Shevlin's position was excellent. His hors e had come to a dead stop, half sheltered by boulders , stunted juniper, and low brush. He spoke softly to his horse, and sat his saddle , waiting.
The man held a rifle in his right hand, and h e rode slowly, checking the trail from time to time.
He was surely following someone, following with grea t care, and it was Shevlin's guess that the man's quarry was not far ahead of him. And at the sam e instant Mike Shevlin realized with startlin g clarity that this was Lon Court.
He was as positive of it as if the man ha d been identified by a pointing finger. Everything abou t him filled the picture Shevlin had made fro m bits he recalled hearing; coupled with this was th e man's presence here, and his manner.
Mike Shevlin slid his rifle from it s scabbard and let the rider take a little more lead.
Then he started his own horse down the trai l after him.
Chapter 12
He left the trail to his horse, hardl y daring to shift his attention from the man ahead of hi m for a moment. He would get only one chance i f Lon Court saw him, for the man would shoot---i nstantly, and with accuracy.
Who was the man following? Obviously it wa s someone only a short distance ahead, or he would b e riding with greater speed. He was keeping his eye s on the trail left by the rider, and he too wa s taking no chances.
The man's horse, the nondescript clothin g -comnei of them stood out. He merged into th e background of desert and boulders, so that at a greater distance than he was from Shevlin he would hav e been scarcely visible.
The day was warm. Sweat trickled down Mik e Shevlin's neck, beaded on his forehead. He shifted his hands on the Winchester and dried hi s palms on his shirt front. By now Court wa s slanting up the hill, as if about to top out on th e crest.
Court dismounted and, rifle in hand, moved to th e top of the ridge. He was casing his rifle to hi s shoulder when suddenly he seemed to freeze, hi s attention riveted on something beyond the ridge.
Mike Shevlin's horse was in sand now , walking carefully and making no sound, and Shevli n was closing the distance between them, drawing steadil y nearer the sniper on the ridge.
When still perhaps sixty yards off, Shevlin dre w up and dismounted, trailing his reins. He desperately wanted to know what lay beyond tha t ridge, to see who it was that Court was stalking, bu t there was no possibility of that.
Lon Court was as dangerous as a cornere d rattler, and never so dangerous as he would be now , if caught in the act. Only his concentration on hi s job had permitted Shevlin to come so close as this.
The warm air was still. The only sound was a cicada singing in the brush near the road.
Shevlin, careful not to start a stone rolling to war n Court, worked his way silently along the slope.
Then he paused and, choosing two small pebble s from the gravel near his feet, he flipped one a t Court's horse. The grulla jumped an d snorted.
Lon Court whipped around as quick as a cat , looking toward the horse.
"Over here, Lon!"
Lon Court wheeled and fired in the sam e instant, but he fired too soon. His bullet wa s a little high, but Mike Shevlin's was more carefull y aimed. Pointed for the middle of Court's chest, i t struck the hammer on the rifle and deflecte d upward, ripping Court's throat and jaw.
Desperately, Court tried to work his rifle , then he dropped it and grabbed for his six-shooter.
He was on his feet, standing with them slightly apart , the old narrow-brimmed hat pulled down over hi s eyes. His yellow mustache showed plainly.
Shevlin stepped off to his right and fired again, th e bullet turning Court, whose shot went wild.
Court brought his gun back on target just a s Shevlin fired his third shot, putting it right throug h Court's skull.
Mike walked up to the dead man and looke d down at him. He felt no regret or pity.
Lon Court had chosen his path with his eyes open , and must have known that someday it would end just as it had. I n his time he had killed a lot of men, and now h e lay dead himself, killed by one of those he had bee n sent to get.
Returning to his horse, Shevlin mounted u p and went over the ridge. In the valley beyond there wa s a dim trail, an old trail. On it h e found the tracks of a horse, and followed them.
When he had gone only a few feet he sa w where the horse had dug in hard and taken off on a hard run. The rider must have been at tha t point when he heard the shots.
Shevlin was almost on the edge of town, stil l following the tracks, before he caught sight of th e rider. It was Laine Tennison.
She pulled off to the side of the trail an d waited when she saw him coming.
"Scare you?" he asked.
"Was that you back there?"
"Uh-huh. I was one of them."
She looked at him searchingly. "Wha t happened?"
"There was a man named Lon Court. Bee n around for years. He hires out to big cattl e outfits or anybody who has killing they wan t done. He was laying for you."
"And you stopped him?"
"Don't make a lot of it. I was on hi s list, too."
"You ... you killed him?"
"Ma'am," Shevlin said dryly, "you neve r get far talking things over with a man holding a gun. And this here man wasn't much give n to talk."
"What's going to happen now?"
"As a result of that? Well, when a man lik e Lon Court dies nobody cares much. Not in thi s country, in these times.
"As to what will happen, I wouldn't know.
We're going to ride into Rafter, you and me, and thi s time you're going to stay there with the Claggs, and don't leave there or I'll quit the whole thing. I c an't be running around looking after you, with everythin g else I've got to do."
The streets were strangely empty when the y came into town. After leaving Laine at th e Claggs', Mike Shevlin rode to the sheriff's office.
Wilson Hoyt looked up sourly, and with n o welcome. "All right, what's your argument?"
"I just came in to report a shooting. Lo n Court is dead."
Hoyt knew the name. He turned the ide a over in his mind, growing angrier by the minute.
"Who the hell brought him in here?" he said.
"Somebody who wanted Laine Tenniso n killed. Somebody who wanted me killed, and wh o killed Gib Gentry by mistake."
"You think Court killed Gentry?"
"The only man who was supposed to be riding tha t trail that night was me," Shevlin said.
"Only Gentry was coming to see me--to warn me, i n fact."
Wilson Hoyt considered this. He put i t together with a few other facts. Gib Gentry ha d been drinking the night before he was killed, but that wa s not unusual, for Gib had been hitting th e bottle a lot these last few months.
Hoyt had, in his slow, methodical, ye t thorough way traced Gentry's movements.
Nobody had anything to conceal and they truste d Hoyt, as they had, for the most part, like d Gentry. Gentry had been a rough-and-ready bu t free-handed man who made no enemies. The las t man who had spoken to Gentry was Brazos, whe n Gib got his horse, and Gib had definitel y been riding after Shevlin.
What disturbed Hoyt was the knowledge that just befor e Gentry went to the stable for his horse he had a brief talk with Red, and then Red had ridden of f out of town. Shortly after, Gentry had gone for hi s horse.
"Lon Court hadn't been in town," Hoy t said. "I didn't even know he'd been in th e country. If I had, I'd have run him the hel l out of it."
"Lon Court never rode a mile without bein g paid for it," Shevlin said. "Who do you think stand s to gain by having me killed? By having Lain e Tennison killed?"
"Where does she fit into th?"
"Somebody thinks she might be an owner.
Clagg Merriam learned the other night that sh e had wealthy connections in Frisco. The Su n Strike is owned in Frisco."
"They wouldn't murder a woman."
"You forget mighty quick. What about Ev e Bancroft?"
"That was a mis
take."
Wilson Hoyt looked up at Shevli n sharply. "Clagg Merriam? What the hel l has he got to do with this?"
"He's the man behind Ben Stowe."
Hoyt's little world of certainties was toppling.
"Like hell!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Merria m scarcely knows Ben--and he's a respecte d man."
Mike Shevlin did not feel like arguing with him.
He would leave it to Hoyt's solid commo n sense. He was tired, but there was much to be done.
He leaned over the desk. "Hoyt," h e said, "your nice playhouse is ruined for good , and you might as well look at it straight.
Maybe you can pull this town out of the hole it's i n ... maybe you can't. I figure most of thes e folks--even those who've been shutting their eye s to what goes on--are good folks, given a chance.
"But Eve Bancroft is dead, and that's getting to them. They won't stand still for it, the wa y I see it. All you'd have to do would be to get up an d make a stand, and you'd have them behind you. If yo u don't, your rep as a town pacifier i s finished, because there'll be more killings."
"You said Court was dead."
"Do you think he would have to do it all? I kno w Ben, Hoyt; I've known him a long time.
He's a mighty tough man, grown tougher wit h years, and he plays hard. Believe me, the y got Gib by mistake, but I'd lay a bet h e was on the list to die ... after he'd done his jo b for them."
It made sense, of course. Wilson Hoy t was a man of no illusions, and once he faced th e situation he would see the thing straight. Like man y another man, he faced the fact of chang e reluctantly. He had had two good years i n Rafter, relatively peaceful years, and althoug h he must have known the situation could not last, he ha d been willing to go along with it. His own job wa s to keep the peace, not to be a guardian of moral s ... that was the way he had allowed himself to think.
But now he could no longer stand aside. He ha d made a move; he had averted the calamity of a street battle between miners and cattlemen--an d Eve Bancroft had been killed. He ha d believed it was over then, but here was Mik e Shevlin, assuring him it had only begun.
Lon Court was dead, but that had happened out o f town, and was not his concern. The presence of Lo n Court was, for somebody within the town had brough t him here.
And now Shevlin had brought Clagg Merria m into the picture. Hoyt hated to think Merriam wa s involved, yet in the back of his mind he must hav e sensed it all the time. His surprise had bee n purely vocal ... within himself he had felt n o such surprise. A man could not move around such a small town without knowing a great deal that was not on th e surface.
"All right, Mike," Hoyt said at last , "I'll see what I can do."
He looked up with sudden discouragement.
"Hell, Mike, what's a man to do? I f igured this was my place to roost. I thought I'd dug myself in for life."
"Maybe you have. Look at it this way , Hoyt. You straighten up this mess, straighten ou t the town, and with no more fuss than necessary, and you may b e home. They may want you to stay."
Wilson Hoyt nodded slowly, doubtfully.
As Shevlin walked out, Hoyt stared bleakl y across the street at nothing at all.
Ben Stowe pushed the heavy ledgers away from hi m and pulled open the drawer where he kept hi s cigars. He selected one, bit off the end, an d lit up. Then he sat back and put his fee t up on his desk, inhaling deeply. He exhale d the smoke slowly and stared out of the window toward th e mountains.
Clagg Merriam was right. They would have to shi p some gold. Their working capital was finished. Withou t cash from somewhere, they could buy up no more gold; an d when they stopped buying they would lose control , once and for all. When gold was shipped from the tow n through business channels, questions would be asked, me n would come flooding in.
The deals for the mines must be closed at once , but there had been no response from Sa n Francisco since his last offer. were the y investigating? And if so, who?
Clagg Merriam, he knew, was worried abou t Laine Tennison, the pretty girl over at th e Doc's place. ... Well, Lon Court woul d take care of that.
Ben Stowe scowled with irritation. That damne d Gentry! He would have to go riding out just when Cour t was expecting Mike Shevlin. Ben was not in th e least disturbed by Gentry's death, for the time had bee n appointed ... but he had needed him to handle th e gold shipment first.
With Gib Gentry dead, all his nicel y arranged setup was spoiled. Moreover, wh o did he know who could be trusted with that much gold?
Above all, trusted not to talk, and trusted no t to let it be taken away from him?
He could handle it himself, but the town needed a tight rein right now, and he dared not be away. An d most important, the offer might come from the min e owners, and he must act promptly.
Who, then, could he get?
Wilson Hoyt would be perfect, but Hoy t had been acting strange the past few days, an d Ben Stowe hesitated to approach him. Hoyt , he felt, was an honest man, or he seeme d to be, but he had always been a man who kept hi s eyes strictly on the job, and did not worr y about anything outside it.
Ridiculous as the idea was, Ben kept comin g back to it, for Mike had the guts to deliver tha t gold, come hell and high water; and Mik e wouldn't talk. Of all the men he knew, Mik e Shevlin was the best man to handle that gold.
The trouble was, Mike was bucking him.
Ben Stowe glanced at the gathering ash on hi s cigar. Carefully, he assayed all he kne w of Mike Shevlin. He had been a tough kid , handy with a gun, and not above driving off a few cow s once in a while. He had balked at outrigh t robbery when the rest of them went into x; but that, Be n decided, was mostly because Mike had just wante d to drift--he just wanted to get out and see mor e country.
Ben had heard a lot of the conflicting storie s about Mike Shevlin. He had been mixed up i n some cattle wars, in some gunfighting, and he ha d ridden the side of the law a time or two. Tha t needn't mean a thing, for Ben knew of severa l outlaws who had been town marshals, and good ones.
He had never really liked Mike Shevlin, bu t this was not the time for that. Suppose ... just suppos e ... that he made an offer? Gib's piece o f action, for instance?
There were not many who could turn their backs on a quarter of a million dollars. Of course , Shevlin would never live to collect, no more tha n Gib Gentry would have.
What fool would give up money of that kind whe n he could keep it for himself?
But one other thing worried him. Ra y Hollister was still out there, and Hollister had to die.
Chapter 13
Where was Ray Hollister now? Three men wer e thinking about that.
Mike Shevlin, riding back to the claim in th e canyon, was asking himself that question. Ben Stowe, in hi s office, was worrying about the same thing; an d Wilson Hoyt, turning his mind from hi s recent words with Shevlin, thought again of Hollister.
Not one of them believed he was through. Mik e Shevlin, riding warily, and well off the trail , knew that Ray Hollister would never be abl e to convince himself he was through in Rafter. The thought o f going elsewhere would not occur to him, or if it did , it would be dismissed.
Like many another man, he was committed to the hom e grounds. He could not bring himself to move, although al l the world offered a fresh start--notew ranges, ne w towns, places where he was unknown, and where hi s abilities might have made a place for him.
Right now Hollister was sitting beside a fire i n a remote spot among the bare hills. He wa s alone except for Babcock, and Babcock wa s for the first time looking on his boss with some doubt.
Only a part of his doubt was the result of hi s conversation with Shevlin in the stable. His loyaltie s were deep-seated, and he hesitated, feelin g uncertain for the first time in years.
"Where the hell is Wink?" Hollister said , looking up.
"He'll be along."
Winkler had gone down to the Three Seven s to pick up some grub. They had nothing to eat an d
he knew the cook there. Winkler would have to b e careful, for there would be no friendly feeling for them a t the Three Sevens. Nor at any of the othe r ranches, for that matter.
Ray Hollister looked haggard, his face wa s drawn, his eyes deep sunken. "Bab," h e said, "they've got to move the gold. And if the y try to move it, we can get it."
Babcock straightened his thin frame and wen t over to the nearby brush to pick up sticks for th e fire.
"If we can get that gold," Hollister wen t on, "we'll have them where the hair's short."
"How'll they move it?" asked Babcock.
"Gentry's freight outfit. That was why he wa s set up that way."
Babcock had squatted on his heels to pic k up the sticks, but now he turned his scrawn y neck and looked back at Hollister. "That's good figurin'. How'd you know that?"
"I know plenty."
Babcock came back to the fire and added som e of the fuel to it. Then he squatted down beside it.
Ray Hollister had forgotten, for the time being, tha t Babcock knew nothing of his previou s arrangements with Ben Stowe. He was thinking alou d rather than planning; and weariness as well as th e defeats of the past days had dulled his senses.
Babcock had room for two loyalties an d no more, and he believed them to be one and the same.
He was loyal to Hollister, and he was loyal to th e cattle business. He had grown up aroun d cattle, had worked cattle since he was a child, an d had never considered anything else. The discovery o f gold at Rafter was a personal affront. He disliked the miners, disliked the camp followers, an d most of all he disliked the dirty machinery and th e pound of the compressor. When the mines began usin g great quantities of water and returning some of i t muddy and filthy, he was deeply angered.
He had known of the firm of Hollister an d Evans, but he had believed it to be a land an d investment operation. He had largely ignored it , for Ray was always going off on some new scheme, bu t he always came back when the scheme proved to b e a swindle or a fool notion. While Ra y Hollister took off on his other activities , Babcock was minding the cattle.