by Short, Luke;
After minutes of labor with his good hand, he contrived a cigarette from the sack of tobacco dust by the canteen, and after lighting it, he set about puzzling as to how he had got here. Bill Schell had brought him, he knew, but he wondered how. And where this place was.
The sudden whinnying of a horse back in the drift startled him momentarily. He supposed then that Bill had hidden their horses back near the water, and he wished Bill would return.
The cool wind rushing constantly past him on its way out the drift mouth was chilling, and he pulled the blankets about him. Slowly, now, he experimented with his arm. It was stiff and almost impossible to move, but the throb was gone, and the ache returned only when he moved it. The cigarette made him hungry, but he wisely did not get up to hunt food. His mind kept returning, with a faint wonder, to his escape.
Slowly, then, as night came down and the cave grew utterly black, he thought of what was past. He remembered the visit of Frank Ivey to Rose’s place after the doctor’s wife had told them of the shooting of Jim Crew. He let his mind linger on that, feeling a sadness that was deep and lonely, a feeling he knew Rose would understand. For Jim Crew had been a friendless man, and had died a friendless man’s death; yet in his tired, taciturn way, he had been generous and just. He thought then of Rose, and of the magnificent courage of her as she brazened out Ivey’s visit, and he felt with a humbleness the depth of his debt to her. He wondered then if Ivey would punish her when he learned of it, and he speculated as to what Ivey would dare to do now that Crew was out of the way. It was Connie who would suffer at his hands, and it galled him to think that he had failed her when she needed him most. The thought left an aching bitterness within him, but he was wise enough to know that part of it was pride.
He brooded on this, and, presently, he slept. He came awake later to find Bill Schell squatting over a fire at the foot of the blankets, and when Dave moved, Bill looked at him. His swift grin came, as Dave knew it would, and Bill stepped over to him.
“You take a lot of killin’,” Bill drawled. “How are you, kid?”
“Hungry as hell.”
Bill laughed then, and said, “I’ll put the kettle on and go back and feed the horses.” He pointed to a burlap bag leaning against the wall. “I had to wait for dark to raid George’s feed bin.”
“Where are we?” Dave asked.
Bill told him. The St. Louis mine, he said, had been abandoned a dozen years, and, scarcely remembered, lay in a brush-choked canyon in the high timber above Relief. Bill went on back to feed the horses and presently returned and started the meal.
He told Dave of his exit from Signal, and Dave quietly wondered at his luck. His greatest luck, of course, was Rose; she had nursed him and doctored him, protected him from Ivey and helped him out of Signal. It seemed strange to him that two women, Rose and Connie, had been his deepest friends here, and as he watched Bill preparing the food he said, “Rose’s grub?”
“Everything is hers,” Bill said gently, and he smiled faintly. “Some day Rose’s man is goin’ to make her quit takin’ care of strays, and she won’t know what to do.”
“Has she got a man?” Dave asked curiously.
Bill shook his head. “She can take me right off the Christmas tree any time, but she knows I’m a joker. Nobody fools Rose much.”
Dave didn’t know why, but Bill’s words gave him an odd satisfaction. Bill had spoken with a wry humor, but Dave knew that beneath it was a dead seriousness. Rose wouldn’t have him, and the strange part of it was that Bill knew she was right. There was something too lightweight in him, and Rose knew it.
Bill served out the supper, then, of steaks and coffee and a loaf of bread. Dave propped himself against the wall, and wolfed down the food in silence. He was tired, now, and he longed to lie down again.
Afterward, Bill dragged a couple of logs from the mouth of the tunnel and put their ends over the fire, and then sank wearily on his heels and drew out his tobacco. His dark face, smeared with its beard stubble, looked lean and fined down and tired, but there was the same bold recklessness in his eyes as he regarded Dave.
“Took a look-see over the Bench, this mornin’. Saw smoke from beyond the Ridge. I think it was 66.”
“Burned?”
Bill nodded somberly, and Dave studied his cigarette. They were both quiet for long minutes, thinking of this, and then Bill moved restlessly and asked, “Well, kid, where are we now?”
“How do you figure it?” Dave asked slowly.
Bill dragged in smoke from his cigarette and threw the butt into the fire with a careful deliberation, and said quietly: “Connie’s licked. Frank got her cattle, he broke up her crew, he’s burned her out, he’s killed Jim Crew.” Bill sighed and said softly, “That curley wolf,” and it was like a curse.
Dave said thoughtfully, “What pushed him over?” When Bill glanced up at him in puzzlement, Dave said, “I mean, what made him cut loose his dogs? He was playin’ for Crew, same as we were.”
“He’s got a wild streak,” Bill said.
“No,” Dave said, with quiet insistence. “The things don’t fit. All of a sudden, he decides to kill Connie’s herd. He knew that would bring Crew down on him. If he wanted to kill Crew, there was easier ways.”
“But he could get both the cattle and Jim that way.”
Dave came back stubbornly to his first question. “But what decided him?”
Bill shrugged, and watched Dave carefully, and his eyes were sober and veiled with secret thoughts. “It don’t matter, kid,” he observed. “He did it, that’s all. And we’re licked, I say.”
“No,” Dave said slowly. “We’re not.”
Bill shook his head in disbelief, but he was watching him curiously as Dave stared into the fire.
“There’s one load in a gun between Connie and what she wants,” Dave declared. “That’s the load that gets Ivey.” He looked across at Bill now, and spoke deliberately, as if he were thinking this through as he talked. “Nobody loves Ivey, Bill. They’re just afraid of him. Get him, and his crew will scatter. Any jury will pay back Connie out of Bell cattle. She can build a new headquarters out of Bell money.” He repeated, “Just one load.”
Bill shook his head. “Not my load, kid. I’ve seen Ivey work.” A hard anger came into his face now. “I saw him get a man, once. He don’t give up. He’ll hunt you into the brush and then he’ll hunt the brush. At first, it’s easy. You dodge him and you laugh at him, but he keeps comin’. And pretty soon you get jumpy, and you think you got to move—and you do. You don’t sleep, and everywhere you hit for grub one of his crew is waitin’. And all the time he’s behind you, and when he ain’t you think he is. And then, when you figure you’d rather let him have you than go on, he’s got you where he wants you. You’re tight and you’re edgy, and he comes after you like a butcher.” Bill shook his head. “I’ve seen it. Give me four-five men, and I’ll corner him and take him. But alone, no. I’ll drift.”
Dave said nothing, and Bill looked over at him and said, “When you can walk out of here, kid, it’s over the hill for me.”
“All right, Bill,” Dave said quietly. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Bill noticed the dead weariness in Dave’s face, but he wanted to settle this, to clear up some things. “You better come along, kid,” he said.
“I’ll stick.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t get it. What is it—Connie?”
Dave looked up swiftly, frowning, and he considered this and finally said, “I don’t know,” and looked back at the fire. When he looked up again he surprised a pity in Bill Schell’s eyes, and then it was swiftly gone. He was too tired to puzzle out a reason for it.
Bill grinned and rose. “I got shot at for kissin’ a girl once, but Connie will get you killed just workin’ for her,” he observed dryly. “You better sleep on it, kid.”
“I’ll sleep, but not on that, Bill. I’ll stay here.”
22
Town was an unaccustomed treat for Link Thom
s, but this afternoon, as he came off the grade into the main street, he felt only a small stirring of pleasure. He had his pay in his pocket, and ordinarily his routine included a visit with Joe Lilly, some pleasant hours spent in Corbett’s saddle shop on the other side of the lumber yard, and a visit with Jim Crew, with maybe a swim down below town with a couple of friends his own age.
Today, however, Link was in town on a different sort of business. He passed the sheriff’s office and regarded it with a quiet misery, mingled with uneasiness. Jim Crew was dead, and Link knew why.
He glanced ahead at Lilly’s, and he knew suddenly he did not want to hear Joe’s gossip or even face him, for Link felt a depression now that he couldn’t shake. It had started with a hand from D Bar returning from Signal with the news that Frank Ivey had killed Jim Crew when Crew tried to arrest him for destroying Connie’s herd.
That scared Link. He knew then that he was possessed of a secret a hundred times more important than it had been two days before. All day yesterday he had shunned the crew, because he knew the anxiety he felt must show on his face. And all day, too, he had waited for some word from Connie or her crew indicating their faith in him and that they were sharing the burden of this secret with him.
And nothing happened until Fred Lindstrom returned from 66 and told the story of Ivey’s visit. But what Link listened for and remembered was Fred’s description of Connie as she received the news of Crew’s death. The image of her turning away and burying her hands in her face, as if from a blow, tore at Link’s heart. He knew Connie would feel a terrible guilt, and that she would need a friend. And, because he loved her with the unreasoning vehemence of his years, he had come to comfort her.
He dismounted in front of Bondurant’s and crossed the street, a leggy youngster in patched and faded work clothes whose troubled face was a banner for his feelings. Lindstrom had told of Connie’s riding off to town, and Link decided to try the hotel first.
The clerk told him the number of Connie’s room, and Link, yanking off his hat, took the stairs two at a time and halted breathlessly in front of her door. He raised his hand to knock, and then hesitated. What was he going to say to comfort her? What could he say except that he would die before anyone could drag her secret from him?
He knocked softly then, and, ashamed of his timidity, immediately knocked louder.
The door opened presently, and there was Connie in front of him. Small, neat, smiling her welcome with no sadness in it. Link was tongue-tied and did not speak, and Connie, laughing, reached out for his arm and pulled him into the room. “You’re shy, Link. Come inside.” She shut the door behind him and said, “I’m glad you came.”
“I thought,” Link began, and he fumbled for words, standing there watching her. “A—a lot’s happened,” he finished lamely.
Connie said soberly, “Yes, quite a lot,” and took his hat and put it on the table. She sat down on the sofa and Link sank into a stiff-backed chair, and he watched Connie closely. He didn’t know how he had expected her to receive him—maybe in tears, maybe frightened of what she had done, maybe desolated by grief and the terrible loneliness of guilt. But she was none of these; she was just Connie—pretty and gracious and kind. And strange, Link thought. She seemed almost as if she had not yet heard that Jim Crew was dead.
Connie said gravely, “I only heard about Jim Crew this morning, Link. I—I don’t know what to say.”
Link didn’t either, but he would not have said this. He said only, “He was a good man.”
Connie looked at him levelly. “I’m to blame, Link,” she said quietly.
To Link, she spoke all the necessary words, and yet she was just speaking them, not feeling them. He nodded, still watching her with an intentness that made Connie uncomfortable.
“What shall I do?” Connie asked then.
Link looked down at his hands and shook his head. “I been figurin’,” he murmured slowly. “You admit it, Connie, and who’s it goin’ to help? Frank Ivey.”
“Do you think he deserves help?”
“No.”
“Do you think I should admit it, Link?”
“No.”
“Neither do I,” Connie said gravely. “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry for it, Link. But you can’t look back.”
Link thought, But you can be sick at heart for a wrong you’ve done. You can take a little time out from living to look back, too, because that hurts you enough to make you live better. He said nothing, and Connie rose and went to the window and looked out.
She said slowly, “Jim Crew was my friend, Link.”
“I know.”
“Frank Ivey didn’t have to kill him. Frank did it because he knew he could, because he knew Jim would turn against him in the long run.”
“Yes’m,” Link said. But Frank wouldn’t have killed him if it hadn’t been for the blame put falsely on him, Link knew.
Connie turned around to look at him. “Then am I wrong, Link, in trying to square Jim’s death by beating Frank?”
Link said slowly, “He’s got to be beat.” About it squaring Jim’s death, he would say nothing, because he knew it wouldn’t.
“Then I’ll go on fighting him, Link. I’m not beaten yet. And some day when I can I’ll try to repay you for your help.”
Link stood up and Connie handed him his hat and smiled and shook hands with him. Link went out, shutting the door behind him, and walked slowly toward the head of the stairs, where he halted. He had come to comfort Connie, and she did not need him.
Something had happened in that room, and he would never know exactly what. But he didn’t love Connie anymore. He would help her and fight for her until he died, because she had been good to him and he paid his debts. Only, he did not love her anymore. He accepted this quietly, without any feeling at all, and put on his hat and went slowly down the stairs.
Connie, from her room window, watched Link get his horse and ride past the hotel on his way to the grade, and then she went over to the bed and lay down. She thought narrowly of Link, then, and knew something had changed him. It was almost as if he’d ceased being a boy now and was suddenly a man. That was natural and inevitable; he had seen ugly things and was a part of them, and they had changed him. But that look of dumb adoration she was so used to was not there when he left. She sat up, then, thinking of this. Link couldn’t blame her too bitterly, for she had acknowledged her mistake, and he had pledged his secrecy. And then she smiled faintly at herself. It didn’t matter. The main thing was, Link was still loyal.
She lay down again, summoning patience to wait for dark. It was all working out. Tom and Bailey were gone, Link was still her friend. Tomorrow she would make sure of Bill Schell, and she would see Dave again. For Connie was going to ignore Rose’s advice. She was going to Dave.
23
Bill Schell came awake with the instant alertness of an animal. He rolled out of his blankets, which were spread just inside the tunnel, came erect, and listened to the night sounds, trying to select from them the one that had roused him. It came presently—the sound of a horse walking. Bill listened intently; a stray horse feeling is easily distinguishable in the sounds it makes from a ridden horse, and Bill listened for the broken rhythm of its walk. This horse, he soon knew, was being ridden.
He looked at the stars and saw it was not long until daylight, and now a kind of cold fatalism was on him. Somebody was scouting up here, which meant their time here was up. He holstered his gun, which he had kept in the blankets beside him, and pulled on his boots. From back in the drift he could hear Dave’s faint deep breathing. He rose now and listened for the horse, and caught its sound again down canyon.
The old mine mouth was at almost the level of the bottom of the canyon. Its heap of tailings had been hauled across the canyon and scattered, so they did not mark the mouth of the diggings. The log mine buildings, long since rotted and tumbled down, lay up canyon a ways. A tangle of brush and scrub oak neatly covered the tunnel head, and now Bill, moving with a swift
stealth, came out from them and circled silently up canyon toward the buildings, where, if trouble came, he would not draw attention to Dave’s hiding place.
He moved into the deep shadows of the old bunkhouse and listened, and now the sound of the horse approaching was distinct. He drew his gun and backed up against the wall, and his nerves were tight and fine-drawn.
Presently, from the darkness down canyon, the figure of a horse and rider loomed out of the night and paused in the tall rank grass in front of the shack. The horse nickered uneasily, and Bill grinned wickedly into the night. The horse sensed he was there, and if the rider also didn’t, he was a fool. Bill held his gun loosely and turned his head to listen down canyon. This was almost too easy, too simple. Whoever it was out there some thirty feet away was, if alone, caught fair. He could hear no other sounds, and now his attention, cool and wicked, settled on the horseman.
Bill knelt noiselessly and fumbled for a rock and found it, and tossed it soundlessly across the canyon. The noise of its landing spooked the horse, which danced swiftly away from the sound of the rock and immediately in front of Bill.
Bill lifted his gun, and now a new noise stopped him. It was the swish of cloth, and for a brief second he was puzzled, and then he knew this was a woman. He said softly, “Rose?”
“Bill, Bill,” Connie said in a frightened voice.
Bill stepped out toward her, saying angrily, “Why didn’t you sing out, Connie?”
“I wasn’t sure where I was,” Connie said.
Bill came up to the horse and took its bridle and said roughly, “What are you doin’ here, Connie?”
“I came to see Dave.”
“Were you followed?”
“But it’s night. How could I be?”
Bill said in savage disgust, “Ah, hell,” and the censure in it was sharp as a whiplash.
