The High Graders

by Louis L'Amour

  There comes a time for a man to draw a line, and Mike Shevlin had drawn his, and he had ridden away from Rafter, from Gib Gentry, Ben Stowe, and all the rest of them. And now he had come back to a changed town. The old, easy friendship was gone. The hospitality of the West was no longer here. This town was alive with fear, with suspicion, and with hatred, and he, of all people, would find no welcome.

  For surely every man here, and every woman too, was his enemy. What he had been asked to do and what he wished to do were bound together. If he found the man who had killed Eli Patterson, he would also expose the plot to high-grade gold; and if he did that the prosperity of this town would end.

  What was right, and what was just? Had he the right to come into th place and shatter its prosperity? Here people dressed better, lived better, had better houses than in other such towns. There was more money spent over the bars, more money in the stores; but with the prosperity there would be, for some men, a sense of power. The leaders of all this, the men who created and planned it, had won acceptance of corruption, and now there was no limit to what they might ask and force the town to accept—or was there?

  There must be people here, good people, restless with what was happening, people who wanted to be free of fear. But he did not know these people, and had he known them he knew they would not trust him, not Mike Shevlin. What he did he must do alone. And now he stood there pondering on it.

  Across the street and down a few doors, a man stepped out to the edge of the walk and looked across at Shevlin. Mike knew that look, that attitude. The man was suspicious.

  To be a stranger in this town, an unaccounted-for stranger, was enough to excite fear. Mike Shevlin’s every instinct warned him he was in danger, danger increasing with every minute. These people had been parties to theft and had turned their eyes from murder ... and they would turn their eyes from another.

  There were too many pairs of new boots, too many expensive saddles here; too many men had ivory- or pearl-handled guns. Somebody had been shrewd enough to let a whole community get its fingers sticky. By simply looking the other way while the miners high-graded a little gold, the men who operated the mines had made the townspeople accomplices to their own theft.

  Each buyer of high-grade, each tradesman who accepted it over a counter, took a portion of profit from the transaction, and because it was known by all to be stolen gold, they took a higher profit than usual.

  Eli Patterson and Jack Moorman were dead, and they were men Mike Shevlin had respected. Each in his way had been kind to the lonely, half-starved boy who rode his crow-bait of a horse into town. Each in his own way had helped to make him a better man than he had any right to be. ... Some things Mike Shevlin had told no man.

  It was true he had worked with his uncle on a mining claim, but it was a miserable claim that made them a living, no more. And then there had come the day when the roof caved in, burying his uncle under the mountain.

  The boy who was Mike Shevlin had walked away, leading his horse down the mountain because it was in bad shape to carry him over the rough terrain. The mine tunnel was a fitting grave for his uncle, and he lay buried there with the hopes he had never quite lost.

  Of his father, Mike had never talked. He had been killed out on the plains by men who found him selling whiskey to Indians. His mother had died a few years later in a miserable shack on the edge of town, a far-away cow town. But she had taught him a few things: to make his own way in the world; to accept nothing he had not earned.

  That had been little enough on which to build a life until, after leaving his uncle’s claim, he had come to Rafter and met Eli Patterson, and afterwards Jack Moorman. Instinctively he honored these men who stood staunchly by what they believed. The thought of these men was in his mind now.

  The Bon-Ton Restaurant, just down the street, was still Open. Mike crossed over and went down the walk. Opening the door of the restaurant, he stepped inside.

  The coal-oil lamps with reflectors behind them filled the room with light. There were several unoccupied small tables, and two long tables covered with white cloths, for family-style meals. A sideboard covered with glasses and stacks of plates stood against the wall; on its right a door opened to the kitchen.

  Three men, apparently miners off shift, sat together at the end of the nearest table. At the far end of the other table sat two men, one in the rough clothes of the frontier, the other in a well-tailored dark gray suit.

  Shevlin dropped to a seat on the bench at the nearest table, admiring the smooth expanse of white linen. The last time he had eaten in this restaurant the tables were covered with oilcloth.

  The waitress brought him coffee, and over it he began to consider the situation. He must talk to Mason. He felt a curious reluctance to meet Gentry ... after all, the man had been his comrade, they had worked and fought side by side. Now he thought that Gentry might become his enemy, and he did not want that.

  But Gentry must be protecting somebody. If he had not killed Eli himself—and Brazos’ evidence implied he had not—he knew who had killed him.

  But why should Gentry go out on a limb to protect someone else? Who was that important to him? It was unlike Gentry to take credit for another man’s killing ... especially the killing of Eli Patterson.

  As Mike Shevlin drank his coffee, he looked at the two men at the other table. The man in the tailored suit looked familiar, but Mike’s attention was diverted by one of the miners at his own table. He was a stocky, red-headed man, who had been staring hard at Mike, trying to attract his eyes.

  “You’ve come to the wrong town,” the miner said suddenly; “we ran all the cattlemen out of here long ago.”

  Mike Shevlin smiled pleasantly. “I’m double-action—cattle or mines. I can swing a single-jack or double-jack as good as the next man.”

  “Where’d you ever work in the mines?”

  “All over the country. Silverton, Colorado ... down in the Cerbat Range in Arizona ... over at Pioche and Frisco.”

  “They’re full up here. Nobody hirin’.”

  “Doesn’t look like I’ll find a job, then, does it?” The redhead was trouble-hunting. The type and the pattern were familiar. There was one in every town, always trying to prove how tough he was ... sometimes there was more than one. And they were rarely the really hard cases. They had nothing to prove.

  Deliberately, Mike kept his tone mild. He understood the pattern and accepted it, but if Red wanted to push trouble he must do it on his own. He would get no trouble from Shevlin. There was trouble enough without that.

  At the other table the man in frontier clothes looked around. “If you’re a miner, I can use you,” he said. “I’m Burt Parry— I’ve got a claim in Cottonwood Canyon. If you’re serious about a job, meet me at six-thirty for breakfast here, and we’ll ride out.”

  Parry got up from the table. “I’ll have those figures for you, Mr. Merriam,” he said to the man in the gray suit. “I’ll have them tomorrow or the day after.”

  He paused by Shevlin’s table. “Tomorrow morning, six-thirty ... right?”

  “I’ll see you,” Shevlin said. “I’ll be here.”

  The waitress placed a dish of food before him, and he picked up his knife and fork. Merriam, the man had said. That would be Clagg Merriam. Mike had seen him only once or twice in the old days, for Merriam was often out of town. He was a bigger man than Mike remembered, with a strong face and a smile on his lips that did not reach to his eyes.

  The redhead moved down the table opposite Shevlin. “You didn’t tell him your name,” he said.

  “He didn’t ask,” Shevlin replied mildly.

  “Well, I’m asking.”

  “None of your damn’ business.” Shevlin spoke in such a gentle voice that it was a moment before the meaning got to the redhead.

  When he realized what had been said, Red smiled. He wiped his palms on the front of his shirt. Then he stood up very slowly, still smiling, and reached across the table to grasp the front of Shevlin’s shir
t.

  Shevlin dropped his knife and fork, and his left hand grasped Red’s wrist, jerking him forward. There was an empty dish on the table that had held mutton. With his right hand Shevlin pushed the miner’s face down into the dish and, gripping Red’s left hand, he coolly wiped his face around in the cold mutton grease.

  Abruptly, Shevlin let go and Red came up, half over the table and spluttering with fury. Shevlin jerked the butt of his palm up under the man’s chin and sent him toppling back over the bench to the floor beyond. During the entire action he had scarcely risen from his seat.

  For a second, Red lay stunned, then with an oath he started to rise. A voice stopped him.

  “Cut it out, Red! This time you’ve swung too wide a loop. This gent would clobber you good!”

  Shevlin looked around. There he was—older, of course, and heavier. Yes, and better dressed than Shevlin ever remembered him. His face was puffy, and he looked like a man who was living too well—something nobody could have said of the old Gentry.

  “Hello, Gib,” Mike said. “It’s been a while.”

  Gentry thrust out a big hand. “Mike! Mike Shevlin!” There was no mistaking the pleasure in Gentry’s voice. “Man, am I glad to see you!”

  Shevlin took the hand. It was all wrong, he thought. Whatever else Gentry might do, he would not kill a man like Eli. A tough man, Gentry was, even a cruel one at times, but a man who fought with fighting men.

  Shevlin was aware of the room’s attention. Clagg Merriam was watching them, his face unreadable. Red was slowly wiping the grease from his face.

  “Come down the street, Mike,” Gentry was saying, “and I’ll buy you a drink for old time’s sake.”

  Reluctantly, Shevlin got up from the table. The last thing he wanted was a drink. What he wanted was food and coffee, gallons of coffee.

  “The town’s changed,” Shevlin said tentatively as they emerged on the street. “I don’t see many of the old faces.”

  “Gone ... gone with the cattle business.”

  Shevlin waited until they had taken a few strides, and then he asked, “What happened to Ray Hollister?”

  Gentry’s smile vanished. “Ray? Got too big for his boots, Ray did. He left the country ... and just in time.”

  “He always did try to take big steps.”

  “Say!” There was obvious relief in Gentry’s tone. “I’d forgotten about the time you two tangled out at Rock Springs. You never did get along with him.”

  The thought seemed to please him. Gentry rested a big hand on Shevlin’s shoulder as they reached the door of the Gold Miner’s Daughter. Mike restrained his distaste. He had never liked to be touched, and had not cared for Gentry’s back-slapping good humor. To get to the point, he asked, “Are you ranching, Gib?”

  “Me?” Gentry opened the door, and went on speaking as they entered. “The cattle business is a thing of the past in this country. No, I’m in the freighting business. Hauling for the mines— supplies in, gold out, working twenty to thirty rigs all the time.”

  Mike saw no familiar faces in the saloon. Gentry lifted a hand and the bartender tossed him a bottle, which Gib caught deftly. Then the bartender tossed two shot glasses, which Gentry caught just as easily with the other hand. He had always been fast with his hands for a big man ... and fast with a gun.

  Gentry was in a genial, talkative mood, and Shevlin was willing to listen. A cowhand, Gentry told him, had struck gold on the old Rafter H while sinking a post hole. Without saying a word to anyone he had gone off to San Francisco and obtained financial backing, then returned and bought the Rafter H headquarters area.

  Polluted water from the mill flowed into the creek, spelling ruin for the Rafter H and the other cattle outfits. They fought, and among the casualties was the cowhand who had discovered the gold.

  “Mighty convenient, I figure,” Gentry commented, refilling his glass, “but it didn’t do anybody any good. Turned out he had sold his entire interest to that Frisco outfit. There was trouble a-plenty with Turkeytrack and Rafter, but nothing we couldn’t manage.”

  “We?”

  Gentry winked. “Now, Mike, you know ol’ Gib. I never let any grass grow under my feet, you know that, an’ there’s more money in gold than in cattle. The trouble started when I hired on as guard at the Sun Strike.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Shooting trouble, Mike. Ben Stowe was boss of the guards, an’ you know Ben. He knew where to pick up a few salty boys down in the Panhandle country, and after we’d buried two or three of the local boys that was the end of it.”

  Trust Ben Stowe to know who had to be killed. The backbone of any cow outfit lies in two or three fighting men whom the rest follow. Put them out of the picture, and the rest would be likely to lose heart. Mike Shevlin had seen it managed that way more than once, and had seen it tried at other times.

  “Gib, who is the law around here?”

  “You on the dodge?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Aw, you’ve nothing to worry about. You know how it is with the law in these western towns. The law is always local law, so busy skinning its own cats it hasn’t time to worry about anybody who doesn’t make trouble. You could shoot half a dozen men in Denver or Cheyenne, and nobody would bother you anywhere else as long as you stayed out of trouble. ... But the law here is Wilson Hoyt.”

  Wilson Hoyt, of all people! He was a burly bear of a man, broad and thick and muscular, but fast enough to have killed a man who had the drop on him. He was credited with seventeen killings, all on the side of the law. Of all the men who might be in this town, the one most likely to know about Mike Shevlin was Hoyt.

  Hollister, Gentry, and Mason only knew the boy who had ridden away, and ten years and more can deepen and widen a man, they can salt him down with toughness and wisdom. And Mike had been gone thirteen years. Of them all, Hoyt would understand him more than the others, and Hoyt had seen him looking at Eli’s grave and would know why he had come back.

  Gentry rambled on, taking a third drink while Mike was nursing his first. He talked about the good old days, and it came over Mike that Gentry still thought of him as a friend.

  “You got to hand it to Ray,” Gentry said confidentially. “He always wanted to be a big man, and when gold was discovered he grabbed at the chance.

  “He never came out in the open with it, and the cattle crowd never knew he’d thrown in with the other side. When trouble started—and I always figured his loud mouth caused it—Ray got in touch with the Frisco people and offered to handle negotiations with the ranchers. He and that shyster Evans called themselves a law firm, but you know Ben. When Hollister brought Ben into x he put a rope on trouble.

  “When a few of the miners started high-grading a little here and there, Ben argued Ray into looking the other way. But Ben, he said nothing to Ray about the setup he arranged for buying up the gold to keep it out of circulation.”

  “Where did Ben get that kind of money?”

  Gentry gave Mike another wink. “Now, that there is Ben’s own secret, but don’t you low-rate Ben. Buying up the high-grade kept the news from getting out that Sun Strike was big. They reported low averages from the mine, and nobody knew any different.”

  By this time Gentry was working on his fourth drink.

  “Smart—that was smart thinking,” Mike remarked.

  “You’re not just a-woofing,” Gentry said.

  Trust Eli not to go along with that, or Jack Moorman for that matter, for Jack had money invested in town business, and he owned Turkeytrack as well. So they had been killed.

  Had Ben Stowe realized that Eli Patterson was connected with the San Francisco owners? Shevlin’s guess was they had not known. Shevlin had known Eli better than any of them had, and he had never heard him make any reference to relatives or friends in San Francisco ... or anywhere else, for that matter. Eli had come west from Illinois, and when he talked it was about life back there.

  Mike was scarcely listening to Gentry now, and Gib had gon
e back to talking of the old days, reliving the rough, tough old days of branding, roundups, and cattle drives.

  “Remember the time a rattler scared that line-back dun of yours? He went right over the rim an’ I’ll be damned if you didn’t stay with him all the way to the river! If anybody had told me a man could ride a horse down that slope I’d have said he was loco.”

  Gentry was drunk ... it was possible that by morning he would have no memory of what he had told Shevlin, and Mike was sure that only the liquor—he had already had a few when they met— had made him talk as freely as he had. That— and something else Mike suddenly realized: Gib Gentry was lonesome.

  There was one other fact to consider. Gentry was in the freighting business, and when gold was moved he would do the moving, and there would be nobody to ask questions.

  If Ben Stowe had done the planning for this operation he had planned very shrewdly indeed. All the loose ends were nicely tucked in, and everything was under control—everything but Gib Gentry’s tongue when he’d had a few drinks. Did they know that?

  “What’s Burt Parry like?” Mike asked.

  “Aw, he’s all right. He’s got him a two-by-four claim over in the canyon. There’s nothing over there, but he sure ain’t willing to believe it.”

  Shevlin pushed back his chair and got up. “I’d better get some sleep.” For a moment he rested a hand on Gentry’s shoulder. “Good to see you, boy. You watch your step now.”

  “See you.” Gentry seemed about to say something more, but he only added, “So long, kid.”

  At six o’clock the next morning the man operating Eli’s old store was out sweeping the boardwalk. Mike Shevlin strolled inside and the man followed. Shevlin bought what digging clothes he would need, some candies, and a caplamp, and then said, “And four boxes of .44’s.”

  The storekeeper glanced up. “You expecting trouble?”

  “Man of peace, myself. Figured I’d be off up that canyon workin’ for Burt Parry and I’d have me some target practice. I never could hit the broad side of a barn.”