have some ace-in-the-hole of which Stowe was unaware. And Merriam had been smart enough to plant Burt Parry in a worthless claim where he could watch the gold cache.
Ben Stowe considered his long-range plan for removing Gentry, and then using Clagg Merriam and his share of the gold as a means to establishing himself on a respectable footing in Rafter, and in the state. Folks didn’t look to see how a man came by money, he told himself; they only looked to see if he had it. But he could not feel easy now.
He got up and paced the room, muttering to himself. With a thick finger he reached up and ripped open his shirt collar—the thing seemed to be choking him. Maybe he was playing the fool, with his ideas of respectability. How long could he make it stick without blowing up? He’d be better off to take the half-million and run. Why be greedy?
His eyes narrowed with thought, and he stared at the flame of the coal-oil lamp. Well, why not do it that way?
The gold train would be going over the mountain to Tappan Junction. At the Junction a railroad car was already spotted to receive it, a car that was supposed to be loaded with hides, and was, in fact, partly loaded with them.
Mike Shevlin could take the gold across the mountain if anybody could, and arrangements had already been made on the other side. Stowe had received word that his men were waiting at the Junction. The car was routed right through to the East, where the gold could most easily be disposed of … or enough of it, at any rate.
Stowe had taken eastern trips before, so no one would be surprised when he took the stage out of town for the railroad, carrying only one bag.
They would all see he was taking nothing with him, and they’d never believe he was cutting out. The more he thought of it, the better he liked the idea. The gold would reach the Junction about the same time he did, and there was never anybody at the Junction but the telegraph operator, or some passing cowhand who stopped by to pick up the news.
He considered the matter with care. He would write a letter of resignation to leave behind, attributing his leave-taking to the unsettled conditions, the unfortunate slaying of Eve Bancroft, and the accompanying events. That way they would have nothing on him, nothing at all. The charges down in the mine would be set off, the drifts that led into the stopes where the high-grade had been mined could be shot down, and all they could ever accuse him of would be quitting his job.
The more he thought of it, the better he liked it. He would have half a million dollars, and nobody the wiser. There were, of course, a few details to be taken care of.
He called in the men he needed and gave the necessary orders, and after that he went through his desk; all the while he was thinking of Burt Parry. The more he considered the situation, the surer he became that Parry had b
een posted to watch the gold; and no doubt he was still there, or somewhere close by.
Then his thoughts shifted to Clagg Merriam. What could he do about him? Even if Parry was eliminated in one way or another, Merriam would be aware within a few days that the gold had been removed, and he would raise hell.
Yet what could he do? To start any legal action would be to reveal his own part in the swindle; and Merriam was not the type to kill. Not, at least, the type to cope with Ben Stowe. So the thing to do about Merriam was simply to do nothing. Let Merriam do whatever he wished, and then Stowe would do what was necessary.
He checked his gun, thrust another into his waistband and shouldered into his coat. It was clouding up again, and looked like rain … so much the better. Fewer people would be riding out on a rainy night, fewer people who might see a train of mules starting over the mountain toward the Junction.
The street was empty when he went out. He stood for a moment, collar turned up against the wind, and then he crossed the street toward the livery stable. Once, on the far side of the street, he turned and looked back toward the lights of the mine. He grinned wryly. “To hell with it!” he said aloud.
Suddenly he felt free; he felt relieved, as if he had dropped a great burden.
There had been no movement in the shadows up the street, and he had seen no one. But he himself had been seen.
Jess Winkler was too canny an old hunter to reveal himself, and he held still in the shadows, his cold eyes watching Ben Stowe. And suddenly, as surely as if he had been told, Winkler knew: Ben Stowe was cashing in. He was checking out of the game, out of the town, and out of the country.
After a few minutes Winkler went to his own horse and followed Stowe at a discreet distance. At the mouth of Parry’s canyon, Stowe turned in.
“By the Lord Harry,” Winkler muttered, “Ray was right! He’s goin’ to move that gold.”
Behind a low sandhill, under cover of greasewood that topped it, Winkler hunkered down to wait and watch. Scarcely an hour had gone by when the first of the mules appeared. Winkler counted forty, some of them probably carrying the grub and outfit for the guards.
He watched them trail off across the country, keeping just off the main trail. He counted nine men in the party, and Ben Stowe was not one of them. But Mike Shevlin was.
“I’d rather it had been Ben,” Winkler said to himself.
He watched them for several more minutes, then went to his horse and rode wide around and headed for Hollister’s camp.
IN THE FIRST gray light of day, when only an arrow of red had found the clouds above, Mike Shevlin drew up and waved the first man by, with the mules following. He waved them into an opening among the enormous tumbled boulders that were piled all around. The rider hesitated, and started to speak.
“Go ahead,” Shevlin said shortly. “You can’t miss it.”
Shevlin tugged his sombrero a little lower on his head and swore softly. The dust had settled around his shirt collar and his neck itched from dust and sweat. He was playing it by ear … he had no real plan—just a vague, half-formed idea that seemed to be taking shape in the back of his mind.
He knew none of these men, although two were the men he had seen inside the mine; but he knew the breed. It was a breed of tough men, men hired for their guns, or for their willingness to use violence, men working here today, and five hundred miles from here next week or the week after. Their bodies lie in many an arroyo, in unmarked boot-hill graves, or churned into mud on the grasslands of Kansas or the Indian Territory.
Some of them were good men, good in the sense of courage and physical ability, but for the most part they were men who sought what they thought of as easy money, although it rarely was. They earned three times as much as the average cowhand, and as a rule they lived a third as long.
He knew their kind, for in a sense he was one of them. The difference was that he had chosen to ride on the side of the law—and when you came down to it, that was quite a difference.
He had deeply ingrained within him a respect for the law, and the need for it. He knew that otherwise life would be a jungle, and he knew, too, that many of those who made out to despise the law the most, found themselves wishing for its protection.
He watched them go by, counting off the burro-loads as they passed, and checking off the men too. Not one familiar face among them, and he had hoped to find at least one. After all, the West wasn’t that big … not as far as population went, and he had ridden a lot of trails. Had he found one man who knew him, he might well have found an ally, and he desperately needed one.
He needed more than one, when it came to that. He found himself searching their faces for some hint of what he sought, but he did not find it.
Red was not among them, and that worried him, for Red should have been here.
He waited for the last mule and rider to pass, and let dust settle behind them. The thought came into his mind that he had always expected to wind up dead in a canyon somewhere, and this might be the time.
He let his horse take its own pace, unworried, for he knew the trail and nobody could go anywhere but straight along. Just short of midway there was a cutoff he would take, but nobody else would be apt to find it without being shown.
The sun came up behind clouds that steadily grew darker. There had been rain clouds over Rafter, but they had been a good while catching up. Somewhere ahead he could expect attack by Hollister and his men.
Ben Stowe expected it and, knowing Hollister, Mike was sure it would come. Who would Hollister have with him? Babcock, of course, and some of the other soreheads. But how many? And where would it be?
Hollister, he felt sure, would not know of this trail, nor even Babcock. They had never been on good terms with Rafter, and their range had been far from here.
It was a steep, climbing trail, with many a switch-back and double. It had been made by Indians or mountain sheep, and it was the only way across the mountain for miles in either direction. The higher slopes were covered with stunted pines and juniper; the canyons fell away from the trail to the bottom of steep cliffs. Here and there rounded hills rose by the trail, and they offered inviting chances to escape it, but they were all deceptive, ending in sheer cliffs or slides of shifting rock.
Presently rain began to fall, scattered drops at first, followed by a steady downpour. Shevlin drew up, got out his slicker, and slid into it. Up ahead he could see the others doing the same.
Occasionally the leaders would draw up to catch their wind, and the party would close up. Shevlin watched for the turn-off … he had rarely come this way, and he was worried that he might miss it. It was a steep, alternate route that cut a good mile off the distance. There was no other chance to get ahead, and that was where he needed to be.
He saw the twisted, lightning-struck pine on the ridge only a moment before he saw the slide of shale. The slide slanted up steeply, ending against the sky. It was a stiff scramble for a good horse—not over sixty feet of shale, but it appeared to go nowhere, and certainly was an unlikely beginning for a trail.
The big horse took it without urging. On top of the slide was a ridge of slate, slanting back less steeply. Here, barely visible, was a narrow way worn by years of passing, but invisible to any but a trained eye. This was the cutoff, and the horse took to it readily.
Beyond lay a vast jumble of grass-covered slopes, pine-crested ridges, deep canyons, knolls covered with jagged, broken rock. It was a place where no man seemed to have come, a wild and lonely place, high under the gray clouds, with only the whispering rain and the sound of his horse’s hoofs to attend him.
EIGHT MILES AWAY, Ray Hollister crouched in the slight shelter of a wind-hollowed cliff. He hadn’t shaved in a week, and his jaws itched; his mouth felt gritty. It was damp and chilly, and the coffee was made from grounds used for the third time.
He looked at Halloran, who was stretched out, comfortably asleep, and he felt a sudden, vicious urge to kick him awake. John Sande was a dozen yards off, huddled un
der a fallen oak, its branches so matted with driftwood that no rain came through. Babcock sat near him, nursing the fire with sticks.
Hollister spoke suddenly. “Where the hell are they? If they left town like Jess said, they should be here!”
Babcock glanced over at him. “Ray, if that old wolfer said they left town, they left,” and then he added, in a milder tone, “and don’t rile him. He’s likely to cut out and leave us.”
Just then Jess Winkler came down through the rocks across the hollow, and came over to where they waited.
“They foxed us,” he said, grinning at them. His broken, yellowed teeth showed under the gray mustache. “They surely did!”
Before Hollister could speak, Babcock said, “How could they? This is the only trail.”
“No, it ain’t.” Winkler squatted on his haunches. “I keep forgettin’ about that kid, that Shevlin.”
“He’s no kid,” John Sande commented. “I seen him. He’s got shoulders like two of us.”
“I think of him as a kid,” Winkler said. “That was how I knowed him afore. Now I keep forgettin’ how canny that youngster was, an’ how he prowled these mountains. He’s taken them over Lost Cabin.”
“Never heard of it,” Babcock said.
“Lost Cabin trail … it’s an old Indian trail. Somebody built a stone cabin up there, built it long before any white man was knowed to be in this country. Built it an’ left it. Why, I ain’t seen that trail in sixteen, seventeen years!”
“What do we do now?” Halloran said, sitting up.
Winkler took up a twig and marked on the sand. “That trail goes about so.” He drew another line to indicate the railroad, and a cross where Tappan Junction stood. “They’ll be headin’ for there. If we haul out of here now, we can nest down in a packet of boulders about here.” He made another cross in the sand. “We can make it in about an hour, if we’re lucky, and that would be maybe an hour before they do.”
They were gone, and their fire was dying to coals, hissing under occasional drops of rain, when a rider passed on the trail, not more than thirty yards off. It was Ben Stowe, wearing a new yellow slicker, his hat brim tilted down.
Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0) Page 15