There was in Tony Sikes a drive that forbade him to admit any man was his fighting superior. Sabre’s draw against Trumbull was still the talk of the town-talk that irked Sikes, for folks were beginning to compare the two of them. Many thought Sabre might be faster. That rankled.
He would meet Sabre first and then drift.
-Don’t you think he’ll get here?” McCanal.’ asked, looking up at Tony.
Sikes nodded. He’ll get here, all right. He thinks too fast for Trumbull or Reed. Even for that marshal.”
Sikes would have Sabre to himself. Sid Trumbull was out of town. Tony Sikes wanted to do his own killing.
Matt Sabre watched the saddled horses. He had that quality of patience so long associated with the Indian. He knew how to wait and how to relax. He waited now, letting all his muscles rest. With all his old alertness for danger-his sixth sense that warned him of climaxes—he knew this situation had reached the explosion point.
The marshal would be returning. Reed and Trumbull would be sure that he did not encounter the posse. And that body of riders, most of whom were henchmen or cronies of Galusha Reed, would sweep down on the Pivotrock and capture it, killing all who were there under the pretense of searching for Matt Sabre.
Keys would warn them, and in time. Once they knew of the danger, Camp Gordon and the others would be wise enough to take the necessary precautions. The marshal was one tentacle, but there in Yellowjacket was the heart of the trouble.
If Prince McCarran and Tony Sikes were removed, the tentacles would shrivel and die. Despite the danger out at Pivotrock, high behind the Mogollon Rim, the decisive blow must be struck right here in Yellowjacket. He rolled over on his stomach and lifted the glasses. Men were coming from the Yellowjacket Saloon and mounting up. Lying at his ease, he watched them go. There were at least thirty, possibly more. When they had gone, he got to his feet and brushed off his clothes. Then he walked slowly down to his horse and mounted. He rode quietly, one hand lying on his thigh, his eyes alert, his brain relaxed and ready for impressions. Marshal Rafe Collins was a just man. He was a frontiersman, a man who knew the West and the men it bred. He was no fool-shrewd and careful, rigid in his enforcement of the law, yet wise in the ways of men. Moreover, he was southern in the oldest of southern traditions, and being so, he understood what Matt Sabre meant when he said it was because he had killed her husband that he must protect Jenny Curtin.
Matt Sabre left his horse at the livery stable. Simpson looked up sharply when he saw him.
-You better watch yourself, he warned. “The whole country’s after you, an’ they are huntin’ blood!”
“I know. What about Sikes? Is he in town?”
“Sure! He never leaves McCarran. Simpson searched his face. “Sikes is no man to tangle with, Sabre. He’s chain lightin’.”
-I know. Sabre watched his horse led into a shadowed stall. Then he turned to Simpson. “You’ve been friendly, Simpson. I like that. After today, there’s goin’ to be a new order of things around here, but today I could use some help. What do you know about the Pivotrock deal?”
The man hesitated, chewing slowly. Finally, he spat and looked up. There was nobody to tell until now,” he said, but two things I know. That grant was Curtin’s, all right, an’ he wasn’t killed by accident. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah.” Simpson’s expression was wry. “Like you he liked fancy drinkin’ liquor when he could get it. McCarran was right friendly. He asked Curtin to have a drink with him that day, an’ Curtin did.
-On’y a few minutes after that, he came in here an’ got a team to drive back, leavin’ his horse in here because it had gone Ime. I watched him climb into that rig,, an’ he missed the step an’ almost fell on his face. Then he finally managed to climb in.”
“Drunk?” Sabre’s eyes were alert and interested. “Him?” Simpson snorted. That old coot could stow away more liquor than a turkey could corn. He had only one drink, yet he could hardly walk.”
“Doped, then?” Sabre nodded. That sounded like McCarran. “And then what?”
“When the team was brought back after they ran away with him, an’ after Curtin was found dead, I found a bullet graze on the hip of one of those broncs.”
So that was how it had been. A doped man, a skittish team of horses, and a bullet to burn the horse just enough to start it running. Prince McCarran was a thorough man.
“You said you knew that Curtin really owned that grant. How?”
Simpson shrugged. “Because he had that other claim investigated. He must, have heard rumors of trouble. There’d been no talk of it that I heard, an’ here a man hears. everythin’t “Anyway, he had all the papers with him when he started back to the ranch that day. He showed ‘em to me earlier. All the proof.”
“And he was murdered that day? Who found the body?”
“Sid Trumbull. He was ridin’ that way, sort of accidentallike.”
The proof jenny needed was in the hands of Prince McCarran. By all means, he must call on Prince.
“Stand Up—and Die!”
Matt Sabre walked to the door and stood there, waiting a moment in the shadow before emerging into the sunlight.
The street was dusty and curiously empty. The rough-fronted gray buildings of unpainted lumber or sand-colored adobe faced him blankly from across and up the street. The hitch rail was deserted; the water trough overflowed a little, making a darkening stain under one end.
Somewhere up the street but behind the buildings, a hen began proclaiming her egg to the hemispheres. A single white cloud hung lazily in the blue sky. Matt stepped out. Hitching his gun belts a little, he looked up the street.
Sikes would be in the Yellowjacket. To see McCarran, he must see Sikes first. That was the way he wanted it. One thing at a time.
He was curiously quiet. He thought of other times when he had faced such situations—of Mobeetie, of that first day out on the plains hunting buffalo, of the first time he had killed a Man, of a charge the Riffs made on a small desert patrol out of Taudeni long ago.
A faint breeze stirred an old sack that lay near the boardwalk, and farther up the street, near the water trough, a long gray rat slipped out from under a store and headed toward the drip of water from the trough. Matt Sabre started to walk, moving up the street.
It was not far, as distance goes, but there is . No walk as long as the gunman’s walk, no pause as lohg as the pause before gunfire. On this day, Sikes would know, instantly, what his presence here presaged. McCarran would know too.
Prince McCarran was not a gambler. He would scarcely trust all to Tony Sikes no matter how confident he might be. It always paid to have something to back up a facirig card. Trust Prince to keep his hole card well covered. But on this occasion, he would not be bluffing. He would have a hole card, but where? How? What? And when?
The last was not hard. When—the moment of the gun battle.
He had walked no more than thirty yards when a door creaked and a man stepped into the street. He did not look down toward Sabre but walked briskly to the center of the street, then faced about sharply like a man on a parade ground.
Tony Sikes.
He wore this day a faded blue shirt that stretched tight over his broad, bony shoulders and fell slack in front where his chest was hollow and his stomach flat. It was too far yet to see his eyes, but Matt Sabre knew what they looked like.
The thin, angular face, the mustache, the high cheekbones, and the long, restless fingers. The man’s hips were narrow, and there was little enough to his body. Tony Sikes lifted his eyes and stared down the street. His lips were dry, but he felt ready. There was a curious lightness within him, but he liked it so, and he liked the setup. At that moment, he felt almost an affection for Sabre.
The man knew so well the rules of the game. He was coming as he should come, and there was something about him-an edged quality, a poised and alert strength.
No sound penetrated the clear globe of stillness. The warm a
ir hung still, with even the wind poised, arrested by the drama in the street. Matt Sabre felt a slow trickle of sweat start from under his hatband. He walked carefully, putting each foot down with care and distinction of purpose. It was Tony Sikes who stopped first, some sixty yards away.
-Well, Matt, here it is. We both knew it was coming. “Sure. Matt paused, too, feet wide apart, hands swinging wide. You tied up with the wrong outfit, Sikes. We’d have met, anyway, Sikes looked along the street at the tall man standing there, looked and saw his bronzed face, hard and ready. It was not in Sikes to feel fear of a man with guns. Yet this was how he would die. It was in the cards. He smiled suddenly. Yes, he would die by the gun-but not now. His hands stirred, and as if their movement was a signal to his muscles, they flashed in a draw. Before him, the dark, tall figure flashed suddenly. It was no more than that, a blur of movement and a lifted gun, a movement suddenly stilled, and the black sullen muzzle of a six-gun that steadied on him even as he cleared his gun from his open top holster.
He had been beaten-beaten to the draw.
The shock of it triggered Sikes’s gun, and he knew even as the gun bucked in his hand that he had missed, and then suddenly, Matt Sabre was running! Running toward him, gun lifted, but not firing!
In a panic, Sikes saw the distance closing and he fired as fast as he could pull the trigger, three times in a thundering cascade of sound. And even as the hammer fell for the fourth shot, he heard another gun bellow. But where? There had been no stab of flame from Sabre’s gun. Sabre was running, a rapidly moving target, and Sikes had fired too fast, upset by the sudden rush, by the panic of realizing he had been beaten to the draw.
He lifted his right-hand gun, dropped the muzzle in a careful arc, and saw Sabre’s skull over the barrel. Then Sabre skidded to a halt, and his gun hammered bullets. Flame leaped from the muzzle, stabbing at Sikes, burning him along the side, making his body twitch and the bullet go wild. He switched guns, and then something slugged him in the wind, and the next he knew, he was on the ground.
Matt Sabre had heard that strange shot, but that was another thing. He could not wait now; he could not turn his attention. He saw Sikes go down, but only to his knees, and the gunman had five bullets and the range now was only fifteen yards.
Sikes’s gun swung up, and Matt fired again. Sikes lunged to his feet, and then his features writhed with agony and breathlessness, and he went down, hard to the ground, twisting in the dust.
Then another bullet bellowed, and a shot kicked up dust at his feet. Matt swung him gun and blasted at an open window, then started for the saloon door. He stopped, hearing a loud cry behind him.
“Matt! Sabre?”
It was Sikes, his eyes flared wide. Sabre hesitated, glanced swiftly around, then dropped to his knees in the silent street.
“What is it, Tony? Anything I can do for you?” “Behind-behind-the desk–you-you— His faltering voice faded; then strength seemed to flood back, and he looked up. “Good man! Too—too fast!”
And then he was dead, gone just like that, and Matt Sabre was striding into the Yellowjacket.
The upstairs room was empty; the stairs were empty; there was no one in sight. Only Hobbs stood behind the bar when he came down. Hobbs, his face set and pale.
Sabre looked at him, eyes steady and cold. “Who came down those stairs?”
Hobbs licked his lips. He choked, then whispered hoarsely. “Nobody-but there’s—there’s a back stairs. Sabre wheeled and walked back in quick strides, thumbing shells into his gun. The office door was open, and Prince McCarran looked up as he framed himself in the do. Or.
He was writing, and the desk was rumpled with papers, the desk of a busy man. Nearby was a bottle and a full glass.
McCarran lay down his pen. “So? You beat him? I thought you might.
“Did you?” Sabre’s gaze was cold. If this man had been running, as he must have run, he gave no evidence of it now: “You should hire them faster, prince. “Well—McCarran shrugged-“he was fast enough until now. But this wasn’t my job, anyway. He. was workin’ for Reed.
Sabre took a step inside the door, away from the wall, keeping his hands free. His eyes were on those of Prince McCarran, and the Prince watched him, alert, interested.
-That won’t ride with me,” Matt said. Reed’s a stooge, a perfect stooge. He’ll be lucky if he comes back alive from this trip. A lot of that posse you sent out won’t come back, either.”
McCarran’s eyelids tightened at the mention of the posse. Forget it.” He waved his hand. Sit down and have a drink. After all, we’re not fools, Sabre. We’re govvn men, and we can talk. I never liked killing, anyway.”
-Unless you do it or have it done.” Sabre’s hands remained where they were. What’s the matter, Prince? Yellow? Afraid to do your own killin’?”
McCarran’s face was still, and his eyes were wide now. You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have called me yellow.”
-Then get on your feet. I hate to shoot a sittin’ man.” Have a drink and let’s talk.”
-Sure.” Sabre was elaborately casual. You have one, too.” He reached his hand for the glass that had . Already been poured, but McCarran’s eyes were steady. Sabre switched his hand and grasped the other glass, and then, like a striking snake, Prince McCarran grasped his right hand and jerked him forward, off balance. At the same time, McCarran’s left flashed back to the holster high on his left side, butt forward, and the gun jerked up and free. Matt Sabre, instead of trying to jerk his right hand free, let his weight go forward, following and hurling himself against McCarran. The chair went over with a crash, and Prince tried to straighten, but Matt was riding him back. He crashed into the wall, and Sabre broke free.
Prince swung his gun up, and Sabre’s left palm slapped down, knocking the gun aside and gripping the hand across the thumb. His right hand came up under the gun barrel, twisting it back over and out of McCarran’s hands. Then he shoved him back and dropped the gun, slapping him across the mouth with his open palm.
It was a free swing, and it cracked like a pistol shot. McCarran’s face went white from the blow, and he rushed, swinging, but Sabre brought up his knee in the charging man’s groin. Then he smashed him in the face with his elbow, pushing him over and back. McCarran dove past him, blood streaming from his crushed nose, and grabbed wildly at the papers. His hand came up with a bulldog .41.
Matt saw the hand shoot for the papers, and even as the .41 appeared, his own gun was lifting. He fired first, three times, at a range of four feet.
Prince McCarran stiffened, lifted to his tiptoes, then plunged over on his face and lay still among the litter of papers and broken glass.
Sabre swayed drunkenly. He recalled what Sikes had said about the desk. He caught the edge and jerked it aside, swinging the desk away from the wall. Behind it was a small panel with a knob. It was locked, but a bullet smashed the lock. He jerked it open. A thick wad of bills, a small sack of gold coins, a sheaf of papers. A glance sufficed. These were the papers Simpson had mentioned. The thick parchment of the original grant, the information on the conflicting Sonoma grant, and then … He glanced swiftly through them, then, at a pound of horses’ hoofs, he stuffed them inside his shirt. He stopped, stared. His shirt was soaked with blood.
Fumbling, he got the papers into his pocket, then stared down at himself. Sikes had hit him. Funny, he had never felt it. Only a shock, a numbness. Now Reed was coming back.
Catching up a sawed-off express shotgun, he started for the door, weaving like a drunken man. He never even got to the door.
***
The sound of galloping horses was all he could hear-galloping horses, and then a faint smell of something that reminded him of a time he had been wounded in North Africa. His eyes flickered open, and the first thing he saw was a room’s wall with the picture of a man with muttonchop whiskers and spectacles.
He turned his head and saw Jenny Curtin watching him. So? You’ve decided to wake up. You’re getting lazy, Matt.
Mr. Sabre. On the ranch you always were the first one up.”
He stared at her. She had never looked half so charming, and that was bad. It was bad because it was time to be out of here and on a horse.
-How long have I been here?”
-Only about a day and a half. You lost a lot of blood.” “What happened at the ranch? Did Keys get there in time?”
-Yes, and I stayed. The others left right away.”
-You stayed?”
-The others,” she said quietly, went down the road about two miles. There was Camp Gordon, Tom Judson, Pepito, and Keys. And Rado, of course. They went down the road while I stood out in the ranch yard and let them see me. The boys ambushed them.”
-Was it much of a fight?”
-None at all. The surprise was so great that they broke and ran. Only three weren’t able, and four were badly wounded.”
-You found the papers? Including the one about McCarran sending the five thousand in marked bills to El Paso?”
-Yes,” she said simply. “We found that. He planned on having Billy arrested and charged with theft. He planned that, and then if he got killed, so much the better. It was only you he didn’t count on.”
-No.” Matt Sabre stared at his hands, strangely white now. He didn’t count on me.”
So it was all over now. She had her ranch, she was a free woman, and people would leave her alone. There was only one thing left. He had to tell her. To tell her that he was the one who had killed her husband.
He turned his head on the pillow. “One thing more,” he began. “I-”
“Not now. You need rest.”
“Wait. I have to tell you this. It’s about-about Billy.” “You mean that you-you were the one who—?” “Yes, I— He hesitated, reluctant at last to say it.
“I know. I know you did, Matt. I’ve known from the beginning, even without all the things you said.”
“I talked when I was delirious?”
“A little. But I knew, Matt. Call it intuition, anything you like, but I knew. You see, you told me how his eyes were when he was drawing his gun. Who could have known that but the man who shot him?”
Law Of the Desert Born (Ss) (1984) Page 12
