The boy looked up quickly; and she was startled by the sudden malevolence of his expression. Of late there were times when he seemed an adult and not very likeable stranger.
"Don't ever say that!" he told her in a tight, strained voice. "l never asked any favors of Boyd Cohoon. What he did, he did for you, not for me."
She said, shocked, "Why, you hate him!"
"Wouldn't you? If you'd spent five years listening to Whispers and insinuations. . . . Do you think people don't know what actually happened five years ago? Sometimes I think everybody in town knows it except your friend Westerman with his determined hatred for Cohoon—and sometimes I even wonder about him. He must have heard the story somewhere; he hears everything else that happens. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he knows perfectly well who really held up the stage with Harry that day, and just pretends to think it was Cohoon for some sly reason of his own."
Claire felt a pang of fear. "Now you're being ridiculous! Unless ... You haven't said anything in front of him that would lead him to suspect, have you?"
Her brother laughed. "Do you think I'm a fool? Even if I didn't care about my own skin, I wouldn't dream of spoiling your little game, and Dad's. How much is Dad into him for, anyway?"
"I don't know what you mean," Claire said stiffly.
"Dad knows about as much about silver and mining as I do," Francis said. "A clever man could take him for every penny he owned—unless there was something he wanted more than pennies." The boy laughed again. "We're quite a gang of slave traders, aren't we, Claire? You pay off my debt to society with Boyd Cohoon's body, and Dad pays off his debt to Paul Westerman with yours, and Paul—"
"Paul what?"
"Never mind, Just a little secret of Paul's and mine."
"You're being ridiculous and disgusting," Claire said angrily. "I think you're drunk. And if you've been borrowing money from Paul, I'll—"
Francis chuckled. "Claire, don't threaten me. You play your game and I'll play mine.... Incidentally, I saw our stiff-necked marshal outside again last night; seems he's developing the habit of patrolling Arroyo Street. Sometimes I wish I'd been born a woman; it must be pleasant to be able to get what you .want with no more than a smile—and a promise you don't have to keep." He rose abruptly. "As for Boyd Cohoon, of course I hate him. He's the martyred hero everyone admires; while I'm the precious little fellow who stayed safe at home while another man went to prison in his place. Can I tell them that I wasn't asked; that I was out of my head from shock and loss Of blood; that I didn't even know what had happened until after the trial?"
She was tired of his hints and Insinuations, and she said sharply, "I did what I thought was best, and so did Dad. There was nothing to prevent you from going to the authorities as soon as you were well, and getting Boyd released, if you didn't like it."
Her brother swung to face her so quickly that for an instant she thought he would strike her, and it may have been in his mind. Then the violence seemed to drain out of him.
"Yes," he said wearily. "Thank you for reminding me, Claire. There's always that, isn't there; five years of it? I'll try not to forget it again."
She watched him stumble out of the room; regretting what she had said, although his behavior had certainly invited a little plain speaking. Then her father Was coming into the room. From his carefully controlled expression she knew that he had stopped at her mother's door, as was his habit, and had as usual received no response to his morning greeting. This was a pattern she had known almost all her life. She could remember very clearly when it started. She had been a child then, and Francis had been a baby, too young to understand. The evening had been much the same as any other; at dinner, her mother had voiced her customary complaints about this country and its climate, fit only for the savages to whom it really belonged. The children had been put to bed; but Claire had been awakened some hours later by angry voices in the adjoining room. Her mother was laying down an ultimatum: she and the children were going back to Virginia; her father could suit himself. Then she heard her father's voice, the voice of a man driven beyond endurance, explaining in cold hard words, intelligible even to a four-year-old child, exactly why they had left home immediately after the war, and why they could never go back.
She had never been able to look at her father since without remembering that night. Now she watched him come to the table with the same emotions as always: love and pity and— she could not help it—a little contempt, because of course he had tried to justify himself in the end.
"What's the matter with Francis?" Colonel Paradine asked. Claire said, "He's disturbed because Boyd Cohoon got publicly drunk last night after leaving us." She hesitated.
"Maybe ... maybe I should have been nicer to him. After all—"
"No, no, my dear, you did just right." The Colonel continued to speak in a measured way as they seated themselves at the table, "I really think you gave young Cohoon all the consideration he deserved in putting off your marriage until you could break the news to him. And what with the not inconsiderable sum he received in addition, I can't see that he has any cause for complaint." He spread his napkin, and caressed his pale mustache with a forefinger. "I must say, my dear, that I'm very relieved with the way this has turned out. There was a time when I feared you were becoming emotionally involved with that young fellow; and the Cohoon men were always a rough lot, Claire. Why, Ward Cohoon carried half a dozen scalps at his belt for years after he settled here, and a tomahawk as well, having lived with the eastern tribes in his youth, before he crossed the plains. It's a mystery why Mrs. Cohoon, an educated woman of good family, allowed herself to be practically abducted by a wild man in buckskin who, according to the stories I've heard, made no bones whatever about having come back east just to find himself a wife. Perhaps she was influenced by the fact that, unlike most of those frontiersmen, he had managed to make quite a bit of money; but I have no doubt that she regretted her choice before she died." Colonel Paradine dismissed the Cohoons with a gesture. "Well," he said cheerily, "I suppose we can start making plans for the wedding, now that your conscience is satisfied. Did you and Paul agree on a date last night?"
"No," he said. "No, we didn't. I didn't feel ... I was a little upset. Seeing Boyd again ..." Her voice trailed away.
Her father cleared his throat, and said, "Claire, I'd like to remind you that according to the laws of this territory you can marry only one man. I'd also like to point out that I'm involved in some fairly important business dealings with Paul Westerman; I don't mention this as an argument for marrying him—I've left the decision entirely up to you, haven't I, my dear?—but I think I have the right to insist that you treat him with consideration. He's been very patient with these delays; I certainly hope he doesn't connect them with young Cohoon. He certainly deserves a straightforward answer now."
She said, "I know. Paul's been sweet." ,She toyed with the food on her plate, and spoke again without looking up; "Dad, how important is it to you that I marry him?"
The Colonel glanced at her quickly, and looked quickly away. "Important?" he said in a carefully even voice. "Why, I don't know what you mean, my dear, As I've said time and again, the decision is entirely up to you. I. only want your happiness, you know that." After a moment, he added easily, "But surely you're not thinking of refusing him, after keeping him waiting this long?" Then, as if feeling that he had betrayed himself, he added in an altogether different tone: "Well, I'd better get to the bank, my dear. Let me know what you decide."
"I'll come with you, if you don't mind, Dad," Claire said. "l want to do some shopping later, and there's no money in the house."
Outside, it was blowing hard, so that it was a relief when they reached their destination and the doors closed against the dust and sand. Entering the bank with her father was always a pleasure to Claire Paradine; it was rather like being a princess inspecting the household troops. She smiled at the guard, and the Mexican boy who was sweeping the floor, and at the two tellers—giving a special s
mile to young John Fergus, who was in love with her. Francis, she noted, had not yet arrived for work. Inside the rear once, the Colonel paused to leaf through some papers left on the desk for his inspection.
"Just sit down for a minute, my dear," he said. "I'll be right .... Yes, what is it, Fergus?"
The young teller stood in the doorway with an odd expression on his freckled face. He glanced at Claire—a look of acute embarrassment—hesitated, flushed, and addressed her father: "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to you privately, sir."
"What Oh, very well."
The Colonel walked across the room; Fergus followed him outside. They did not close the door. Claire, from where she sat, could hear the younger man's subdued voice; she saw her father's back stiffen. Without looking around, the Colonel followed Fergus toward the front of the bank. Claire sat for a moment motionless; then, drawn by an uneasy curiosity she could not control, she rose and moved to the open door.
She heard her father's voice, peculiarly strained, say, "Yes, yes, of course we'll be glad to open an account for Mrs. Montoya."
Then she saw the person to whom her father was speaking; a rather tall, dark-haired girl in an elaborate, shiny green dress, and a large feathered hat that no respectable woman would have dreamed of wearing. But it was not the female's costume that held Claire Paradine's shocked attention, but what the creature held in her hand: a rectangular packet, the proportions and wrappings of which were horribly familiar. She knew a quick and bitter hatred for Boyd Cohoon, who had taken this brutal way of expressing his opinion of the Paradines' money—throwing it casually to this hussy in payment, no doubt, for a night's favors.
"Ten thousand dollars," Colonel Paradine said thickly. His neck was red with suppressed fury. "Yes, of course, Mrs. Montoya. We are here to serve the public."
8
STANDING at the rear of the store where Van Houck kept his stock of firearms, Cohoon buckled the heavy revolver about him, adjusting the weapon on his left hip, butt forward, where it could be reached with either hand. His father had often spoken caustically of the kind of barroom desperadoes who packed their guns down about their knees and could, as a consequence, barely hobble across the sidewalk into the nearest saloon. Van Houck made change for a female customer, and came back along the aisle.
"Stop licking your chops, Uncle Van," Cohoon said. "I'm not going after Westerman; I'm just putting this damn thing on so I won't look naked walking around town. It might put notions into somebody's head."
Van Houck said, "You sound like your dad. He used to say that a gun without a man was a useless hunk of iron; while a man without a gun was still a man." After a moment's pause, he went on: "I'm sorry if I spoke harshly yesterday, Boyd. It is not my place to tell you what to do. If I believed strongly enough that the fellow should be shot, I should go shoot him myself, hein? Maybe I will, if his fine new place across the street continues to lure my customers away."
Cohoon laughed. "If you want to shoot him for that, okay!" he said. "But before you shoot him for Dad and Jonathan, you'd better make sure you have the right man."
"What do you mean?"
Cohoon hesitated. "You told me they couldn't find the marshal that day when the posse was being formed, so they rode without him, Westerman taking the lead..."
"I doubt they looked very hard, Boyd. Westerman likes to run things his own way; and since they pinned a badge on young Black he's been acting pretty independent. Westerman wouldn't have wanted him along, particularly if there might be some evidence to be concealed." Van Houck chuckled. "To look at the boy now, dressed like every day was Sunday, you wouldn't think that only a few years ago he was well on the way to becoming just another drunken bum like his dad. After the new bridge put the ferry out of business, he got a job in Flagler's place on Creek Lane and showed himself to be pretty handy with a gun—also with a bottle. Everybody was saying that the kid was the spitting image of old John Black, particularly when he was full of whisky. He's got a mean streak in him, just like the old man... "
Cohoon said dryly, "What man doesn't? But with that kind of a reputation, how did he manage to get chosen marshal?" "Well, it was a matter of finding someone who could handle the job; and he could do that, all right. And then it was also a matter of getting a man who'd keep this mining riffraff from taking over the town; and whatever you may say against John Black, he was one of the old settlers: his son could be counted on not to side with the newcomers. And I guess Westerman, who was behind the Citizens' Committee, figured that with his drinking he'd be easy enough to handle. However, that was one time Paul Westerman figured wrong. The idea that a bunch of his fellow-citizens thought enough of him to put the law into his hands did something for young Black; I guess nobody ever trusted him with anything before. He took his new job seriously, as you can see. A little too seriously for the liking of some people—why is it that reforming a man always makes him insufferably righteous?—but I wish him luck. After the way Old John used to abuse him while he was alive, the boy deserves a break now."
Cohoon said, "Perhaps. Nevertheless, I'd be interested in knowing just where he was that day he couldn't be found. The day Dad and Jonathan were killed."
Van Houck looked up quickly, startled. "Boyd, you don't think—"
"Last night Willie Black came as close as a man could come to expressing delight that the rest of my family was no longer living, which is odd behavior for a righteous man, Uncle Van."
"Ah, he always carried a grudge against Jonathan for some boyhood joke, I know that; but it never occurred to me ... What are you going to do?"
"Do?" Cohoon said. "Why, I'm going to do nothing along those lines, just as I have been doing. I told you last night that I can stand having the murderer around; I've got other business besides playing detective. But I still wonder, Uncle Van, just how long he can stand having me around. It will be interesting to see how long his nerve holds out, eh, Uncle Van?" Cohoon picked up his hat. "Well, I'll lug this saddle and gear up the street and see if I can't swindle Ben Swanson out of a horse and pack mule for old times' sake. I'll pick up the rest of the outfit on the way back."
Outside, he had to narrow his eyes against the sunshine and dust—in some parts of the world, people wrote odes to spring, but around here it was a time of high winds and flying dirt. A woman near the hotel was having trouble maintaining her skirts at a decorous level; and a tumbleweed came bouncing down the center of Main Street. Cohoon walked up the street, passing the bank; he paused to look at a building a little farther on, across the front of which was lettered: LUCKY SEVEN MINING CO. The windows were shattered and the walls pockmarked by recent gunfire. As Cohoon stood there, Marshal Black came out of the place and, seeing him, walked up to him.
"Where were you?" the marshal asked, glancing at the bullet-marked walls.
"Not here," Cohoon said, catching his meaning, which was clear enough.
Black said: "You rode into town with this money, Cohoon. It was taken the evening you arrived. That's a coincidence, and I don't like coincidences. Somebody sent word to the General that a big payroll had been slipped by him, bringing him here last night to remedy the oversight."
"The General?" Cohoon let the heavy saddle slide from his shoulder, and lowered it to the ground.
"Of course, you wouldn't know about the General," Black said sarcastically. "He's only been operating in this country the last three-four years; and nobody could possibly have told you how to get in touch with him—one of your fellow-convicts, perhaps, with some helpful suggestions for finding employment after your release?" The marshal laughed sharply. "I know crooks, and how information passes among them, Cohoon. My dad was one, remember? He was better than you; he made more money and he never got caught. But once a man goes bad, a few years in prison won't cure him—and you're one of the bad ones."
Cohoon said softly, "According to the law, which you're supposed to enforce, I've paid my debt to society."
The younger man looked at him thoughtfully, ignoring his wo
rds. "I don't think you were planted on the stage," he said, in the tones of one who speculates aloud. "I think you just had a lucky break—according to your point of view—and took advantage of it, Broke, just out of prison, you had some valuable information dropped in your lap; and if you didn't already know where to locate a buyer for it, you found out in a hurry. The General's got spies in town; we know that from the way he operates. For a man with your record it would have been no problem at all to get in touch with him... That's a nice looking saddle, Cohoon. And a new gun, too."
"On credit," Cohoon said. "Ask Van Houck.
"He'd lie for you. It was a mistake, Cohoon. On your part and that of the General. He should have stuck to holding up stagecoaches and harassing the outlying mines. He shouldn't have committed a robbery in my town, and you shouldn't have helped him. Tell him that, Cohoon, the next time you see him."
The words had an amusing overtone of hurt boyish pride; but the young marshal's expression was less amusing. After a moment longer, Black turned abruptly and walked away in the direction of his once, located beyond the hotel. Cohoon watched him briefly, and bent down to pick up the saddle on the ground.
"Cohoon."
He glanced up to see Paul Westerman standing in the doorway of the mine once, in his shirt sleeves. Cohoon lowered the saddle again, and walked over.
"So young Black suspects you of having a hand in the robbery," Westerman said. "It's a thought that hadn't occurred to me."
Cohoon shrugged. He looked through the doorway, seeing a desk at which a clerk was working, and an open safe. He looked back at Westerman. "Yours?"
'The Lucky Seven? Yes, it's one of my enterprises. We're just adding up our losses—subtracting them, I guess I should say." Westerman grimaced ruefully. "Overconfidence, Cohoon. We thought we'd been very clever to get the payroll into town without being noticed, and left only two men to guard the safe. They were expecting no trouble, since the General's never struck in town before—we were all preparing ourselves for the real job of getting the money out to the mine tomorrow. He simply outwitted us, as he has a habit of doing."
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