Trouble at Temescal

by Frank Bonham

  Fran’s pulses bounded. Her throat was so dry she could scarcely breathe.

  “Why should I believe you?” Serena asked. “If it were true, my father would have come to me himself.”

  “Said he came last night. He thought maybeso a stranger could do better.”

  “Tell him to come again,” Serena Jackson stated.

  “He’s done left with Doyle and the boys. Cameron’s outfit took off a bit ago, and Roth was afraid they’d be hitting his wagon camp. So they all left. The road’s clear now for me to take Becket over to jail. I expect you know,” he drawled, “that there’s going to be a war if you don’t work with us. Because your father’s going ahead anyway, and naturally those settlers will fight. But if he nails ’em down legally, they can’t. That’s quite a responsibility on you, ain’t it? What’s that little old watch of yours say?” Saddler asked.

  “Elev … eleven forty-five,” Serena faltered.

  “I’ll be back at twelve. That’s fifteen minutes. Be ready to tell me where Becket’s hiding. Otherwise you’re going to see a man get his neck stretched, Miss Serena, and it’ll be your own fault. And I just wouldn’t give a lot for your daddy’s chances of getting any older, either.”

  As soon as he had gone, Fran rushed into the hall and opened Serena’s door. Serena was sitting on the bed. She gazed at Fran, pale as a candle.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  “Isn’t there a marshal?” Fran asked.

  “Yes, but he’s an old man. And probably out of town with the rest. I … I wonder if Troy went with them …”

  Fran stared down at the dark-haired girl sitting on the white candlewick bedspread. “You aren’t thinking, surely, of … of giving Gil away?”

  “No, but what he said was true. If Roth finds your brother …”

  “But unless you betray him, Roth won’t find him!” Fran cried.

  Serena’s eyes were bitter. “And if he never comes to trial, my father and I are through on Anvil.”

  “Miss Jackson,” Fran pleaded, “is a ranch more important than a man’s life?”

  “We’re talking about my father’s life, too, according to Saddler.”

  “He’s only trying to frighten you.” Suddenly Fran knew she must find Troy, if he were still in town. She told Serena hastily: “Lock your door. Don’t let him in when he comes back. I’m going to find Troy.”

  The last expression in Serena’s eyes suggested calculation. Perhaps she was less afraid of Mike Saddler than Fran had thought. Less afraid of Saddler than of losing Anvil.

  She hurried from the hotel, but then she did not know where to look for him. Finally she recalled the little restaurant down the street where Troy and his friends ate when they were in town. She entered but it was almost empty. The languorous counterman was talking with a man in a town suit and derby.

  “Mister Aperance,” Fran said, “I’m looking for Troy Cameron.”

  Aperance smiled. “Little lady, I wish I could help. But they’ve all took off to the mountains.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Something wrong?” Aperance inquired.

  What could she tell him? What could anyone do who was not willing to risk his life for Gil’s? “No, thank you,” she said.

  The Pima Bar had not unlocked its doors yet. As she stood across the street, she could see a man looking out of an upstairs window. She hurried on to the plaza and glanced along the line of Mexican shops, searched hastily through the bullwhackers’ camp, and then gazed fixedly at the church. She saw no one she knew, and tears filled her eyes. She was frightened and hurt—hurt that Troy should leave Gil unprotected.

  It must have been fifteen minutes now since she had left. She hurried into the rear of the hotel. Not a sound in the hall. The oiled flooring ran darkly to the front. Fran tapped at Serena’s door, but the girl did not answer. She looked in. Serena’s cape was gone. The room was empty.

  Fran rushed into her room and looked in the armoire for the rifle Troy had lent her in the mountains. It was there, stubby, bronze-framed, heavy. God give me strength! she thought.

  She walked out the back, the carbine under her cape, and returned to the plaza. The rifle banged against her leg as she approached the church. One of the large double doors was open. A bell rope dangled from the belfry. Suddenly a man appeared from a door at the right, big and fleshy and with bristling brows.

  Her grip on the rifle failed and it clattered on the floor. The man stared at it. “By any chance,” he asked, “are you Gil Becket’s sister?”

  “Yes! Then you’re Reverend Stiles. Is … is Gil all right?”

  “He’s all right.” Fred Stiles smiled. “Come in. I usually ask worshipers to leave their guns outside, but since this is a special occasion …”

  Under his weight the old ripsawed flooring groaned. He placed the rifle against the wall.

  “Sis?” She heard the voice above their heads, and turned quickly to glance up.

  “Gil, you must come down! You’ve got to get away.”

  “Nothing I’d rather do, Sis, but I’ve got to wait for Troy. Saw him drive past the back of the church this morning. Figure it was a sign.”

  “Probably it was. But Mike Saddler … oh, I don’t want to frighten you, Gil … but Saddler’s made Serena Jackson inform on you!”

  Fred Stiles, the big storekeeper turned preacher, said firmly: “Not Serena. Why, she hid Gil. Why would Serena betray him?”

  She told them. A moment later a horse came into the plaza at a jog. Stiles went to the door. Gil said: “Sis, get out. I’ve got a gun here. I’m ready for them.”

  But the horseman had reached the front of the church and his boots struck the steps. Stiles blocked the doorway. Looking past him, Fran saw that it was one of the two men who had been with Saddler at his cabin—the dark, leathery one named Wiley.

  “Doyle’s dyin’,” Joe Wiley reported. “Can you come over to the hotel?”

  “He’s lying!” Fran exclaimed. “Doyle’s already gone to Anvil.”

  Wiley’s keen eyes found her behind the preacher. “No, ma’am, he only started. The bleeding started again and they had to bring him back. Doc Watkins don’t give him long.” Wiley came up the steps.

  “Is that the truth?” Stiles asked uneasily.

  Wiley silently raised his hand. Stiles glanced around at Fran. Wiley’s hand clenched and he brought it down on the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles stumbled against the jamb, groaning. Wiley pounced like a cougar, driving two quick blows to his jaw. Sprawling, Stiles fell back into the church. Fran whirled to seize the rifle. An arm caught her from behind and the cowpuncher clasped her against him and stood against the wall. She felt a gun barrel in her side.

  “That’s how it’s going to be, Becket,” Joe Wiley said. “You, or both of you.”

  Fran tried to scream, but her throat had closed tight. She could see the barrel of a gun in the crawl hole above them.

  Gil said: “Wiley, so help me I’ll …”

  “Gil, I don’t want a lot of talk,” Saddler’s man said. “Mike and Bill are waitin’ in back with the horses. You ain’t going to be hurt. Mike’s made a deal with Jackson for a piece of Anvil. Jackson’s promised you safe conduct to the railroad. A marshal will be waiting there to take you to Tucson. That’s the best offer you’re about to git, boy.”

  “They’re lying, Gil!” Fran cried. “Stay where you are.” Her fingers pried at Wiley’s arm. It was as hard as the branch of a tree.

  “Is … is that on the level?” Gil asked Wiley.

  “Jackson’s word to Saddler. My word to you. But if you’d rather deal that way, I’ll walk out right now. You and your sister can stand them off when they come. That’s up to you, boy.”

  Fran could hear the rear door of the church open. “What am I going to do, Sis?” Gil groaned.

  Wiley t
old him quietly: “Safe conduct. You won’t be hearing that word again.”

  “He’s right, Sis,” Gil panted. “Only chance. I’m comin’ down. Can I keep my gun?” he asked Wiley.

  “Sure,” Wiley said. “Why not?”

  XX

  Jim Jackson pulled up on some brushy high ground in the foothills, raising his gloved hand to halt the cowpunchers and loggers who rode with him. For over an hour they had followed the Defiance men into the foothills. Roth pulled up beside him. A quick, hard-ridden shortcut had put them on a ridge above the wagon road, so that the Defiance men were now approaching a point a few hundred yards below them, not far from Sheep Bridge, where Roth had held Cameron. Roth, his broken-nosed features grim, asked tightly: “Is he with them?”

  “Don’t know yet. We’ll know in a minute, Red.”

  His rifle out, the rancher stared down through the small trees. He was beginning to suspect that the whole chase had been planned to draw them out of town.

  Tom Doyle pulled alongside. Without looking at him, Jackson said: “How you making it, Tom?”

  “OK, OK,” Doyle repeated. He sounded strained and in trouble. The wound in his leg was deep. The doctor had done all he could for it, but Doyle should be in bed. It was Doyle’s fault if he would rather help hang a man than get well.

  “Yonder they come,” Owen McCard breathed. And under his breath he named the riders passing beneath, far down the slope.

  Jackson pressed against the saddle swell. “Edwards,” he said. “Briscoe. Was that …?” Excited, thinking he had seen Becket, he shot a glance at Doyle. But Doyle, who had the eye of a chicken hawk, shook his head.

  “Just some farmer,” he growled.

  In Jackson, rage cried for release. Fighting Cameron was like roping a whirlwind. You never quite got him in your loop. He had made up his mind that if he spotted Becket with them, he would have his crew open up on the whole gang. Aiding and abetting—they knew the law on that.

  The riders below tailed out, took the last short pitch to Sheep Bridge, and clattered across it. “He ain’t with them,” Doyle said.

  Jackson and Roth looked at each other. “OK, Big Jim,” Roth asked grimly, “what’s next? How’d you like to cut those trees yourself?”

  Jackson’s head turned. “Owen,” he said to McCard, “take the boys on. We’ve got to keep an eye on those fellows in case they decide to mop up on Red’s camp. Red … Tom … we’re going back. Go on!” he shouted to McCard. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  McCard spurred down the slope and the others went with him. In their dust, Jackson, Doyle, and Roth sat their horses.

  “Since Becket isn’t with them,” Jackson said, “he’s still in hiding. Or was, until Saddler flushed him.”

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence in that blockhead,” Roth said.

  Jackson snugged the fingers of his buckskin glove, squinting. “No, let’s say I’ve got confidence in my understanding of my daughter.”

  The arrangement with Saddler was that, if he got Becket, he would bring him to the Anvil turnoff. Roth’s thin-skinned, freckled face was pessimistic.

  “When you write Santa Claus this year, Jackson,” he said, “tell him you need a new timber contractor.”

  “If the old one had any guts,” Jackson said, “he wouldn’t be walking out. I’m going down and wait for Saddler. If he hasn’t got Becket, then it’s up to you what you do. Nobody will blame you. But if you walk out on me now, you’ll leave with a couple of new fractures in that nose of yours.”

  Roth’s quiet eyes considered him. He had a way of withholding speech while you wondered what he was thinking. Beyond him Jackson was conscious of the blue bulk of the mountains rising—that godlike pile of stone and timber on which his destiny was written. In him there was a terrible wish to sweep everything away that stood between him and those mountains. But Cameron stood between him and them; Roth stood there; Becket stood there. His patience snapped.

  “Do what you damned well please,” he said abruptly. He wheeled his horse. Doyle turned with him, and in a moment he heard Roth following.

  The short winter afternoon was chilling. Down into the leathery brush thickets they rode on the flats where the big, square adobe posts, anvil-topped, marked his turnoff. At once Jackson knew someone was waiting there. He had seen the two horses in the brush, and, as he watched, a man stood up and gave them a hat signal.

  “He’s got him!” Tom Doyle said. “He’s got him!” In savage exultation he quirted his pony.

  “Wait a minute, Tom!” Jackson reached for his arm, but Doyle was riding down the slope. The rancher noticed that his trouser leg was dark with blood. Roth took off his Stetson and gave it a throw. It sailed into the air as the logger loped after Tom Doyle.

  Saddler had tied Gil Becket’s wrists and ankles with a rope. Becket slumped at the base of a gatepost, unshaven, thin faced, frightened. Doyle dismounted and stood over him, his boots set widely. But Roth rode in and made his horse shoulder Doyle out of the way. Doyle stumbled on his bad leg.

  “Simmer down,” Roth said. He gazed down at Becket. “He’s my ’coon. So this is what a killer looks like.”

  Becket said: “I didn’t kill that fellow, Roth. There was three of us firing at once.”

  “But maybe you were the lucky one,” Roth said.

  There was a rope on his saddle that he had carried since the hour Deke Howard had been killed. He slipped the saddle string that held it, smiling down at Becket. Becket’s bound hands clenched.

  Watching him, Jackson felt only contempt. Once he had pitied Becket and his kind—too weak, too poor to flog a living from this tough country. But the cold knife of catastrophe had sliced away all his compassion. Becket had done murder. Now Becket belonged to Roth. Let Roth settle what to do with him.

  “Git the horses,” Roth said to Saddler.

  Doyle’s trout-like eyes probed coldly at him. “What for? He can walk a quarter-mile to a tree, can’t he?”

  “Where do you come in on this deal?” Roth demanded. “I’m taking Becket to town. The proper place for a hanging is a hay barn.”

  Saddler stood by, smoking a cigarette to hide his tension. Jackson saw his guilt and anxiety as he drawled: “Becket’s sister knows we’ve got him. Becket was hiding in the church. She got there before I did, and I had to bring her along. We better stick with our deal. Safe conduct, we said.”

  “Now, that was bright!” Jim Jackson declared. “Where is she? Why didn’t you leave her?”

  Saddler’s hat lay on the ground and his heavy, Indian-black hair had fallen into a natural part down the middle. His thumbs were pressed under his cartridge belt.

  “I had my boys take her to the shack over in your Hay Ranch pasture. They’ll hold her there till somebody goes for them. I couldn’t leave her in town because Cameron was still around.”

  Roth said again, “Get the horses,” and Saddler turned, reluctant but silently consenting. Tom Doyle opened a long clasp knife. Becket’s eyes flinched as the gunman squatted before him, favoring his leg. Doyle made a quick motion and slashed the rope that bound his ankles. “Git up!” he said, standing back.

  “Wait a minute, Tom,” Jackson ordered. “This is Red’s party. If he wants Becket in Frontera, he’ll have him there.”

  Doyle turned so fast, still holding the knife, that the rancher thought at first he was going to attack him.

  “Get it through your heads,” the gunman said, “that I ain’t got another hour’s ride in me! We’ll stretch him right here!”

  Saddler led the horses back. He mounted silently, looking as if he preferred to be left out of it. Suddenly Becket charged him. He raised his bound hands and clawed at the rancher’s arm. The horse shied and Saddler was half dragged from the saddle. With the ends of his braided rawhide reins he slashed at Becket’s face until he fell back.

  “Damn you
, Gil!” he panted. “Straighten out!”

  “You promised me a trial!” Becket shouted.

  “I know, but …” Saddler’s eyes, angry and desperate and ashamed, swerved to Jim Jackson’s face. Jackson smiled and said nothing. After a moment Saddler reined his horse away and murmured something to Roth, who swung from his buckskin. He took the reins of the extra horse from Saddler. “Let’s go, boy,” he said cheerfully to Gil.

  Gil stood against the adobes. Roth lounged a couple of strides away, swinging the free end of his rope and grinning. Watching them, Jackson had the feeling: They’re jumping on strings, and the strings are in my hand.

  Then suddenly Gil drove at Roth, hammered his tied fists into his face, and charged across him as the logger fell back. He sprinted across the road into the brush, running like a rabbit, lithe, small, changing direction every instant.

  Roth got up quickly, trying to draw his revolver, but Tom Doyle shoved him off balance and stepped into the road, his Colt cocked. His blunt features burned with excitement as he took his bead. “Runs like a jack rabbit.” He chuckled. “Dang’ little fool runs like a jack rabbit.”

  The Colt bucked, jumped a foot as the gray fumes burst from the muzzle, and the resounding crash of the shot deafened them. Jackson watched Becket falter, heard him cry out. Then the slender figure recovered and staggered on, one arm hanging loose.

  Doyle cocked and pulled the gun down with greater care, biting his lower lip as he squinted. The Colt leaped. Across the road Gil Becket stumbled and went down. Doyle turned his pleased grin on Jackson.

  “Dang’ little fool run just like a jack rabbit, didn’t he?” He chuckled again.

  Mike Saddler uttered a curse and spurred at Doyle, smashing his fist down at the gunman’s head. “What about our deal?” he shouted.

  Damned fool’s gone crazy, Jackson thought. Well, lunacy is as good a way as any to dodge guilt. Doyle stumbled, but he held onto the gun, and for the first time Saddler seemed to see it. With a quick slash of his quirt he knocked it from Doyle’s hand. Then he rowelled his horse into the road and plunged into the low brush thickets.