by Peter Dawson
The girl had been plainly ill at ease during this heated interchange. Now she abruptly pushed her chair back and rose from the table. “I’d better.… I’ll leave you two alone.”
Echols came awkwardly to his feet, protesting: “But you haven’t finished eatin’ yet.”
“Never mind, Jim.” There was a surprising quality of firmness in the girl’s tone. She looked up at Frank, smiling unexpectedly, warmly. “Mister Rivers, I don’t happen to agree with Jim on everything. He’s told me about your staying to help Kate and Fred. No matter what he thinks, I … well, I’m glad you did.”
Her face taking on color as she realized how outspoken she’d been, Lola turned quickly and left them then, crossing the room and going out into the lobby.
Her words had their effect on Jim Echols. For as he spoke again now his tone was for the first time quite mild: “You look beat, Rivers. Had your supper yet?”
At Frank’s shake of the head, he motioned to the chair the girl had just vacated. “Then have a seat. We can order you a meal.”
Frank was thoroughly taken aback by this abrupt change in the man’s manner. He would have liked nothing better than to do what Echols was suggesting, yet the memory of the sheriff’s contempt and loathing for him wasn’t to be this easily brushed aside. For an instant he groped for a sarcastic way of saying as much, but then suddenly knew it wouldn’t be worth it.
Shrugging mentally, he said only: “Kate’ll be expecting me back at the place.”
Echols’s look just then was confused, uneasy, as though he knew what Frank had been thinking. And he hurried to ask: “What’s Kate goin’ to do about this?”
“I don’t think she’s decided yet. It’s hit her pretty hard.”
“’Course it has.” Frowning worriedly, the lawman added: “Fred stopped by to see me today. Told me you ran into some lead the other night. How’s the arm?”
“Coming along fine.” Frank wanted nothing so much as to get out of here now, and went on: “There’s one more thing you ought to know. Kate and I were working the hills off to the north of the layout today. This afternoon we happened to notice that the creek was low, even with the snow going so fast. So we rode on up to see what was blocking it. We had to go as far as the forks of the Porcupine to find out.”
When he hesitated, the sheriff asked: “And what was it?”
“Someone had hauled a scoop up there on a sled. They’d dug out the Porcupine and thrown a dam across the Owl.”
Echols’s back stiffened. “Say that again!”
Frank nodded. Then, with a spare smile that mirrored a trace of his dislike for this man, he drawled: “Funny thing. We’d no sooner seen what they’d done down there than all of a sudden some of that rotten rimrock cut loose and dragged down maybe a thousand tons of the south wall. Dumped it smack across that cut. Now the Porcupine’s dammed up solid as though it’d never been there. All that water’s coming down the Owl and out across Anchor.”
He deeply relished the effect of his bland announcement. Jim Echols stood, open-mouthed, for once struck completely dumb. And in another moment he added with studied casualness: “Part of the dam’s still left. Kate thought you might like to come up and look it over, along with the sled tracks down along the Porcupine.”
The lawman’s face had turned a deep red. “That rock cut loose all by itself, of course.”
“Of course, Sheriff.”
Frank expected some outburst from the man. Yet it didn’t come. Instead, Echols regarded him in an oddly speculative way a long moment, finally saying: “If I live to be a hundred and fifty, I’ll never catch onto how Lute Pleasants’s mind works. Why would he try and get away with anything as raw as stealin’ Anchor’s water?”
“He could’ve been playing the chance of the freeze-up lasting till spring. By then no one could have told why the Owl was running low.”
“That I know. But what’s eatin’ the man? It’s a cinch he’s rigged it with Crowe to string that fence. Why? What’s he after? Does he still think Fred and Kate had his fence cut and tolled Cauble up there the other night so they could kill him?”
Frank only shook his head, giving no answer, whereupon the lawman breathed in a disheartened way: “Can’t make head or tail of any of this. Of the way Pleasants is throwin’ his weight around. Or,” he pointedly added, “of you.”
“What about me?”
“That shot the other night.” Echols was all at once studying Frank closely, very alertly. “Who knew you’d be on your way across from Summit that night? And even if they did, why would they want to put a bullet into you?”
“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”
“Maybe there’s something you’re keepin’ back, Rivers. Could be you drifted in here to hunt down some jasper. He could have got wind of it. Is that a good guess?”
“You forgot, Sheriff. I’m only wandering around trying to make the governor’s pardon look good.”
This barbed reminder of their differences oddly failed to rouse the lawman. Instead, it turned him completely sober, and with a level glance at Frank he observed: “Guess you could say I had that comin’.” Then, as though in apology, he added: “A man gets to thinkin’ one way so long it’s hard for him to change.”
Suddenly and without understanding quite how it had come about, Frank was feeling a growing respect for Jim Echols. The man had just now plainly admitted that he might have been mistaken in his judgment of the Peak City affair.
This fact was so unsettling, so unexpected, that Frank for the second time chose not to remind the sheriff further of the rancor that lay between them. He had one more thing on his mind and now spoke of it. “Kate doesn’t know it yet, but I’m trying to round up a couple good men to ride for us. Could you put me onto someone?”
“You’re that close to being through with the chore?” the lawman asked surprisedly. “Fred spoke of another week or more.”
“It may turn out to be another week,” Frank answered evasively, the words at complete odds with a plan that had taken shape in his mind on the fast ride down here tonight. “But how about it? Where will I find help?”
Instead of answering, Echols had a question of his own. “Which way will you take the herd out? Over the mountain?”
Once again Frank evaded a direct reply, drawling: “What choice have we got now, with Crowe showing his hand?”
Perhaps the sheriff had suspected that more lay behind what Frank had told him than appeared on the surface. If so, he seemed halfway convinced now that his suspicions were unfounded, for he shook his head, saying: “Findin’ men right now is a tall order. This storm spooked folks. Every outfit I know is hirin’ heavy and shippin’ ahead of time. Hell, they’re even loadin’ two freights tonight.”
Frank had a thought then that made him ask: “What about Bannister and that hired man of his? They’re friends of Kate’s and Fred’s.”
The lawman’s brows arched in brief speculation. “The old man wouldn’t be much help. Besides, someone’s got to be on hand up there to hitch the relays for the stages. But he might loan you Will Hepple for a few days.”
“Then I’ll take the long way around on my way back to the layout.”
“If you do, stay away from Crowe.”
With a faint smile, Frank said: “Crowe can wait.” He half turned from the table. “Well, better be on my way.”
“Tell Kate I’ll try and get up to see Fred in the mornin’.”
With a nod, Frank walked on across the room, feeling that Echols had been about to say something more. What that would have been he could only guess. But the fact remained that for all of five minutes Jim Echols had been reasonable, even helpful.
The why of all this confounded him. Wondering about the change in the man, unable to see what lay behind it, he finally put the matter from mind.
The important thing right now was whether or not the buckskin was in shape to carry him up to Summit and across to Anchor tonight. He would take his time, he decided. There was no
longer any reason to hurry.
Chapter Sixteen
The stars told Frank that it was nearing one o’clock in the morning when he finally glimpsed a light winking palely far above along Anchor’s moonlit meadow. The thought that Kate might still be awake, sitting up with Fred, made him gently prod the tired buckskin from its steady walk into a slow jog.
Back there along the Summit road he had found the exact spot below the rim where he had lain in the snow the other night, waiting for the ambusher to ride within range. Looking off toward the timber, he relived the instant the rifle shot had blazed out at him, and in that moment he was positive he could have ridden across there and found the exact spot from which the killer had made his try.
Going on, he made a mental note of getting back there—tomorrow possibly—and looking around up in the timber. A little snow still lay under the pines, and it had been his thought that he might at least pick up the ambusher’s tracks. Perhaps they would tell him something.
Just now he rode past bunches of grazing cattle and deer and several of the high-mounded stacks of wild timothy with their circle fences of unpeeled aspen poles. And presently he could make out the big log house’s sprawling outline against its backdrop of towering spruce trees and see that the light was shining feebly from the front window of Fred’s room in the building’s short wing.
At the barn corral he hurried in taking off the saddle. His stride was quick, his tiredness almost forgotten as he walked on up from the harness shed toward the house.
He was coming in on the darkened bunkhouse when old Wade Collins’s spare shape moved out of the deep shadows and into the moonlight to intercept him. Collins carried a rifle slacked in the bend of an arm and, joining him, asked querulously: “Where you been? Kate’s in a stew.”
“Came back by way of Summit,” Frank answered. “Will Hepple’s coming across in the morning to give us a hand for as long as we need him.”
“Good. We can use him.”
“How goes it with Fred?”
“Lightfoot gave him something to quiet him down. Damn those murderin’ sidewinders.” The old man’s eyes went narrow-lidded, and in a voice trembling with emotion he added: “Just got back from takin’ a swing down around their camp. Frank, between us we could make it hotter’n the hinges for those three devils. Tonight. Right now! They got their tent in a draw, with not even a man on watch. All we need’s buckshot. We can catch.…”
“Not just yet,” Frank cut in. Then, because he sensed the cold fury that was gripping the other, he told him: “We move the herd out first. Then we’ll see about squaring things for Fred.”
Sighing his disgust, Collins wanted to know: “When’ll that be? A week from now, like Fred planned? That’s too long to wait.”
“It’s for Kate to decide, Wade.”
“For you, too. That girl’s countin’ on you. So am I.”
Impressed and sobered by such a statement from this ordinarily close-mouthed and undemonstrative old man, Frank said—“We’ll see.”—and walked on toward the two big spruce trees marking the path leading to the house.
He was halfway up the path when he saw Kate sitting on the top step of the porch at the joining of the cabin’s two wings. And as he came on she uncrossed her arms that had been folded over her knees and reached up in an unconscious gesture to run her hands back over her chestnut hair.
She smiled across at him as he halted just short of the bottom step. “Now everything’s all right,” she said, very softly. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”
He told her briefly of his visit to the Bannisters in Summit, of eating a late supper there, and of Will Hepple’s coming, then asked: “What did Lightfoot have to say?”
“Fred’s going to be all right. The doctor gave him some chloroform before he worked on the arm. He’s going to be carrying it in a sling for a few days. He dropped off to sleep an hour ago.”
“What about his ribs, his insides?”
“No ribs broken, and nothing else very serious.” Hesitating, Kate added: “Fred was lucky. Very lucky. Just think how much worse it could have been for him.” She reached over and laid a hand on the step alongside her. “Sit down, Frank. You must be played out.”
He came up the steps and eased his high frame down onto the porch’s edge beside her, very aware of her nearness and of the beauty of her face in the moonlight. He caught the faintest trace of the scent she wore, and, as it had its heady effect on him, he realized that this girl’s every gesture and glance, her way of speaking, even the way she used her hands, had its special meaning for him. Never had he felt so powerfully drawn to a woman, or so awed and humbly pleased at thinking that one should trust and respect him as completely as Kate did.
When he spoke to her, it was in a low voice, for the open side window of Fred’s bedroom was less than six feet away. “Had a talk with friend Echols. He took it pretty well.” Laughing softly, he went on: “He didn’t swallow my tall tale about the slide cutting loose on its own. But he didn’t get sore, either. He’s coming out in the morning if he can get away.”
Kate nodded almost absent-mindedly, her thoughts obviously having strayed to something else. “What about tomorrow, Frank?”
He shifted around until he could eye her more directly, abruptly deciding to speak his mind. “Why do we wait any longer on moving that beef, Kate? Any reason why we can’t push out the best of what we’ve gathered, then get to work afterward on what’s still in the hills?”
She smiled in a way he didn’t understand until she said: “You’ve been reading my mind. I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
A small stir of excitement lifted in him. “Then you’re for it?”
“Yes. It’s a long drive over that mountain, Frank. The sooner we start, the better.”
Very deliberately, he queried: “Why over the mountain?”
He saw her stiffen and stare at him closely. “Because it’s our only choice.”
“No.” His single word was clipped, unarguable.
He began talking then with an urgency in his tone, putting many more words together at one time than was his habit. And he finished by insisting: “It can be done. But now, before it’s too late.”
A worried frown had gathered on Kate’s face. “It would be a risk, a big one. Especially for you, Frank.”
“So’s the other. A bigger one when you add it all up.”
“And if they try and stop us?”
“They won’t. I’ve told you why.”
She clasped her arms about her knees and for an interval stared at him as though carefully studying every feature of his lean face. Finally she told him: “It’s you I’m thinking about. Something could happen to you.”
He smiled, drawling: “Something could happen to ’most anybody, Kate. One of the toughest bruisers I ever knew slipped off a walk up in Peak City one rainy day, hit the back of his head on a plank, and gave up the ghost without ever knowing what happened to him”
“This is different and you know it. If anything goes wrong, it could mean the end of Anchor.”
He nodded reluctantly. “So it could. But for a minute there it seemed a good way of squaring things for what they did to Fred.”
Quite suddenly Kate’s grave look thinned and died away. Perhaps it was what he had said, or even his tone, that caused the abrupt change in her way of looking at this. For now she told him: “I shouldn’t be arguing. You’re the one who’s managing things now. Of course your way’s the best.”
“I don’t have the say in this, Kate. You do.”
“All right then.” Very positively she added: “We do it your way, Frank. Because I say it’s the best way. Now let’s go over it again, all of it.”
Chapter Seventeen
They ate their breakfast in Anchor’s kitchen as the new day’s first light thinned the blackness over the craggy peaks to the east. By the time it was full light, Frank and Collins were working bunches of cattle down across the upper meadow toward the ranch buildin
gs. In another half hour Will Hepple came up the Summit road, saw them, and rode to join them.
Last night Kate had told Frank of a broad, narrow-necked pocket in the timber at the southeastern end of the meadow, something like a mile and a half below Anchor’s headquarters. Lacking enough help to round up the six or seven hundred animals spread out over the meadow, Frank and Collins had decided to work bunches of a hundred or more, cut out the likely ones, then drive them down to hold them in this natural though crude enclosure until they had made up the shipping herd.
Frank’s arm was much better this morning, still stiff but having lost its swollen, feverish feel. Surprisingly enough, his less than four hours of sleep had completely refreshed him and he worked steadily and fast, eager to finish this tedious preliminary to the moment Kate and Wade Collins were waiting for and even dreaded, the moving of the shipping herd down to the railroad.
The lush, long vista of the meadow was having a strange effect on Frank this sunny, bright morning. Even though it didn’t remotely resemble the land around his homestead, far to the north, he was thinking of the homestead with a yearning he couldn’t thrust aside.
These last three days of living on a well-ordered layout, of working the clock around, and of being with people he liked and trusted, had made him see things far differently than at any time since the nightmare of his arrest and trial. It gave him a warm feeling to think that he had found real friends in this out-of-the-way spot, friends who knew of his past and still believed in him.
Quite honestly, and with a degree of genuine surprise, he admitted that the singleness of purpose that had driven him over the past four months was weakening. He had, in fact, completely forgotten it for hours at a time yesterday and the day before. This morning, try as he would, he couldn’t manage to summon that same stubborn resolve he had brought with him to Ute Springs.
It still did matter a great deal that the two men responsible for his father’s untimely passing were still at large. But just now he was recalling nearly forgotten dreams of the homestead, of what he would one day make of it. And he found himself longing to return to it, to put an end to this futile wandering and to thrust down roots so that he would have a place he could call home, a place like Anchor was for Kate and Fred.