by Peter Dawson
Staples’s look was that of a man worried and harassed beyond endurance. “I’m through with this country,” he said vehemently. “Clark, I saw six thousand dollars of mine layin’ at the foot of that creek this mornin’! Six thousand! All I’ll get out of it is a few hides.”
“I know. But that’s no reason to quit. What’ll you do if you sell out?”
“Take what’s left over and move to town. Olson’s been after me for quite a spell to come in with him on that feed mill. It ain’t much of a livin’. But it’s better’n seein’ half your life swept away in a flood.”
Clark’s look of sympathy revealed none of his inner excitement. The destruction wrought by Mike Saygar and his men last night was bringing more dividends than Clark’s wildest imagining had hoped for. He had made some shrewd guesses, first about the thaw making the Troublesome impassable, second about Staples’s shortness of money and what the loss of his shipping herd would mean. He had assumed that Staples would have to borrow to keep his head above water. But never had Clark dreamed that the man would be crowded into selling the Singletree, or that he would be in a position to buy it. He’d had some vague notion of handling a loan for Staples through his capacity as Acme’s new president and maybe, years from now, taking over the loan himself. But old John Merrill’s death last night had changed all that. The news of the Anchor-Diamond fight had caught him about to start for Lodgepole with Ruth; they had planned a simple wedding at the preacher’s house. Now that she believed Joe was gone, Ruth seemed more than willing to follow what she understood to be her father’s dying wish.
Clark found himself in a position hard to grasp. He was, in fact, already owner of Brush. Here was Staples ready to sell the Singletree, which adjoined Brush on the west. Across a triangular piece of Yoke range was his own layout; maybe Workman would one day sell him that piece, thus throwing together a vast stretch of land that would make Brush bigger by far than Anchor. And there was the basin that would eventually be his, with Saygar’s men already homesteading it.
He was a little drunk with a feeling of power, with disdain for these men whom he now looked upon as pawns to be used or pushed aside as he willed. Tonight it would be a finish fight. When it was over, Clark hoped Harper and his men would he dead, unable to betray him. Saygar was safe until he collected his share in this; there was time to deal with him. Vanover would be recalled by Middle Arizona.
Jean Vanover. There was something Clark didn’t understand, something he had puzzled over in the hours after John Merrill’s death this morning. At first he hadn’t worried about the girl. But finally he saw her mysterious disappearance, along with that of Joe’s body, as the only two factors bearing on the accomplishment of his plan that he didn’t understand. He’d have to get up and see Saygar tonight and make sure the outlaw was the one who had found Joe. Perhaps Saygar also knew something of the girl.
Now Clark looked down at short-framed Charley Staples and put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about it, Charley. It’s done and can’t be helped. Name a fair price on Singletree and I’ll . . . we, Ruth and I . . . will pay it. I want to see you get another start.”
Staples sighed wearily but with some relief. “Clark, you’re sure white to do this. If it wasn’t . . .”
A shout from the yard cut in on his words. They both turned toward the porch door and joined the men crowding out of it. By the time they joined the others, Fuzz Tonkin, one of the riders Workman had summoned from his roundup crew, was saying: “. . . on that white-stockinged bay of Shorty’s. We thought it was Shorty at first and tried to come up on him. Then’s when he spooked. He cut up into the timber east of Dunne’s place. Jim was close enough to recognize him. So Jim and the others went after him.”
“Who?” Staples asked.
“Joe Bonnyman!”
Color left Clark’s face. His hand, thumb hooked in his sagging shell belt, began to tremble. His throat felt dry and he swallowed, trying to clear it. He heard himself saying: “But that couldn’t be! He’s . . .”
Blaze’s look came around to him quickly. “He’s what, Clark?” the Anchor foreman asked sharply.
“Left the country,” Clark said haltingly. His glance, on Blaze, became angry. “I saw him two days ago, had a talk with him. I . . .”
“You saw him?” It was Yace Bonnyman whose explosive words cut him short. The men between Yace and Clark moved aside. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Clark had himself under control now. He smiled wryly. “And let you string him up when he wasn’t guilty?” he drawled. “Hell, Yace, I don’t treat my friends that way. I tried to help him leave, clear the country. He didn’t want to. But I supposed he had. No one’s come across him since we parted company.”
Yace was undecided now where a moment ago his righteous indignation had made him almost threaten Clark. As he hesitated, Slim Workman’s nasal tones drawled: “I reckon we know how you feel, Dunne. Well, what’re we waitin’ on? If they’ve sighted him, we got from now till dark to run him down. Plenty of time for this other.”
They poured down off the porch, running for their horses. Someone shouted—“Better throw a saddle on a fresh horse, Tonkin!”—and the riders milled in the yard until the Yoke man who had brought the news had cut out a fresh horse from the half dozen in the corral.
Meantime, Staples reined over to the porch where Clark still stood. “Not comin’, Clark?” he asked.
“No.”
“Me, either.” It was Blaze, approaching, who spoke.
“I’m sure sorry to have to do this,” Staples said, and wheeled his pony out into the yard to join the others.
“You knew Joe hadn’t left?” asked Clark as soon as Staples was out of hearing.
“He couldn’t,” Blaze answered. “Someone tried a bushwhack on him. He was out colder’n a side o’ beef for near two days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Haven’t seen you so I could. What difference does it make?”
Clark was nearly caught off guard but saw the danger in time. “I could’ve helped, couldn’t I?”
“He had all the help he needed. It was me that got the Vanover girl. She’s been up there with him in that cave east of the basin where we smoked out the mountain cat that time. Remember?”
“Was he hurt bad?”
“Bad enough. The slug dug a nice groove in the side of his head.”
Just then Yace called stridently from out in the yard: “You and Clark get across here, Blaze!”
“Count us out, Yace,” Clark answered.
“We’re not askin’ you to side us!” Yace called back. “It’s somethin’ else.”
So Blaze and Clark went out to where the men, ready to go, waited. The horses milled restlessly and a thin fog of dust lifted over the yard. Workman cursed deliberately but in a gentle voice as he tried to quiet his black gelding to a stand so that he could tighten his cinch. The attention of the riders was divided between his difficulty and what Yace had to say to Clark and Blaze.
“We figured someone ought to keep an eye on Diamond while we’re gone,” Yace began. “You willin’ to go over there for the rest of the day and lay on your bellies in some nice cool shade and see what goes on?”
Clark looked at Blaze, and, in a moment, the Anchor foreman drawled: “Suits us.”
“We want to know how many men Harper can count on besides his own crew of hired fighters,” Yace said. “And keep an eye out for Vanover. He’s been with Lyans. When he hears about this, he’ll probably head for home. It wouldn’t hurt if you stopped him on his way in and brought him here. We’ll get back as soon as we get our man . . . or as soon after dark as we can make it. Meet us back here.”
Clark frowned. “I oughtn’t to let Ruth stay alone so long,” he objected. “Blaze can tell you whatever’s necessary. I’ll get back to Brush when we leave Diamond and meet those extra men and wait till I hear from you. It won’t take you long to get the word across if we’re needed.”
Yace nodded. “What matters is that we know what we’re headed into tonight. Find out if you can.” He glanced around at the others. “Let’s ride!”
A long broken line of grim-faced men, they boiled out of the yard, Yace Bonnyman in the lead, heading north toward the foothills, to scour the country for one who stood condemned by all of them as a thief, a murderer, and a kidnapper of women.
Bullet Bait
Joe Bonnyman spotted the Yoke riders from a distance of better than a mile and cut down out of the timber so that they could see him. Presently they angled over in his direction and he held the bay to a slow trot, close to the edge of the timber, pretending he hadn’t noticed them. When they were less than 200 yards away, he suddenly spurred the bay into a lope and reined over toward the trees. Workman’s cowpunchers had been close enough so that Joe recognized two of them, Jim Lansing, the foreman, and Ed Bundy. Joe heard Lansing shout and then a gun exploded flatly, its echo slapping back down off the timbered slope ahead. He climbed the sparsely grown incline and put some trees behind him before he looked back. He was in time to see five of the riders come on, Lansing in the lead, while the sixth man headed out across the mesa at a fast run.
During the next hour and a half Joe played a game to which Shorty’s bay horse seemed a perfect partner. The horse was a stayer and fresher than Joe had hoped. When he thought it necessary, it wasn’t hard to draw away from his pursuers. Occasionally, as he gradually climbed higher along the tangled hills toward Aspen Basin’s eastern boundary, he would slow his pace to breathe the bay and let the men behind get a glimpse of him. Once, while he walked his horse along the crest of a hogback, clearly skylining himself, a bullet kicked up an exploding puff of sand barely a foot ahead of the bay, and, as he quickly dropped down the far side of the small ridge, the sharp crack of a rifle sounded from below. After that he kept more distance between himself and the Yoke men.
Joe purposely changed direction time and again so as not to get too far from the mesa. Only when he caught a far downward glimpse of many riders crossing an opening in the timber did he ride point for the basin. He was better than two miles across it when rider after rider raced from the margin of the trees behind and lined out after him. From this distance he couldn’t accurately tell how many newcomers had joined the chase. But his guess put the count at upward of twenty and he was satisfied, for he judged that these were the men who would otherwise be riding now for a shoot-out with Diamond. By the time he had put the bay across the belly-deep Troublesome, he was riding in earnest.
By late afternoon Joe had swung abruptly north, toward the higher hills. With the sun’s last light a reddish blaze on the new snow of the peaks directly above, he was pounding up the stage road at a hard run, pausing only briefly to breathe the bay. Now, he told himself, was the time that counted. He wanted to be seen passing Klingmeier’s stage station.
Close below the station’s clutter of log buildings, as dusk was settling, Joe pulled the bay down to a steady trot. He came abreast the corrals and windmill, then the squat log building of the station itself. Lights showed at the windows. A man sitting tilted back in a chair on the roofless stoop by the main door eyed him speculatively. Joe lifted a hand and got an answering wave. To all appearances, he was a rider trying to cross the pass before making camp.
But, to give the lie to that judgment of him, he spurred the bay to a fast run once he was out of gunshot of Klingmeier’s, knowing the man back there would see something odd in his hurried flight. He held the bay to the lope until he judged he was out of hearing. Then he pulled in, reined steeply downward off the road into the trees, and rode point for the basin. Crossing it two hours ago, he had spotted in the distance the makeshift lean-to Mike Saygar’s men had thrown up to the west of a clump of timber cresting a knoll that flanked the Troublesome.
This morning Joe had told Blaze to meet him at the cave at dark, that he would have company when he made his call on Saygar. But time was too pressing now to make the long ride across to the cave, then back to the outlaw camp. Blaze would have to wait. Joe was going alone to meet Saygar.
“So you’re to meet Joe up there at dark.” Clark gave Blaze a sideward glance. “What good does he think it’ll do to see Saygar?”
“He figures he can make Saygar talk. You’d better come along.”
Clark deliberated the suggestion. He would have liked to be present when Joe Bonnyman saw Saygar; not that he didn’t trust the outlaw, but because he wasn’t too sure of Whitey or Pecos. Thinking on it, though, he decided Saygar was capable of looking out for both himself and his men. Besides, his wasting half the night riding the basin would mean he would be out of touch with things below, and what was to happen down here tonight was the more important.
So he told Blaze: “You go with Joe like you planned. I’ll get back to Ruth. Yace won’t make a move before he sends a man down to find out from me what happened across here this afternoon.”
Blaze’s look became worried. “It’d be a heap better for everything to wait on what Joe and I run onto. Don’t you see? If Joe’s hunch is right, and if he can get Saygar to talk, we’ll be huntin’ only one man instead of goin’ off half-cocked after Harper’s crew. Harper’s nothin’ but an understrapper. He can come later.”
Clark shrugged and lay back, hands locked behind his head. “We’ll have to take things as they come. Maybe you can get down before things open up tonight.”
“I don’t like it, Clark. For a fact, I don’t.”
Seeing that Blaze wasn’t looking his way, Clark permitted himself a meager smile. He had found the last few minutes’ conversation quite profitable. Blaze knew just enough to bear watching, not enough yet to represent a serious threat. And Clark sincerely hoped the redhead wouldn’t become one; he was really fond of Blaze and hated the prospect of having anything interfere where another friend was concerned. Time and again today, before learning Joe was alive, Clark had lived through those last few moments of that rainy afternoon in the upper basin as he laid his sights on Joe’s back and squeezed the trigger of the Winchester. Now, since finding that his shot had been high, that Joe was still alive, he put off thinking of having to do the job again.
He and Blaze had picked this spot high on the hill that backed Diamond for the reason that from here, a good 200 yards above the nearest outbuilding, they could get an unobstructed downward view of both the bunkhouse and the house yard beyond the trees. The house itself was hidden by the locust grove. Only one thing marred the perfection of their look-out; they couldn’t see the line of the trail striking out across the mesa and thus spot Vanover coming in, provided he wasn’t already down there.
The two men didn’t speak for several minutes, Clark lying back on the soft cushion of pine needles, Blaze sitting with hands locked about his knees and doing the watching. Finally Blaze looked around, a wide grin on his face.
“Shucks, I ain’t even given you my sympathies on gettin’ hooked,” he said. “Goin’ to let me stand up as best man?”
“Like the devil! This’ll be a respectable weddin’.”
Blaze’s look sobered. “All jokin’ aside, friend, I’m wishin’ you well.”
“Glad you approve,” Clark drawled.
Blaze went on, speaking more to himself than to Clark: “It’s a funny thing, but I always reckoned Joe and Ruth would get hitched. He was sure gone on her there for a while. But she never felt quite the same as he did.”
A faint uneasiness laid its hold on Clark. Supposing Ruth heard that Joe was still alive and had been seen? Suppose she still cared for him, as she had seemed to last night, cared for him enough to postpone the wedding? She was capable of it, Clark knew. Then he remembered how much Joe knew, how close he was to discovering the answer to all this trouble, and felt easier. This time he’d have to make sure of Joe for the simple reason that with Joe alive he’d always be in danger.
Clark wondered, idly, how much Whitey would take to do the job for him. Whitey or Harper. Either man could be bought at a pr
ice, although he doubted that either had ever stooped to bushwhack for other than purely personal reasons. Later tonight, at Saygar’s camp, when this other was over, he’d feel out Whitey. Saygar himself needn’t know anything about it. Mike already had too much on him; no sense in letting him in on more.
“Y’know, I’m sort o’ glad it happened this way,” Blaze said, startling Clark from his preoccupation. “Not that it’s anything ag’in’ you, understand.”
“What?”
“You and Ruth. Joe and her never hit it off right. Now take that Vanover girl. If Joe ever settles down here again, there’s my idea of a good match. She’s the salt o’ the earth, Clark. Pretty as a pure-bred filly, too.”
“Aren’t you the matchmaker.” There was irritation in Clark’s tone. He was as well aware of Jean Vanover’s attractiveness as he was of Ruth’s shortcomings.
“Funny thing is, she seems sort of soft on Joe. Up there in the cave, while Joe was layin’ there, I’d catch her lookin’ at him in a funny sort of way, like . . .” Blaze straightened a little, glancing fixedly at something below. “There’s Vanover. We’re already too late to stop him. What’ll we do?”
Sitting up, Clark peered down through the trees to see Fred Vanover crossing the clean-swept graveled yard toward the house. In a moment, Middle Arizona’s manager was out of sight.
Clark shrugged. “Nothin’ we can do.” He looked off through the trees into the west where the sun already edged the low spur of hills that marked the mesa’s far limit. Then he thought of something that made him look sharply at Blaze. “How about takin’ a last look-see and then headin’ for the cave? You work off to the left and down as close behind the house as you can. I’ll take the bunkhouse and try to get that count Yace wanted. Meet you back here in half an hour.”
