by Short, Luke;
But a slow examination of the room revealed nothing. That left the loft above the stalls.
Will put his lantern down, swung onto the loft ladder, and climbed it slowly. When he was at the top, he dived swiftly into the hay and waited. No sound. He came to his feet and slowly beat along the hay. He tramped every square foot of the small loft, knowing how easy it would be to hide in it. But there was nobody there.
He came down and stood in the middle of the barn, looking around him carefully. He had missed nothing, yet there was nobody there.
Taking the lantern, he stepped out into the alley. Milt was waiting there, gun drawn.
“Anybody come out, Milt?”
“No. I could have seen ’em,” Milt said.
The puncher, hearing voices, drifted around the corner. Will looked at him bleakly, suspicion slowly forming. The puncher was a middle-aged responsible-looking man, and Will was puzzled.
“He didn’t dodge out your side?” Will asked.
The puncher shook his head.
“He went in there,” Will said grimly. “I saw the door swinging. I heard him.”
The puncher looked at him sharply. “You must have been mistaken, mister, because he never come out.”
Will kept looking at him and, still keeping his gaze on the man, he said to Milt, “You say you didn’t see him come out, Milt?”
“He didn’t,” Milt said firmly. “I couldn’t have helped but see him, Will.”
“And you didn’t see anything?” he asked the puncher again.
The puncher said coldly, “No, I didn’t see anything. You think I’m lyin’?”
“That’s what I think,” Will said softly.
The two of them stared at each other, each with a gun in his hand. Will said, “You drop that gun, fella, and come along with me. Whoever got Chap Hale was a friend of yours, because you let him get away.”
“You go to hell,” the puncher said angrily. “I ain’t handing over my gun to you nor anybody else.”
The lantern was midway between the two men. His gun still at his side, Will started toward the puncher. The man kicked out the lantern, plunging them into immediate darkness. Will shot blindly, and the puncher shot. Will’s eyes were not yet washed clear of the lantern light, but he felt the bullet miss him by inches and heard it slam into the barn.
He heard the man running, and shot wildly again, moving after him.
Now he saw the man, and shot once more. The puncher dived behind a rain barrel set against the back of one of the buildings, and then he shot twice. His shots were close, and Will ducked in behind a shed on the other side of the alley.
He loaded his gun, calling, “Better give up, fella. I’m comin’ after you.”
The puncher yelled, “Go to hell!”
Will called, “Circle him, Milt.”
And Milt, from back by the barn, answered, “Here comes a bunch of men, Will. Be careful.”
Will took aim and sent three slugs slamming into the barrel. The sound of men running toward him made him turn his head. The man in the lead was carrying a lantern, and there must have been a dozen others behind him.
He came to a halt beside Will, flattened against the wall. Will could see the sheriff’s star on the man’s vest. “Over there behind the barrel,” Will said, jerking his head. “There’s the man you want.”
Sheriff Phipps called toward the puncher, “Throw your gun away and come out of there.” He was an old man, with a seamed face and a mustache the color of straw. His eyes were pale and tired-looking, but they were fearless. He handed the lantern to one of the other men and started for the barrel, gun in hand.
“That you, John?” the puncher called.
Sheriff Phipps stopped, and turned slowly to look at Will. “Hell, that’s Harry Mygrave.”
Will said, “I don’t care who he is, sheriff. He let Chap Hale’s killer escape.”
Phipps turned and said, “Come out, Harry.”
“You taken that damn maniac’s gun away from him?”
“Drop your gun,” Phipps said to Will.
Will drawled, “I reckon I’ll keep it.”
Phipps looked searchingly at him and then turned and called, “Keep your gun, Harry. But come out of there.”
Slowly the puncher rose from behind the barrel, gun in hand, and walked toward the sheriff.
Will walked slowly over to the pair of them, and the others trailed behind.
Phipps said to Will, “I’ve known Harry Mygrave for twenty years. There ain’t a crooked thing about him.”
“He let Chap’s killer go,” Will said stubbornly. “You aim to arrest him?”
Phipps turned to Mygrave. The puncher was really angry, now. His eyes flashed wickedly, and he was so mad his lips trembled.
“What happened, Harry?” Sheriff Phipps asked.
Harry told him. The three of them were attracted by the shot. They saw the killer flee. Will took after him, the other two following. He went into a barn. They surrounded it, the barn was searched, but the man wasn’t there.
“Who’s the third man?” the sheriff rapped out.
Milt stepped up. His face was pale, his eyes wary and careful in that dim lantern light.
“He’s my foreman,” Will said. “He’s new here. I don’t have to wonder about him. He didn’t know Hale and he doesn’t know a man in town.”
Sheriff Phipps regarded Milt briefly and then said to Will, “And you think Harry let him go?”
“He had to,” Will said stubbornly, his voice hard in anger. “I didn’t let him go. Milt didn’t. And he was in the barn!”
Harry said hotly, “Damn you, Chap Hale was a friend of mine, tool If anyone let him go, that ramrod of yours was the man!”
“You’re a liar!” Will said in cold wrath. “You were in with Chap’s killer!”
Harry Mygrave lunged for Will. Phipps grabbed him, and Will dived for Mygrave. A dozen men grabbed him, and Will fought blindly, trying to get at Mygrave. There was a babel of voices, some bitter cursing, and then Will bucked loose. He lunged at Mygrave, grappled with him, and they fell in the dust of the alley. A red, murdering rage flamed through Will. He wrapped his big hands around Mygrave’s throat and throttled him. He was aware of Mygrave bucking under him, and of a dozen men trying to tear his hands away. And then something smashed across his skull, and his muscles seemed turned to water.
When he came to, his arms were pinned by two men, and he could hear Sheriff Phipps’s wrathful voice saying, “—and stay out of town until he’s calmed down. You understand that, Harry?”
“I’ll kill him!” Harry said bitterly. “The damn murderin’ fool!”
Will was propelled down the alley, his steps dragging. He tried to shake his head but it wasn’t clear. He was aware of entering a room, a lighted room, and then he was hauled through it, a door was opened, and he was set on a cot. A dipper of ice-cold water slashed into his face, taking his breath away.
When he opened his eyes, still shaking his head, he was alone with Sheriff Phipps in a jail cell. Will looked around him and then up at Phipps’s face. The old man’s expression was of bleak anger.
“You’re goin’ to cool off,” Phipps said grimly. “I’m sorry I had to buffalo you, but you’d of killed Harry.”
“What am I in here for?” Will asked slowly.
“It’s an arrest, assault and battery. Maybe in the morning after you’ve cooled off a fine will make you see sense.”
Will came weakly to his feet, his anger returning. “And you’re lettin’ this Mygrave go?”
“Listen,” Phipps said in a hard voice. “I know Mygrave. I don’t know you. Mygrave is the straightest, most honest and peaceful man I’ve known in twenty years! You’re crazy-mad, that’s all, Danning.”
“But he let Chap’s killer go!” Will shouted.
“You’re wrong,” Phipps said flatly. “Either your man let him go, he sneaked out unbeknownst to anybody, or else he was never in there.”
“He was in there!”
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Phipps came over and pushed Will gently to a seat on the cot. “Listen, son,” he said, almost with gentleness. “I know how you feel. But you ain’t thinkin’ straight. Sleep on it, and then you’ll see how it could have happened.”
Will said nothing. He heard the cell door shut, and he put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. His head ached miserably, but he wasn’t mad any more. He was only puzzled. He was positive, dead-sure, that whoever it was he chased had gone into that barn. He was also dead-sure that when he looked through the barn the man wasn’t there. That left only Milt and this Harry Mygrave responsible for his escape. Milt was out; he couldn’t have been blind enough to miss seeing the man, and he wouldn’t let him go on purpose. No, it was Mygrave who did it. Yet he seemed a plain, decent sort of man, and the sheriff seemed honest enough, too. It didn’t make sense.
He heard the corridor door open and footsteps in the cell corridor and he looked up.
“Charlie Sommers!” he said in a low, amazed voice.
“Howdy, Will.” Charlie Sommers’s ruddy cheeks were as shiny as new apples. He was dressed in a black suit, and he extended his hand in friendly fashion, leaning on the bars.
Will rose and shook hands with him. “What are you doin’ here?”
“I had some business here. Come in tonight on the freight. I heard all the ruckus, and they told me it was Will Danning. Thought I’d look you up and see if I could help.”
Will sat down because his knees threatened to give way. But he wasn’t so exhausted he couldn’t realize the threat in Sommers’s presence. For Charlie Sommers was a deputy U. S. marshal, the man who had been delegated by the Commissioner and Marshal to work on the Murray Broome case. He wasn’t a brilliant man, but a more dogged one never lived. He was friendly, reasonable, implacable as an Indian, the best peace officer in the Territory. Will liked him—and feared him. His presence here now might be accident, or it might be a hunch. And Milt was in town.
All this flashed swiftly through Will’s mind as he sat down.
Sommers said, “Phipps is a good man, Will. They don’t come better. So is Mygrave, Phipps says, and I’ll take his word. You must have been mistaken.”
Will said, “What happened to Chap?”
“Nearest they can figure is that whoever killed him waited on the top landing. The old boy was coming upstairs, reached the landing, and was shot in the chest by someone on the landing. He fell downstairs, and his killer ducked out behind him.”
Will said bleakly, “Well, he was ready to die. But not that way, Charlie, not that way.”
Sommers nodded somberly. “I told Phipps about you. The judge will suspend the fine at the hearing tomorrow, and let you off with a scolding.”
“Thanks,” Will said.
Sommers grinned at him. “You know, Will, you got a real honin’ for trouble. I figured after you’d slugged that sheriff in the courtroom a couple months ago, you’d kind of learn to hold your temper.”
Will smiled faintly and shook his head.
Sommers said pleasantly, “Well, I’m still lookin’ for Murray Broome, Will. You ain’t ready to tell me where he is, are you?”
Will looked slowly at Sommers, who was grinning cheerfully. Will said wearily, “That’s an old joke, Charlie. I wish you’d forget it.”
Charlie Sommers said meagerly, “I don’t aim to forget it, Will. You see, you liked Chap Hale, and a dirty killer got him. Senator Mason was as nice an old fellow as Chap. And a dirty killer got him, too. Only difference is, we know Mason’s killer. It was Broome, and all we got to do is catch him. Think it over.”
“I’ve thought it over,” Will said angrily. “I’m through with it, Charlie. Murray Broome was a good boss to me! That’s all I know!”
Charlie Sommers straightened up. “It had better be all you know, Will. Because when we get Broome, anybody that stands in our way is goin’ to get it, too.” He waved carelessly. “See you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
He went out, and Will felt the old angry fear return. Where was Milt? He knew Charlie Sommers, too. Would he have heard about Charlie’s presence and have sense enough to dodge out of town? He wished savagely that he could warn Milt before he walked into Sommers.
He heard the corridor door open again, and looked up.
Becky Case stood there, an expression of puzzled friendliness in her face.
Will rose and came over to the bars. Becky was dressed in blue, and Will was a little awed. This wasn’t the rather sober girl in Levis he remembered; this was a woman, a beautiful woman, too.
Becky said, “I heard about it, Will. I—don’t blame you.”
“This don’t matter,” Will said bleakly. “Chap’s dead.”
Becky nodded. It occurred swiftly to Will that here was his way to get a message out. He said, “Becky, you’re the only friend I’ve got in this country. I—want to ask you a favor.”
“Go ahead, Will.”
“Will you find Milt and tell him to go back to the spread, tonight, right now, without comin’ to see me, even?”
“Of course,” Becky said slowly, and then added in a low tone, “Are you worried for fear they’ll question him, Will?”
Will’s face was smooth, impassive, but he felt a cold apprehension at Becky’s words. He said slowly, “I’m afraid to leave the ranch without a boss in case there’s trouble out there.” He drawled, “What do you mean, question?”
Slow color crept into Becky’s face, but she said stubbornly, “You won’t get mad, Will, if I tell you about something that happened tonight?”
“No.”
Becky said earnestly, “The other day when Pres and our men rode up to your place and were going to burn it, I told Dad. I was there so he knew it was the truth. I asked him to fire Pres.” She hesitated and then went on in a dull voice. “You remember, I told you I thought Pres was blackmailing Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he is. Dad admitted it to me. He said he couldn’t fire Pres. I argued with him for five days. I never gave him a moment’s peace. I wanted him to come to Chap Hale and tell him the story. Chap’s his oldest friend. He didn’t want to, but he finally agreed that if anyone could tell him what to do to get rid of Pres, it would be Chap. You understand?”
Will nodded, listening intently.
“This afternoon we drove in together, Dad and I. We got in after dark, and went straight to Chap’s office. But there was somebody there ahead of us. I heard him, there in the office. He and Chap were arguing, and they didn’t hear us. We went away, but I recognized the man’s voice who was talking to Chap.”
“Who was it?”
“That’s what’s queer, Will.” Becky said slowly. “It was Milt Barron.”
Milt watched Will, sagging between two men, hauled into the lighted sheriff’s office. From his position between two dark stores across the street, he could see that Will was walking, and that he wasn’t hurt. And then, for the first time since the fight in the alley, he turned his thoughts to what had happened there. Right now, it seemed as if it hadn’t happened.
He’d been standing in the alley, gun drawn, and had just shouted to Will reassuring him he had the alley covered, when he had heard a soft voice from inside the barn. “Milt?”
It was Pres. For a moment, he had stood there, stunned. Pres Milo was the man who killed Chap Hale!
Then Pres had opened the door and slipped out, gun in hand. Pres had whispered, “When this is over, come to the station.”
And before Milt had had a chance to answer, Pres slipped off in the dark. Pres had assumed that Milt would have to help him, and he’d been right. Milt had let him escape.
Milt looked bleakly toward the dark hulk of the station upstreet. Pres was a cheap killer. Why in hell had he ever told Pres tonight before he met Will in the saloon that he had talked with Chap Hale? That was what did it, that was what caused Chap’s death. He’d met Pres by the hotel, just after he’d left Chap. They’d walked to the edge of town and back in the darkness, and he�
��d told Pres that Will was determined to buy the ranch. He told him how he’d gone to Chap and pleaded with him not to sell the ranch to Will. His grounds for pleading had sounded sensible—as Will’s friend and foreman, he didn’t want to see him stuck with a piece of worthless property. Chap agreed, but said it was Will’s business. Milt insisted, Chap refused, and there had been an argument. But Chap was adamant, and Milt left him.
Pres had listened to all this, grunted, said good-by; and Milt went over to the saloon where Will was. Pres had gone up Chap’s stairs, waited for him, and killed him.
Across the street now in the sheriff’s office men were talking. Milt stepped out on the walk and headed slowly, reluctantly for the station where Pres said he would be. He knew with dismal conviction that the time for him to act had passed. If he’d shot Pres there in the alley, he would be clear. But he couldn’t shoot Pres now; it was too late, and he couldn’t explain it.
Milt approached the dark station and walked around to the platform in front.
A man stirred in the shadows and said, “Here.”
Milt walked up to him and said in a small wicked voice, “I don’t know why I don’t kill you now, Pres.”
Pres laughed. “Yes you do, fella. I’m through worryin’ about you. You cut down on me now and Will Danning will know you let me out of the barn, won’t he? And what’ll you tell him?”
Milt said hotly, “What did you kill Hale for? What sense does it make?”
“You don’t see?”
“Hell, no!” Milt said savagely. “He had nothin’ to do with it, nothin’ at all.”
“Listen,” Pres sneered. “You told me Will Danning didn’t own the place yet, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And that Chap Hale had the deed?”
“Yes.”
“Then Danning ain’t goin’ to own it. Chap can’t deed him the place if he’s dead, can he?”
