by Short, Luke;
“Lottie, Lottie,” Will chided gently. “Whose range? Hatchet’s range? Would I do that?”
“He said you did.”
“He asked in that damned sly way of his if there was a risk in moving in. I left it to him. He could read anything into that he wanted, and he did.”
“And his cattle were seized by your men,” Lottie said accusingly.
Will nodded. “They’ll stay seized too.”
They faced each other, both knowing there was nothing more to say unless one of them acknowledged wrong. Lottie’s new independence was bolstered by the feeling that her father had been made to seem a shabby liar, and her loyalty would not allow her to apologize. Will, knowing he was in the right, was just as stubborn.
It was Lottie who turned to look at the clock and say quietly, tonelessly, “I’ll be late for school, Will. I have to go.”
Will moved to the door and opened it, then paused, looking back at her. She would not look at him, and he said, “Good-by, Lottie,” and stepped out.
The thin cold sunlight didn’t seem to warm Will as he stepped stiffly into the saddle and rode downstreet. The stores were just opening up, their clerks calling back and forth across the street, some of them sweeping the plank walk in front of their places of business. Will rode past them, unseeing, his thoughts troubled and ugly.
In front of Priest’s Emporium he reined up and looked at the building, a gray dislike in his face. The thought that in the midst of all this trouble he would let Lowell Priest’s affairs intrude filled him with a harsh contempt of himself, and he rode on. Crossing the four corners, he saw something that made him halt. Celia’s black mare was tied in front of the Stockman’s House. He regarded it a moment, the aching weariness of his legs and the smarting of his swollen lip reminding him of Sam Danfelser. There was Celia to face too.
He pulled in beside the black and dismounted and tramped into the lobby of the Stockman’s House.
Celia was standing in front of one of the leather chairs in the lounge. Her gray riding habit was the same color as her eyes, Will noticed, idly, and he went across the lobby to her.
Celia saw first the marks of the fight, and then she looked searchingly into his eyes, trying to read the story of what had happened since he’d left Hatchet. She could not, and yet she knew that whatever had happened he was here beside her, safe.
Will paused beside her and asked quietly, “Have you seen Sam?”
Celia shook her head.
“He followed me to Cavanaugh’s last night. He wanted me to leave Hatchet.”
Celia said slowly, “You fought with him,” and when Will nodded she asked, “What about Cavanaugh?”
“I missed him.”
Celia didn’t say anything, and Will watched her with humble curiosity. Presently he murmured, “I’m sorry it had to happen this way, Celia.”
“Sam, you mean.” She smiled faintly, almost sadly. “Sam always means what he says. He never thinks anybody else means what they say, Will. It’s all right.”
Will felt a weight lifted from him, and he knew this was the end of it. Celia still wanted him at Hatchet, and he still wanted to be there. He said, “Have you told Kneen?”
“I wanted to let you tell him.”
“We’ll both go,” Will said.
They went out and downstreet and, walking beside Celia, it occurred to Will for the first time that at Hatchet things would be like they had been when Phil was alive. Out of this trouble had come one thing; he alone was responsible for Hatchet now. It wasn’t an uncertain old man any more; it was himself—because Celia’s wisdom or her mistakes were his own. It came to him, too, that these happenings had changed her already, putting a purpose into the tough will of her.
As they turned into the yard of the courthouse they saw Joe Kneen unlocking the door. When they walked in he had hung his hat on its nail and was looking at his desk, on which he had placed his mail. They surprised a look of worry, almost disillusion on his face as he looked at the pile of letters.
Hearing them, he glanced up, and immediately the caution came back into his eyes. He greeted them tiredly and pushed a chair toward Celia, and she sat down.
She looked at Will and nodded for him to talk, and Will said, “We know what happened to John,” and told him. He spared none of the details of what had passed at Ten Mile, and as he moved deeper into the account of the girl at Red Courteen’s he saw a sadness creep into Kneen’s face.
When he finished Kneen walked to the door and stood in it, back to them, his shoulders bowed, his hands rammed deep into his hip pockets. Turning presently, he said in a tired voice, “All right, Will. I’ll do what I can.”
Celia said, “Do you believe, like Will and I, Cavanaugh did kill him?”
Kneen only nodded and looked with bleak curiosity at Will. He saw the marks of a fight on the big man, and a kind of bitter discouragement was in his voice as he said, “You’ve been out to his place?”
Will nodded assent and said quietly, “If I get to him first, Joe, I’m not going to wait for you.”
“Then you’ll be tried too,” Kneen said somberly.
Will only nodded and looked at Celia, and she rose.
Kneen said in a discouraged voice, “That’s a fool’s gamble, Will. Let him come to trial.”
Will was silent a moment and then said dryly, “Suppose I do, Joe. Tell me what will happen.” Kneen didn’t answer, and Will went on: “This whole country’s set to tear Hatchet apart. Try to get a jury that doesn’t hate us. Try to get a jury that will try Cavanaugh and not Hatchet. Can you promise to get one, Joe?”
Kneen shook his head, and his voice was tired and sad. “No, I can’t promise that, Will.”
“That’s why I won’t wait for you, Joe,” Will murmured.
Celia came over to Kneen then. “It’s not easy for you, is it, Mr. Kneen?” she said in a low voice.
Kneen grimaced and shook his head and said, “No. Thank you for seeing it,” and he was again staring bitterly at the stack of mail on his desk when they stepped out.
Chapter 10
Marriner rode into town at dusk and went straight to the courthouse and found Kneen was not in. He sent the three men with him on ahead and walked down to the Belle Fourche and was told there by the bartender that Kneen and a dozen men were off looking for Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh had killed John Evarts, the bartender said.
Bide listened impatiently, and without commenting he went over to a poker game and took a chair. He played erratically and impatiently and won, as he usually did, but the game lacked flavor tonight. He constantly watched the door and every hour or so asked for word of Kneen, and when the game broke up he stayed on playing a game of blackjack with the houseman.
The stage from the reservation pulled in at midnight, and the driver came in for a drink, and Marriner gossiped with him a few minutes at the bar. But he was too restless for talk and he went out into the night. There were lamps still lighted in the hotel, and he went over to it and wakened the clerk, who sleepily sold him a dozen of his favorite cigars and went back to bed.
Marriner fired up a smoke out on the sidewalk and paced down a block, crossed the street, came back, and poked his head in the Belle Fourche. Kneen wasn’t in yet, they said inside.
Marriner threw his cigar away and swore in disgust. Kneen, he supposed, would be gone for a day or so. Reluctantly he went back to the courthouse and picked up his horse and rode it back to the main street, turning south and heading for home.
But he looked back once, just to be sure, and was surprised to see several horses at the Belle Fourche’s tie rail. He turned back, and when he was close enough to identify the horses he gave a grunt of satisfaction. Kneen’s horse was among them.
Inside the Belle Fourche a half-dozen possemen, along with Kneen, were drinking at the bar in silent weariness.
Marriner caught Kneen’s eye in the back-bar mirror and motioned with his head toward the rear of the saloon and walked toward the back room. Kneen finished his dr
ink and said to the men, “Tomorrow at seven,” and followed Marriner into one of the back rooms.
Bide was standing by a poker table, his head and shoulders out of the light from the overhead lamp, when Kneen came in and closed the door behind him and said, “What is it, Bide?”
“Cavanaugh’s at my place.”
Kneen stood motionless while he digested this, trying to see Bide’s face in the shadow and failing.
He shoved a chair toward Marriner and took one himself, sighing as he sat down. Marriner pulled the chair around and put his foot on it and crossed his arms, resting them on his knee. When his face came into the light of the lamp Kneen was shocked at the excitement and pleasure in it.
Kneen put an arm on the table and said dryly, “It’s queer he came to you.”
Marriner grinned. He had a raffish smile that annoyed Kneen as much as his mocking black eyes.
“Don’t start thinkin’ things, Joe,” Marriner said in complete good humor. “Just listen. I want him arrested and tried.”
Kneen said impatiently, “Wait. Start from the beginning.”
“That’s all there is. Cavanaugh said the day after Will set us afoot out there he was at Kennedy’s place. He’d made it that far, wet as hell and tired. Next mornin’ it was still rainin’, and he was comin’ down sick. There at Kennedy’s.”
Kneen listened carefully, a distaste for this already within him. Marriner went on, “Evarts come up in the rain and asked for him, and when he come out Evarts told him to get off the place.”
“Kennedy’s place?” Kneen asked sharply.
Marriner nodded. “Ray told him to go to hell. Evarts pulled a gun on him, and Ray ran back into the shack. Evarts came in shootin’—all misses. Ray found his gun, and when he came up with it Evarts ran. Ray shot him.”
Marriner ceased talking, his bright eyes watching every expression in Kneen’s face.
“In the back,” Kneen said dryly.
“That’s right. Ray and Wes Kennedy buried Evarts up in the timber above Kennedy’s place. They knew damn well Ballard wouldn’t believe Ray shot in self-defense. Well, Kennedy lost his nerve and lit out. Ray knew he would talk, so he came to me.”
Kneen’s lip curled in contempt. He said bitterly, “Do you believe that yarn, Bide?”
“Hell, no.”
Kneen was puzzled now. He studied Marriner’s swarthy, mocking face which held a subdued and malicious pleasure, and he tried to explain it and could not. He said, “You want me to arrest Ray and hold him for trial?”
“That’s what you do with a man who admits he killed someone, don’t you?”
Kneen said sharply, “What do you want out of this, Bide?”
“Justice—simple justice,” Bide said, laughing.
For a moment Kneen just stared, and then it came to him—the conversation with Will Ballard this morning and Will’s quietly cynical prediction of what would happen when Ray Cavanaugh was put on trial. Bide Marriner was shrewd enough to see this too.
Kneen used Will’s words. “You mean you want Hatchet tried.”
“That’s just what I mean,” Marriner said flatly. He wasn’t smiling now, and his voice lost its mockery as he spoke. “Put Cavanaugh on trial and we’ve broken Hatchet. No jury in this country would hang a man that Hatchet wanted hung. And when Ballard sees that he’ll give up. He can’t fight. He’s clear out—even a stubborn wild man like Will Ballard.”
Kneen said coldly, “That’s one way to lick Hatchet all right.”
“And legal,” Bide said, and he laughed.
Kneen stood up. “It’s a way I won’t have anything to do with, Bide.”
Bide’s smile faded and he said gently, “Joe, you can’t do anythin’ about it. The law says you’ve got to. You’re like a train on a track from now on. You go straight to the end of the line. The law says so.”
He unfolded his arms and came erect and watched Kneen with a burning malice in his eyes. He had Kneen where he wanted him, and he didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction.
Kneen’s fisted hand on the table was white. He said with a harsh pleading in his voice, “But John Evarts was shot in the back! Don’t that mean anything to you?”
“Nothin’,” Bide said flatly. “I didn’t kill him, Cavanaugh did. And Cavanaugh will go on trial for it. If that’s to my advantage no man can say I’m to blame.”
He turned to the door and put a hand on the knob and said, “When do you want him, Joe?”
Kneen stared at him for a long moment, and Bide met his glance unswervingly.
Kneen said bleakly then, “I’ll be out.”
“Don’t wait too long, Joe,” Bide taunted. “The word will be out tomorrow. You got your job to do.”
He closed the door softly behind him, and Kneen stood quietly in front of his chair. He was thinking, Like a train. You go straight to the end of the track. The law says so. He reached up and turned down the lamp and walked slowly toward the door. His hand on the knob, he paused. Behind the dozen things that were pushing at him he saw only one thing clearly: Ray Cavanaugh, an admitted killer, would go free. He suddenly hated Bide Marriner with a bitter, scalding vehemence.
Chapter 11
In midmorning Red Courteen rode into Boundary with his crew and left them at the Belle Fourche. He went first to the barbershop, and while his hair was being cut he learned of Ray Cavanaugh’s confession to the shooting of John Evarts. Talk of it obscurely annoyed Red, and the barber, sensing this, was silent while he shaved him.
Red lay with his eyes closed, the hot towel on his face, and wondered how this news would affect his own plans. If they were plans, that is. Red couldn’t make up his mind about it. He’d left Ten Mile on impulse, aided by a few drinks under his belt. Now this morning he wasn’t so sure.
He paid the barber and stepped out into the street and glanced over at the Belle Fourche. He would have liked to go over and yarn with the boys over a few drinks, but this thing kept nagging at him. Then get it over with, he thought. The worst he can say is no.
With sudden decision he turned upstreet, and already he felt better. He passed the hotel and the four corners, his pace leisurely and holding a faint truculence, and kept on upstreet and presently he turned into Priest’s Emporium and sauntered down the aisle. The store was busy, and he spotted Priest over at the grocery counter, waiting on a woman. Red waited quietly, watching Priest, really looking at him for the first time, because he might do business with him. Red noted the cold, polite manner of the man, the skill with which he chatted with the woman about her family and her affairs and remained underneath totally disinterested. A hard man, Red thought with dislike, but maybe that would help.
When the woman said good-by Red stepped over to the counter and said, “How are you, Mr. Priest?”
“You’re off your reservation, aren’t you, Courteen?” Priest said, his effortless smile of greeting very thin because of Red’s reputation.
Red nodded and said idly, watching Priest, “Talked with Garretson the other night. Thought I’d drop over.”
Priest’s eyes were wary, unresponsive. “How is Harve?”
“Maybe,” Red suggested, looking around him, “there’s someplace we can talk.”
Priest hesitated a moment, and then his curiosity conquered, as Red knew it would. Priest came out from behind the counter and led him to the back of the store, out onto the loading platform, and then into the warehouse. It was quiet and private in here and it smelled of the cold iron of stored stoves.
Red put a foot on a keg of nails and reached for his tobacco in his shirt pocket.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” Priest said quietly. “There’s powder in here.”
Red’s hand fell away, and he looked obliquely at Priest before he sat down on the keg of nails. His tough-shaped face held a puzzlement and a mild embarrassment; he wasn’t used to dealing with men like Priest. The storekeeper stood ramrod straight, watching him with a faint distaste in his face.
Courteen said mildly
, “That’s a hard thing Ballard did to Garretson over those cattle.”
“Yes,” Priest said.
“Your cattle, too, weren’t they?”
Priest hesitated, and Red said in a friendly voice, “Hell, I’m just tellin’ you what Garretson told me. He was on the prod the other night.”
Still Priest didn’t say anything, and Red decided to get down to business. “How you goin’ to get ’em back, Priest? Does Ballard aim to treat you different on account of Lottie?”
Priest said firmly, “That’s no business of yours.”
“You mean he won’t make an exception.” Red smiled faintly and murmured, “Not Will Ballard, if I know him.” He looked sharply at Priest now. “He can’t hold ’em under the law. You know that.”
Priest relented a little and nodded.
“How bad you want ’em back?” Red drawled.
Priest studied him a moment and then murmured dryly, “Personally, I never take an order unless I can deliver the goods. It’s a good rule to follow.”
Red smiled; he was understood. “I can deliver.”
“How?”
“Take ’em away from him.”
Priest looked skeptical, but he said, “And what’s your share for doing the job?”
Red laughed now. “Not one damn penny, friend.”
Priest scowled. He put his thin hands on his hips and spread his legs a little and studied Courteen closely and finally said, “That’s hard for me to understand.”
“Not if you saw what happened in Ten Mile the other night.” A faint angry flush came to his face as he thought of it, and he said grimly, “Will Ballard wrecked my place. Just for the hell of it.”
“And you’d like to return the call?”
“I’d like to have an excuse to,” Red corrected softly. He rose and spoke to Priest in a low, earnest voice. “Look, Priest. I can’t ride into Hatchet and brace Ballard. You know that. Kneen doesn’t like anythin’ about me and Ten Mile, and that’s the excuse he’d need to close me out. But if I go to Hatchet and demand my own cattle that Ballard’s holdin’ illegally and he tries to stop me I’m within my rights.”
