by Short, Luke;
Red watched her curiously, until suddenly he came to his senses. This was Edith Fairing, and she was looking for him. The day Frank was in jail and Red took Edith home he had left her with the admonition that if she ever received another warning note to come to the hotel porch every night until she found him.
Red rose, left his chair and crossed the street to Edith.
“Trouble?” he asked, touching his hatbrim as he stepped on the boardwalk.
Edith said, “No,” smiling a little, and then added, “I think we’d better walk away from my house until I explain.”
Red fell in beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see this girl without remembering that she would now be Morg Wheelon’s wife if he hadn’t left Morg alone that night. She was too young for sorrow, too pretty, and he wished he could drive that haunted look from her eyes.
When they had passed the corner Red said, “Did you get another note?”
“No. Scott Corb is at the house, Red.”
Red stopped, staring at her. “Corb? Did he—”
“No, he’s very polite. He wants to talk to Frank.”
“What about?”
“He won’t say. He said he couldn’t find Frank, didn’t know where to look for him, and that he thought I might be able to get in touch with him.”
Red said, “Is he alone?”
“He’s alone in the house. But he may have men outside. That’s why I suggested we walk away from the house.”
“Good girl,” Red murmured.
“Do you want to take him to Frank?”
“I dunno,” Red said. “I’ll hear him talk first. You turn around and go home. I’ll drift back and take a look around the house before I knock on the door.”
When Edith had gone Red swung into the closest alley and made his way by a devious route to the Fairings’ small house. There was something almighty queer about this—unless Corb figured he was licked and wanted to make a deal. But that wasn’t like Corb. Red grinned when he thought of Frank laying eyes on Corb. Frank was in a savage temper after the Circle R stampede. Beach had been fired. Frank blamed himself for the useless death of that trail hand, although Red-had tried to convince him that the man was a hired gunnie of Milabel’s and that Beach Freeman was guilty anyway. And, to boot, the news of their blunder and the sight of Corb wouldn’t help Frank’s temper.
When he reached Edith Fairing’s place Red investigated the alley and the barn. Then he walked the street on both sides of the road and even circled the block to see if any men were hidden out around town. Almost satisfied but still wary, he came back to the Fairing house and knocked on the door.
Edith let him in and took him into the parlor. Corb was standing there, hat in hand, waiting. His bland face didn’t change at sight of Red, but his wicked little eyes studied him minutely.
“Better leave the door open,” Red said to Edith. “I don’t like the smell in here.”
“I want to see Christian, Shibe,” Corb said, ignoring Red’s gibe.
“That’s a bushwhack trick that’s old even for Indians, Corb,” Red jeered.
“I haven’t any men here,” Corb said. “Look and see, if you want to. I’ll give you my gun and we won’t be followed.”
“Frank will shoot you on sight,” Red said.
“No, he won’t. He’d better not, because I have some information he wants.”
“About what?”
“I’ll tell him when I see him.”
Red leaned up against the table and regarded Corb with grudging admiration. “For a skunk,” Red drawled, “you got more gall than a government mule, Corb. You can’t tell Frank anything he wants to know. You can’t do him any favor, except drop dead.”
“Red!” Edith said in a half-frightening voice. Corb was the power here, and Red was talking to him like any saddle bum.
Red looked over at her and grinned. “You ain’t afraid, are you, Edith? Look at him. He’s just an old man with weasel eyes and a black heart and a snake’s brains.” He looked over at Corb, but Corb was regarding him placidly. Corb wasn’t being baited tonight.
“Let’s talk business,” Corb said. “Will you take me to Christian?”
“What’s to prevent your hard cases from trailin’ us and cuttin’ down on Frank when we meet him?”
“It’s night, and you can’t trail at night,” Corb pointed out dryly. Then he said casually, “Can’t you get it through your thick head I want to talk to him? You’ve got a wagon and a crew, haven’t you?”
Red didn’t answer.
“I know you have because I saw them,” Corb went on. “Take me to your crew and then bring Frank in to talk.” He sneered. “You ought to feel safe enough that way.”
Red’s freckled face flushed a little. “You’re a pretty cagey hombre, Corb. You know damn well I’ll take you to Frank just to prove we ain’t scared of you.”
“Do it, then.”
“I will,” Red said grimly. He walked over to Corb, took the gun from his shoulder holster, searched him for other weapons and, finding none, motioned him to the door. Corb went out.
Edith said, “Be careful, Red,” and her eyes were worried.
Red grinned reassuringly. “Not me. If I could rawhide that coyote into a fight and lift his scalp I’d try it in a minute.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Red,” Edith said calmly. “You’ll be careful.”
Red looked strangely at her, and when she smiled faintly he gulped, grinned, mumbled, “I reckon I will,” and said good night.
Outside Corb was waiting for him. Red said, “Meet me in front of the hotel,” and walked upstreet.
Once he had his horse he said, “We’ll go out of town my way, Corb. You just follow.”
Red started toward the river, but as soon as he was away from the town’s lights he circled and went out the south road. Once there, he made a wide swing west and to the north, occasionally stopping to see if he was being followed. Corb was patient through it all, even when Red ordered him to stay set and made a wide circle over their backtrail. After that Red made for the wagon in a straight line, and they rode for two hours without exchanging a word.
Otey’s wagon was pulled up in a swale by a deep, wide feeder creek of the Paymaster, screened from any but the most prying eyes by the willow thickets and the high creek banks.
They were challenged by Joe Vandermeer, but Red was identified, and they dismounted and walked to the dying fire. Red built it up, and the crew came awake.
Otey, from his blankets, said suddenly, “What’s that lobo doin’ in camp?” eying Corb balefully.
“You just keep a gun on him,” Red grunted. “He wants to make medicine with Frank.”
Red went out and stepped into the saddle again and rode out west. As soon as he was out of hearing of the camp he turned north, and the night was unbelievably black after the light of the fire. A quarter mile up the creek, after making no attempt to cover the sound of his movements, he whistled twice. Almost behind him and close came the answering whistle. Neither Red nor Frank were taking a chance on being caught in camp.
“Frank?”
Red got only a grunt in reply, and he walked in that direction. Presently he saw Frank’s blankets on the ground. He squatted beside them and said, “Corb’s in camp. Wants to talk to you.”
Frank’s voice was not sleepy as he echoed, “Corb?”
“That’s right. And listen, kid. Milabel caught Corb and his crew at the shack last night and burned them out. Shot a couple of his men.”
Frank didn’t speak for a moment, and then he said bitterly, “So our stampede was for nothin’, then?”
“Looks like it. Corb’s crew couldn’t be in two places.”
Frank didn’t say anything, but Red knew how he felt. This was a long, waiting game at best, and now the little work they had done was for nothing. Frank pulled on his boots, strapped on his gun belt and rose. They rode double back to camp, coming in from the south.
As Frank dismounted a
nd walked into the circle of firelight Corb might have been warned by his looks. Long hours in the saddle and food snatched when he could eat it had gaunted Frank into a lean, wolfish-looking rider. His gray eyes that had once been calm were smoldering and sultry, and the line of his unshaven jaw was heavy and dogged. Red had seen men come out of prison looking that way. It was from too much defeat and too big odds, and only fighting men looked that way. And Red had learned to drink his whisky and walk out of a saloon when he saw them. He wondered if Corb had.
Frank stalked up to the fire, and Corb stood opposite him, warming his hands. The crew was standing away from the fire, regarding the meeting with expectant faces.
“I won’t offer you anything to eat or drink,” Frank said softly. “We feed the dogs away from the camp.”
Corb’s face didn’t change. “I want to talk to you, Christian, not eat your food.”
“Go ahead and talk.”
Corb looked around him. “In private,” he said in a low voice.
“Get the hell out of here, then,” Frank said.
“All right, all right,” Corb said pacifically. “Don’t get so redheaded.”
Frank didn’t say anything, and Corb looked down into the fire, feeling for a way to begin.
He looked up presently and said, “That raid on Milabel’s herd was a mistake. You tried to blame it on my crew, but Milabel had me and my crew cornered at the shack.”
“How do you know I tried to blame it on your crew?” Frank asked.
Corb smiled, and the ends of his pale ragged mustaches lifted a quarter inch. “I’ve talked to Milabel,” Corb said. “It was a nice play, Christian, only you were in too much of a hurry. We’re on to you.”
“So you and Milabel are pardin’ up,” Frank drawled. “How come?”
“It was you,” Corb said bluntly. “I was all ready to tangle with Milabel over burnin’ the shack, but he called somethin’ that night about my wreckin’ his wagons that didn’t make sense. I took my time and looked around and guessed the rest, then went to him.”
Frank said thinly, “Did you come here to brag?”
“I’m tellin’ you,” Corb said, “Milabel and me ain’t fightin’ each other any more. We’re fightin’ you.”
“I’m scared,” Frank said.
“You ain’t scared,” Corb said evenly. “You’re mad. But you ain’t so mad you can’t see what this means.”
“You tell me,” Frank said.
Corb said, “Whatever happens to Milabel’s cattle, his crew or his range, he’s goin’ to let me alone, because he’ll figure it’s you and not me that’s doin’ it. Do you get that?”
“So far.”
“Me and Milabel are workin’ together to down you. We’re poolin’ our information and we’re aimin’ to nail you. You get that?”
“Sure.”
“Suppose I get a tip on your movements, take it to Milabel, and we take both our crews halfway to Kansas to corner you.” He paused, his black eyes glittering and intent. “You can take your crew, burn the Circle R, wreck all the gear, drive his horses clean out of the country, scatter his cattle all over three reservations and grass-fire his range. He’s got shippin’ dates to meet. He won’t have time to meet them, he won’t have horses for his crew, and when he gets his cattle back they’ll have all the tallow run off and no grass to put it back on with. When Puckett takes a look at that setup he’ll pull out, because he’ll have had to forfeit a quarter million in beef contracts he couldn’t meet.”
Red saw Frank smile, and he waited for Frank to speak. When Frank did it was in a reasonable tone of voice, with an uncertain something mingled with it. “My crew has done all the work. What do we get?”
“You get a clear title to Morg Wheelon’s place with my guarantee behind it that you won’t be bothered.”
“And you’ll take over the Circle R range?”
“That’s about it,” Corb said, watching Frank.
Frank squatted by the fire and idly poked a stick. He said curiously, “That’s a nice proposition, Corb. What makes you think I can handle my end of it?”
“I ain’t scared about that,” Corb said. “When you busted into my place that night and wrecked it you didn’t do any shootin’. You could have, only you didn’t. I figured you was scared of the law or the army. But the other night when you picked off one of Corb’s hard cases in that stampede I knew you was tough enough. If we work together you got to be tough enough to take care of the skeleton crew Milabel will leave at the Circle R. You can do it.”
Frank stopped poking the fire and slowly raised his head to regard Corb. His face was pale and rigid with anger, and his lips were almost white.
“You damn tinhorn Judas. Get out!”
Corb scowled. “You mean you ain’t goin’ to—”
“I mean I’m goin’ to kill you, Corb,” Frank said, rising. “I should have done it the other night, but you didn’t smell as bad as you do now. The next time you see me you better come smokin’!”
Again Corb’s mustaches lifted in a faint smile. “You’re goin’ to be sorry,” he said.
He turned and started to walk away. Otey called, “Your horse is the other way, Corb.”
Corb had a handkerchief in his hand and he was mopping his brow. He seemed not to hear Otey and kept on walking out of the firelight, up the creek.
It was Red, standing well away from the fire, who saw it first. He ran straight for the fire, ramming into Frank and sending him sprawling, and kicked the burning sticks out into the night, wiping out the light as suddenly as thought. And immediately afterward rifles opened up from the ridges on either side of the creek and from down and up stream.
Frank, sizing up the trap, yelled to the crew, “Don’t a man shoot a shot! Don’t give ’em a target!” He crawled ahead in the darkness, for the slugs were searching out the spot where he had fallen. He brushed a man who was lying on the ground and he whispered, “Red?”
“I’m sorry as hell, Frank!” Red moaned. “I should have known it when he suggested comin’ to the wagon. He’s had it spotted all day and planted his men here tonight, just in case you turned him down.”
“I’m glad of it,” Frank said grimly. “I know where I stand with that hombre now. Get away in the brush, Red, and hold your fire till they rush us.”
He crawled to the wagon, stood up, reached down a rifle and crawled into the creekside brush. The shots were coming from seven different places, but they were aimless. The dark well of the swale was black as soot. Red’s swift move to douse the fire after Corb’s handkerchief signal had saved them all from being massacred. Corb’s planted crew could shoot all night, and it would only be chance if they hit anyone. The smoldering embers of the fire were scattered all over the small flat, but their dying glow was barely visible.
Frank somberly considered the situation. If Corb was set for a showdown he would try to rush the camp after he realized that his advantage was canceled by darkness. In a hand-to-hand battle both sides would lose men. Corb didn’t care, and Frank did. He had brought these peaceful hardworking punchers into trouble, and he was not going to see them butchered by Corb’s hired hard cases.
The shooting from the ridges and from up and down stream increased. It wouldn’t be long before Corb gave the order to rush. Frank knew he had to get outside Corb’s slowly encircling crew, but to move in this crackling brush was to draw fire upon himself. He couldn’t crawl out and advertise every move, for it would be sure death. He moved his hand out through the brush and touched wet ground. It was the creek bank.
Suddenly he knew he had it, and he took off his shell belt and gun. Slowly, quietly as he could, he pulled himself to the creek and lowered himself into it. The cold water, only a little deeper than the thickness of his body, took his breath away. He would have to leave his rifle, he knew. He reached out for his shell belt, put his head through it, so that some of his shells would be dry, and let the rush of the water move him slowly downstream. He could see nothing ahead of him
, but the current carried him on. He was approaching one of the riflemen who was shooting systematically at the camp. Frank drifted almost under the man’s gun and then past him, and the man did not know it.
Well downstream Frank crawled out, his teeth chattering. He heard Corb shout, “Close in!” and he knew that whatever he did would have to be done quickly. There was no time to round up the horses and stampede them through the line of encircling men to break it up. There was only one thing he could do.
He moved quietly toward the rifleman closest him, who was levering and firing his rifle as fast as he could. There was no necessity for stealth, and Frank approached him from behind, made out the dark bulk of his figure and slashed out with his gun barrel. The man went down without a murmur, and Frank took his rifle and shell belt. Then he moved on upstream and took up a new position where he could see the gun flashes of every one of Corb’s riders.
He began to shoot in earnest then, throwing five rapid shots at the gun flame of a rifleman up the ridge. When he ceased there was a gap in the ring of rifles. He concentrated next on the rifleman down the ridge. On his second shot he heard a long-drawn scream, and the firing suddenly died. Corb’s men had heard it too, and there had been no doubt that it came from one of their own crew. Uneasiness seemed to fill the night, and Corb’s men resumed their shooting half-heartedly.
Corb’s angry voice yelled: “Close in, I tell you!” and still none of the riflemen moved closer. There was one rifleman left on the west ridge, and he was a long time making up his mind to continue firing. When he did he had moved, for he could understand plainly enough what had happened to the other two men stationed on the same ridge.
Frank was ready for him too. He laid a withering fire on the man, and the rifle was silenced. Now the shooting ceased. Every one of Corb’s men had seen the three rifles on the west ridge disappear, and they had an idea what had happened. There had been no shooting from Frank’s crew; therefore, either there was someone roaming the darkness who was silencing these men, or else there was a traitor among themselves who had killed his own companions under the cover of general firing.
