Jaggers Flint took a step forward until he stood beside Rip.
“I’ll take care of him, Rip,” he said. “I’ve done a little waitin’, too.”
But a vicious cunning had seized Rip.
“Not yet, Daggers,” he said. “Tie him up. Before we’re done with him, he’ll make a swap, his land for his life.”
“Broad’s got some fool notions about how to treat anybody while he’s in your house,” Flint objected. “He ain’t goin’ to like this. Let’s take this huckleberry and dust out of here.”
“Pap’ll change his mind.”
The sound of a horse’s hoofs silenced Rip. He wheeled toward the door.
“It’s Jewell!” he cried. “Tie Morgan up and dump him into my room. She won’t go in there.”
XIII
Jewell had seen Murdo Morgan ride up to the branding when she was saddling her brown mare. She had hesitated, wondering what had brought him to the Turkey Track, and knowing the answer at once. This visit had been inevitable from the moment her father had refused to listen to Morgan in town.
For a moment Jewell had stood motionless beside the mare, watching Morgan sit his saddle outside the circle of activity. There might be trouble and it was not in her power to prevent it. Mounting, she had turned her mare toward the rimrock that formed the north wall of the valley.
She rode well, with the easy rhythm of one who had sat in leather before she could walk. A hot, dry wind thrust at her and brought her hair down her back and, catching it, straightened it out behind her, a filmy gold-bright mass in the sun.
Jewell knew every trail and road in the valley, in the pine hills to the south, in the Sunset Mountains to the west. Nature had endowed her with a throbbing restlessness that daily drove her out of the gloomy house and into the open where the air was thin and clear and pure. She had never understood it, but when the wind gave her its wings and the sunlight painted a distant and beautiful world beyond the far edges of the valley, when the strong sage smell was all around her and the sky was the only roof above her, the restlessness was gone entirely.
This was her land, and she was its child. But there were the passions of her family to mar perfection. The hidden fears, the huge pride, the false-rooted arrogance — all united to build a shame in her and wrench a protest from her that was wasted.
Usually Jewell rode to the rimrock and worked her way to the top along the snake-wide trail, but not today. She was remembering Ed Cole’s visit, her father’s grim laugh and growing sureness. Then she remembered Murdo Morgan, tall and squarely built, a dark-faced, black-garbed man with a dream greater than any Clancy had ever dreamed.
The old conflict boiled within her again, loyalty to a family she did not respect and did not understand, against the loyalty to a man she had met only briefly, the man whose dream had been her own unspoken dream, the man who, as a boy, had been in her thoughts through her growing years.
She reined up in the talus and stepped down. She idled among the boulders, her gaze sweeping across the gray flat to the pine hills, made hazy blue by the distance. There, standing as a memorial the Creator had made, was Clancy Mountain. Broad Clancy had committed sacrilege in stealing it.
Jewell had always been honest with herself. She knew how little love Broad Clancy had for her, but she did feel a closeness with Short John that she felt with neither Rip nor their father. There was one thing in common between them. They were out of place, tolerated rather than loved. Broad Clancy poured his affection on Rip, seeing in his youngest child much that was in himself. He didn’t understand Jewell because he didn’t understand women, and Short John wasn’t tough enough for the position life had given him.
Jewell sat down, hands behind her, eyes on Clancy Mountain. Suddenly she realized, and the knowledge shocked her, that she hated the mountain. Beautiful. Symmetrical. Snow-covered until late spring. A sharp arrow pointing to heaven. She should love it because she loved everything that was beautiful, but she didn’t.
Abel Purdy had said in a rare burst of frankness that time would consume all of them except old Broad, but the mountain would never allow him to be forgotten. It would be there as long as the earth itself was here.
In that moment Jewell made her decision. If Morgan died today, her hopes died with him. If he lived, he would have whatever help she could give him. Then, with a swift rush of panic, she realized she should have stayed at the branding. She might have prevented his dying.
She mounted and put her mare at a fast pace back across the valley. The branding was finished. Everyone was gone, but Morgan’s big black stood in front of the house.
Jewell ran inside. Morgan must be here. He would never leave his horse.
The front room was empty. Disappointment knifed her. She had hoped to find him waiting. Then she saw Rip in the office.
“Where’s Morgan?” she called.
“Morgan?” Rip took his boots off the spur-scarred desk and stood up. “How the devil should I know?”
“His horse is in front.”
“Which same don’t prove a thing,” Rip said irritably. “Maybe he left his nag and took one of ours. If he did, we’ll sure hang him for horse stealin’.”
That was about as unreasonable a thing as Rip could say. There wasn’t an animal on Turkey Track except Flint’s sorrel that compared with Morgan’s black, but Jewell chose not to press the point.
“You didn’t have trouble?” she asked.
Rip laughed jeeringly. “Trouble with that big wind? ’Course not! He had something to say about Pap buying land, but Pap told him he’d dicker with the Citizens’ Bank when the sign was right, like Cole said.” He moved to the door. “I’ll go look for that hair-pin, if you want to see him.” His face suddenly turned ugly. “Say, you ain’t sweet on him, are you?”
“I don’t want him killed. There’s enough Morgan blood on Clancy hands now without adding his.”
Rip jeered another laugh. “I reckon there’ll be some more ’fore long. Pap should have knowed that pup would grow into a wolf. Now we’ve got the wolf to kill.”
Jewell watched Rip cross to the barn, questions thrusting themselves at her. Turning, her gaze swept the room. Morgan was here, somewhere. Maybe in the barn. Maybe Rip was going to kill him now. She ran upstairs for her gun. Then, in the hall outside the door to Rip’s room, she saw Morgan’s black Stetson.
Usually Jaggers Flint was with Rip, but she hadn’t seen the gunman when she’d come in. She turned into her room and lifted her short-barreled revolver from the bureau drawer. She saw her hunting knife and, on second thought, took it. Jewell Clancy had never killed a man in her life, but she would now if that was what it took to free Morgan.
Then a thought paralyzed her with shock. That man might be her brother Rip!
Jewell slipped the knife into the waistband of her Levi’s and left her room, a cold purpose ruling her. She moved with cat-like quiet along the hall, her gun cocked. There was a law in the Clancy house that a bedroom was never entered except upon invitation of its occupant, but Jewell didn’t hesitate.
Gripping the knob of Rip’s door, she turned it slowly and shoved the door open with a violent push. She expected to see Jaggers Flint there and she expected to kill him, but the gunman was not in sight. Morgan was on the floor, hands and feet tied, a bandanna gagging him.
For a moment, the room turned in front of Jewell. She gripped the foot of Rip’s bed, shutting her eyes, faintly aware of an incoherent gurgle from Morgan. She had been keyed to a killing, and now that the killing was not necessary, she stood trembling, tears struggling to break through. Then she gained control of herself, eased down the hammer of her gun, and, lifting the knife from her waistband, slashed Morgan’s ropes and gag.
He licked dry lips and flexed the muscles of his wrists. “I’m beholden to you,” he began.
“Not here.” She gripped his hand and pulled him to the door. “Rip will te
ar the house down when he finds you’ve gone.”
Morgan was in the hall then, picking up his Stetson.
“Careless of Flint to drop it here,” he said.
“Flint isn’t smart and he was in a hurry, but I’d have found you anyhow. I got back sooner than Rip expected and saw your horse outside.” Jewell opened the door of her room and pulled Morgan into it, smiling at his disapproving frown. “A woman’s room is no different than any other room, Murdo. Just four walls.”
“If Rip found me in here, he’d have some reason to drill me.”
“He won’t find you,” she said, hoping Rip would respect the rule she had not. “This is my one island of refuge.”
Morgan stood rubbing his wrists, eyes on her. He was, she thought, tough enough to finish this job he had started. This was a world of violent action and brutal force, of blood and dust and sweat. Morgan fitted that world, but, more than that, he had the capacity to adapt himself to any situation. If he survived, there would be another world of quiet and order here in Paradise Valley, a world of turned furrows and filled irrigation ditches and churches and schools. He would fit into that world, too.
“I don’t savvy Broad,” Morgan said. “He was plumb jumpy when I saw him in town. Wouldn’t listen. Just wanted me to get out or get plugged in the back. Today he acted like he had the world by the tail.”
“Ed Cole and Pete Royce paid us a visit,” Jewell said quietly. “Dad knows why you’re here.”
“Cole and Royce?” Morgan started to reach for tobacco and paper. Then his hand fell away from his shirt pocket. “What did they want?”
“Cole told Dad that you owned the road grant and had borrowed money from the Citizens’ Bank. He said the land was being sold in the Middle West now.”
Morgan walked to the window and looked out upon the sage flat, the afternoon sunlight cutting strongly across his face.
“Why did Cole tell Broad that?” he asked in a wondering voice.
“His bank wants the valley and he thinks this is a cheap way to get it. If you fail, the bank will close you out, and he said he knew how to make you fail, but if his plans didn’t work, he wanted Dad to help.”
“What’s in it for Broad?”
“Cole promised to see that Dad got title to the land he needed in return for helping break you.”
She saw the misery that was in him, saw it tighten his mouth and narrow his eyes, saw the beat of his temple pulse. Ed Cole had bragged that Morgan was a trusting fool who wouldn’t suspect him because they were friends, and she sensed the hurt that was in Morgan. He was the kind of man who would give everything to a friend and, for that same reason, expected the best from those he called friends.
Jewell stood at the door, watching him and saying nothing, knowing that he had to work this out with himself. He had, she thought, expected trouble with some of the nesters like Pete Royce. He would have expected trouble with the Turkey Track, but he would not have anticipated this fight with the man who had negotiated his loan and called it an act of friendship.
Morgan turned suddenly to face her. “I came to the house to see you, but I guess there isn’t anything you can do. Long as Broad figures he’s got me on the run, none of us can do anything. I might as well drift.”
“You can’t go now!” she cried. “Flint and Rip are outside and you haven’t got your gun. Wait till dark. I’ll find your horse and you can go out through this window.”
He gave her a queer grin that might have meant anything. “I’ve been in some tights that looked pretty tough, but I never saw one so tough I had to sneak out through a woman’s window.”
Crazy, but that was the way Murdo Morgan would feel. She moved quickly to stand against the door, searching for something that would make him stay.
“How did Rip happen to get the drop on you?” she asked.
He was halfway across the room when she asked that. He stopped as if suddenly remembering something.
“I was looking at a picture on the wall of Broad’s office. She looked a lot like my mother.”
“She was your mother,” Jewell said quietly.
He rubbed the back of his neck, staring blankly at her while his mind grappled with what she had said.
“How did Broad get it?” he asked.
“I told you there were two sides to this thing,” she said. “Dad loved your mother in California, but your father won her. Dad never forgave him. He married right after that, but he didn’t love my mother. They quarreled all the time. That’s about all I remember of her.”
“Then that’s the reason Broad and Dad hated each other.”
“Most of it. The rest was Dad thinking your father came here to flaunt his victory. Dad left California to get away from the Morgans and try to forget your mother.”
Outside, a man called: “Where’s Morgan?”
Morgan wheeled to the window, with Jewell a step behind him. Tom Carrick stood there with the sun to his back, slim and arrow-straight, hand splayed over gun butt. Rip stepped out of the house and paced slowly toward Tom. Jewell gripped Morgan’s arm. She sensed what was coming, and she knew Morgan did.
“The fool,” Morgan muttered, “had to keep looking for his trouble till he found it.”
“What do you want Morgan for, you yellow-livered clod-buster?” Rip called tauntingly.
“Don’t call me yellow!” Tom Carrick bellowed. “There’s Morgan’s horse. Abel Purdy said he was comin’ out here.”
Morgan tried to raise the window, but it was solid. Jewell handed him her gun. He took it and wheeled toward the door, but it was too late. Rip had pulled his Colt, confident of his superiority over this brash nester.
Jewell opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Something gripped her throat. Rip had made the wrong guess. Tom Carrick’s gun spoke before Rip’s was clear of leather, and Rip Clancy, his Colt unfired, folded into the hoof-churned dust.
Morgan whirled back to the window when he heard the shot. That was when Jaggers Flint, shooting from the barn across the road, cut Tom Carrick down with a shot in the back!
XIV
Kicking out the window, Morgan had Jewell’s small gun in his big fist. “Stand where you are, Flint!” he shouted. “You’ll hang for killing!”
Jewell glimpsed the gunman’s upturned face squeezed tight with the panic that Morgan’s voice had stirred in him. He tilted his gun and fired.
Morgan pushed Jewell away. She fell across the bed and, coming back to her feet, saw the splintered slice that Flint’s bullet had made along the edge of the window casing. She heard her gun in Morgan’s hand, and smelled the burned powder.
Morgan wheeled out of the room. “Stay here!” he called. “I’ll get Flint!”
She came back to the window just as Flint swung aboard his sorrel and broke out of the ranch yard in a wild run. She heard Morgan pound down the stairs and across the living room, heard her gun talk again, and saw that he had missed.
Outside, Morgan stooped beside Rip, felt of his wrist, and seeing his gun in the dead man’s waistband, lifted it and slid it into holster. He knelt at Carrick’s side and, turning, waved for Jewell to stay inside. She knew then that both were dead.
“Flint will head for the lava flow!” Jewell screamed.
She didn’t wait for Morgan to ask where it was. She walked out of the room slowly, her legs stiff and without feeling, an emptiness in her. When she reached the front porch, Morgan was in his saddle and cracking steel to his horse.
Jewell stood watching him, worry a sharp pain in her chest. She knew that only one would come back. Then she moved off the porch and through the dust to Rip. Oddly enough, her thoughts fastened upon her father. She wondered what he would do now that Rip was dead....
Morgan pulled his black down after the first hundred yards. Flint’s horse was faster, but at the reckless pace the killer was taking, he would kill the
sorrel. There would be time then for the reckoning.
They reached the rim, the distance steadily increasing between them, and crossed the plateau between the foothills and the valley. The sun was behind the Sunset Mountains then, and by the time they reached the fringe of timber, black night gripped the mountains. Morgan swore bitterly. He had been sure his horse could overtake the sorrel, but Flint had disappeared in the scattering pines that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead.
The big black was more important to Morgan than Flint. No horse, not even the sorrel, could take many hours like these. Somewhere ahead of him, perhaps in the lava flow, Flint would be on foot. Morgan, knowing that time was on his side, reined up. Making camp in the protection of a fifty-foot cliff, he waited out the long night.
This was strange country to Morgan. He had come into the valley several miles to the north. He had heard of the lava flow when he was a kid, but knew where it was only in a general way. It would be, he knew, a perfect place for a hide-out, filled with caves and steep-walled depressions where a man could hide and wait for his pursuer.
That would be Flint’s way — the way he had killed Tom Carrick. With that thought, hatred gripped Murdo Morgan. There would be no turning back until Jaggers Flint was dead.
Daylight showed gray, then sharply red, shadows reluctantly fading from the hills and draws. Hawk’s Nest, a rugged point of rock that Morgan had seen from the valley, rose above the gently sloping hills and made an unmistakable landmark ahead of him. The lava flow was not far beyond.
Morgan saddled and rode west, slowly now, for he was sure the sorrel could not have gone much farther. A sense of danger made a growing uneasiness in him. What Flint did depended on how panicky he had become, but, unless he had completely lost his head, he would hole up and ambush Morgan. His kind of killer seldom changed.
Sunlight crawled along the hillsides and down into the draws, and slowly warmed, baking the chill of the long night out of Morgan’s muscles. The lava flow loomed ahead, a black, twisting ridge that had been spewed out of some nearby crater in prehistoric times as a savage molten mass. Cooling, it had formed this nearly lifeless desert in which only a few stunted trees found precarious footing.
High Desert Page 9
