When he came to the canyon he had to take th e trail, and it was then his horse shied. He dre w up, trusting his horse. He sat the saddl e silently, listening to the night. At first he hear d no sound, and then only a brushing whisper, as of a horse walking past brush that touched his saddle a s he went by.
Mike Shevlin stayed still and waited. He wa s anxious to be back at the claim, and he wa s irritated at this interruption. There was a fain t gray in the far sky, hinting at the dawn that woul d come soon.
Then he saw the horse, a horse with a n empty saddle, head up, looking toward him. Th e horse whinnied, and his own replied. Coldly , he still waited, his Winchester up and ready for a quic k shot.
Nothing happened. ...
He walked his horse nearer, and saw the whit e line of the trail, and something dark that lay sprawle d there. Shevlin had seen many such dark sprawlings i n the night, and he knew what lay there. He stepped down from the saddle, for his horse warned hi m of no other danger.
He knelt and turned the man over on hi s back. Then he struck a match, and looked into th e wide-open dead eyes of Gib Gentry.
Shevlin struck another match. The front o f Gib's shirt, where the bullet had emerged, wa s dark with blood, almost dry now. In the flare of th e match he saw something else.
Gib had crawled after he had fallen. He had crawled four or five feet, and one hand wa s outstretched toward a patch of brush.
Striking yet another match, Shevli n looked at that outstretched hand and saw, draw n shakily in the sand under the edge of the brush: She v look out. Lon C--The last word trailed off into a meaningles s scrawl.
Shevlin straightened up and looked around. Eve n in the few minutes since he had first seen th e horse, it had grown faintly light, and the countr y around was slowly defining itself. The half-hour befor e daybreak brought out a pale gray world with dar k patches of brush. Only one or two lat e stars showed in the sky.
Leaving his own horse, he walked to Gentry's mount. There was blood on the saddle, blood dow n one side of the skirt. Walking still further back , Shevlin saw where the horse had shied at th e bullet, and there he found a spot or two o f blood. Gentry had come no more than a doze n yards before toppling from the saddle.
Mike Shevlin pushed his hat back and lifte d his face to the fresh coolness of the morning breeze.
He looked about him.
There were no other tracks. The hidden marksma n had been sure of his shot, or else he had no t dared to risk a closer approach to make certai n of a kill.
Gib Gentry was dead--but how did that fi t into the larger picture? Gentry had been Stowe's strong right hand. Why should he be killed? Gentr y had owned the express and freight line, and was necessar y to any movement of gold. Looked at coldly , his death was inopportune. The time for it was not now.
Shevlin did not trust Stowe, and he was sur e that Stowe would kill any man with whom he ha d to share as soon as that man was no longer necessary. Bu t as Shevlin saw it, Gentry was necessary. ... An d why kill him here?
He might have been followed from town, and if h e had been killed intentionally, he obviously ha d been followed. But this was not a place where Gentr y would normally come, so far as Shevlin knew.
So what was the alternative? Gentry must hav e been killed by mistake. Shot in the dark , mistaken for someone else.
What someone? The answer was plain. For Mik e Shevlin himself.
That also made sense of Gentry's message.
Gib had been riding to warn him, and he had bee n mistaken for Shevlin and killed.
Lon C-- ... Shevlin kne w no such name. Yet Gib had evidently thought th e name would mean something to him, or he would not have trie d so hard to write it.
With the toe of his boot, Shevlin erased the nam e written in the sand. Then he hoisted Gib's body to the saddle, tied it there, and hung th e bridle reins over the pommel. Gentry's horse would go home.
All was dark and silent when he rode up to th e claim. He stripped the rig from his horse an d picketed it on a grassy slope near th e spring, where it could drink from the run-off. He waited in the darkness, listening. After a while h e walked back to the cabin and turned in.
He awakened with the sun shining in his eyes through th e open door. Burt Parry was standing outside , looking up the canyon, a peculiar expressio n on his face. For some reason that expressio n surprised Mike Shevlin.
At that instant Parry seemed anything but th e casual man he had been before. He was holding hi s Winchester in a position to throw it to his shoulde r for a quick shot.
Unable to restrain his curiosity, Shevli n swung his feet to the floor. The bunk creaked an d Parry looked around quickly.
"Thought I saw a deer," Parry said, lowerin g the rifle. "We could use some venison."
"Now that's an idea!" Shevlin exclaimed.
"How about me going for a hunt?"
Parry chuckled. "You tired of mucking already?
I'll have another round of shots ready to fir e almost any time." He took Shevlin's appearanc e in at a glance. "You look like you could use som e sleep. What time did you get in?"
"Daybreak, or thereabouts."
He expected a comment on the happenings i n town, but none came. He volunteered nothing , and the two men ate breakfast, talking idly of th e mining claim and Parry's plans for doing som e exploration work in an effort to find the lode h e hoped would lie deeper in the mountain.
There was only one explanation for Parry's lack of interest: he simply did not know wha t had happened in town. And that meant he had not bee n in Rafter at all.
Where, then, had he been?
Chapter 11
Deliberately, Mike Shevlin offered n o comment on the happenings in Rafter, and Bur t Parry asked no questions. But Mike knew that th e town and all the country around must be talking wit h excitement about the killing of Eve Bancroft.
The killing of a girl in a western town was itsel f enough to start such talk, but Eve Bancroft was owne r of the Three Sevens. It was not the largest ranch i n that region, but it was one of the big ones.
As he worked, Mike Shevlin tried to find a way through this situation, but there seemed to be none.
He had attempted to stir up the hornet's nest, but the cattlemen and Ray Hollister ha d done more than he ever could have. Yet nothing in th e situation had changed.
A girl was dead. Ray Hollister wa s disgraced. Eve Bancroft had called upon hi m to back his words with action and he had welshed. He had hung back, and Eve had ridden to her death.
What they might have done had Hoyt not bee n there, Shevlin could not guess. Hoyt could sto p them, as he never could have stopped Eve, for to lif t his hand against a girl, a decent girl, wa s unthinkable to a man of Hoyt's stripe. And Be n Stowe, solid, unshaken, still sat his throne in th e center of the community.
Shevlin's thoughts returned to Gib Gentry.
Without a doubt, Gib had been riding to warn hi m when he was killed, and without a doubt he had bee n killed mistake for Shevlin. Somebody had bee n lying in wait, and by now that somebody knew he ha d killed the wrong man.
Each time Shevlin wheeled a load to the end of th e dump, he took his time to breathe in plenty of th e fresh air, and to look around. It was very quiet.
Parry had gone off again, and Mike was alone a t the claim, but there was work enough to keep him bus y until mid-afternoon, barring the unexpected.
He wondered what effect Eve's death would hav e on the people of Rafter. They were not all bad--i n fact, they were no worse than most people in mos t towns. Perhaps a few more had been willing to g o along than would usually be found, but there must have bee n some dissenting opinions, even though the people who hel d those opinions had kept still.
Such fear as he had seen in Rafter could no t continue very long. The people were wary, they doubted ever y stranger; they lived with the worry that at any momen t the house they had built would come tumblin g about their ears.
He was working close against the face of th
e drift , scraping up the last of the rock, when it cam e to him.
Lon Court ...
Of course. He had heard the name. Gentr y had scratched Lon C into the sand before h e died, and Shevlin remembered that he had onc e heard talk of Lon Court, a killer, a ma n who worked for big cattle outfits, or anyon e else who had need of his services. A m ysterious, solitary man who could be hire d to kill. He was just such a man as Ben Stowe woul d have hired.
Undoubtedly Court had scouted the minin g claim. He might even now be lying up on th e lip of the canyon across from the tunnel mouth, and with ever y barrow of rock Shevlin had wheeled out he ha d been a sitting duck.
There was no longer any hesitation in Mik e Shevlin, for he knew now what he must do. He must get out of the tunnel and get to his guns, an d he must get out of the canyon, which was a death tra p with a man like Court stalking him. And then he mus t find Court and kill him.
There was no alternative, no other wa y possible, for Court would never quit once he ha d undertaken a job. He, Mike Shevlin, mus t hunt the hunter, stalk the killer, and he mus t kill him.
He put down his shovel. The last barrow coul d stand where it was. There was, of course, a chance tha t Lon Court was not waiting on the hil l opposite; he certainly would not be unless there wa s an easy escape from it. Trust a killer lik e Lon Court to take no unnec risk.
Shevlin went as far along the tunnel as h e could without getting into the sunlight, and then h e squatted down and peered out, keeping well in th e shadow. By squatting, he could see the rim withou t going further. He stayed there and studied it for a long time.
No brush grew on the rim, and there were n o boulders, no spot where water had cut into the ri m and made a place where a man might li e concealed. Flattening himself tight to the wall , Shevlin worked his way to the tunnel mouth. Then h e emerged quickly and went toward the cabin, makin g three sudden turns for objects in his path , turns sufficient to make timing hi s movements awkward for anyone watching. Onc e inside the cabin, he stripped off his shirt , washed his chest and shoulders, then combed his hair, an d belted on his gun. He thrust a secon d six-shooter into his waistband and took up hi s rifle.
The black horse was picketed on the gras s near the spring, but the killer must descend into th e canyon to get a good shot at him there. Mik e Shevlin did not think Lon Court would take suc h a gamble.
He went to his horse, took the saddle from a shelf in the rock close by, and saddled up. Th e horse tugged toward the run-off stream, so whil e he let the gelding drink, Shevlin listened.
That canyon worried him, and he recalled th e sudden cessation of sound from the birds that he ha d noticed. Something--and he was sure it had been a man--had walked up that canyon in the lat e afternoon.
Leaving the black with trailing reins, he wen t down to the bottom of the canyon and worked his wa y across it. Here and there were the tracks of smal l animals ... a porcupine or badger whos e tracks were somewhat smudged ... many quai l tracks ... the tracks of a prowling coyot e ... and on the far side where a dim trail woun d under the rim, the smudged tracks of a tal l man's boots.
So someone had gone up the canyon. Th e tracks were a day or two old; but searchin g further, he found other, more recent ones.
He had turned to go back to his horse whe n he happened to look down the canyon. Standing o n the old dump--the place Parry had said was th e discovery claim of the Sun Strike--was Parr y himself. He held a rifle, and he was staring dow n the canyon toward the claim.
Gathering the bridle reins, Shevlin starte d along the path from the spring to the claim. He watched Burt without turning his head toward him , striving to appear unaware of the other man's presence.
Suddenly, Parry heard him, and turne d sharply. He held his rifle ready, and Shevli n was himself poised to drop to one knee and fire, i f it came to that. He had no idea why Parr y might decide to shoot, but the other man's oddl y secretive manner made him wary.
Parry spoke. "I was looking for you.
Did you finish up at the claim?"
"Sure ... all but the last wheelbarrow. I j ust played out, figured to go in after it later. Yo u been in town?"
Parry's eyes searched his. "There was hel l to pay. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Well, I knew Eve. She offered me a job, you know, and I was kind of upset over it.
Just didn't feel like talking about it. Besides, I f igured you knew."
They walked back to the claim. Bur t Parry's open, casual manner returned.
"Too bad," he said; "she was a prett y girl."
Mike Shevlin paused. "Burt," he said , "have you ever been in a western town when a goo d woman got killed?"
"No ... why?"
"You've got something to learn. Even when an y kind of a woman is killed or hurt, I'v e seen a town go wild. Believe me, there's a lot of talking and thinking, and checking of hol e cards going on in that town and in all the Rafte r country right now. This ain't over--not by a lon g shot."
Parry's brow furrowed, but then he shrugged.
"Hell, I'm out of it. I've never mixed i n their squabbles."
"That won't cut any ice. Vigilantes hav e a way of lynching the wrong folks. You ever hea r of Jack Slade? He got drunk on th e wrong night and raised a lot of hell, so whe n they started lynching the Plummer gang they just hun g him, too, on general principles."
Parry scowled, and rubbed his jaw. They pause d at the cabin. "You riding in?"
"Uh-huh." Mike let his eyes scan th e rim with a swift but careful glance. "And I ma y just scout me a quick way out of this country. I m ight decide to tuck in my tail and run."
He had no such intention, but he trusted no on e any longer, and it was just as well to keep his plan s to himself. And he had several things to do that migh t keep him out of town.
Rafter Crossing lay in a shallow valley , with the Sun Strike Mine occupying a bench sout h of the town; further back and somewhat higher was th e Glory Hole. The ridges were timbered , except for the one where the mines wer e located, but in the low country there were no tree s except along the infrequent water courses.
Here were cottonwoods or low-growing willows.
Mike Shevlin had punched cows over thi s country for several years, which was to say that he kne w it intimately. When a cowhand hunts strays , gathering stock for a roundup or a cattle drive , he works every draw, every canyon. Soon there's no t an inch of the country he hasn't seen, or tha t hasn't been described in detail by othe r cowhands. But today Mike Shevlin was not huntin g strays, he was hunting a man.
Hiding out in wild country is not as simple a s it may seem, for a man must be in the proximity o f water. Andfora man who does not wish to be seen , that means a water hole that is off the line o f travel, and out of the area covered by drifters o r cowhands working the range. Such a man must have no t only water, he must have freedom from observation , easy access to and from his hide-out, and especially a good field of observation to watch anyone who migh t be approaching.
Such places were few in this region. The nee d for water limited them drastically, for water wa s scarce, and most places where it could be found ha d been settled on. There were only a few othe r places that remained, and Mike Shevlin believe d he knew them all. As he rode he took the m one by one and examined them with care, and when he ha d ridden six miles he had eliminated all bu t one.
Boulder Spring was not as remote as suc h places usually are; it was only off the beate n track. Moreover, in that particular area, wate r was not scarce. Anyone riding to Boulder Spring fro m any one of three directions must cross a small stream, and in the fourth direction there was a good water hole. It was the perfect hide-out, an d there was no reason for anyone to go there at all.
It lay several miles off the travel route s in a huddle of low ridges and hills, a patc h of heaped-up, sun-burned boulders, browned by tim e and the wind and sun. Around them lay an acre or s o that was flat sand grown up with a little mesquite, a little cholla, and some cat-claw. On th e r
idges juniper grew.
In among the rocks, and not easily found, was a cold spring of very good water. Wind blew through th e rocks and over the spring, so the air right at th e water was always cool, and often cold.
In under the boulders were several low caves where a man might bed down, and each of them had more tha n one approach. On low ground nearby, in the ope n but actually difficult to see, were places where a man might leave a couple of horses.
Most of the Rafter range that lay in thi s direction had been abandoned since the mines starte d up and old Jack was killed, and few riders woul d be rustling around near Boulder Spring.
Though Lon Court might have holed up a t any of the other spots, Mike Shevlin wa s gambling that Boulder Spring was the place.
Next he reviewed the little he knew of Lo n Court. The man was not a gunfighter--he was a killer. He hunted men the way old Winkle r hunted wolves; he stalked them, and killed the m when he could do so safely. That did not imply th e man was a physical coward, and Shevlin was sur e he was not. To Lon Court killing was a business , and he took no chances on being wounded or being see n by his victims or by anyone else. The ver y nature of his calling depended on being unknown.
To secure his own safety, Mike Shevli n knew he must find Lon Court before the kille r found him, but there was little time, for he must also find th e gold.
He was sure that Gib Gentry had bee n deliberately set up in the freighting busines s so the gold could be shipped with maximum securit y and a minimum of talk, and now that Gentry was out of th e picture, who would take over? Who would handle th e shipment? And might they not direct every effort towar d getting the gold out of the country while they could?
He had tried to stir things up so that Ben Stow e would be forced to make a move, yet now Stow e might settle right back and wait, for he was a canny man, and not one to be hurried.
Suddenly, the horse's ears came u p sharply. Shevlin slowed his pace a little, searchin g the country.
He stopped none too soon, for even as his ow n mount became motionless, a rider emerged from a draw about two hundred yards off. He was a tall man riding a long-legged grulla, a tough, mouse-colored mountain horse. The ma n wore a narrow-brimmed hat and a nondescrip t gray coat. And he was following a trail.
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