“I don’t know. All of them—they are aroused. I could see it coming. They’ve nothing against Blaine. They know he didn’t start it, and they realize his claim to the 46 is just and legal. But his reputation is against him. After all, he’s a gunfighter and known as one.”
“Have you seen Rip?” she asked then.
“He’s a little better. He had his eyes open today and was conscious when they fed him. He went right off to sleep again.”
Mary Blake got to her feet. “Rals, I’m worried about Angie. She’s out there on that ranch. A few weeks ago I’d not have worried. But the way things are, anything might happen.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Yes, we were talking about her. Padjen and I.” He walked restlessly down the room while Mary waited. All her animosity for Angie was gone. It had been a transient thing, born of her sudden need for the strong hands and will of Utah Blaine and her need for the ranch—the need for revenge for her father’s murder.
Now, since she had been so much with Rals Forbes, her feelings had changed. He was like Blaine, but different. Without Blaine’s drive and fury, without some of his strength, but with a purpose behind his will that was equally definite.
“We’ll get a posse, Padjen,” Forbes said suddenly, “we’ll ride out there.”
“Wait a minute. No use to go off half-cocked. I’ve sent for Rocky White.”
There was silence in the room. The waiter came in and refilled their coffee cups. Forbes was somber and lonely in his thinking, Padjen absorbed. After a few minutes Kent, who owned a general store, came in. With him was Dan Corbitt, the blacksmith, and Doc Ryan.
Rocky White came at last. He was a tall, rawboned young man with a serious face and strong hands. “This right?” He looked around. “You want me for town marshal?”
“That’s right.” Forbes did the talking. “We’ve met and agreed that you’re the man for the job. You run things here in town. See the violence stops, guns are checked upon entry of the town limits. No fighting, no damaging of property, protection for citizens.”
“How about outside of town?”
“I was coming to that. Angie Kinyon is out there on her place. It isn’t safe. We’re going out there to get her. If we run into any fighting we’ll stop it and make arrests. We’ll bring Angie back here.”
White nodded slowly. Then he looked around. “My pa was a J.P., and he was sheriff one time. I reckon I know my duties, but you better understand me. I’ll kill nobody where it can be avoided. I’ll make peaceful arrests when I can—but when I can’t, will you back me?”
“To the hilt!” Kent said emphatically. “It’s time we had law and order here!”
Forbes nodded agreement as did the others. Then Rocky White looked around. “One more thing. What about Utah Blaine?”
“What about him?”
“He’s right friendly with you, Forbes. An’ I understand Padjen here represents him legally. I’ll play no favorites. If he has to be arrested, I arrest him, too.”
Forbes nodded. “That’s right.”
White shifted his feet. “Understand me. I’ve no quarrel with Blaine. I quit my ridin’ job because I believed he was right. I still believe it. There was no call to grab all that range, an’ Blaine had a right to fight for it. However, if we can make peace at all, it will have to include him.”
“Right.”
Rocky White shoved back from the table. “Then we’ll ride.”
*
TURLEY FIXED A meal and ate it, then rousted around until he found a bottle of whiskey. Pouring himself a drink, he walked out to the veranda where he could watch the trail in both directions. He had been on the ranch for several hours and he was restless. He wanted to know what was going on.
He sat on the porch drinking whiskey and smoking, his eyes alert. A thousand dollars for killing Blaine—it was more money than he had ever had in his life. And Blaine would probably come here, to the 46.
Returning to the kitchen, he picked up the bottle and walked back through the house to the porch again. His eyes drifted toward the trail and stopped, his brow puckered. Was that dust?
Rifle in hand he walked to the edge of the porch, then came down the steps. He had heard no sound. If it was dust there was little of it. Maybe a dust devil.
The incident made him nervous. It was too quiet here. He held his rifle in his hands and looked slowly around the ranch yard. All was very still.
“Hell,” he said aloud, “I’m gettin’ jumpy as a woman.”
Rifle in the crook of his arm he strolled down to the corral and forked hay to the horses. He watched them eating for several minutes, then turned and walked lazily back to the shelter of a huge tree. He sat down on the seat that skirted the tree, his eyes searching the edge of the woods, the corners of the buildings—everywhere. Nothing.
It was unlike him to be nervous. He got up again and started for the house. A noise made him turn. Nothing. A leaf brushed along the ground ahead of some casual movement of air. Irritably, he started again for the house and mounted the steps. He opened the door of hide strips and seated himself in the cool depths of the porch.
He poured another drink. Warmth crept through his veins and he felt better. Much better. Suddenly, he got up. Why the hell hadn’t they left somebody here with him? It was still as death. Not even a bird chirping…not a quail.
The cicadas were not even singing their hymn to the sun. A horse stamped and blew in the corral. Turley passed his hand over his face. He was sweating. Well, it was hot. He poured another drink…good whiskey…he placed the glass down and looked carefully around, eyes searching the edge of the trees. All was quiet, not a leaf moved.
Suddenly he heard a sound of a horse on the trail. It was coming at a canter. He got up hastily and walked to the edge of the porch, then down the steps. The horse was still out of sight among the trees. Then the horse came nearer, passed the trees and was behind the stable. Then it rounded the stable and rode up in the yard. Turley could not get a glimpse of the man’s face under his hat brim. The man swung down and trailed the reins. He stepped around the horse and Turley stared. It was Utah Blaine.
Turley was astonished. He had never for an instant doubted the rider was a friend. No other, he reasoned, would ride into the yard so calmly. But here it was. He had wanted Blaine’s scalp, wanted that thousand dollars—Here it stood! A tall man with two good hands and two guns that had killed twenty men or more.
“You’re Turley?”
It was an effort to speak. Turley’s throat was dry. “Yeah, I’m Turley.”
“A couple of friends of yours came out on the short end of a gun scrap in Red Creek, Turley. Todd an’ Peebles.”
“Dead?” Turley stared uneasily, wishing he was still back on the porch. The sun was very hot. Why had he drunk that whiskey? A man couldn’t be sure of his movements when he was drinking. “You kill ’em?”
“Only Todd. Peebles tried to make a sure thing of it from a doorway but there was a man behind him with a shotgun. Ortmann was back there. Nearly tore Peebles in two.”
“Why tell me?” Turley was trying to muster the nerve to lift his rifle. Could he move fast enough?
“Figured you’d like to know, Turley,” Blaine said softly. “It might keep you alive. You see, Ortmann is behind you right now, an’ holding that same shotgun.”
Cold little quivers jumped the muscles in the back of Turley’s neck as Ortmann spoke. “That’s right, man. An’ I’m not in line with Blaine. Want to drop your guns or gamble? Your choice.”
Turley was afraid to move. Suppose they thought he was going to gamble? Suddenly, life looked very bright. He swallowed with care. “I never bucked no stacked deck,” he said. “I’m out of it.”
Carefully, he dropped his rifle, then his belt gun. He looked to Blaine for orders.
“Get on your horse, Turley,” Blaine said, “an’ ride. If you ever show around here again we’ll hang you.”
Turley was shaken. “You—you’re lettin�
�� me go?”
“That’s right—but go fast—before we change our minds.”
Turley broke into a stumbling run for his horse. Pine…that was where…he would head for Pine…then south and east for Silver City. Anywhere away from here…
Chapter 20
*
ANGIE WAS FRIGHTENED and she was careful. There was an old pistol, a Navy revolver her father had left behind him. It was on a shelf in a closet, in a wooden box, and fully loaded. Her awareness of the gun did a little to ease her fear, yet she made no move to get it. She had no good place to conceal the weapon and did not want to go for it until the move was absolutely essential.
She had taken the measure of Rink Witter within a few hours after his arrival. He treated her with a deference that would have been surprising had she not known Western men. Rink was a Westerner—utterly vicious in combat, ruthless as a killer, yet with an innate respect for a good woman.
Hoerner was not of this type. Angie also knew that. When she fixed her hair she deliberately dressed it as plainly as possible and did what she could to render herself less attractive. The task was futile. She was a beautiful girl, dark-eyed and full of breast with a way of walking that was as much a part of her as her soft, rather full lips.
Hoerner was a big man, hair-chested and deep of voice. His eyes followed her constantly, but she knew that as long as Rink was present, she was safe. Nor would Hoerner make the slightest move toward her when Rink was around. The gunman was notoriously touchy, and Hoerner was far too wise to risk angering him.
Rink Witter was possessed of an Indian-like patience. Blaine’s note had said he would be back and without doubt he would be. Rink sensed that Angie Kinyon was in love with Utah, and he respected her for it. Despite the fact that he intended to kill Blaine, and would take satisfaction in so doing, he was an admirer of the man. Utah Blaine was a fighter, and that was something Rink could appreciate.
When he saw the dust on the trail he did not rise. He sat very still and watched. Yet he knew, long before the man’s features or the details of his clothing were visible, that it was not Blaine. This angered him.
Whoever it was, the rider should not be coming here. There was no reason for anyone coming here. The dust or tracks might worry Blaine into being overly cautious. And Rink expected Utah to take no chances, but now he became bothered.
The rider was Nevers. He rode into the yard and swung down from his horse. Rink came to his feet and swore softly, bitterly. Nevers was headed for the door, having left the horse standing there in the open! The fool! Who did he think Utah was, a damn’ tenderfoot?
Nevers pushed open the door, looking quickly around for Angie. “Where’s that girl?” he demanded.
“Other room.” Rink jerked his head. “What’s the matter? You gone crazy? If Blaine saw that horse he’d never ride in here.”
“Blaine’s headed for the 46. That’s the place to get him. You and Hoerner get on over there.”
Rink did not like it. He did not like any part of it. “He’s comin’ here. He left a note.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. Otten saw him in town. He told Ben he was takin’ the 46 into camp. That he was movin’ on and wasn’t goin’ to move off.”
That made sense, but still Rink did not like the setup. Nor did he like Nevers’ manner. What was wrong he could not guess, but something was. Then he thought of another thing. “Otten saw Blaine in town? Where were my men?”
Nevers restrained himself with impatience. To tip his hand now would be foolhardy. Rink would never stand for anything like he had in mind. “Your men?” Despite himself his voice was edged with anger. “A lot of good they did! Blaine an’ Ortmann wiped ’em out. Blaine killed Todd an’ when Peebles tried to cut in, Ortmann took him.”
That demanded an explanation of Ortmann’s presence with Blaine. Nevers replied shortly, irritably. Hoerner watched him, smoking quietly. Hoerner was not fooled. He could guess why Nevers was here and what he had in mind.
Rink hesitated, searching for the motivation behind Nevers’ apparent anxiety or irritation. He failed. He shrugged. “All right, we’ll go to the 46. Turley’s there. If Blaine rides in, Turley should get one shot at him, at least.”
Rink turned and jerked his head at Hoerner. The big man hesitated, looking at Nevers. “You sure you want me?” he asked softly. “Maybe I’d better stay here.”
Nevers’ head swung and he glared at Hoerner. “You ride to the 46!” he said furiously. “Who’s payin’ you?”
“You are,” Hoerner said, “long as I take the wages. Maybe I aim to stop.”
Rink Witter stared from one to the other. “You comin’ with me?” he asked Hoerner. “Or are you scared of Blaine?”
Hoerner turned sharply, his face flushing. “You know damn’ well I’m scared of nobody!” He caught up his hat and rifle. “Let’s go!” At the door he paused. “Maybe we’ll be back mighty soon,” he said to Nevers.
Nevers stood in the doorway and watched them go. Then he turned swiftly. Angie Kinyon stood in the door from the kitchen. “Oh? Have they gone?”
“Yeah.” Nevers’ voice was thick and something in its tone tingled a bell of warning in Angie’s brain.
She looked at him carefully. She had never liked Nevers. He was a cold, unpleasant man. She could sense the animal in it, but it had nothing of the clean, hard fire there was in Utah Blaine. Nevers’ neck was thick, his shoulders wide and sloping. He stared across the table at her. “You get into a man, Angie.” he said thickly. “You upset a man.”
“Do I?” Angie Kinyon knew what she was facing now, and her mind was cool. This had been something she had been facing since she was fourteen, and there had always been a way out. But Russ Nevers was different tonight—something was riding him hard.
“You know you do,” Nevers said. “What did you want to tie in with Blaine for?”
“Utah Blaine’s the best man of you all,” she said quietly. “He stands on his own feet, not behind a lot of hired gunmen.”
Red crept up Nevers’ neck and cruelty came into his eyes. He wanted to get his hands on this girl, to teach her a lesson. “You think I’m afraid of him?” he demanded contemptuously. Yet the ring of his voice sounded a little empty.
“I know you are,” Angie said quietly. “You’re no fool, Russ Nevers. Only a fool would not be afraid of Blaine.”
He dropped into a chair and looked across the table at her. “Give me some of that coffee,” he commanded.
She looked at him, then walked to the stove and picked up the pot. Choosing a cup, she filled it. But instead of coming around the table as he had expected, she handed it across to him. He tried to grasp her wrist and she spilled a little of the almost boiling coffee on his hand.
With a cry of pain he jerked back the hand, pressing it to his lips. “Damn’ you! I think you done that a-purpose!”
“Why, Mr. Nevers! How you talk!” she mocked.
He glared at her. Then suddenly he started around the table. “Time somebody took that out of you!” he said. “An’ I aim to do it!” Swiftly she evaded his grasp and swung around the table.
“You’d look very foolish if somebody came in,” she said. “And what would you do if Blaine rode up?”
He stopped, his face red with fury. Yet her words somehow penetrated his rage. At the same time he realized that he had deliberately separated himself from all help! Suppose Blaine did come?
Coolly, Angie took the note she had picked up from where Rink had thrown it. She tossed it across the table. “How does that make you feel?” she asked. “You know what would happen if Blaine found you trying to bother me.”
“He won’t find us,” he said thickly. “They’ll get him at the 46!”
Yet even as they talked several things were happening at once. Ben Otten was racing over the last mile to the cabin on the river, while Lee Fox, with two riders, was closing in from the north. He had left his post, watching for Blaine, and had taken a brief swing around through the h
ills. Reining in, at the edge of the trees, he looked down and saw the horse standing in the yard. And then he saw a second rider come racing down to the ford and start into the river. Lee Fox spoke quickly and rode down the trail.
In Red Creek six deputies with shotguns were stationed at six points in the town. Their job was to keep the peace. Before the hotel fifteen men were mounted and waiting. And then Rocky White came out, followed by Padjen and Forbes. All mounted.
A tough gunhand who had come drifting into the valley hunting a job, filled his glass. He looked over at the bartender. “One for the road!” he said.
“You leavin’?”
The gunhand jerked his head toward the street. “See them gents ridin’ out of town? Those are good people, an’ they are mad, good an’ mad! Mister, I been in lots of scraps, but when the average folks get sore, that’s time to hit the trail! Ten minutes an’ you won’t see me for dust!”
*
BEN OTTEN RACED up the trail just as Nevers started after Angie the second time. Nevers stopped just as she reached the door into the next room. He stopped and heard the pound of hoofs. His face went blank, then white. He grabbed for a gun and ran to the door. He was just in time to see a man swing down from a horse and lunge at the steps. Nevers was frightened. He threw up his gun and pulled it down, firing as he did so.
Ben Otten saw the dark figure in the door, saw the gun blossom with a rose of fire, and felt something slug him in the stomach. His toe slipped off the first step and he fell face down, and then rolled over and over in the dust.
Russ Nevers rushed out, his gun lifted for another shot. He froze in place, staring down at the fallen man.
Ben Otten!
Angie heard his grunt of surprise, but she was pulling the box down from the shelf of the closet. Lifting out the gun she concealed it under her apron and walked back to the kitchen.
Russ Nevers was on the steps and he heard her feet. He turned, staring blankly at her. “It’s Otten,” he said dully. “I’ve killed Ben Otten.”
He was still staring when Fox rode into the yard with his men. He looked down at Otten, then at Nevers. “What did you shoot him for?” he asked wonderingly.
Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) Page 15