by Lauran Paine
Smith spat aside then looked up. “Capturin’ us a nice brace of cow thieves.”
“Cow thieves,” Holt snorted. “What’ve we stolen?”
Perry turned saturnine. “Save it,” he growled. “Bluster might work in a law court but not up here.” He switched his attention to Carter Wilson. “Did you quit JM yesterday?” he asked.
Wilson nodded without speaking. Ray grounded the carbine and leaned upon it. “Duncan here tell you to, Wilson?”
The cowboy looked over at Holt, still saying nothing. Duncan, studying Ray Kelly, made a slow, mirthless smile. “Kid,” he said evenly, “you’re sure on the wrong side this time.”
Ray gestured. “Get down and lead your horses back into the trees.” As the prisoners were obeying, he went closer to Salter’s range boss. “Dunc, I was on the wrong side last time, too…but I was loyal.”
“And you got five years for it,” Holt snarled, moving off under Perry Smith’s cocked carbine.
“But I can sleep nights,” Ray said shortly. “Can you?”
They halted well back out of sight in the trees. Smith bound each prisoner’s hands behind him, used their belts to secure their ankles, then pushed them down upon the ground in a sitting position.
“Think we ought to gag ’em?” he asked.
Ray shook his head, squatting behind Salter’s men. “Naw, they’re too smart to yell, Perry. Wouldn’t either of them want to get their skull split.”
Dawn was nearing now; the sky was a very delicate pastel blue, almost blue steel gray. It was bright enough for the men, hunkering in the trees, to observe how Duncan’s rustlers worked. They did not lift their mounts out of a walk nor in any other way agitate the cattle. They simply closed around the meadow, riding inward pincer-like, drifting the cattle northward and bunching them from the wings as they moved. It was, Ray thought, a very professional job; men without a lot of experience would not be so wise in this quiet and efficient method of stealing a large herd of animals. He leaned forward behind Duncan Holt.
“Still want to know whose cattle you’ve stolen, Dunc?”
“Go to hell!”
Ray settled back. For a while no one said anything, then Ray brushed Perry Smith’s arm. “We’d better head out,” he suggested. “We’ve seen enough anyway and those fellers are going to begin wondering where Dunc and Carter are pretty quick now.”
They boosted both of Mort Salter’s men upon the horses, took the reins of the bound men’s animals, and started southwesterly through the trees toward the same steep trail that had permitted them to get down into the meadow. Where the trees ended, there was nothing for it but to move across open country to the trail and start up it. Ray, riding twisted in the saddle, kept a long look on Holt’s distant crew of riders. The cowboys appeared intent upon getting their stolen herd headed easterly in the right direction. They had not discovered the loss of two of their companions.
They did not discover it, in fact, until Holt, Wilson, and their captors were well down the far side of the trail heading for the Welton plains and making a wide circuit to avoid Mitchell Meadows.
Coming at last to open country, Ray drew Duncan Holt’s animal up beside him, made a cigarette, stuck it between the rustler’s lips, and lit it. They rode silently for several miles with flashing early sunlight making their world brilliantly clear and clean-looking.
“Why, Dunc?” Ray asked finally.
Holt, deep in thought for so long, roused himself to spit out one word. “Money!”
“Did he pay you a lot?”
“Plenty. A percentage, kid.”
Silence settled between them again until Welton was in sight and Ray let off a long sigh. “Figured we might meet a reception committee of Salter’s men before this,” he said. The dark man at his side grunted.
“You know how many rounds there are in a box fight, Ray?”
“Sure.”
“Well, because a feller wins one round sure don’t make him no champion. Like I said back at the meadow…you’re on the wrong side again.”
Ray turned. Holt’s dour expression heightened the darkly dangerous and hawk-like look of his face. “Something I heard once a long time back,” he said musingly. “You think you know a man because you’re close to him for a long time, but you never really do, Dunc. I’d have bet my last cartwheel you’d never sell out to Mort Salter an’ join Salter’s pack against Joe.”
“Joe’s old,” Holt answered coldly. “He’s done for. Salter’s on the way up. In this life, kid, a man’s got to look out for his own best interests first.” He threw Ray a hard look. “You’re going to find that out right soon now. You’ve crossed the wrong man in Mort Salter. He’ll bust you into a thousand pieces for what you ‘n’ Perry did to night.”
They rode through Welton at a walk and the few people who were abroad stopped to gape. At the jail, Sheriff Smith got stiffly down and jerked his head sideways without speaking. Beneath the overhang in front of his office where shadows dripped darkly, the door opened and three men loomed bulkily in the opening, obviously having emerged from the sheriffs little building after a long wait. At first neither Perry Smith nor Ray Kelly saw them, but a sharply indrawn breath brought them both around in a flash.
“Hello, Mort,” Duncan Holt said flatly. “How’d you get here so fast?”
The shorter, better-dressed of the three men took several steps forward to squint outward. He was clearly startled to see who the prisoners were. But Mort Salter was not a man who could be long kept off balance by surprise.
“I didn’t know about this,” he said to Holt, and switched a hating stare at Ray Kelly. “I come to swear out a warrant against him!”
Perry flagged with his drawn pistol, ignoring Salter and his gunmen. “Inside,” he ordered the prisoners. “You other fellers in the doorway there…stand clear!”
Chapter Eleven
No one in the Welton country actually knew much about Morton Salter beyond the fact that he had grown both rich and powerful since coming into the Southwest some ten years earlier, but everyone knew him by this time as a dangerous, dictatorial, devious man who had little fear in him and whose ambition rode him pitilessly night and day.
He was in most ways unlike most Westerners. He very rarely wore a gun, and, although he had, during his early years at least, been compelled to ride a horse, he had never learned to ride well and now, rich enough to hire his riding done, he went everywhere by buggy.
He was a short, heavy man with a face blasted out of an environment that had left its marks; his stare was chillingly black and his lipless mouth had a downward droop at the corners. No one knew exactly what Morton Salter’s motivation was in amassing wealth, but there were rumors he aspired to the governorship.
Now, standing stiffly in Perry Smith’s office, breathing heavily and watching the sheriff lock two of his men in separate cells, the fierce depth of his temper filled the little room suffocatingly.
Off to one side, more wary of the two slouching men behind Salter who were obviously gunfighters than of Mort himself, Ray leaned upon the wall, waiting for the explosion he knew was coming.
Sheriff Smith crossed to his desk, avoided Salter’s glittering stare, and tossed a ring of keys upon the desk. Then he turned, drew himself up, and leaned into that fiery look.
“Too bad you came along right now,” Smith said, looking steadily down into the shorter man’s face. “I wanted to question those two before I visited you, Mort.”
“Did you, Sheriff?” Salter ground out in icy tones. “And what did you reckon they’d tell you about me?”
“They work for you, don’t they?”
“Lots of saddle bums work for me.”
“Uhn-huh. Well, those two were stealin’ JM cattle when we took ’em.”
Salter continued to glower. “What’s that prove?” he spat out. “What my men do after the end of the work day is their business…not mine.”
“You tellin’ me Duncan and that Wilson feller were stealin’ those ca
ttle without you knowing anything about it?”
“I’m telling you nothing, Smith. Nothing at all. But I’ll give you some advice. Turn Wilson and Holt loose or you’ll wish you’d never been born. And lock up that jailbird over there against the wall!”
Smith continued calmly in the face of Salter’s deadly glare: “Funny thing about that,” he said. “I was sort of thinkin’ about deputizing Ray.”
Salter’s nostrils quivered. For a moment he said nothing, and then he drawled in a tone of voice so strong with menace no one could have missed it: “Smith, you do that. You deputize Kelly…because by this time tomorrow night he’ll be dead!”
Smith’s voice grew an edge to it now. “Mort, you just threatened a man who’s goin’ to be servin’ the law by this time tomorrow night. You kill a lawman and, believe me, there won’t be a place in this country you can hide out in.”
Salter’s color deepened but he seemed suddenly less furious; he even forced a savage smile. “Smith, there won’t be but maybe one witness to what I just said. Kelly’ll be dead, Holt and Wilson will be out of here, and these two”—Salter jerked his head to indicate the silent, watching gunfighters—“they work for me, too. If you survive, it’ll be your word against the five of us.” Salter’s stare swung across the room to settle triumphantly upon Ray. “I rode in here to swear out a warrant for this man’s arrest,” he continued, “and I been sittin’ here for most o’ the night, waiting for you to make it out and enforce it.” He returned his gaze to the sheriff’s face. “Now let’s get it written out and enforced.”
“What charge?”
“Cow stealin’ for a starter, then attempted assassination and shootin’ one of my men in my own ranch yard.”
“You got proof, Mort?”
“Would I be here without it?” Salter demanded, and motioned toward the slouching gunfighters. “These two seen Kelly shoot that man at the ranch.” He gestured toward Duncan Holt’s cell. “Dunc there saw him stampede a herd of mine down near the border…him and five of his friends.”
“How about the attempted assassination?”
Salter bobbed his head. “That, too, but I didn’t bring those boys in with me. Two of ’em that time…Kelly and one other. Each of them took a shot at me.”
Perry Smith’s cloudy gaze drifted to the gunmen. “Outside,” he snapped at them, jerking his head toward the door. “If I want you, I’ll call you. Wait outside.”
The gunmen looked at Mort Salter for instructions without moving. Ray, watching this interlude, breathed shallowly. If trouble was coming, now was the time for it. He straightened up very gently against the wall.
Salter squinted suspiciously at Smith. “What do you want them to leave for?”
The sheriff’s mouth drew down as he replied. “There’ll be no shootin’ with them outside, Mort. I can’t write up a warrant and watch them, too.”
Salter considered this, then turned and made a curt motion with one hand. The two silent gunfighters stalked out, and closed the door. Salter kept his eyes on the lawman’s face, waiting. Smith sagged into a chair, made a cigarette with considerable deliberation, lit it, exhaled, and gazed up into the cowman’s face.
“Mort,” he said levelly, “you’re a liar!”
Salter went stiff, his mouth slowly closed down, and his jaw muscles bulged. Smith went on talking in the same thin tone of voice.
“In the first place, Duncan didn’t see no five riders. In the second place your so-called witnesses didn’t see any two men take potshots at you. In the third place….”
Ray’s voice came quietly forward, cutting across the sheriffs words, interrupting: “In the third place, Salter, that night in your yard it was black as the ace of spades. It was also moonless the night your herd got hit down near the border. No one saw anything. They couldn’t have seen anything. It was too dark. But if you want to try and make those charges stick in court…this time I’m ready for you. I’ve got witnesses, too. Every man in the Welton country can swear it was too dark the night your man was shot and the night your herd was hit to identify anyone!”
Salter remained like stone for a long time, then he turned slightly, facing toward Duncan Holt’s cell. Beyond the bars, holding to them with both hands, Holt was staring sideways at Ray.
“Well?” Salter demanded of the prisoner. “You saw five of ’em didn’t you, Dunc?”
Holt shuffled his feet without immediately replying. He turned slowly to gaze steadily out at Salter. It was obvious from his expression he wished to say something privately to Salter. All he did finally say was: “Got to be careful here, Mort.”
“Careful!” Salter exploded. “Careful of what? These two tomfools! You saw Kelly and his friends. You’re goin’ to swear to that in court!”
Perry Smith pushed up out of the chair. “Mort,” he intoned quietly, “I think you’d best forget that warrant and get along home. You see, there wasn’t any five riders. There never has been. I don’t know where you got that information, but it’s plumb wrong.”
“You know that for a fact, do you!” exclaimed Salter, facing the sheriff fiercely.
Smith nodded. “For a fact,” he said.
Ray saw Salter’s eyes narrow, his expression change subtly, and knew Salter had figured out how he had been tricked by Joe Mitchell’s tale of Ray’s five friends. He was thinking that Joe had to be warned at once, when Salter spoke again.
“And you are refusing to make out that warrant?” he said to Perry Smith.
The sheriff made the faintest of frowns. “Not exactly refusing,” he said carefully, choosing his words. “Just sort of holdin’ off until I get more proof Ray ought to be arrested.” A thought struck him, and he nodded toward the cell-block. “I want to talk to these two before I do much about Kelly, anyway.”
It worked. Salter’s mind swung swiftly to this vulnerable spot. He shot a venomous look at Holt and Carter. “You boys tell him nothing,” he commanded. “I’ll have a lawyer up here from Yuma by day after tomorrow and get you out.” Salter crossed toward the door, and paused with his hand on the latch. “Smith, next week Welton’ll have a new sheriff. Either that or you’ll start using your head.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mort?” Perry asked, knowing well enough what Salter was implying.
“It means no one bucks me, Smith, and goes on livin’ in this country. Least of all a two-bit cow-town lawman!”
Salter slammed the door so hard the front wall shook when he left. Ray took two swift steps to cross toward the desk.
“He’ll send someone to JM, Perry.”
“Why? He doesn’t know about the girl.”
“Because I got Joe to spread that tale about me having friends ridin’ with me. Salter’s figured out how I used Joe to trick him.”
“Boy,” the lawman said, moving swiftly for the first time in days, “you’d better make tracks up there to warn Joe.” He rummaged impatiently through a desk drawer, located what he sought, and threw it across to Ray. “Pin that on or stick it in your pocket,” he said. “You’re a deputy sheriff now.”
Ray held the little star briefly in his palm, gazing at it. This, he thought, was anything but what he had imagined his return to Welton might result in.
“Go on, dog-gone it,” Sheriff Smith ordered. “And be mighty careful. Mort’ll be out there somewhere, waiting. I’ll give you odds on it.” He shot a sour look at Holt and Carter. “I wish I felt sure someone wouldn’t turn these two loose if I went with you.”
Beyond Sheriff Smith’s office the town was stirring with an excitement that was nebulous but nonetheless real. People watched Ray lope northward on the ugly buckskin and speculated. A few sauntered down toward the sheriff’s office with no clear intentions but driven along by increasing curiosity. Nearly everyone had heard of Duncan Holt’s capture and Mort Salter’s thundering departure from town. There was, saloon talk had it, something pretty big afoot.
The sheriff admitted only one person to his office, Elijah Herman, propriet
or of Welton’s only dry goods emporium. Elijah was a member of the town council; Smith could not very well exclude him. But he was tired, too, and Elijah’s questions drew only short answers.
The thing uppermost in Perry Smith’s mind now was the imminent peril Ray was riding into. Even when Councilman Herman urged him to round up a posse and ride out, saying he would personally recruit other townsmen to guard the prisoners, Smith did not hear him the first time.
When Herman persisted, though, Perry came swiftly to a conclusion. Even if Salter’s gunmen did get Holt and Carter, they were not as important as Ray. “All right,” he agreed finally, snatching up his hat. “You mind the store here, Elijah, and mind it good because those two are going to be mighty important when we bring Mort Salter in for rustling.”
He heard Elijah say something but could not distinguish what it was because he was passing through the doorway when the merchant said it. “Hey,” he bellowed at the milling men beyond in the doorway. “I need a posse! Go fetch your guns an’ horses!”
Chapter Twelve
Ray kept a sharp watch as soon as he had cleared Welton. It seemed improbable to him, as it had to Perry Smith, that Salter would concentrate all his attention upon Joe Mitchell. Salter had left absolutely no doubt whatsoever that his hatred of Ray Kelly was an all-consuming emotion. Riding easterly instead of northerly, he weighed his chances, considered the situation before him, and made a careful balance. This was an affair in which he would be allowed no margin of error; his first mistake would be his last one.
Reckoning on Salter’s leaving gunmen athwart the known routes into the uplands, he deliberately rode the full distance to Salter’s own range. He wasted time doing this and knew it, was agitated by this knowledge, but it would in his opinion be better to arrive late at JM than not to arrive there at all, which he felt sure would be the case if he loped recklessly into the mountains via the established trails. Furthermore, while there would from now on be no safe place in the night for him, he would be least expected to show up at Salter’s ranch.
