“You do? Then you’ll need to be defended sometime, my friend,” Padjen smiled. “Unless a lynch mob gets to you sooner.”
Todd stepped down off the walk and walked toward Padjen. Behind him a door closed and he knew Peebles had come out. “Run him my way, Todd,” Peebles said. “I’ll put a brand on him.”
Padjen’s face was pale, but he kept his nerve. “Better not start anything,” he said quietly. “Ben Otten wouldn’t like it.”
That stopped Todd and puzzled him. This man had brought news of Blaine’s inheritance to town. On the other hand, he was a lawyer and it was Todd’s experience that lawyers and bankers were thicker than thieves. The change of the gold piece rattled in his pocket and he wanted to do nothing to stop that flow of gold, now that it was started.
“What you got to do with Ben Otten?”
Padjen perceived his advantage. The outlaw was puzzled and a little worried. “That,” Padjen said sharply, “is none of your business. If Ben wants to tell you anything, that’s his problem. Not mine. Now stand aside.”
Drawing a deep breath he walked on, and in a dozen steps, forcing himself to an even pace, he got to the hotel. He turned in and stopped, leaning weakly against the wall. He looked at the gray-haired clerk. “That,” he said, “was close!”
But the situation in the street had not ended. Irritated by his loss of a victim and the inner feeling that he had been tricked as well as frustrated, Todd looked for a new target. He saw a man standing in the center of the street not fifty yards away.
This man was tall, the flat brim of his black hat shaded the upper part of his face. The man wore a sunfaded dark blue shirt, ragged and stained. Twin gunbelts crossed his midsection and he wore two guns, low and tied down. His boots were shabby and had seen a lot of weathering since their last coat of polish. He did not recall ever having seen this man before.
As he looked, the silent figure began to move. The tall man walked slowly up the street and Todd, with just enough whiskey in him to be mean, hesitated. There was something about that man that he did not like the looks of. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out the face, and then he heard Peebles.
“Watch it!” Peebles’ whisper was hoarse. “That’s Utah Blaine!”
Shock stiffened Todd and momentarily he floundered mentally. Todd had never claimed to be a gunfighter of Blaine’s class. He was a hired killer, good enough and always ready enough to kill. He was not lacking in courage for all his innate viciousness. On the other hand, he was no damned fool.
Blaine came on, straight toward him, saying nothing. It was Todd who broke first. “What you want? Who are you?”
“You ride with Witter. You’ve been huntin’ me. I’m Blaine.”
Todd swallowed. That was the signal, and he should have gone for his gun. Suddenly the sun felt very hot and he began to sweat. Suddenly he wondered what he was doing here in this street. What did he want to start trouble for when he could be in the saloon. Why had he not stayed there?
“I ain’t huntin’ you.”
“Seemed mighty anxious back at the Mud Tank,” Blaine said. “Well, you’ve got a choice. Drop your guns and take the next train out of town—or you can die right here.”
There it was, right in his teeth. Somehow he had always known this moment would come: the showdown he could not avoid. Yet it had been a noose he feared more than a bullet. Maybe he was lucky.
Blaine raised his voice. “That goes for you, too, Peebles. Drop your gunbelt right where you are and get out of town on the next train.”
That did it. Peebles was standing at the door of the saloon. He thought he had a chance. There was no loyalty in the man and if Blaine fired it would be at Todd. In that split second he might kill Utah Blaine and collect that thousand dollars Nevers offered.
In that stark instant of hesitation before Peebles replied, Todd saw with a queer shock, an intuitive sense that told him what the move would be.
“You don’t scare me, Blaine!” Peebles’ words rang loud. “I’m not leavin’ town an’ I’m not droppin’ my guns!” As he spoke, his hand dropped to his gun.
Todd had seen it coming. He reached. Both hands dropped…he felt the solid, comfortable grasp of the gun butts…his fingers tightened…something smashed him in the stomach, and for an instant he believed Blaine had swung a fist at him. But there was Blaine, still at least twenty yards away. Another something ran a white hot iron through his body. Todd stared down the street and the figure of the man in the black hat wavered…somewhere another gun blasted…the figure wavered still more and he withdrew his gaze, looking down at the gray dust at his feet. That was odd! There were big, red drops, bright, gleaming drops on the dust…red…blood…but whose…he looked down at himself and a queer, shaking cry went through him. He looked up, staring at Blaine. “No!” he exploded in a deep, gasping cry. “Please! Don’t shoot!” And then he fell forward on his face and was dead.
Peebles had snapped a quick shot, missed and lost his nerve. He saw Todd take it in the belly and he wheeled, springing for the door. He would take his second shot from safety, he would…he burst through the doors and stopped.
Ortmann had come in the back door of the saloon. He was standing in the middle of the room with a shotgun in his hands. “Howdy, Peeb!” he said. “You shot at a friend of mine!”
“I got nothin’ to do with you!” Peebles said hoarsely. Behind him was Blaine, and Blaine would be coming. Desperation lent him courage and he swung his pistol at Ortmann. His shot missed by a foot, smashing a bottle on the back bar. Ortmann’s solid charge of buckshot smashed him in the stomach. Peebles hit the doors hard, spun around them as if jerked by a powerful hand. He hit the boardwalk hard, throwing his gun wide. His eyes opened, closed, then opened again. It was cool in the shadow under the porch. So…cool…
Padjen mopped his face. Not three minutes had passed since Todd had stopped him, and now two men were dead. He saw Blaine feed shells into his gun and then turn and walk up the street.
Ben Otten was sitting behind his desk. He had heard the shooting but did not get up. He was not anxious to know what was happening right now, the less one was around at such times the better. And someone would come and tell him.
Blaine told him.
When the door closed, Ben Otten looked up. He saw Utah Blaine standing there and he swallowed hard. “What—why—Howdy, Utah! Somethin’ I can do for you?”
“Yes. You can pack up an’ leave town.”
“Leave town?” Otten got up. “You can’t be talkin’ to me, Blaine! Why, I—you can’t get away with that—I own this bank—I’ve a ranch—I’ve—” His voice stuttered away and stopped.
“You’re in this up to your ears, Ben.” Blaine was patient. “You’re a plain damn fool, buckin’ a deal like this at your age. You pack up an’ get out.”
Otten fought for time…time to think, to plan…any kind of time…any amount. “What happened down the street?” he asked.
“Todd and Peebles bucked out in gunsmoke.”
“You…you killed ’em?”
“Todd. Ortmann killed Peebles.”
“Ortmann?” The banker wiped a hand across his mouth. “What’s he got to do with Peebles?”
“Ortmann’s with me.” Blaine watched Otten take that and was coldly satisfied at the older man’s reaction. “And get this straight,” Blaine’s voice was iron-hard. “When I tell you to leave town, I mean it. When I’ve straightened things out with Rink Witter, Nevers and Fox, then I’ll come for you. I hope you’re not here, Otten.”
Ben Otten’s diplomacy had worn thin. His fear was there, right below the surface. He felt it, knew it for what it was, and was angered by it. He felt his nostrils tighten and knew he would be sorry for this, but he said it. “You’ve taken on a big order, Utah. Witter, Nevers an’ Fox—then me. You may never get to me.”
“Don’t bank on it.” Utah leaned his big hands on the rail. “If there’s one thing I’ve no use for, Ben, it’s a man who straddles the fence waiti
n’ for the game to be killed before he rushes in to pick over the carcass—an’ all the time hopin’ he’ll be the only one to get the fat meat.
“You’re not a smart man, Ben. I’ve learned that in just a few days by what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard.
You’ve got a few dollars, some mortgages on property and a big opinion of yourself. Don’t let that big opinion get you killed. Believe me, a small man enjoys his food just as much—and lives a lot longer.”
He turned abruptly and walked from the bank. He was suddenly tired. Pausing on the street he built a smoke, taking his time. He had been left a heritage that made him a wealthy man. But the heritage carried with it the responsibility of holding it together, building something from it. With a kind of sadness he knew his old foot-loose days were over, yet he accepted the responsibility and understood what it meant.
There could be war here, but there could be peace. But somebody had to accept the responsibility of keeping that peace, and he knew that task was his.
Ortmann was standing down the street, waiting for him. He grinned as Blaine came up. “We do better fightin’ together than each other,” he said grinning.
Blaine chuckled. “You punch too hard, you big lug. And you sure used that shotgun right.”
“I knowed Peebles. He’s a sure-thing killer, a pot-hunter. Killed maybe a dozen men, but maybe one or two had a chance at him.” He fell into step with Blaine. “What now?”
Blaine stopped at the newspaper office and Ralston Forbes stepped out to meet him. Padjen was coming down the street. “I want you to get out a paper, Rals,” Utah said, “and give me some space on the front page. I’ll buy it if need be.”
“You won’t have to. Anything you say around here is front page news.”
“All right.” Utah threw his cigarette into the dust and rubbed it out with his toe. “Then say this: As of noon tomorrow I am takin’ over the 46 Connected. I’ll be hirin’ hands startin’ Monday an’ want twenty men for a roundup. Say that Nevers has ten days to sell out and get out. In that time if I see him, I’ll shoot him.”
“You want to publish that?” Padjen exclaimed.
“Exactly. Also,” Blaine continued, “inform Fox that I want any stock of his off 46 range within that same ten days. That so far as I am concerned, he’s out of it if he keeps himself out.”
“He won’t,” Ortmann said.
“Maybe, but there’s his out.” Blaine drew a breath. “Now we’ve got a job. We’re goin’ to the 46 tonight.”
Chapter 19
*
IT WAS BEN Otten who carried the news to Nevers on the Big N. “So he’s goin’ back to the 46, is he?” Nevers mused. “Well, he won’t last long there.”
Ben Otten was heavy with foreboding. He had been given his walking papers by Blaine, but of that he said nothing to Nevers. The only thing that could save him now would be the death of Utah Blaine, and a sense of fatality hung heavily around him. Nevers’ confident tone failed to arouse him to optimism.
“Who’s on the 46?”
“Turley. Rink and Hoerner are on the girl’s place.”
Otten got up restlessly. “That’s bad! Folks won’t stand for any botherin’ of women. You know that Nevers. I think some of my own hands would kill a man who bothered her.”
“She’s safe with Rink. He’s mighty finicky around women. But,” Nevers looked at Otten, his eyes glistening, “I’m goin’ over there myself. That filly needs a little manhandlin’. She butted into this. Now she’ll get what she’s askin’ for.”
“Leave that girl alone!” Otten’s voice was edged. “I tell you folks won’t take it!”
“Once we’re in the saddle who can do anythin’ about it? Anyway, it’ll be blamed on Blaine. Everythin’ will.”
There was no talk of Angie Kinyon doing any talking herself. Evidently Nevers didn’t intend to leave her alive to do any talking. Ben Otten was shocked and he stared at Nevers. How far the man had come! A few weeks ago he had been ranching quietly and looking longingly at the rich miles of 46 grass. First the lynching, then the killing of Gid Blake, and the attempt on Neal. Whose idea had it been? Partly Nevers’ and partly Miller’s, he seemed to remember. But the step from killing a man and stealing his ranch to murdering a woman was a small one apparently.
He rubbed his jaw, thinking of Angie alone…and Nevers. Otten began to sweat.
Nevers went out and slammed the door behind him. Otten looked at the shotgun on the rack…Ortmann used a shotgun. He would be blamed…He hesitated, remembering the light in the bunkhouse. Anyway, why should he kill Nevers? To protect Angie…or to save her for himself?
His mouth grew dry and he gulped a cup of water, then walked to the bunkhouse. A sour-faced oldster whom he knew only by sight sat on the bunk reading. Another man was asleep on a cot. Three bunks within the range of light held no bedding at all. Otten looked at these bunks, then indicated them with a nod of his head. “Some of the hands take out?”
“Yep. Three of ’em pulled their freight this mornin’. Don’t know’s I blame ’em.”
“Why?”
“Big N’s finished.” There was something fatalistic in the old cowhand’s voice. “When Nevers took to buckin’ Blaine, he was finished. It’s in the wind.”
“He’s only one man.”
“An’ what a man. Look what’s happened. All of ’em after him. He rides over to Yellowjacket an’ whips that big bruiser of an Ortmann. Whips him to a frazzle.
“All of you again’ him. Nevers, you, Fox, Miller, Fuller an’ Rink Witter. Well, he’s out-guessed all of you. Miller’s dead. Lud Fuller is dead. Wardlaw is dead. Two, three others are dead. Now Todd an’ Peebles are dead—an’ they were hard men, believe you me. But is Blaine dead? Not so’s you’d notice it.”
“He’s been lucky.”
The oldster spat. “That ain’t luck, that’s savvy. Once it might o’ been luck, twict it might have been, but Blaine has just out-guessed an’ out-figured you ever’ jump. He just thinks an’ moves too fast for you. Besides, this here row’s goin’ to blow the lid off. Too bloody. The law will come in here an’ you fellers ain’t got a leg to stand on. Not a bit of it, you ain’t.”
The truth of this did not make it more acceptable. Otten turned away irritably. Nevers’ own hands were deserting him. He walked back to his horse and stood there, weighted down by a deep sense of desolation.
The thought of Nevers alone with Angie came to his mind again. God! What a woman she was! He remembered the easy way she moved, the line of her thigh against her dress when she rode, the whiteness of her throat at her open neck, the swell of her breasts beneath…He swung into the saddle and jerked the horse around savagely. Suddenly, he slammed his spurs into the gelding.
He’d get there only a few minutes behind him. He’d stop Rink. He would get Rink or Nevers. He would…he would kill Nevers himself. Himself…and then…and then…Viciously he jammed the spurs into the mare and went down the trail with the wind cutting his face.
He took the trail across Bloody Basin at a dead run. He would get there before Nevers could…He settled down to hard, wicked riding. Something warned him he was going to kill the horse, but he was beyond caring.
*
IN RED CREEK Ralston Forbes looked across the restaurant table at Mary Blake. They had been much together these past days. Yet now Forbes was restless. The whole country was alive with suspense and if he ever saw a powder keg ready to blow up, this country was it. Twice within the past hour he had seen men he knew as sober citizens walking down the street, wearing guns and carrying rifles or shotguns. Things were getting stirred up.
“Otten rode out of town,” Mary told him.
“He’s in it. Right up to his ears. Somebody talked an I’ve got a list of that lynch crowd. Lud Fuller was the leader, but Otten was with them just before they killed your father. He met them right afterward, too. So soon after that I know he was close by. He was just trying to be smart and keep his skirts clean.”
; “Dad always thought Otten was his friend.”
“The man’s money-hungry. It’s an obsession now. And there is none worse. It makes a man lose perspective. It’s the getting that’s important, the getting and having—not how it’s gotten.”
“What’s it come to, anyway, Rals?”
“Honor should mean more.” Forbes shrugged. “Sometimes I think people have gone crazy. The size of this country, the richness of it—it seems to drive them into a sweat to get all they can, to fight, kill, connive—so many have forgotten any other standard. Not all, fortunately, the country breeds good men and it will breed better. All these others, they’ll burn themselves out someday, expand so fast they run up against the edges and die there. Then the good men will reconstruct. It’s the advantage of having youth in a country, and a government that is pliable and adjustable to change.”
Padjen came in as they sat there. He bowed to Mary, then drew up a chair and seated himself. “I’ve been approached,” he said, “by a half-dozen of the townsmen. They want me to help them hold an election and choose a mayor, a city council, and a marshal.”
“I’m for it,” Forbes slapped his hand on the table. “It’s long overdue.”
“Who for marshal?” Padjen inquired. “You know these men. I wanted Blaine, but they wouldn’t go for that.”
“You wouldn’t expect them to. He’s one side of the argument.” Forbes considered it. “I’d roust out Rocky White.”
“Wasn’t he a Big N cowhand?”
“He’s worked for all of them, Neal, Nevers and Otten. But he’s a good man, and he’s a man who will take the job seriously. And he’s not a killer.”
“All right.”
“What will happen now, Rals? Won’t this make trouble for Utah, too?”
“It may, but even he would be for it. There’s got to be an end to this shooting and killing.”
They were silent, Ralston Forbes staring at the plate before him, his face somber. Mary looked across the table at him, moving uneasily in her chair. “What will they do, Rals?” she asked. “Will they arrest Blaine, too?”
Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) Page 14