by Short, Luke;
He pulled back into the timber and climbed behind Bide’s place and then set off north along a rising trail toward Indian Ridge. His riding was almost aimless, but he kept to the ridges and paused now and then to watch the country. Below, on the flats, he saw a spring wagon cut across a corner of Sam’s D Cross, headed toward the Springs. Farther west the sun flashed on a window of one of the shacks along Bandoleer Creek. Again he sought a trail, keeping to the high ground. Each trail he crossed he studied in silence, reading the movements of men and animals upon it.
That night he camped somewhere above the junction of Indian Ridge with the Salt Hills, and next morning he was riding before daylight.
Now he was more alert, more careful, for this was the country under Indian Ridge. It was a rough country of tight-snarled valleys and sparse grass, and its ranches were small affairs run by men who coveted the good grass and sometimes the cattle to the south. Will was not loved in this country, and twice, when he heard riders approaching, he pulled off into the brush and let them pass. But he watched the trails and spent long hours observing one ranch and then another as he worked toward the Indigos. He watched Cavanaugh’s small layout until he saw Cavanaugh himself drag out to the well for a bucket of water, a blanket wrapped around him. But nothing he saw during that day was out of the ordinary. He was not seen and he was not stopped, and he knew that if John Evarts was being held back in here it would be otherwise.
At dusk he drifted into the timber of the Indigos which lifted, tier on timbered tier, to the peaks and the reservation beyond.
He cut south then and picked up an old logging trail that slanted up the Indigos and presently, after dark, rode into the clearing that marked Ten Mile.
It was a shabby set of buildings on a bare stump-pocked valley floor flanking a rutted logging road that vanished up the canyon. There was the big saloon and, across the road, a store and blacksmith shop. Up the road was the unpainted hotel, converted from the logging-camp bunkhouse.
Will studied it from the darkness, and he knew this visit had been in the back of his mind when he set out from Boundary. He wanted to talk with Red Courteen.
It was early yet, and there were few horses at the saloon’s tie rail. Will rode past the rusted skeleton of the abandoned mill boiler and past the saloon in the darkness and heard the conversation of two men on the porch break off abruptly. He noted, too, that one of the men immediately stepped into the saloon to spread the word of Will’s presence.
Will dismounted at the store and went inside and bought some tobacco and afterward came out on the porch and rolled a cigarette. He smoked it completely, and afterward, figuring that Courteen had had time to get word of his presence, he cut across the rutted road and mounted the steps into the saloon.
Inside a pair of punchers were playing cards at one of the tables across from the bar, and they studiously avoided looking at him. In the back room two others were playing pool at the lone table, silent in feigned concentration. Will smiled faintly and walked up to the short bar and asked of the bartender, “Where’s Red?”
The bartender tilted his head and said, “Inside.”
Will tramped across to the door in the side wall at the head of the bar and turned to look at the cardplayers. He surprised them watching him, and he saluted them gravely before he opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was almost as big as the barroom, and in the far corner Red Courteen sat at his desk, his back to the door. He did not look up at Will’s entrance, and Will waited a moment, watching him. When Courteen still did not look up Will opened the door and slammed it viciously.
The crash of its closing brought Courteen out of his chair to face Will.
“Don’t do that to me, Red,” Will murmured and started across the room.
Courteen sank back into his chair. He was a man of forty or so, and his thin, alert face held a toughness in it that was not spurious. His hair was kinky, a deep brick color, and fitted his narrow skull closely. There was a kind of sullen watchfulness in his green eyes as he regarded Will. They were dressed alike in waist overalls and calico shirt, except that Red wore a black coat as a badge of dignity.
Will looked around the room once and came to a halt by the table in the middle of the room, a big man whose arrogance had always baited Courteen’s temper.
Red said thinly, “It took you longer than I figured, Will. You always get here, though.”
“Don’t I?” Will murmured.
Red nodded toward the door. “Go ahead. Look us over. Saloon, store, and hotel. Every room of it, if you want.”
Will looked blankly at him, and only after a moment did understanding come. Courteen was talking about John Evarts, and Will was instantly alert. He said idly, “How’d you hear?”
“Kennedy rode through last night.”
Will felt the sudden pulling of excitement, but his tone was casual as he asked, “Rode through? To where?”
Courteen shrugged. “Out of the country. He usually spooks first, don’t he?”
Will said instantly, swiftly, “What did he say?”
Curiosity mounted into Courteen’s eyes, and he didn’t answer.
“What did he say?” Will asked sharply.
“Why, nothin’, except you were on the prod lookin’ for John Evarts. He got drunk too quick to talk much.” He was frowning, puzzlement supplanting the dislike in his eyes.
Will stepped in front of him and said thinly, “Red, you better remember. Who’d he drink with? Who’d, he talk to?”
Courteen came to his feet, saying slowly, “He’s got a girl here! She works for me in the hotel, and he was with her. Why?”
“Take me to her.”
Courteen shrugged and led the way out of the office and the barroom, and Will tramped silently beside him, his original business with Courteen forgotten now. For Kennedy had left the country, and Will knew it was not because he was afraid of having to pay Hatchet for a stolen cow. Kennedy knew something and he was afraid. Crossing to the hotel in the darkness, Will remembered Kennedy’s craven fear there at the shack, and he cursed himself silently and bitterly for having believed his story.
Courteen led him through the small lobby, past the desk, and into the dark dining room, where he paused, looking around. The dining room was a crude affair of deal tables and benches, and the dishes of half a dozen diners still remained uncleaned.
Courteen went past the tables toward the rear and shouldered through the door into the kitchen.
A middle-aged Indian woman was shoving wood into the stove, and she looked at them without interest. Beyond her at the crude sink stood a girl in a drab, faded dress, her back to them.
Courteen called, “Amelia,” and the girl turned abruptly. She looked inquiringly at Courteen and then saw Will, and for a fleeting instant there was blank dismay in her face.
She knows, Will thought as Courteen said, “Will Ballard wants to talk to you.”
Courteen left them, and the girl came slowly away from the sink, wiping her hands on a dirty apron. She was a plain drudge of a girl, Will saw, probably the only kind of woman Kennedy could attract. Her step was reluctant as he stepped back and held open the door into the dining room.
She walked through it and then faced him defiantly.
“Sit down,” Will said gently.
The girl went over to a bench and seated herself, and she would not look at him. Her thin, unlovely face and work-reddened hands served to keep Will silent a moment. He was baffled as to how to begin this, for the girl, even in her silence, was already stubborn and unrelenting and somehow to be pitied.
Will said mildly, “What did Wes tell you about me, miss?”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” she flared. “I don’t even know you.”
She looked at him with a fierce resentment, and her glance fell away. Will knew a sudden discouragement, watching her. She would steadfastly deny knowing anything about Kennedy’s affairs, and there was no way he could coax information out of her.
&nb
sp; Will made his decision quickly, despising himself for it. He said in a normal voice, “Wes will have to ride pretty long and pretty far to get away from this murder charge, miss.”
She looked at him now, and Will went on in the same tone, “John Evarts had friends all over the back country, a lot of friends.”
“He didn’t kill John Evarts!” the girl said defiantly.
“So Evarts is dead.”
The girl saw her mistake immediately, and her face hardened. She started to rise, but Will put a hand on her shoulder and forced her gently back on the bench.
“I never thought Wes killed him,” Will said. “What’s the sense in him coming back to prove it?”
“He’s gone! You can’t bring him back. He never did anything!”
“He stole a Hatchet cow,” Will reminded her.
“He didn’t. He made that up!”
Will shook his head. “He admitted it to me and Jim Young. That’s all Joe Kneen needs to send out his name to every country sheriff and have him brought back.”
The girl was watching him now. Will went on, “What’s the sense in hauling him back here to face that charge and maybe get a murder charge on top of it?” He paused and repeated, “What’s the sense—when you can tell me all he knows.”
“But I don’t know anything!” She was close to tears, but Will went on implacably, “You know he didn’t kill John Evarts, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you know? That’s all I want from you, and I’ll forget Wes.”
The girl looked around the room and took a deep breath and then suddenly shook her head. “I can’t tell you,” she said, her voice almost a wail. “I’ve got to work here. If I told you I’d be killed too, maybe.”
“Then why don’t you follow Wes?” Will said quickly. “There’s money to do it. I can give it to you.”
She hesitated a long moment. “How much?” she whispered.
Will shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
“A hundred dollars?” the girl asked defiantly.
Will nodded, feeling a pity for this girl.
“And—you’ll give me time to get away?”
“As much as you want.”
The girl looked down at her hands, and Will knew her courage was failing her. He said quickly, “You wait here and I’ll get the money,” and before she could protest he walked out of the dining room.
Courteen was standing on the edge of the porch smoking a cigar when Will came out and said, “I want to borrow a hundred dollars, Red. I want it now.”
Red looked at him in the dark and said dryly, “Why should I give it to you?”
“Think a minute,” Will murmured.
Red Courteen stared at him in the darkness, and his hatred was almost a tangible thing. Will knew what was keeping Red silent. It was the memory of Hatchet’s vindictiveness. Red thought Hatchet would lose, but he wasn’t sure enough of it to take the risk of crossing Will.
Courteen swore bitterly then and threw his cigar to the ground. It showered sparks as it struck, and Red said in a low, savage voice, “I’m not afraid of you, Will. Don’t think that.” Will said nothing; he knew he had won.
Red stepped off the porch then and headed for the saloon, and again Will fell in beside him.
They entered the barroom, and Will followed him into the office. In front of a squat, cast-iron safe in the corner Courteen knelt and, after a pause to work its combination, swung the door open and rose with a strongbox.
There was a faint, derisive smile on Will’s face as Courteen counted out the gold eagles onto the table and shoved them across to him.
Courteen’s hot glance raised to him now. “Phil Evarts told me once to stay off Hatchet. I’m telling you now. Stay out of Ten Mile, Will.”
“I’ll be back to pay you.”
Courteen shook his head. “That hundred is to get you off my back. You better stay off.”
Will picked up the coins and pocketed them and said, “I’ll be back,” and tramped to the door. He paused there and regarded Courteen and said with quiet arrogance, “When I come back, Red, you better sing soft.”
He opened the door and stepped out, and he was immediately aware of the utter absence of talk, of any noise here. He closed the door behind him and looked around.
Russ Schultz stood at the end of the bar, his heavy, stupid face flushed with drink. At the table across the room were seated Ed Germany and Hutch Williams, two ranchers from the Indigos who had always been friends with Hatchet. It could be one of these men with whom Priest had been talking of running cattle on shares. Marriner’s man was here, talking to them tonight, and yet Will, seeing it, felt only a vast impatience to get back to the girl with the money.
He moved toward the door, and Schultz said loudly, “In a hurry, Will?”
“I am,” Will answered calmly and walked out. Behind him as he went down the steps he heard the sudden murmur of voices, and he paid them no attention.
The girl was sitting in the dining room, just as he had left her. He went over to her and held out the handful of coins, and her hand slowly rose to take them.
“I shouldn’t take these,” she said uncertainty. “I don’t really know.”
“What is it?”
“Wes got too drank,” the girl said swiftly. “I took him to my room to sleep it off, but he kept talking.”
Will watched her, patient.
“He was telling me he had to leave. I didn’t know why. He kept telling me something else that I didn’t understand.” She paused, suddenly timid. “He kept saying, ‘Ray shouldn’t of shot him.’ He said it over and over.”
Will stood there, hardly breathing, and let this knowledge sink in. Cavanaugh, it was—and John had been shot to death. In swift reconstruction of it he saw that John had come to Kennedy’s, and Cavanaugh had been there. They had quarreled, and Kennedy had seen it happen. Somehow Kennedy had decided to stay and face it out—maybe because he was afraid his absence would throw the blame on him—but his nerve had failed him in the end.
There was no anger in Will now, only a kind of wicked fatalism. He said, “How many days do you want?”
“I didn’t understand it,” the girl went on heedlessly. “Not until I heard the men talking at supper about John Evarts’ disappearing.” She looked at Will, and his face was bleak, uninterested. She said, “Two days, I guess,” and Will nodded and went out.
He heard the quiet laughter of men on the saloon porch as he approached, and he shifted his gaze across the street to the tie rail in front of the store.
His horse was gone.
He hauled up, his attention arrested now. Again he heard the quiet laughter on the saloon porch and he thought he heard Schultz’s voice along with Red Courteen’s. With an effort of will, he put Ray Cavanaugh from his mind and forced himself into awareness.
He tried now to think back to when he left the saloon and of what he had only half heard Schultz say. Something about being in a hurry. And then it came to him. Schultz, remembering the bitter indignity of having to foot it home from the seep that day, was giving Will a taste of the same tough treatment. He was putting him afoot.
Seeing it, a welcome, reckless rage came to Will then, and he stood there tasting it in his mouth, feeling it take hold of him. For too many days he had been patient and accepting, seeing nothing he could get his hands on and hit. Now he knew John was murdered and something to hit was here, set up by this clumsy Schultz, and Will felt a hard and savage joy.
He stepped back farther from the road now and cut back into the deep darkness between the hotel and saloon. At the rear of the saloon he paused and softly opened the door. It let onto the back room, which was deserted now. Two billiard cues lay on the table among a scattering of balls.
Will softly stepped inside and moved forward, pausing by the table to look into the barroom. It was deserted, too, but standing in the swing doors, a hand on each one, pushing them out, stood Red Courteen. Red would enjoy this, Will thought wicke
dly.
His glance fell to the billiard table, and then he picked up three balls, cradling two of them in his left hand, holding the third in his right hand. He stepped clear of the table and threw.
The ball caught Red Courteen squarely in the back, and the wind was driven from him in a savage grunt as he pitched forward through the doors.
Will threw the second ball through the right-hand front window, shattering it in a jangle of glass. The third ball struck the window sill of the left window and caromed heavily through the glass into the darkness. A man outside howled curses, and then came the stampeding of feet as they all ran to get off the porch.
Will lifted his gun now and shot out the big overhead lamp. This left him with the pool-table lamp at his back, and someone outside, seeing him, let go a shot. It slammed into the ball rack on the rear wall, knocking it off its nail, and it crashed to the floor, spilling balls in all directions.
Will wheeled back against the wall and shot again, now at the lamp in the room. Its light was wiped out, and now he stood there, listening to the shouting outside, and smiled. Seeing a faint reflection of light from, the bar mirror, he moved deeper into the barroom and picked up a chair and hurled it at the mirror. A series of crashes followed as the mirror collapsed into the stacked glasses which tumbled into the racked bottles and brought the whole upper works of the back bar down.
Will hurled another chair at Red Courteen’s office door and then moved farther into the room, clinging to the wall.
He listened, and there was no sound from outside.
“Come on in, Red. Bring Schultz with you!” he yelled.
His answer was a fusillade of shots through both windows. He moved to a side window and kicked it out and stood by it, listening above the sound of the shots in front. Somebody pounded past the window on his way to the rear of the building.
Afterward Will slipped out the window, dropped to the ground, and moved toward the front of the building.
There was a man standing at the corner of it, flattened against the wall, and Will came up on him and put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. It was Ed Germany, and when he saw Will he said quickly, “Hunh-unh. I’m not in this, Will.”
