by Nelson Nye
That whippoorwill back in the rocks was really talking but Rafe, though he had his Colt in his hand, was a deal more worried about the one out front who'd be having a broadside target soon as they cleared this end of the house.
And now they were doing it. Now Rafe could see the front porch, and beyond it the dust churning struggle of two limb-tangled shapes furiously locked in grim combat. Bunny's red hair was flying around every whichway, and even as Rafe looked Spangler's man flung her off and snapped up his rifle. Rafe squeezed the trigger, missed, and squeezed off another. The rifleman, clutching his belly, teetered back on both boot heels and went down like a sack.
Now Rafe was into the brush, tearing noisily through it, covering his head against the slap of the branches; not aiming this time to go into the town, not a thought in his head at the moment but escape. The surviving Spangler hand was bound to take after him, and all Rafe had for defense was his six-shooter, not very substantial deterrent against hardcase armed with a rifle. Rafe was counting heavy on the mare's long rest to open up a lead to where he'd have some chance of losing the feller.
Then a fresh thought hit him. Maybe that bird from the rocks wasn't following. He must know this country a heap better than Rafe, could probably guess within a matter of yards where his quarry would emerge and even now be racing to get there ahead of him.
Rafe pulled up to listen. Beyond the restless stomp and panting of the mare he couldn't hear much of anything. He'd been intending, soon as he got clear of this growth, to get into the hills and maybe hole up until he could get some line on how things were shaping. This still looked a pretty solid idea, but he wouldn't get far charging into no rifle. Town, for the moment, might prove healthiest after all.
He reined the mare left and, holding her to a walk, tried to sift a few facts from the tangle of his confusion. It was not too surprising his thoughts went to the girl. From what little he actually knew, or had observed, there was very little evidence to nourish the suspicions he'd embraced that Bunny and her father were purely out to do him dirt. And yet, that business back at the house lacked considerable of offering any real proof they weren't. Her struggle with that rifle packer could have had some entirely different significance, nothing to do with him at all. At very best, he decided, the most you could get out of it was that she hadn't wanted Rafe killed.
It would pay a man to be almighty cautious in assessing any actions of a girl bold as Bunny. Rafe wasn't too depressed about the gun-waver he had shot. He would like to have done as much for that other one.
He replaced the spent loads and observed that his cover was about to play out. Through the branches ahead he could see the town's buildings. Considering the risks of showing himself, he was forced to the rather reluctant conclusion that the safest place for Rafe Bender right now in Dry Bottom would be Alph Chilton's bank.
He could see its brick shape a couple of hundred yards off, and pulled up again in the last of the brush for a prolonged, intent and pretty scowling appraisal. The backs of buildings seldom offer, with their rubbish of rusting tins, broken crates and flapping paper, a particularly inspiring sight, but Rafe guessed he should be thankful to be looking at their behinds. There were worse things a man could stare at. Back lots, anyway, didn't get much traffic. With reasonable luck a man ought to be able to get from here to there in one piece, if he was careful.
It bothered him, though, not to see any sign of that feller from the rocks, the shot guy's pard. If the bleach-eyed son had took out to nail him, it was natural to think that when Rafe hadn't shown where he had been looked for, the feller would have come on into town to do his hunting. Rafe would have done it.
Behind his screen of branches Rafe swung down to rest and stretch the kinks from his legs while he waited to see if Spangler's gunhawk would show. After about ten minutes of standing around, the skewbald mare began to paw with impatience, bumping Rafe's shoulder with vigorous pokes of her head. "Dang it, quit!" Rafe growled, batting her away with his hat.
He got out the makings, rolled up a smoke and, with his eyes going narrow, suddenly pitched it away. He dropped the reins to the ground; then, thinking better of this, tied them to a sapling stout enough to keep her anchored, it being in his mind Spangler's gunnie may have gone back to pick up his tracks.
It was a sensible assumption and Rafe, proceeding to act on it, again drew his pistol, creeping back along his trail with all the stealth of a crouching puma. He knew, by grannies, he had better be careful, or be ready, like fiddlers, to wind up in hell. In country like this there wasn't much leg room betwixt the quick and them that hadn't been quite quick enough.
And so it was that, presently, Rafe's aching vigilance fastened onto an impression of approaching movement. It wasn't scarcely more than a hunch when he got into it, not much easier to be gauged than the footfalls of a gopher, the merest whisperings of sound. But it snapped up his hackles.
With his eyes stabbing about he scanned the surroundings and his chances. Impatiently shaking his head he moved on, hunting terrain better suited to his needs, knowing from experience with Stuart during the war that a fracas fought on ground of one's choosing was a squabble more likely to fetch a man out on top.
Rafe had had more than his fill of killing, but even a kid in three-cornered pants would have savvy enough to know this whippoorwill had to be stopped. There was no two ways around that!
He came over a rise and found what he wanted, a tiny twenty-foot clearing with a rock to one side of it big enough to easily hide a waiting man. The sounds were plain enough now, snap and crackle of branches, a shod hoof scraping stone. Rafe, eyes slitted, pistol tight in his fist—the one Pike had fixed for him, backed into the clearing, hurried over to the rock, moving clear on around it and, careful now to conceal his flight, circled back to the rise and dropped, breathing hard, behind it.
That right hand wasn't right even yet. It still had twinges and there was times when the muscles didn't work like they had ought to but he had proved back at Pike's it was good enough to shoot with. Not that he was anxious to do any shooting; this close to town he hated even to think of it. But if he had learned one thing on that trip to the Benders he had learned how much help he could count on from them.
Now the sounds were close enough to sort out. It was plain the feller had got out of his saddle; you could hear the scrape and scuff of his boots in between the sharper footfalls of his horse; probably leading the critter. It was easy to picture them that way, the man crouched over, eyes batting around, as he unraveled Rafe's sign.
If this was Spangler's gun fighter he wouldn't be used to this kind of thing, likely making hard work of it, getting madder with every stride. But, account of his trade, he'd have his eyes peeled too, which could account for the time it had taken him to get here.
Rafe, ears stretched, held his breath in cold suspense, knowing the feller must be pretty near up to where those tracks he'd just made took off toward the rock. Would the bastard notice? Would suspicion bite into him? Would he come straight on, paying no attention to the overlay of boot marks?
All sound suddenly quit. By this it was obvious the man had spotted something. The horse shook its head, Rafe heard its bit chains, the crop of its teeth going through green stems. Feller'd probably left it. Rafe dared not wait any longer.
Pistol lifting he raised up off the ground, coming onto his knees, enabled by this to see a part of the clearing, the man's head and shoulders. About three strides from his horse and faced half away the feller, crouched above a rifle, had his stare fixed on the rock.
"Lookin' for me?" Rafe called, and you could see the shock of it hit the guy, and then he was whirling, Rafe crying fiercely, "Drop it, you fool!"
The man was mightily tempted. It was in the brightness of that spinning look, in the whiteness of his knuckles. But in the end he let the carbine go.
Rafe licked his lips. "An' now the belt."
The guy had to make his fight all over, but the best chance was gone. He unbuckled the belt wit
h a bitter sigh, the weight of it slithering down his legs.
Rafe said thinly, "Hike over to that rock. An' be careful, mister. I'll be right behind you."
The feller uncorked some pretty foul language but in the end, still grumbling, strode off in the direction indicated. Rafe was right on his heels. Just before they arrived at the rock, the barrel of Rafe's six-shooter flashed up and came down across the top of the man's head. He staggered, trying to turn, and then, eyes hating, went down in a heap.
In a matter of moments Rafe had him gagged and sufficiently trussed that it should be some while before he'd be in a position to discuss what had happened. Rafe went back to the man's mount, dumped off the saddle, slipped the headstall and, with a whack of his hat, sent the horse larruping south. The animal might not go far, but he would sure as hell take some hunting.
Now that he had this weight off his back there was no urgent reason for Rafe going into Dry Bottom. He could head for the hills above the Ortega Grant, and this he was considerably minded to do, but to get into that country there were plenty of desert miles to be covered. Nobody who had his head on straight would figure on thumbing his nose at no desert, and you wouldn't get far carrying water in your hat.
Looked like he was going to have to go into town anyway. And if he took that much risk he might as well go whole hog and habla with Chilton. He sure didn't put no trust in that feller, but the banker appeared to call the tunes around here. A man would get farther under his umbrella than he could mucking around as a masterless Rebel. Rafe guessed he'd better find out where he stood.
Hurrying back to Bathsheba he climbed into the saddle and kneed the mare out into the open. He felt about as conspicuous traveling those back lots as a goldfish swimming through a dish of tea. There might be others of Spangler's crowd in this town, and there was no doubt at all how Jack Dahl felt with the wreck of his place probably still unpaid for. But Rafe wasn't going back across that desert without water, not with Duke's whole crew maybe out there waiting for him.
He couldn't see, as he drew nearer, that he'd attracted any attention. If there was people on the street he guessed they was mostly under the wooden awnings; there sure didn't seem to be much going on. Coming up in back of the bank he took another long look and reluctantly got down, and stood another couple of minutes before he turned loose of the reins. Rubbing his fists, nervously flexing his fingers, he walked around to the front and gingerly stepped in.
The same moth-eaten moose heads stared down from the walls and the same dusty eagle was roosting over the door to the big man's private cubbyhole. Then he saw jack Dahl with his face black as thunder coming out of the banker's suddenly flung-open door. But the man stomped past without a second look. He was sure grinding his molars. Rafe, bringing his head around, went on in.
Ed Sparks with a wheatstraw clamped in his jaw stood beside the banker's desk, hat in hand, his look as devoid of expression as a gambler crouched over an ace-full on queens.
The banker said, "Well, so you've finally come round," and drummed fat fingers while he considered Rafe uncharitably. Then he said, very dry, "That'll be all for now, Ed."
Sparks put on his hat and departed.
"Close the door," Chilton said, and after Rafe heeled it shut, "How'd you get past Spangler's snipers?"
Rafe told him. Then, thumbs hooked over shell belt, he grumbled, "Didn't reckon you'd have any more time to waste on a feller that stacked up no better than I did."
"That bastard's still in the saddle."
Rafe stared, finally nodding.
"What happened?"
"Well, I went out there," Rafe said, wondering how much the old skinflint knew. "Reckon you figured, on account of the name, it would be apple pie with brown sugar on it." He snorted. "We never got down to the huggin' an' kissin'. Not even the girl would give in I was Rafe. Whilst I was augerin' with Duke an' her father some warthog snuck up an' bent a gun over my head. When I come to I was back here l in town. Guess that's about the size of it."
The banker reached a cheroot from a box, ran a tongue over its dryness, poked it into his face and fired up. Rolling the weed across crockery teeth while he continued to stare, he said through the smoke, "And what name were you born with?"
"The same. Rafe Bender."
The banker's hard eyes crawled over him like beetles. His cheroot lobbed out smoke. "Can you make it stick?"
"I'm goin' to sure as hell try!"
X
"Well, it figures," Chilton sighed after another intent look. "What about your hands? This ain't going to be duck soup."
"I ain't goin' to be caught like that again, neither." Rafe scowled, impatient with so much jawing. "Am I still on the payroll or ain't I?"
Chilton puffed some more, finally pitched his stogie into a spittoon. "I don't figure to pour good money after bad—"
"Hell's fire!" Rafe snarled. "You ain't put a cent in my pockets up to now!" Looking rabid, he leaned over Chilton's desk. "I got to eat, too! I been pretty hard used goin' after your chestnuts—"
"All right," the banker said in a considerably milder tone, "we can do business. But make sure you remember I can't afford to have my name linked with failures. Next time you come out the bottom side of the deck you better spread your wings and keep right on going."
Though he fumed inside, Rafe was unable to find a match for such words. In any deal with this kind of whistleberry, a man was outvoted from scratch. Just the same, determined to have the last say, he growled. "I'll need a canteen, a good high-powered rifle—better get me a tellyscope, too, while you're at it. An' a couple of weeks' grub, an' a pack horse to tote 'em. An' if you don't want that guy I tied up bargin' in, better send someone out for this stuff in a hurry."
They glowered at each other. But Rafe, in this matter, was top dog, and both knew it. Looking riled enough to chew up bar iron, Chilton called in one of his clerks and gave instructions. "An' fetch 'im around to the back," Rafe said, boldly helping himself from Chilton's box of cheroots.
Filling the place with its stink he struck a lucifer, igniting the weed he had in his mouth while he stuffed a half dozen others into his shirt. The banker kept still, but there was in his look the definite promise of hard times to come. He was the kind who forgot nothing, who demanded six bits for every dime he put out. There would be a hereafter. Rafe never doubted that.
But it did him good to see the man writhe. He said, spewing smoke like a half-clogged chimney, "Let's get down to brass tacks. How did old Bender git his hooks on that ranch?"
Chilton finally said, "He won it at cards."
When Rafe's eyebrows went up the banker grudgingly said, "Don Luis was a plunger, one of those all-or-nothing fools. Vain, flamboyant, proud as a peacock. And, like all of his tribe, couldn't see beyond his nose. He couldn't imagine a time," Chilton said with contempt, "when Ortegas wouldn't be right next to God, when all they had known would leak away through his lingers. Don Luis the Magnificent! He hadn't the sense to pound sand down a rat hole!"
"But the ranch?" Rafe prodded.
"Bender had just come into the country. Had lost this fellow Rafe in the War and had just lost his wife; didn't seem to care whether school kept or not. He was at the bar in Jack Dahl's place when Ortega came in, the crowd opening up to let him through. Wanted Bender's horses so bad he could taste them. You wouldn't have known he was drunk, I'll say that for him. He could really put it away."
"You was there?"
Chilton nodded. "Bender was pretty well tanked himself, but not so far gone he'd sell stock he had driven all the way from the Ozarks. Don Luis kept raising the price. Bender kept stubbornly shaking his head. All this while they kept pouring it down. Finally Ortega offered to put up his ranch on the turn of a card—the land and the buildings against Bender's horses.
"I'd been pointed out to Bender; matter of fact, Dahl had made us acquainted. Knowing I was a banker Bender asked what I thought, and I told him I'd put up thirty thousand against it. Well, Bender won; next day he came al
ong and asked for the money."
"An' just like that you put it up."
Chilton's stare eyed him coldly. "Finally, yes. But not in one chunk. First time he got half; twice, later, for improvements, he picked up the rest."
"What improvements?"
"The deal," Chilton said, "was between him and me." A grin twitched his lips and he got out of his chair. "Your outfit's ready." And, before Rafe hardly knew what was happening, he was outside the bank. "All you need worry about," Chilton said just before he shut and bolted the door, "is getting rid of Spangler. Don't come back till you've done it."
Two hours later, deep into the desert, Rafe pulled up for the sixth time to rest his horses and take a long scowl at the country behind. He'd got away from town without any trouble. It had been blowing pretty fierce, and the scud of grit had evidently chased most of the loafers inside. He'd run out of the wind before he'd come three miles, and this was when he'd taken his first look. Nothing showed then, or at any of his later stops, nor could he see any sign of movement now.
