Dodie opened her coat, revealing her can-can costume. “I’m ready.”
Mabry straightened from the wall as applause followed the end of Maggie’s act. He turned his back on the stage and started toward the door.
“He’s leaving,” Janice said. Just why, she could not have explained, but she was secretly pleased.
Dodie threw off her coat and signaled Doc Guilford at the piano for her cue. “He won’t leave,” she said pertly. “Not if he’s the man I think he is!”
She moved into the steps of the can-can, and she moved to something more than music. Janice felt her cheeks flush self-consciously. Dodie had an exciting body that she knew very well how to use, and she delighted in the admiration of men. Yet tonight she was dancing for just one man, and Janice realized it with a pang of jealousy. Angrily she turned away, but her anger was for herself. It was silly to feel as she did when she was not interested in King Mabry, or likely to be.
Yet she turned and glanced back. Mabry had stopped at the sound of the music. Joe Noss had vanished, but Art Boyle remained where he had been, the stage receiving all his attention now.
As Dodie began to sing, her tall, graceful body moving with the music, Mabry dropped his hand from the door latch and walked back to the bar. The song was in French. Not more than one or two understood the words, but of the meaning there could be no doubt. It was pert and it was saucy. Mabry watched Dodie finish her act with a last flippant twist of her hips, and then Janice went on.
She sang the old songs, the heart songs, the songs of home sung to men who had no homes. She sang of love to men who knew only the casual women of frontier towns; of lilacs in bloom, of gaslight, of walking down shady lanes, all to men who knew only the raw backs of mountains, wilderness untamed and brutal.
She sang of peace to men who walked the hairline between life and the trigger finger. And she won them there as she never could have won them back East, where all that she sang of was available and present.
Tom Healy came to the bar and watched her, knowing with a sort of desperation that for him there could be no other girl; yet he knew she had never thought of him as husband or lover.
She was all he had ever wanted, all he could ever want.
“Ever been married, King?” he asked.
“Is it likely?”
“Neither have I.”
Barker came into the room and paused, rolling a cigar between his lips as he watched Janice. From the corner of his mouth he spoke to Art Boyle, and Boyle turned instantly and left the room.
Barker crossed to the bar. Ignoring Mabry, he spoke to Healy. “The weather’s broken. If you’re ready, we can move out the first of the week.”
“We’ll be ready.”
Healy had no enthusiasm in him. This was what he had wanted, but watching the girl who sang, he was uneasy. He had no right to take her off into the winter, to risk her life, or the lives of the others.
“Boyle’s at work with another man. They’ll get runners on the wagons. Then we can move.”
Healy glanced at Mabry, but the gun fighter’s face told him nothing.
“We’ll need supplies,” Barker added.
Healy drew his sack purse from his pocket and shook out three gold coins. Barker accepted them, his eyes estimating the sack.
Mabry turned abruptly and went outside. His shadow merged into the blackness near the station and he looked at the sky. Tomorrow he must go on to Cheyenne. It was as well. This was not his business.
The clouds had broken. It was warmer, and the wind had gone down. Behind the barn he could see the glow of lanterns. He crossed to the barn, the snow crunching under his heels.
Inside, the barn was lighted by the glow of two lanterns hanging from a two-by-four that ran down the center. He walked back to his horse, put more feed in the box, and checked the position of his saddle. For a long time he stood there, his hand on the cold leather.
It was not his business. Healy should know what he was doing. And he could be wrong about Barker.
Nevertheless, it was a fool play, starting into that country in the dead of winter with three women and wagons that heavy. And no roads…only horse trails at best. There was no way they could make it in less than a month, and it might take twice that.
Yet he remembered the light on Janice’s face, and remembered her voice, reaching back into his boyhood with her songs. He swore softly. He should saddle up and get out. It was no place for him. No business of his. Healy was a good sort, but he was a fool.
Outside he could hear the voices and the hammering as the workmen removed wheels and put on runners.
The hostler came from his quarters in the corner of the barn.
“Them actors ain’t showin’ much sense.”
Mabry made no comment.
“Rough country. No proper trails. An’ they’ll be buckin’ the north wind most of the way.”
“Know this man Barker?”
The hostler’s talkative mood seemed to dissipate. He cleared his throat. “Gettin’ late.” He turned away, too quickly. “I better get some sleep.”
Outside Mabry struck a match and looked at the thermometer. It was only two degrees below zero. Much better than the forty below it had been. By day, with the sun out, it would be good traveling.
No reason for him to interfere, and he had no time even if he wanted to. He was due in Cheyenne within forty-eight hours and he was not going to make it unless he rode the clock around. He had no business getting involved in whatever Barker was up to. Yet the thought rankled.…
DAY BROKE COLD and clear, but infinitely warmer than it had been for the past week. Mabry rolled out of bed with the first light and dressed swiftly. Nobody was awakened by his movements, and, gathering his gear, he stepped out into the passage.
Across the hall there were soft movements. He went into the empty saloon and, still carrying his gear, on to the dining room.
Williams was there, huddled over a pot of coffee, and Mabry picked up a cup and joined him.
The cook brought in their breakfast and Williams handed the coffeepot to Mabry. “You got to watch that Benton,” Williams volunteered. “Griffin, too. They won’t forget.”
“Neither will I.”
Janice came into the room suddenly, glancing at the two men. She sat down a little to one side, accepting her breakfast from the cook.
“You’re leaving?”
At her question, Mabry nodded. Deliberately he tried to avoid conversation, but Janice persisted.
“You don’t approve of our trip, do you?”
“No.” He put down his cup. “None of my business.”
“Why don’t you approve?”
He said nothing, but continued to eat. Janice waited several minutes, then said, “I asked you why.”
“No trip for women. Be bitter cold.”
“And you don’t like Andy Barker.”
“That’s right. I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“No man goes off on a trip like that in winter unless something’s wrong about it.”
“You’re traveling.”
He smiled briefly, without humor. “And something’s wrong. I’ve business in Cheyenne. After that, I’m on my own.”
She considered that, then said, “I’ll trust Tom Healy. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Maybe.” He got up, not wanting to continue. “And maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Talking about me?”
Tom Healy stood in the doorway. There was no humor in him now. He walked on into the room and faced Mabry across the table. When he spoke his voice was low but positive.
“This company is my business. We won’t do any business between Cheyenne and Salt Lake with bigger companies ahead of us. We’re going to Alder Gulch. You don’t think I know what I’m doing. I do.”
“None of my business. You handle it your way.”
He gathered his gear and went out the door with Healy looking after him. More than anything else, H
ealy wanted Mabry with them, respecting the knowledge the other man possessed, knowledge and experience he dearly needed. Yet it was not in him to ask. Had Janice not been there, he might have suggested it, but having seen the way she looked at Mabry, Healy knew he did not want Mabry along.
At the door, Mabry turned. He looked past Healy at Janice and said, “Luck.”
His shoulders filled the doorway as he went out. For several minutes after he was gone nobody said anything.
“Knew him in Dodge,” Williams said suddenly, “and again in Utah. He’s salty.”
“Has he really killed so many men?”
“He has. Killed one at Doan’s store. Fellow name of Les Benham was going to cut Mabry’s herd. Mabry said he wasn’t.”
“Did they cut it?”
“Too busy burying Les Benham.”
ACROSS THE ROAD in a small cabin Griffin looked up from his bunk. His shoulder was on the mend, but he was feeling weak.
Barker nodded toward the curtained doorway. “Anybody in there?”
“We’re alone. What’s on your mind?”
“Two hundred fast dollars for you.”
“Never started a conversation better.” Griffin sat up and began to roll a smoke. “What’s the story?”
“Two hundred dollars if Mabry doesn’t last out the week.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want to spend the money I make.”
“Scared?” Barker sneered.
“You bet I am. I don’t want any part of him.”
“Three hundred?”
Griffin said nothing and Barker waited. He did not want to go higher, but remembering Janice, he knew that more than money was involved. He had rarely wanted one woman more than another, but he wanted this one.
Moreover, there was three hundred in that small sack of Healy’s, and if the information from his spy in the bank was correct, there was fifteen thousand in gold hidden in those show wagons.
Mabry might ride away, but Barker was no gambler. And he had seen the way Mabry and Janice looked at each other. There was no place in his plans for interference by a man of Mabry’s caliber.
“No,” Griffin said at last, “I won’t touch it.”
“I’d think you’d hate his guts.”
“Mabry?” Griffin’s eyes were venomous. “I do. I’d kill him in a minute if it was safe.”
“There’s no reason he should even see you.”
Griffin stared at the comforter on the bed. He hated snow and cold, and with money in his pocket he could go to California. California would be nice this time of year. He’d worked for Hunter quite a spell, or he would never have gone after Mabry for him, but knowing Hunter, he did not want to return and report his failure. The old man had a reputation as an honest cattleman and he did not like hired gunmen who were able to talk. But California was no good to a dead man.
“They wouldn’t find him until spring,” Barker argued, “if they ever found him. You could be a hundred yards off, and if you missed you’d have time for another shot.”
Mabry had only two hands. He was only a man, and Griffin had never been bested with a rifle. Bellied down in the snow with a good field of fire…
Griffin threw his cigarette into the fire. “I’d want it in gold.”
“Half tonight, the rest when the job is done.”
Barker must feel those wagons carried real money. Maybe he could get in on…No, not where women were involved. You could steal horses and kill sheep, you could even murder a man in broad daylight and have a chance, but if you molested a decent woman you were in real trouble.
He shoved a chunk of wood into the potbellied stove. What kind of a man had he become? Once he would have shot a man for even suggesting that he hire his gun. Now was he ready to take money for murder? With Hunter, the brand had been involved, a ranch he was riding for. But this was murder.
Where was it a man made the turn? What happened to change him? He had once been a kid with ideals.…
“All right,” he said, “get me the money.”
That was the kind of man he had become.
Chapter 5
KING MABRY HAD been absent five days when he crossed the creek again and rode up to Hat Creek Stage Station. He told himself he was a fool to return here and to half kill a horse and himself to do it. Yet the thought of Healy’s taking off into the winter with those women angered him.
The least he could do was ride along and see that they made it. After all, he was going in that general direction himself.
Yet when the station came in sight there were no vans and no evidence of activity.
Suddenly worried, he came down the hill at a spanking trot. At the barn he swung around behind it. The vans were gone!
The hostler came to the door as he swung down. “That black of yours is gettin’ mighty restless. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“When did they pull out?”
“The show folks?” The hostler stoked his pipe. “Day after you did. Barker, he was in a fret to get off. They figured on leavin’ today, but he’d have it no way but to start right off. Said the weather was just right.”
Mabry looked at the snow-covered fields. He could see the ruts in the snow left by sled runners.
“Switch saddles,” he said. “I’ll be riding.”
The hostler hesitated. “That there Griffin,” he said, looking carefully around, “he’s been askin’ after you. Ever’ day he comes to see is your horse still here.”
Crossing to the stage station, Mabry ate hurriedly and got what supplies he would need. As he went through the saloon he saw Griffin sitting at a table idly riffling cards.
Following the southern slope of the hills, Mabry rode westward. The air was crisp and cold. There was no wind and the smoke of the chimneys at Hat Creek had lifted straight into the sky. The black horse was impatient, tugging at the bit. “Going home, boy?” Mabry asked him. “Back to Wind River?”
Rising over the crest of a hill, the black’s ears went up suddenly and Mabry turned in the saddle to look where the horse was looking.
Nothing.…
He was not fooled. The black horse was mountain bred, born to wild country. He had seen or smelled something.
Mabry swung down the slope to the edge of the trees and skirted the timber, keeping the line of trees between himself and the direction of the horse’s attention.
This was an old game, one he had played too often to be easily trapped. Whoever was out there must be trailing the vans or himself. He changed direction several times, avoiding snow fields and keeping to hard ground.
Barker had camped at Lance Creek the first night out. Seeing that, Mabry pushed on. The black horse ate up space and that night they camped at a spot Mabry chose as he rode past. Riding by, he swung wide and circled back, camping where he could watch his own trail.
He made shelter for himself and his horse in a matter of minutes. He cut partly through a small tree, then broke it over to the ground, trimming out the branches on the under side, leaving those on top and at the sides. The cut branches he piled on top or wove into the sides. With other boughs he made a bed inside on the snow.
He tied his horse under a thick-needled evergreen close by, then wove branches into the brush for a windbreak.
Over a small fire he made coffee and a thick stew. When he had eaten he rolled in his blankets and closed his eyes for sleep.
Before he slept he thought of Janice. Yet it was foolish to think. What could there be with him for any girl? He was a warrior in a land growing tame.
The wind rose and moaned low in the evergreens. The coals of the fire glowed deeply red against the dark. Irritably he thought of Healy and the company up ahead. They were making good time, getting farther and farther from any possible help or interference, farther into this wide, white land of snow and loneliness. Barker had rushed them out of Hat Creek…to get them away before Mabry returned?
Most men would not have taken that ride to Cheyenne, but he had ac
cepted the job offered in good faith, and only after he arrived in Deadwood did he discover that he had been hired for his gun rather than for his knowledge of cattle.
He had been hired to ramrod a tough cow outfit, which was all right, but it meant pushing the Sioux off their hunting grounds and killing any that objected. He had been hired because of his reputation, and he wanted no part of it.
He said as much in Cheyenne. That was what he told Old Man Hunter when he told him what he could do with his job. And what he would do if Hunter sent any more killers after him.
A cold branch rattled its frozen fingers. Snow whispered against the boughs of his shelter. He slept.
DURING THE BRIEF halt when they stopped the teams for a breather at the top of a long hill, Tom Healy ran ahead and rapped on the door of the women’s wagon.
Dodie opened the door and he scrambled in. His face was red with cold, but he was smiling.
Inside the wagon the air was warm and close. Along one side were two bunks, narrow but sufficient. On the other side was one bunk and a table that was no more than a shelf. On it was a washbasin and a small cask filled with water. In the front of the wagon was a potbellied stove.
Under the bunks were chests for the packing of clothing. At the end of each bunk was a small closet for hanging clothes. It was neat, compact, and well ordered.
The van in which the two men rode was built along the same lines, but with just two bunks and more storage space. In each van there were two lanterns, an ax, and a shovel. In each van there was stored a considerable supply of food, with the larger amount in the van where the men lived. On top of each van was a canvas-covered roll of old backdrops and scenes used in some of the various melodramas that were the troupe’s stock in trade.
“Frosty out there,” Healy said.
“We’re making good time, aren’t we?” Janice asked.
“Better than on wheels. The snow’s frozen over and we’re moving right along.”
He did not add what was on his mind, that they had better make good time. As long as the surface was hard, they could keep going, and so far the horses had found grass enough, but the distance was beginning to seem interminable. For the first time Healy was realizing what distance meant in the West.
Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Page 4