“Why, sure!” Al agreed. “That man down there is payin’ our wages, but this looks a mite different.”
“You want help?” Billy said.
“No help … you just leave me ride down there and talk this over with Ben. I mean, we go in with the pack train, but the rest of it is up to Ben and me, and whoever’s down there with him.”
“Why, that’s fair enough,” Al commented. “I hear tell Ben Stowe is something to look at with a gun. I’d sort of like to see the cut of the man I’m workin’ for.”
“Thanks, boys. Bring in the train, will you? But look, stay clear of Ben Stowe and me, and if you see that lady in trouble, give her a hand. She is a lady, boys.” He gestured toward the mules. “All that belongs to her, by rights. Bring it in, will you?”
Deliberately, he swung his horse, turning his back on them. And then he cantered out over the darkening prairie.
“You know something?” The Arkansawyer spat. “There goes a square man!”
As Shevlin started across the flat, he paused only to slip out of his slicker and tie it behind his saddle. The clouds were breaking, and a star was showing through. He loosened the Winchester in his boot, singing softly, “As I walked out on the streets of Laredo, As I walked out in Laredo one day …”
THE ROOM WAS long and low, with a counter doubling as a bar. There were shelves of canned goods, stacked Levis, slickers, and boots. The room smelled of new leather, dry goods, strong coffee, and stronger plug tobacco. Behind the counter sat Tag Murray and the telegrapher, minding their own affairs.
Red, still pale from the abuse he had taken for bringing Laine Tennison to Tappan, clutched a beer in his hand, staring at the circles he was drawing on the bar.
Laine, standing very straight, smiled at Ben. “Really, Mr. Stowe, if you plan to take my gold from here, you must expect trouble. You’re going to have to cut telegraph wires, even do some shooting. Your retriever here,” she gestured at Red, “did not notice that Doctor Clagg, Billy Townsend, and several others—including Wilson Hoyt—were saddling up when we passed the stable.”
“Ma’am,” Ben Stowe said abruptly, “you sit down and shut up.”
“Now, look here, Ben—” Tag started to protest.
“You shut up, too. Red, put a shotgun on them. If they start anything give them both barrels, then reload and shoot them again.”
“Do you really believe,” Laine said, “that you will get out of the Territory with that gold? Will it be so easy, Mr. Stowe?”
Ben Stowe’s anger was passing. Red had been a damned fool to bring Laine Tennison here, but he needed Red for the time being, and the girl was no more than a nuisance.
“Sorry, Red. I spoke too fast. All we need is a hysterical woman on our hands.”
“Sure, Boss. I wasn’t thinkin’.”
Ben Stowe knew that the rain had stopped, and that the sounds he had been hearing for the last few seconds were those of a walking horse. The first few hoof-falls had barely touched the fringe of his consciousness, but now he was sharply aware that a horse had come to a stop outside.
He half turned to face the door, heard something hit the mud, and then blundering footsteps. The door opened and Babcock came in.
His face was haggard, the wound had started to bleed again, and his shirt was already stiff with dried blood.
“Tag,” he said, “I caught a bad one. It’s real bad.”
Ignoring the shotgun, Tag Murray moved quickly to Babcock’s side and eased him into a chair. Laine Tennison, without being asked, had gone to the stove and was pouring hot water into a tin basin. Tag began cutting away the shirt with scissors.
“What happened?” Ben Stowe asked.
When Babcock did not reply, Stowe stepped to the bar and poured a stiff drink of whiskey, and handed it to the wounded man. “What happened?” he asked again.
Babcock tossed off the liquor in two quick gulps. “First drink you ever bought me, Ben. Thanks.”
He looked up at Stowe. “When your mule train didn’t show up, Winkler figured it out and we cut over the hills. We were set to ambush the train, then that damn’ Shevlin came down on us from behind. I never did figure how he got there.
“He was on us before we knew what happened, and his first shot tipped the mule drivers and they came up the slope. Shevlin killed Ray Hollister. Winkler and Sande and Halloran got it, too.”
“How many of my men?”
“Three down and a couple scratched.”
“Shevlin?”
“He’s bringin’ the stuff in. He told me to go on ahead an’ get Tag here to fix me up.”
Ben Stowe looked at the arm with distaste. Used as he was to violence, he never liked to look upon the results of violence, and Babcock’s arm was a sorry sight. The bullet must have caught the arm when it was bent and upraised, for it had shattered the elbow, torn the biceps, and imbedded itself in the deltoid muscle at the end of the shoulder.
“We better get Doc Clagg over here, Bab,” Murray said. “That’s surely a mess. I don’t think anybody can make anything of that elbow again.”
“Fix it as best you can.” Babcock stared bleakly into the years ahead as a one-armed cowman. However, he had seen a few, and some did pretty well. If somebody else could, he could.
“Whatever happens,” Ben Stowe said, “you people stay clear of it. I don’t want to shoot anybody protecting a legitimate gold shipment.
“That man”—he indicated Babcock—“is an admitted outlaw. He attempted to steal the shipment from the mine of which I am superintendent. Please remember that.”
“You are discharged,” Laine said, “and you are not authorized to make such a shipment.”
Stowe smiled at her. “Now, ma’am,” he said pleasantly, “I know you as a guest of Doc Clagg’s. Whatever else you may be, I don’t know. You’ve no authority that I know of, and no cause even to be here except that Red here figured I would want to talk to you. He was wrong.
“I am,” he went on, speaking clearly, “making a legitimate shipment from the mines of a small amount of gold. I have the authority to do this. If anyone interferes, I shall take legal action.”
Laine looked around helplessly. The telegrapher merely shrugged. Tag Murray was busy with Babcock, and Red grinned smugly. Of course, what Stowe said was true. Even if the law had been here, she could not have stopped the shipment … not just on her word alone. And the train was due in less than an hour.
Just the same, Ben Stowe was worried. Laine could see it in his restlessness, in his continual glances at the clock. The train was coming soon and the gold had not yet arrived.
And right in the middle of things was Mike Shevlin. He was the key man. He was working for her, but Ben Stowe had offered him a better deal. As for whatever else there was between herself, and Shevlin, was there really something there? Or had she only imagined it?
From the first, she had felt drawn to him, less to his undeniable good looks than to his strength. When all the others had wavered, he had stood for what he believed, and down deep within her she was positive that he still stood for it, that he was the man she believed in. Yet the question was there: was he the sort of man she thought, or was she only listening to a wish that he might be?
Red lounged against the counter, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the shotgun in his hands.
Ben Stowe walked over to the window and looked out, but the night was dark, and revealed nothing. When she looked at him, she was shaken with fear for Mike Shevlin. Ben Stowe looked formidable. He was big, powerful, and somehow seemed indomitable. He seemed beyond the strength of the men around her, beyond anyone’s strength.
Yet he was gambling now, gambling with his life and the work of years. He was gambling that another man, who was perhaps an enemy, could bring that gold across the mountains. That he had done so was obvious, for Babcock had crossed with Shevlin. Where was Shevlin now? There was no sound in the room except the heavy tick of the clock and the subdued rustling where Tag Murray worked over Babco
ck.
Suddenly Murray turned and straightened up. “Ben, we’ve got to send for Doc Clagg. Else this man will lose an arm.”
“The hell with him!” Stowe said violently, then he glanced around at Babcock. After all, the issue would have been decided long before Clagg could get here. “Oh, all right,” he said with a shrug.
There was a moment of silence in the room, for the question in the mind of each was: Who will go?
Laine looked at Ben Stowe, an amused smile on her lips. “I am sure Red would like to go. Wouldn’t you, Red?”
Stowe turned sharply from the window. “Like hell! I need him right here.” He glanced around. “You can go, Tag, or you can wait until my men get here and I’ll send one of them. After all, I have five men out there with Shevlin.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Babcock said.
“What’s that mean?”
Babcock raised his head and stared at Ben Stowe. “It means those men rode over the mountains with Mike Shevlin, and when they had a fight, Mike pulled them out of it. Mike was with them … you weren’t. Don’t be too damn’ sure they’re still your men.”
“I bought ’em an’ paid for ’em,” Stowe said contemptuously.
“If you think that, you’ve come a lot further from the old days than I figured. You can’t buy men like that. They work for gun wages, all right, but they ride for the man. Right now you’re only somebody in an office somewhere. Mike Shevlin is out there sitting his saddle with them. He’s rained on when they are, and when they’re cold, he is. I can tell you one thing, Ben, if I hadn’t got shot up I’d be out there with him right now.”
Ben Stowe stayed by the window for a moment longer, then came back to the middle of the room. He went to the counter, where the long bundle that had been behind his saddle lay.
Unrolling it, he took out two double-barreled shotguns, Express guns. Coolly, he loaded them. Beside the bundle lay his Winchester and he took it up, checking to see if there was a cartridge in position.
Nobody spoke, they simply watched him; and he ignored them, as if they did not exist. Indeed, Laine decided, they did not exist for him, for he was wholly concentrated on what was to come; she could see it in his every movement. He was pointed, even as one of his guns would be pointed, toward the moment of decision.
But the moment did not come.
The minutes ticked by, and suddenly Laine noticed that Stowe was perspiring—the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. A slight sound came from outside, and Stowe turned sharply. Something rattled on the roof.
Suddenly, several horses passed by, moving swiftly. Outside, somebody laughed, and it was a shocking sound to those in the room.
Several minutes of stillness passed, and then a door slammed. The telegrapher looked up. “That was my door,” he said, and added, glancing slyly at Stowe, “I wonder if any of those men can use a telegraph key? That Shevlin now, he’s been around.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Stowe said sharply. “I’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“You mean you knew him when he was a kid,” Babcock said, “but that man’s covered a lot of country since then. You don’t know a damn’ thing about him!”
The real question in Stowe’s mind was: Where was the gold at this moment? Had it been loaded into the waiting car?
He swept the room with a quick glance. “All right, Red. I’m going out there. You keep these people sitting just where they are.
“Babcock, I’ll send one of my men for Doc Clagg. I’ll see no man suffer, and we shared a blanket a couple of times in the old days.”
He looked from one man to another. “Every move I’ve made in arranging this shipment has been legal,” he said. “I wouldn’t want anybody to try stopping me now. I’d have every right to suspect them of trying to steal company gold.”
He moved to the door and stepped outside.
CHAPTER 21
THE CLOUDS HAD broken and the stars were out, but water still dripped from the eaves of the railroad station and Murray’s Saloon at Tappan Junction.
At the hitch rail stood half a dozen horses with empty saddles, and another horse had just come down from the mountains, riderless since the afternoon’s shooting. It stood now, bridle trailing, close beside the tied horses.
Light from the saloon windows fell across the wet platform outside, across the glistening steel rails, and almost met through the darkness the light from the telegraph station windows. Beyond those windows one of the men was brewing a fresh pot of coffee in the operator’s pot, which they had quickly emptied.
Mike Shevlin, leaning against the corner of the loading pens near the chute, saw Ben Stowe come outside. His right arm was straight down by his side, which meant that he was carrying a weapon close against him where it could not be easily seen. Mike, who knew all the subterfuges, watched thoughtfully.
Ben was looking around warily. He was like an old grizzly that senses trouble, but has failed to locate it. Suddenly he stepped off the platform and strode across the tracks to the station.
When Stowe opened the door, Mike could hear his voice. “Where’s Shevlin?”
The reply was muffled, then Stowe spoke again. “All right. I’m payin’ you boys top wages—let’s go get him!”
Evidently one of the men had come to the door, for the words were plain—it sounded like Billy Daniels.
“We’d like to see you go get him yourself. There’s only one of him, and he’s right around close.”
“So it’s like that, is it? Well, you’re fired—every last one of you! Now take yourselves out of here!”
“We like it here,” Al’s voice drawled. “We’re stayin’ on for the show. We got us gallery seats.”
Ben Stowe turned away without speaking, then he halted. “Look,” he said, “Babcock needs Doc Clagg or he’ll lose an arm. One of you boys ride after him, will you?”
There was a moment of silence, and then one of the men detached himself from the group. “I’ll go. I’ll see no man lose an arm if I can help it.”
Ben Stowe walked to the middle of the tracks and stopped there, waiting until the hoof-beats died away in the distance.
Now, just where would Shevlin be? At the pens? Or at the car where the gold should be? Probably at the car. He took a moment longer to get his eyes accustomed to the darkness, and then he walked along the track.
Mike Shevlin knew every thought that was going through Stowe’s head. He knew what he was thinking, because he knew what he himself would be thinking at such a time.
Far away, he heard a distant echoing sound—the train whistle. It was going to be as close as that.
Mike Shevlin rolled the dead cigar in his teeth and looked toward the dark figure of the big man coming toward him. Well, Ben, it’s been a long time coming. Did you ever figure it would be like this? Just you and me in the black, wet night?
There had been neither saloon or station here in the early days—only the stock pens and the loading chute. They had loaded Rafter cattle from here … how many times?
Ben Stowe stepped aside suddenly and disappeared. Mike held himself very still.
Now what? Had Stowe just stepped aside and crouched down in the blackness; or was he coming on along beside the track? He was out of range of the lights, and probably was in the shallow ditch alongside the roadbed.
Suddenly cold steel touched Shevlin lightly behind the ear, and a cool voice said, “I could let him kill you, but it’s easier this way.”
Clagg Merriam!
Mike Shevlin had one boot on the lowest bar of the pen, and as that voice spoke, he threw himself back, shoving hard with his boot.
He staggered the man behind him, and a shot bellowed right alongside Mike’s ear. They hit the ground together, and instantly Shevlin threw himself clear, rolled into the ditch, and scrambled under the loading chute.
Ben Stowe, believing he had been shot at, shot quickly; and almost with the sound of the second shot, a rifle bellowed from the top of a cattle car, and a bullet struc
k sparks from a rail near where Ben lay.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” shouted a voice from the station.
Mike Shevlin held himself tight against the lowest part of the loading chute, partly protected by the posts of its underpinning. Clagg Merriam was out there … and the other one with the rifle—that must be Burt Parry.
Why hadn’t Merriam simply fired, instead of opening his mouth? And Parry should have held his fire until he had Ben Stowe outlined. It would have been simple enough, with a little patience.
A cold drop of water fell on Shevlin’s head behind the ear and trickled slowly down his neck and under his shirt. His leg was cramping but he waited, holding his six-shooter ready.
Suddenly, from behind the stock pens, Ben Stowe shouted, “Mike! Let’s get ’em! They butted into a private fight!”
Just then a gun flashed and a bullet spat slivers into Mike’s face—a gun not a dozen feet away. He lunged from his cover, firing as he went, and he heard the thud of a bullet’s impact on flesh, and a muffled grunt.
Again a gun flashed, but this time it was not pointed at him, and he shot into the dark figure as he ran by with a bullet whipping past his face.
He lifted his pistol to fire again, and as he did so two guns barked, almost together. The first was Merriam’s, wounded but not dead; the other was Ben Stowe’s almost instant reply.
Shevlin heard a gun fall into the cinders, and then he thrust his hand into the cattle car and triggered three fast, spaced shots through the roof of the car where Burt Parry was lying.
Parry screamed, and at the sound Stowe, who had climbed one of the cars, fired. The body slid from the top of the car and fell to the roadbed near where Shevlin was standing.
“Ben!” he called.
“You’re talkin’!”
“We got ’em both. Now you get on that train and get out of here.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Suddenly Ben’s voice changed. “Like hell I will! I’ll see you dead first!”
“Ben … one thing—who killed Eli?”
Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0) Page 17