The High Graders

by Louis L'Amour

If Ben Stowe had discovered Rupert’s plans, he must also know that Laine Tennison owned the mines. She had to have somewhere to hide, some place where she would not be found. And in her need she had thought of Mike Shevlin’s room in the Nevada House.

  He would not be there, but she knew he had kept the room, for he was often in town. This time, as before, she went to the back of the hotel and went up the outside stairs to the second floor.

  The hall was empty. She went along it swiftly, praying his door would be unlocked. It was, and she stepped inside quickly. At the same moment she felt the sharp prod of a gun in her ribs.

  “Mike?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “What’s happened?”

  As rapidly as she could, she explained what had taken place, from the meeting at the house until now.

  “There wasn’t a chance for them to carry it out, Mike. I don’t believe Rupert had even talked to Mr. Hoyt. I was going to tell you about it when I rode out to the claim, but you were gone, and I couldn’t resist looking into t tunnel. And then Ben Stowe was there, and when I saw you I couldn’t think of anything but getting him out of there.”

  “Did you see anybody else? Anybody outside or inside the mine?”

  “No ... no one at all.”

  He scarcely realized what she said, for he was thinking of Ben Stowe, wondering what Stowe would do. Now that he knew who would be against him, would he kill them all? But then, how could the disappearance of several prominent citizens be explained? Or would he just hold them, try to put the fear of death into them, then let them go?

  Shevlin’s every sense told him that Ben Stowe was riding the rim right now. He had killed, and killed more than once. He had gotten away with it, and with his success had come that sense of power that comes to such men, the feeling that they can go on killing and remain immune. In such men, the ego grew and grew, until they rode rough-shod over every obstacle.

  Yet Stowe had always been a coldly cautious man. There had never been anything of the reckless, heedless, hell-for-leather cowhand in him. How much had his character changed?

  “Laine, you’ve got to hide,” Shevlin said now. “You’ve got to stay out of sight, and this is the best place I can think of. There’s some grub in my duffel—it isn’t much, but your best bet is to stay right here where they won’t dream of hunting you.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m taking the gold out, Laine. Ben Stowe offered me a deal— he offered me Gentry’s piece of the operation.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “That could mean a lot, couldn’t it?”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Yes,” he agreed, “it could mean a lot. He’ll try to kill me; in fact, he will probably try before I reach the end of the trip, or at any rate, just after I do; but if I can stay with it, I could come out of it a rich man. The only thing is, it wouldn’t give me what I want most.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You.”

  She made no effort to draw away from him, no effort to escape his hands. She just looked up at him, her eyes cool and almost appraising.

  He had thought of her, too often, these past few days and had called himself a fool for thinking what he did. He had told himself over and over that he would never have the nerve to say anything to her; but now here it was, and he had said it, and she was not laughing at him. That was something, at least.

  “Mike,” she was saying, “how are you going to manage it?”

  “I’m going out with them. I’m going to take that gold out, and somehow or other I’ve got to stay alive and keep that gold for you. Right now everything hinges on it.”

  “Mike, I’m afraid.”

  “You just wait here. I’ll be back. If Ben Stowe doesn’t have that gold, he doesn’t have anything. He can’t buy the mine, he can’t pay off his men; everything will fall apart for him and for Clagg Merriam too. Merriam’s mortgaged everything to put up the money to buy the gold.”

  “They will fight.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then be careful. You’ll be all alone, Mike.”

  He looked at her and smiled, a little wistfully. “When haven’t I been alone?” he said.

  “Wasn’t there ever anybody, anybody at all?”

  “No ... not really. Maybe that was why I kept moving. It’s easier to be alone if you keep moving, because it seems natural not to know people or be close to anybody in strange country.”

  “Mike,” she pleaded, “please don’t go. Let’s just ride away from here. We can go to the capitol and talk to the governor, then let him investigate.”

  “Laine, by that time they’d have your gold out of here and everything covered up. You might get Ben Stowe out of his job and take the mines back, but you can be sure he’d dynamite the approaches to the high-grade, so that you might spend all you have, just looking for it—at least he’d try.”

  Mike Shevlin hesitated, and then he said, “Laine, I came here to find out the truth about Eli Patterson, to clear his name, and to put the man who killed him where he should be— in prison.”

  “You’d not kill him?”

  “Not unless he pushed it on me. The law is coming to this country, and the sooner the better. Men can’t live without law, and each of us should do his part to help the men who enforce it. After all, they are our servants, and without them we’d live in anarchy. Take it from me, because I’ve seen it both ways.”

  At the door he paused. “Keep that gun close by, and don’t answer the door if anybody knocks.”

  He went out, and the door closed behind him. He was gone from the hall before she realized she had forgotten to bring her gun with her.

  She propped a chair under the doorknob, then she sat down on the bed, and took off her shoes.

  She must make no noise. It would not do to have anyone wondering who was in Mike Shevlin’s room after he had gone out.

  It was no use to worry about Dottie Clagg, either. Dottie would be frightened, and worried sick, but if Laine went back to the doctor’s house she would only bring more trouble with her. She must trust in Shevlin, and wait.

  She considered Shevlin. Although almost nothing personal had passed between them, a feeling existed that needed no words. From the first, she had been drawn to him. Lean and savage as he was, there was an odd gentleness in him, too, and a curious respect for her.

  She tried to recall everything Uncle Eli had said about him, and thinking of this, she lay back on the bed. She did not see the knob turn slowly, did not hear the slight creak as pressure was put on the door to open it.

  The chair under the knob remained firm, and the person outside the door ceased trying. Had she been awake, she might have heard his breathing, might have heard the soft creak of the floor boards as he retreated down the hall. But she was fast asleep.

  Chapter 18

  RAFTER CROSSING crouched in the darkness like a waiting cat. And like a waiting cat, its eyes missed nothing—or almost nothing. Mike Shevlin, refreshed after only three hours of sleep, walked toward the lighted window of Ben Stowe’s office. Around him there was a rustle of movement in the night—notothing a man could actually hear if he stopped to listen, but something of which he would be keenly aware.

  Ben Stowe looked up when the door opened, and his eyes became wary when he recognized Mike Shevlin.

  Mike leaned his big fists on the table. “Ben,” he said, “I’ll move your gold if you have it ready before daybreak.”

  Stowe rolled his cigar in his mouth while he took a minute to consider what this might mean. What had happened to settle Shevlin’s mind so quickly? Could he have heard of the seizure of Doc Clagg and his party? That was unlikely because, as Stowe happened to know, Shevlin had gone to his hotel and had not left it until now.

  “Look at it this way, Ben,” Mike continued. “If Hollister is still around, he will have spies in town. I’ve a hunch they won’t suspect me, but if we start now we can get into safe country before Hollister can get word and start moving.�
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  “That’s likely,” Ben agreed. He sat back in his chair and looked up at Shevlin. “Have you got any men you want to take along?”

  “No, that’s your play. I’ll ramrod the job, you furnish the men. Let’s face it, Ben. With Gentry gone, I don’t have a friend in the country. I’ll take my cut from this deal and ride out.”

  “All right, Mike. You be at the mouth of Parry’s canyon an hour from now. The gold will be there.”

  “I’ll want pack mules—thirty or forty of them. That much gold, at present prices, will weigh a ton.”

  “Any special reason for mules rather than a wagon?”

  “They’ll be looking for a wagon, and I can take mules where no wagon could go.” Shevlin lowered his voice. “I’m going over the ridge, Ben.”

  “You’re crazy! There’s no trail.”

  “Ben, I punched cows all over this country, much more than you ever did, and I know a trail that even Ray Hollister won’t know.”

  “All right.”

  Ben pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Don’t try anything, Mike. I need you, but I don’t trust you. You go along with me, and you’ll be in at the payoff. But try a double-cross, and you won’t live twenty-four hours.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Ben. Where else could I get that kind of money?”

  Shevlin walked to the door, then turned. “By the way, Ben, who is Burt Parry? Is he your man?”

  “Parry? Just an eastern pilgrim who thinks he knows mining.” Suddenly Ben Stowe read something else into the question. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondered, that’s all. That claim where he had me working ... there isn’t a sign of mineral over there, and I don’t think there ever was.”

  When Mike Shevlin had gone, Stowe sat very still for a long time. He smoked his cigar for a while, then let it go out, and chewed for a while longer on the dead butt.

  Burt Parry had seemed so much what he was supposed to be that after a few days of doubt, Stowe had largely ignored him. From time to time he heard that Parry was having a drink with Clagg Merriam, but it seemed of no importance. Clagg had lived much of his life in the East, and Parry was an easterner, so what was more natural than some casual talk between them? But suppose it was more than that? Suppose Parry had been imported by Merriam? Imported for a specific job—to watch over the gold, and perhaps to handle another task later?

  Stowe realized now that his contempt for Merriam had blinded him to the depths that might lie within the man. He had been so sure that he was using Merriam, that he had not considered the other side of the coin. Suppose Clagg Merriam had been using him?

  He, Ben Stowe, was operator of the mines ... yes. But if suddenly the operation was taken out of his hands, if the governor suddenly sent a corps of investigators into the area, he alone would be sitting in a vulnerable position.

  True, Clagg Merriam stood to lose all he possessed if anything went wrong, but Merriam might have some ace-in-the-hole of which Stowe was unaware. And Merriam had been smart enough to plant Burt Parry in a worthless claim where he could watch the gold cache.

  Ben Stowe considered his long-range plan for removing Gentry, and then using Clagg Merriam and his share of the gold as a means to establishing himself on a respectable footing in Rafter, and in the state. Folks didn’t look to see how a man came by money, he told himself; they only looked to see if he had it. But he could not feel easy now.

  He got up and paced the room, muttering to himself. With a thick finger he reached up and ripped open his shirt collar—the thing seemed to be choking him. Maybe he was playing the fool, with his ideas of respectability. How long could he make it stick without blowing up? He’d be better off to take the half-million and run. Why be greedy?

  His eyes narrowed with thought, and he stared at the flame of the coal-oil lamp. Well, why not do it that way?

  The gold train would be going over the mountain to Tappan Junction. At the Junction a railroad car was already spotted to receive it, a car that was supposed to be loaded with hides, and was, in fact, partly loaded with them.

  Mike Shevlin could take the gold across the mountain if anybody could, and arrangements had already been made on the other side. Stowe had received word that his men were waiting at the Junction. The car was routed right through to the East, where the gold could most easily be disposed of ... or enough of it, at any rate.

  Stowe had taken eastern trips before, so no one would be surprised when he took the stage out of town for the railroad, carrying only one bag.

  They would all see he was taking nothing with him, and they’d never believe he was cutting out. The more he thought of it, the better he liked the idea. The gold would reach the Junction about the same time he did, and there was never anybody at the Junction but the telegraph operator, or some passing cowhand who stopped by to pick up the news.

  He considered the matter with care. He would write a letter of resignation to leave behind, attributing his leave-taking to the unsettled conditions, the unfortunate slaying of Eve Bancroft, and the accompanying events. That way they would have nothing on him, nothing at all. The charges down in the mine would be set off, the drifts that led into the stopes where the high-grade had been mined could be shot down, and all they could ever accuse him of would be quitting his job.

  The more he thought of it, the better he liked it. He would have half a million dollars, and nobody the wiser. There were, of course, a few details to be taken care of.

  He called in the men he needed and gave the necessary orders, and after that he went through his desk; all the while he was thinking of Burt Parry. The more he considered the situation, the surer he became that Parry had been posted to watch the gold; and no doubt he was still there, or somewhere close by.

  Then his thoughts shifted to Clagg Merriam. What could he do about him? Even if Parry was eliminated in one way or another, Merriam would be aware within a few days that the gold had been removed, and he would raise hell.

  Yet what could he do? To start any legal action would be to reveal his own part in the swindle; and Merriam was not the type to kill. Not, at least, the type to cope with Ben Stowe. So the thing to do about Merriam was simply to do nothing. Let Merriam do whatever he wished, and then Stowe would do what was necessary.

  He checked his gun, thrust another into his waist band and shouldered into his coat. It was clouding up again, and looked like rain ... so much the better. Fewer people would be riding out on a rainy night, fewer people who might see a train of mules starting over the mountain toward the Junction.

  The street was empty when he went out. He stood for a moment, collar turned up against the wind, and then he crossed the street toward the livery stable. Once, on the far side of the street, he turned and looked back toward the lights of the mine. He grinned wryly. “To hell with it!” he said aloud.

  Suddenly he felt free; he felt relieved, as if he had dropped a great burden.

  There had been no movement in the shadows up the street, and he had seen no one. But he himself had been seen.

  Jess Winkler was too canny an old hunter to reveal himself, and he held still in the shadows, his cold eyes watching Ben Stowe. And suddenly, as surely as if he had been told, Winkler knew: Ben Stowe was cashing in. He was checking out of the game, out of the town, and out of the country.

  After a few minutes Winkler went to his own horse and followed Stowe at a discreet distance. At the mouth of Parry’s canyon, Stowe turned in.

  “By the Lord Harry,” Winkler muttered, “Ray was right! He’s goin’ to move that gold.”

  Behind a low sandhill, under cover of greasewood that topped it, Winkler hunkered down to wait and watch. Scarcely an hour had gone by when the first of the mules appeared. Winkler counted forty, some of them probably carrying the grub and outfit for the guards.

  He watched them trail off across the country, keeping just off the main trail. He counted nine men in the party, and Ben Stowe was not one of them. But Mike Shevlin was.


  “I’d rather it had been Ben,” Winkler said to himself.

  He watched them for several more minutes, then went to his horse and rode wide around and headed for Hollister’s camp.

  In the first gray light of day, when only an arrow of red had found the clouds above, Mike Shevlin drew up and waved the first man by, with the mules following. He waved them into an opening among the enormous tumbled boulders that were piled all around. The rider hesitated, and started to speak.

  “Go ahead,” Shevlin said shortly. “You can’t miss it.”

  Shevlin tugged his sombrero a little lower on his head and swore softly. The dust had settled around his shirt collar and his neck itched from dust and sweat. He was playing it by ear ... he had no real plan—just a vague, half-formed idea that seemed to be taking shape in the back of his mind.

  He knew none of these men, although two were the men he had seen inside the mine; but he knew the breed. It was a breed of tough men, men hired for their guns, or for their willingness to use violence, men working here today, and five hundred miles from here next week or the week after. Their bodies lie in many an arroyo, in unmarked boot-hill graves, or churned into mud on the grasslands of Kansas or the Indian Territory.

  Some of them were good men, good in the sense of courage and physical ability, but for the most part they were men who sought what they thought of as easy money, although it rarely was. They earned three times as much as the average cowhand, and as a rule they lived a third as long.

  He knew their kind, for in a sense he was one of them. The difference was that he had chosen to ride on the side of the law—and when you came down to it, that was quite a difference.

  He had deeply ingrained within him a respect for the law, and the need for it. He knew that otherwise life would be a jungle, and he knew, too, that many of those who made out to despise the law the most, found themselves wishing for its protection.

  He watched them go by, counting off the burro-loads as they passed, and checking off the men too. Not one familiar face among them, and he had hoped to find at least one. After all, the West wasn’t that big ... not as far as population went, and he had ridden a lot of trails. Had he found one man who knew him, he might well have found an ally, and he desperately needed one.