Bo Marsh had walked over to the corral, and suddenly he called out.
“Boss! Look it here!”
They all trooped over, then stopped. Instead of five horses in the corral there were ten! One of them was the paint they had loaned the young squaw, but the others were strange horses, and every one was a picked animal.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Gill exploded. “Brung our own hoss and an extra for each of us. Reckon that big black is for you, boss.”
By daylight, when they could examine the horses, Tex Brisco walked around them admiringly.
“Man,” he said, “that was the best horse trade I ever heard of! There’s four of the purtiest horses I ever laid an eye on! I always did say the Sioux knowed hossflesh, and this proves it. Reckon yore bread cast on the water shore come back to yuh, boss!”
Rafe studied the valley thoughtfully. They would have another month of good haying weather if there was no rain. Four men could not work much harder than they were, but the beaver were building their houses bigger and in deeper water, and from that and all other indications the winter was going to be hard.
He made his decision suddenly, and mentioned it that night at the supper table. “I’m ridin’ to Painted Rock. Want to go along, Tex?”
“Yeah.” The Texan looked at him calculatingly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“How about me?” Bo asked, grinning. “Johnny went last time. I could shore use a belt of that red-eye the National peddles, and mebbe a look around town.”
“Take him along, boss,” Johnny said. “I can hold this end. If he stays, he’ll be ridin’ me all the time, anyway.”
“All right. Saddle up first thing in the mornin’.”
“Boss …” Johnny threw one leg over the other, and lit his smoke. “One thing I better tell yuh. I hadn’t said a word before, but two, three days ago, when I was down to the bend of the Crazy Man, I run into a couple fellers. One of ’em was Red Blazer, that big galoot who was with Boyne. Remember?”
Rafe turned around and looked down at the little, leather-faced cowhand. “Well,” he said, “what about him?”
Gill took a long drag on his cigarette. “He told me he was carryin’ a message from Trigger Boyne, and that Trigger was goin’ to shoot on sight, next time yuh showed up in Painted Rock.”
Rafe reached over on the table and picked up a piece of cold cornbread. “Then I reckon that’s what he’ll do,” he said. “If he gets into action fast enough.”
“Boss,” Marsh pleaded, “if that red-headed Tom Blazer, brother to the one yuh had the run-in with … if he’s there, I want him.”
“That the one we saw on the National stoop?” Rafe asked Gill.
“Uhn-huh. There’s five of them brothers. All gun-toters.”
Gill got up and stretched. “Well, I’ll have it purty lazy while you hombres are down there dustin’ lead.” He added: “It would be a good idea to sort of keep an eye out. Gee Bonaro’s probably in town and could be feelin’ mighty mad.”
Rafe walked outside, strolling toward the corral. Behind him, Marsh turned to Gill. “Reckon he can sling a gun?”
Tex chuckled. “Mister, that hombre killed one of the fastest, slickest gun throwers that ever came out of Texas, and done it when he was no more’n sixteen, down on the C Bar. Also, while I’ve never seen him shoot, if he can shoot like he can fist fight, Mister Trigger Boyne had better grab hisself an armful of hossflesh and start makin’ tracks for the blackest part of the Black Hills … fast!”
VII
Nothing about the town of Painted Rock suggested drama or excitement. It lay sprawled comfortably in the morning sunlight in an elbow of Rock Creek. A normally roaring and plunging stream, the creek had decided here to loiter a while, enjoying the warm sun and the graceful willows that lined the banks. Behind and among the willows the white, slender trunks of the birch trees marched in neat ranks, each tree so like its neighbor that it was almost impossible to distinguish between them. Clumps of mountain alder, yellow rose, puffed clematis, and antelope bush were scattered along the far bank of the stream and advanced up the hill beyond in skirmishing formation. In a few weeks now the aspen leaves would be changing, and Painted Rock would take on a background of flaming color—a bank of trees, rising toward the darker growth of spruce and fir along the higher mountain side.
Painted Rock’s one street was the only thing about the town that was ordered. It lay between two neat rows of buildings that stared at each other down across a long lane of dust and, during the rainy periods, of mud. At any time of day or night a dozen saddle horses would be standing three-legged at the hitching rails, usually in front of Joe Benson’s National Saloon. A buckboard or a spring wagon would also be present, usually driven by some small rancher in for his supplies. The two big outfits sent two wagons together, drawn by mules.
Bruce Barkow sat in front of the sheriff’s office this morning, deep in conversation with Pod Gomer. It was a conversation that had begun over an hour before. Gomer was a short, thick-set man, almost as deep from chest to spine as from shoulder to shoulder. He was not fat and was considered a tough man to tangle with. He was also a man who liked to play on the winning side, and long ago he had decided there was only one side to consider in this light—the side of Dan Shute and Bruce Barkow. Yet he was a man who was sensitive to the way the wind blew, and he frequently found himself puzzled when he considered his two bosses. There was no good feeling between them. They met on business or pleasure, saw things through much the same eyes, but each wanted to be kingpin. Sooner or later, Gomer knew, he must make a choice between them.
Barkow was shrewd, cunning. He was a planner and a conniver. He was a man who would use any method to win, but in most cases he kept himself in the background of anything smacking of crime or wrongdoing. Otherwise, he was much in the foreground. Dan Shute was another type of man. He was tall and broad of shoulder. Normally he was sullen, hard-eyed, and surly. He had little to say to anyone and was more inclined to settle matters with a blow or a gun than with words. He was utterly cold-blooded, felt slightly about anything, and would kill a man as quickly and with as little excitement as he would brand a calf.
Barkow might carve a notch on his gun butt. Shute wouldn’t even understand such a thing. Shute was a man who seemed to be without vanity, and such men are dangerous. For the vanity is there, only submerged, and the slow-burning, deep fires of hatred for the vain smolder within them until suddenly they burst into flame and end in sudden, dramatic climax and ugly violence.
Pod Gomer understood little of Dan Shute. He understood the man’s complex character just enough to know that he was dangerous, that as long as Shute rode along, Barkow would be top dog, but that if ever Barkow incurred Shute’s resentment, the deep-seated fury of the gunman would brush his partner aside as he would swat a fly. In a sense, both men were using each other, but of the two Dan Shute was the man to be reckoned with. Yet Gomer had seen Barkow at work. He had seen how deviously the big rancher planned, how carefully he made friends. At the fort, they knew and liked him, and what little law there was outside the town of Painted Rock was in the hands of the commanding officer at the fort. Knowing this, Bruce Barkow had made it a point to know the personnel there, and to plan accordingly.
* * * * *
The big black that Rafe was riding was a powerful horse, and he let the animal have its head. Behind him in single file trailed Tex Brisco and Bo Marsh. Rafe Caradec was thinking as he rode. He had seen too much of violence and struggle to fail to understand men who lived lives along the frontier. He had correctly gauged the kind of courage Gee Bonaro possessed, yet he knew the man was dangerous and, if the opportunity offered, would shoot and shoot instantly.
Trigger Boyne was another proposition. Boyne was reckless, wickedly fast with a gun, and the type of man who would fight at the drop of a hat, and had his own ready to drop on the slightest pretext. Boyne liked the nam
e of being a gunman, and he liked being top dog. If Boyne had sent a warning to Caradec, it would be only because he intended to back up that warning.
Rafe took the black along the mountain trail, riding swiftly. The big horse was the finest he had ever had between his knees. When a Sioux gave gifts, he apparently went all the way. A gift had been sent to each of the men on the Crazy Man, which was evidence that the Sioux had looked them over at the cabin. The black had a long, space-eating stride that seemed to put no strain on his endurance. The horses given to the others were almost as good. There were not four men in the mountains mounted as well, Rafe knew.
He rounded the big horse into the dusty street of Painted Rock and rode down toward the hitching rail at a spanking trot. He pulled up and swung down, and the other men swung down alongside him.
“Just keep your eyes open,” Rafe said guardedly. “I don’t want trouble. But if Boyne starts anything, he’s my meat.”
Marsh nodded, and walked up on the boardwalk alongside of Brisco, who was sweeping the street with quick, observant eyes.
“Have a drink?” Rafe suggested, and led the way inside the National.
Joe Benson was behind the bar. He looked up warily as the three men entered. He spoke to Bo, then glanced at Tex Brisco. He placed Tex as a stranger, and his mind leaped ahead. It took no long study to see that Tex was a hard character and a fighting man.
Joe was cautious and shrewd. Unless he was mistaken, Barkow and Shute had their work cut out for them. These men didn’t look like the sort to back water for anything or anyone. The town’s saloonkeeper-mayor had an uncomfortable feeling that a change was in the offing, yet he pushed the feeling aside with irritation. That must not happen. His own failure and his own interests were too closely allied to those of Barkow and Shute. Of course, when Barkow married the Rodney girl that would give them complete title to the ranch. That would leave them in the clear, and these men, if alive, could be run off the ranch with every claim to legal process.
Caradec tossed off his whisky and looked up sharply. His glance pinned Joe Benson to the spot. “Trigger Boyne sent word he was looking for me,” he said abruptly. “Tell him I’m in town … ready,”
“How should I know Trigger better’n any other man who comes into this bar?” Benson demanded.
“You know him. Tell him.”
Rafe hitched his guns into a comfortable position and strode through the swinging doors. There were a dozen men in sight, but none of them resembled Boyne or either of the Blazers he had seen.
He started for the Emporium. Behind him, Tex stopped by one of the posts that supported the wooden awning over the walk, and leaned a negligent shoulder against it, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
Bo Marsh sat back in a chair against the wall, his interested eyes sweeping the street. Several men who passed spoke to him and glanced at Tex Brisco’s tall, lean figure.
Rafe opened the door of the Emporium and strode inside. Gene Baker looked up, frowning when he saw him. He was not glad to see Rafe, for the man’s words on his previous visit had been responsible for some doubts and speculations.
“Is Ann Rodney in?”
Baker hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “She’s back there.”
Rafe went around the counter toward the door, hat in his left hand.
“I don’t think she wants to see yuh,” Baker advised.
“All right,” Rafe said, “we’ll see.”
He pushed past the screen, and stepped into the living room beyond.
Ann Rodney was sewing, and, when the quick step sounded, she glanced up. Her eyes changed. Something inside her seemed to turn over slowly. This big man who had brought such disturbing news affected her as no man ever had. Considering her engagement to Bruce Barkow, she didn’t like to feel that way about any man. Since he had last been here, she had worried a good deal about what he had said and her reaction to it. Why would he come with such a tale? Shouldn’t she have heard him out?
Bruce said no, that the man was an imposter and someone who hoped to get money from her. Yet she knew something of Johnny Gill, and she had danced with Bo Marsh, and knew that these men were honest and had been so as long as she had known of them. They were liked and respected in Painted Rock.
“Oh,” she said, rising. “It’s you?”
Rafe stopped in the center of the room, a tall, picturesque figure in his buckskin coat and with his waving black hair. He was, she thought, a handsome man. He wore his guns low and tied down, and she knew what that meant.
“I was goin’ to wait,” he said abruptly, “and let you come to me and ask questions, if you ever did, but when I thought it over, rememberin’ what I’d promised your father, I decided I must come back now, lay all my cards on the table, and tell you what happened.”
She started to speak, and he lifted his hand. “Wait. I’m goin’ to talk quick, because in a few minutes I have an appointment outside that I must keep. Your father did not die on the trail back from California. He was shanghaied in San Francisco, taken aboard a ship while unconscious, and forced to work as a seaman. I was shanghaied at the same time and place. Your father and I in the months that followed were together a lot. He asked me to come here, to take care of you and his wife, and to protect you. He died of beatin’s he got aboard ship, just before the rest of us got away from the ship. I was with him when he died, settin’ beside his bed. Almost his last words were about you.”
Ann Rodney stood very still, staring at him. There was a ring of truth in the rapidly spoken words, yet how could she believe this? Three men had told her they saw her father die, and one of them was the man she was to marry, the man who had befriended her, who had refused to foreclose on the mortgage he held and take from her the last thing she possessed in the world.
“What was my father like?” she asked.
“Like?” Rafe’s brow furrowed. “How can anybody say what any man is like? I’d say he was about five feet eight or nine. When he died, his hair was almost white, but when I first saw him, he had only a few gray hairs. His face was a heap like yours. So were his eyes, except they weren’t so large nor so beautiful. He was a kind man who wasn’t used to violence, I think, and he didn’t like it. He planned well, and thought well, but the West was not the country for him, yet. Ten years from now, when it has settled more, he’d have been a leadin’ citizen. He was a good man, and a sincere man.”
“It sounds like him,” Ann said hesitantly, “but there is nothing you could not have learned here, or from someone who knew him.”
“No,” he said frankly. “That’s so. But there’s somethin’ else you should know. The mortgage your father had against his place was paid.”
“What?” Ann stiffened. “Paid? How can you say that?”
“He borrowed the money in Frisco and paid Barkow with it. He got a receipt for it.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that! Why, Bruce would have …”
“Would he?” Rafe asked gently. “You shore?”
She looked at him. “What was the other thing?”
“I have a deed,” he said, “to the ranch made out to you and to me.”
Her eyes widened, then hardened with suspicion. “So? Now things become clearer. A deed to my father’s ranch made out to you and to me! In other words, you are laying claim to half of my ranch?”
“Please … ,” Rafe said. “I …”
She smiled. “You needn’t say anything more, Mister Caradec. I admit I was almost coming to believe there was something in your story. At least, I was wondering about it, for I couldn’t understand how you hoped to profit from any such tale. Now it becomes clear. You are trying to get half my ranch. You have even moved into my house without asking permission.” She stepped to one side of the door and pulled back the curtain. “I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave. I must also ask you to vacate the house on Crazy Man at once. I mus
t ask you to refrain from calling on me again, or from approaching me.”
“Please,” Rafe said, “you’re jumping to conclusions. I never aimed to claim any part of the ranch. I came here only because your father asked me to.”
“Good day, Mister Caradec!” Ann still held the curtain.
He looked at her, and for an instant their eyes held. She was first to look away. He turned abruptly and stepped through the curtain, and, as he did, the door opened and he saw Bo Marsh.
Marsh’s eyes were excited and anxious. “Rafe,” he said, “that Boyne hombre’s in front of the National. He wants yuh!”
“Why, shore,” Rafe said quietly. “I’m ready.”
He walked to the front door, hitching his guns into place. Behind him, he heard Ann Rodney asking Baker: “What did he mean? That Boyne was waiting for him?”
Baker’s reply came to Rafe as he stepped out into the morning light. “Trigger Boyne’s goin’ to kill him, Ann. Yuh’d better go back inside.”
Rafe smiled slightly. Kill him? Would that be it? No man knew better than he the tricks that Destiny plays on a man, or how often the right man dies at the wrong time and place. A man never wore a gun without inviting trouble; he never stepped into a street and began the gunman’s walk without the full knowledge that he might be a shade too slow, that some small thing might disturb him just long enough.
VIII
Morning sun was bright, and the street lay empty of horses or vehicles. A few idlers loafed in front of the stage station, but all of them were on their feet.
Rafe Caradec saw his black horse switch his tail at a fly, and he stepped down into the street. Trigger Boyne stepped off the boardwalk to face him, some distance off. Rafe did not walk slowly; he made no measured, quiet approach. He started to walk toward Boyne, going fast.
Trigger walked down the street easily, casually. He was smiling. Inside, his heart was throbbing, and there was a wild reckless eagerness within him. This one he would finish off fast. This would be simple, easy. He squared in the street, and suddenly the smile was wiped from his face. Caradec was coming toward him, shortening the distance at a fast walk. That rapid approach did something to the calm on Boyne’s face and in his mind. It was wrong. Caradec should have come slowly; he should have come poised and ready to draw. Knowing his own deadly marksmanship, Boyne felt sure he could kill this man at any distance. But as soon as he saw that walk, he knew that Caradec was going to be so close in a few more steps that he himself would be killed. It is one thing to know you are to kill another man, quite a different thing to know you are to die yourself. Why, if Caradec walked that way, he would be so close he couldn’t miss!
The Trail to Crazy Man Page 12
