A kind of admiration showed in the man’s eyes. He laughed suddenly, and with the laughter the burning went out of his eyes. “Then he’s a lucky man, Angie. A very lucky man. But let’s take the stallion out the gate, no use to ruin a good corral.”
It was simple as that. Something she had said, or her very honesty, had impressed Fox. He walked around the corral and roped the dun for her. She put a lead rope on him and mounted up. Fox walked to his own horse. “No need for me to stay here, then. You’ll tell him.” He mounted. “I’ll ride with you. Nevers and his lot aren’t the men to be around good women.”
They rode quietly, and suddenly Fox began to talk. “You knew about my mother, then? I never knew a woman more loyal to a man. I’d admire to find her like, as Blaine has found you. Maybe after he’s dead you will forget him.”
“He will not die. Not now. Not of any gun this lot can bring against him.”
Fox shrugged. Now he seemed normal enough. “Maybe not, but everything’s against the man. Nevers will not quit now. Otten has come off the fence, there’s nowhere in this country Blaine can hope to escape. His only chance to live is to cut and run.”
“And he won’t do that.”
“No, he won’t.”
He left her at the Crossing and turned away, and seemed headed for Red Creek. She sat her horse, watching him go. Would he go far or circle around and come back? That, probably. Lee Fox, sane or insane, was Western—a good woman was always to be treated with respect. He might kill her husband, brothers and son, but he would always be respectful to her.
Crossing the river, Angie rode up the far bank and turned toward the cabin in the sycamores. It was as she had left it, quiet and alone. When she had stabled the horses she went inside. Nothing was different, and it was not until she went to her dressing table and picked up her comb that she saw the note. She smiled when she saw it. Leave it to him to put the note in the place she would first come. The note read:
Stay here. Gone to 46. Back later.
“Let me see that!”
She had heard no sound. She turned, frightened, to find Rink Witter standing behind her. His hand was outstretched for the note.
Although she had known his name and his deeds for ten years, she had never seen him at close range. She looked now into the pale, almost white blue eyes, the seamed and leathery skin, the even white teeth, and the small-boned, almost delicate facial structure. She saw the hand outstretched was small, almost womanly except for the brown color. She saw the guns tied low, those guns that had barked out the last sound heard by more than one man.
Rink Witter, a scalp hunter at sixteen, a paid warrior in cattle wars at eighteen, a killer for gamblers and crooked saloonkeepers at twenty. Rustler, horse-thief, outlaw—but mostly a killer. He had ridden with Watt Moorman in the Shelbyville War. Deadly, face to face, he would kill just as quickly from hiding. He was a deadly killing machine, utterly without mercy. She had heard that the wilder the shooting, the hotter the fight, the steadier he became. He was a man who asked for no breaks and gave none.
There was no way out of it. If she did not give him the note he would take it. She would have to give it to him, play for time, watch her opportunity. Without a word, she handed the note to Rink.
He took it, studied her coolly for a minute, then read what it said.
He turned. “Hoerner,” he said, “you stay here. Tell the others to head for the 46. Utah Blaine was here and he’s headed there. If they don’t get him there or lose his trail, they are to head for Red Creek. Tell ’em not to come back here.”
Rink crumpled the note and dropped it to the floor. “Make us some coffee,” he said abruptly, and then turned and picked up her rifle and pistol and walked outside.
She went to the cupboard and got out the coffee mill and ground the coffee slowly. As she worked, she tried to study this situation out. She was helpless, and getting frantic would not do a bit of good. Her only chance to help Utah was to wait, to watch, and to find some way out.
She kindled the fire and put the water on. Utah would be careful. He was too shrewd a campaigner to take chances. She must trust in that, and in his good sense. Also, he might get to the 46, find the dun gone and see her tracks.
As a matter of fact, Blaine had passed within two hundred yards of them when she was returning to the Crossing with Fox. Utah Blaine stopped under the trees near the 46 ranch house and built a cigarette. He felt better this morning. His side was sore, but he was able to move more easily. He studied the ranch house for several minutes while he smoked the cigarette. Finally decided it was deserted. He was about to leave the brush when he saw the small, sharp prints of Angie’s boots. He studied the tracks, saw where she had waited under the trees as he was now doing, and then how she had circled to get behind the barn. Somebody had been at the house then.
Cautiously, he followed the trail to the corner of the corral and saw where the knife had scratched the rawhide thongs. He saw the tracks of Lee Fox, but did not recognize them at first.
There had been no struggle…they had walked together to the gate…the gate had been opened by Fox…the stallion led out.
He read the sign as a man would read a page of print, as a scholar or writer would read the page. He saw not only what was there, but what lay behind, interpreting movements, somehow almost discerning their thoughts, their attitudes toward each other.
The girl had mounted here…the man had walked to his own horse…a tall man or a man with very long legs. Not Witter. Not Nevers. He studied the track of the horse the tall man rode and decided: it was Lee Fox.
They had started away, riding down the trail toward the cabin. So Angie had gone home then. He must have missed them somewhere back along the trail. Or rather, he had missed them because he was not following trails.
He paused to consider this. There had to be a showdown, but he was not anxious to encounter Lee Fox, not just now. Nevers and Witter were the men he had to meet. With Fox, despite his slightly off-the-trail mind, there was a chance of reasoning. There would be none with Nevers.
Ben Otten did not enter his thinking. Otten had been out of it, and Utah Blaine had no means of knowing he had come in. Or that he could be dangerous.
He knew there was to be no more running. He was through with that now. Right was definitely on his side, and he meant to follow through on the job he had taken. He would ride right into Red Creek and show himself there. If they wanted a showdown they could have it.
He rode slowly, making it easy for the gelding. The sun was hot and dust puffed up from the horse’s hoofs. He rode accompanied now by that stale smell of sweat that he would never forget after these bitter days. It seemed he had known that smell as long as he had lived, that he had always been unshaved, always gaunted from hunger, always craving cold, fresh water.
Blaine rode with ears alert for the slightest sound, his eyes roving restlessly. Yet he could not always remain alert. He could not always be careful. His lids grew heavy and his chin dropped to his chest. He lifted his head and struggled to get his eyes open. It was no use.
Turning from the mesa trail he rode down into a gulch and followed it along until he came to a patch of grass partially shaded by the sun. Leading his horse well back into the trees, he picketed it there. He then pulled off his boots and stretched out on the grass. No sooner was he stretched out than he was asleep.
*
WITTER’S THREE KILLERS reached the 46 only a little after Blaine left. Fortunately, the three were tired, hungry, and not overly enthusiastic. They stopped to make coffee and throw together a meal from the ample stores on the 46. Only when they had eaten did they decide to pull out.
“Look,” said the one named Todd, “Turley, you all stay right here. You lay for him. He might come back thisaway.”
Turley had no objection. He was tired of riding. He concealed his horse and then sat down inside the house at a point from which he could see without being seen.
Now, Todd reflected, things were taking shape. With Rink Witter and
Hoerner at the girl’s cabin, with Turley on the 46, and with men on the Big N, they were slowly covering all the possible points of supply. Yet they lost Blaine’s trail not two miles from the 46 and rode on into Red Creek to find Blaine had not been seen there. Todd then reported to Ben Otten.
Otten could see the picture clearly now, and he liked it. He had come in just at the right time. This thing was as good as ended. Fuller and Clell Miller were out of it, and he would place a small bet that either Nevers or Fox would be dead before the shooting was over. That left himself and one other to divide the pot.
“Good idea,” he said, “leaving Turley at the 46. Now if Blaine goes back there he’s a dead man.” Otten drew a handful of coins from his pocket and slapped a twenty-dollar gold piece in Todd’s hand. “Buy yourself a drink,” he said genially, “but not too many until this is over.”
Todd pocketed the coin with satisfaction and was turning away when Ben Otten said, his voice low, “Might be a good idea, Todd, to remember where that came from. That is, if you’d like some more like it.”
Todd did not turn around. “I ain’t exactly a forgetful man, Mr. Otten,” he said, “ ’specially where money’s concerned. I’ll not be forgettin’. That Peebles, over yonder. He’s a good man, too.”
Otten drew another gold eagle from his pocket. “Give this to him, and both of you let me know how things are goin’.” He hesitated, uncertain just how much to say. Then he added, “I’ll want to keep in touch. When a fight like this ends nobody knows just how many will be left who can pay off.”
He walked back to the bank, not knowing how much of what he had said had gotten across. Todd seemed reasonably shrewd, and he seemed ready enough to hire himself out. In any event, the forty dollars spent was little enough to insure a little good will. It might prove the decisive element. And it was better than dealing with Rink Witter. Every time he looked at the man he felt cold.
*
BLAINE’S EYES OPENED suddenly. The first thing he saw was a pair of huge feet and then the knees and a rifle across the knees. He looked up into the battered face of Ortmann.
Surprisingly, the big man grinned. “Man,” he said, “you sleep like you fight.”
“Where’d you come from?” Utah demanded, sitting up carefully. Ortmann’s presence surprised him for he had not given the man a thought since their fight. He knew now that he should have. Ortmann had been giving him a lot of thought.
“Been sort of lookin’ around.” Ortmann rubbed his cigarette into the turf. “Seen you asleep an’ figured I’d better keep an eye on you. Some of Nevers’ outfit went by down there, not two hours back.”
“You been here for two hours?”
“Nigher to three. Figured I’d let you sleep it off.”
Blaine dug for the makings and rolled a smoke. When he touched his tongue to the paper, he looked up. “What’s the deal, Ort? Where do you stand?”
Ortmann chuckled and looked at Blaine with faint ironic humor. One eye was still bloodshot. “Why, no deal at all! It just sort of struck me that a man who could lick me was too good a man to die, so I figured I’d take cards.”
Utah Blaine stared at him. “You mean,” he said incredulously, “on my side?”
“Sure.” The big man yawned and leaned back on one elbow, chewing on a chunk of grass. “Hell, I never had no fight with you. I wanted me a piece of good land, an’ it figured to be easy to get some of the 46 range. The others figured the same way, although not more than five or six of them really wanted land. Some wanted trouble, some to get paid off.
“They told me you was a gunman, a killer. I decided I’d no use for you, but when you shucked your guns an’ fought me my style, stand up an’ knock down—Well, I decided you were my kind of folks.”
Utah Blaine got to his feet and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he put on his hat and held out his hand. “Then you’re the biggest big man I ever saw,” he said simply, “the kind to ride the river with.”
Ortmann said nothing and Blaine thought about it a minute or so. Then he said, “Now get this straight. I can use your help, but I don’t want anybody else. No use getting men killed who don’t need to be and sometimes too many is worse than too few. You an’ me, well, we make a sizeable crowd all by ourselves.” Then he added, “But how many of the others are good solid men?”
“Maybe five or six, like I said. Mostly farmers from back east, an Irish bricklayer—folks like that.”
“All right,” Blaine drew on his cigarette, “when this fight is over I’ll see each of you settled on one hundred and sixty acres of good land. The land belongs to the ranch. You farm it on shares. The ranch will furnish the seed, you do the work. The ranch takes half of your crop. If at the end of five years you’re still on the land and doin’ your share, the ranch will deed the land to you.”
Ortmann drew a deep breath. “Man, that’s right fine! That’s all right! They’ll go for it, I know. And we’ll have none but the best of them. I know them, every one.” He picked up his rifle. “All right, Utah, where to?”
“Why to Red Creek,” Blaine said quietly. “We’ll go first to Red Creek.”
Chapter 18
*
NO FURTHER MOVE had been made against Ralston Forbes or his paper. Red Creek dozed in the sun with one wary eye open. All was quiet, but there were none here who did not realize that the town was simmering and ready for an explosion. Many of the citizens of Red Creek had come from Texas or New Mexico. They remembered the bitter fighting of the Moderators and the Regulators, when armies of heavily armed citizens roamed the country hunting down their enemies.
The arrival of Todd and Peebles was noticed. Both men were known. Todd had been in the Mason County War, and had escaped jail. He had broken out of jail in Sonora, too. Peebles was an Indian fighter, accustomed to killing but not accustomed to asking questions. Both were cold, hard-bitten men more interested in whiskey than in justice; their viewpoint was always the viewpoint of the man behind their hired guns.
Padjen, from his seat in front of the big window in the Red Creek Hotel, could survey the street. Skilled at acquiring information, it had taken him but a short time to get the lay of the land. He had been paid to handle any legal details about the transfer of the ranch to the hands of Utah Blaine, and he intended to see Blaine seated on the ranch securely before he left Red Creek. He witnessed the arrival of Todd and Peebles, and he was keenly interested when Todd talked with Ben Otten. He even saw the coin change hands. And he saw Todd cross to the saloon and enter, followed by Peebles.
Casually, and with all the diplomacy he could muster, the young lawyer had been moving about town and he had been talking, getting a line on sentiment and dropping his own remarks. All, he suggested, would profit if the fighting were ended. There was no telling who might be killed next. In any event, the vigilantes had been wrong to start lynching, and had been wrong in their attempts on the lives of Blake and Neal.
Actually, he suggested mildly, it looked like a factional fight in which both parties had done some shooting, but the killing of Joe Neal was out-right murder. And slowly, sentiment began to crystallize. Yet as he sat that day watching Todd and Peebles, Padjen knew that the time was far from ripe for action.
Todd was a lean, tall man with a sour face and narrow, wicked eyes. He put his big hands on the bar and ordered a drink. Peebles, swarthy and fat faced, stood beside him. They had their drinks, then a second.
Neither man heard the two horses come into the street. But Padjen had seen them at once, and had come instantly erect. He had seen Blaine and Neal together just once, but the big man in the black hat was not hard to recognize. The huge man with him could be nobody but Ortmann.
Ducking out of the hotel he ran across the back of the building and managed to reach the livery barn as the two pulled up. Some busybody or sympathizer of the vigilante party was sure to rush at once to the two men in the saloon.
Utah Blaine saw Padjen and stopped. But as Padjen drew nearer, he recognized hi
m instantly. “This true about Neal leavin’ the ranch to me?” he asked.
“You bet it is, but watch your step or you won’t inherit. Two of Witter’s killers are in the saloon. Todd and Peebles.”
“Bad actors,” Ortmann suggested, rolling his quid in his jaws. “Which door you want me to take?”
“We’ll try to take ’em prisoners,” Blaine said, after a moment’s thought. “There’s been enough killing.”
“Where’ll you keep them?” Padjen asked practically. “Look, man, I’m up here to make peace if it can be done, but when you’ve got a rattler by the tail you’d best stomp on his head before he bites you.”
“Makes sense,” Ortmann agreed.
Utah Blaine turned the problem over in his mind, then looked at Padjen. “Is Angie Kinyon in town?”
“No,” the lawyer said, “she’s not. I’ve never met her but if she was here, I’d know it. Mary Blake knows her.”
Had Angie returned to the ranch? If so, where was Rink Witter? Utah considered the possibilities and liked none of them. Not even a little bit. And there was this affair, here in town. “Better get back to the hotel,” he advised Padjen. “No use you getting into this.”
“But I—” Padjen started to protest.
“No,” Blaine was positive, “you’ll do more good on the sidelines.”
Padjen started back up the street but when he had gone only a few steps and was crossing the street, Todd came from the door of the saloon. He stood there, one hand on the doorway, staring at Padjen. The innate cruelty of the man wanted a victim, and here, in the person of this city lawyer who had brought the news to Utah Blaine, he decided he had found his man.
“You!” Todd walked out from the awning. “Come over here!”
Padjen felt his stomach grow cold. He was wearing no gun, and had little skill with one. Yet he walked on several steps before he stopped. “What is it?” he asked quietly. “Are you in need of an attorney?”
Todd laughed. “What the hell would I want with a lawyer? I never do no lawin’. I settle my arguments with a gun.”
Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) Page 13