“Inside!” she breathed. “I have to tell you—but not out here!”
They retired to the study. This was the room in which he sometimes worked on his accounts. He liked to refer to it simply as his office, but Marcia had supervised the installation of bookcases and a great many books, none of which he had read, and insisted on calling it the study.
She sank into a chair.
“It’s a mite early in the day,” he muttered, as he produced a bottle and glass from a desk drawer, “but you look like you could use a stiffener. What’s it all about?”
“It was terrible,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “The most frightening experience!”
“C’mon now,” he urged. “Drink this down and you’ll feel a heap better.”
He poured a generous shot, forced her to gulp a few mouthfuls. She coughed and gasped. Her eyes watered, and then, “You’ll have to come with me!” she breathed! “I daren’t go back there alone—or send for the sheriff. I don’t know—don’t know if he’s dead or alive …!”
“Take another pull at that rye,” he gruffly ordered.
“No,” she begged. “I’d be sick.”
“All right,” he grunted. “Give me that glass.” He took it from her, filled it to the brim and disposed of the contents in three measured gulps. His hands were steady, as he set the empty glass aside and began refilling his pipe. “Now then—what’s all this jabber about sendin’ for the sheriff and not knowin’ if somebody’s dead or alive?”
“Don’t …” She shook her head vehemently. “Don’t send for the sheriff. He mustn’t know.”
“You just said—”
“I know—but I was confused. Oh, Jonah, it’s all so frightening!”
“Simmer down, honey, for gosh sakes. Tell it plain—and take your time about it.”
“I was—riding through the canyon. It’s a lonely place, but I’ve always liked it. So peaceful …”
“Never mind the trimmings, Marcia. Which canyon?
“Pajaro Canyon.”
“Sure, I know it. Go on.”
“I’d gotten down to tighten the cinch. It just never occurred to me that I wasn’t alone, that somebody else might be passing by—”
“A man?”
“Y-yes. He tried to—to—oh, Jonah, it was terrible!”
Again she covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. He scowled at the glowing bowl of his pipe.
“You don’t have to spell it out for me. I reckon I can guess what he tried to do. Well, he won’t get away with it. I’ll have Mitch round up a half-dozen of the boys and we’ll ride out there and pick up his trail. We’ll find him, honey, I promise you. And—when we do—”
“No!” she gasped.
“What d’you mean ‘no’?” he demanded.
“I don’t know if he’s dead or alive,” she panted. “If—if he’s dead—I could be arrested for murder—or manslaughter at least!”
“Not if it was self-defense,” he frowned. “Marcia just what did happen?”
“I struck him.” She gestured helplessly. “When he—tried to seize me—I picked up a rock and—struck at him. He fell at my feet. His head was bloody and—and I didn’t wait to examine him ...”
“Just straddled the bay and headed for home, eh?” he prodded. “Well, I reckon that was the thing to do.” He arranged his pudgy features in a reassuring grin. “Now don’t you fret about it anymore. I’ll send a messenger to tell Rube Fiske, and—”
“Jonah, I couldn’t endure the shame, the notoriety of an investigation,” she murmured. “There’d have to be an inquest—wouldn’t there?”
“Well, sure,” he nodded. “But …”
“Come with me,” she pleaded. “I want you to go back to the canyon with me. If he’s still alive.”
“Who was he? You ever see him before?”
“No. He was a stranger.”
“Well, you ain’t the strongest woman in the valley, Marcia, not by a long shot. Chances are you only gave him a headache. I don’t see as how we have to fret about …”
“If he’s still alive, I want you to order him out of the county. And—if he—if he’s dead …”
“If he’s dead,” shrugged Jonah, “we send word to Rube Fiske.”
“Must we?” she challenged.
“It took me a long time to build the old Circle W into what it is today,” he pointed out. “I managed it without ever tanglin’ with the law—and I don’t aim to start now. Tellin’ Rube is the right thing to do, Marcia. The law can’t touch you. You’ll tell your story, tell ’em exactly what happened. If it’d make you feel any easier, I’d hire you a lawyer—the best.”
“In the meantime, do we have to tell anybody?” she asked. “Can’t we just ride out there—the two of us—and say nothing until we’re sure, either way?” She rose from her chair, went to him and rested her head against his shoulder. “Please, Jonah my dearest?”
When Marcia Welsh voiced a request in that fashion, her doting husband could never refuse. He patted her shoulder reassuringly, grinned and mumbled:
“Sure, honey. Whatever you say.”
Out front, a few moments later, he ordered a servant to saddle his own favorite horse and a fresh mount for his wife. Nothing was said to Mitch Sayers, the foreman, or to any of the other hands. Stirrup to stirrup, Jonah Welsh rode out with the female Judas who had conspired to lead him to his doom, a woman who suffered not one twinge of conscience. She felt triumphant, not ashamed.
As they rode the lonely terrain between Circle W range and the isolated canyon, she thought back over all that Leith had told her.
“Your chore will be easy, Marcia. When the job is done, you’ll ride back to Circle W to report that your husband has been shot and killed by a sniper—a man you couldn’t see. You hung around only long enough to make sure there was nothing you could do for Jonah. I figure the Circle W ramrod will send a courier into town for Fiske, and take a posse out to the canyon to search for tracks. That’ll be no problem. When it comes to covering a back-trail, Slim’s an expert. And, if anybody asks why you and Jonah rode out there all by yourselves, you tell them it was Jonah’s idea. He felt like taking a ride, so you decided to go along with him. He wanted to check the canyon, because he had a notion of building a line-shack there. Tell ’em anything, Marcia. Who’s going to question the word of Jonah Welsh’s grieving widow?”
High on the canyon’s south wall, Jim Rand waited—cold-calm, unfailingly patient, as alert-eyed as the eagle searching out a stray lamb. The big black was hobbled on a roomy ledge behind and below the rampart of granite on which Jim sprawled. Less than ninety yards of open space separated him from the north wall of the canyon and the grotesque rock formation behind which Slim Ringart had concealed himself.
For ex-Sergeant Rand of the 11th Cavalry, trailing the killer had been an easy chore; there were no complications, because it never once occurred to Ringart that he might be followed—he never looked back. Seeing his quarry moving around to the north side of the canyon, Jim had played a hunch. This whole area—the seldom-used trail snaking through the corridor between the massive cluster of granite—seemed ideal for a hiding place or a stakeout. Was Ringart planning an ambush? If so, he couldn’t choose a more favorable location for that grim purpose. And so, while Ringart climbed to the heights at the north side of the pass, Jim was making a similar ascent, but on the south side. Pinpointing Ringart’s position had been no difficult task. Now he was ready—as ready as Ringart. What was Ringart planning? The scrawny man’s rifle was clearly visible, an indication that his plan was homicidal.
The thudding of hooves gradually increasing in volume drew his attention to the territory cast of the pass. Two riders were approaching and, although the distance was considerable, Jim easily identified Jonah Welsh and the woman who had visited L Bar a short time before.
He removed his Stetson, set it aside, readied his Winchester and raised his head—slowly, cautiously, to check on Ringart’s moveme
nts. Just as he had surmised, the scrawny man was raising the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, dipping the muzzle to sight on the riders. Welsh and his wife entered the canyon, the clatter of their horses’ hooves setting up a confused echo. They were riding stirrup to stirrup until they rounded a bend that brought them into view of the ugly-shaped rock atop the north wall. It was then that
Marcia jerked back on her rein. The sorrel toting Jonah moved onward for another twenty yards, and then he reined up, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Marcia—how much farther?”
Jim could wait no longer, because Ringart was raising himself slightly and it was all too obvious that his rifle was leveled at the Circle W boss. Coming to a kneeling posture, Jim let his right finger curl about his trigger, as he yelled two terse sentences, one a warning to Jonah, the other a challenge to Ringart. The voice that had demoralized many a fractious recruit reached loud and clear to both parties.
“Welsh—take cover! Ringart—drop your rifle and raise your hands!”
He fully expected Ringart to do exactly as he did. The killer recovered quickly from his initial shock, swung his rifle-barrel towards the opposite side of the pass and got off two fast shots. One came wild. The second spanged off the extreme edge of the rampart where Jim knelt. He was getting the range, and Jim wasn’t about to give him a third try. He sighted quickly and squeezed trigger. Simultaneous with the echoing crackle of his Winchester, he heard his adversary’s anguished yell. Ringart lurched away from the boulder with his chest bloody, fell, rolled to the outer edge of the rock-wall and, after a tense moment of struggling to regain his balance, toppled over. He yelled again, as he fell fifteen feet to the beginning of a shaley slant. Down the slant he slid, crashing through an outcropping of brush, somersaulting, hitting another slant and rolling all the way down to the floor of the pass.
Again, Jim yelled orders to the dumbfounded Jonah.
“Don’t get in his line of fire—in case he draws his handgun and makes another try! I’m coming down!”
He donned his Stetson, descended to the ledge where the black awaited and slid his Winchester back into its scabbard. The charcoal negotiated the narrow track leading down to flat country at speed, but with care. By means of a narrow cleft in the rock-wall, they moved through to the inside of the pass.
Jim wasn’t surprised that the woman panicked upon recognizing him; she turned and began racing her mount eastward out of the pass. Jonah was staring after her, still sitting his horse, his pudgy visage set in an expression of acute shock. Ringart lay where he had fallen, groaning loudly.
“She just—turned and ran …” mumbled the rancher, as Jim joined him.
“I can make a guess why, Mr. Welsh,” said Jim, “but I wouldn’t ask you to heed my hunches. Better I should scare the truth out of the sidewinder who tried to kill you.”
He dismounted, strode towards the sprawled figure of the assassin.
Ten – Fury of a Simple Man
‘Die-hard’ was a term well-suited to describe the kill-crazy Slim Ringart. Jim was genuinely surprised when Ringart lurched to his feet, snarling curses. He still bled from his chest-wound, but appeared to have suffered no broken bones in his hectic descent to the canyon-floor. His right hand came up to his shoulder and around to the back of his neck. In a flash Jim anticipated his next move.
“Duck!” he called to Jonah.
The rancher was flopping to his knees, as Ringart whisked the knife from the sheath hanging inside his shirt collar. Ringart’s throw lacked power and accuracy; the knife clattered against the rocks to the side of the trail a full three feet from where Jonah had dropped. But the throwing of the knife had been a desperate attempt to divert Jim, to give Ringart time to upholster his Colt. Jim sidestepped, drawing and firing just as Ringart’s gun boomed. He felt a tongue of fire lashing at his left side, but had the grim satisfaction of seeing the killer reel and measure his length, his gun parting company with his nerveless fingers.
“You’re hit,” fretted Jonah, as he rose to his feet. “Hell’s bells, when you agree to protect a man, you sure mean business!”
“I don’t reckon it’s serious,” muttered Jim. “Anyway, I’m a sight more concerned with Ringart’s condition.”
“Ringart?” blinked Jonah. “Hey! I know him! He ramrods L Bar!”
“The Leith outfit,” nodded Jim. “Come on. We’d best take a look at him.”
Without benefit of formal medical training, he nevertheless made a mental bet with himself regarding Ringart’s condition. This last exchange of shots had won Ringart naught but a deep gash in his right upper arm. His first wound—inflicted by a slug from Jim’s rifle—appeared fairly clean, uncomplicated. The bullet had gone through, missing heart and lung.
“He’ll survive,” Jim assured himself. “But I don’t think he realizes it. He’s in pain—and he’s scared.”
For a makeshift pillow, he used Ringart’s own Stetson. The killer opened his pain-wracked eyes and blinked at them, as they crouched to either side of him.
“If you’re toting a clean kerchief,” Jim quietly told Jonah, “I’ll try to stop the bleeding.”
He took the kerchief and held it against the chest wound. Ringart groaned, gritted his teeth.
“I don’t savvy how you—knew I was there …” he panted.
“Don’t try to talk about trifles, Ringart,” advised Jim. “That would be a waste of time—and time is something you’re running out of.”
“You mean …?” began Ringart.
“How do you feel?” demanded Jim.
“I ache all over,” complained Ringart. “It’s like—my chest—was on fire!”
Jim nodded sadly and declared, “In your position, I wouldn’t waste time. I’d want to wipe my slate clean.” He eyed his victim steadily. “You’re the one who tried to kill me last night—and Leith told you where to find me.”
“I’d have—sworn my knife went all the way in,” mumbled Ringart.
“It went all the way into my packroll,” nodded Jim. “I was sleeping in another room. Sorry to disappoint you—and Leith.”
“Leith?” repeated Jonah. “Well—damn-it-all!”
“Better let Ringart say his piece,” muttered Jim. “He doesn’t have much time.” He looked at Ringart again. “So Leith doesn’t have what it takes to handle his own killing. After hiring me as bodyguard, he arranged to have me put away.”
“He’s a smart one,” asserted Ringart. “A real smart notion it was. And—it could’ve worked.” He scowled at the bewildered Jonah. “You must be ten different kinds of fool, Welsh, to think a woman like her—could be satisfied with the likes of you. She wanted Circle W—and all your dinero. That’s why she married you …”
“He’s got to be lyin’!” gasped Welsh.
“Let him finish,” frowned Jim.
“She and Owen worked it out between ’em,” said Ringart, “right after we heard how—how Mace Landell fell offa his ladder. With Brady already dead—and then Landell—Owen figured this was the chance we’d been waitin’ for. Killin’ Welsh would be easy enough. The trick was to-—to switch the blame to somebody else …”
“It was heart failure for old Clem Brady,” guessed Jim, “and Landell’s death was a genuine accident.”
“But McDaniels sure as hell didn’t shoot himself …” The killer grinned mirthlessly. “I took care of that little chore. Easy? Hell! It was so easy—I was laughin’ all the time. Just stopped by a window of the McDaniels house—and there he was. I remembered—he owned a little shooter that he toted in his pants pocket. All I had to do—was climb in—-grab his throat with one hand—his gun with the other and let him have it.”
“Sneakin’—dirty-yellow-bellied …!” began the enraged Jonah.
“Take it easy,” cautioned Jim. And he added a convincing lie. “It’s too late to punish this jasper.”
“Owen said I should go ahead—take care of Welsh,” sighed Ringart, “right after I fixed McDaniels. And I would
have—only I sighted Harp Drayton the other day—figured I had a good chance to get rid of him. With four of that jury dead, the whole damn territory would—think the Garcia boys were on a killin’ rampage. Then I’d put Welsh away, and they’d get blamed again. I missed Drayton that first time, saw how his horse was draggin’ him, figured he’d die anyway. After you talked to Owen and he learned that Drayton would likely pull through …”
“Leith went back to L Bar and told you,” prodded Jim.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then you came to town, went to the Cray house, climbed through the window of the spare bedroom and strangled Drayton.”
“And it was easy—easier than when I fixed McDaniels.”
“You’re getting weaker, Ringart,” Jim solemnly declared. “What about last night?”
“What’s to tell?” Ringart grimaced, half-closed his eyes. “I had Welsh in my sights but I missed –twice. Well, the little lady was gettin’ impatient. She came out to L Bar this mornin’ to see Owen begged him to get rid of you—once and for all …”
“It’s a lie!” groaned Jonah.
“I was watching,” said Jim. “I saw them together. Sorry, old-timer, but it’s the truth.”
“Owen told her how to decoy the old sonofagun—out here to the canyon,” grunted Ringart. “It was a good plan—and it would’ve worked fine—if Rand hadn’t been snoopin’ around.”
“Set up for an ambush—by my own wife?” Jonah shook his head incredulously.
“They wanted Circle W and all the dinero, Welsh,” mumbled Ringart. “She knew she’d inherit every cent—when you died. Then Owen would marry up with her and Circle W would have a new owner.”
“And that’s why McDaniels and Drayton were murdered,” mused Jim. “They were unlucky enough to be on the Garcia jury. By killing them, you convinced a lot of frightened people that the widow’s curse was working.”
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