“I’d like to know,” Sabre admitted. Another idea occurred to him. “Keys, you know more about what’s going on in this town than anyone else. What do you know about the Sonoma Grant?”
Keys hesitated, then said slowly: “Sabre, I know very little about that. I think the only one who has the true facts is Prince McCarran. I think he gathered all the available papers on both grants and is sure that no matter what his claim, the Grant cannot be substantiated. Nobody knows but McCarran.”
“Then I’ll go to McCarran,” Sabre replied harshly. “I’m going to straighten this out if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You go to McCarran and it will be the last thing you do. The man’s deadly. He’s smooth-talking and treacherous. And then there’s Sikes.”
“Yes,” Sabre admitted. “There’s Sikes.”
He studied the situation, then looked up. “Look, don’t you bother the Marshal. Leave him to me. Every man he’s got with him is an enemy to Jenny Curtin, and they would never let you talk. You circle them and ride on to Pivotrock. You tell Camp Gordon what’s happening. Tell him of this outfit that’s saddled up. I’ll do my job here, and then I’ll start back.”
Long after Keys had departed, Sabre watched. Evidently the posse was awaiting some word from Reed. Would McCarran ride with them? He was too careful. He would wait in Yellowjacket. He would be, as always, an innocent bystander… .
Keys, riding up the trail some miles distant, drew up suddenly. He had forgotten to tell Sabre of Prince McCarran’s plan to have Sid Trumbull cut him down when he tangled with Sikes. For a long moment Keys sat his horse, staring worriedly and scowling. To go back now would lose time; moreover, there was small chance that Sabre would be there. Matt Sabre would have to take his own chances.
Regretfully, Keys pushed on into the rough country ahead ….
Tony Sikes found McCarran seated in the back room at the saloon. McCarran glanced up quickly as he came in, and then nodded.
“Glad to see you, Sikes. I want you close by. I think we’ll have visitors today or tomorrow.”
“Visitors?” Sikes searched McCarran’s face.
“A visitor, I should say. I think we’ll see Matt Sabre.”
Tony Sikes considered that, turning it over in his mind. Yes, Prince was right. Sabre would not surrender. It would be like him to head for town, hunting Reed. Aside from three or four men, nobody knew of McCarran’s connection with the Pivotrock affair. Reed or Trumbull were fronting for him.
Trumbull, Reed, and Sikes and Keys. Keys was a shrewd man. He might be a drunk and a piano player, but he had a head on his shoulders.
Sikes’ mind leaped suddenly. Keys was not around. This was the first time in weeks that he had not encountered Keys in the bar.
Keys was gone.
Where would he go—to warn Jenny Curtin of the posse? So what? He had nothing against Jenny Curtin. He was a man who fought for hire. Maybe he was on the wrong side in this. Even as he thought of that, he remembered Matt Sabre. The man was sharp as a steel blade, trim, fast. Now that it had been recalled to his mind, he remembered all that he had heard of him as Marshal of Mobeetie.
There was in Tony Sikes a drive that forbade him to admit any man was his fighting superior. Sabre’s draw against Trumbull was still the talk of the town—talk that irked Sikes, for folks were beginning to compare the two of them. Many thought Sabre might be faster. That rankled.
He would meet Sabre first, and then drift.
“Don’t you think he’ll get here?” McCarran asked, looking up at Tony.
Sikes nodded. “He’ll get here, all right. He thinks too fast for Trumbull or Reed. Even for that marshal.”
Sikes would have Sabre to himself. Sid Trumbull was out of town. Tony Sikes wanted to do his own killing.
Matt Sabre watched the saddled horses. He had that quality of patience so long associated with the Indian. He knew how to wait, and how to relax. He waited now, letting all his muscles rest. With all his old alertness for danger, his sixth sense that warned him of climaxes, and he knew this situation had reached the explosion point.
The marshal would be returning. Reed and Trumbull would be sure that he did not encounter the posse. And that body of riders, most of whom were henchmen or cronies of Galusha Reed, would sweep down on the Pivotrock and capture it, killing all who were there under the pretense of searching for Matt Sabre.
Keys would warn them, and in time. Once they knew of the danger, Camp Gordon and the others would be wise enough to take the necessary precautions. The marshal was one tentacle, but here in Yellowjacket was the heart of the trouble.
If Prince McCarran and Tony Sikes were removed, the tentacles would shrivel and die. Despite the danger out at Pivotrock, high behind the Mogollon Rim, the decisive blow must be struck right here in Yellowjacket.
He rolled over on his stomach and lifted the glasses. Men were coming from the Yellowjacket Saloon and mounting up. Lying at his ease, he watched them go. There were at least thirty, possibly more. When they had gone he got to his feet and brushed off his clothes. Then he walked slowly down to his horse and mounted.
He rode quietly, one hand lying on his thigh, his eyes alert, his brain relaxed and ready for impressions.
Marshal Rafe Collins was a just man. He was a frontiersman, a man who knew the West and the men it bred. He was no fool. Shrewd and careful, rigid in his enforcement of the law, yet wise in the ways of men. Moreover, he was Southern in the oldest of Southern traditions, and being so, he understood what Matt Sabre meant when he said it was because he had killed her husband that he must protect Jenny Curtin.
Matt Sabre left his horse at the livery stable. Simpson looked up sharply when he saw him.
“You better watch yourself,” he warned. “The whole country’s after you, an’ they are huntin’ blood!”
“I know. What about Sikes? Is he in town?”
“Sure! He never leaves McCarran.” Simpson searched his face. “Sikes is no man to tangle with, Sabre. He’s chain lightin’.”
“I know.” Sabre watched his horse led into a shadowed stall. Then he turned to Simpson. “You’ve been friendly, Simpson. I like that. After today there’s goin’ to be a new order of things around here, but today I could use some help. What do you know about the Pivotrock deal?”
The man hesitated, chewing slowly. Finally he spat and looked up. “There was nobody to tell until now,” he said, “but two things I know. That grant was Curtin’s all right, an’ he wasn’t killed by accident. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah.” Simpson’s expression was wry. “Like you he liked fancy drinkin’ liquor when he could get it. McCarran was right friendly. He asked Curtin to have a drink with him that day, an’ Curtin did.
“On’y a few minutes after that he came in here an’ got a team to drive back, leavin’ his horse in here because it had gone lame. I watched him climb into that rig, an’ he missed the step an’ almost fell on his face. Then he finally managed to climb in.”
“Drunk?” Sabre’s eyes were alert and interested.
“Him?” Simpson snorted. “That old coot could stow away more liquor than a turkey could corn. He had only one drink, yet he could hardly walk.”
“Doped, then?” Sabre nodded. That sounded like McCarran. “And then what?”
“When the team was brought back after they ran away with him, an’ after Curtin was found dead, I found a bullet graze on the hip of one of those broncs.”
So that was how it had been. A doped man, a skittish team of horses, and a bullet to burn the horse just enough to start it running. Prince McCarran was a thorough man.
“You said you knew that Curtin really owned that grant. How?”
Simpson shrugged. “Because he had that other claim investigated. He must have heard rumors of trouble. There’d been no talk of it that I heard, an’ here a man hears everythin’!
“Anyway, he had all the papers with him when he started back to the ranch that day. He
showed ’em to me earlier. All the proof.”
“And he was murdered that day? Who found the body?”
“Sid Trumbull. He was ridin’ that way, sort of accidental-like.”
The proof Jenny needed was in the hands of Prince McCarran. By all means, he must call on Prince.
CHAPTER SIX:
“Stand Up—and Die!”
Matt Sabre walked to the door and stood there, waiting a moment in the shadow before emerging into the sunlight.
The street was dusty and curiously empty. The rough-fronted gray buildings of unpainted lumber or sand-colored adobe faced him blankly from across and up the street. The hitch rail was deserted, the water trough overflowed a little, making a darkening stain under one end.
Somewhere up the street but behind the buildings a hen began proclaiming her egg to the hemispheres. A single white cloud hung lazily in the blue sky. Matt stepped out. Hitching his gun belts a little, he looked up the street.
Sikes would be in the Yellowjacket. To see McCarran, he must see Sikes first. That was the way he wanted it. One thing at a time.
He was curiously quiet. He thought of other times when he had faced such situations—of Mobeetie, of that first day out on the plains hunting buffalo, the first time he had killed a man, of a charge the Riffs made on a small desert patrol out of Taudeni long ago.
A faint breeze stirred an old sack that lay near the boardwalk, and further up the street near the water trough, a long gray rat slipped out from under a store and headed toward the drip of water from the trough. Matt Sabre started to walk, moving up the street.
It was not far, as distance goes, but there is no walk so long as the gunman’s walk, no pause so long as the pause before gunfire. On this day Sikes would know, instantly, what his presence here presaged. McCarran would know too.
Prince McCarran was not a gambler. He would scarcely trust all to Tony Sikes, no matter how confident he might be. It always paid to have something to back up a facing card. Trust Prince to keep his hole card well covered. But on this occasion he would not be bluffing. He would have a hole card, but where? How? What? And when?
The last was not hard. When—the moment of the gun battle.
He had walked no more than thirty yards when a door creaked and a man stepped into the street. He did not look down toward Sabre, but walked briskly to the center of the street, then faced about sharply like a man on a parade ground.
Tony Sikes.
He wore this day a faded blue shirt that stretched tight over his broad, bony shoulders and fell slack in front where his chest was hollow and his stomach flat. It was too far yet to see his eyes, but Matt Sabre knew what they looked like.
The thin, angular face, the mustache, the high cheek bones, and the long, restless fingers. The man’s hips were narrow, and there was little enough to his body. Tony Sikes lifted his eyes and stared down the street. His lips were dry, but he felt ready. There was a curious lightness within him, but he liked it so, and he liked the setup. At that moment he felt almost an affection for Sabre.
The man knew so well the rules of the game. He was coming as he should come, and there was something about him—an edged quality, a poised and alert strength.
No sound penetrated the clear globe of stillness. The warm air hung still, with even the wind poised, arrested by the drama in the street. Matt Sabre felt a slow trickle of sweat start from under his hat band. He walked carefully, putting each foot down with care and distinction of purpose. It was Tony Sikes who stopped first, some sixty yards away.
“Well, Matt, here it is. We both knew it was coming.”
“Sure.” Matt paused too, feet wide apart, hands swinging wide. “You tied up with the wrong outfit, Sikes.”
“We’d have met, anyway,” Sikes looked along the street at the tall man standing there, looked and saw his bronzed face, hard and ready. It was not in Sikes to feel fear of a man with guns. Yet this was how he would die. It was in the cards. He smiled suddenly. Yes, he would die by the gun—but not now.
His hands stirred, and as if their movement was a signal to his muscles, they flashed in a draw. Before him the dark, tall figure flashed suddenly. It was no more than that, a blur of movement and a lifted gun, a movement suddenly stilled, and the black sullen muzzle of a sixgun that steadied on him even as he cleared his gun from his open top holster.
He had been beaten—beaten to the draw.
The shock of it triggered Sikes’ gun, and he knew even as the gun bucked in his hand that he had missed, and then suddenly, Matt Sabre was running! Running toward him, gun lifted, but not firing!
In a panic, Sikes saw the distance closing and he fired as fast as he could pull the trigger, three times in a thundering cascade of sound. And even as the hammer fell for the fourth shot, he heard another gun bellow.
But where? There had been no stab of flame from Sabre’s gun. Sabre was running, a rapidly moving target, and Sikes had fired too fast, upset by the sudden rush, by the panic of realizing he had been beaten to the draw.
He lifted his right-hand gun, dropped the muzzle in a careful arc, and saw Sabre’s skull over the barrel. Then Sabre skidded to a halt and his gun hammered bullets.
Flame leaped from the muzzle, stabbing at Sikes, burning him along the side, making his body twitch and the bullet go wild. He switched guns and then something slugged him in the wind and the next he knew he was on the ground.
Matt Sabre had heard that strange shot, but that was another thing. He could not wait now, he could not turn his attention. He saw Sikes go down, but only to his knees, and the gunman had five bullets and the range now was only fifteen yards.
Sikes’ gun swung up and Matt fired again. Sikes lunged to his feet, and then his features writhed with agony and breathlessness, and he went down, hard to the ground, twisting in the dust.
Then another bullet bellowed, and a shot kicked up dust at his feet. Matt swung his gun and blasted at an open window, then started for the saloon door. He stopped, hearing a loud cry behind him.
“Matt! Sabre?”
It was Sikes, his eyes flared wide. Sabre hesitated, glanced swiftly around, then dropped to his knees in the silent street.
“What is it, Tony? Anything I can do for you?”
‘‘Behind—behind—the desk—you—you—’’ His faltering voice faded, then strength seemed to flood back and he looked up. “Good man! Too—too fast!”
And then he was dead, gone just like that, and Matt Sabre was striding into the Yellowjacket.
The upstairs room was empty; the stairs were empty; there was no one in sight. Only Hobbs stood behind the bar when he came down. Hobbs, his face set and pale.
Sabre looked at him, eyes steady and cold. “Who came down those stairs?”
Hobbs licked his lips. He choked, then whispered hoarsely. “Nobody—but there’s—there’s a back stairs.”
Sabre wheeled and walked back in quick strides, thumbing shells into his gun. The office door was open and Prince McCarran looked up as he framed himself in the door.
He was writing, and the desk was rumpled with papers, the desk of a busy man. Nearby was a bottle and a full glass.
McCarran lay down his pen. “So? You beat him? I thought you might.”
“Did you?” Sabre’s gaze was cold. If this man had been running, as he must have run, he gave no evidence of it now. “You should hire them faster, Prince.”
“Well,” McCarran shrugged, “he was fast enough until now. But this wasn’t my job, anyway. He was workin’ for Reed.”
Sabre took a step inside the door, away from the wall, keeping his hands free. His eyes were on those of Prince McCarran, and the Prince watched him, alert, interested.
“That won’t ride with me,” Matt said. “Reed’s a stooge, a perfect stooge. He’ll be lucky if he comes back alive from this trip. A lot of that posse you sent out won’t come back, either.”
McCarran’s eyelids tightened at the mention of the posse. “Forget it,” he waved his hand. “Sit do
wn and have a drink. After all, we’re not fools, Sabre. We’re grown men, and we can talk. I never liked killing, anyway.”
“Unless you do it, or have it done.” Sabre’s hands remained where they were. “What’s the matter, Prince? Yellow? Afraid to do your own killin’?”
McCarran’s face was still and his eyes were wide now. “You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have called me yellow.”
“Then get on your feet. I hate to shoot a sittin’ man.”
“Have a drink and let’s talk.”
“Sure.” Sabre was elaborately casual. “You have one, too.” He reached his hand for the glass that had already been poured, but McCarran’s eyes were steady. Sabre switched his hand and grasped the other glass, and then, like a striking snake, Prince McCarran grasped his right hand and jerked him forward, off-balance.
At the same time, McCarran’s left flashed back to the holster high on his left side, butt forward, and the gun jerked up and free. Matt Sabre, instead of trying to jerk his right hand free, let his weight go forward, following and hurling himself against McCarran. The chair went over with a crash and Prince tried to straighten, but Matt was riding him back. He crashed into the wall and Sabre broke free.
Prince swung his gun up, and Sabre’s left palm slapped down, knocking the gun aside and gripping the hand across the thumb. His right hand came up under the gun barrel, twisting it back over and out of McCarran’s hands. Then he shoved him back and dropped the gun, slapping him across the mouth with his open palm.
It was a free swing and it cracked like a pistol shot. McCarran’s face went white from the blow and he rushed, swinging, but Sabre brought up his knee in the charging man’s groin. Then, he smashed him in the face with his elbow, pushing him over and back. McCarran dove past him, blood streaming from his crushed nose, and grabbed wildly at the papers. His hand came up with a bulldog .41.
Matt saw the hand shoot for the papers and even as the .41 appeared his own gun was lifting. He fired first, three times, at a range of four feet.
Prince McCarran stiffened, lifted to his tiptoes, then plunged over on his face and lay still among the litter of papers and broken glass.
Mistakes Can Kill You Page 20
