Novel 1965 - The High Graders (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “There’s Halloran … and John Sande.”

  Yes, they were good men. Ray Hollister considered the route the gold would be likely to take. Understanding the problem, as probably nobody else did quite so well, he knew the gold must go east. On the west coast the channels of finance were narrow, and there would be too much chance of talk. California was filled with rumors upon rumors, everybody was agog for discoveries, and the slightest suggestion of gold appearing from a new source would set off a rush. Such an amount of gold as this might be more easily handled if it could be shipped to the East.

  One by one he went over the routes in his mind, and one by one he eliminated them until only two were left, and of these one was very doubtful.

  Winkler rode in before midnight. He sat down on a rock and listened to Hollister’s plan. “All right,” he said, “count on me… . What about Halloran and Sande?”

  “They’ll go,” Babcock said.

  Suspicion was not a normal attitude for Babcock. He was a man who did his job, whatever it was, did it simply and directly, and with no nonsense, nor did he allow any nonsense from anyone else.

  The handling of cattle was not only his job, it was his vocation; it was the biggest part of his life, and aside from the problems of cattle, nothing had ever seemed important for any length of time. He was always concerned with range conditions, water supplies, noxious weeds, and the amount of beef that could be packed on a steer’s frame.

  From the hour of rising, usually before sunup, until dusk or after, he lived, breathed, and thought cattle. If Babcock ever dreamed, it was only of greener pastures, clearer water, and a short drive to market. He had never taken time out to consider Ray Hollister as anything but a boss who permitted him freedom in the job he knew best; but now the ugly thought was growing in him that Hollister might actually have been involved with Ben Stowe.

  The arrival of Jess Winkler had interrupted his thoughts. He had a sort of respect for the wolfer, but had never liked him, for, as is often the case, the hunter had taken on some of the qualities of the creature he hunted. Winkler could not approach anything—a strange camp, a house, a person, or an idea—without circling warily and sniffing the breeze from every angle. He was a man with the suspicions of a wolf. He had trapped, so he feared traps.

  Winkler had held a rough affection for Eve Bancroft, but he had considered her too notional, too feminine. He did not trust Hollister, and he also did not trust Babcock, nor anybody else he could think of at the present time. He was a hard old man whose rifle was an extension of himself.

  It had not yet occurred to him that his stake in the game had gone with the death of Eve Bancroft. The idea of taking gold away from the mining outfit appealed to him, and gave direction to his days, at least for a little while.

  Two days later, Halloran and John Sande rode in, and as Babcock had promised, they were ready. Winkler would ride in to town to nose about and see what he could discover. The others, after some discussion, decided upon a rendezvous at Boulder Spring. It was close enough to Rafter, had good grass and water, and yet was out of the way.

  ALL WAS QUIET at Parry’s claim cabin when Mike Shevlin returned. But Parry was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any indication that he had been around the place for hours. Mike went back into the mine tunnel, but no further work had been done there.

  Suddenly feeling uneasy, he came back to the cabin. The canyon was utterly still … unnaturally so.

  Seated on a bench outside the cabin door, Mike Shevlin cleaned and oiled his Winchester, and then his pistols, working steadily, but with one of the guns always at hand and in operating order. Carefully, he sorted over in his mind all he knew of Burt Parry, and it was very little.

  Where did Burt Parry go when he left the claim? Shevlin wondered. The question had been at the back of his mind, but now for the first time he brought it out into the open to consider.

  He certainly had not gone to town, though he had ridden in that direction. Aside from the fact that he had disclaimed any interest in the difficulties of the people around Rafter, and had even disclaimed any interest in the gold or the high-grading, he had said very little. However, one thing stuck in Shevlin’s mind. The first time he had seen Parry in the café, he had been in conversation with Clagg Merriam.

  That in itself need not mean anything at all. Parry seemed a man of some education, appeared to be of eastern background, and he might have some things in common with Merriam.

  Shevlin glanced up the canyon now, his eyes resting on the dump at the mouth of the old tunnel—the discovery claim, Parry had said.

  Coming back to his mind was Hoyt’s comment that the high-grade lay between the two mines, and that at the first hint of discovery the approach tunnels would be blasted shut. Those explosives should be found and removed, but that was not up to him. First, he must find the cache of gold bullion.

  Feeling restless, he wandered back into Parry’s tunnel, considering the idea of drilling a round of holes. He scanned the walls, and realized for the first time that the rock showed no evidence of minerals, no quartz, nothing at all but ordinary rock.

  Returning to the outside, he backed off to the edge of the bench and studied the slope above the mine. He saw no promising outcropping, nor any sign of work; yet Parry’s ore was supposed to have been located by a find somewhere on that slope.

  Suppose there was no ore there? Suppose this operation, this mining claim of Parry’s, was a fake, a blind, just a useful cover for some other operation? What, then, would it be? An investigator of some kind? It was possible. Or … suppose Parry was put here to watch something? Suppose during those mysterious absences he was keeping guard over something?

  Mike Shevlin sat down on the bench and lit a cigar. Suppose, then … suppose just for the sake of argument that Burt Parry was guarding the gold itself. Was he guarding it for the combine? Or for one of them against the others?

  Stifling his excitement, Shevlin began to consider this new possibility. Actually, it was of no importance to him just why Parry was watching the gold, if that was what he was doing. What was important was the obvious fact that if he was watching the gold it must be close by. The mining claim must have been located just where it was for a reason.

  Parry always went down the canyon, but did he continue in that direction? Or did he return under cover of the brush in the canyon bottom?

  Shevlin had once seen him standing on the dump at the mouth of the old discovery tunnel.

  The old discovery tunnel! He got up, his mouth suddenly dry. Suppose … ?

  He turned away sharply, and picked up his rifle. No use saddling his horse. The tunnel was only a few minutes walk up the canyon.

  He had not reached the spring when he heard a clatter of horse’s hoofs on the trail from Rafter. He hesitated, swore softly, then turned around, and retraced his steps.

  As he got to the cabin, the rider came into the open area on the bench. It was Red … the miner with whom he had had trouble the day he arrived in Rafter.

  “Get your horse,” Red said abruptly. “Ben Stowe wants to see you!”

  Mike Shevlin looked at him calmly, then took the stub of the extinguished cigar from his pocket and put it between his teeth. He struck a match with his left hand and lifted it to light the cigar.

  “If Ben Stowe wants to see me, he knows where to find me.”

  Red looked surprised. “You want me to tell him that?”

  “You tell him whatever you’ve a mind to.”

  Red stared at him. “I got a damn’ good notion to take you in,” he said.

  “All right,” Shevlin replied, “go ahead. You take me!”

  CHAPTER 14

  RED HESITATED A moment, then backed down. “The hell with it! If you don’t want to come, that’s your hard luck. I’ll tell Ben.”

  He wheeled his horse and started away, muttering to himself. From the top of a rise in the narrow trail he glanced back. Mike Shevlin was gone. “Now where the devil—?”

  Red drew
rein and turned in his saddle. Where could Shevlin have gone so suddenly? As far as that went, where had he been coming from when he rode up? He had acted surprised, and he had seemed hurried.

  Red pulled his horse over against the rock wall where they would be less visible, and he watched the canyon for some time. Then he saw a figure appear on the dump of the old discovery claim. It was Mike Shevlin, and he vanished into the tunnel.

  When several minutes passed and he did not emerge, Red swung his horse and cantered off toward town.

  All was quiet when he rode up the street. Hoyt was standing in front of his office, and Doc Clagg was walking along with his sister and that Tennison girl who was visiting them.

  The door of Ben Stowe’s office was locked, so Red went across to the Nevada House, where he found Stowe eating.

  “He wouldn’t come,” Red said. “He said if you wanted to see him, you knew where he was.”

  Surprisingly enough, Ben Stowe did not seem angered at that. “All right,” he said mildly. “I’ll ride out that way.”

  “You won’t find him,” Red said. “He’s prowling around up the canyon. I saw him going into the old discovery tunnel.”

  Ben Stowe’s features stiffened, and the hand that held the fork gripped hard. But when he spoke, his voice was casual.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Long as it took me to ride in. I came right along.”

  “Thanks, Red. You hang around town, d’you hear? I might need you.”

  When Red had gone, Ben Stowe put his fork down slowly. His appetite was gone completely. He had been a fool to allow Shevlin to go to work up there, but Clagg Merriam had said there was nothing to worry about. Working for Burt Parry would keep him out of trouble, and nobody ever saw anything that was right under their nose, anyway. It had seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe it was still a good idea.

  He had planned to offer Shevlin the place Gentry had held; now he was not so sure. It was unlikely that Shevlin would find anything; and if he did, they might still make a deal. But why was Shevlin nosing around? What was he looking for? And where was Burt Parry?

  It would not do to move hastily, and above all, Red’s suspicions must not be aroused. Of course, he had told Red he would ride out and talk to Shevlin, and so he would. There are some things a man had better do himself.

  He forced himself to eat a little more, and to take his time over another cup of coffee.

  What he did within the next few hours could mean the difference between success and failure, between wealth and poverty, even between life and death.

  For the first time in his life he felt haunted by uncertainties. His life until this minute had been relatively simple, but within a matter of days, hours even, the certainties had vanished.

  With Gib Gentry’s death, the keystone of his plan was gone. He had come to despise Gentry, but the man had been essential to their plan, with the freighting company carefully set up for the purpose. His death, through Lon Court’s mistake, left a gaping hole in the carefully planned structure.

  And that girl at Doc Clagg’s—who was she? What was she?

  Irritation mounted within him, an irritation that was born of panic, a panic he stifled. There was no reason to get stirred up. First, he must find Mike Shevlin, find out how much he knew, and whether or not he would go along with Ben Stowe.

  Thinking of Shevlin’s suggestion that Stowe ride out of town to see him, he swore bitterly, hating the idea of approaching Shevlin with a proposition. Unfortunately, he knew of nobody else who might get that gold safely to its destination, nobody at all.

  He had an uneasy feeling that things were getting out of hand, yet, despite the unfortunate killing of Eve Bancroft, nothing really seemed amiss that couldn’t be taken care of.

  Ray Hollister was out of it … he was finished. Ben Stowe should have been pleased about that, but Hollister had been a gathering point for his enemies. As long as Hollister was around, Stowe had always known where the cattlemen would be.

  He went now to the livery stable, strolling casually along the street. He wanted his manner to be remembered: he was a man going for a little ride after lunch, something he had done occasionally over the years. That he was going to win an ally or kill a man before the day was over was something nobody must guess.

  Brazos was not at the stable. Ben Stowe had grown accustomed to service, and he disliked saddling his own horse. Irritably, he saddled up, led the horse outside, and stepped into the saddle. Where was that damned hostler, anyway?

  At that very moment Brazos was seated in the kitchen of Dr. Clagg’s home with a shotgun across his knees, and close at hand, a Winchester .44. He had been recruited by Clagg as a guard for Laine Tennison.

  In Clagg’s office several patients had arrived for consultation. Billy Townsend, owner of the Blue Horn Saloon, James Martin Field, editor and publisher of the Rafter Blade, and Tom Hayes, who operated a general store, were all there. There were several others, chosen with care.

  Clagg was speaking to them.

  “We will waste no time arguing about the past. What remains is to see what possibilities are open to us now. If any of you have any doubts as to the purpose of our meeting, it is just this: to consider the state of affairs in Rafter as of this minute.

  “A young woman, a well-known and generally respected owner of a ranch, has been shot down on the streets of Rafter. Gib Gentry, a businessman of this town, has been murdered just outside it. A notorious killer, imported for what reason we do not know, has been slain in the hills nearby. These killings have all happened in the last few days.”

  Hayes shifted uncomfortably, and sweat began to bead his forehead.

  “We have a marshal with an excellent reputation,” Dr. Clagg went on, “but he is also a marshal who is willing to go along with what the townspeople accept, and within those limits, to keep the peace. That has been the customary practice in most western communities. It remains to be seen whether that is sufficient here.”

  The outer door opened and closed, then the door to the inner office opened, and Laine Tennison stood there. “Rupert,” she said abruptly, “I believe this meeting concerns me. I wish to join it.”

  “I was expecting you,” Clagg said. “I told Dottie to let you know what was happening. Will you sit down?”

  Tom Hayes started to get up, then sat down again. “Now look, Doc,” he protested, “I ain’t sure I want to get mixed up in this. Things have been going along pretty good, and—”

  “Hold your horses, Tom,” Billy Townsend said easily. “You just set still and listen to what the Doc has to say. He looks to me like a man with ideas.”

  Hayes glanced around uneasily, but sat back in his chair. “What about her?” he grumbled. “What’s that girl doin’ in here?”

  Laine turned on him coolly. “I am here because I have a bigger stake in this than any of you. I own the mines—both of them.”

  All eyes turned toward her and she colored a little, her chin lifting.

  “That’s right, gentlemen,” Clagg said. “Miss Tennison has another distinction. She is the niece of Eli Patterson, the man whose murder started all this.”

  Hayes started at the word “murder,” then he relaxed.

  “We are here to make a decision,” Clagg said. “Do we wish to continue to live upon the proceeds of crime and murder, to rear our families in an atmosphere of the acceptance of crime, getting in deeper and deeper each day; or are we going to make a break with the past and demand that this town be cleaned up?”

  Billy Townsend crossed one knee over the other, and said, “If we start cleaning up this town, a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

  Laine Tennison spoke up sharply. “Gentlemen, let me tell you this: somebody is going to get hurt anyway. My attorneys have drafted a letter to the governor—I believe he is Jack Moorman’s son-in-law—asking that a special officer be appointed to bring law and order to Rafter. I have requested a complete investigation.”

  She paused, looki
ng slowly around the room. “I have requested an investigation into the stealing of gold, and also as to the identity of those who have been receiving the stolen goods.” There was a stir of apprehension in the room, but she added, “However, I have no wish to bring trouble to anybody else if I can convict those responsible and recover my gold.”

  “That’s fair,” Townsend said.

  “Prosecutin’ is one thing,” Hayes said, “convictin’ is another. Anyway, who is goin’ to be the one to roust that outfit out of here?”

  “If he is told to do it by the townspeople, and if he has support, I think Wilson Hoyt will do it.”

  “He’ll try,” Townsend agreed.

  “He’s only one man,” Hayes said, “only one man against that bunch of fighters Ben Stowe has imported. Why, half of those miners are no more miners than you or me. They’re pistol-men from Texas or wherever.”

  “Gentlemen,” Clagg said dryly, “if we vote to act now, I shall myself walk beside Hoyt.”

  They looked at him in surprise, all but Townsend. “I run a saloon, and the money has been good. All the same, I’ve known it was the wrong way to run a town. Doc, when you walk out there with Hoyt, I’ll be right alongside of you.”

  “Good,” Clagg said. “I had an idea that’s where you’d be, Billy.”

  “And me too,” Fields said. “I haven’t shot a rifle since the War Between the States, but I’ve got a mighty good shotgun.”

  Tom Hayes got up quickly. “You’re a pack of fools!” he exclaimed angrily. “I’ll have nothing to do with this.”

  At the back of the room two others rose quickly and ducked out the door.

  Hayes hesitated, as if wanting to say something more. “You can’t ride the fence, Tom,” Townsend said quietly. “We called you in to give you your chance.”

  “Chance! Why you ain’t got no chance at all. The minute Ben Stowe hears about this you’ll all be riding for a slab on Boot Hill!”

  Billy Townsend was smiling a little. “Are you going to tell him, Tom?”