by Short, Luke;
“I’m going to win out in this, Bill.”
“By marryin’ Frank?”
“No. I’ll win out. And when I do, I want you to come back and work for me.”
“No, thanks,” Bill murmured.
“Why not? We understand each other.”
Bill grinned and impatiently shook his head. “Too well, Connie. So long.” He looked briefly at her. “When they stop you, tell them you were ridin’ with me—not Dave. They won’t believe you.”
He moved out to the road and studied it briefly, and then touched spurs to his horse and crossed it quickly. Afterward, not particularly careful about his trail, he struck up toward the boulder fields and the peaks. He rode steadily, and his face, as the day wore on, grew more grim with his thoughts. When, in midday, he heard signal shots behind him, he did not even look around. For Bill Schell was having a look at himself, and he did not like what he saw. This whole thing from the start had been something of which he was not proud. He had taken Dave’s offer because he was a too good hater. He thought he saw a chance to get even with Bell and Frank Ivey, and still have his vengeance recorded as legal.
Well, it hadn’t turned out that way. He’d managed to circumvent the only three honest people concerned in this—Dave Nash and Jim Crew and Rose Leland. He had helped to kill Jim Crew, with Connie’s aid, and Dave had only a thin chance of getting away with this. The whole thing was sour in his soul, and he thought of Connie now with a gray distaste. She was like Ivey, really. She was one of the breed who would get power and then abuse it, and die rich and honored. A kind of humorous irony in this appealed to part of Bill’s nature, but to the other it stirred a deep disgust and self-loathing. Why hadn’t he come right out and told Dave that Connie was a sharper, out for him and out for anything else she could get her greedy little hands on? She wasn’t worth a hair of Dave’s head—but then, she wouldn’t get a hair of his head, either.
For Bill was no fool, and he knew that Connie would stumble and Dave would see her for what she really was. And once he saw, he would see Rose also for what she was. Bill thought of that without much bitterness. He’d lost Rose before he had ever tried to win her, but she was there for a better man, and Dave Nash was the better man. And Rose loved him, Bill knew. All this being so, the important thing now was to save him for Rose.
Time, then, was the essence. Within the hour now, Ivey would flush him into whatever Bell hand had been sent to hold the trail around Granite Peak. They would close in on him and get him, and before midafternoon Ivey would know he’d been following Bill Schell instead of Dave Nash and turn back for Dave. Bill thought then, But suppose I don’t even try for the Granite trail? Suppose I pull them on up into the boulder fields where they’ll know they got me and hole up at dark for the shoot-out? It’ll be morning before Ivey knows who he followed, and that means twelve hours more for Dave. Bill chewed at this idea until, later in the day, he came to the faint trail he knew lifted up and around Granite Peak. He halted and looked at it a brief moment, and then shook his head, as if answering a question he had put to himself. He went on, but not on the trail; he was headed for the boulder fields.
He rode steadily all afternoon and at dusk he came to timber line, and kept on into the boulder fields until, at dark, he found a canyon whose only exit was its entrance. He did not bother to make camp, but turned his horse loose and picked a spot among the strewn boulders that gave him a little shelter from the bitter wind. He took all his shells out and laid them at his feet, and then rolled a smoke and waited.
It wasn’t yet dark when the first rider tentatively poked his nose into the canyon. Bill shot at him, and the rider disappeared, and Bill heard him shouting. There were some more shots, and then answering shots, and Bill smiled thinly. The pack was gathering.
Sometime after dark, when the wind had died down, he rose to stretch, and there was a flat report of a rifle shot on the rim behind him. The bullet hit a boulder close to him and richocheted off into the night, and he ducked down.
And then Bill heard Frank Ivey’s voice. “Nash, come out of there or we’ll come in after you!”
Bill grinned delightedly, and he was only sorry he could not answer. He did the best he could and shot in the direction of Ivey’s voice.
After that, Bill watched it take shape, and it was as thorough as Frank Ivey could make it. There were men around the rim of the canyon, and two or three inside it. It was cold and still, and his every movement seemed to register sharply in the night, bringing a shot at him. It would have been, Bill decided around midnight, an exciting game if the finish were not so obvious. Twice, he gathered up his remaining shells and moved to a different boulder, and once his movement was detected. He had to lie facedown behind the cold rock and let them shoot in his direction because he had miscalculated in the dark and had no shelter.
He was cold now, and hungry too. A smoke would have been worth its weight in solid gold, but he did not dare strike a match. He kept moving stealthily to new boulders, but somehow the new ones always seemed colder than the last. The Bell crew wasn’t moving much; they had him, and they could wait until daylight.
Along in early morning, he was shaking with the cold. This rock behind which he was crouching now seemed made of ice. He swore between chattering teeth, and picked up his gun and moved softly away in the darkness, heading back for his original rock. He moved slowly, noiselessly, stooping low so that his dark figure would not stand out among the gray granite boulders as he crossed the end of the canyon floor.
He saw his original rock, tall and almost white, and he slipped into its shelter. He squatted on his heels and put his hands under his armpits, because he was miserably cold. He felt the gun barrel touch his back, and his body tensed and already moving when the thing hit him. It didn’t hurt; that was the last thing he remembered.
The match flared and went out, and Frank Ivey cursed. The second match he cupped in his cold hands and knelt and put its guttering flame on the body at his feet.
When he saw who it was lying there, he let the match blow out and stood motionless a second.
Then he kicked the body savagely and walked away, calling angrily to the two men who were running toward him. “Wrong man! Saddle up!”
25
The house at D Bar was dark when Dave rode in, but there was a lamp burning dimly at one end of the bunkhouse. He put his weary horse down there, waiting for a dog to raise the night with his bedlam. But oddly enough, he crossed the yard and pulled up in front of the bunkhouse without raising anything.
And now the problem became more complicated. He did not think he could dismount without falling, but it had to be risked. He leaned his chest on the horn and brought his leg over and tried to lower himself gently with his one good arm. It did not have the strength and he fell heavily into his horse, which snorted and wheeled away. He clung to his mane, however, and stood there a moment, head hanging, trying to get to his feet.
He was aroused by a voice saying curiously, “What’s this?” and he looked up to see Ben Dickason standing in the doorway, fully dressed, his eyes heavy with recent sleep. The lamp behind Ben laid its light upon Dave as, squinting against it, he looked up and said, in a voice drugged with weariness, “I’ve got to have a fresh horse, Ben.”
Ben Dickason stepped out and halted briefly in front of him, and then turned and went to the bunkhouse door and called sharply, “Link! Link Thoms!” There was a wait, and then Dave heard Ben say, “Get this man a horse, Son. Better make it my black. And hurry it up.” Ben came back to Dave now and said matter-of-factly, “Come inside and wait.”
Dave tramped in behind him and sank into the barrel chair against the wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Ben regarded him with a look in which anger and compassion were oddly mixed, and in his eyes was quiet shock. Dave’s wound had opened again and had bled through his coat. It had bled down his arm, too, so that his hand was caked with dried blood. His dark beard stubble was matted with blood and dirt, and his face a
bove it was gray, his eyes sunken deep in their wells and stained almost a black underneath. He seemed a man on the thin edge of collapse.
Ben said, “You awake?” and when Dave opened his eyes Ben asked: “How far behind you are they?”
“Enough for this.”
“That’s Connie’s horse out there, ain’t it?”
“She was with us when they moved in on us.”
Ben said swiftly, “Was she in on a fight?”
Dave shook his head in weary negation, too tired to explain, and the two men regarded each other in wretched silence. Dave said then, “Get her back here, Ben, where you can watch over her.”
Ben didn’t smile. “I’ve tried. She won’t come. She hates my lights and liver.”
Dave looked at him stupidly, as if he did not understand, and Ben said, “I’ve asked twice, begged her. I don’t think I want her now.”
Dave still didn’t understand, but he saw Ben didn’t want to talk about it.
Ben said, “So now what do you do?”
“Clear out of here, if I can make it.”
Ben said, “You’ll need grub. I’ll have it before your horse is here.”
He went out and Dave sat there, trying to puzzle out Ben’s words about Connie through his leaden stupor. He went to sleep in seconds.
It seemed to him he came back from a long distance to feel somebody hitting his face, and he opened his eyes. There was some youngster, wide-eyed with alarm, standing in front of him. He had seen him before, but couldn’t call his name.
“You went to sleep,” Link Thoms said. “I couldn’t wake you.”
The urgency was here again, and Dave said, “Help me up,” and he put out his hand and was pulled to his feet.
“Your horse is outside,” Link said.
Dave walked toward the door, weaving drunkenly, his left arm dangling like some useless appendage, and Link followed him.
Outside, Link boosted him on his horse, and heard the low sigh of pain as Dave settled into the saddle.
Link handed him his reins then, and said quietly, matter-of-factly, “You don’t need to worry about me, Nash. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“It don’t matter now,” Dave said wearily. There wouldn’t be any hiding the fact that Ben had given him a horse.
Young Link said slowly then, “But what’ll Connie do if they find out?”
Dave turned those words over in his mind, and they did not make sense, and he said thickly, “You’ll have to make it plainer, son.”
“What’ll they do if they find out Connie ordered the stampede? They’ll blame her for what happened to Crew.”
Slowly, this sifted into Dave’s mind, and he looked sharply at Link. He was awake now, his mind working. “Connie ordered what stampede?”
“Oh, Lord,” Link said angrily. “Don’t try to act like I don’t know. I saw it happen. Ain’t Connie told you I did?”
“No.”
“Well, I did,” Link said. “I was watchin’ from the timber when Peebles and Bailey done it. I’ve talked to Connie. I promised her I wouldn’t talk.” He paused, puzzled. “But now you say it don’t matter.”
Dave leaned over and said slowly, “You saw Bailey and Peebles stampede those cattle?”
“Yes, I know what Connie and you planned. Don’t treat me like I was nine years old!”
“And what did we?” Dave asked slowly.
“You aimed to blame Ivey for the stampede and pull Crew in on your side. Well, you couldn’t tell Ivey would kill him. It was hard luck. I’m not blamin’ you and I won’t tell anybody!” Link’s voice was shrill with protest, and now he repeated, “But now you say it don’t matter if they know. Who do I believe, you or Connie?”
“Connie told you to keep it quiet, did she?”
“Yes. In town. Yesterday.”
Dave heard Ben Dickason returning and he said quietly, “You keep it quiet. Who are you?”
“Link Thoms.”
Ben came up then with a flour sack partially filled with grub. He tied it around the horn of Dave’s saddle, and then said, “You better not waste any more time.”
“No,” Dave said. “Thanks, Ben. I’ll be back.”
Neither Ben nor Link spoke, and Dave rode off into the night. He crossed the bridge and was soon on the road across the flats, and he sat slack in his saddle, beating his weary mind into accepting this.
He believed Link Thoms, and because he did he must accept the fact that Connie had ordered the stampede of her own cattle while he was away. It was designed, Link said, to put blame on Ivey and pull Crew over to 66. Yes, Connie would know how important that was, for hadn’t he dinned it into her time and again? So she had made her treacherous bid for Jim Crew’s help behind his back, and when it turned to disaster she had kept it from him. And Link Thoms, supposing it was a plan everyone at 66 shared, had in all innocence given it away tonight.
The whole sordid history of his time here now lay before him, and he felt a sick shame. From the start it had been wrong, cursed by ill luck and destined for disaster. He had made the mistake of thinking he must have riffraff to beat riffraff, of believing with a hardheaded pride that he could control his men. He had had doubts and Crew himself had expressed his pessimism. Rose, too, had not believed, though she had never said so. He saw now where he had made his mistake. When Bill Schell blandly protested his innocence in the killing of Ed Burma, Dave’s instinct had been to doubt him. Instead of backing away then, he had bulled it through—to this end; that Connie, as shifty as Bill or Peebles or Bailey, had betrayed him and caused the death of Jim Crew. He had stuck against his own instincts, because of pity for her, and she had used him as shamelessly as she had used Walt Shipley.
He saw Connie now as he had not seen her before, and the seeing was something deep and shameful. Without her sweetness to hide behind, she was cold and scheming and ambitious as Frank Ivey. They were alike, really. Ivey had climbed to power on the necks of lesser men, and held it by ruthlessness. Connie was bidding for his power by the same method and, once she had it, would be just as ruthless. And he had been one of those men, just as Crew and Curley and Bill Schell had been.
He wondered then if Rose had seen this in Connie, and he knew she had. But she would never tell him, just as Bill would never tell him. Bill had held his silence out of some fundamental tolerance for the weaknesses he himself shared. Rose had held hers, because she knew a man must learn these things in his own way. She had had the wisdom to understand him, and now he knew why, when night overtook him in the mountains and he turned downward again, he was going to see Rose. He had planned, with a sick determination, to see her and to tell her that he was beaten, that his best was not enough, hoping desperately that she would understand. He knew now that he would see her still, but that he was not beaten. Not yet. Link Thoms had made the difference.
He came down the grade into Signal and found the town dark, except for the lights of the Special. Lilly’s night lantern was burning and Rose’s place was dark. For a moment he had an overwhelming desire to see Rose, and he knew he could not. From here on in, his hand was a lone one.
He glanced around him now, and his gaze fell on the dark office of Jim Crew. He looked at it curiously a moment, and then put his horse along the tie rail and rode him in behind the jail. There, in the weeds behind it, he dismounted. This time he fell, and he lay there a moment, fighting sleep. Afterward, he struggled to his feet and secured his horse, took the sack of grub, and then came out onto the boardwalk and tramped slowly up to the door of the office.
His hunch was right. The door was unlocked. He went inside and bolted the door behind him, and then crossed to the wall which held the gun rack. He took down a carbine and laid it on the floor, and then sank to his knees and lay down gingerly. He was asleep almost immediately, the food and the rifle at his head.
The bright sun of early afternoon reflected on the buildings across the street wakened him. He lay there a moment, feeling the ache in his face pressed against the f
loor boards, and then he pushed himself to his knees. His shoulder was stiff, and he could still not move his left arm, and he pulled himself against the wall under the window and sat there until the drug of sleep washed out of him. He saw the flour sack of food, and hauled it over and fumbled it open with his good hand. Cold meat and a piece of crushed pie were inside, and he ate them hungrily, trying to work some feeling into his left arm as he ate.
He was thirsty now, but he saw nothing in the room to satisfy it, and he forgot it. He crawled across the room, away from the window, and then stood up and looked across at the Special.
There were a half dozen Bell horses, mud and sweat dried on their flanks, tied there, and he surmised that Ivey had returned for food and drink after yesterday’s fruitless chase. He was studying them for Ivey’s horse when suddenly his attention narrowed, and then settled on a gray. He looked long, and then his lips thinned out imperceptibly.
The gray belonged to Bill Schell. Its presence here told a story that took little reading. They had got Bill. He thought of that for gray and dismal minutes, his back braced slackly against the wall, his eyes vacant and musing on the street. Bill had kept his word to the bitter end; he had pulled Ivey away to let Dave escape and he died doing it. It was his way of atoning for the misery he had created, Dave knew. In life, Bill had been impulsive and unreliable and weak; in death he had been steady, and dogged and strong with a selfless man’s courage. He had been a friend.
And thinking this, Dave’s attention roused again. He came erect, and moved toward the window. Across the street Rose was passing the Special. The sun touched her golden hair with fire under her small hat, and the sight wrenched at his heart. She was wearing a blue dress—his blue dress—and he thought then he had never seen a finer sight. He felt his spirit lift as he watched her hungrily. She, too, as she walked down the boardwalk, was looking over the horses. And then she stopped, staring at the gray horse too. She paused for only a moment, reading the story there, and then walked on, and Dave shook his head in obscure and angry protest.
