“Was Bonaro where yuh could see him?”
“He shore was!”
“Did he make any threatenin’ moves?”
“Not any!”
“Did he lift a gun?”
“He shore didn’t!”
“Did he make any move that would give an idea he was goin’ to shoot?”
“Nope. Not any.” As Tom Blazer answered each question, he glared triumphantly at Caradec.
Barkow turned to the jury. “Well, there yuh are. I think that’s enough evidence. I think …”
“Let’s hear Caradec ask his questions,” Pat Higley said. “I want both sides of this yarn.”
Rafe got up and walked over to Tom Blazer, then looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d like permission to ask one question of a man in the audience. He can be sworn or not, just as you say.”
Gargan hesitated uncertainly. Always before things had gone smoothly. Trials had been railroaded through, objections swept aside, and the wordless little ranchers or other objectors to the rule of Barkow and Shute had been helpless. This time preparations should have been more complete. He didn’t know what to do. “All right,” he said, his misgiving showing in his expression and tone.
Caradec turned to look at a short, stocky man with a brown mustache streaked with gray. “Grant,” he said, “what kind of a curtain have you got over that window above your harness and saddle shop?”
Grant looked up. “Why, it ain’t rightly no curtain,” he said frankly. “It’s a blanket.”
“You keep it down all the time? The window covered?”
“Uhn-huh. Shore do. Sun gets in there otherwise and makes the floor hot and she heats up the store thataway. Keepin’ that window covered keeps her cooler.”
“It was covered the day of the shooting?”
“Shore was.”
“Where did you find the blanket after the shootin’?”
“Well, she laid over the sill, partly inside, partly outside.”
Rafe turned to the jury. “Miss Rodney and gentlemen, I believe the evidence is clear. The window was covered by a blanket. When Bonaro fell after I shot him, he tumbled across the sill, tearin’ down the blanket. Do you agree?”
“Shore!” Gene Baker found his voice. The whole case was only too obviously a frame-up to get Caradec. It was like Bonaro to try a sneak killing, anyway. “If that blanket hadn’t been over the window, then he couldn’t have fallen against it and carried part out with him.”
“That’s right.” Rafe turned on Tom Blazer. “Your eyes seem to be as amazin’ as your brother’s. You can see through a wool blanket!”
Blazer sat up with a jerk, his face dark with sullen rage. “Listen!” he said, “I’ll tell yuh …”
“Wait a minute!” Rafe whirled on him and thrust a finger in his face. “You’re not only a perjurer but a thief! What did you do with that Winchester Bonaro dropped out of the window?”
“It wa’n’t no Winchester!” Blazer blared furiously. “It was a Henry!” Then, seeing the expression on Barkow’s face, and hearing the low murmur that swept the court, he realized what he had said. He started to get up, then sat back, angry and confused.
Rafe Caradec turned toward the jury. “The witness swore that Bonaro had no gun, yet he testified that the rifle Bonaro dropped was a Henry. Gentlemen and Miss Rodney, I’m goin’ to ask that you recommend the case be dismissed, and also that Red and Tom Blazer be held in jail to answer charges of perjury.”
“What?” Tom Blazer came out of the witness chair with a lunge. “Jail? Me? Why, you …”
He leaped, hurling a huge red-haired fist in a roundhouse swing. Rafe Caradec stepped in with a left that smashed Blazer’s lips, then a solid right that sent him crashing to the floor.
He glanced at the judge. “And that, I think,” he said quietly “is contempt of court.”
Pat Higley got up abruptly. “Gargan, I reckon yuh better dismiss this case. Yuh haven’t got any evidence or anything that sounds like evidence, and I guess ever’body here heard about Caradec facin’ Bonaro down in the store. If he wanted to shoot him, there was his chance.”
Gargan swallowed. “Case dismissed,” he said.
He looked up at Bruce Barkow, but the rancher was walking toward Ann Rodney. She glanced at him, then her eyes lifted, and beyond him she saw Rafe Caradec. How fine his face was! It was a rugged, strong face. There was character in it, and sincerity. She came to with a start. Bruce was speaking to her.
“Gomer told me he had a case,” Barkow said, “or I’d never have been a party to this. He’s guilty as can be, but he’s smooth.”
Ann looked down at Bruce Barkow, and suddenly his eyed looked different to her than they ever had before. “He may be guilty of a lot of things,” she said tartly, “but if ever there was a cooked-up, dishonest case, it was this one. And everyone in town knew it. If I were you, Bruce Barkow, I’d be ashamed of myself.”
Abruptly she turned her back on him and started for the door, yet, as she went, she glanced up, and for a brief instant her eyes met those of Rafe Caradec’s, and something within her leaped. Her throat seemed to catch. Head high, she hurried past him into the street. The store seemed a long distance away.
* * * * *
When Bruce Barkow walked into Pod Gomer’s office, the sheriff was sitting in his swivel chair. In the big leather armchair across the room Dan Shute was waiting. He was a big man, with massive shoulders, powerfully muscled arms, and great hands. A shock of dusky blond hair covered the top of his head, and his eyebrows were the color of corn silk. He looked up as Barkow came in, and, when he spoke, his voice was rough. “You shore played hob!”
“The man’s smart, that’s all,” Barkow said. “Next time we’ll have a better case.”
“Next time?” Dan Shute lounged back in the big chair, the contempt in his eyes unconcealed. “There ain’t goin’ to be a next time. Yuh’re through, Barkow. From now on, this is my show, and we run it my way. Caradec needs killin’, and we’ll kill him. Also, yuh’re goin’ to foreclose that mortgage on the Rodney place.” He held up a hand as Barkow started to speak. “No, you wait. Yuh was all for pullin’ this slick stuff. Winnin’ the girl, gettin’ the property the easy way, the legal way. To blazes with that! This Caradec is makin’ a monkey of yuh! Yuh’re not slick! Yuh’re just a country boy playin’ with a real smooth lad! To blazes with that smooth stuff! You foreclose on that mortgage and do it plumb quick. I’ll take care of Mister Rafe Caradec! With my own hands, or guns if necessary. We’ll clean that country down there so slick of his hands and cattle they won’t know what happened.”
“That won’t get it,” Barkow protested. “You let me handle this. I’ll take care of things.”
Dan Shute looked up at Barkow, his eyes sardonic. “I’ll run this show. You’re takin’ the back seat, Barkow, from now on. All yuh’ve done is make us out fumblin’ fools. Also,” he added calmly, “I’m takin’ over that girl.”
“What?” Barkow whirled, his face livid. In his wildest doubts of Shute, and he had had many of them, this was one thing that had never entered his mind.
“You heard me,” Shute replied. “She’s a neat little lady, and I can make a place for her out to my ranch. You messed up all around, so I’m takin’ over.”
Barkow laughed, but his laugh was hollow with something of fear in it. Always before Dan Shute had been big, silent, and surly, saying little, letting Barkow plan and plot and take the lead. Bruce Barkow had always thought of the man as a sort of strong-arm squad to use in a pinch. Suddenly he was shockingly aware that this big man was completely sure of himself, that he held him, Barkow, in contempt. He would ride roughshod over everything. “Dan,” Barkow protested, trying to keep his thoughts ordered, “yuh can’t play with a girl’s affections. She’s in love with me. Yuh can’t do anything about that. Yuh think she’d fall out of love with one
man, and …?”
Dan Shute grinned. “Who said anything about love? You talk about that all yuh want. Talk it to yoreself. I want the girl, and I’m goin’ to have her. It doesn’t make any difference who says no, and that goes for Gene Baker, her, or you.”
Bruce Barkow stood flat-footed and pale. Suddenly he felt sick and empty. Here it was, then. He was through. Dan Shute had told him off, and in front of Pod Gomer. Out of the tail of his eye he could see the calm, yet cynical, expression on Gomer’s face. He looked up, and he felt small under the flat, ironic gaze of Shute’s eyes. “All right, Dan, if that’s the way yuh feel. I expect we’d better part company.”
Shute chuckled, and his voice was rough when he spoke. “No,” he said, “we don’t part company. You sit tight. Yuh’re holdin’ that mortgage, and I want that land. Yuh had a good idea there, Barkow, but yuh’re too weak-kneed to swing it. I’ll swing it, and mebbe, if yuh’re quiet and obey orders, I’ll see yuh get some of it.”
Bruce Barkow glared at Shute. For the first time he knew what hatred was. Here, in a few minutes, he had been destroyed. This story would go the rounds, and before nightfall everyone in town would know it. Dan Shute, big, slow-talking Dan Shute with his hard fists and his guns had crushed Barkow. He stared at Shute with hatred livid in his eyes. “Yuh’ll go too far!” he said viciously.
Shute shrugged. “Yuh can live, an’ come out of this with a few dollars,” he said calmly, “or yuh can die. I’d just as soon kill yuh, Barkow, as look at yuh.” He picked up his hat. “We had a nice thing. That shanghaiin’ idea was yores. Why yuh didn’t shoot him, I’ll never know. If yuh had, this Caradec would never have run into him at all and would never have come in here, stirrin’ things up. Yuh could have foreclosed that mortgage, and we could be makin’ a deal on that oil now.”
“Caradec don’t know anything about that,” Barkow protested.
“Like sin he don’t!” Dan Shute sneered. “Caradec’s been watched by my men for days. He’s been wise there was somethin’ in the wind, and he’s scouted all over that place. Well, he was down to the knob the other day, and he took a long look at that oil seepage. He’s no fool, Barkow.”
Bruce Barkow looked up. “No,” he replied suddenly, “he’s not, and he’s a hand with a gun, too, Dan. He’s a hand with a gun. He took Boyne.”
Shute shrugged. “Boyne was nothin’. I could have spanked him with his own gun. I’ll kill Caradec someday, but first I want to beat him, to beat him with my own hands.”
He heaved himself out of the chair and stalked outside. For an instant, Barkow stared after him, then his gaze shifted to Pod Gomer.
The sheriff was absently whittling a small stick. “Well,” he said, “he told yuh.”
XII
Hard and grim, Barkow’s mouth tightened. So Gomer was in it, too. He started to speak, then hesitated. Like Caradec, Gomer was no fool, and he, too, was a good hand with a gun. Barkow shrugged. “Dan sees things wrong,” he said. “I’ve still got an ace in the hole.” He looked at Gomer. “I’d like it better if you were on my side.”
Pod Gomer shrugged. “I’m with the winner. My health is good. All I need is more money.”
“Yuh think Shute’s the winner?”
“Don’t you?” Gomer asked. “He told yuh plenty, and yuh took it.”
“Yes, I did, because I know I’m no match for him with a gun. Nor for you.” He studied the sheriff thoughtfully. “This is goin’ to be a nice thing, Pod. It would split well, two ways.”
Gomer got up and snapped his knife shut. “You show me the color of some money,” he said, “and how Dan Shute’s out, and we might talk. Also,” he added, “if yuh mention this to Dan, I’ll call yuh a liar in the street or in the National. I’ll make you use that gun.”
“I won’t talk,” Barkow said. “Only I’ve been learnin’ a few things. When we get answers to some of the messages yuh sent, and some I sent, we should know more. Borger wouldn’t let Caradec off that ship willin’ly after he knew Rodney. I think he deserted. I think we can get something on him for mutiny, and that means hangin’.”
“Mebbe yuh can,” Gomer agreed. “You show me yuh’re holdin’ good cards, and I’ll back yuh to the limit.”
Bruce Barkow walked out on the street. Gomer, at least, he understood. He knew the man had no use for him, but if he could show evidence that he was to win, then Gomer would be a powerful ally. Judge Gargan would go as Gomer went, and would always adopt the less violent means. The cards were on the table now. Dan Shute was running things. What he could do, Barkow was not sure. He realized suddenly, with no little trepidation, that after all his association with Shute he knew little of what went on behind the hard brutality of the rancher’s face. Yet he was not a man to lag or linger. What he did would be sudden, brutal, and thorough, but it would make a perfect shield under which he, Barkow, could operate and carry to fulfillment his own plans.
Dan Shute’s abrupt statement of his purpose in regard to Ann Rodney had jolted Barkow. Somehow, he had taken Ann for granted. He had always planned a marriage. That he wanted her land was true. Perhaps better than Shute he knew what oil might mean in the future, and Barkow was a farsighted man. But Ann Rodney was lovely and interesting. She would be a good wife for him. There was one way he could defeat Dan Shute on that score. To marry Ann at once.
True, it might precipitate a killing, but already Bruce Barkow was getting ideas on that score. He was suddenly less disturbed about Rafe Caradec than Dan Shute. The rancher loomed large and formidable in his mind. He knew the brutality of the man, had seen him kill, and knew with what coldness he regarded people or animals. Bruce Barkow made up his mind. Come what may, he was going to marry Ann Rodney.
He could, he realized, marry her and get her clear away from here. His mind leaped ahead. Flight to the northwest to the gold camps would be foolhardy. To the Utah country would be as bad. In either case, Shute might and probably would overtake him. There remained another way out, and one that Shute probably would never suspect—he could strike for Fort Phil Kearney not far distant, and then, with or without a scouting party for escort, could head across country and reach the Yellowstone. Or he might even try the nearer Powder River. A steamer had ascended the Yellowstone earlier that year, and there was every chance that another would come. If not, with a canoe or barge they could head downstream until they encountered such a boat, and buy passage to St. Louis.
Ann and full title to her land would be in his hands then, and he could negotiate a sale or the leasing of the land from a safe distance. The more he thought of this, the more he was positive it remained the only solution for him.
Let Gomer think what he would. Let Dan Shute believe him content with a minor rôle. He would go ahead with his plans, then strike suddenly and swiftly and be well on his way before Shute realized what had happened. Once he made the fort, he would be in the clear. Knowing the officers as well as he did, he was sure he could get an escort to the river. He had never seen the Yellowstone, nor did he know much about either that river or Powder River. But they had been used by many men as a high road to the West, and he could use a river as an escape to the East.
Carefully he considered the plan. There were preparations to be made. Every angle must be considered. At his ranch were horses enough. He would borrow Baker’s buckboard to take Ann for a ride, then at his ranch they would mount and be off. With luck they would be well on their way before anyone so much as guessed what had happened.
Stopping by the store, he bought ammunition from Baker. He glanced up to find the storekeeper’s eyes studying him, and he didn’t like the expression.
“Is Ann in?” he asked.
Baker nodded, and jerked a thumb toward the curtain. Turning, Barkow walked behind the curtain and looked at Ann, who arose as he entered. Quickly he sensed a coolness that had not been there before. This was no time to talk of marriage. First things first.
&n
bsp; He shrugged shamefacedly. “I suppose yuh’re thinkin’ pretty bad of me,” he suggested ruefully. “I know now I shouldn’t have listened to Dan Shute or to Gomer. Pod swore he had a case, and Shute claims Caradec is a crook and a rustler. If I had realized, I wouldn’t have had any hand in it.”
“It was pretty bad,” Ann agreed as she sat down and began knitting. “What will happen now?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I wish I could spare you all this. Before it’s over I’m afraid there’ll be more killin’s and trouble. Dan Shute is plenty roused up. He’ll kill Caradec.”
She looked at him. “You think that will be easy?”
Surprised, he nodded. “Yes. Dan’s a dangerous man, and a cruel and brutal one. He’s fast with a gun, too.”
“I thought you were a friend to Dan Shute?” she asked, looking at him hard. “What’s changed you, Bruce?”
He shrugged. “Oh, little things. He showed himself up today. He’s brutal, unfeelin’. He’ll stop at nothin’ to gain his ends.”
“I think he will,” Ann said composedly. “I think he’ll stop at Rafe Caradec.”
Barkow stared at her. “He seems to have impressed yuh. What makes yuh think that?”
“I never really saw him until today, Bruce,” she admitted. “Whatever his motives, he is shrewd and capable. I think he is a much more dangerous man than Dan Shute. There’s something behind him, too. He has background. I could see it in his manner more than his words. I wish I knew more about him.”
Nettled at her defense of the man, and her apparent respect for him, Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t forget, he probably killed your father.”
She looked up. “Did he, Bruce?”
Her question struck fear into him. Veiling his eyes, he shrugged again. “Yuh never know. I’m worried about you, Ann. This country’s going to be flamin’ within a few days or weeks. If it ain’t the fight here, it’ll be the Indians. I wish I could get yuh out of it.”
The Trail to Crazy Man Page 15
