by L. P. Holmes
Added to this was Wall’s own reputation. Word of what had happened to Joe Muir would certainly have got around by this time, and have brought hesitation to the more venomous. The minds of men, reflected Wall, ran along unpredictable lines and the power of a known deadly gun carried far. This thought brought a darkness of feeling. Was that to be the sum total of his life? Would men never know him by any other brand? Must what little respect men showed him come from no more worthy attribute than the speed and deadly efficiency of the gun that swung at his hip?
That was the brand that the workings of Luke Lilavelt’s scheming had put on him. Oh, there were some few around Basin who, now knowing all the story, would see more to him than the imprint of dark and dangerous years. But to most men the name of Dave Wall would always bring up the grim and shadowy memory.
Like up in the Crimson Hills—up there at Sweet Winds, where Bart Sutton had thanked him for favors done, yet held him at arm’s length, remembering not what he was trying to be now, but only what he had been. And what had he been? He had, mused Wall bitterly, never broken his given word, never betrayed any man’s confidence. Even in working for Luke Lilavelt he had done his work well. In the running clash of wills between Lilavelt and himself from the very first there had been no deceit on his part. He had despised Lilavelt and told him so and had made answering threat to Lilavelt’s threat. When the breaking point came, he’d made no effort to conceal it. Lilavelt knew where he stood.
These things he’d clung to and, though others might never understand them, they brought a certain measure of grim comfort to him. And perhaps not all was lost if a man could respect himself, even where others did not. Rough men he had fought and dominated. Sometimes the weight of his fists had been enough, that and a certain cold and destroying fury that sprang up in him in merciless combat. Again, only his gun could settle the issue, and these were shadows that would follow him all his life. But the stake had been to kill or be killed, and when the issue was that way, it left a man with little choice. And it wasn’t done yet—how and where would it end?
The Window Sash spread at Durbin Springs was the most distant one from Basin and it was to this one that Dave Wall rode first. Cash Shelly was the foreman, a lank and bony man, tough enough to handle a tough crew, but the kind, if he were going to throw a gun on you, would tell you so and give you an even break.
Wall reached the layout in the blue twilight of a hot day. Cash Shelly faced him across the littered table in a cabin that passed for the ranch office. A kerosene lamp, badly in need of wick trimming, threw a thin and guttering glow.
“Lilavelt? Not here, Wall,” informed Shelly. “A week ago, yes. But not since then. The word was, you’re no longer with Window Sash. Right?”
Wall nodded. “What other word did he leave, Cash?”
Shelly considered. Then his eyes flashed and he cut a hand across in front of him with a hard gesture. “I told him to go to hell. It may cost me my job, but I guess I could stand that, too. But what’s between him and you is just that, as I see it. If anybody, and that includes you, Wall, was to try and tear this spread apart while I’m foreman, I’d swap lead with him to the last damn’ cartridge. But when Lilavelt has a private row on with any one man, that’s his personal affair entirely and none of mine.”
Wall smiled grimly. “In other words, you refused to dry-gulch me when I wasn’t looking?”
“Call it that,” conceded Shelly. Then, with the faintest break of humor he added: “You got him scared, man. He’s sweating.”
“With reason,” murmured Wall. “Obliged, Cash.”
“There’s grub and a bed if you want it,” Shelly said. “Lilavelt owes you that much, I think.”
“I’ll take the grub, but I’ll bunk along the trail. I’m riding a Window Sash bronc’ that’s pretty well done up. How’ll you swap for a fresh one?”
“Long as I come out even on my count of saddle stock, I’m satisfied,” said Shelly. “You know where the corrals are. Help yourself to what you like.”
That night Dave Wall slept close to the earth, a good ten miles along the trail from Durbin Springs. And before he dropped off, he played with the thought that while many men worked for Luke Lilavelt and took his wages, there were few who did not despise him.
Two days later Wall rode up to the headquarters at Pinnacle. It was midmorning. The outfit was off on the range somewhere and the place deserted except for the cook, a one-eyed, profane old pirate called Wind River. Once, for a period of six months, Dave Wall had been foreman of the Pinnacle Ranch. During that time he and Wind River had gotten along very well together. After a period of startled cussing, Wind River said seriously: “Dave, you shouldn’t ride in so damn’ careless-like. Or maybe you don’t know about things?”
“I know,” said Wall. “I looked things over pretty careful from back yonder. Lilavelt’s been through?”
“Yup. And all of us are supposed to pot-shoot you on sight. Which, of course, don’t set worth a damn with some of the boys. But Hub Magley’s a surly devil who’s got awful big for his britches since Lilavelt made him foreman. I wouldn’t trust him far as I can spit. I ain’t tryin’ to rush you on your way, but …”
“Been quite some time since I had a chance at any of your good cooking, Wind River.”
Wind River, standing in the door of the cook shack, took a long look around. “Reckon maybe you got time for a bite. You keep watch while I throw a steak in the pan.”
When the food was ready, Wind River stood watch at the door while Wall ate. Abruptly the old fellow said: “Damned glad to know you’ve broke with Lilavelt, Dave. You’re too good a man, with too much life ahead of you to waste it workin’ for a splinter-legged, crooked sidewinder like Luke Lilavelt. Different with me. I’m old and a job’s a job. I do my work, mind my own business, and as long as they let it go at that, I’m satisfied. But I’m sure glad you’ve pulled stakes.” Struck with a sudden thought, Wind River turned. “What you after Lilavelt for, Dave?”
Wall grinned. “What makes you think I’m after him?”
“You wouldn’t be here if you wasn’t,” said Wind River bluntly. “And he wouldn’t be leavin’ orders for you to be smoked down if he didn’t know you were after him. Don’t fun me, boy. I want to know. Why you after him?”
“For a lot of reasons, Wind River. The main one is that a good man’s future and that of his family is at stake. Now you can’t tell me some shortcut I could take to locate him, could you?”
“I might at that,” came Wind River’s surprising retort. “Oh, not direct to him, maybe … but a pretty good lead. Lilavelt and Hub Magley had quite a talk together in here at breakfast the morning Lilavelt pulled out. The rest of the crew had finished grubbin’ and gone. I was busy washin’ up dishes and I guess Lilavelt and Magley didn’t figure I could hear what they said, or maybe that it didn’t matter if I did. Anyhow, I heard Lilavelt tell Magley that if he wanted to get word to him, not to mail any letters to the regular office in Basin. Instead, Magley was to write direct to some jigger named Dell, at Crater City, and that this feller, Dell, would see that the word got to Lilavelt. Now if that’s any good to you, you’re welcome.”
“Wind River,” said Wall, “you’re not only the best cook this side the Rockies, you’re also a smart old coot and a mighty fine friend. What can I do to make it even with you?”
Wind River considered, then cackled thinly. “Give Lilavelt a damned good boot in the pants for me, once you ketch up with him. God hates a skinflint and so do I. Luke Lilavelt never did stick his long nose into this cook shack that he didn’t whine and pule around about how wasteful his ranch cooks were and how the grub bills were breakin’ him. And all the time he was lyin’ on both counts. Claimin’ I ever wasted any grub in all my life is a mortal insult to me. Yeah, you boot him good, boy.”
* * * * *
There was an old but comfortable armchair on the porch of the Square
S ranch house at Sweet Winds. On this Tracy Sutton spread a blanket, then went inside the house and offered a lithe young shoulder to her father, aiding his slow steps out to the chair, seeing that he was comfortably seated, then spreading another blanket across his knees.
At that moment a rider swung into view past the corrals. Tracy Sutton faced about with a strange, quick eagerness that was not lost upon her father and that put a somber shadow in his eyes. But Tracy’s eagerness faded and was replaced with a wistful disappointment.
The rider was Tres Debley and he dismounted and came up to the porch, hat in hand. Bart Sutton stared, then growled: “You’re Debley, of course. Remember you now. What can I do for you?”
“Just came to pay my respects,” said Tres quietly. “That and to ask if Dave Wall has happened to drop by lately? I was hoping to meet him somewhere up in this country.”
Tres Debley was a little surprised to see how gaunt and old and tired Bart Sutton looked. He’d thought that the cattleman would have completely recovered by this time from the wounded side he’d collected from the gun of Nick Karnes. Sutton seemed to read the thought.
“It was a wise man who first said that there was no fool like an old one,” he rumbled. “I wouldn’t listen to Tracy. I would try and get around again before I should have. So I tore things loose again and went back to bed for a real spell. I’m a damned nuisance and plumb fed up with myself. What makes you think that Wall is back in this part of the country again?”
“He’s on a trail that could have led him up here.” Tres felt the girl’s glance upon him and, meeting it, was startled at how she seemed to be hanging on his every word.
“What kind of a trail?” asked Sutton.
The look on Tracy Sutton’s face gave Tres sudden inspiration. He settled down on the top step of the porch, laid his hat beside him, and built a cigarette.
“Dave is trying to run down Luke Lilavelt. For the best of reasons. If you’d care to listen, I’ll tell you the whole story. Don’t know whether Dave would thank me for telling it, but in justice to him I think it might help if you heard it.”
Tres glanced at Tracy Sutton again, and she said, with almost breathless swiftness: “Please.”
It was Bart Sutton’s turn to throw a glance at his daughter. He sighed deeply and growled: “Go ahead. We’re listening.”
So Tres told it as he knew it, told it all. When he finished, he flashed another look at Tracy Sutton. She wasn’t watching him, but, instead, was staring out across the sweep of open country that fell away to the distant desert. Her eyes were misty, and if Tres Debley had ever glimpsed a soft and glowing glory on a human face, he saw it now. Tres cleared his throat and ended, a little gruffly, “So you see, Mister Sutton, rather than being what a lot of people thought he was, Dave Wall is really one of the biggest men who ever walked. He set out to do a tough job in the only way it could be done, as he saw it. He knew the price he’d have to pay, but he was more than willing to pay it. Yeah, I want somebody to show me a bigger man than Dave Wall.”
Bart Sutton was silent for some little time. “It adds up,” he said finally. “It explains a lot of things. Things I’ve done plenty of wondering about. Somehow I felt all along that the man was a double personality, but I couldn’t figure why he was. I agree with you, Debley. Only a big man could have done what he did … a damned big man. I’m glad you’ve told Tracy and me. It … helps.”
Sutton looked at Tracy again, with great fondness and an abrupt shedding of the shadowed somberness that he had shown previously. Tracy, stirring at last, went to the door. “You’ll stay and have dinner with Dad and me, Mister Debley?”
“It would be a privilege, ma’am,” said Tres.
It was a good meal and before it was done it seemed to Tres Debley that Bart Sutton looked ten years younger. Sutton told Tres that as far as he knew, Luke Lilavelt was nowhere in the vicinity. “We haven’t had a lick of trouble with Window Sash since that affair below the Monuments, when you and Wall turned that herd back. Yeah, I heard all about that. Something else I owe you and Wall for. As for Lilavelt, if any word of him was loose around here, my riders would pick it up and bring it to me.”
“Maybe Dave has already caught up with him somewhere along the trail,” said Tres. “If he has, he’ll drop me a letter to that effect.”
Tres didn’t bring up his own reason for being in the Crimson Hills country. That was between him and Hippo Dell. He’d look to other and far more likely spots than this fine ranch for the trail of Hippo Dell.
When Tres went out to leave, after thanking Tracy and her father for their hospitality, Tracy followed him to where his horse stood, hip-shot and drowsing. Tracy seemed shy, hesitant, a little at a loss for words.
“When … when you see Dave … Mister Wall again, you’ll tell him not to forget that he has friends at Sweet Winds?”
Tres smiled at her. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Miss Sutton. I doubt very much that Dave Wall has forgotten for a single minute this ranch of Sweet Winds … and the people who live here. Particularly the people. Particularly one person. Me … I don’t see how he could.”
She colored hotly, but her eyes did not waver, and he left her that way, watching him as he rode off. Tres wisely knew that beyond him, she was seeing Dave Wall.
* * * * *
Tres rode into Crater City at midafternoon. In the general store, which was also the post office, he asked if there was any mail for him, found there wasn’t, so went out again, pausing in the shade of the overhang to build a smoke. In him was stirring the restlessness of a man who had set out on a purpose he’d felt was important and had then, along the way, come to realize that it wasn’t nearly as important as he thought. For the beating Tres had taken at the hands of Hippo Dell had become considerably distant now, and the first great anger and wish for retribution had oddly burned out. There was not a single bruise or sore spot left to remind him, and he thought that it would probably take actual sight of Dell to get him stirred up again. Even that might not make him react. A man absorbed a licking, got over it and, given time, forgot it, providing the memory of it was not rubbed in too strongly.
Practically speaking, Tres realized now that he hadn’t been too smart in leaving Basin and making this long ride up here. True, he might cut Dave Wall’s trail, but that chance could be days or weeks away. Maybe by this time Luke Lilavelt had been taken by Dave back to Basin for questioning by Judge Masterson. Maybe out of those questions some line on Big George Yearly had been gotten, in which case Dave might be traveling far, very far indeed, to try and collect Yearly.
About the only thing, Tres reflected, that had made this trip to the Crimson Hills worthwhile was the chance he’d had to set the Suttons right about Dave Wall’s real make-up. The look on Tracy Sutton’s face had been full payment for that!
Tres left the store porch and headed for the Rialto, remembering the shootout that had taken place there that had come so close to claiming Bart Sutton’s life. Quite a lot of things had taken place since that day.
From the mouth of an alley, gray with afternoon shadow, a voice reached him, mildly humorous.
“Some people are always underfoot.”
Tres jerked, stared, then ducked into the alley. “Dave! I’ll be damned! How long you been here?”
“Stretch the time and make it ten minutes,” drawled Wall. “Just arrived, in fact.”
“What’s the idea, skulking in this hole?”
“Starting a watch. May be a damned long one. But for better or worse I’m going to make it.”
“A watch for what?” demanded Tres.
“Not for what … for whom,” drawled Wall. “Friend of yours. Hippo Dell.” Tres looked a little bewildered. Wall showed a small grin, dropped his hand on Tres’ arm. “Hunker down and take it easy. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Wall suited his action to the words, dropping on his heels, the long
curve of his dusty shirt back against a handy wall. Tres, squatted beside him and said: “You look like a wolf that’s been run steady for a week. I thought the man you were after was Luke Lilavelt?”
“Is,” stated Wall laconically. “But I’ve got to find Hippo Dell before I can find Lilavelt. It’s like this.” And then Wall told of what he’d learned from Wind River, the old cook at the Window Sash spread at Pinnacle. “It shapes up that Lilavelt feels sure I’m on his trail, but not for the reason I really am. He’s left word at all his spreads that I’m to be diced quick and final if I show at any of them. The big hole in that is that he doesn’t realize that all men are not as low-down and crooked as he is. Anyhow, he’s hoping I’ll get rocked off and Hub Magley, ramrod at Pinnacle, is to get word to him as soon as I am, so that Lilavelt can break out of wherever he’s hiding and get back to the affairs of living again.”
“And Hippo Dell is the one to relay the word from Magley to Lilavelt?” said Tres.
“That’s it. Oh, friend Luke is a fine, brave specimen, all right. Not going to drop into any town to ask for his mail direct. He’s playing everything close to his vest, Luke is.” Wall spat in disgust.
“Might be a week before Dell shows up here,” said Tres.
Wall nodded. “That’s right, it might be. And that worries me some, for I don’t know how long Judge Masterson can hold off extradition on Jerry Connell. Then again, Hippo might show up ten minutes from now. Either way, it’s the only straight lead I’ve been able to pick up so I’ve got to ride with it. Only one thing …” Wall paused, frowning.
“What’s that?” Tres asked.
“There’s a chance that Lilavelt may be hiding out somewhere around the Crimson Hills headquarters. Seems like he’s been more or less working up this way. I’d like to ride a prowl up that way and have a look at things. Yet if I drew a blank there and Dell came in to town while I was gone …”
