by L. P. Holmes
Nick obeyed, grudgingly, like something poisonous drawing back into a hole after being on the very verge of striking. In his waspish way he droned: “I’ll remember this, Debley … I surely will.”
Wall scrubbed the back of a hand across his crimsoned lips. He lashed Nick with a glance that was all gray ice. “Now that I’m looking at you, you can try for your gun any time. Or don’t you like an even break?”
Nick, it seemed, didn’t. He snarled soundlessly, but made no move. Wall stepped forward and slapped Nick hard across the face with an open hand, knocking him back on a bunk. Wall waited, watching. But Nick took this, too. Only his eyes fought back, black and hard and venomous.
Wall looked at the rider who had held Nick off. “You’re Tres Debley?”
“That’s right.”
“Obliged. When I’m not around, you’re in charge.” Wall’s raking glance touched the rest. “Any more questions?”
He waited out a long silence, then looked at Whitey and Nick. “You two are through. Come over to the cabin and get your time.”
Wall scrubbed his leaking lips again, turned, and stalked out, nearly bumping into the fat cook, Hippo Dell, who had evidently been drawn by the sounds of battle. Wall’s temper still held a red-hot edge.
“Don’t skulk,” he rapped harshly. “If you wanted a front seat, why didn’t you come in?”
Hippo’s moon face was expressionless. He said moistly: “Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer are good men, too good to fire just because they tested you out, Wall. No real harm done and you’ll find it hard to replace …”
“They’re fired,” cut in Wall. “When I want your advice, Dell, I’ll ask for it. That clear enough?”
Hippo’s face remained a bland mask, but his little eyes burned. “That’s clear,” he admitted. Then he turned away, moving with that queer gait that was at once so ponderous, yet so deceptively light.
Wall went over to the cabin, found a tin basin and a bucket half full of water. His shirt was splotched with his own blood and that of Whitey Brewer’s, so he took it off, washed up, rinsed his mouth out several times until the bleeding of his cut lips stopped, then dug a clean shirt out of his gear, and donned it. After which he made out Whitey Brewer’s and Nick Karnes’ time and was waiting at the cabin door when they came for it.
Whitey was still a thoroughly whipped man, his pale eyes still numb and slightly vacant from the beating he had taken and his face and mouth were dark with bruises and swollen grotesquely. He took his time and turned away without a word or show of feeling of any kind. At best, Whitey’s wits were none too keen and just now they were sadly scrambled.
On the other hand, while Nick Karnes said nothing, he paused for a brief moment, staring at Dave Wall with a fixity that suggested he was getting the full of something that he was locking away for future reference. In that look was a threat, a malignant promise. Wall broke it up with harsh words.
“Get … you damned little snake!”
Still Nick did not speak, save for that same soundless snarl, and his eyes burned with that same dark threat as he followed Whitey over to the corrals.
Dave Wall watched until they rode away, then turned and went over to a bunk and stretched out, all the weariness of a sleepless previous night and a recent savage physical brawl pulling at him. The moment his eyes closed he was asleep.
Chapter Three
Dave Wall slept all afternoon, awoke just at sunset. He was rested, but stiff and sore from the brawl with Whitey Brewer. Another dousing of his bruised face and mouth in cold water cleared his head and he was fairly easy and relaxed when the supper gong rattled and he went over to the cook shack.
Here there was a definite uncertainty in the air, but also the grudging respect of hard men for one who had proven his toughness and ability and the right to run the show. Hippo Dell moved softly around, bland and expressionless, setting out the supper. He still was without a shirt, still sweating, and his blubbery torso shone greasily in the yellow lamp glow. Wall thought of how Tom Burke had described Dell—a big, soft slug, but bull strong. Part of the description, thought Wall, was apt enough. For the rest he’d have to guess.
Wall ran his glance around the table. “Debley I know. The rest of you name yourselves.”
From left to right it ran Olds, Challis, Muir, and Caraway. Olds blurted: “Any objections to us riding into Crater City tonight, Wall?”
Wall shrugged. “Not in the least. Just so you’re back ready and able to do a day’s work tomorrow. And see you don’t cross any part of Square S range.”
“You’re the doctor,” mumbled Challis, his jaws busy.
Supper over, Wall went back to the cabin, lit the lamp, and settled down to another evening of loneliness. This was another part of his life, it seemed, that had become a settled thing. Only tonight, for some reason, the loneliness was strangely irksome. For a long time now, Dave Wall had become used to his own company and he had the solitary man’s ability to drop back into a stoic patience that shut out the passage of time. For one thing, bossing a tough crew on a tough layout always called for holding yourself apart. To mix too much with such a crew during leisure hours was to invite familiarity and from there breakdown in authority was quick and sure. You handled a tough crew at arm’s length, always. It was the only way to hold their doubtful respect.
But this, mused Wall bleakly, was no cure for the loneliness that grated on him this night. Perhaps it was so because he was remembering so clearly where he was and who he was with the previous night at this time.
Just about now Tracy Sutton out in the star-filled stillness of the desert had been watching him with a grave, accusing stillness, hating him, no doubt, because of who he was, and knowing that his arrival on this range boded no good for her father. Dave Wall, troubleshooter for Luke Lilavelt. Dave Wall, moving always in the shadows of a dark reputation. Yet, even though she hated him, she had been there, across the fire from him, and secure because of his presence. Here was one comforting and satisfying thought, at least, to hang onto.
Wall sat with his somber thoughts in the warm stillness, a cigarette gone dead in his fingers, and he listened to the riders spurring out for Crater City. Renegades to some extent they might be, but they were richer than he. At least they had companionship other than their own nagging and useless thoughts.
The lamp guttered and flickered, for the wick needed trimming. At the cabin door a spur tinkled softly and Tres Debley said: “All right if I come in?”
Wall, liking this man, spoke quickly: “Sure … come on. Glad to have you. Anything in particular on your mind?”
“Yes and no.” Debley sat on the edge of a bunk, built a smoke, staring soberly at the floor. There was a certain cleanness about Tres Debley that the other riders lacked. Not so much a physical thing, though he was clean-shaven, brown, and hard. Rather it was a certain streak of discernible character running through him. Now he spoke slowly.
“I pose as no saint. A man knocks around, scrambles for three meals a day, a roof to throw his bedroll under, and a few dollars in his pocket. You accept your hire, do your job. Some jobs you come out of feeling clean. Others you feel … well, not so spotless. Even so, in time you forget. But for the job ahead, Wall, I don’t know whether I’ll be able to carry my weight. I thought I’d better tell you that.”
Wall was watching Tres Debley closely. “And what job do you figure is ahead?”
“Why, rubbing out Bart Sutton. That’s right, isn’t it?” Tres Debley’s head came up and he looked steadily at Wall.
Dave stirred restlessly. You couldn’t lie to a man like this. Particularly because you liked him and because lying would have served no purpose anyhow. “That is putting it pretty bluntly,” Dave Wall admitted slowly, “but it’s just about what it amounts to.”
Tres Debley nodded. “I figured so. And I don’t like it. Wall, Bart Sutton is a hell of a good man. Oh, I’v
e carried Luke Lilavelt’s axe against other men, but most of them weren’t a damned bit better in the early days than Lilavelt is now. They hogged range, pushed weaker men aside, or trampled them under, just like Lilavelt has done and is doing. They grew respectable only when they figured they had enough range and enough cows to do them the rest of their lives.
“But Bart Sutton ain’t now and never was that sort. He made his start on clear range. He never tried to walk on another man’s neck or hog anything that didn’t belong to him. He played a clean, straight game all the way. He took a bare chunk of bench land and made it into the finest damned ranch you ever saw. Ever been to the Square S headquarters?”
Wall shook his head. “No, I never have.”
“Well, I was, once. I took a chance one day and dropped by the place. Nobody was home and I had a chance to look around. Sweet Winds, they call it. And rightly so. Up on that bench land there’s always a breeze … a sweet one. You’ve smelled a wind coming in off some distant cedar slope? Kind of dry and fragrant? Well, that’s the way it is up there. There’s a grove of big sycamores, shading the ranch house. Bart Sutton planted those trees with his own hands. Everything is neat, well kept, well put together. Everything is clean, painted. It smacks of home and right living and good people.
“A girl lives there, Wall … Bart Sutton’s girl. I saw her once, in Crater City. She’s a clean strain, that girl … none finer. Pretty as a sunset. And … damn it all, maybe you don’t understand, but this is one dirty job of Lilavelt’s I want no part in. So, while it may sound queer for me to say I’d like to work under you, you’re going to have to count me out. I’ll take my time.”
Dave Wall stared bleakly at the murky lamp. “You’re wrong, Tres. I do understand. That’s the exquisite hell of it. I do understand. I’m not blaming you … and I don’t want you to quit. You’re the one man in this outfit I want to stay. If you will, I promise you I won’t ask you to make one single move toward hurting Bart Sutton in any way.”
Tres Debley jerked erect. “That don’t make sense, man. If I ride for an outfit, then I ride with that outfit. No, that doesn’t make sense.”
“I know it doesn’t,” said Wall a trifle desperately. “But a break … there must be a break coming to me sometime. I’ve got to hang on to that hope or go completely crazy. If it doesn’t come and the cards fall wrong, Tres, I’ll let you know in time. Then you can quit. Fair enough?”
Tres Debley stared at Wall for a long time without answering. Then he nodded. “Fair enough. Most of us have reasons for what we do or don’t do. Yours must be a good one.”
Debley rose to leave. Wall got up, too, blew out the lamp. “How about showing me the usual route to town, Tres? I want to get these range limits fixed in my mind. And tonight there’s a restlessness in me for some damned reason.”
“Crater City it is,” agreed Debley.
They took the long way around and from the upper slopes looked down on the lights of the Sutton headquarters as they passed. They saw the black cone of Crater Mountain, jutting against the stars to the west, and when they cut south to the lava rim that laid its dark barrier from Crater Mountain to the Crimson Hills, they saw below them, at the fringe of the desert gulf, the meager lights glittering that marked Crater City.
They dropped down the narrow trail that jackknifed across the face of the lava rim and the hoofs of their horses beat out a hard ringing on the solid rock. A quarter of a mile from the base of the rim and they were in Crater City, riding its single wide street, picking a hitch rail for their horses.
“I’ve no special purpose, now that we’re here,” said Wall quietly. “It was something to do.”
“Sure,” nodded Tres Debley. “I know. We’ll look around.”
Dave Wall’s first liking for this man deepened. There was depth and an instinct for understanding in Tres Debley.
They prowled the street. It wasn’t much of a town, little more than a three-block length of scattered buildings. They paused before a general store, still open for trade. “I could stand some smoking,” said Tres.
“And here,” said Wall. “We’ll split a caddy of Durham.”
They went in and made their purchase from a lanky, bald-headed man. Hoofs beat out a muffled trumping along the street, came to a halt outside. Spurs clanked and Bart Sutton came in, accompanied by two riders. Under the lamplight the cattleman’s hair showed a grizzling at the temples and his face looked like mahogany-tinted leather. His jaw was square and blunt and his wide-set eyes were cool and shrewd and direct. He was a man to approve at first glance.
Tres Debley said softly: “Bart Sutton, if you didn’t know it, Wall.”
One of the riders said something to Sutton who turned and looked over Wall and Debley with a measuring sternness. To the storekeeper he said: “Be with you in a minute, Tompkins.” Then he came over to face Dave Wall.
“Last night I had no good look at your face, but I caught the set of your shoulders against the stars. You’re Wall?”
“That’s right,” answered Wall quietly.
For a long moment their glances locked. Then Bart Sutton said: “I’ll be riding over some of your Crimson Hills range tomorrow. You’ve probably figured out how simple it would be to run my Square S iron into a Window Sash. My men report some evidence of that already happening. I’m going to have a good look around, Wall.”
“Fine,” said Wall. “I’m interested, myself. So, I’ll ride with you. Any critters we find with your brand so blotted, will be turned back to you. What time will you be passing by headquarters?”
Bart Sutton was plainly surprised. Here was quiet, affable reaction where he’d plainly expected hostility. “That,” he admitted frankly, “I didn’t figure on. Maybe it’s a deep game you’re playing, Wall?”
“Maybe. But brand blotting isn’t part of it. I’ll be looking for you, Mister Sutton.”
“I’m not bluffing, Wall. I’ll be there at sunup.”
“Fine,” said Wall again.
Again their glances locked and Bart Sutton’s eyes pinched down in a slight puzzlement. Then he turned away and Wall and Tres Debley went out. They paused to stow their tobacco purchase away in their saddlebags. “He means it, Wall,” said Debley. “He’ll show up exactly when he says.”
“That’s what I want,” said Wall. “Anything in the brand-blotting talk, Tres?”
Tres built a cigarette before answering slowly. “Afraid there is. Tom Burke never ordered it nor would he have stood for it on any open scale. But this is big range and broken, and those two you fired, Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer … well …” Debley shrugged.
“Any others beside those two, Tres?”
“Not here, if that’s what you mean.” Debley’s tone was flatly emphatic. “Strange as it may sound, coming from one working for a man like Luke Lilavelt, I want no part of that kind of business. I might steal a herd from some thief who stole them first, but I don’t touch an honest man’s cattle, not for myself or anybody else. As for the rest of the crew, I wouldn’t know.”
“I was,” said Wall, “speaking just of the rest of the crew. Present company completely excepted. Takes a mean man for a mean job, Tres.”
Bart Sutton and his riders came out of the store, stood for a moment in conversation, after which the two hands went directly to their horses and rode out of town. But Sutton went along the street and turned in through swinging half doors under a faintly lit sign that proclaimed the rialto.
“I’ve been wanting a chance for a good talk with Sutton,” said Wall. “This looks like a good time.”
“A talk with the enemy,” murmured Tres Debley. “What’s that mean, man … ultimatums, or things of that sort?”
“No. About a stretch of country, between the Monuments and Stinking Water. Whether it can’t be opened to a trail herd without an argument.”
“That’s not what Luke Lilavelt wants,�
� declared Debley, quickly shrewd. “He wants an argument, a fight, a hypocrite’s cause to go after Sutton and wipe him out.”
“Damn Lilavelt!” rapped Dave Wall harshly. “Damn him clear past hell!”
Tres Debley showed a small grin and dropped an approving hand on Wall’s shoulder. “Go have your talk … and good luck. I’ll meet you here in an hour. I see there’s still a light in the kitchen of Charlie Ring’s hash house. Charlie and me rode together at one time. That was before his horse fell on him and broke him up so he couldn’t ride any more. He likes me to drop in for a little chin-fest whenever I hit town.”
Wall headed for the Rialto. This wish for a talk with Bart Sutton was no spur-of-the-moment idea. It had been at the back of his mind ever since leaving Luke Lilavelt’s office back in Basin. Perhaps it was a product of wishful thinking, or a gnawing weariness of violence, a desire to arbitrate instead of fight. Maybe just to put off the inevitable for a time, while waiting for a break of some kind.
The winnowing doors of the Rialto gave under the pressure of his hand. Half through them he stopped dead still, a leaping alertness lifting him up on his toes, throwing his head and shoulders forward until the lights of the saloon carved his face into harsh bronze.
Fifteen feet from him stood Bart Sutton. The cattleman’s back was to the door, his left elbow hooked on the bar, his right hand holding a glass with a short two fingers of whiskey half lifted to his lips. Sutton’s entire attention was centered narrowly on Nick Karnes, who stood free of the bar, some two yards to Sutton’s right side. Nick’s feet were spread, he was in a weaving half crouch, and he had a gun drawn and pointing at the center of Bart Sutton’s body.
Nick Karnes was drunk. It showed in the slight, slow weave of his shoulders, in the glazed hardness of his eyes, in the way he showed his teeth past thinned and twisted lips. Deadly drunk, oozing the same threat a poised rattlesnake might have—poised and ready to strike.
