“Ann Rodney,” Barkow said carefully, “is here in town. She is to be my wife soon. If yuh’ve got any business …”
“I’ll transact it with her!” Rafe said sharply.
Turning abruptly, he walked out the door, Gill following. The little cowhand grinned, his leathery face folding into wrinkles that belied his thirty-odd years. “Like I say, boss,” he chuckled, “yuh shore throw the hooks into ’em.” He nodded toward a building across the street. “Let’s try the Emporium. Rodney used to trade there, and Gene Baker who runs it was a friend of his.”
The Emporium smelled of leather, dry goods, and all the varied and exciting smells of the general store. Rafe rounded a bale of jeans and walked back to the long counter, backed by shelves holding everything from pepper to rifle shells.
“Where am I to find Ann Rodney?” he asked.
The white-haired proprietor gave him a quick glance, then nodded to his right. Rafe turned and found himself looking into the large, soft dark eyes of a slender, yet beautifully shaped, girl in a print dress. Her lips were delicately lovely; her dark hair was gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She was so lovely that it left him a little breathless.
She smiled, and her eyes were questioning. “I’m Ann Rodney,” she said. “What is it you want?”
“My name is Rafe Caradec,” he said gently. “Your father sent me.”
Her face went white to the lips, and she stepped back suddenly, dropping one hand to the counter as though for support. “You come … from my father? Why, I …”
Bruce Barkow, who had apparently followed them from the saloon, stepped in front of Rafe, his face flushed with anger. “Yuh’ve scared her to death,” he snapped. “What do yuh mean, comin’ in here with such a story? Charles Rodney has been dead for almost a year.”
Rafe’s eyes measured Barkow, his thoughts racing. “He has? How did he die?”
“He was killed,” Barkow said, “for the money he was carryin’, it looked like.” Barkow’s eyes suddenly turned triumphant. “Did you kill him?”
Rafe was suddenly aware that Johnny Gill was staring at him, his brows drawn together, puzzled and wondering. Gill, he realized, knew him but slightly and might easily become suspicious of his motives. Gene Baker, also, was studying him coldly, his eyes alive with suspicion. Ann Rodney stared at him, as if stunned by what he had said, and somehow uncertain.
“No,” Rafe said coolly, “I didn’t kill him, but I’d be plumb interested to know who made yuh believe he was dead.”
“Believe he was dead?” Barkow laughed harshly. “I was with him when he died. We found him beside the trail, shot through the body by bandits. I brought back his belongings to Miss Rodney.”
“Miss Rodney,” Rafe began, “if I could talk to you a few minutes …”
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to talk to you. What can you be thinking of? Coming to me with such a story? What is it you want from me?”
“Somehow,” Rafe said quietly, “you’ve got hold of some false information. Your father has been dead for no more than two months.”
“Get out of here!” Barkow ordered, his hand on his gun. “Yuh’re torturin’ that poor young lady! Get out, I say! I don’t know what scheme yuh’ve cooked up, but it won’t work! If yuh know what’s good for yuh, yuh’ll leave this town while the goin’ is good!”
Ann Rodney turned sharply around and ran from the store, heading for the storekeeper’s living quarters.
“Yuh’d better get out, mister,” Gene Baker said harshly. “We know how Rodney died. Yuh can’t work no underhanded schemes on that young lady. Her pa died, and he talked before he died. Three men heard him.”
Rafe Caradec turned and walked outside, standing on the boardwalk, frowning at the skyline. He was aware that Gill had moved up beside him.
“Boss,” Gill said, “I ain’t no lily, but neither am I takin’ part in no deal to skin a young lady out of what is hers by rights. Yuh’d better throw a leg over yore saddle and get.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Johnny,” Rafe advised, “and before you make any change in your plans, suppose you talk to Tex about this? He was with me, an’ he knows all about Rodney’s death as well as I do. If they brought any belongin’s of his back here, there’s somethin’ more to this than we believed.”
Gill kicked his boot toe against a loose board. “Tex was with yuh? Damn it, man! What of that yarn of theirs? It don’t make sense.”
“That’s right,” Caradec replied, “it don’t, and before it will, we’ve got to do some diggin’.” He added: “Suppose I told you that Barkow back there held a mortgage on the Rodney Ranch, and Rodney went to Frisco, got the money, and paid it in Frisco … then never got home?”
Gill stared at Rafe, his mouth tightening. “Then nobody here would know he ever paid that mortgage but Barkow? The man he paid it to?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I’d say this Barkow was a sneakin’ polecat,” Gill said harshly. “Let’s brace him!”
“Not yet, Johnny. Not yet!”
A horrible thought had occurred to him. He had anticipated no such trouble, yet if he explained the circumstances of Rodney’s death and was compelled to prove them, he would be arrested for mutiny on the high seas—a hanging offense! Not only his own life depended on silence, but the lives of Brisco, Penn, and Mullaney. There must be a way out. There had to be.
IV
As Rafe Caradec stood there in the bright sunlight, he began to understand a lot of things and wonder about them. If some of the possessions of Charles Rodney had been returned to Painted Rock, it implied that those who returned them knew something of the shanghaiing of Rodney. How else could they have come by his belongings? Bully Borger had shanghaied his own crew with the connivance of Hongkong Bohl. Had he taken Rodney by suggestion? Had the man been marked for him? Certainly it would not be the first time somebody had got rid of a man in such a manner. If that was the true story, it would account for some of Borger’s animosity when he had beaten Rodney.
No doubt they had all been part of a plan to make sure that Charles Rodney never returned to San Francisco alive, or to Painted Rock. Yet believing such a thing and proving it were two vastly different things. Also, it presented a problem of motive. Land was not scarce in the West, and much of it could be had for the taking. Why, then, people would ask, would Barkow go to such efforts to get one piece of land? Rafe had Barkow’s signature on the receipt, but that could be claimed to be a forgery. First, a motive beyond the mere value of two thousand acres of land and the money paid on the debt must be established. That might be all, and certainly men had been killed for less, but Bruce Barkow was no fool, nor was he a man who played for small stakes.
Rafe lit a cigarette and stared down the street. He must face another fact. Barkow was warned. Whatever he was gambling for, including the girl, was in danger now and would remain in peril as long as Rafe Caradec remained alive or in the country. That fact stood out cold and clear. Barkow knew by now that he must kill Rafe Caradec.
Rafe understood the situation perfectly. His life had been lived among men who played ruthlessly for the highest stakes. It was no shock to him that men would stoop to killing, or a dozen killings, if they could gain a desired end. From now on he must ride with cat eyes, always aware, and always ready.
Sending Gill to find and buy two pack horses, Rafe turned on his heel and went into the store. Barkow was gone, and Ann Rodney was still out of sight.
Baker looked up and his eyes held no welcome. “If yuh’ve got any business here,” he said, “state it and get out. Charles Rodney was a friend of mine.”
“He needed some smarter friends,” Rafe replied shortly. “I came here to buy supplies, but if you want to, start askin’ yourself some questions. Who profits by Rodney’s death? What evidence have you got besides a few of his belongings, that might have been
stolen, that he was killed a year ago? How reliable were the three men who were with him? If he went to San Francisco for the money, what were Barkow and the others doin’ on the trail?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Baker said roughly. “What do yuh want? I’ll refuse no man food.”
Coolly Caradec ordered what he wanted, aware that Baker was studying him. The man seemed puzzled.
“Where yuh livin’?” Baker asked suddenly. Some of the animosity seemed to have gone from his voice.
“At the Rodney cabin on the Crazy Man,” Caradec said. “I’m stayin’, too, till I get the straight of this. If Ann Rodney is wise, she won’t get married or get rid of any rights to her property till this is cleared up.”
“Shute won’t let yuh stay there.”
“I’ll stay.” Rafe gathered up the boxes of shells and stowed them in his pockets. “I’ll be right there. While you’re askin’ yourself questions, ask why Barkow, who holds a mortgage that he claims is unpaid on the Rodney place, lets Dan Shute take over?”
“He didn’t want trouble because of Ann,” Baker said defensively. “He was right nice about it. He wouldn’t foreclose. Givin’ her a chance to pay up.”
“As long as he’s goin’ to marry her, why should he foreclose?” Rafe turned away from the counter. “If Ann Rodney wants to see me, I’ll tell her all about it, any time. I promised her father I’d take care of her, and I will, whether she likes it or not! Also,” he added, “any man who says he talked to Rodney as he was dyin’ lies!”
The door closed at the front of the store, and Rafe Caradec turned to see the dark, Mexican-looking gunman Gill had indicated in the National Saloon, the man known as Gee Bonaro. The gunman came toward him, smiling and showing even white teeth under a thread of mustache.
“Would you repeat that to me, señor?” he asked pleasantly, a thumb hooked in his belt.
“Why not?” Rafe said sharply. He let his eyes, their contempt unveiled, go over the man slowly from head to foot, then back. “If you was one of ’em that said that, you’re a liar. And if you touch that gun, I’ll kill you.”
Gee Bonaro’s spread fingers hovered over the gun butt, and he stood flat-footed, an uncomfortable realization breaking over him. This big stranger was not frightened. In the green eyes was a coldness that turned Bonaro a little sick inside. He was uncomfortably aware that he stood, perilously, on the brink of death.
“Were you one of ’em?” Rafe demanded.
“Sí, señor.” Bonaro’s tongue touched his lips.
“Where was this supposed to be?”
“Where he died, near Pilot Peak, on the trail.”
“You’re a white-livered liar, Bonaro. Rodney never got back to Pilot Peak. You’re bein’ trapped for somebody else’s gain, and, if I were you, I’d back up and look the trail over again.” Rafe’s eyes held the man. “You say you saw him. How was he dressed?”
“Dressed?” Bonaro was startled and confused. Nobody had asked such a thing. He had no idea what to say. Suppose the same question was answered in a different way by one of the others? He wavered and was lost. “I … I don’t know. I …”
He looked from Baker to Caradec and took a step back, his tongue at his lips, his eyes like those of a trapped animal. He was confused. The big man facing him somehow robbed him of his sureness, his poise, and he had come here to kill him.
“Rodney talked to me only a few weeks ago, Bonaro,” Rafe said coldly. “Think! How many others did he talk to? You’re bein’ mixed up in a cold-blooded killin’, Bonaro! Now turn around and get out! And get out fast!”
Bonaro backed up, and Rafe took a forward step. Wheeling, the man scrambled for the door.
Rafe turned and glanced at Baker. “Think that over,” he said coolly. “You’ll take the word of a coyote like that about an honest man! Somebody’s tryin’ to rob Miss Rodney, and because you’re believin’ that cock-and-bull story, you’re helpin’ it along.”
Gene Baker stood stockstill, his hands flat on the counter. What he had seen he would not have believed. Gee Bonaro had slain two men since coming to Painted Rock, and here a stranger had backed him down without lifting a hand or moving toward a gun. Baker rubbed his ear thoughtfully.
Johnny Gill met Rafe in front of the store with two pack horses. A glance told Caradec that the little cowhand had bought well.
Gill glanced questioningly at Rafe. “Did I miss somethin’? I seen that gun hand segundo of Shute’s come out of that store like he was chased by the devil. You and him have a run-in?”
“I called him, and he backed down,” Rafe told Gill. “He said he was one of the three who heard Rodney’s last words. I told him he was a liar.”
Johnny drew the rope tighter. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Rafe. This man had come into town and put himself on record for what he was and what he planned faster than anybody he had ever seen. Shucks, Johnny thought, grinning at the horse, why go back to Texas? There’ll be ruckus enough here, ridin’ for that hombre.
* * * * *
The town of Painted Rock numbered exactly eighty-nine inhabitants, and by sundown the arrival of Rafe Caradec and his challenge to Gee Bonaro was the talk of all of them. It was a behind-the-hand talking, but the story was going the rounds. Also, that Charles Rodney was alive—or had been alive until recently.
By nightfall Dan Shute heard that Caradec had moved into the Rodney house on Crazy Man, and an hour later he had stormed furiously into his bunkhouse and given Bonaro a tongue-lashing that turned the gunman livid with anger. Bruce Barkow was worried, and he made no pretense about it in his conference with Shute. The only hopeful note was that Caradec had said that Rodney was dead.
Gene Baker, sitting in his easy chair in his living quarters behind the store, was uneasy. He was aware that his silence was worrying his wife. He was also aware that Ann was silent herself, an unusual thing, for the girl was usually gay and full of fun and laughter. The idea that there could have been anything wrong about the story told by Barkow, Weber, and Bonaro had never entered the storekeeper’s head. He had accepted the story as others had, for many men had been killed along the trails or had died in fights with Indians. It was another tragedy of the westward march, and he had done what he could—he and his wife had taken Ann Rodney into their home and loved her as their own child.
Now this stranger had come with his questions. Despite Baker’s irritation that the matter had come up at all, and despite his outward denials of truth in what Caradec had said, he was aware of an inner doubt that gnawed at the walls of his confidence in Bruce Barkow. Whatever else he might be, Gene Baker was a fair man. He was forced to admit that Bonaro was not a man in whom reliance could be placed. He was a known gunman, and a suspected outlaw. That Shute hired him was bad enough in itself, yet when he thought of Shute, Baker was again uneasy. The twin ranches of Barkow and Shute surrounded the town on three sides. Their purchases represented no less than fifty percent of the storekeeper’s business, and that did not include what the hands bought on their own. The drinking of the hands from the ranches supported the National Saloon, too, and Gene Baker, who for all his willingness to live and let live was a good citizen, or believed himself to be, found himself examining a situation he did not like. It was not a new situation in Painted Rock, and he had been unconsciously aware of it for some time, yet, while aware of it, he had tacitly accepted it. Now there seemed to be someone in the woodpile, or several of them.
As Baker smoked his pipe, he found himself realizing with some discomfort and growing doubt that Painted Rock was completely subservient to Barkow and Shute. Pod Gomer, who was town marshal, had been nominated for the job by Barkow at the council meeting. Joe Benson of the National had seconded the motion, and Dan Shute had calmly suggested that the nomination be closed, and Gomer was voted in. Gene Baker had never liked Gomer, but the man was a good gun hand and certainly unafraid. Baker had voted
with the others, as had Pat Higley, another responsible citizen of the town. In the same manner, Benson had been elected mayor of the town, and Roy Gargan had been made judge.
Remembering that the town was actually in the hands of Barkow and Shute, Baker also recalled that at first the tactics of the two big ranchers had caused grumbling among the smaller holders of land. Nothing had ever been done, largely because one of them, Stu Martin, who talked the loudest, had been killed in a fall from a cliff. A few weeks later another small rancher, Al Chase, had mistakenly tried to draw against Bonaro, and had died. Looked at in that light, the situation made Baker uneasy. Little things began to occur to him that had remained unconsidered, and he began to wonder just what could be done about it, even if he knew for sure that Rodney had been killed. Not only was he dependent on Shute and Barkow for business, but Benson, their partner and friend, owned the freight line that brought in his supplies.
Law was still largely a local matter. The Army maintained a fort not too far away, but the soldiers were busy keeping an eye on the Sioux and their allies who were becoming increasingly restive, what with the blooming gold camps at Bannock and Alder Gulch, Custer’s invasion of the Black Hills, and the steady roll of wagon trains over the Bozeman and Laramie Trails. If there were trouble here, Baker realized with a sudden, sickening fear, it would be settled locally, and that meant it would be settled by Dan Shute and Bruce Barkow. Yet, even as he thought of that, Baker recalled the tall man in the black, flat-crowned hat and buckskin jacket. There was something about Rafe Caradec that was convincing, something that made a man doubt he would be controlled by anybody or anything, at any time, or anywhere.
V
Rafe Caradec rode silently alongside Johnny Gill when they moved out of Painted Rock, trailing the two pack horses. The trail turned west by south and crossed the north fork of Clear Creek. They turned then along a narrow path that skirted the huge boulders fringing the mountains.
The Trail to Crazy Man Page 10
