Instantly, Loeklin was on him, his blows ripping and slashing at the bigger man. Ives struggled to get set, striking back with heavy, ponderous blows. Suddenly, Locklin ceased to punch and, diving low, grabbed Ives around the knees and upended him. Ives hit the dirt with a thud, but he rolled over like a cat and came to his feet. Jim was set for him, and caught him with a hard right that cracked like a ball bat. Then Jim rushed in close and began to knitter at Ives’s body. Ives was badly cut, and one of his eyes almost closed, yet Locklin was weary simply from punching and holding the larger man off.
He put his head on the bigger man’s chest and punched at his body with both hands. Ives, an old riverboat fighter, stabbed at his eyes with a stiff thumb, but Locklin dropped his head to Ives’s chest again and suddenly smashed upward with his head, butting him on the chin. Ives staggered, and Locklin swung with both fists for his chin, left and right. Ives went down hard. He got up slowly, warily.
Jim Lockhn had backed off gasping for breath. He started to circle, his foot slipped, and Ives grabbed him in a bear hug, forcing him back. Excruciating pain stabbed him, and Jim fought desperately to free himself, knowing the larger man was strong enough to break his back. Suddenly, Jim deliberately threw himself backward. He hit the ground hard, but it broke Ives’s hold, and Jim got to his feet. Ives dove at him to bring him down again, and Locklin met the dive by jerking up his knee into Ives’s face. The big man went to hands and knees, his features a blur of blood.
Locklin waited, gasping. Ives started to rise, and Locklin moved in. A left and right, then a terrific right uppercut that snapped the big man’s head back. He went down to his knees, then toppled over on the grass. Jim staggered back, his jaw hanging as he gasped for breath, waiting for Ives to rise.
“Let him go, Locklin,” John Shippey said. “He’s whipped.” Then he added, “I never thought I’d see the day!”
Seated in the kitchen, Army bathed Locklin’s face, tenderly wiping the blood from his features. “You’ve got some bad cuts,” she protested.
“They’ll heal,” he said. “They always did before.”
Pike was explaining the situation to Shippey. He had gotten George Locklin’s letters from a saddlebag, and showed them to the rancher. “Those were writ by no man who thought of sellin’!” Pike insisted. Locklin pushed Army’s hands gently aside. He got to his feet, staggering a little. His big hands were swollen and battered.
“Shippey, I won’t get into town in time. It would be a favor if you’d ride in and hold Burt an’ Castle until I get there. Nearly Pike will ride with you.”
“Where you goin’?” Pike demanded.
“I’ve had a thought, and if I’m right we’ll have our killer.”
John Shippey nodded his head. “I’ll do my best.” He turned suddenly to Pike. “Where’d you get a name like that?”
“Wal, it was like this here, Mr. Shippey. My folks was named Pike. We headed west from Kentucky for Missouri. Bein’ named Pike, we figured to live in Pike County, and I was to be born there. Well, we didn’t make it. We had to stop some miles short, so they named me for it. Nearly Pike.”
Army was looking at Locklin, an odd light in her eyes, a look of something close to fear. Women, Jim reflected, would never understand a man’s fighting. Ives got slowly to his feet, staggered a little, then stood erect. His face was a mask of blood and dirt.
He leaned against his horse for support, then hoisted himself into the saddle. He said nothing until he had gathered the reins. “You’re a hard man, Locklin,” he said grudgingly, “I reckon I bit off more’n I could chaw.”
Locklin watched him go, then turned to his horse, which Pike had saddled and ready. Army came to him.
“Don’t go, Jim! I’m afraid and you’re in no shape to go!”
He tried to smile, but his face was too swollen. He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You ride to town with them. Stay close to Pike. This is something I must do.”
Jim Locklin rode toward Antelope Valley, then took a dim trail up to the bench. He rode through the pines, his face throbbing with every hoofbeat, his ribs aching from the bruises. His head ached and the sun was hot. At Butler Creek he dropped on his face and drank deep of the clear, cold mountain water. Then he bathed his face with it. Rising, he glimpsed the tracks of two people across the narrow stream. Crossing on scattered rocks in the stream-bed he studied the tracks with care. Some were fresh, yet others were older.
Obviously, whoever they were, they had met here several times. Some cowhand and his girl, no doubt. He went back across the stream to his horse but as he started to mount the combination of sun and the fighting proved too much. He backed up and sat down on the grass. Then he dragged himself back into the shade and slept.
He awakened suddenly. A glance at the sun told him he had slept for all of an hour, yet despite the fact that his head still throbbed, he felt better. Later, he cut the tracks of one rider, heading toward Horse Heaven. The tracks were several days old. He turned down into the canyon of the Savory, and almost at once was enclosed hy towering walls, and the sound of the stream rose in volume. Then the canyon widened, and before him was a sandy shelf strewn with the gray bones of ancient trees. Beyond it, the cave.
Swinging down, he leaned against the saddle to still the momentary dizziness that beset him. Then he walked up to the cave. He stopped then, quite abruptly, his mouth dry but his brain sharply alert. He was looking into the peculiar white-gray eyes of Chance Varrow! There was a taunting triumph in Varrow’s eyes.
“Took you long enough to get here. Long enough so I could beat you to it. Now you can die the way your brother died. Funny, you blaming Reed Castle. He had the idea, all right, but we beat him to it.”
“You killed George?” Even as he spoke he was thinking less of what he was saying and more of his own swollen, battered hands and the gun-slick deftness of the man he faced.
“Sure! At least I finished him off. He was already down and crippled. Reed wanted that ranch, all right, and was trying to work out some way of gettin’ it. Well, we wasted no time.
“He could have the ranch, because we knew of that silver strike he’d made, near Bald Mountain. We gambled on that, and now we’ve won.”
“Are you sure?” “Why not? Nobody knows I’m in this but Reed Castle, and he wouldn’t talk. If he did nobody would believe him. You’re coming upset things but that’s ended now.”
Locklin’s mind was working swiftly. Who did he mean by “we”? How had Varrow known he would be coming to the cave? Ives? Probably. But why, in all this time, had they not taken possession of the silver strike, sold it, and skipped? The reason was obvious—they didn’t know where it was!
“You’re not killing me, Varrow. It’s not in the cards, no more than your friend Ives could whip me. It’s you who will die here in this cave, Varrow, right here on this sand.
“You’ve wasted your time and your killing. You’ve never laid hands on an ounce of that silver because you don’t know where it is.
“I know where it is,” he lied, “and if I die you will never get it. Why? Because nobody else knows, nobody at all!”
“I’m going to kill you, all right,” Varrow’s face was tight and cruel. “I’ll gamble on finding the silver.” Locklin swayed on his feet, suddenly weak.
“A thousand have looked for it, and nobody found it until George, and he had a clue. He knew something nobody else knew. The same thing he passed on to me.”
At the first sign of faintness Chance Varrow’s hand dropped to his gun. Suddenly Locklin’s knees buckled and he went to the sand. Then he sagged back on his heels.
“Sorry, Varrow, I’m in pret—ty bad—“ he lifted a trembling hand to his brow, yet even as the hand seemed to touch his face, it darted like a striking snake, spraying sand in Varrow’s face! The gunman sprang back, one hand clawing at his eyes, the other reaching for his gun. His gun came clear, but the moment’s respite was all Locklin needed. He got his clumsy fingers on his own gun, swung
it up, steadied it with the other hand, and fired.
Varrow’s gun roared, but, blinded by the sand, he missed. Locklin’s bullet, at pointblank range, caught Varrow in the diaphragm, striking up and in. Varrow tried to swing his gun, but Locklin fired a second time, then a third. Chance Varrow crumpled into the sand, his fingers relaxing their grip on the gun. The gunshots echoed in the canyon and there was an acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with dusty dampness. Then the echoes died, and there was only the soft chuckling of water over stones.
Dusk was blending the shadows in the streets of Toiyabe when Jim Locklin cantered down the street and drew up at the hotel door. Pike rushed out and grabbed his stirrup leather. “You all right, boy? I been out of my skull with worry?”
“Where are they, Pike?”
“Inside. What took you so long?”
“A bit of trouble.”
All eyes turned to him as he entered. Castle’s looked pale, angry, and uneasy; those of Creighton Burt, John Shippey, and Fish Creek Burns indicated only sharp interest. Armorel Locklin stared at him, her eyes showing her anxiety. Patch, looking surly, sat behind her. Locklin leaned his hands on the table.
“Castle, I had you wrong. You are a thief, but you are not a murderer.”
“I bought that ranch!” Castle protested. “Here’s my bill of sale!”
“An obvious forgery. The trouble was, you had never actually seen my brother’s signature. You didn’t worry because nobody else had, either. I have several letters signed by him, and I also have his will. The will was written as he was dying, with the knowledge that he was dying, and he leaves the ranch and all property to me, including the mine on Bald Mountain.”
“What about this young woman? She was his wife.”
“That’s just it,” Jim’s eyes turned to Army. “She never was his wife.”
“I married them,” Burt said quietly, “right in my own office.”
“The marriage wasn’t valid, because she was still married to Chance Varrow.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I am sure. The two of’them were teamed up, trimming suckers out in Frisco, and when Reed came to town flashing money around and talking big about his ranch and mining interests, they latched onto him.
“Army came over here to marry him, then found out he had lied, and backed out. Chance had come along to enforce her claim, and he got wind of George’s silver strike.
“They let Reed Castle keep the ranch to quiet him down.”
Locklin drew a deep breath. He was tired, very tired. He wanted this over, he wanted to be away from here.
“She has takin’ ways, this girl does, and I nigh fell for her myself. George left me a note telling me all about it.
“She found him alone and lonesome, buttered him up some, let him think he was saving her from Castle, and then, after they left town, she shot him in the back.
“That back shot puzzled me, for George was touchy about anybody coming up behind him. I couldn’t see a man getting such a chance, but a woman might. As she shot him, Chance came out of the woods to finish him, but George got away.
“Varrow had to wait until daylight to pick up the trail, and by that time George had left his horse and crawled into the cave. His legs were paralyzed, but he wrote the details, then stuffed his notes, his will, what else he had, into a tin box he kept there.
“On that sandstone he scratched the old L Bar brand that would mean nothing to anybody but us.”
“Where s Varrow, then?” Shippey demanded. “Let’s get the sheriff and round him up.”
Army’s eyes were on Jim, wide and empty. She knew, and he could see that she knew.
“He was waiting for me at the cave. I left him there.”
Jim dropped the notes and the will on the table before Burt.
“There it is. There was enough to hang Varrow, and enough to send Castle away for a good long stretch.”
Burt glanced at Patch. “Where does he fit in?”
“She my half-sister,” Patch said sullenly. “She no good. Some white man bad, some Indian bad. She no good.”
Locklin looked over at Patch, liking what he saw. “You want a job? A permanent job?”
“Uh-huh. I work good.” Army’s eyes were sullen with hatred. Having them know she was a ‘breed bothered her more than being accused of murder. Jim looked at her, marveling. When would people realize it wasn’t race that mattered, but quality and integrity?
“How’d you work it out?” Burt wondered.
“The first thing was the back shot; then George’s guns were gone. Later, I saw them hanging on a nail in her cabin. George’s holsters and belt with his name carved into them were left; only his guns were taken.
“George took those guns off for nobody, and the holsters in the cabin weren’t his. That started me on the right track.
“Then I found tracks where she and Varrow had been meeting over on Butler Creek. My head was aching so bad I could scarcely think; then it dawned on me where I’d seen her tracks before. Varrow’s I did not know.
“My brother had seen her talking to Varrow one time, but did not want to believe there was anything between them.”
Locklin got to his feet. “That winds it up.” He looked over at Castle. “I’m moving onto the Antelope Valley place tomorrow. All your personal effects will be sent to town.”
The door opened behind them, and a short, heavy man stepped into the door. “I’m Jacob Carver, of Ellsworth, Kansas. I’m holding six hundred head of cattle outside of town, but I hear you folks got this country closed up. Is that right?”
Shippey started to speak but Locklin interrupted. “No, of course not. There’s some unused range up in Grass Valley, northwest of here. As long as a man is honest and a good neighbor we’ve room for him. Glad to have you.”
As Carver left Locklin glanced at Shippey. “He’s a good man. l knew his brand back in Kansas. This country can use his kind.”
Locklin left followed by Pike. Fish Creek Burns glanced after him, then said, glancing from Shippey to Burt.
“Things are clearin’ up around here, and she looks like fair weather ahead.”
He stood up. “Looks like we’ve got a new pair of pants in the saddle. It surely does!”
The Ghosts of Buckskin Run
For two days they had seen no other traveler, not even a solitary cowhand or an Indian. There had been the usual stops to change teams, an overnight layover at Weston’s ranch, but no other break in the monotony of the journey acre was no comfort in the west-bound stage. The four passengers alternately dozed or stared miserably at the unchanging desert, dancing with heat waves. No breeze sent a shaft of coolness through the afternoon’s heavy heat.
Lorna Day, bound for Cordova, a tiny cowtown thirty miles further along the trail, felt stifled and unhappy. Her heavy dress was hot, and she knew her hair “looked a fright.” The jolting of the heavy coach bouncing over the rocky, ungraded road had settled a thin mantle of dust over her clothes and skin. The handkerchief with which she occasionally touched her cheeks and brow had long since become merely a miserable wad of damp cloth.
Across from her Em Shipton, proprietor of Cordova’s rooming and boarding establishment, perspired, fanned, and dozed. Occasionally she glanced with exasperation at Lorna’s trim figure, for to her the girl seemed unreasonably cool and immaculate. Em Shipton resembled a barrel with ruffles.
Mark Brewer, cattle buyer, touched his mustache thoughtfully and 1ooked again at the girl in the opposite corner of the stage. She was, he decided, almost beautiful. Possibly her mouth was a trifle wide, but her lips were lovely, and she laughed easily.
“I hope,” he ventured suddenly, “you decide to stay with us, Miss Day. I am sure the people of Cordova will do all they can to make your visit comfurtable.”
“Oh, but I shall stay! I am going to make my home there.”
“Oh’? You have relatives there?”
“No,” she smiled, “I am to be married there.”
T
he smile left his eyes, yet hovered politely about his lips. “I see. No doubt I know the lucky fellow. Cordova is not a large town.”
Lorna hesitated. The assurance with which she decided upon this trip had faded with the miles. It had been a long time since she had seen Rod Morgan, and the least she could have done was to await a reply from him. Yet there was no place in which to wait. Her aunt had died, and they had no friends in Richmond. She had money now for the trip. Six weeks or a month later she might have used it all. Her decision had been instantly made, but the closer she came to Cordova the more uncertain she felt.
She looked at Brewer. “Then you probably know him. His name is Roderick Morgan.”
Em Shipton stiffened, and Mark Brewer’s lips tightened. They exchanged a quick, astonished glance. Alarmed at their reaction, Lorna glanced quickly from one to the other. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong’?”
“Wrong?” Em Shipton had never been tactful. “I should say there is! Rod Morgan is an insufferable person! What can you be thinking of to come all this way to marry a man like that?”
“Please, Em, Brewer interrupted. Remember, you are speaking of Miss Day’s fiance. Of course, I must admit it is something of a shock. How long since you have seen him, Miss Day?”
“Two years.” She felt faint, frightened. What was wrong? What had Rod doneP Why did they—‘ All through her aunt’s long illness, Rod’s love for her had been the rock to which she clung, it had been the one solid going in a crumbling world. He had always been the one to whom she knew she could turn.
“That explains it, then,” Brewer said, sympathetically, “A lot can happen in two years. You haven’t been told, I presume, of the murders in Buckskin Run?”
“No. What is Buckskin Run?”
“It’s a stream, you know. Locally, it is the term used to designate the canyon through which the stream runs, as well as the stream itself. The stream is clear and cold, and it heads far back in the mountains, but the canyon is a strange, mysterious sort of place, which all decent people avoid 1ike the plague. For years the place has been considered haunted, and there are unexplained graves in the canyon. Men have died there under unexplained circumstances. Then Rod Morgan moved into the canyon and built a cabin there.”
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