by Short, Luke;
At the well he paused to listen and, hearing nothing, he went on up to the porch and halted in front of the door. He drew his gun then and kicked the door open and stepped aside and said, “Come out, Cavanaugh!”
There was no answer. He waited, hearing nothing but his own soft breathing, and presently he slipped inside, clinging to the wall. Still he heard nothing. Fumbling in his shirt pocket, he brought out a match and wiped it alight on one of the wall logs. The shabby interior of Ray Cavanaugh’s one-room house came into sudden focus now. The bunk in the back corner was empty. Dirty dishes littered the table, and there was a pot on the stove next the end wall.
The match died, and Will moved over to the stove and put his hand on it and found it cold.
He stood there in the dark a moment, debating, and then, his judgment given, he went over to the bunk and lay down on it. He put his gun beside him, pillowed his head on his arms, and watched the door. He was going to wait, certain that Cavanaugh would return sometime.
Lying there in the dark, he put his mind to what would happen afterward, and moments later discovered that he was thinking not of that but of Celia. He saw her as he had left her, sitting on the sofa, a foot tucked under the worn dress that Sam Danfelser had doubtless surprised her in. She had not failed him; she was Phil Evarts’ girl. Somberly Will pondered what that meant for her, and he knew her decision had been bitter. Sam Danfelser, like a hulking, obstinate bear, was to be faced afterward, and that would not be easy for her. Will had tried to help her in a thousand things, large and small, but he could not help her with Sam. She had never asked for any help, never spoken a disloyal word of Sam, but, nonetheless, Will sensed things were not right between them. He thought bleakly of Sam Danfelser then and knew that when Celia and Sam married it would be time for him to leave Hatchet. That would please Lottie.
He shifted his weight on the bunk and had a sudden hunger for a cigarette. Slowly, though, his thinking reverted to Lottie again, and he was faintly troubled. She had never liked his remaining at Hatchet, and now what would she think in the face of this turn of events? What would she think of him here, now, tonight, waiting patiently to kill a man?
He put this instantly from his mind and sat up. He fumbled in the dark for his tobacco and fashioned a cigarette and put it in his mouth. Match in hand, he was weighing the risk of having the smell of tobacco linger in this room to give his presence away against the hunger pulling at his nerves. And then he heard it.
A horse was being ridden into the yard.
He balled up the cigarette and discarded it, coming silently to his feet. Moving away from the bunk, he held his gun at his side and waited, listening, his nerves pulling taut.
He heard the rider dismount, heard his step on earth and then on the porch, and now a figure darkened the opening of the doorway.
Gun at side, he waited, and then came the simultaneous scratch of a match and its light.
Sam Danfelser stood just inside the door, match held over his head, peering through squinted lids at Will.
Will let his breath go and didn’t move.
Sam said contemptuously, “Is that the way it’s done? Catch him in the dark?”
He moved heavily over to the table and lifted the chimney from the lamp and lighted the wick, and then his gaze lifted to Will, who hadn’t moved.
Will’s eyes glittered darkly as he watched Sam, and he was impatient and curious and disgusted.
Sam said, “We’ve got to talk, Will.”
“Later,” Will murmured.
“No. Now.”
Will said with rising intolerance, “I’ve got something to do, Sam. You’re in the way. Get out.”
“I’ll get out when I’ve finished. It’s time we talked.”
Behind his obstinacy Will detected a note of urgency in Sam’s voice, in his face, and he felt a small start of curiosity. “What do you want, Sam?”
“You’re through at Hatchet.” Sam’s voice was flat, final. He stood by the table, solid and thick-bodied, and in his ruddy face was the expression of a man who had been pushed beyond the limit of patience. He could not have hidden the hatred for Will in his eyes if he had cared to, and he did not. Will saw this, and a startled caution was in him. For an instant he tried to understand Sam’s anger and he could not, and the effort vanished in the dark narrow framing of a question.
“Did Celia send you?”
“I came for myself. I say you’re through with Hatchet. You’re not going back.”
With calculated insult Will said, “You’re ahead of yourself, Sam. Hatchet isn’t yours to boss yet.”
Sam came around the table and halted, and his face was ugly. “She’s done with you, I say. You’ve turned her into a silly fool with your damned reckless talk. You’ve killed her uncle and you’ve turned her against me. Get out—while you’re still alive.”
Will felt his belly harden and the muscles in his chest grow taut. Sam stood with feet apart, one hand grasping the edge of the table, and his lips were white with anger.
Will said soberly, “You can bully women, Sam. Keep to them and don’t bother with me.”
Sam lunged for him then. Will dropped his gun and came at him at the same instant, so that their movements seemed almost prearranged. They met with an impact that drove their breaths from them, and Sam wrapped his thick arms around Will as if to crush him. Wordlessly, their feet scuffling on the dirt floor for bracing, they wrestled for long seconds, Sam trying to crush Will, and Will trying to break the hold. And then Sam’s grip broke and Will came away, his fist lashing out to clout Sam on the ear.
Again Sam rushed, but this time Will met him with a driving blow in the mouth. Sam shook his head and started to slug, and they stood toe to toe, trading lopping, hurting blows, both men silent except for grunts of savage exertion. Will felt a murderous exaltation, a kind of maniac lust to crush and smash this man. All the contempt for Sam, the thousand dislikes that he had kept to himself because of Celia now burst in his mind like water pouring over a dam.
They were hurting each other. Sam winced as his blow caught Will on the head, and he felt the shock of it in his shoulder. He gave a low, snarling cry and lowered his head and came at Will. His head caught Will in the chest and staggered him back against the wall. Will was brought up with a jarring thud that shook the walls, and then Sam, following his advantage, drove his head again into Will’s midriff.
The impact drove the breath from Will. He pumped wild, flailing blows at Sam’s head, and then his knees buckled and he fell forward on all fours.
Head down, gagging for breath, he was on his hands and knees when he felt the savage kick in his side. The force of it rolled him over and brought him joltingly against the bunk.
He saw Sam coming at him again now and he rolled out of the way and came to his feet and caught a looping blow on the head that sent him down again. But the pain of it seemed to clear his head.
He saw Sam standing by the table, feet planted wide apart, the coat torn off him, his face smeared with blood and agonized with the effort to get his breath. Will came up and at him then, driving into him with his shoulder and digging in his feet as he wrapped his arms, around Sam and heaved.
Sam clawed at his back, off balance, and then he left the ground and was thrown across the bunk. His heavy body landed angling astride it, and there was a sound as sharp as a gunshot as the dry pole splintered and broke. The whole frame collapsed under his weight. Sam’s head was brought sharply against the wall logs, and he half sat, half lay among the shattered poles of the bunk, shaking his head to clear it, already fighting to get up.
Behind his terrible concentration Will saw the shadows of the room change shape and then forgot it as Sam came at him.
Jim Young, who had followed Sam and only now had come into the room, moved quickly across it behind Will to lift the lamp from the table and retreat to the door, holding it shoulder-high to light the room.
Will met Sam’s charge with his body half turned, riding the drive of
it, and together they stumbled into the table, overturning it against the wall before they, fell across it.
Will, close to Sam now, slugged drunkenly and blindly at Sam’s face. He was dragging great shuddering gasps of air into his tortured lungs now. Sam rolled over and came to his knees and then to his feet, Will rising with him.
Will lashed out and missed and fell into Sam, and Sam swung weakly at his head, shoving him away from him.
Will weaved back on his heels and came in again, and now Sam’s arms were too tired to lift in defense. His head turned with Will’s raking, tearing blow, and when he faced Will again the mark of bloody knuckles lay across his face.
Again Will came at him, stumbling, and Sam, eyes glazed, gave ground, bowing his head and swinging wildly, aimlessly. Implacably, barely on his feet, Will came at him still, hitting him again and again, and when he missed he would fall against Sam and steady himself and lash out again. Behind bruised cheekbones Sam’s eyes were glazed, but in them burned a hatred that chilled Jim Young as he watched from the door.
The two of them leaned against each other a moment, gathering strength, and then Will lashed out again. The blow caught Sam in the throat, and he staggered back until he was brought up against the stove.
Doggedly and implacably, every breath rattling in his throat, Will stumbled into him again, swinging wide, tired blows.
Sam made one last stand, bracing himself and swinging his heavy fists with a dragging, terrible weariness. But one of Will’s blows broke through his guard and pushed, rather than drove, him off balance. He crashed into the stove, overturning it, bringing down the pipe with a booming racket. Somehow he managed to keep his feet, and Will fell into him, slugging again with slow, grunting viciousness. The weight of him bowled Sam over. He fell across the stovepipe, landing heavily on his back, then rolled over on his side, face to the wall, and did not move.
Will, on his belly among the sooty dust of the pipe, came to his hands and knees now and crawled toward Sam.
Jim Young put the lamp down on the sill and came over to him and put a hand under his arm, and Will shook him off weakly, still crawling toward Sam.
“He ain’t fightin’ any more, Will,” Jim said.
Again he put a hand under Will’s arm, and this time Will didn’t fight him. He came to his feet, weaving drunkenly, and Jim pushed his back against the wall and propped him there while Will, head hung in utter exhaustion, breathed in great whistling gusts of precious air.
Presently, when his breath came easier, he raised his head. A corner of his mouth was bloody and swollen where one of Sam’s blows had mashed a lip against his teeth. One cheekbone was cut, and so was an eyebrow. His shirt was in ribbons, and on the pale skin of his chest were deep, livid bruises and welts. He raised his hands and looked at his raw and bloody knuckles, and then he moved weakly down the wall to look at Sam.
Jim Young watched him, silent, a little afraid.
Will reached out a foot and rolled Sam on his back. His eyes were closed; there was a faint bubbling sound in his bloodied nose as he breathed.
Will looked stupidly at Jim Young then. “How’d you get here?”
“Followed him.”
Will said, “Get my gun over there and come into town with me.”
Up on the timbered slope above the shack Ray Cavanaugh watched the scene in the yard below. Approaching his place from the Ridge trail moments ago, he had seen the lamplight and had pulled his horse off in the brush and circled wide to reach this spot. He watched now with a breathless concentration as a man he did not know came out of the shack below, put the lamp on the edge of the porch and went back to the door.
Then Will Ballard came out, declining the offer of help from the other man, and walked slowly to his horse.
Cavanaugh had seen enough. He went quietly back to his horse and stood there in the dark, breathing softly. Will Ballard knew. A thin, dismal fear plucked at Cavanaugh as he acknowledged this. He knew he would be hunted tirelessly and implacably, maybe for a week, maybe for months, but in the end he would have to face Will Ballard.
His mind worked now with a slow, sly cunning, for in the dark hours since that day in the rain at Kennedy’s he had had time to plan for this. Kennedy was gone, the only witness to the truth. If he framed his story rightly and admitted the killing he could claim the protection of the only man strong enough to fight Will Ballard. He mounted and set off through the timber for Bide Marriner’s Bib M.
Chapter 9
Lottie finished her lonely breakfast and carried the dishes from her and her father’s breakfast from the table in the kitchen to the sink. She brought out the tin dishpan and sloshed boiling water in it from the kettle on the stove. At the pump by the sink she tempered the water, then rolled her sleeves. She paused for a moment, frowning, then sighed gently.
This was comfortable ritual, which she usually enjoyed, but this morning things were wrong. The news her father had given her at breakfast was disturbing. She rarely saw her father angry, but he had been angry this morning. He had told her, with a biting sense of injustice, the news brought to him from Garretson’s late last night. His and Garretson’s cattle had been seized by Hatchet.
And Will was not here to explain or to question.
She hurried through the dishwashing, looked at the clock, and was in the act of taking off her apron when she heard the knock on the door.
She crossed the room and opened it and stepped back, smothering an exclamation.
Will stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Oh, Will, what’s happened?” Lottie breathed.
“Nothing that won’t wash off,” Will said mildly. He crossed to the sink and began pumping water in a basin, and Lottie came up beside him.
Will looked at her and said, “Danfelser.”
“But you and Sam—” Her voice faded away.
“There’s lots you don’t understand,” Will said gently. “Clear out while I clean up, and dig me out a shirt of your father’s. I’ll tell you afterward.”
Lottie, after some searching, found a shirt big enough for him, and when she came back Will, stripped to the waist, was bending down in front of the mirror, combing out his snarled black hair.
He took the shirt and shrugged into it, looking somberly at Lottie. “Cavanaugh killed John Evarts,” he said. In short, plain words he told of what had passed at Ten Mile and finally at Cavanaugh’s, and all the while he was trying to button the shirt. His swollen fingers were too clumsy, however, and Lottie did it for him, listening to the grisly finish of his account.
Her eyes were dark with pain as she lifted one of his hands and looked at his raw, swollen knuckles.
“Will, what’s going to happen?” she asked suddenly.
“I’m going to be busy,” Will answered evasively.
“Will, look at me,” Lottie said sharply.
Will turned dark, sullen eyes on her, and she said, “But you’re through. Don’t you see that? Hatchet is Sam Danfelser’s worry now, and you’ve fought with him. You’re out of it—forced out of it, at last.”
“I don’t see it, no.” Will looked at her his eyes still sullen. “What will Celia do when she hears of your fight?” Lottie asked swiftly. “Do you think she’ll side with you against the man she’ll marry?”
Will couldn’t answer her, and Lottie came close to him and put both hands on his chest. “Will, I haven’t asked for much. I want to ask it now, though. Leave Hatchet. Pull out of that snarling pack of dogs and let’s make a life for ourselves—another life besides Hatchet’s.”
“But I can’t pull out.”
“You can!” Lottie said passionately. “All along your loyalty is all that’s held you—loyalty to John Evarts and to Celia. John’s dead now. Hatchet’s Celia’s, and she’s going to marry a man who’ll take over for her. This is the time to quit, Will. You’ve got to!”
Will shook his head. “Sam can’t handle it. Celia doesn’t want him to. I offered to quit, and she wanted m
e to stay.”
Lottie’s face altered a little, but Will did not notice that. He said softly, bitterly, “I don’t even want to quit, Lottie.”
“Why?”
Will shook his head, watching her. “Red Courteen and Bide Marriner and Joe Kneen. Sam Danfelser and Cavanaugh and all the others. I don’t know. I can’t explain it, Lottie.”
“They’re all pulling you in,” Lottie said slowly, her voice almost hard. “I’m trying to pull you out. I don’t matter that much, Will?”
“That’s different,” Will said impatiently.
“It’s your pride, you mean,” Lottie said, and she was angry now, angry enough to take advantage of his inarticulate, clumsy arguments. For it had come to Lottie now that her happiness was at stake, and she was fighting for it, woman-wise. She said, gibingly, “See what it’s done for you, Will? It’s made people hate you so much they want to kill you. It’s brought you between a girl and her man. It’s kept me dreading to hear a knock on the door for fear it’ll be news that you’ve been shot.” She was fighting now, and out of the depths of her need to convince him she blurted, “It’s even made you dishonest, Will.”
Will had taken all this, smarting under its hurt, but at this last accusation protest flared in his eyes. Lottie, seeing it, said defiantly, “You told Dad to put his money into cattle you later took from him—on a whim of your pride.”
“When was this?” Will asked slowly.
“Didn’t you know? Your men seized the herd—after you’d told Dad it was safe to go in on shares with Garretson!”
The thin, tenuous thread of Will’s patience snapped now, and he spoke with a cold, reckless anger. “Your father has his damned greed to thank for that, Lottie.”
This bald, flat statement held Lottie speechless with surprise, and it sobered her. It sobered Will, too, and they regarded each other carefully, each aware of the danger of further talk. But Lottie’s pride had been hurt now and would not let her keep silent. “You deny you encouraged Dad to help Garretson stock his new range?”
