by Paul Durst
There were several rusty keys in the big drawer above. He tried them all without success. Then he rubbed his chin while he contemplated breaking it open. Would a man lock a pair of spurs with a missing rowel away in a drawer? Not likely. Unless Anson had a strong hunch what had happened to the missing rowel and wanted to keep them out of sight.
He tested the drawer again, making certain it wasn’t just stuck. Then he glanced around the room until he found a sheath knife hanging from a peg. When he finally got it open he was disappointed. A small japanned cash box was all it held. It was unlocked. A heavy sheet of paper, folded over and over again, filled the box. It looked like a map. He drew it out and saw he was right.
Unfolding it he caught a glimpse of place names that were unfamiliar; names of creeks and canyons and trails. It was a government survey map dated 1860. A winding line in faded blue at the bottom of the page was marked ‘Canadian River’ in crudely-inked letters. Then he took a closer look at the map and saw a square labelled ‘Sand Valley, est. 1868.’ After that it began to make more sense.
An area covering four sections at the eastern edge was marked, ‘Anvil Range, 1865.’ Each year after that the growth of Anson’s empire was recorded, dated lines marking the new Anvil borders haphazardly as his cattle spread out over open range. The coming of barbed wire and the end of the old open range straightened the haphazard boundaries with such notations as ‘Fenced, 1872.’
Carmody noticed several smaller areas identified with what must have been the former owners’ names before the Anvil began to spread. These names had been crossed out, with the date noted. Only three that he could find were marked, ‘bought’. The rest, maybe a dozen in all, were blandly labelled, ‘acquired’. Four of these had tiny skulls and cross-bones drawn in after the owners’ struck-out names. Carmody could guess their meaning easily enough.
Between the eastern and western divisions of Anson’s Anvil empire was driven a solid wedge five sections long running from north to south and a section wide. This was the Merriweather place, and Carmody found a variety of notations here. The most prominent was marked, ‘NEXT!’ But the last item he noticed proved to be most important of all.
Along the stage road between Canadian and Sand Valley at the point where Carmody had found Clint Merriweather’s body on that fateful night was an X-mark. Beside it were these words: ‘Clint Merriweather killed here night of June 12, 1877 by persons unknown.’
At first it didn’t sink in. Then Carmody read it again and the words jumped out at him. ‘… by persons unknown.’ He raised his eyes slowly and stared at the opposite wall without seeing it while the meaning took effect.
Booth Anson had not killed Clint! Otherwise why had he bothered to make a point of saying, ‘… by persons unknown?’ There was no skull and crossbones here as with the other names – and Jeff was certain that the significance was plain. Anson kept the map locked up, so obviously he had no intention of it ever becoming public. Then why bother to make that remark about ‘persons unknown’ unless Anson was genuinely in doubt?
If this reasoning was right, one other conclusion became obvious to Carmody. Anson knew that Carmody had not killed Clint Merriweather.
But how?
Carmody glanced at the words again, a puzzled frown wrinkling his brow. Then he folded it thoughtfully and put it back in its box and closed the drawer, working the lock up with the point of the knife until it would require a key to open it.
The sudden distant clatter of hoofbeats brought Carmody out of his thoughts into reality. He crossed to the window and glanced out. Anvil riders, half a dozen of them, were crossing the valley floor toward the house at a dust-raising gallop. Carmody recognized Anson well in the lead on a mouse-coloured gelding.
The reason for the riders’ haste was pretty plain. From the crest of the rise above the valley they had seen the horses in front of the house, and even at that distance there was no mistaking that those were dead men draped over the back of one.
Carmody stepped back from the window and glanced around. There was no point in trying to run out now. Besides, he had come here purposely to see Booth Anson. Well, here was his chance. But, he figured glumly, he had counted on seeing him a little more privately than this. He pulled his hat down firmly and tested his Colt in its holster to make sure it rode free. Then he said aloud, ‘Boy, you ain’t gonna talk your way of this, Carmody!’ With a deep sigh he stepped through the hall and out onto the verandah. He stood on the top step just as Anson and the others pulled up at the gate in a cloud of dust and sat staring in angry silence at the bodies.
Creekmore nudged Anson and said something, nodding toward the verandah. Anson jerked his head around, saw Carmody lounging against the pillar. With a curse he jumped to the ground. There was a rattle and squeak of gear as his crew followed. Anson strode up to the gate, slammed it open and took two strides up the gravelled path and stopped, hand on his gun.
‘What the hell’s this all about?’ he roared.
Carmody was fashioning a cigarette with a calmness he knew was pure sham. He struck a match with his thumbnail, surprised at the steadiness of his hand. There are six men down there, he thought, surveying the group over the flare of the match. One for every shell in his gun. Even if they stood still and let him pot shoot he knew he’d be lucky to get them all.
He flipped the match carelessly away and indicated the bodies with a nod of his head. ‘Them the best gun hands you got to offer, Anson?’ he said with a grin.
The sheer brass of it brought a stunned silence for a second. That one man should cut down Hacker and Hallstead and then bring the bodies in while he faced six others and laughed in their face … Carmody was banking heavily on the notion that the two had been Anson’s best. It was likely that they had been put on the fence, knowing Carmody would come here after the sheriff’s visit, and they had been put there in full confidence that they would stop Carmody without effort.
He saw now as he watched the reaction on the faces before him that his hunch was right. And he decided to push his advantage – because it was his only hope. Already the effect was beginning to wear – one or two men glancing uncertainly at Anson, their hands moving furtively toward their guns.
‘Before any of you gents get the notion you’d like to try your luck with a gun,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll tell you straight I’ll put a bullet through the head of the first man who tries. And just in case you think I’m kiddin’, it ain’t been half an hour since I told the same thing to them two draped across that horse. Take a look at them and decide if you’d like to try.’
This was the moment of decision, he knew. The next few seconds would see him in complete command of the situation or lying bullet-riddled and broken on the steps. He saw Anson glaring at him, knew the man was remembering their first encounter when, unarmed, he had ripped him saddle and all from his horse. He had not been bluffing then, he could read the uncertainty in Anson’s glance now that he was armed.
The proof of the bluff was there on the horses. He saw the men turn their heads to look again. Saw the uneasiness come over them at the sight of Hallstead’s upside-down face staring unseeing at them, caked blood matting the nostrils and down-hanging hair. Tensed fingers relaxed away from gun butts; eyes shifted to meet his with a look of mingled hatred and respect, then moved questioningly to Anson’s face.
With a surge of relief Carmody felt the moment had passed. But he still had a long way to go.
‘He’s bluffin’!’ Anson growled. ‘Creek, Gillman – and you others. Spread along the fence and get ready to back me. Hell, he’s only one man!’
Carmody saw them shuffle a little. Packed like this, bunched at the gate, he had better control. If they spread out.…
‘First man moves … he’s dead meat!’ Carmody said unhurriedly.
‘Creek! Gillman! Hell’s the matter with you guys?’ Anson’s voice took on a note of desperation. ‘You afraid of him?’
Creekmore shrugged. ‘Hell no … but then I don’t reckon
Hacker or Hallstead was either. This ain’t the time, Booth. There’ll come another.’
‘From the back maybe, Creekmore?’ Carmody said.
The man gave an ugly smile. ‘That’s your lookout, sonny,’ he said softly.
Anson snorted at his foreman. ‘So that’s what I pay you for, huh? To make smart talk.’
‘You want to call his bluff, Booth?’ Creekmore asked quietly. ‘You go ahead – I’ll back you up. But you just go ahead first.’
For a minute Carmody thought Anson was mad enough to try. But the Anvil owner dropped his gun hand, shoulders limp. He looked at Carmody. ‘Now – if it ain’t askin’ too much, what the hell’re you doin’ here, Carmody?’
Carmody’s attention was on Anson, but he knew Creek-more would be waiting the chance. Carmody’s eyes had barely shifted to Anson’s face when he sensed, rather than saw, that Creekmore was starting his draw.
One minute Carmody was indolently lounging; the next instant he had thrust his shoulder away from the post and his gun had exploded in his hand.
Astonishment made a stricken grimace on Creekmore’s face as the slug slammed him backwards into the man behind him. His body jerked to the impact, his hand let the Colt drop back into leather before it was fully clear. For a second he seemed to hang backwards on his heels, stiffening, then he collapsed into a heap on the gravel.
There was a moment of stunned silence during which the Anvil crew stared at the gunsmoke wreathing the man on the porch as if wondering where it had come from.
‘Anybody else want to try their luck?’ Carmody said softly.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
Carmody straightened a little, gesturing with his Colt. ‘Just to make sure you ain’t tempted, suppose you all unharness.’
There was another sigh from Anson as the man fought his pride and frustration with common sense. ‘I don’t know what you come here for, mister, but I do know this much – when you leave you’d better keep movin’. ’Cause if I ever catch sight of you in Hemphill County again I’m gonna nail your hide to the barn door, and I don’t give a damn how I do it – I’ll bushwack you, I’ll backshoot you, I’ll do any damn thing I have to. But I’ll get you.’
‘Like you got Myers and Stalton and Sands and Brewer?’ Carmody said.
Anson shot him a curious look. These were names Carmody had picked off the map. Names of small outfits, little ranchers or nesters which had been crossed off and replaced by small skulls and crossbones.
‘Who’s spreadin’ that kind of talk?’ Anson said, eyes narrowing. ‘Just because I take over abandoned range when a man dies ain’t no sign I killed him.’
‘If any spreadin’ been done, you’ve done it yourself,’ Carmody said. ‘You built your own reputation for being a pusher, nobody else. But there comes a time you meet somebody you can’t push.’
‘You speakin’ for yourself – or for Widow Merriweather?’
‘Maybe a little of both, Anson. Which brings me around to why I bothered to come here in the first place – now step away from them gunbelts, all of you, and let’s go inside to your office, Anson. I had aimed to talk this over with you in private, but you don’t leave me much choice.’ He wagged the gun impatiently, ‘Come on – all five of you. Inside. There’s plenty of room.’
Anson shoved his hands through his trouser belt and spread his feet defiantly. ‘You done enough orderin’ around, Carmody. I ain’t bein’ pushed around my own place. Speak your piece and then get the hell.…’
He left the sentence unfinished, throwing up his arms to protect his face from flying gravel as the slug from Carmody’s Colt ripped the ground at his feet and whined away in riccochet. ‘I’m callin’ the tune right now, Anson. You do the dancin’.’
Anson shoved past him, glowering belligerently. Carmody covered them as they passed into the house, standing where he could watch both the length of the hall and Anson’s office as they filed in. When they were all in the room Carmody joined them.
Carmody sat on a corner of the desk, facing them. For some reason he felt nervous, uneasy. He didn’t know why. The worst was over – but maybe that was it. His nerves had been stretched fiddle tight out there on the steps and now the let-down was setting in. To keep up a show of calm he plucked a cheroot from the box on Anson’s desk and bit off the end.
‘I said I wanted just two things from you Anson, sixty-four dollars for them four steers of Anne Merriweather’s, and an apology for shovin’ me on that train yesterday.’
Anson thrust his head forward like a bull, tendons straining again his shirt collar. ‘You can fiddle for both your sixty-four dollars and your apology – ’cause you ain’t getting a nickel or spit outta me!’
Carmody reached down with his left hand and gripped a corner of the desk. ‘Real heavy, ain’t it?’ he smiled. ‘Mahogany. Y’know something, Anson – down in Huntsville they had me bustin’ granite boulders with a sixteen pound sledge. After eight years of that a man gets a powerful amount of strength in his arms. Now – the question is, are you gonna tell me I can have that sixty-four dollars, or am I gonna have to tear this place apart to find it?’
‘You can go straight to…!’
Carmody gripped the desk with one hand before Anson finished and flipped it, gritting his teeth at the strain of the weight. It somersaulted into the fireplace with a crash that shook the room. The top split, drawers spewed open, their contents cascading across the floor.
‘I don’t see any money in there,’ Carmody said easily. ‘But that’ll be nice when the weather gets cold this fall – all you’ll have to do is toss a match to her and away she goes.’
‘Damn you, Carmody! That desk cost me two hundred dollars to freight out here from Chicago!’
‘You gonna get that sixty-four dollars – or do I start on the floor puncheons next?’ He nodded toward the fireplace. ‘Your cash wouldn’t be in that little japanned box I see there, would it?’
Anson’s anger faded quickly. ‘Why – no, it ain’t,’ he said, suddenly meek. ‘That’s just some personal papers – all right, I’ll get your damn money.’ He spun on his heel and ripped aside a pile of hides in the corner, uncovering a tiny safe. As he knelt down to open it Carmody called sharply, ‘Hold it, Anson!’ and walked across to him. ‘It ain’t no secret that folks sometimes keep a gun in a safe,’ he smiled. ‘Unlock it and then step back.’
While Anson fumbled with the safe Carmody glanced at the spurs the man wore and was disappointed. Long-shanked gun steel with a chap guard and one-inch rowels. Good utility hooks they were, but nothing fancy. And though it occurred to him that Anson could have hidden the others or thrown them away, it was a safe bet that the rowel in his pocket had never belonged to Anson.
Anson clicked open the safe and stepped back with an angry gesture. ‘All right, Carmody – the money’s there. But you can tell that woman boss of yours she made a big mistake sending you here. A mistake she’ll regret.’
Carmody hunkered down, watching them, feeling inside the safe till his hand encountered a doeskin bag that chinked when he touched it. He stood up and dumped it on top of the safe saying to Anson, ‘She didn’t send me. And she’s not my boss anymore. Your friend Dalmas fixed that. He told her who I was.’
‘And she fired you?’
‘I didn’t wait around to find out.’
Anson was genuinely curious now. Curious and suspicious. He studied Carmody’s face thoughtfully. ‘Then what do you want with that money if you don’t work for her anymore?’
‘It’s a kind of a going-away present,’ Carmody said with a touch of bitterness.
A voice behind him drawled, ‘Then you won’t be needin’ it, fella – because you ain’t goin’ noplace. Now drop that cutter and heist your hands ’fore I blast a hole in your backbone.’
The stunned shock of surprise Carmody felt was accompanied by a wave of rage at his own careless stupidity. Now he realized the uneasiness he had felt earlier was due to something he had tried to remember but coul
dn’t quite place in his mind. Now he recalled with sudden clarity the picture he had seen from the top of the ridge – the rider coming from one of the outbuildings in answer to the meal call, laying his tools on a bench and walking toward the cookshack wiping his hand on his thighs.
He felt the vicious dig of the Colt in his back and the man said impatiently, ‘Drop it, I said!’
The grin he saw spread across Anson’s evil face made things all too clear. The cards were down and he’d bluffed his lean hand for all he could, staking his life on it. And now he was up against Anson’s ace in the hole – the man at the back with the gun.
He had a choice. He could drop his gun and let Anson hang him. Or he could turn and fight. Either way he knew he would die. But there would be more satisfaction if he died fighting.
He heard Anson yell, ‘Watch him!’ as he sidestepped and spun, jerking his Colt around and squeezing the trigger. There were two explosions together and something red-hot struck his chest near his heart with terrific force that shook the wind from him. He had a vague glimpse of his own wild bullet gouging a smoking furrow along the plaster, and he was conscious of acrid gunsmoke burning his eyes as he doubled forward into inky blackness.
The men in the room stared once at Carmody, then relaxed, grinning at the man with the still-smoking gun. Anson shoved back his hat and let out his breath. ‘Whew-eee! By God, Troxel, I thought you was never gonna get up here!’
