by Short, Luke;
A wave of talk swept through the crowd. Westfall sat down on the steps and cuffed his hat on the back of his head and idly gazed about him, as if mildly bored by the whole thing. He was the picture of a man wholly indifferent to his business.
Inevitably, men began to crowd around him and ply him with questions. He answered them curtly, indifferently, but beyond them, he could tell that the idea had taken hold of the crowd. Men were crowding forward to listen to what he said.
Presently, a voice rose over the crowd. “Westfall! Westfall!”
Big Westfall lumbered to his feet and looked over the crowd. Back deep in it, a hand was raised, and people craned to see who it was. It was, inevitably, Tip Rogers. He was elbowing his way to the front. When he was almost to Westfall, he said, “I’ll take you up on that. I got a dike claim, and I’ll sell it to you, clean and clear.”
Westfall, again leaning against the porch pillar, appeared unimpressed. “All right,” he drawled. “But one claim ain’t goin’ to do me no good. You get five other rannies with dike claims, and we’ll talk business.”
“Young man,” a harsh voice called out. “I’ll make it number two—and gladly.” This was the voice of Major Fitz, and it came from back in the crowd. It got a general laugh, for it was tinged with irony.
“I’ll make it three,” Bledsoe called.
And suddenly, given this impetus by the best financiers and the best mining heads in the camp, others joined in, until there was a veritable avalanche of offers.
Big Westfall’s face never changed. When the crowd had quieted a little to hear him speak, he announced, “All right. Tim Prince said I could use his place. Get your papers. I got the claim recorder here. Form a line and come into Tim’s place. I pay in cash. You get your money, have a drink on me—and if you’re smart, you’ll git home and leave this gold minin’ to a bigger outfit.”
His announcement was met with a roar of laughter. Many of these men had sunk their last money in claim fees and tools and supplies, and this chance to unload at a profit, however small, was a golden opportunity. For none of them, not even the most sanguine, believed that there was any amount of gold here. Furthermore, they did not relish the prospect of having to prove up on their claims.
Tip Rogers was the first in the long line. He turned over his papers, had them checked by the recorder, received his money, took his drink, and, with a grin of pleasure, waved his money high over his head and disappeared into the night.
The whole crowd was gathered around Tim Prince’s. Those who held claims were being chaffed good-naturedly and a little enviously by those who did not. But losers or gainers, everyone in camp was gathered at Tim Prince’s saloon.
Tip Rogers headed back to his tent, but when he was out of sight of the saloon, he cut across toward Westfall’s mine. At the shed to one side of the office, he opened the door and stepped inside.
“Tip?” Johnny Hendry asked from the depths of that darkness, and Tip answered. Hank and Hugo and Turk were here, too.
Baily Blue and Bledsoe and Major Fitz hung around the saloon for a while, watching the claims changing hands. From a big metal box on a poker table, Westfall was taking out silver and paper money. His supply seemed inexhaustible.
The sight fascinated Major Fitz. This metal box by Westfall’s right hand represented every dollar, honest and dishonest, that he had managed to accumulate since he left the army thirty years ago. But if that sight was a little unnerving, he had only to think that what he was getting in return was worth a hundred times the amount held by the box.
Baily Blue, puzzled as to what was behind all this and surprised at Major Fitz’s interest, was watching the major covertly, a glass of whisky cuddled in his hand.
Presently Bledsoe turned to Fitz. “I think I’ll go look up some of the boys while they still have money. Most of them in this camp owe me for supplies. Coming along?”
Fitz shook his head, as did Blue. “I’ll watch this,” Fitz said.
He observed it awhile longer, then turned to go out. Blue followed him. Outside, the crowd had dispersed, and the camp was almost normal once more. The last of the line was already inside the doors of the saloon.
Fitz turned down the road, Blue beside him.
“I’d like to know what’s behind this,” Blue murmured. “Seems to me there’s a lot of places here in the Calicoes that hold more ore than this canyon, and it’ll produce more than forty dollars a ton, too.”
Fitz only chuckled, and Blue glanced obliquely at him. “You know somethin’ about this, don’t you, Fitz?”
Fitz stopped and regarded him. “What makes you think so?”
“Several things,” Baily said amiably. “You were almighty interested in what was goin’ on here tonight.”
Fitz did not speak for a moment, and then he said quietly, pleased with himself, “I ought to be, I’m behind it.”
“Behind what?”
“I’m the company Westfall spoke about. He’s buying the claims for me.”
Blue cleared his throat and started to speak and then seemed to change his mind, for the words did not come.
“Say it,” Fitz invited.
“All right, I will. Why are you payin’ a thousand dollars a claim for ore that is common as dirt?”
“Who said it was?”
“Why, everybody.”
“Ask Westfall to show you the last report he got from Kinder. The report he didn’t mention. It showed eleven hundred dollars for a scant ton.”
Blue was silent a moment, and then he started to chuckle, and then to laugh quietly. “I might have known that,” he said at last. “Yes, sir, I might have known that. When they can outthink you, Fitz, then I’ll take to herdin’ sheep.”
Fitz smiled with pleasure at this. “Come over to Westfall’s shack,” he invited. “You’d probably like to see just how much of an investment this is.”
They turned down another rough street, which was dark, and made their way down the canyon to the Glory Hole. The office was unlocked, as Westfall had promised it would be, and they went inside. After first making sure that the burlap curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, Fitz lighted the lamp and looked around him. There was a deal desk in one corner, some rough benches, and a straw-stuffed bunk at the far end.
They had only to wait a few minutes when the tramp of Westfall’s heavy step came to them. The door was opened, and Big Westfall, stooping to clear the frame, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He nodded to Fitz, smiling, and then looked at Blue and nodded courteously. His glance at Fitz was questioning.
“It’s all right, Westfall,” Fitz said. “He knows about it.”
Westfall took off his hat and laid the box on the desk. “There you are, Fitz. I ran out of money toward the last. There were six claims up on the rock rim that I couldn’t buy, but I reckon they won’t be rich enough to bother with.”
Fitz rose and came over to the desk and opened the box. Blue stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
Suddenly, a voice drawled from the doorway, “Evenin’, gents.”
Blue whirled—to confront the six-gun in Johnny Hendry’s hand. Johnny stepped forward, and Hank, Turk, Hugo, and Bledsoe, a bewildered expression on his face, filed into the room. Tip Rogers brought up the rear and closed the door.
Major Fitz was the first to find his wits. “Well, Johnny, my boy!” he exclaimed, elbowing Blue aside and walking up to Johnny, hand outstretched. “We thought you’d—”
Turk was the first to see it. He leaped at Johnny, grabbing his left arm. Johnny’s hand was fisted, his arm tense and ready to strike, his lips drawn tight over his teeth.
Over his shoulder, Turk snarled at Fitz, “Keep out the way, you, or he’ll kill you.”
Sobered, Fitz backed off, and Turk freed Johnny, who glared at Fitz for a long moment, then shifted his attention to Westfall.
“Big, bring that lamp over here on the table away from that coyote.” Westfall did. “Now sit down, Fitz. You, too, Blue.”
Blue wisely did as he was told, keeping silent, but Fitz, always pugnacious, did not sit down. He looked at Johnny and Turk and Hank and said scornfully to Johnny, “Have these outlaws’ ways got the best of you, Johnny? I always believed—”
Cursing, Turk took the two steps to Fitz, grabbed him by the coat front, and slapped him again and again in the face. “Sit down and stay down and shut up!”
He rammed Fitz down in his chair and stood glaring over him. Fitz was subdued now, his thin fox face flushed with an anger which he was afraid to vent. Turk walked back and leaned on the table.
Johnny took over now, and he spoke with a slow easiness that was studied self-control. His gun was holstered.
“How much money did you spend for these claims tonight, Fitz?” Johnny drawled.
Fitz shot a wicked glance at Westfall, who was grinning broadly, but he didn’t answer. Westfall answered for him.
“A little over a hundred and twenty-three thousand, Johnny.”
“They’re mine, anyway!” Fitz snapped. “They’re registered legally under a company of which I’m the sole stock-holder!”
“Did it take all your capital?” Johnny asked dryly, and again Fitz would not answer. He was puzzled by all this.
Again, Westfall said, “It cleaned him out, Johnny.”
“Good,” Johnny murmured. “Maybe you’d be interested in knowin’, Fitz, that we framed up this deal on you—Westfall, Tip Rogers, and the rest of us. This whole canyon here don’t hold a thousand dollars’ worth of gold. That good report you got from Westfall was forged. That gold bar he showed you was borrowed from the Esmerella. Kinder was never bribed, because the only thing he could tell was that your ore was worthless.”
Johnny paused, watching the color drain out of Fitz’s face. “So you gave your money away, Fitz. You’ve spread it all around the camp, like the generous man you are. But you’re broke, you savvy that?”
Fitz half rose out of his chair but sat down again when Turk took a menacing step toward him.
“About this fight with Leach Wigran,” Johnny drawled. “I started that. I stole your beef, Major, and planted that Running W gelding. I burned your place. I rustled that other herd, too, and you killed Mickey Hogan for it. Remember? I even helped Leach Wigran when you tried to wipe him out. Remember those rifles on the hill?”
Johnny was talking softly now, his eyes narrowed, a fixed, unpleasant smile on his face. Fitz’s face was turning a dirty gray, but his fighter’s jaw was still outthrust, belligerent.
“I did something else, too, Major. I did this on my own hook, because I don’t like to be framed. I went back to the Running W early that morning after Leach had hit for the mountains, and I pulled Leach Wigran’s red-hot safe out of that fire and I hauled it away. Do you know what I found in it, Major? I found a melted bar of that Esmerella gold. Part of it still held the mill stamp. You hired Wigran, Fitz. He couldn’t move without word from you. He’s the one that robbed the bank—and on your orders.”
Tip Rogers said excitedly, “You didn’t tell me that, Johnny!”
“Why tell it?” Johnny said softly, not taking his attention from Fitz. “I was waiting until I could get it all for you, Tip—and with the proof.”
Baily Blue’s face remained immobile, but he was barely breathing. This was getting uncomfortably close to him.
“Remember the poll of the ranchers I aimed to take, Fitz?” Johnny went on. “Remember, the lists come to the post office, and you sent a hardcase to steal them, and I killed him? Well, that vote was for you, Fitz—you were the biggest rustler in the crowd. It took me a long time to tumble to what everybody, other ranchers, suspected, but I proved it, Fitz. Wigran was the chief rustler and you backed him. The stolen stuff was driven to Warms and sold and the money deposited to your account over there.”
Fitz’s face seemed a little shrunken now, but he sat utterly still.
Johnny’s voice got a little harder now and he shifted his feet faintly.
“But all this is just by the way, Fitz,” he drawled pleasantly. “What I’m goin’ to kill you for is this. You had Pick Hendry bushwhacked.”
“That’s a lie!” Fitz said swiftly.
“Is it?” Johnny drawled. “Can you claim you didn’t hire Westfall to mine a claim? Didn’t you give him papers describing that claim?”
Fitz was silent for a moment. “Carmody did, yes. He told me about some location papers one day. He said he’d bought them over in Warms. I told him to take a look at the claim and if it looked good to go ahead with it. It was his affair. I loaned him the money. When they began to look good, I took them over.”
“Wasn’t that location paper in Pick’s handwriting?” Johnny asked gently.
“I never saw it, I tell you. Carmody pointed it out to me on a map. I was indulging the whim of my most loyal hand.”
“You lie, Fitz,” Johnny said idly. “You lie in your teeth. You saw that location paper. I can prove that because you wrote out the other five claims in your own handwriting.”
He turned to Westfall and said, “Big, give me those papers.”
There was a swift movement at Fitz’s chair, and Johnny swiveled his head, his hand streaking to his gun. But he was too late. Fitz had yanked out a .45 from a shoulder holster, and now he covered the room with it. He had taken advantage of that one second, during which everybody automatically looked at Westfall, to make his play. And it had succeeded. There was a full minute of dead silence.
“Don’t want to try it, eh?” Fitz taunted them. “All right, Baily, cover them.”
Blue rose and drew both his guns, and there was that old amiable smile on his face. He had been loyal, and his loyalty was repaid now, for no one man on earth could get the best of Fitz, he knew.
With three guns trained on him, Johnny did not take his eyes from Fitz.
“You’re a smart young whelp, Johnny,” Fitz said. “Too smart to live. I can’t make up my mind how many people you’ve told about us. I—”
“Us?” Johnny said swiftly. “Is Baily in on it, too?”
Fitz didn’t say anything. Baily chuckled. “Go ahead, Fitz. Tell him. Yes, I’m in on it, Johnny. I was in on it while you were my deputy.”
Johnny’s face did not change. It was flushed and tense, and his eyes were blazing.
“How many have you told, Johnny?” Fitz asked.
“Just these here.”
“Now I know you lie,” Fitz said. He shook his head reprovingly. “Well, I reckon we’ll have to ride out of Cosmos, Baily, don’t you?”
“Not without tellin’ him what he wants to know,” Baily taunted. “That’d be a shame. Did you kill Pick, Fitz?”
Fitz was watching Johnny, an evil smile on his face, as he said, “I had him killed, to be correct,” and it gave him pleasure to see how this tortured Johnny. “I was convinced he’d struck it rich.”
“All right, Baily,” he said then, when Johnny didn’t answer. “You start off. You’ve got two guns to my one, but save me—”
There was a crash of glass from the window behind Major Fitz, and in that stillness it exploded almost like a shot. Johnny saw the burlap billow out, saw Baily Blue jump with surprise, and then he streaked for his guns. Westfall was almost as quick. He swept the lamp off the table, and ducked.
But Johnny didn’t. Before the lamp went out, he whipped both guns hip-high, and the thunder of his shot was first, cutting in ahead of Baily Blue’s. Feet planted a little wide, one gun pointed dead ahead, the other at an angle toward Fitz, Johnny fanned the hammers frantically, cursing savagely.
And then the light winked out and the thunder of Turk’s guns joined the chorus and then the whole room exploded with the concert of gunfire.
When, finally, in that dark, Johnny saw no answering flashes, he pulled up his guns and waited. The fire from beside him slacked off. All that could be heard was a small gurgling groan from the floor. Behind him, someone moaned and then cursed.
“Strike a light!” Johnny ordered.
Westfall’s match flared, and he picked up the lamp. The chimney was broken, but the lamp was whole. By its guttering flame, they looked over toward the desk. Fitz was sitting against the desk leg, his head on his chest, as if he were trying to see the four neat holes that were spreading red across his shirt front.
Blue lay on his back, guns still in his hands, his face a bloody mess.
And then Johnny was aware that there was someone standing in the open doorway and he yanked up his gaze.
For a moment he was speechless, and then yelled, “Pick!”
In another second, he was beating Pick on the back, hugging him, trying to stifle the sobs of joy in his throat. Pick couldn’t talk. For twenty-five years of his life, ever since the day he had found that tiny orphan in the shack, he had been wanting to know this. And now he did—knew that John Hendry loved him as a son loves a father.
Pick’s first spoken words were characteristic, and they made Johnny laugh with joy. “I was squattin’ outside that window and heard every word, but I didn’t have a shell for my gun. So I heaved a rock.”
Things happened all at once now. A crowd gathered, attracted by the gunfire, and it was Bledsoe who, on the steps of the shack, told them the brief story of Major Fitz’s crimes and of his and Blue’s death. Inside, Pick told his story, of his faking his own death and planting of the false papers, of salting the test pits and starting the rush. And while he talked, he watched Johnny, his tired old eyes summing him up anew. And he saw that Johnny had been through the fire and had come out steel—a man.
It was only later, after all the stories had been compared, that Hugo Miller asked for a bandage on his leg. His wound was the only casualty of their group.
Chapter Twenty-Five: A CASE FOR THE CLERGY
It was midmorning by the time Tip had finished telling Nora. At the end of it, she rose from the chair in the lobby and walked over to the window. Tip watched her, his eyes reserved, watchful. He had been the first to leave Bonanza canyon last night. He had wanted to tell Nora about everything. And halfway through his story, they heard the clamor out on the streets that told them Johnny and Pick Hendry had returned to Cosmos. That had been an hour ago.
