Alford’s studied Clay’s face out of his bloodshot eyes. “You’re lyin’ to me, Clay.”
“If I’m lucky we can take our money and clear out. Montana, maybe. Providing you haven’t made up with Nina.”
“I don’t want to leave her, Clay,” Alford said miserably.
“Good. Then get for home and act like a husband. Not like a whipped dog.”
Clay finally got him outside and into the saddle of the horse the boy had brought down from the stable. When Alford was headed in the direction of Spade, Clay went back into the cantina. He had a drink of Mexican brandy with Fierro.
Making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop, he asked, “Just how does a fella go about getting to Squaw Creek?”
Fierro’s black eyes glinted appreciatively. “You are one damn fool, señor. But I would do the same if I wore your boots. Squaw Creek is fifteen miles south—”
CHAPTER 8
That night Clay stayed in the one-story New Mexico Hotel. He got up at daybreak and had a breakfast of leathery hotcakes in the cafe. He rode out of town, ostensibly heading for Spade, but when he reached the ridge he swung southwest, following the landmarks Fierro had given him last night. Maybe he was a fool to trust the Mexican. But he sensed the man was not on Elkhart’s side of the fence, and in a business such as this you had to trust somebody.
With the morning sun warming him, he felt almost light-hearted. That is, he could have felt that way except for the constant pressures riding him. He wanted to relax, let the horse pick its own trail. He saw a flash of color ahead as a bluejay dipped out of the junipers. In the distance, fleecy white clouds lay low on the horizon. In that direction lay Mexico. Despite the months of imprisonment he had suffered there, the land held something for him. He liked the people. Not the insufferable Federal officers who rode roughshod over the peons, but the people themselves. Maybe he’d go there instead of Montana. No icy winds of the north to cut a man like the lash of a whip. Just warm skies and…
He felt a tightening of his nerves. He pulled in the roan horse, glanced back toward Reeder Wells. Nothing moved in the junipers. The sun sent a shaft of golden light along the canyon he had just left.
Even though he could see nothing he felt that he was being followed. And his horse sensed it. The animal was restless, taut.
Well, did I expect anything less? he asked himself.
He continued on, slower now. At a promontory he moved into a thicket, dismounted and crept back with his rifle. For a long time he lay there watching the trail below, without catching sign of anyone. Whoever was back there was an expert in this sort of business. He had anticipated Clay’s move and holed up.
Clay started on again, almost convinced that his senses had played tricks on him. He was too keyed up, he tried to tell himself. But even though he argued against it he knew someone was back there.
For a mile he kept the roan at a steady lope, then drew rein and listened. No sound. Nothing but the wind blowing hot off the Sink.
At last he came to Squaw Creek. Because of the dry months only a trickle of muddy water moved crookedly along the sand. Even without the creek for a landmark he would have known the spot. Twenty yards from the creek a great gap had been torn in the barbed wire fence. Some of the posts had been uprooted. A black cloud of buzzards rose from the remains of the slaughtered Chihuahua steers. The six steers, already bloated, lay well inside the fence.
The buzzards flapped their wings and ran, many of them so gorged that they could hardly rise from the ground.
He had wanted to see this for himself, and now he had. Elkhart had deliberately done this deed to provoke a war. He started to swing down, and noticed the twitching of the roan’s ears. He reined the horse aside just as a piece of lead whined viciously past his face. Then came the sharp report of a rifle.
Digging in the spurs, Clay sent the roan plunging into the underbrush. He flung himself from the saddle, rifle in hand. He struck the ground hard, rolled, as another shot came whistling from a stand of aspens higher up the slope.
He lay quite still on the ground, head turned so he could watch the slope. He had lost his hat when he quit the saddle. The roan had kept on for a few yards, then veered off into some scraggly cottonwoods along the creek bank. It halted and began to graze on the sparse brown grass.
The rifle fire had sent the buzzards on another wing beating retreat. Now in the renewed quiet they came floating back to the six dead steers like a black cloud.
Still Clay remained motionless. The sun rose higher. In a few more minutes it would be in his eyes, blinding him to the movements of the ambusher above. Already the sun was touching the rocks just above Clay’s head.
His mouth was dry. He cursed himself for being careless. But the sight of the dead steers had sent such a surge of rage through him that he had forgotten the danger behind him.
In another minute he would have to move. He couldn’t afford to have the sun in his eyes. And that would be a cue for the ambusher to send down another bullet. At first Clay could not understand why the man didn’t try and finish the job. Then he realized only his body from the waist down would be in view of the man above. The rocks cut off the rest of it.
Just when Clay was about to shift his body, he heard someone coming cautiously down the hill. Desperately he tried to catch a glimpse of the man, knowing that in his haste to play dead he had misjudged the skulker’s position. The man was a dozen yards to Clay’s left instead of directly above as he had assumed.
The footsteps halted. A man said, “Hey, down there.”
Clay did not recognize the voice. It wasn’t Lon Perry or Elkhart; that much he was sure of.
The man said, “Move out where I can get a look at you.” Then, when Clay didn’t answer, he tried again. “You shot bad? I got some whisky here.”
Clay didn’t stir. He could hear the roan chomping grass. The buzzards were fluttering beyond the broken fence as if torn between potential danger and the lure of the feast on the ground.
“I can see your legs,” the man above said. “I’ll put a bullet through ’em if you don’t answer up.”
Sweat dripped from Clay’s forehead, stung his eyes. Bit by bit it soaked his shirt and plastered the cloth to his body. The sun rose higher.
Suddenly Clay jerked back his legs, rolled himself into a tight knot. A rifle bullet plowed into the ground where his feet had been, throwing sand in his face. Momentarily blinded, he flung, himself back, landing hard on his left shoulder. He let go of his rifle, dug for his short gun.
Now he could see the man plainly, only a few feet up the slope. It was Baldy, the man he had seen yesterday afternoon at Elkhart’s Arrow. Surprise showed on Baldy’s face as he tried to bring his rifle to bear on the shifting target below. Clay fired from a prone position on the ground. Baldy leaped aside, scared now. He tried to center the rifle, but before he could squeeze off a shot, a bullet from Clay’s gun crashed into his chest. Arms loose, the bald man fell headfirst down the slope. He rolled a few feet, and then the rocks caught him.
The buzzards were flapping their wings again. The roan had looked up from its graze. Clay advanced, sweating, his revolver cocked. He picked up the man’s rifle and threw it into the brush. Then with one hand he caught the man by an arm, dragged him the rest of the way down the slope.
Baldy Renson sat with his back to the rocks, holding his arms across his chest. Already blood had soaked the front of his shirt and was beginning to stain the sleeves.
Clay drew Baldy’s revolver and threw it after the rifle.
“You’re new at this business,” he said.
Renson just looked at him. Pallor was spreading across his face.
“Why didn’t Elkhart send Lon Perry? He’s the expert in this sort of thing, isn’t he?”
“Go to hell,” Renson said through his teeth.
Clay shrugged. “Is there a doctor
in Reeder Wells?”
“Yeah.”
“I can leave you out here to die alone,” Clay said, “or I can take you to town. It’s up to you.”
“Die?” Renson said. “I ain’t shot that bad—am I?” He looked down at the red ruin of his shirt and his jaw wobbled loosely as he opened his mouth and shut it and opened it again. “Listen, I didn’t want to get mixed up in this. But Elkhart give me two hundred dollars. He—”
“Why you? Why not Lon Perry?”
“Kee-ryst, get me to town, Janner.”
Clay searched the man to make sure there was no hideout under the stained shirt. Then with a bandanna he tried to plug the chest wound. He tied the bandanna in place with strips torn from Renson’s shirt.
He got his roan and rode after Renson’s horse tied in the aspens above. When he boosted Renson into the saddle, Renson made a half-hearted attempt to steal his gun. Clay slapped his hand away and stepped back.
“I hope you live long enough to get to town,” Clay said. “I want the sheriff to hear how his good friend Elkhart paid you to try and murder me.”
“Maybe I won’t talk.” Renson’s voice was feeble now. He was holding to the saddle-horn with both hands.
“I ought to leave you out here to die,” Clay said. “It’s probably what you’d have done to me. Or maybe been merciful and put a bullet between my eyes.” He snorted scornfully. “You’ll need me, friend. You’ll need me bad. Before the hour’s gone you won’t be able to set that saddle alone. I’ll have to tie you. I’ll have to lead your horse to town. Now do you want to go it alone or do you want me to help?”
“Just get me to the doc’s.” Baldy took one hand from the saddle-horn and pressed it against his bandaged chest. “I guess you’re a whiter man than Elkhart claims. Else you’d finish me.”
“So Elkhart thinks I’m bad, huh?”
Renson nodded.
They started back over the trail from town. Clay kept looking beyond the broken fence, looking for sign of Elkhart’s men, but he saw nothing.
“Elkhart says you got a gun rep,” Renson said thickly. “You marshaled down at Paso Del Norte. Cleaned it up, he says.”
“You were a fool to take his money and try this.”
“He said you’d get steamed up when you come out and seen them dead cows. I was to wait till you got on Arrow property and then shoot you. But I couldn’t wait. I figured to drag you over afterwards—”
“Then what?”
“Elkhart said I was supposed to tell my story to the sheriff. How you come out to look over them dead cows and tried to kill me where I was left guardin’ the break in the fence. After I told my story I was to head outa this country and never come back.”
“You work cheap,” Clay said. “My God, two hundred dollars to kill a man!”
Renson bent lower in the saddle. “He wouldn’t come after you himself. Or send Perry because—” His voice trailed away.
Clay pulled up, steadying the man. “Because after you’d pulled out of the country he could claim it wasn’t his idea to kill me. He could say you acted on your own. You’d be long, gone and in no position to tell the truth even if you wanted to.”
“He done it on account of that Alford woman,” Renson said hoarsely. “He wants his skirts clean on account of her. And he don’t want her to turn against Lon Perry. He figures he’s got to use Perry in these parts for a long time—” Baldy swayed again. Clay got a saddle rope and started to tie him. But Renson told him in a shaky voice that he’d have to rest. Clay helped him out of the saddle and to the shade of a cut bank.
There was a wild light in Renson’s eyes now and Clay knew fever had gripped him. Renson began to laugh. “Elkhart sure was sore at Perry for cuttin’ the fence and makin’ out like your cows busted it. And then shootin’ them cows. When you rode out to Arrow yesterday Elkhart figured you’d come to do some shootin’—” Renson keeled over on his side. Clay felt for his pulse. There was none.
“Lucky to last this long,” Clay said aloud, and wondered what to do next.
If he took the body to town, the sheriff would have an excuse to lock him up. They could even hang him for Renson’s murder, providing Elkhart had as great a hold on the politics of the county as everybody seemed to believe.
It was a chill prospect any way you looked at it. At last he made his decision. He dragged Renson’s body back into the brush and covered it with rocks. Then he led Renson’s horse high up on the rim and turned it loose. The animal headed in the direction of Arrow.
He knew that Elkhart would find the riderless horse and draw his own conclusions. Maybe he’d send the sheriff after one Clay Janner. Maybe he’d play his cards close to the vest and figure another plan.
It was full dark before Clay reached Spade. He stumbled over something in the yard. It was Joe Alford. At first he thought Alford had been shot. Then, striking a match, he saw the empty bottle at Alford’s side.
No lights showed in the house, but the bunkhouse was lighted. Sam Lennox, having heard someone ride in, came to the yard. “Figured maybe it was you, boss,” the black-bearded rider said. “Hell’s busted loose since you been gone. We just got word that six of them Chihuahuas got killed when they’re supposed to have busted Elkhart’s fence. Which is a damn lie, if you ask me.”
“I know all about it,” Clay said. “Help me get Alford on his feet.”
“Where you figure on takin’ him?” Lennox asked after they heaved the big man erect.
“To the house. Where he belongs.”
“I dunno whether the missus will let him stay or not. They argued most of the day and—”
“I can handle him now, Sam. Thanks.”
Clay walked Alford across the yard and up the porch steps. Nina must have heard them, for she opened the front door. She carried a lamp. When she saw Clay, she stiffened, then looked angrily at her drunken husband. She clutched a green wrapper across her night dress. Her long blonde hair hung down her back in two braids.
“I don’t want him here,” she said thinly. “Not until he sobers up.”
Clay made no reply. He walked Alford into the bedroom and dumped him on the bed. He pulled off Alford’s boots and threw them in a corner of the room.
Finally Nina picked up a blanket and put it over her snoring husband. “He’s so helpless,” she said.
“If you didn’t fight with him all the time,” Clay said, “he wouldn’t be drunk like this.”
Her gray eyes flared, but then the fire seemed to go out of them. “After fourteen months Joe thinks he has some rights as a husband.”
“It’s about time you made up your mind,” Clay told her bluntly. “Either kick Joe out or take him back. If you don’t, this country will blow up in your face.”
“You can’t blame conditions on me, Clay Janner.”
“Elkhart’s been playing it easy so far on account of you,” Clay said. “But if you don’t quit leading him on—” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “Oh, to hell with it!”
As he started out of the room she touched his arm with the tips of her fingers. “I suppose you and Joe had a grand time in Mexico. Getting drunk, things like that.” He looked her up and down. “You’re not much of a wife,” he said coldly.
“You’re insulting,” she said, but there was a lack of venom in her voice. He could see her breasts stirring under the wrapper as she drew a deep breath.
“You’re a funny woman, all right,” he said. “You don’t worry about your neighbors or whether Elkhart will freeze them out. All you worry about is whether your husband had a good time while he was away from you.”
“It’s important to me,” she said.
He studied her. She was a looker, he had to admit. He couldn’t blame Joe Alford for bragging about her during those long days in prison.
“Yeah, we had fun in Mexico,” he said. “We had a room sma
ller than this bedroom. There was usually water on the floor. We had some fine friends—rats. Sometimes they’d bite if we didn’t fight them off. There was always a battle between us to see who got the food.”
She followed him to the parlor, her high heels rapping on the floor. He caught her scent and his nerves tingled.
“It’s a very fine story,” she said, “but somehow I don’t believe it.”
“Joe has more faith in you than you have in him.”
“I suppose you mean about Elkhart and me?” She swallowed. “That’s where you’re wrong. Joe stood in this room and accused me—”
“He doesn’t really think that,” Clay said. “Joe’s been hurt, that’s all. He’ll get over it.”
“Don’t you think I’ve been hurt? Or isn’t that important to a man? A woman can sit and wait and do nothing to cause the slightest bit of gossip. But a man—” Her whole body quivered with indignation. “Where were you last night and today? Sampling the pleasures of Reeder Wells?”
“You’d be surprised what I’ve been doing,” he said heavily, and thought of Baldy Renson. He walked out.
Because he didn’t want to answer questions, he got his blanket from the bunkhouse and went to the cottonwoods near the barn. The crowded bunkhouse would be depressing tonight. The men would want to know where he’d been and he hadn’t made up his mind yet whether to take even Sam Lennox into his confidence concerning the death of Renson.
Besides, since his imprisonment in Mexico, he liked sleeping out under the stars. Here a man could think straight and forget the prison. Far back in the cottonwoods he rolled a cigarette and lit it. Dark forebodings plagued him.
CHAPTER 9
Shortly after supper Byrd Elkhart shut himself up in his office. He was in a black mood and he seemed unable to shake it off. Every time he thought of Nina and Joe together under the same roof he wanted to take a gun and finish it. But he knew this wasn’t the way. This afternoon he had met Russ Hagen at the fence and the man had dutifully reported that Alford was not getting along with his wife at all. They quarreled a great deal, Hagen had said, and Alford had finally gone on a drunk. This might be true, Elkhart had told Hagen, but still, fighting or not, Joe Alford was sharing a house with Nina.
The Fifth Western Novel Page 47