by Short, Luke;
Kennedy just stared at him. Then he turned and raced for the porch. Scooping up the rifle, he trained it on Cavanaugh and came slowly and uncertainly toward him in the steady rain. “You ain’t dragging me into this, Ray. No sir.”
Cavanaugh said tauntingly, “Go ahead and shoot.”
Kennedy licked his lips and regarded Cavanaugh with helpless horror in which there was no anger even.
“Lever a shell in. You forgot that,” Cavanaugh taunted.
Kennedy’s gun slacked off then, and he almost wailed. “What’ll we do, Ray? What’ll we do?”
Cavanaugh knew he had his man now. Wes Kennedy was a trifling man without the courage to protect himself. “Get out of the rain first,” Cavanaugh said.
“But—”
“He’s dead, ain’t he?” Cavanaugh snarled.
He shouldered past Kennedy and went up to the porch and into the shack. He wrenched a dirty blanket from the bunk and threw it around him and came out onto the porch. Kennedy was standing there, his gaze intent and afraid and somehow begging.
Cavanaugh smothered his shivering and said, “How they goin’ to know he’s dead if they can’t find him?”
Kennedy shook his head, didn’t answer.
“We got to bury him up in the timber,” Cavanaugh said. “This rain’ll hide the hole. It’ll hide his tracks comin’ up here.”
Kennedy licked his lips and said, “No, Ray. No. Not on my place. Ballard’ll kill me if he finds out.”
“How’s he goin’ to find out?” Cavanaugh snarled. He coughed then, gagging on the violence of it. Afterward, he steadied himself against the wall and said to Kennedy, with a confidence he did not feel himself, “Get a shovel.”
Kennedy didn’t move. Cavanaugh, afraid and desperate now, walked up to him and cuffed him across the face with the flat of his palm.
Then he reached out and grasped the lapels of Kennedy’s vest and shook him violently. The blanket fell off Cavanaugh’s shoulders.
“You damn jughead, we’re in this together, don’t you see that! You’re goin’ to bury him up there and I’m goin’ to watch you. Then I’m goin’ home. And you ain’t goin’ to light out from here; you can’t! Will Ballard will hunt you to China!”
He paused and let go Kennedy’s lapels, and Kennedy just looked at him with naked fear.
“Bluff it out!” Cavanaugh snarled. “Nobody can prove anythin’. Now get a shovel!”
Chapter 5
Sam left D cross early and dropped down through the timbered foothills toward Alkali Flats. The ground mist was so thick on the flats after the rain that it seemed a pearl-gray sea. Sam rode briskly, for he had ground to cover this morning.
Around nine o’clock Sam crossed Bandoleer Creek and was presently off his own grass and onto Hatchet range, which adjoined it to the west. This was a waterless stretch, dry in the summer months, and it marked the boundary beyond which his cattle could not graze. This dry range stretched from Indian Ridge south and marked the west boundary of Bide’s range, his own, Ladder, next to him, and Six X, next to Ladder. The only water on it was Russian Springs, which Bide had seized, and a few dug wells farther south, which would not water a dozen head of cattle. Bide had seized the single bridge through which he could move deeper into Hatchet. The dug wells he had not bothered with, and it was the range around these wells that Sam was curious about this morning.
The sun had broken through now to drive off the ground mist, but it was not warm yet, and the wet smell of cold spring earth remained. As Sam approached the range around the dug well he saw his first cattle and rode over to get a closer look. He saw the Ladder branded on their steaming coats. It was as he expected. Allan, at Ladder, had no especial quarrel with Hatchet, but he was, nevertheless, not going to let Bide Marriner gobble all of Hatchet graze. If Bide moved farther Allan would move too. Sam had a moment of sullen anger then as he thought of his position in this business. He could not gracefully take any Hatchet range, but if it turned out that Hatchet couldn’t push the others off he stood to lose a lot of free grass by his hesitancy. His hands were tied.
Cutting north now, Sam made for Russian Springs, but before he reached it he had an answer to his question. Bide’s cattle had moved in all right. Moreover, Bide had line riders out, for Sam had had to pull back into timber to escape being seen by a rider leisurely skirting the hills.
Afterward Sam turned west toward Hatchet, a restlessness upon him now. Bide had moved, and Ladder, not to be outdone, had pushed in too. Farther south Six X had undoubtedly done the same, since Ladder had set the example. Those, with his own brand, accounted for the outfits in the Salt Hills flanking Hatchet. The rabble under Indian Ridge had undoubtedly moved in, and if they had, it argued that the small outfits in the Indigos, in spite of their truce with Hatchet, would push their boundaries down to include a chunk of Hatchet. Now was the time to act, Sam knew. And he had the proof for John and Celia that it was necessary, for Sam still thought he could sway John.
He rode into Hatchet after noon, and when he saw the cattle grazing in the horse pasture he grimaced. They were Cavanaugh’s, mixed with a few from other outfits, he noticed, and he rode up to the house and dismounted. In spite of his hurry this morning, Sam had taken time out to shave, and his face, flushed with the ride, was even more high-colored than usual. He tramped down the veranda, stopped at the kitchen window and peered in, and then stepped inside.
The smell of baking struck him like a soft, delicious pillow as he stepped in. Celia, kneeling by the oven door, looked up and smiled and said, “Isn’t that just like me? I bake the day all the wood’s wet.”
Sam threw his hat in a chair and came over to the table where cookies were laid out on an old newspaper. He picked one up and took a bite out of it, watching Celia.
Her cheeks were flushed with the heat from the stove, and her black hair was awry. She shoved the cookies in the oven and stood up and took a deep breath.
“These are good,” Sam said.
“They’re awful, and you know it,” Celia said, almost tartly. She looked at Sam now.
Sam said, “What’s eating you?”
“John’s gone,” Celia said calmly. “I had to do something to keep from thinking about it.”
Sam’s hand, clutching a second cookie, was arrested in mid-air. He said blankly, “Gone?”
“He didn’t come home last night,” Celia said. She sank into a chair and brushed a wisp of black hair from her cheek and regarded Sam levelly. “He left the men yesterday afternoon. Said he was going to Kennedy’s. He isn’t home yet, and Will’s ridden over there this morning.”
“Why Kennedy’s?”
“I don’t know,” Celia said wearily. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the opposite window, her gray eyes troubled. Sam put the cooky in his mouth, and when he had swallowed it he said easily, “He was probably wet and cold enough to stay the night.”
“Do you think so?” Celia asked dryly.
Sam frowned. Celia was sharp this morning, and that meant she was worried. He debated whether to bring up his business, now that John wasn’t here, and decided abruptly that he would. Now that Celia and John agreed, maybe John would listen to her. And right now she could transfer some of her absurd concern over John to something that really needed it.
He came over and put a foot on the chair beside her and folded his arms on his knees.
“Celia, what are those cattle doing in the horse pasture?”
“They’re the ones we’ve seized on Hatchet grass.”
Sam grunted. “You can’t keep ’em. Will knows that.”
“He doesn’t want to. But he can make it mighty uncomfortable for the men who come to claim them.”
Sam smiled grimly. “He’s got a job ahead of him if he goes through with it.” When Celia didn’t say anything he said heavily, “Or didn’t you know your whole east range is being taken over by Bide and Ladder and Six X?” He didn’t have proof that Case at Six X had moved in, but he was sure he had.
“I know. What are you going to do about it?”
“You heard Will say the other night. When we get these little outfits off our backs we’re going to work on the others.”
“When?”
Celia shrugged.
“Ladder cattle are around the wells now.”
Celia said with exasperation, “Sam, you can’t be subtle. What are you trying to say?”
Sam said stubbornly, “I’m trying to stop this before it gets started. Allan will wait until Bide’s moved in farther than he has, and then he’ll move farther. What about the outfits in the Indigos too? Harve Garretson and the others?”
“They’ve always been friends with Hatchet,” Celia said hotly. “They won’t take a foot of Hatchet range!”
“So Will thinks,” Sam said heavily. “My hunch is that the Salt Hills and Indigo outfits will be standing in your garden patch arguing who gets it unless you do something.”
“What more can we do?” Celia asked resentfully.
Sam should have seen the warning light in Celia’s rain-gray eyes, but he was not a sharp man in the ways of women. He had a point to make, and he went at it in the only way he knew, which was head on.
“I saw Bide in town yesterday. Talked with him.”
Celia kept ominously quiet.
“There’s just one thing keeping Bide in this fight.”
“Hatchet’s range, of course.”
“No.” Sam paused. “It’s Will.”
Celia said with a deceptively mild curiosity, “How did he happen to say that?”
“I asked him what would satisfy him,” Sam explained. “He said he hadn’t even thought of it. All he wanted was to get Will out of the way.”
Celia came slowly to her feet now, and when she spoke her voice held only the faintest undercurrent of anger. “In other words, you arranged a deal with Bide. He’d quit if Will would go?”
Sam straightened up, nodding. “Yes, you might call it that. That was understood, kind of. It—”
“On whose authority did you do this?” Celia asked. The anger was really out now, and Sam looked startled.
“Why—nobody’s,” he said resentfully. “I tried to get a basis for settling this row, is all.”
“And the basis is that Will goes?” Celia’s tone was one of contempt and scorn.
Sam looked at her narrowly, not angry, but trying to reach back of her anger.
“Who’s Will that Hatchet needs him so bad you and John will wreck it to keep him?” he asked slowly.
“Only Dad’s friend! My friend and John’s! The best cattleman this country ever saw!” Celia flared.
Sam’s square face altered slightly. “I’d always thought,” he said dryly, “the sun could come up without his help. Maybe I was wrong.”
“That’s not fair, Sam!”
“I always thought he could be wrong sometimes,” Sam went on with dogged sarcasm. “Maybe I was wrong again.”
“But you’re wrong now, and Will’s right,” Celia said instantly.
“Oh.” Sam just stared at her, as if he’d seen something new in her. “I knew you were the one that kept Will on here. I thought, though, if it ever came to a choice between Will and Hatchet, Will would go.”
Celia said hotly, “If I have anything to do with it Will won’t go! So forget it, Sam!”
Sam just looked at her curiously. “Sure. Sure,” he said softly, mildly. “But not before John knows this.”
“I’ll tell him,” Celia said defiantly.
Sam regarded her curiously. She was stirred, really angry, over what he’d said about Will. Talk of Will had always been avoided between them, usually because Sam didn’t like him and Celia did. He had excused this in her on the grounds of sentiment. Will had helped bring Hatchet to power, and old Phil, who was like Will, treated him as a son. But there was a limit to sentiment, and this was it. Sam knew an honest bafflement now. Will was only a foreman—smart, but too reckless and unstable—and he stood in the way of Hatchet. Yet Celia, who would own Hatchet and who would be his wife, couldn’t see this.
A sudden unwanted suspicion came to Sam then, and he put it scornfully aside as beneath consideration. Celia was watching him with a defiance in her eyes that Sam did not care to bait. He picked up his hat and said quietly, “I’ll be getting on.”
Celia’s anger melted then. She came over to him and put her hands on his shoulders and buried her face in his chest and was quiet a moment.
She said presently, “I’m sorry, Sam. I—guess I’m worried about Uncle John.”
Sam said, soberly, “You’ve got a tongue.”
Celia looked at him and smiled fleetingly. “I guess you’ll have to take that along with the rest of me, Sam.” She turned away from him and saw the cookies on the table.
“Want to take some home?” she asked.
“I guess not,” Sam said stolidly. “They’re not very good.” When Celia turned to look at him he was putting on his hat, oblivious to her gaze. “I’ll be getting on. So long,” he said placidly.
“So long, Sam.”
When he was gone she kept staring at the door. She heard him ride out, and only then did she move.
She came up to the table, picked up a cooky, and nibbled judiciously on it. Then she gathered up the paper by its corners, went to the stove, lifted the lid, and threw the cookies in the fire. Those in the oven followed.
Will and Jim Young rode into Kennedy’s place around noon. Kennedy was spading the muddy vegetable patch in front of his shack.
As they approached Will saw that Kennedy was almost bogged down in mud. His boots were balled with it; his hands and forearms were caked, and the yard between the patch and the porch looked as if a herd of horses had been driven across it.
Jim Young drawled quietly, “He likes diggin’ mud, looks like.”
Will nodded agreement. Kennedy appeared not to see them until they were almost into the yard. Then he straightened up, leaned on his spade, and watched them approach.
Will reined up just outside the patch and looked at the furrows of mud and said, “What’s your hurry, Wes?”
Kennedy spat and tramped across to them and jammed his spade in the mud. “I tell you, Will. I got so sick of the inside of that shack while it was rainin’ that I just made up some outside work this mornin’.”
He grinned and looked at Will, and then his glance slid away. He rubbed his face with his palm and got dirt in his mouth and spat it out, and then glanced nervously at Jim Young. The Texan was watching him with a veiled curiosity. Wes said cordially, “Hoddy.”
“Howdy,” Jim said.
Will looked around the place and then returned his gaze to Kennedy. “You were here yesterday, Wes?”
“That’s right. Lost some cattle?”
“Why, no,” Will murmured. He was looking at Wes, and his green eyes were watchful, probing. Kennedy, seeing it, was afraid of this big man; he was so afraid of him that he had declined to join Marriner in moving onto Hatchet. And now, with this unbearable secret locked inside, he had to face him. Cavanaugh had told him to bluff it out, but Kennedy had known even then that this was impossible. And now Will had come, and his horse was standing almost on the spot where John Evarts had fallen and which Kennedy had tried to cover up.
He waited, and when Will just kept watching him his glance raised to Will and fell instantly. He studied the handle of the spade and he felt sweat begin to bead his face.
“Anything wrong, Wes?” Will asked mildly. Kennedy made himself look at Will. “Wrong?” He cleared his throat, pulling his voice down from an uncertain treble to its normal register. “Nothin’ wrong with me, Will. Why?”
“You look kind of worried.”
“Why should I?” Kennedy forced his voice into feigning anger. He looked sternly at Will and again he couldn’t hold Will’s glance. He looked instead at Jim Young and blurted, “Who’s this fella, Will?”
Will said mildly, implacably, “John Eva
rts headed this way yesterday, Wes. Seen him?”
Kennedy closed his eyes, afraid he would faint, and then he dragged his glance up to Will again. “I ain’t seen him, Will. Why would he come here?”
Will said gently, ignoring the question, “You’re sure, Wes?”
“I been here all the time!” Wes cried.
Will reached down with one swift movement and gathered in Kennedy’s shirt and hauled him roughly against his leg. “You’re kind of worried, Wes,” he drawled.
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” Kennedy bawled.
When Will let go Kennedy’s knees gave way and he fell. Dragging himself to his feet, his mind was working with a panicked swiftness. He knew without thinking that if he told Will the truth he was a dead man.
He reached out and steadied himself against Will’s bay horse and said, “Will, I stole a Hatchet cow,” and he looked at Will.
The blazing disappointment in Will’s eyes was like a flag of hope to Kennedy, and his words began to tumble out uncontrollably.
“I done it, Will; figured you wouldn’t miss one more after all you lost last winter, so I stole her. I butchered her and buried the hide and I got the meat. But I’ll pay you back. I swear I will. I got a cow you can have. She’s right close to Hatchet now, and I’ll drive her over to your place. I—”
“Quit it,” Will said in weary disgust.
Kennedy stopped talking. He was almost afraid to breathe as he tried to read the expression on Will’s face. It was one of bitter disappointment and puzzlement.
“Evarts wasn’t here?” Will asked.
“No sir,” Kennedy said flatly. He knew that Will had accepted the explanation of his fear, and he had the cunning now to see that talk would save him, not silence.
“Will, you ain’t goin’ to hold this against me, are you, if I give you a cow? I swear I got one you can have, and I’ll do anythin’ you say to make up for it. I’ll even let you have—”
“All right,” Will said impatiently. He looked at Jim Young and shook his head once and turned his horse around.
Kennedy stood there, breathing softly, looking at the ground, knowing Will was watching him, hoping against hope that he would not have to look at Will again.
