Borden Chantry (15 page)

Chantry felt the excitement go out of him. The dog had probably found some wet hole that only it could get through, but if the dog could get in, then air could also. He clambered up the rocks and looked behind the slab, which had seemed to lie almost flat against the wall.

It did nothing of the kind. There was an opening there, dark and dripping, but an opening.

He lowered himself down and peered into the four-foot hole. Water dripped from some hidden spring in the rocks, but not twenty feet away he could see the gray of the outer night.

The dog had run on ahead, and now stood waiting for him, and he crawled after. It was dirty, muddy, and wet, but he got through, crawled outside and stood up.

He was alive and free.

It was night…almost morning by the look of the stars…and he just stood still and breathed in the cool night air. Nothing in all his life had ever tasted better.

Turning, he knelt, bathed off his bloody hands, and shook the water from them. Then taking up his rifle, he walked around the hill, following the dog, to Pearson's shack.

All was dark and still. Yet as he approached the house, something moved and his horse whinnied softly.

Taking up the reins, he led the horse to the cabin door, which he pushed shut. Then he stepped into the saddle.

“Come on, boy,” he said to the dog. “You'd better come with me.”

It would be good to get home.

Chapter 16

W
HEN BORDEN CHANTRY awakened in the cool dawn, he had slept no more than three hours, but what awakened him he did not know. Yet he awoke with an awareness of danger.

He swung his feet to the floor and dressed quietly, not to awaken Bess. Then he went to the kitchen. To his surprise, Billy McCoy was there, and he already had coffee on.

“Used to make it for Pa,” he said. He looked down at Chantry's hands, which were swollen and raw. “Boy! What did you do to yourself?”

Chantry explained quietly and the boy stared at him, awed. “It was the same man who killed your pa, Billy. Now he's killed Ed Pearson. I guess I'm not much of a marshal, to let him run loose so long.”

“I'm huntin' him, too,” Billy said, quietly.

“You?” Chantry was startled. “You leave that to me, Billy.”

“He killed my pa.”

“I know, and I know how you feel. But leave it to me. That sort of feeling was all right in the days when there was no law. But there is law now, and we've got to let the law do its work.”

He paused. “I'm closer than I think, Billy, that's why he's scared. He's trying hard to kill me before I catch up with him. I expected him to follow me out of town and try to kill me, but I thought he'd try to dry-gulch me.” Borden paused, watching Billy pour coffee. “He might use that same old fifty-two he's used a few times.”

“No, he won't,” Billy said grimly. “He won't use no fifty-two no more. Because I got it.”

“What?”

Billy flushed. “Marshal, I maybe shouldn't ha' done it, but I swiped his rifle. That night in the barn? He'd hidden his rifle in that ol' barrel, an' I got it before he could get back. That was me in the barn that night when he slugged you. He never seen me, on'y we nearly run together in the barn. But I got that rifle and got out.”

Borden Chantry had felt like swearing only a few times in his life. But this was one of the times when he wanted to do a really first-rate job of cussing.

“Damn it, Billy, you're concealing evidence! You could go to jail for that!”

“I know it,” Billy said glumly. “I was sore. I wanted I should shoot him with his own gun, so I cached it.”

“Billy, that rifle may be an important clue. I must have it. But above all, I don't want anyone, and I mean
anyone,
to know you had it or that you were in the barn that night. Do you understand?”

“You think he'd try to kill me, Marshal?”

“He most certainly would, Billy, and we've had enough killing. Now where is the rifle?”

“Right there in the barn. I never taken it out. It's a-layin' atop one o' them rafters, the third one from the door. I got up on the manger and laid her right there so's he wouldn't catch me with it.”

“Billy…who is he?”

“Durned if I know! I never did git to see him! It was all dark in there, an' then I heard something stirrin' an' I was just a-waitin' for a chancet to run. When it come, I taken out.”

“Billy, I want you to think. I want you to try to remember. There just might be something…Billy, did you know Pin Dover?”

“Sure! He punched cows with Pa. When he come to town, they used to talk over the old times. Pin was down to Mora when the land grant fights were on, an' Pa knowed a lot of the folks who were in on that fight.”

“Did they ever mention anybody here in town who had been in Mora?”

“No…nobody I can recall. I did hear Pa say one time that Hyatt Johnson had been down there. He was some sort of friend to the man who brought in all those folks to squat on the land.”

Chantry finished his coffee and got to his feet. “I'll eat breakfast at the Bon-Ton. You can tell Bess when she gets up. I've got to see a man.”

“You going to get that rifle?”

“You ain't just a-whoofin'. I'm going to get it right off.”

He started walking. The town was waking up. A couple of men were on the boardwalk, sweeping it off. Hurley was sweeping in front of the Corral Saloon, and Ed was in front of the Bon-Ton.

“Can you fix me some eggs?” Chantry let his eyes run along the street toward the bank. It was early. Hyatt would not be in yet. Which meant he would be at home where he could see anybody at the freighter's barn…but so could others.

“Make those egss over about medium, Ed,” he said, “with a slab of ham…a thick slab. I'm going over to the barn for a minute.”

He crossed the street and walked along south of the Corral Saloon, then went to the barn.

All was dark and still. Light fell through a few cracks and there was still a smell of hay and of leather hanging about the place.

The third rafter…it was a likely place. He got up on the edge of a stall and reached it easily. He had just stepped down when somebody spoke.

“What have you got there?”

It was Lang Adams.

“Howdy, Lang! Had breakfast? I just ordered me some ham and. Come on over and I'll stand treat.”

Adams shook his head doubtfully. “Bord, you're the hardest man to find…I was hunting you yesterday, and nobody had any idea where you were. Why, I went all over town!”

“I rode out to Ed Pearson's place.” He was carrying the rifle in his left hand, muzzle down. “Somebody shot him.”

“Him, too? I don't like it, Bord. I'm in the notion of going up to Denver until this is all over, or to Fort Worth or somewhere. This man doesn't care who he kills.”

“You sure it's a man?”

“Why, sure. Why I never thought…What gave you the idea it might not be?”

Chantry shrugged. “We can't rule anybody out, and a woman can pull a trigger as well as a man.”

They walked to the Bon-Ton and took seats.

Breakfast came and they carried on a casual conversation of horses, cattle, range conditions and new arrivals.

“Boone Silva's in town,” Chantry commented. “Huntin' me.”

“Boone Silva? Who is he?”

“Nobody much. He's packed a gun in a couple of range wars and done some shooting for hire here and there, but somebody sent for him. Somebody from town. So far as I know the man most wanted dead right now is me. Anyway, Boone and me had a talk about it.”

“A
talk
?” Lang was shocked.

“You mean the man's hunting you, and you actually talked to him? Where was this?”

“Out at Pearson's. I reckon I'll have him to handle one of these days. Maybe sooner than late.”

“But he's a gunfighter, Bord. I never heard that you were—”

“Oh, I guess I can handle myself. Anyway, I never did set up to be a gunfighter…I don't think anybody does, really. It just sort of happens that way, and when a man wins a few fights he gets a reputation whether he wants it or not. I always shied away from anything of the kind.”

“You be careful.”

“He won't give me any trouble. In fact, I think I'll just throw him in jail until this is all over.”

Lang Adams swore. “Bord, you beat all. You mean you'd try to
arrest
him? Boone Silva? He'd kill you.”

The idea had come to Chantry as he talked, and instantly, the practicality of it struck him. He had his hands full trying to find a murderer without worrying about a gun battle with Silva. And he had nothing but impatience for such men, anyway. Fortunately, there were few of them, and jail was the place.

He got up suddenly. “Lang, you finish your coffee. I've got a job to do.”

He walked out on the street. Silva would likely be at the hotel.

Borden Chantry walked to the hotel and switched the register around. Boone Silva was in Room 12.

Elsie came up, touching her hair with quick fingers. “Anything I can do for you, Marshal?”

“Has Silva gone out?”

“No…no, he hasn't.” She looked at him quickly. “Borden, there isn't going to be any trouble, is there? I just finished patching up the bullet holes from the last fight. Now I don't want—”

“Relax, Elsie. I just want to talk to the man.”

He went down the hall and tapped on the door. “Water an' towels!” he said. “Water an' towels!”

“Don't need any!” Silva's voice was irritable. “Let a man sleep!”

“Boone? This is Chantry. I want to talk to you.”

Borden had his six-shooter in his hand, and when the door opened, so did Silva. They faced each other with scarcely three feet between them, both holding .44-calibre weapons.

“I'm arresting you, Silva,” Borden said mildly. “Taking you down to jail where you can stay out of trouble.”

“I'm not in trouble.”

“Preventive medicine, Silva. Let's just say we have a quiet town here, with no business for paid gunmen, and we want to keep it that way. Now give me your gun and come along.”

“Like
hell
!”

Borden Chantry smiled. Such men as Boone Silva liked to kill, but they trusted in their speed and marksmanship—and in the present case there was a chance for neither. Whatever skill Boone might have was negated by the reason of position. At the distance neither man could miss, and at the distance both would probably die. And Borden Chantry was banking that Silva did not want to die.

His was a slight advantage due to the fact that he knew a good deal about Silva, and Silva didn't know much about him. Silva did not know how crazy he might be, and the very fact that Chantry had approached him in this manner indicated that Chantry didn't care…Although as a matter of fact he did care, and very much.

“You'll die, too,” Silva said.

“Sure…but it's my job. You can make a buck anywhere, Silva. This is only one more town to you, only one more job.”

“You scared to meet me out in the street?”

“I'm meeting you right here, Silva. Now hand me that gun—or die.”

For just a moment, Silva stared at him. Then slowly, very carefully, he reversed his gun.

“Take your finger out of the trigger guard, Silva. Hand it to me by the barrel only.”

Chantry took the gun and Silva said, “Now let me get my pants on.”

“No, Silva. Just as you are, in your drawers.”

“Damn you, I'll—!”

“After you get out, Silva. Not now. Come on.”

Prissy was sweeping the boardwalk in front of the post office. And George Blazer had come to the door of the stage office to carry on a conversation with Hyatt Johnson, who was crossing from the store to the bank. All conversation stopped when Boone Silva walked up the street in his long underwear, barefooted and furious. Borden Chantry walked two feet behind him, his pistol in its holster, Boone's gun in his waistband.

Lang Adams came to the door of the Bon-Ton, coffee cup in hand, Ed beside him. Lang stared, then he swore softly.

“Ever see the like?” Ed commented, pleased. “We got us a marshal, Lang. That Boone Silva will never live this down…never!”

“There's only one thing he can do now,” Lang said. “He's got to kill Chantry.”

It was Big Injun who opened the door for them, but Kim Baca was seated on the settee at one side of the room. He looked up, grinning. “Howdy, Boone! Welcome to the ol' homestead!”

“Go to hell!” Boone said irritably.

He walked into the cell and the door clanged shut behind him. The key turned in the lock.

“You'll never get away with this, Marshal. What charge are you holding me on?”

Chantry smiled. “I'll think of something, Boone. Disturbing the peace, maybe, or loitering. Or indecent exposure. You see, Boone, I'm doing this for your own good. There have been several murders committed around here, and we don't know who did them. Folks are getting mighty upset about it, and they want to see somebody in jail for them, or hung for them.

“I can prove you were at Pearson's and Pearson was killed, so you're the only tangible thing they have to put a hand on.

“We can't prove you killed those other folks, but you can't prove you didn't. You might be able, given time, to prove you were somewhere else when some of them were killed, but that would take time, and you mightn't have that time.

“So,” Chantry kept his face straight, “I just had to save you, Boone. I had to keep your neck from being stretched, and the only way I could do it was throw you in jail. Even if that's not strictly true, it gives you something to feel good about.

“The grub's not bad here. There's magazines and newspapers around, and you look tired, Boone. I think you need a rest. So just lie back there on your bunk and relax. Later, when I have time, I'll bring your clothes to you. For now you'll do just fine.”

He walked into the outer office, closing the door behind him. Baca looked up, quizzically. “You haven't headed him off, Marshal, just postponed it. Now, when he gets out, he'll have to kill you.”

“One thing at a time, Baca. One thing at a time.”