by Short, Luke;
“Quit it, Will!” Milt cried.
Milt looked at him. For an instant, an almost ungovernable impulse welled up in him to tell Will the whole rotten thing and ask his forgiveness. But he was afraid, afraid of Pres, afraid of Charlie Sommers, and afraid mostly of Will. For some day, surely as the sun rose, Will would find out the whole slimy story behind Senator Mason’s killing. It was the story of how a young newspaperman, for more money than he’d ever seen, had boldly published lies and slander about a good man. He’d been brought to justice in the courts, but he couldn’t tolerate a beating. He’d killed Senator Mason for it, and then fled. His innocence was fiction, although the men who first bribed him used it as a political rallying-cry. No, when Will found out the truth, he would hate him. It was too late to turn back now. It was too late for everything except to grab what money he could and flee to another country where he could start over. The time to tell Will was past, and Milt knew with dismal conviction that he could never look back, never have mercy, never ask it.
Will said gently, “All right, fella. But that’s the way it stands.”
Milt had to thank him now. He wondered if he’d choke as he spoke—if, as he had believed when he was a child, his tongue would turn black at mouthing such lies.
Will said gruffly, “If you try to thank me for this I’ll break your neck. Get out of here.”
Milt rose, not looking at him, put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it, and went out.
Becky listened to Phipps’s quiet story in the office that morning. She saw it as the tragic story of her father, aging and too ambitious, blinding his conscience to take a short cut to the ease which most men worked a lifetime for. He’d paid for it. Every hour of these last ten years had been payment. Death was welcome to him, she knew, and she couldn’t feel much sorrow. Right now she couldn’t even hate the man who’d killed him.
Phipps agreed with her when she said she wanted the burial that morning. Two of the three people Angus Case cared for most—his daughter and his friend, John Phipps—were there. Chap Hale was already dead. To get the crew in for the funeral would mean leaving roundup, and it would take days. And Becky couldn’t, wouldn’t wait that long.
It was a quiet service, only a handful of people attending. Angus Case had been an unfriendly and proud man during his lifetime, a person the town and the ranchers didn’t understand and didn’t like. And few would really mourn him, Becky knew.
Afterward she rode back to town in Phipps’s buggy. There was only one person in the world she wanted to see now, and that was Will. But Will was leaving. Or was he? Wouldn’t she inherit the land now, and couldn’t she give it back to him? She was almost ashamed of her lightness of heart when she thought of that.
First, though, she remembered she was mistress of the Nine X. There was buying to do, for the ranch must run as it had always run under her father. She stopped in at Dunn’s, ordered supplies, had a special sack of grub put up for Will, and then called for the Nine X mail.
She wanted to ride to see Will first, but she knew she wouldn’t. She must first ride out to the ranch, tell the men of her father’s death, give orders to Tip. Afterward, her duty done, she could see Will.
The Nine X was deserted, except for Tomás and one of the punchers Becky had sent for last night when she’d got news of her father’s illness. Now that her father was dead, she wondered if she should go on with this roundup, which was the whim of a man who feared his cattle had been stolen. But if the crew returned Will might be discovered. She told the puncher of her father’s death and sent word to Tip to keep on with the roundup.
Afterward she went into the house. Will’s grub she put on the table, and then she remembered the mail. She stepped to the door, called to the puncher, who was just riding out, to wait a moment, and then she returned to the mail. She began to sort it, and when she came to Pres’s letter, put it aside. Then she put the crew’s mail in a sack and gave it to the puncher, who rode off.
Coming back to the kitchen table, Becky looked again at Pres’s letter, which Mr. Dunn had put with the Nine X mail by mistake. It came to her with a shock that she’d seen that bold writing before. She went over to a cabinet, took down a note, brought it over, and compared the writing. They were the same. The note was one she had received last night from Milt Barron!
What was Milt Barron doing writing to Pres? They didn’t know each other, hadn’t seen each other except at Will’s place before the fight. Or had they? Becky kept thinking of Milt, his sulky manner, his veiled insolence, and the fact that through his carelessness Will had been shot. And she thought of Pres, the man who had killed her father. For a moment, a suspicion arose within her and crystallized, the suspicion that Milt knew Pres well and was writing to him. She knew then that she would always think this, holding to it with a woman’s stubbornness until it was proven otherwise.
Well, why not find out for herself? Why not open it? Some deep honesty in her told her that was shabby, dishonorable. But was it? If Pres was sent to the penitentiary, where he belonged, wouldn’t people open his mail to make sure he wouldn’t harm them further? Of course they would. Then why shouldn’t she?
It was a devious argument, and she despised herself for resorting to it, yet the fact wasn’t changed. Why was Milt writing Pres?
With sudden decision, she took Pres’s letter, opened it, and read the note. Finished, she sank into a chair, her gaze still on the note. Milt was double-crossing Will, some way! And Pres was the one who had killed Chap Hale! Pres and Milt were partners—partners in looting Will of the Pitchfork!
Some of it she didn’t understand, but Will might. Becky changed swiftly to Levis and blue shirt, put the letter in her pocket, and ran out to the corral. She was in such a hurry that she completely forgot Will’s grub. Tomás saddled her horse, and she set out for the line camp at a dead gallop, leaving the Mexican stable hand puzzled.
Becky arrived at the line camp just at dusk, her horse almost floundered. Will had seen her approach, and he was standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb to favor his wounded leg.
Becky slipped out of the saddle and strode across to him. Now that she saw Will, her courage faltered. How could she tell him about Milt?
He hobbled out to meet her, his face grave. He had shaved while she was gone, and the hollowness in his cheeks, his sunken eyes made her sad.
He took her hands in his own rough ones. “Milt told me about your dad, Becky.”
“He was lucky,” Becky said bitterly, and then she shook her head. “I didn’t mean that, Will. Come inside.”
Will, puzzled at her brusque manner, followed her in. Becky struck a match, lighted the candle, and came over to Will and put her hands on his shoulders and forced him onto the stool.
She stood in front of him, her eyes grave and troubled. “I know you think I’m queer, Will. But don’t judge me now. Just answer my questions, will you?”
Will nodded slowly.
“Do you know Milt’s writing?” she asked.
Will nodded. Becky gave him the note Milt had sent her, and Will glanced at it. “Yes, that’s his.” He looked up, as if waiting for the rest.
Becky bit her lip. Her resolution was failing her. This was going to hurt—hurt him terribly. She said softly, “You think a lot of Milt, don’t you, Will?”
“You know I do,” Will said.
“It—it would hurt you if he got in trouble?”
Will started to rise, and Becky put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Is Milt in trouble?”
Becky couldn’t say any more. She took out Milt’s letter to Pres and handed it to Will. “That came for Pres, Will. I opened it.”
Will took out the letter and read it. Becky walked to the door; she didn’t want to watch him. She listened, though. She could hear Will’s breathing soften and then die away. There was a long, long silence that ran on until Becky couldn’t bear it any longer. She glanced over her shoulder. The paper had fallen from Will’s hand, and he was staring
at the floor. Then he raised his hands and buried his face in them. Becky came slowly across to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
When Will looked up, minutes later, Becky could have cried with pity for him. His eyes were the eyes of a hurt animal, bright with pain, unbelieving, tortured.
Becky murmured, “Does it matter so much, Will?”
Will shuddered, and then he began to speak. “Matter? I dunno, Becky. You see, Milt is Murray Broome.”
“Murray Broome—the murderer?”
Becky could have bitten her tongue out after she said it, but Will only nodded. “I reckon he’s a murderer. I don’t know. I came here to hide him, Becky. That’s why I bought the Pitchfork—to hide him. I thought he was my friend.”
Becky knelt by him. “Will, what does it all mean? The note?”
Will said dully, “Just what it says. I dunno. He writes about the original partnership. I think way back when I first came, Becky, that Pres and Milt threw in together. That’s why Milt wanted me to pull out and sell the place. That’s why he was so mad when I wouldn’t. Then I reckon Pres turned to your dad for help. I busted that up. And then this deed, Chap’s deed to me, showed up. Milt said Pres had it all the time. He couldn’t have.” He looked at Becky now. “Today Milt came here and told me that Pres was blackmailin’ him. Said Pres knew he was Murray Broome. Said Pres would keep quiet if I turned the place over to him.”
“And you said you would?”
Will nodded.
“Oh, Will,” Becky said softly. “How could he do it? He knew you were so loyal, so kind, that you’d give the place to Pres rather than betray a friend. He counted on it—that—that Judas! He and Pres were in partnership to swindle you out of whatever it is that’s on your spread!”
Will nodded, staring at the floor.
“Will,” Becky said. “Didn’t you know Murray Broome was crooked? Hadn’t you read about it?”
“He was good to me,” Will said dully. “He gave me work when I was nothin’ but a saddle bum. He was good to me. I figured they lied about him. He said they did, and I took his word.” He glanced at her with a deep, dismal hurt in his eyes. “Chap told me he was crooked. Charlie Sommers did. Everybody did—only he was my friend, Becky.”
Becky nodded. Will rose and hobbled to the door and stood there, looking out into the night. Becky knew she couldn’t help him, that this was some deep hurt to his pride that would never heal. She sat quietly on the bed, watching him, silent.
Presently, Will turned to look at her. His stare was so intent that it almost hurt. Then he looked away again. Afterward, he came over to the table. His gun and shell belt lay there, and he picked up the belt and strapped it on. His eyes were distant, cold.
Alarm was in Becky’s eyes as she watched him. She wanted to cry out—to stop him. She knew where he was going. She’d known it, in the back of her mind, when she read the letter, but now that it was here she couldn’t bear it.
Will palmed the six-gun out, opened the loading-gate, spun the chamber, and holstered the gun. He picked up Milt’s note to Pres and pocketed it.
“Wait, Will,” Becky pleaded softly. “You can’t make the ride.”
“No.”
“Then I’m going with you! I know where Milt hid your saddle and staked out your horse.”
“You stay here,” Will said mildly, absently.
Becky despaired then. She couldn’t reach him, couldn’t touch that part of him that was driving him to this. He couldn’t make town! His wound would break open again, and he’d bleed to death. And even if he did make it, he wouldn’t be a match for Milt. Becky was afraid. She came to her feet and went over to him.
“Will, have you got to?” she asked softly.
Will nodded. “I promised a man,” he murmured. Becky didn’t know what he meant, but she watched him hobble out to her horse. He swung up into the saddle and rode off, not looking back.
Becky watched him until he was out of sight, then she came back and blew out the candle. She ran out into the night now, heading down the slope. At the edge of the arroyo, she plunged into a thicket of willows and came out lugging Will’s saddle and bridle from where Milt had cached it.
Taking the bridle, she headed down along the arroyo, running until she was out of breath, and then walking. Down here a half mile or so, in a cottonwood motte, Will’s horse was staked out. She wasn’t going to stay here and wait for somebody to tell her that he was dead.
The wound on his leg did break. The pain was so constant that the only way Will could tell was by the warm, wet feel of blood. He bound it with his handkerchief, not bothering to stop.
His thoughts during that ride into Yellow Jacket he could never recall later. They were not thoughts of shame at being taken in by a friend, nor at the thought of confronting Charlie Sommers. They were strange, unimportant thoughts, like Milt’s laugh, or his way with women. Or of that time over in the Tetons when Milt shot that buck deer, wounding him. He came up to him, ready to put the last bullet into him, and the buck looked at him, proud, alert, sick, still fighting. Milt had walked away from him, and Will had to kill him. It was little things like this that filled Will’s mind, as if he were recalling things about a person already dead.
His wound never stopped its slow seep. Will rode into the deserted street of Yellow Jacket, and it was late. He heard the wailing whoosh of the night freight piling into the west, not stopping. It was just the way it was that first night—the train wailing off to the upper reaches of the bench, the street silent, obscurely lighted, the cluster of ponies at the tie rail in front of Hal Mohr’s saloon. There was a difference tonight, though; the window of the sheriff’s office was lighted.
Will put his horse in there and sat in the saddle a moment, gathering his strength. Then he swung off—and fell flat on his face in the bitter dust as his leg gave way.
He pulled himself up by grasping the tie rail, and clung to it until the pain in his leg had subsided a little and the dizziness was gone. Then he hobbled toward the door of the sheriff’s office, swinging up his gun as he went.
He opened the door and stepped inside. Phipps, reading at his desk, slowly turned his head. He was looking into the muzzle of Will’s gun.
Swiftly, Phipps’s gaze rose to Will’s face. Will said, “You yell, and I’ll shoot you this time.”
There was something in his soft, tight voice, in his pale, fanatic face that told Phipps this was true. He was looking at the gaunt face of a man in whose cold gray eyes was naked murder. His reopened wound was pooling blood on the floor.
Phipps said softly, “What do you want?”
“Charlie Sommers. Get your keys and go let him out.”
Phipps wanted to argue. Caution, his instinct of self-preservation told him not to. With one hand he picked up the lamp, with the other reached for his keys, and rose. Will followed him into the cell block.
Charlie Sommers came off his cot, blinking at the light. He saw Will, and then Will’s leg, as he came to his feet. His cheeks were not so ruddy now; he was unshaven and pallid, his face still scarred from his beating, but his eyes were steady and curious. Phipps stood aside, watching them.
“I come back to keep my promise, Charlie,” Will said.
“You found out he’s a crook?”
Will nodded.
“Where is he?”
“Here. In town. I’ve been hidin’ him, Charlie. He was my foreman all the time.”
Charlie rapped out, “Phipps, let me out of here!” as if he were giving Phipps orders.
The sheriff opened the cell. Charlie took the lamp from him, put it on the floor, then ordered Phipps into the cell. He ripped up a blanket, said, “I’m takin’ no chances, John. Afterward I’ll explain,” and proceeded to gag and bind the sheriff. Will leaned against the cell, taking the weight off his leg, closing his eyes.
Charlie’s voice roused him. “You all right? You’re bleedin’, Will.”
“I’m all right,” Will said softly.
They passe
d through the sheriff’s office. On the way, Charlie Sommers picked up Sheriff Phipps’s gun and belt and strapped them on.
“Where is he?” Charlie asked.
Will eyed the saloon, and said softly, “Charlie, I kept my promise to you. But he’s mine, you understand? He’s mine.”
“But—”
“I know what you’ll say,” Will said tonelessly. “You’re a marshal, sworn to bring him to justice. But if you try to stop me, I’ll kill you.”
Charlie eyed him obliquely and said meagerly, “All right, Will.”
They headed toward the saloon, crossing the empty street in the deep dust. Far upstreet there was a new horse at the tie rail, and someone was standing by it. Will noticed it but paid no attention.
On the boardwalk in front of the saloon, Will said, “There’ll be someone with him, Charlie. Pres Milo. They’ll fight.”
He didn’t wait for Charlie’s answer, only shouldered through the doors. A couple of punchers were talking to Hal Mohr at the bar. There was a five-handed poker game going on at a table against the wall. Pres and Milt were sitting in on it.
Will started for the table, and Pres saw him first. Pres’s face froze, and he kicked Milt under the table. Milt looked up and saw Will, and Charlie Sommers beyond him.
Will stopped there, some four feet from the table, facing Milt. Milt’s face went loose and blank, and his eyes narrowed faintly, and the cards fell out of his hand. The other players slipped out of their chairs, leaving Milt and Pres side by side.
A slow, strained look of fear crept into Milt’s eyes, and his upper lip was beaded with perspiration.
He didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Will. “Hello, Will,” he said in a soft, dismal voice.
Will had Milt’s note to Pres in his hand. He tossed it on the table, Milt reached for it, gaze still on Will, and unfolded it. His glance dropped to it for a brief second, then rose to Will’s face.
“That does it,” he said quietly.
“I reckon it does,” Will drawled.
