"I'll arrest all of you, Hendricks," Stillman warned.
"No, you won't," the rancher defiantly retorted. "How could you? Besides, it would take too much time and you don't have much time before that mountain man gets so deep in the river breaks, he's gone for good."
Stillman stared levelly at the rancher, fuming. The man was right. If he and his men wanted to hunt Shambeau, there was little Stillman could do about it. He couldn't arrest them all out here. Even if they went passively, he'd be expending too much time.
Stillman raked his eyes across the nine horsemen glowering at him and Jody, who stood beside him, cutting his eyes at Stillman expectantly.
"All right," Stillman said at length, anger snaring his vocal chords. "I can't turn you back, but I sure as hell can tell you how it's gonna work. You'll ride with me and Jody here, and take our orders. The first one of you that gives us any crap goes home, and I'll arrest you later."
Stillman glared at Hendricks. "I'm holding you personally responsible for the conduct of your men. They get out of line, you're out of line."
Hendricks scowled and narrowed his eyes. "No judge is gonna—"
"There aren't any judges out here, Hendricks," Stillman said, his eyes glinting with unadulterated rancor.
He let that sink in as the Bar 7 riders glanced around at each other, incredulous, insolent expressions playing on their craggy faces.
Regarding the two packhorses the men had brought along for camping supplies, Stillman said, "First thing I'm gonna do is appropriate one of your horses."
Hendricks cut another sharp look at him. "What?"
Stillman poked a thumb over his shoulder, where Edgar and Robert Huard watched the activities wary-eyed. "Those boys back there need a horse to ride back to their ranch on. One of your packhorses will do." Stillman started moving toward the pack mounts at the back of the group. "Someone give me a hand stripping the packs off this dun."
Stillman stopped abruptly as the Bar 7 foreman, Dave Groom, spurred his horse toward Stillman and leveled a rifle at him. "No one appropriates Bar Seven stock. You can talk a good game, Stillman, but you're just another tin star to me."
Stillman glanced from Groom to Hendricks, who stiffened in his saddle and bunched his mouth smugly.
"Oh—I must not have made myself clear," Stillman said affably, turning and giving his back to Groom.
He wheeled back around, grabbed the barrel of Groom's Winchester, and gave it a hard yank, twisting it free of the foreman's grip. Clutching at the rifle, Groom lost his balance and tumbled out of his saddle, hitting the ground on his ass.
Spewing epithets, the man was bolting to his feet when Stillman, holding the rifle by the barrel, jabbed the stock viciously between Groom's parted lips. Groom's head whipped back, and the foreman gave a painful cry, grabbing his mouth.
"Just to clarify," Stillman said casually, regarding the group, "anyone gives me any trouble, they get it back in the form of a smashed mug. Any questions?"
Groom was on his knees spitting blood. "You ... you broke my damn teeth!"
"You're lucky it was just your teeth, Dave. Next time I'm gonna ram the stock so far down your throat it'll take all your buddies to pull it out your ass." Stillman ejected the cartridges onto the ground, then tossed the rifle at the cursing, spitting Groom.
"Now," the sheriff said to Hendricks, "I want the packs off that horse pronto!"
His face having flattened out and lost its color, Hendricks stared at Groom. Regarding the other men askance, he said grudgingly, "Phipps, Olnan—off with the packs."
Heading back to the camp, Stillman grumbled, "Now if everyone will just stay out of my hair, I'm gonna drink some damn coffee."
Edgar and Robert Huard stared at him awestruck as he passed. Jody locked eyes with the boys and smiled.
When Edgar and Robert were mounted on the back of the dun, Jody gave them directions back to their ranch one more time.
"You boys be careful now," Stillman said. "Keep an eye on the landmarks Jody told you to follow, and you should be home in an hour or so. Don't try any shortcuts."
"We won't, Sheriff Stillman," Edgar said.
Robert grinned. "Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks, Jody."
"Bye, boys," Jody said. “Tell your uncle Ralph I'll be over for afternoon coffee one of these days."
Stillman slapped the dun's rump and the horse cantered off, Robert turning around to wave and smile. When the boys had disappeared around a bend, Stillman and Jody turned to the Bar 7 men, who'd had coffee around Stillman's fire and were now tightening their saddle cinches, ready to ride.
Stillman sighed darkly, eyed Jody with a scowl, and headed for Sweets, all saddled and waiting under a pine.
"You can pick up your packhorse on your way back to the Bar 7," Stillman told Hendricks, who'd mounted his big Morgan.
"You're damn right I will," the rancher grouched.
Stillman untied his reins from the pine branch and mounted the bay. He turned to Dave Groom sitting his paint horse beside Hendricks. "How's your mouth, Dave?"
The foreman seemed to have gotten the blood stopped, but his lips were puffy and blue. When he sneered at Stillman, the sheriff could see that his two front teeth were gone.
Stillman said, "Well, Dave, instead of sending you back home, I'm gonna let you ride along as a reminder to the others to watch their p's and q's."
With that, Stillman tipped his hat at the flint-eyed foreman and gigged his horse eastward along the stream.
Jody sidled up to him on his buckskin. "Better be careful, Ben. You're liable to get another bullet in your back."
"Nah," Stillman said, kneeing Sweets into a canter. "They're kill-hungry, all right, but their anger's more for Shambeau than me."
"I sure hope you're right about that."
They rode for several miles, Stillman and Jody out front, Hendricks and his men behind. Few words were spoken.
It was a clear, bright day. Small birds sang in the pine branches, and raptors hunted along ridges. Once, a red-tailed hawk flew up from a great, dead birch, flapping its shaggy wings and screeching its way skyward.
Jody reined his buckskin to a halt in a narrow valley cut by a rushing stream. "There's the tipi poles the Huard boys were talking about," he said, pointing to an open horseshoe in the creek.
"Shambeau's trail must be close," Stillman said.
"What's that?" Hendricks asked, cupping an ear. He and his riders had reined up behind Stillman and Jody.
"We should have his sign soon," Stillman said crisply, reining his bay around to face the Bar 7 crew. "Now I want to make this clear, so I don't have to repeat myself again. I appreciate you boys helping me and Jody track Shambeau. It's right civic-minded of you. But if any of you interfere with the arrest, or try to take justice into your own hands, I'm going to nail you colder'n a grave-digger's ass. Understand?"
They just looked at him askance, squinting their eyes. Several were smoking.
"Understand?" Stillman barked.
"They understand!" Hendricks barked back.
"Good. Now, all of you stay the hell back so you don't foul the sign."
Jody had gone on ahead. Stopped in the trail about forty yards farther on, he called, "I've got it, Ben."
Stillman gigged his horse up to where Jody sat gazing at unshod hoof tracks.
"They cross the main trail here, arid head right up the mountain, looks like."
Stillman glanced back at the Bar 7 riders sheepishly appro, "hing. He sighed and told Jody to lead the way.
They rode up the mountain through a thick stand of aspens, then followed the curving peak for a quarter mile southward before turning back east and descending a game trail skirting a slide. Jody took the lead, leaning out from his saddle arid following the sign.
They cut elk and bobcat sign and ran across wolf scat by a spring runnel carved through a sandstone levee.
"This is griz country, Ben," Jody said fatefully.
“Let's just hope we don't see any."
"They'll probably stay out of our way, as long as we stay out of theirs."
Stillman urged Sweets down a crumbling slope. "Probably."
He was more worried about the Bar 7 riders than he was about bears. He wasn't worried about what they might try to do to him, but what they were bound and determined to do to Shambeau. It was his job to see that that didn't happen. It was his job to bring Shambeau back, unharmed if possible, to stand before a judge and jury.
On the other hand, why not just let them all go at it— the Bar 7 riders and Louis Shambeau? The mountain man had taken his revenge, so why not let die Bar 7 men take theirs?
It was a tempting thought, but an impossible option for one simple reason: It was against the law. Stillman's job was to uphold the law at all times and in all situations within his jurisdiction. If he allowed this backwoods, eye-for-an-eye justice to run its course, he'd be no better than the vigilantes he was trying to hold at bay.
Besides that, the sides were decidedly uneven.
At noon they stopped for lunch and to rest their exhausted horses. Stillman poured himself a cup of coffee, took note of Tommy Falk cleaning his Winchester under a tree and Dave Groom bathing his bruised lips with a damp rag, and walked out away from the fire.
He mounted a slight rise and surveyed a broad valley opening below. The cut was spotted with cedars and ash and flat-topped island buttes and was topped with a clear blue sky into which a few high, hazy clouds were beginning to slide in from the southwest.
Stillman was scanning the clouds, hoping they did not portend bad weather—a spring blizzard, say, which could be deadly in this country—when he heard grass rustling behind him. Turning, he watched Walt Hendricks approach with a cup of coffee, the collar of his bearskin coat pulled up against the chill breeze. He wore a fur hat and leather gloves. Fur mittens protruded from the pockets of his coat.
"I just want you to know, Stillman, I have nothing against you personally."
Stillman stifled a laugh. "That's good to hear."
"This is all just part of the game Louis Shambeau started himself."
"No, it's part of the game your men started, when they shot his mule."
Hendricks looks skeptical. "Huh?"
"The kid didn't tell you that part, eh?" Stillman nodded. "Falk shot his mule."
"Then he was probably trespassing on my land again—trapping my streams when I've warned him not to over and over again!"
"Shambeau doesn't understand the idea of 'your' streams any better than the full-bloods do. He was trapping them long before you came here and started calling them yours."
"He's a conniving thief—a cattle rustler. We've found the remains of more than a dozen cattle lying about my land."
"You have proof it was Louis?"
"Who else would leave nothing but the damn hooves and horns? The man is a renegade—a conniving, thieving murderer, and he has to be stopped. One way or another."
"That's what I'm out here for, Hendricks. If you and your boys would go home and leave me and Jody alone, we could get it done a hell of a lot easier."
"Uh-uh," Hendricks said, shaking his head and smiling knowingly. "Something tells me you're not so eager to catch this man, Stillman. Something tells me that if you're not watched, you're liable to let him get away. Why that is, I have no idea. Sentimentality, I guess. Some people just can't let the old days go, when men like Shambeau were a dime a dozen out here. Well, those days are gone, and men like Shambeau have to go. They're impeding progress. Having him running free in these mountains is like having a rogue grizzly on the prowl. Only ole Louis's not just killing cattle, he's killing men, too."
"Let's leave that up to a judge and jury."
"And why don't we leave his capture up to my men?" Hendricks's grin over the rim of his steaming cup was cunning. "A couple of 'em aren't half-bad trackers. They'll get him, might even bring him back alive, if possible. Meanwhile, you and I could be back at my ranch, talking over the old days over cognac in my study."
Stillman gazed at the man, expressionless.
"It would be our secret," Hendricks continued. "And it would mean a lot to my men. You've seen the looks in their eyes. Then we could all get back to work...."
Stillman smiled and shook his head. "We've yammered long enough, Hendricks." He tossed out his coffee and headed toward the fire and his horse.
"It would be worth a few dollars to me, Stillman—for you and me and Harmon to just ride out of here, leave my men to their work. More than a few dollars, as a matter of fact."
Stillman stopped and regarded the man dully. He was about to say something, then let it go. Shaking his head, he walked back to the fire.
It was nearly sunset when they stopped their horses in a deep, cedar-choked ravine filled with shadows and crusty snowdrifts. Jody and Stillman dismounted, and while the others waited, they took their rifles and walked down the ravine, avoiding rocks and pushing through pine boughs.
Jody hunkered down on his haunches and pointed into another ravine running perpendicular to this one.
“There it is," he said. "Shambeau's cabin."
Chapter Fifteen
EVELYN VINCENT BRUSHED her long, blond hair in the mirror over her dresser, working slowly but vigorously to bring out the shine. When she finished, she set the brush down and applied a little more rouge to her cheeks. From her admittedly dubious past experience, she knew that men like Bledin Carstairs preferred women with as much face paint as a Sioux warrior.
She smiled at the comparison, feeling only a little relief from her fluttering heart. The relief fled with the knock on her door, her heart beating again fervently.
"Yes?"
"Your gentleman caller's waiting downstairs, dear." It was Mrs. Berg, the widow who ran the rooming house in which Evelyn had lived since moving to Clantick nearly two years ago.
“Tell him I'll be right down, will you, Mrs. Berg?"
"Certainly, dear. Take your time."
Willing the nervous flush from her face, Evelyn peered at herself in the mirror, pulling here and tucking there on her yellow calico dress—the spring dress she'd sewn over the winter with material she'd bought with the money she'd earned hustling grub at Sam Wa's Café.
She pushed up a little on her bosom, rolling her eyes at herself and snickering, then carefully donned the dress's matching hat, pinning it to her hair. When she finished, she froze suddenly, arms hanging at her sides.
What she was about to do was not only crazy, but, if Carstairs was what she suspected—a professional robber— it could be dangerous, as well.
But the way Evelyn saw it, she had little choice. She'd overheard bits and pieces of Carstairs's conversation with the other two men in Sam Wa's cafe—hearing just enough to pique her curiosity as only the young, inquiring Evelyn's curiosity could be piqued. From what she'd heard, she gathered the men were up to no good. It sounded to her like they were about to pull some kind of robbery here in town.
Evelyn had once run with robbers herself. In fact, it had been a gang of train robbers that had brought her to Clantick before Ben Stillman, encouraging her to walk the straight and narrow, had gotten her the job at Sam Wa's. She knew how thieves' minds worked. Who better than she could infiltrate the trio and find out what they were up to?
She knew she should discuss what she'd overheard with Leon McMannigle. She'd almost done so but had stopped herself when she'd realized there was nothing he could do before the robbers took action—after money had been taken and, possibly, people had been killed. Also, Leon would only try to talk her out of her dangerous plan, and she didn't want to be discouraged. Foolhardy as it might appear on the surface, it was the right thing to do. Clantick was her town, its citizens her friends. They'd been kind to her when she'd needed it most. This would be her way of repaying them.
"Oh, who are you kidding?" she asked herself now. "You're enjoying this masquerade."
It was true. While for the most part she cherished her life here in Clantick, she had to admit it
could get a little dull at times. Infiltrating the trio of robbers might be just the distraction she needed.
Still, she was nervous, and her hands were sweaty. Suppressing her misgivings, Evelyn took a deep breath and grabbed the white lace shawl from the back of the rocking chair. Arranging it across her shoulders, she said, "Well, this much excitement should tide you for about a year, Miss Vincent... if you live through it."
After a final glance in the mirror, she gave herself an encouraging smile, strode to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall.
"Your gentleman is waiting, Evelyn," one of her sister boarders announced, snickering, as the girl passed on her way to her room. Over her shoulder, the girl added, "Cuts a right smart figure, too..."
Evelyn feigned a proud grin, inhaled again deeply, and headed downstairs. She passed through the front hall, and, thankful she didn't see the kind but persnickety Mrs. Berg, who would disapprove of all the makeup she was wearing, walked through the foyer and onto the front porch where Bledin Carstairs stood, facing the yard and smoking a stogie.
Hearing her footsteps, he turned and grinned, dressed to the nines in a black cutaway suit, fawn pants, and boiled shirt. His black boots shone like silver, and a diamond pin pierced his wide, black cravat. Evelyn had known a lot of phony dandies in her time, but never one quite so phonily dandified as Bledin Carstairs, and she had to work hard at suppressing a snort and calling up an expression of girlish admiration.
Carstairs spoke first. "Ah, Miss Vincent, how ravishing you look!"
"Oh ... well, thank you... Mr. Carstairs," she said, filling her voice with humility and awe as she raked her eyes across his well-garnished frame. "But I don't look anything compared to you." Knowing instinctively that men like Carstairs preferred their women meek—the meeker the better—she meekly averted her eyes. "I'd like to say the dress is store-bought, but not on a cafe girl's salary. I made it last winter up in my room."
"You made that?" Carstairs said with overly animated surprise. "I never would've known."
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