Wolves of the Chaparral

by Paul Evan Lehman

  Chet Lewis was the victim of but a single emotion: fear; stark, frantic fear. In his craven mind he was convinced that his part in the affair was known. It would be but a matter of minutes before those two hellions, Nip and Tuck, would seek him out and demand an accounting. Steve Moley was passing his table on his way to the door, and Chet clutched at his coat with desperate fingers, halting him and drawing him down into a chair.

  “Steve, you heard what Ike said? Barry knows it was me that slugged him. He’ll kill me sure!”

  Moley’s lips curved scornfully. “Don’t be a fool. He’s in no shape to kill anybody.”

  “He’ll tell them two hands of his and they’ll jump me. Steve, what’ll I do?”

  “Why ask me? It’s your funeral.”

  “It ain’t! You were in it too; you put me up to it!”

  Steve surveyed him coldly. “You’re crazy. Everybody knows he quirted you. You turned him over to Tug to get even.”

  “But—but—”

  Steve got up. “See a lawyer,” he sneered, and walked away.

  Chet was completely overwhelmed by the immensity of the catastrophe. Steve had deserted him, and folks would believe exactly what Steve said they would. Try as he might to shift the blame, the fact remained that it was he who had delivered Barry Weston into the hands of the outlaw. He got up and hurried into the friendly darkness lest Nip and Tuck find him there.

  For a moment he stood peering about him helplessly. Steve had said to see a lawyer. A sudden inspiration seized him; he’d go to Horace Moley and tell him the whole story. After all, Horace was Steve’s father.

  Moley received him in faded dressing gown and carpet slippers, and led him into the living room. “What do you want?” he asked curtly.

  Chet told him, the words tumbling over each other in his excitement. It was Steve’s fault. Steve had asked him to do it. And he had carried out his part of the agreement. He thought they were going to take Barry away and warn him never to return; instead they had shot him, and he, Chet Lewis, was an accomplice. But so was Steve; Steve—

  Horace cut him short. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Why—why seein’ as you’re Steve’s father, I thought—”

  “Blackmail, eh?”

  “No! No! I don’t want money. All I want is to know how to git out of this. You’re a lawyer; you can tell me what to do.”

  “But you could use some money, couldn’t you?” Moley’s voice had softened, and his eyes were narrowed calculatingly. An idea had just occurred to him.

  “Why—why, yeah, Horace; a fella can always use money. ’Specially since I’ll have to skip out of Mescal. But I—”

  “I will give you one thousand dollars. Get as far away from Mescal as you can, and stay away.” He unlocked a small safe and took out some bills which he counted and handed to the wide-eyed Chet. “I’ll draw up a demand note for you to sign; if you come back I’ll use it to put the fear of the Lord into you.”

  Within the next quarter of an hour Lewis was riding away from town. Steve saw him come from his father’s house, and questioned Horace about it as soon as he was admitted.

  “What did you do with that weak-kneed sister?”

  Horace told him.

  “You’re crazy to throw away the money. He ain’t worth it.”

  “The Flying W is,” purred his father. “Don’t forget the note, Stevie. It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on as far as he is concerned, but his wife has a peculiar sense of honesty. I’m quite sure she’ll honor it.”

  “A thousand bucks won’t break the Flyin’ W.”

  The old wolf chuckled. “We shall see, Stevie.” As ever, he was reticent regarding his plans. “At any rate it will serve to keep Lewis out of the way.”

  “There are a lot of others we’ll have to put out of the way if we want to dodge trouble after we get control.”

  “Not too many,” said the lawyer complacently. “The only ones to be eliminated are those who can connect our acquisition of the property with any—ah—irregular methods we may have used to acquire it. You and I, Stevie, are the only two who know about the big secret. The others are puppets, dancing when I pull the strings. Ike W etmiller knows about the rustling, but he thinks you were behind that, and he can’t talk without implicating himself. Hop Finch and Pug Parsons know that Clay Dawn was robbed; but that, too, was your affair. Sam Hodge knows nothing except that it is my money which keeps him in the sheriff’s office. Frothingham will have his nest nicely feathered, and besides—well, he won’t talk. But Tug Groody knows that I initiated the rustling scheme, and that means Tug must go.”

  “He’ll be a tough one to get rid of.”

  Horace grinned at him. “We shall see, Stevie; we shall see.”

  “Dang you! Why don’t you talk plain?”

  “I enjoy my little surprises. You must humor me.”

  “How about Barry Weston?”

  “Guesses a lot, perhaps, but knows nothing.”

  “He’s dangerous just the same, and he’s clanged hard to kill.” Steve made a sudden impatient gesture. “The whole thing’s gettin’ too complicated for me. If you’d loosen up I’d know what you are aimin’ at. I tell you I’m gettin’ the willies. With all that stuff just within reach and us not darin’ to touch it!”

  “Easy does it, Stevie. You like to gamble; you’ve learned by this time that when you hold good cards you mustn’t let your face or your actions betray you. You play them close to your chest. This, too, is a game; only the stakes run into the millions. Think of it, Stevie—millions; millions!” His wolflike face was aquiver with avarice, his lean form trembled.

  The fever communicated itself to Steve. He spoke through dry lips.

  “Yeah, millions! Oh, I know we’ve got to play it careful; but when I think that somebody might stumble on the thing, I start to shake. How much longer do we have to wait?”

  “At least a couple months. We must take care of the Cinchbuckle; Matt Billings and Harry Webb and Jeff Hope must have time to spend the money they borrowed from Frothingham. The Cinchbuckle is our keenest problem. Get to work on Clay Dawn. He’s in for three thousand. When he is drunk he talks. Work on him. Find out if you can where Clement is hiding.”

  Steve got up, his lips tight. “He’s waitin’ for me at the Palace now. He’s lost so much that he has to win right soon or go to Barbara with the whole story. He keeps tellin’ Frothingham he’s puttin’ the money in the Cinchbuckle.”

  Horace went to the door with him. “Play them close to the chest, Stevie. It won’t be long now. We’ll soon be in a position where we can have anything we want—gratify every wish, every ambition.”

  The lawyer had another visitor that night. He came about two in the morning, when even the Palace was dark save for the poker room where Clay Dawn was being scientifically stripped of his borrowed cash. Horace awoke to a scraping noise on the window pane. Without lighting a lamp, he found his way to the kitchen door and unbarred it. A man stepped· through the opening, his form looming large against the starlight. Horace closed the door and turned.

  “Well?”

  “We ain’t run nothin’ off for a month,” said Tug Groody. “The boys are startin’ to kick.”

  “Let them kick.”

  “Can’t afford to. Horace, I got a nice little bunch of fellers together. I sure would hate to see them split up. And to keep ’em together I got to find work for them to do.”

  “Barry Weston got wise to our game; we can’t risk it again.”

  “Lots of other ways, Horace; we don’t have to depend on Wetmiller or the Slash B.”

  “Tug, if you rustle another cow, you’ll do it on your own responsibility. I can’t afford to be associated with you; it’s too dangerous.”

  “I aim to go ahead alone then. I ain’t never told nobody that you was behind the thing, and the boys are wonderin’ if I got cold feet.”

  Moley’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t told them, eh?”

  “No. Why sh
ould I give you credit for runnin’ the show when I can keep it myself?”

  “You’re quite right. Naturally it would help keep your men in line. Well, if you’re determined to go ahead, there’s nothing I can do about it; but it must be entirely on your own responsibility.”

  “You’ll keep Sam Hodge off’n us?”

  “Unless you go too far. Sam has this election to think of.”

  “I know. I’ll run it careful. I’ve built up a nice little business, and I’d hate to see it git away from me. So long, Horace.”

  For some time Moley lay in bed looking at the dark ceiling above him. Tug had not told; nobody but Tug knew that Moley had been behind the rustling. It simplified things greatly. That bold stroke which was to land Sam Hodge in office for another term was shaping up nicely.

  Once again his slumber was disturbed. At four o’clock there came a thumping on the front door. Horace opened it to admit Steve. Before he could reproach his son for arousing him, young Moley was speaking.

  “I got what I was fishin’ for! Clay passed out; it’s gettin’ to be a habit with him. I wanted to work on him some more, so I took him to the hotel and put him to bed. He started mumblin’ in his sleep, somethin’ about what Clement would say if he knew how much money he’d lost. I talked back to him, and he answered me. Then I got a hunch. I said, ‘Clay, this is Barry Weston. I want to get in touch with Clement; where is he?’ For a minute he didn’t answer, and I sure thought I was out of luck; then, right sudden, he sat up in bed. ‘Clem ain’t in jail,’ he shouted. ‘He’s safe; safe in Cheyenne.’ Then he flopped back on the bed and took to snorin’.”

  Horace was as excited as his son. “Cheyenne, eh? That’s in Wyoming. I wonder if we can depend on that.”

  “Why should he pick out that town unless Clement was there? I tell you it’s a safe bet.”

  Moley made his decision quickly. “Get in touch with Sam Hodge the first thing in the morning. Tell him to be at my office at nine o’clock, ready to ride. And tell him to keep his mouth shut.”

  At the Cinchbuckle the stillness of death was in the air. The bunkhouse was silent, not because of any respect for the man who lay so desperately ill in the rambling building a stone’s throw away, but because the members of the crew had long since retired. A light burned in the room that had been Clement’s, and on the bed lay a figure very still and white and helpless.

  On one side sat Barbara Dawn; on the other, Lola. The Mexican girl was holding one of Barry’s hands between her small brown ones, and her burning gaze was fixed on his face with an intensity which seemed designed to draw him back from the brink upon which his spirit tottered. Lola’s face was haggard, and the little lines which loose living had etched on her olive skin were intensified by the strain; yet in that moment the watching Barbara thought her beautiful. The boisterous, brazen dance-hall girl was gone; the woman of the world had become the Madonna. Lola, whose habit had been to laugh at love, had ironically become its victim.

  Barbara experienced a little stir of resentment, resentment which was quickly tempered with pity. The poor girl had not slept for forty-eight hours; she had ridden hard and fast, first to lead Nip and Tuck to Barry’s assistance, then to the Cinchbuckle and to Mescal for the doctor, and again to the south hills and back. But for her Barry would not be here now.

  She got up softly and went around the foot of the bed. Lola did not appear to have noticed her. Gently she placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “You are tired out, dear; you must rest. Go into my room and lie down; I will stay with him.”

  Lola shook her black head jerkily. “No. I mus’ stay. You go.”

  Barbara persisted. “There are other nights ahead of us, and days too. One of us must be fresh and ready to take up where the other leaves off. Go and get a little sleep, Lola. Please.”

  Reluctantly Lola removed her gaze from Barry’s face, turned her somber dark eyes on the girl who stood by her. She smiled wanly.

  “You are ver’ good; but I could not sleep. You go. W’en the morning she ees come, I weel geev heem to you.” The smile became slightly bitter. “Me, I’m use’ to sleep in the day tam.”

  So Barbara went; but she was too restless and disturbed to sleep. After tossing about for half an hour she got up, slipped into kimona and bedroom slippers, and tiptoed softly down the hall to the open doorway. There she stopped. Lola had bent her head over Barry’s lax hand. Her cheek was pressed against the firm skin and she was crying softly. Barbara could see the tears glistening where they had fallen on his wrist. She turned quietly away, her own eyes misty. The resentment flared up within her again. What right had this girl to usurp a place which she felt to be hers?

  She stole into her room and dropped to the edge of the bed. For a long while she stared through the open window at the starlit sky, and her thoughts, strangely enough, were on the days when she had been a tom-boyish girl of sixteen and Barry a gangly lad of nineteen. She remembered again that night when she sat on the gallery with Steve Moley. She knew now why Barry had fought with Steve that night. It had been to protect her good name. And now, after five years he had come back to fight for her again. And she had received him coldly, had repulsed his efforts to aid her.

  She slipped to her knees, her clasped hands resting on the window sill. “Oh, God,” she earnestly prayed, “be good to him. Let him live.”

  Much comforted, she got into bed and, after a while, slept.

  Promptly at nine that morning, Sam Hodge entered Horace Moley’s office. At three minutes past nine he emerged, a warrant tucked into an inside pocket. Riding a strong chestnut gelding, and driving a pack horse before him, he started for Cheyenne and Clement Dawn.

  CHAPTER XII

  SAM’S BOLD STROKE

  AS though Barry’s critical injury and dramatic rescue were the signal for a temporary cessation of activity, a period of comparative quiet descended upon the Basin. The seventh son of a seventh son might have read in this peaceful interlude the calm which precedes the storm, but none in the Basin were given to prophecy.

  There were a number of good reasons for this stagnation, the chief one being that a certain passage of time was necessary to the culmination of Horace Moley’s plans. Matt Billings, endowed with new enthusiasm, was carefully investing his ten thousand in improvements to his spread. Harry Webb and Jefferson Hope were equally industrious, and in addition were spending quite a sum in behalf of their candidate for sheriff. They used their borrowed money cheerfully, convinced that they could prosper only by placing in office a sheriff who would protect their herds.

  Tug Groody was at large again, rustling indiscriminately from all the Basin spreads. Not even did he spare the Slash B, and Steve complained bitterly to his father against this deflection of their onetime ally. The elder Moley had rubbed his hands and smiled as though entirely satisfied.

  “Let him go, Stevie. His robbing of the Slash B will do much to kill any suspicion that he might have worked for us. There is a saying somewhere about furnishing a man rope in order that he may eventually hang himself. Let Tug have all the hemp he wants.”

  With this Steve had to be content; but he knew his father well enough to realize that the old lobo had something up his sleeve which he would in his own time and manner divulge.

  Sam Hodge had departed suddenly and nobody seemed to know his destination. Somehow the impression grew and spread that he was on a still hunt for Tug Groody, a rumor which Horace Moley carefully fostered. Even the deputy whom Sam had left in charge was ignorant of his whereabouts. He answered inquiries with a knowing wink, which merely added weight to the conclusion already formed. The days rolled by into a month, the month into two, and still there was no word from Sam. Folks endured the rustling phlegmatically in the belief that Sam was stalking his man. They expected him to strike at any moment.

  Barry Weston, meanwhile, lay for days in Clement’s bed at the Cinchbuckle, weak, delirious, despaired of at times by the doctor who attended him. Only the skillful minis
trations of his two nurses kept him from slipping across the Great Divide. One of them was with him constantly. Nip and Tuck alternated in helping them and caring for Barry’s mother.

  The strain told on both girls, but their energy never flagged; they drew him from the brink time and time again seemingly by their very determination to save him. Lola had become quiet and subdued, and she seemed never to tire. Barbara, every bit as earnest, nevertheless came to accept the Mexican girl as her pattern. When she found herself on the verge of collapse, a glance at Lola through the bedroom doorway invariably gave her the strength to continue. For hours the dance-hall girl would sit patiently by Barry’s side, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, crooning to him in Spanish or singing a quaint little Mexican lullaby to soothe him.

  On one of these occasions Barbara heard a soft step at her side and turned her head to see the cowboy, Nip. He met her gaze with a wan smile, but the look in his eyes haunted her for many a day. Nip loved the Mexican girl with the whole big heart of him, but never before had he permitted Barbara to see it. She pressed his arm sympathetically as she passed behind him.

  The break, when it came, came suddenly. Barry opened his eyes and asked what time it was. Lola was with him, and as she read sanity in his gaze her whole face lighted, the little lines magically faded, and she smiled that soft smile of hers.

  “Ees five by the clock,” she told him; then, “Oh, Bar-ree! Eet ’as been so long!”

  “So long?” He seemed puzzled.

  “Yes. For nearly the mont’ you ’ave lay ’ere in the Cinchbuckle, so seek, so week! Some tam we theenk you mus’ die.”

  “A month?” His voice was wondering. “At the Cinchbuckle ? Where’s Barbara?”

  The light went out of her eyes, the animation left her face, the little lines came back intensified. She got to her feet.

  “I weel sen’ her.” Lola’s voice sounded suddenly dead.

  “But—Lola!”

  In an instant she was smiling again. “We weel talk later, you an’ me. Now I mus’ run and tell Barbara. She weel be so glad to know you are get well.”