Inside she busied herself putting food on the table and getting coffee started. “I’m Army Locklin. Army being short for Armorel, the Locklin because I was married to your brother.”
“You were what?”
“We were married the day he disappeared. He got word of trouble at the ranch just after reaching town. He left me in town and rushed back to the place and right into an ambush. He was shot down, got away into the brush, and that was the last he was seen.”
“I don’t know what to say. George said nothing of you in his letters.”
She smiled bitterly. “He did not know me then. I came to Toiyabe to marry Reed Castle, but we did not see eye to eye on several subjects, and I refused to go through with it.
“Reed became angry and threatened me, then he tried to get the people at the hotel to turn me out. George had had trouble with Reed, so when he heard of it he came to me and offered his assistance.”
Her eyes turned to Jim. “I was alone in the world, and it had taken the last of my money to come here from San Francisco. I told George I did not love him, but if he really wanted me I’d try to become a good wife. We were married, but I never had a chance to be anything to him.
“Now,” she added, “you know why I have no use for Castle, and why he wants me out of the country.”
“How’d you meet him in the first place?”
“My father died, and he did not leave me very much. I had friends back east who knew Reed Castle, and they told him about me and sent him a picture. He proposed by mail. It all seemed very romantic, a handsome western rancher and all that.”
“Why did you suggest I might not own this place?”
“You own half of it. I own the other half. I filed a claim on the land that lies alongside of your ranch.
“You see, George gave me money when we were married. He did not have all that much, but he did not want me to feel bound, and if I was unhappy I could leave whenever I wished.
“After George disappeared Reed came forward with a bill of sale and claimed the ranch. He said George had changed his mind about being married to me, had sold the ranch and skipped out. I did not believe a word of it, but I could prove nothing. Everybody was feeling very sorry for me, but after all, I had not known George but a few days, and he might have decided marriage was not for him. I could prove nothing.”
“But you stayed on?”
“There was nowhere to go. George might reappear. And then, George had told me you were coming.” She paused. “Did—did George ever mention a silver strike? Not far from here?”
“Silver?” He frowned, trying to think back. There had been a number of letters, early on. “No, I don’t think so.”
Then he indicated the bunkhouse where the Indian had gone. “What about Patch? Where does he fit in?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. He rode in here one day on a flea-bitten roan pony, and wanted to work for me. I did need help, but had so little money. He told me he wanted to work for me and I could pay him when I wished. Since then he has worked hard, has been loyal, too, only when Reed Castle is around he always gets out of sight. I think he may be afraid of him.”
“Why do you call him Patch? Is he an Apache?”
“He is, but he would give me no name, so I began calling him that.”
There was no accounting for Indians. They had their own ideas, and followed them. Few Apaches could be found this far north and west, for they loved their southwestern desert country, but there were wanderers from all tribes.
Reed Castle was no fool. Crooked he might be, but he was also intelligent and shrewd, and the two were rarely the same thing. He would know that any bill of sale he might have would be an obvious forgery, so he must have other irons in the fire. Of course, he knew George Locklin was dead, and he had had nothing to worry about until now.
Jim Locklin wanted more than simply to recover the ranch. He wanted to face the man who had killed George. At this date the proof would be hard to come by, but the more he thought about it the more he wondered. George had always been a thorough man who left little to chance, and he had lived long enough to reach the cave on Savory Creek. As he certainly had not lived with that hole in his head, he must have received the spinal wound first, but had somehow kept going until he reached the cave.
He had undoubtedly been helpless when he was killed, but had he been helpless when he arrived? How much time had he before his lower limbs became paralyzed?
With a growing feeling of excitement, Jim Locklin got up and went to the bunkhouse. His brother had always been one to communicate. He always left messages behind him. One never had to guess with George. He always had a plan. There had been a hollow in the rocks on the old L Bar, and there had been a rock under a tree on the way to Toiyabe where they exchanged messages.
So why not now, of all times? If he had struggled to reach that cave with almost his last strength, it must have been done with purpose.
Excited though he was, he finally dropped off, and, tired from travel, he slept deeply.
He awakened to daybreak and angry voices. Hurriedly, he threw on some clothing and, grabbing his rifle, went to the door. His breath caught sharply as he saw Ives and several of his riders. Patch was nowhere in sight, but one of Ives’s men had a rifle on Pike and Army.
Resting his rifle against the door jam he called out, “Looking for me, Burly? I’m right here!”
Ives turned sharply in his saddle, but only the rifle indicated Locklin’s presence. And the rifle was aimed at him.
The bunkhouse walls were too solid to shoot through, and Ives was no longer in command of the situation. If shooting started it was quite obvious who would get shot first.
A rattle of horses’ hoofs distracted his attention, and when Locklin followed Burly’s gaze he saw a half-dozen riders led by a square-built, oldish man with a white mustache. “What’s goin’ on here, Burly? You’re not goin’ to make trouble for that girl while I’m around!”
“Keep out of this, John! I came here to settle things with this here Locklin.”
Jim put down the rifle and reached to the empty upper bunk for the shotgun he had left there. “If you want to settle things with me, why bring your whole outfit?” He stepped out into the yard. “Or do you think you need all that help to handle one man?”
“Put down that shotgun and I’ll break you in half!”
Locklin handed the shotgun to Pike. “Get down off that horse and we’ll see.” He glanced at the white-haired man. “I take it you are John Shippey? Will you see that I get fair play?”
“Your durned tootin’ I will!” He waved a hand. “Everybody stand back and let them have at it. Anybody who tries to interfere will settle with me.”
Burly unbuckled his gun belts with great good humor and hung them on the saddle horn. Having little stomach for gunfights, he relished a chance to use his fists. That he had never been whipped helped him to anticipate the fight.
“He’ll make two of you, son!” Pike protested. “Look at the size of him!”
Locklin ignored him. He was intent upon Ives now, and thinking only of him. He moved in swiftly. He circled warily. It was obvious from Burly’s manner that he was no stranger to fighting, yet when the big man moved his first tentative blow was short. Locklin feinted a move, sidestepped quickly and smashed Ives in the mouth. The blow landed solidly, and blood splashed from badly cut lips. Locklin started to draw away and it was all that saved him. A hard right on the ear knocked him staggering, and Burly rushed, his greater height, weight, and reach driving Locklin back, off balance. Jim landed a couple of ineffective blows to the body.
Jim caught a hard blow and went down. Ives, carried forward by the impetus of his rush, tried a hasty kick and missed. Locklin came up fast, his head still buzzing from the blow he’d caught, and he went under a left and smashed both hands to the body. Neither man knew more of fighting than what they had learned by applying it, but both were skilled in the rough-and-tumble style of the frontier which they had b
een using since boyhood.
Locklin bored in, went under a swing with a right to the body, then an overhand left that split Ives’s ear and staggered him. Instantly, Locklin was on him, his blows ripping and slashing at the bigger man.
Ives struggled to get set, striking back with heavy, ponderous blows. Suddenly, Locklin ceased to punch and, diving low, grabbed Ives around the knees and upended him.
Ives hit the dirt with a thud, but he rolled over like a cat and came to his feet. Jim was set for him, and caught him with a hard right that cracked like a ball bat. Then Jim rushed in close and began to batter at Ives’s body.
Ives was badly cut, and one of his eyes almost closed, yet Locklin was weary simply from punching and holding the larger man off.
He put his head on the bigger man’s chest and punched at his body with both hands. Ives, an old river-boat fighter, stabbed at his eyes with a stiff thumb, but Locklin dropped his head to Ives’s chest again and suddenly smashed upward with his head, butting him on the chin. Ives staggered, and Locklin swung with both fists for his chin, left and right.
Ives went down hard. He got up slowly, warily. Jim Locklin had backed off, gasping for breath. He started to circle, his foot slipped, and Ives grabbed him in a bear hug, forcing him back. Excruciating pain stabbed him, and Jim fought desperately to free himself, knowing the larger man was strong enough to break his back.
Suddenly, Jim deliberately threw himself backward. He hit the ground hard, but it broke Ives’s hold, and Jim got to his feet. Ives dove at him to bring him down again, and Locklin met the dive by jerking up his knee into Ives’s face.
The big man went to hands and knees, his features a blur of blood. Locklin waited, gasping. Ives started to rise, and Locklin moved in. A left and right, then a terrific right uppercut that snapped the big man’s head back. He went down to his knees, then toppled over on the grass.
Jim staggered back, his jaw hanging as he gasped for breath, waiting for Ives to rise.
“Let him go, Locklin,” John Shippey said. “He’s whipped.” Then he added, “I never thought I’d see the day!”
Seated in the kitchen, Army bathed Locklin’s face, tenderly wiping the blood from his features. “You’ve got some bad cuts,” she protested.
“They’ll heal,” he said. “They always did before.”
Pike was explaining the situation to Shippey. He had gotten George Locklin’s letters from a saddlebag, and showed them to the rancher. “Those were writ by no man who thought of sellin’!” Pike insisted.
Locklin pushed Army’s hands gently aside. He got to his feet, staggering a little. His big hands were swollen and battered. “Shippey, I won’t get into town in time. It would be a favor if you’d ride in and hold Burt an’ Castle until I get there. Nearly Pike will ride with you.”
“Where you goin’?” Pike demanded.
“I’ve had a thought, and if I’m right we’ll have our killer.”
John Shippey nodded his head. “I’ll do my best.” He turned suddenly to Pike. “Where’d you get a name like that?”
“Wal, it was like this here, Mr. Shippey. My folks was named Pike. We headed west from Kentucky for Missouri. Bein’ named Pike, we figured to live in Pike County, and I was to be born there. Well, we didn’t make it. We had to stop some miles short, so they named me for it. Nearly Pike.”
Army was looking at Locklin, an odd light in her eyes, a look of something close to fear. Women, Jim reflected, would never understand a man’s fighting.
Ives got slowly to his feet, staggered a little, then stood erect. His face was a mask of blood and dirt. He leaned against his horse for a moment, then hoisted himself into the saddle. He said nothing until he had gathered the reins. “You’re a hard man, Locklin,” he said grudgingly, “I reckon I bit off more’n I could chaw.”
Locklin watched him go, then turned to his horse, which Pike had saddled and ready. Army came to him. “Don’t go, Jim! I’m afraid! And you’re in no shape to go!”
He tried to smile, but his face was too swollen. He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You ride to town with them. Stay close to Pike. This is something I must do.”
Jim Locklin rode toward Antelope Valley, then took a dim trail up to the bench. He rode through the pines, his face throbbing with every hoof-beat, his ribs aching from the bruises. His head ached and the sun was hot. At Butler Creek he dropped on his face and drank deep of the clear, cold mountain water. Then he bathed his face with it.
Rising, he glimpsed the tracks of two people across the narrow stream. Crossing on scattered rocks in the stream-bed he studied the tracks with care. Some were fresh, yet others were older. Obviously, whoever they were, they had met here several times. Some cowhand and his girl, no doubt.
He went back across the stream to his horse but as he started to mount the combination of sun and the fighting proved too much. He backed up and sat down on the grass. Then he dragged himself back into the shade and slept.
He awakened suddenly. A glance at the sun told him he had slept for all of an hour, yet despite the fact that his head still throbbed, he felt better. Later, he cut the tracks of one rider, heading toward Horse Heaven. The tracks were several days old.
He turned down into the canyon of the Savory, and almost at once was enclosed by towering walls, and the sound of the stream rose in volume. Then the canyon widened, and before him was a sandy shelf strewn with the gray bones of ancient trees. Beyond it, the cave.
Swinging down, he leaned against the saddle to still the momentary dizziness that beset him. Then he walked up to the cave.
He stopped then, quite abruptly, his mouth dry but his brain sharply alert. He was looking into the peculiar white-gray eyes of Chance Varrow!
There was a taunting triumph in Varrow’s eyes. “Took you long enough to get here. Long enough so I could beat you to it. Now you can die the way your brother died. Funny, you blaming Reed Castle. He had the idea, all right, but we beat him to it.”
“You killed George?” Even as he spoke he was thinking less of what he was saying and more of his own swollen, battered hands and the gun-slick deftness of the man he faced.
“Sure! At least I finished him off. He was already down and crippled. Reed wanted that ranch, all right, and was trying to work out some way of gettin’ it. Well, we wasted no time.
“He could have the ranch, because we knew of that silver strike he’d made, near Bald Mountain. We gambled on that, and now we’ve won.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why not? Nobody knows I’m in this but Reed Castle, and he wouldn’t talk. If he did nobody would believe him. You’re coming upset things but that’s ended now.”
Locklin’s mind was working swiftly. Who did he mean by “we”? How had Varrow known he would be coming to the cave?
Ives? Probably.
But why, in all this time, had they not taken possession of the silver strike, sold it, and skipped? The reason was obvious—they didn’t know where it was!
“You’re not killing me, Varrow. It’s not in the cards, no more than your friend Ives could whip me. It’s you who will die here in this cave, Varrow, right here on this sand.
“You’ve wasted your time and your killing. You’ve never laid hands on an ounce of that silver because you don’t know where it is.
“I know where it is,” he lied, “and if I die you will never get it. Why? Because nobody else knows, nobody at all!”
“I’m going to kill you, all right,” Varrow’s face was tight and cruel. “I’ll gamble on finding the silver.”
Locklin swayed on his feet, suddenly weak. “A thousand have looked for it, and nobody found it until George, and he had a clue. He knew something nobody else knew. The same thing he passed on to me.”
At the first sign of faintness Chance Varrow’s hand dropped to his gun. Suddenly Locklin’s knees buckled and he went to the sand. Then he sagged back on his heels. “Sorry, Varrow, I’m in pret—ty bad—” he lifted a trembling hand to h
is brow, yet even as the hand seemed to touch his face, it darted like a striking snake, spraying sand in Varrow’s face!
The gunman sprang back, one hand clawing at his eyes, the other reaching for his gun. His gun came clear, but the moment’s respite was all Locklin needed. He got his clumsy fingers on his own gun, swung it up, steadied it with the other hand, and fired!
Varrow’s gun roared, but, blinded by the sand, he missed.
Locklin’s bullet, at point-blank range, caught Varrow in the diaphragm, striking up and in. Varrow tried to swing his gun, but Locklin fired a second time, then a third.
Chance Varrow crumpled into the sand, his fingers relaxing their grip on the gun.
The gunshots echoed in the canyon and there was an acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with dusty dampness. Then the echoes died, and there was only the soft chuckling of water over stones.
Dusk was blending the shadows in the streets of Toiyabe when Jim Locklin cantered down the street and drew up at the hotel door. Pike rushed out and grabbed his stirrup leather. “You all right, boy? I been out of my skull with worry.”
“Where are they, Pike?”
“Inside. What took you so long?”
“A bit of trouble.” All eyes turned to him as he entered. Castle’s looked pale, angry, and uneasy; those of Creighton Burt, John Shippey, and Fish Creek Burns indicated only sharp interest. Armorel Locklin stared at him, her eyes showing her anxiety. Patch, looking surly, sat behind her.
Locklin leaned his hands on the table. “Castle, I had you wrong. You are a thief, but you are not a murderer.”
“I bought that ranch!” Castle protested. “Here’s my bill of sale!”
“An obvious forgery. The trouble was, you had never actually seen my brother’s signature. You didn’t worry because nobody else had, either. I have several letters signed by him, and I also have his will. The will was written as he was dying, with the knowledge that he was dying, and he leaves the ranch and all property to me, including the mine on Bald Mountain.”
“What about this young woman? She was his wife.”
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