by Short, Luke;
Mary nodded. “That’s just what I did.” She leaned forward toward Jim. “You see, there were thousands of dollars in back taxes that I couldn’t meet, so what was the sense of trying to win title? But I had one thing that gave me confidence.”
“Jack Cope?”
Mary smiled and nodded. “Two things, then. Jack Cope was one. The other was the original charter from the King of Spain, given to Don Justino Perez y Santiago y Mudarra y Ulibarri. I had it in the bottom of my trunk.” She laughed. “That was my war chest.”
“You still have it, then?”
Mary shook her head slightly and leaned back in her chair. “It was stolen.”
“Who did that?”
“My uncle, Harvey Buckner, I believe.”
She told Jim then what he most wanted to know, explaining Max Bonsell’s presence here. Harvey Buckner, so Jack Cope had told Mary, sent a man to San Jon after his brother’s death. This man asked a lot of questions and drank a lot of whisky.
And his questions all pointed toward one thing. Had anybody seen James Buckner dead? Nobody had, except his girl, Mary, and she was gone somewhere these ten years back. Were they sure James Buckner was dead? No, nobody was, except the murderers—if he was murdered. And they doubted that. Months later the charter was stolen from Mary’s trunk where she was staying in a little Wyoming cow town.
“But what does it get him?” Jim asked quickly.
“It makes him James Buckner,” Mary answered simply. “For eight years he has lived in Santa Fe under the name of James Buckner. He looks enough like Dad that any witness would be hard put to tell the difference. He has established that name in this country far more strongly than Dad did. He has the original charter from the Spanish king. Under James Buckner’s name, he has paid enough on the taxes of the old grant that it can’t be sold for taxes. And now, in partnership with Max Bonsell, he is taking over.”
Jim whistled in exclamation. “And the only men who can prove him a liar are the men who murdered your father? And to do it, they would have to admit his murder.”
Mary nodded.
“What about you?” Jim went on. “Can’t you prove who you are?”
Mary shook her head. “I was born when my parents were in Europe, so there’s no record of my birth in this country. No one can identify me, because I was away from Boston and from here during my growing years.”
“But these people will testify James Buckner had a girl, won’t they?”
“He’s taken care of that,” Mary replied. “He admits to having adopted a girl. But she went bad on him, he says.” She smiled a little. “I’m that girl. And by way of payment for his kindness to me, I’m turning against him and trying to get the Ulibarri grant, so he says.”
Jim sat there in silence, his lean face scowling. Anger showed in his eyes, but there was a look of bafflement, too. He drew out his pipe and looked at it and put it back in his pocket, then settled back in his chain and regarded Mary Buckner, who was watching him carefully.
“Now what?” Jim murmured. “You want my help, Cope said. You’ve got it, Miss Buckner—only hanged if I see what kind of help.”
“Jack Cope has money,” Mary said.
“Enough to prove Harvey Buckner isn’t James Buckner?”
“No. Just enough to pay the back taxes on the Ulibarri grant.”
Jim frowned. “But you’ve still got to prove you’re James Buckner’s child to get the grant.”
Mary was silent a long moment and then she said quietly, “Years ago Uncle Jack told me that there would come a time we were waiting for and a man we were waiting for. Uncle Jack said he would have to ride a little higher and a little wider and a little handsomer than any man he’d ever seen. He said he’d have to have a savage hatred for injustice. He’d have to be a fighter. He’d have to know how to use a gun. He wouldn’t care about money, Uncle Jack said, and he’d have to have treatment at Harvey Buckner’s hands that would make him fighting mad.”
She paused, and Jim regarded her attentively. “Uncle Jack wasn’t sure at first, when he saw you join up with Max Bonsell. But when he heard your story to those men in the sheriff’s office tonight, he was sure.” She paused again. “You’re the man, Jim Wade.”
Jim rose quickly, and Mary Buckner did, too, walking over to face him. “It’s not fair to ask it!” she said passionately. “There’s nothing fair or right about it! It’s—it’s the cheapest sort of politics I’m playing, Jim Wade! I’m taking advantage of your anger at Max Bonsell, at the injustice of killing thirteen men in cold blood, even if they deserved killing. I’m even making myself out a helpless girl to work on your pity. Uncle Jack has even placed you in his debt by breaking jail for you. But there it is, Jim Wade, in all its shabby truth. We need you. Will you help us?”
Jim didn’t answer for a moment. He was watching this girl’s face, tense and lovely and eager. And then that slow smile broke his face.
“I reckon,” he said mildly.
But Mary persisted. “Remember, I haven’t mentioned any reward.”
“Did I ask for one?”
“No. But I couldn’t give you one. For when I take over the Ulibarri grant, I will be poor. The only thanks I can give you will come from the bottom of my heart, my gratitude.”
“I think,” Jim Wade murmured, “that I’d rather have that than money.”
“Bless you, Jim Wade,” Mary whispered, and her eyes were soft with gratitude.
She turned away from him and walked into the bedroom. Jim, embarrassed and puzzled, packed his pipe now and lighted it.
Soon Mary came out and she said cheerfully, “It’s daylight already, and I’m hungry. Are you?”
They cooked a breakfast in Jack Cope’s tiny kitchen. His quarters were three small rooms above the rear end of his saloon, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living-room. The furniture was sparse, masculine, and the rooms were as spruce and clean as the cabins of a crack China tea clipper.
Halfway through breakfast, they heard someone ascending the stairs. Jim listened tensely until he made out the thump of Jack Cope’s crutch.
When Cope came in, Mary ran to him and threw her arms around his big shoulders and hugged him. “Uncle Jack, he’ll help us! He promised!” she cried.
Cope’s tough and muscled face didn’t change. “I knew he would,” he said shortly. “I’ve waited too long to make a mistake.”
At breakfast, he told them what had happened. Sheriff Haynes was insane with fury. He had roused every able-bodied man in town. Cope suggested to him that they search the town, since there was no evidence that Jim Wade had ridden out.
“You suggested it, you say?” Mary said, laughing. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll do it?”
“He is doin’ it.”
“But—what about this place?”
“I’m safe enough,” Cope growled. “You see it was my suggestion. It was also my suggestion that he go out and get Jim Wade before a wild-eyed posse could be organized. It was also my suggestion that the preliminary hearin’ be held in the dark office and that Haynes deputize five of us to hold the jail.”
“But how can you do it?” Mary asked.
Cope looked over at her, and his tough old face relaxed a little. He put a big hand on hers and said, “Mary, nobody knows it, but I run this town. I’ve spent fifteen years makin’ my name respected, so when this time came no man would doubt my word.” He flipped out a sack of tobacco. “It’s bedtime for you, sis. Turn in and sleep all day if you can. Jim will bunk down on the couch.”
Mary demurred, but Cope was stubborn, and she gave in. When he and Jim were alone, Cope smoked in silence, frowning.
Jim said suddenly, quietly, “Haynes took Ben Beauchamp, didn’t he?”
Surprise flooded Cope’s face. “I was tryin’ to think how to tell you. How’d you know?”
Jim shrugged. “He wouldn’t suspect you. You were the only man out of the office, the only one that had the chance to break me out. Besides Ben Beauchamp, that is. Where is Ben?”<
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“In the bank vault,” Cope said quietly. “It’s the only jail we got till the other’s fixed.”
“What’s Haynes goin’ to do about Ben?”
“Hold him for trial. Aidin’ a murderer to escape.”
Jim said gently, “Oh, no, he isn’t.”
“He’s doin’ it, ain’t he?”
“Now, yes. But not for long.”
Cope stared at him. “You mean you’re goin’ to break Ben Beauchamp out of that vault?”
“I am.”
Cope didn’t speak for a long moment, and when he did it was with bitterness. “You mean you’ll risk gettin’ shot—risk, hell! You will get shot! You mean you’ll do that when you know how much we count on you?”
“I pay back my debts,” Jim murmured.
“Debt? What do you owe that yellowbellied kid except a kick in the pants for talkin’ so much?”
“He wouldn’t be in there if it wasn’t for me.”
“You’ll break him out?”
“I will.”
Cope sighed and then smiled gently. “I hoped you’d say that. I don’t like it, but I like you for doin’ it, Wade.”
Jim found he was liking Jack Cope. When you got behind the wall of his toughness, you discovered that his single devotion to Mary Buckner had made a strange man of Jack Cope. He was human and compassionate, but as patient as an Indian, hard as granite, and more stubborn than a hunting dog. When he talked of Mary, his eyes lighted up, and his jaw set grimly, and a man understood without his saying it that she was his life. He talked about her now.
“How you goin’ to crack Excelsior up, Wade?” he asked.
Jim shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Cope said grimly. “If it was only me—or you—concerned in this, I’d take a gun and go choose Max Bonsell. After that I’d choose Harvey Buckner. But while Mary’s in it, we can’t do it.”
“It may come to that.”
“Maybe,” Cope said. “It’ll break her heart, though. She thinks she hates Harvey Buckner. But it ain’t in the girl to hate a man the killin’ way.”
Jim leaned back in his chair and let Cope talk about her. But he wasn’t listening. Minutes later, when Cope looked over at him and saw his inattention, the talk ceased.
Jim said then, “If we bust this open now, Cope, and beat Bonsell and Buckner, we’ll have those squatters to deal with still, won’t we?”
Cope nodded cautiously.
“How many of ’em?”
“Fifteen or so.”
“And they’ll fight?”
“To the last damn ditch.”
Jim brought his chair to the floor and leaned across the table toward Cope.
“Who’ll win this fight between the squatters and Bonsell?”
“Bonsell, of course. He’s got ’em half licked now.”
“Then why not let him lick ’em the whole way, shove ’em off, sweep the range clean? Why not let him do it now instead of us doin’ it later? Because downin’ Bonsell and Buckner is only half our job if Mary wants the Ulibarri grant. The squatters are the other half.”
Cope regarded Jim with shrewd eyes. “How?”
“By crowdin’ Max Bonsell so hard that he’ll have to strike hard to save his life.”
“You mean we side in with the squatters?”
“It’ll look like that. And when Bonsell strikes, he’ll strike at them.”
Cope was silent a long moment. “It’s risky. And Mary will hate it.”
“What if it is?” Jim retorted. “And Mary won’t have to know.”
Cope said carefully, “If she finds out you’re behind that, Jim, she’ll hate you. It ain’t that she isn’t used to murder. She saw her daddy killed. But that’s why she hates it. And what you’re proposin’ is murder and more murder.”
“Not murder,” Jim prompted. “Justice. A man pays for what he does. That crew killed Buckner in cold blood.”
“But it’s murder to her.”
“Not to me.”
“Nor to me,” Cope murmured. He rolled another cigarette and smoked it down and then said, “I’ve got to get down to the saloon.” He rose and tucked his stout crutch under his arm, which was as huge as an ordinary man’s thigh. And then his chill blue eyes settled on Jim.
“That’s our hole card, Jim,” he said. “Play it.”
Jim only nodded, and Cope stepped to the door, then paused. He turned to regard Jim. “It strikes me,” he said, “that you see in Mary Buckner what I’ve seen in her, Jim.” He held Jim’s gaze. “If anything ever happens to me, I think you’ll take up where I left off. Am I right?”
“I think you are,” Jim replied. And that, both of them knew, was the bond that sealed them forever.
Chapter Seven: TWO CATS BY THEIR TAILS
At midday, Cope let himself in with his key and wakened Jim.
“Bonsell is in town,” Cope announced.
“He’s got the nerve, all right.”
“Ain’t he?” Cope murmured, and swore softly. “He went straight to Haynes and offered to give himself up. But he asked one privilege before they locked him up.”
“What was that?”
“To hunt you,” Cope said, grinning wryly. “He said that he never suspected you was a killer. He said it made him sick to think of what you’d done. He said that although he’d been in town at my place the night the killin’ took place, and although he’d never given the orders, didn’t know anything about it, he was willin’ to take his punishment. But he wanted to find you and kill you first.”
“What did Haynes say?”
“What I told him to say,” Cope said mildly. “I was there when Bonsell talked to him. I turned to Haynes and said, ‘That’s a white man’s act, Link. I never liked Bonsell much, but I got to give him credit, he’s shootin’ square as a die with you.’ When Link heard me say that, he said the same thing.” He grinned. “So Bonsell walked out, free as air.”
“What about his crew?”
“Paid them off and drove them off the Excelsior with a rifle, he said.”
“As far as the hills?” Jim murmured.
“Not that far, I reckon,” Cope said. “As far as the second story of the house.” He turned to go and then paused. “I dropped a letter to Harvey Buckner today.”
“Saying what?” Jim asked, rising on an elbow.
“I didn’t say much. Just told him if he aimed to keep the Excelsior, he better get up here. Max Bonsell was changin’ boundaries on him just as fast as he could dig up the corners. I told him by the time he got up here, he’d find a ten-mile ribbon surveyed off two sides of the grant and home-steaded under Bonsell’s name.” He waved casually and hobbled to the door. “I’ve never tied two cats together by their tails, but I reckon I’ll have a good idea of how they act when Bonsell and Buckner meet.”
Jim was grinning a little as he dropped off to sleep.
At dark, he rose and quietly prepared himself a meal. Mary was still asleep, exhausted by the hard stage journey. When Cope came in, Jim asked for a gun, and when he got it he rammed it in his belt, saying, “Now tell me about the bank.”
Cope said it was in the middle of the block on the same side of the plaza as the sheriff’s office. It was adobe, but its vault was stone. The two front windows were heavily barred, as were both the rear and front doors—and the skylights. It was as escape-proof as a jail, more so on account of the vault.
“You mean they’ve closed the vault door on Ben?” Jim asked. “How does he get air?”
“Not the steel door, but the barred door. There’s two of ’em.”
“And how many men are in the place guardin’ him?”
“Three.”
“Can anybody get in?”
“Nobody but the sheriff and us deputies. The door and windows are locked and hung with burlap.” Cope grinned. “They figure he freed you last night so you’ll try to pay him back. Haynes aims to make an example of the kid. It’s a sort of advertisement that
the law means business here in San Jon.” He watched Jim’s face, waiting for him to speak. When Jim didn’t, Cope said, “How you goin’ to do it?”
Jim smiled absently and put on his coat. “I’ll tell you later,” he said.
“What about horses?” Cope said.
“I don’t know,” Jim murmured. He grinned at Cope and stepped out into the night. The chill air smelled good, and he breathed deeply several times before he descended the stairs. Once in the alley, he tramped down it, whistling softly under his breath. A rider on horseback turned into the alley, coming toward him, and Jim passed saying, “Howdy,” and getting a response in kind.
His first destination was the livery stable. This he achieved by keeping to the alleys and the darkness and crossing the streets without a second’s hesitation. Few enough people had seen his face, and even they would not recognize him if they met him in the dark. Once in the alley behind the livery stable, he approached the feed corral cautiously. It had a few horses in it, one of which was Sleepy. He had heard Haynes give the man orders last night to take him there. The corral lot was dark, and there was only a dim glow in the stable’s centerway. From the back end of it, he could look clean through it to the old man seated on his tilted chair, the lantern overhead. The old man was reading a newspaper.
Jim dropped deeper into the corral. The horses came up to him regarding him curiously, and then Sleepy, with a whinny of recognition advanced toward him. Jim looked back. The old man was still reading.
His next action was a strange one. Instead of petting Sleepy, he ignored him and advanced toward another horse. The horse slowly backed off, and Jim crowded him into a corner. Sleepy watched this with something like amazement, and then when he understood that Jim was after another horse, his resentment conquered. He neighed shrilly and charged past Jim at the other horse. Jim vaulted for the poles just in time. Sleepy reared and slashed savagely with his teeth at the other horse, and the animal, cornered, fought back.
The thunder of their hoofs and their shrill cries rang clearly into the night. Sleepy had switched ends and was kicking at the other horse with loud and angry squeals. Jim watched the centerway. When he saw the light getting brighter, he knew he had succeeded. He streaked in between the stable and the corner building, making for the front walk. When he got there, it was dark, for the old man had taken the lantern back with him on the run to the fight. Jim strolled through the archway to the row of nails where the bridles hung, helped himself to one, and went back the way he came.
