Bounty Guns (8 page)

Tip's face flushed a beet-red. “You know,” he said thickly, “there's just one thing worse than a mule-headed woman, and that's two of 'em. No, I won't arrest your nice little Buck. You can get him drunk, like any honky-tonk girl, and find out what you damn well please. Good-by!”

Tip stalked past the press in a towering rage. There he paused, looked back at Lynn, and came back to her.

“I didn't mean that last,” Tip said miserably. “But why do you rawhide a man so? Hell, I'm tryin' to help you if you'll let me. And I don't like this bullyin' any better than you do.”

Lynn, tense as wire, suddenly relaxed. She said, “Maybe I deserved it. But I'm doing the best I can. And your way seems so clumsy, so brutal. You can't beat truth out of people, Tip.”

“And you can't coax it out of them.”

Lynn smiled. “Then I guess you'll have to go your way and I'll go mine. But—let's don't fight any more. And I'll give you any information I get if you'll give me yours.”

“It's a deal,” Tip said, and grinned suddenly. They shook hands on it, and Tip went out. This time, for a reason unknown to him, he was whistling.

Tip headed downstreet toward the barbershop opposite the Mountain saloon for a shave. With sudden gravity he realized that his period of indiscriminate hell-raising was over. There was a responsibility attached to wearing a law badge, one that did not allow for a hot temper. He had come here to uncover a murderer, and had wound up as a deputy, not much closer to the truth than the night he had come. Lynn's information as to Buck Shields meant nothing, for Tip believed as Lynn did, that Buck didn't do it. Nobody, it seemed, killed Blackie Mayfell, and yet he was dead with a bullet hole in his back.

About to turn into the barbershop, Tip glanced across the street. Hagen Shields and Buck were dismounting at the tie rail in front of the saloon. They went inside, and Tip stood there on the boardwalk, remembering what Lucy Shields had said last night. Normally, the sight of Hagen Shields would only serve as a reminder of that night in the saloon, the memory of which still rankled Tip. But added to what the girl had said last night, it was nothing short of a dare.

Tip crossed the street and entered the saloon. Buck and Hagen were at the bar, and Tip walked up to it, stopped next to them, and asked for a drink. He nodded to Buck, who nodded back and then left the bar for one of the poker tables, on which were scattered some papers. Hagen Shields, his face without expression, stared levelly at Tip and then away. Tip looked in the bar mirror at Buck, and found that Buck was watching him. Suddenly, Buck shook his head from side to side, saying no in as plain a manner as a man could without speaking, and he was saying it to Tip, for in front of Hagen the bar mirror was broken out.

Tip scowled, perplexed, and suddenly Buck cleared his throat.

“Woodring,” he said firmly, “I see your ad here in the paper. You don't aim to leave, then?”

Tip waited until the bartender set the bottle and glass in front of him, poured his drink, then turned sideways and stared levelly at Buck. “No,” he said flatly.

“I thought we told you the other night to light a shuck,” Buck said. His voice was strained, and he stared intently at Tip. There was more worry in his eyes than threat or anger.

Tip asked curiously, “What are you tryin' to do, Shields? Crowd me into a fight?”

Buck said in a voice that was near to cracking, “You can walk out that door and get on a horse, or you can go for your gun.”

Tip stood motionless a second. He was beginning to understand this, now. Buck and Hagen were to separate when they saw him, then Buck was to make the fight talk. But Hagen, out of it apparently, would make the real play. Maybe Buck was trying to tell him, by that nod, that he didn't mean what he said, and trying to do it without Hagen seeing him.

Tip took a sudden decision in that second. He said in a soft voice, “Open the ball, then, Shields. I'll stay.”

Buck's hand dropped to his gun. It wasn't a very fast movement, as if Buck were reluctant to do it. Tip's right hand dropped to his gun. And then, out of the corner of his eye, Tip saw Hagen Shields's hand streak to his hip. Tip still had the whisky bottle by the neck in his left hand. He brought it around in a swift looping arc that caught Hagen Shields on the side of the head. Shields staggered sideways, and Tip's gun whipped out and up and caught him squarely on the side of the head.

Before he hit the floor, Tip's gun was leveled at Buck, who, mouth open, was watching this, his gun half clear of leather.

Tip said, “Drop that!”

Buck seemed glad to. Tip looked down at Hagen Shields. He was bleeding where the whisky bottle had crashed into his skull.

Tip stirred him with his toe and then said to Buck, “Pick him up and carry him to the jail, Shields. I want the whole town to see this.”

He thought Buck was going to smile, but instead he came over, picked up his uncle, and hefted him up on his shoulder, like an oversize sack of feed.

They marched down the street that way, Buck sweating under his load, Tip beside and a little behind him. A smal crowd gathered behind them, and some laughed. Tip thought it was a pity that Hagen Shields, that dignified and merciless man, couldn't hear that. But he would hear it at second hand.

Ball greeted them at the door. “Open up the cell block, Sheriff,” Tip said. “Here's your first customer.”

Tip helped Buck lug Hagen up the stairs and throw him into the cell. There were six cells in the block, roofed, floored, and walled on one side with heavy planks. It was not a break-proof jail, but a sturdy one. The rest of the second story was empty, except for a ladder that mounted to a padlocked door in the roof.

Hagen Shields came to rest on the cot, and then Buck pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. His grin at Tip was friendly.

“Thanks,” he said. “I didn't know whether you savvied it.”

“What was it all about?”

Buck said bitterly, “Haig had it fixed up to kill you, that's all. He was goin' to do it while you made your play for me.”

“But what for?”

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

Buck looked quizzically from Tip to the sheriff, and then back to Tip. “You ain't told him?”

“Told him what?” Tip asked blankly.

Buck sighed. “Well, I might's well tell you the whole thing, Woodring. You see, after you accused us the other day of bein' the ones who left Blackie Mayfell on the south road and give me the deadline, Haig decided to get you before you got to Ball with your story.” He paused. “You see, I really did put Mayfell there.”

“Where'd you find him?”

“Up in our north pasture. He'd been dumped there, because I could see the tracks of the horses. I got panicked, I reckon, because I thought it was a Bolling frame-up. So I dumped him out on the south road.” Buck stopped, watching Tip.

“What else, Buck?” Tip asked gently.

“That's all.”

Tip smiled faintly and shook his head. “Buck, you don't look like a man that would take somethin' like that lyin' down. Maybe you did get scared and put Blackie's body off your land. But you weren't satisfied with that. You said there were tracks. You mean you didn't backtrack to see where they came from?”

Tip stopped talking, and Buck said nothing, only looked uncomfortable. Tip went on relentlessly. “I can tell you what you did, Buck. You trailed those horses back to where Blackie Mayfell was really murdered. And you saw something there that you don't want to believe. You're hidin' someone, Buck. Who is it? Cam or Hagen?”

“No,” Buck said. “That's not true!”

Ball said gently, “It's part true, Buck. You can't hide it.”

Buck wheeled away and walked to the corridor window that looked down on the street. There was an agony of indecision reflected in his face. Tip signed to Ball to keep quiet, and then he walked up to Buck.

“Do you like this feudin', Buck?”

“I hate it!” Buck said angrily, not looking at Tip.

“Ball and you and I are going to clear it up,” Tip said quietly. “The man over there in that cell is one of three or four men who's kept it goin', Buck. He's in jail. There'll be others in jail, before we're done. But if you're goin' to work with us, we've got to have the truth—all the truth about Blackie Mayfell. Because I think we can use Blackie Mayfell's death to bust this wide open. What about it?”

Buck looked at him then, sudden hope in his eyes. “You and me and Ball?”

Tip nodded. “Of all the men in this fight, Buck, you're the only man who isn't a liar and who hates it. That's why we've picked on you for help. Are you goin' to string along with us?”

Buck came to a sudden decision. “If you want me.”

“We want you, and what you can tell us, too.”

Buck wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief and looked at Ball, who nodded assent. “All right,” Buck said in a tight voice, “I'm tellin' the truth now, Woodring. I did backtrack those horses, trailed 'em deep onto Three B range until I come to the place where they'd picked up Blackie Mayfell. There was a lot of horse tracks there, and boot tracks—and other tracks. I found Blackie's tracks, and they was old. But there was one more set of tracks just as old as Blackie's. They”—he looked miserably at Tip—“was a woman's.”

Tip was puzzled. Ball said, “Anna Bolling's, you mean?”

Buck nodded mutely. Ball coughed warningly and said, “You're sure of that, Buck?”

When Buck nodded again, Ball shook his head. “Hell, that don't mean anything, Buck.”

“Of course it don't,” Buck said quickly, apparently relieved, “only it don't look very good. Anna Bolling wouldn't hurt a fly,” he stated positively, as if challenging them to deny it.

“She could have found him,” Ball said.

“That's what I thought. Only I couldn't tell Haig or Cam because they'd have brought it to you, Sheriff. And maybe she—well, maybe she couldn't explain it, and they'd have crowded you into makin' trouble for her.”

“I won't trouble her,” Ball said gently. “Not that way.”

Buck drew a deep sigh of relief. Tip, remembering the glimpse of Anna Bolling he'd had that first night, and recalling her words, thought he understood now. Buck was trying to be fair to a girl whose family he hated, torn between that and his loyalty to his own. And something else, too.

Buck said gently, “She's the only Bolling alive that wouldn't like to see all us Shieldses dead.” He laughed shortly. “Well, maybe we will be, now that Haig's put away.”

“Why?” Tip asked.

“Because when they hear about it, they'll raid us. They're afraid of Haig, but not of Cam or me or the others.”

Ball said grimly, “Maybe we can arrange a little reception for them, Buck.”

Buck only smiled his relief. Tip found himself liking him, wondering how a man could go through what Buck had been through and still remain fair and considerate. They tramped down into the office, Ball asking Buck questions, Buck answering them. There was none of the old hostility between them, and Tip knew that today the Vermilion feud had changed its course, and for the better.

But the death of Blackie Mayfell was still a mystery—and likely to remain so. For Buck didn't believe Anna Bolling killed Blackie, didn't believe she could tell him much, even if she would. And she wouldn't talk, he was certain. Why would she, when her brothers hated him and had sworn to kill him? And they would hate him a lot more before he was through with them, Tip thought somberly as he tramped downstairs behind the sheriff and Buck. A lot more.

CHAPTER 6

Anna Bolling walked out to Dr. Pendexter's buggy with him. Complete quiet had fallen on the place, a quiet which she dreaded. Dr. Pendexter put his black bag in the buggy and turned his sad face toward her. He was a mussed little man, gloomy and friendly and expert.

“I'm sorry, girl,” he said. “If they'd brought him to me after it happened, he might have had a chance.” He shook his head. “But hauling him all that way in the rain, and not even in a wagon.”

Anna bit her lip, shivering. She had slipped on a man's coat to come out with the doctor, and now she hugged herself against the brisk wind driving off the mountains. Today the sun didn't seem to warm anything, and she shivered. Small strands of corn-colored hair whipped into her face, and she was oblivious to it.

Dr. Pendexter put a hand on her arm. “Why don't you move away from it, Anna?”

Anna said dully, “Oh, it doesn't matter. Moving away wouldn't stop it, and I'd rather be here if it has to happen.”

The doctor eyed her frankly. “Yace was the best of the lot, and now you haven't even got him. It won't be easy.”

“It never was.”

Dr. Pendexter sighed. “Well, Yace is gone, and Hagen Shields is in jail. The Shieldses and the Bollings will be an extinct breed in another year.”

Anna asked curiously, “Hagen Shields in jail? Was it for murdering Yace?”

The doctor shrugged. “I don't follow it, girl. I try to forget it.”

Anna nodded and watched the doctor climb into the buggy and pick up the reins. He said gloomily, “If you're going to stick it out, I suppose I can't change your mind.” He pointed with his buggy whip across the park to a pair of tall cottonwoods on the edge of the evergreen timber. At this distance, they could only see a tiny figure at work, but they both knew he was digging a fresh grave in the Bolling graveyard, which already held most of the family. “When it's filled up, girl, you'll have given the best years of your life to a dozen people uselessly dead. It's not worth it.” He touched his hat, flicked the horse with the whip, and drove off.

Anna watched him go and then turned back to the house. That picture—the man digging under the cottonwoods, Dr. Pendexter's buggy pulling out slowly toward town—had become fixed with familiarity. She walked through the living-room, untidy now and smelling of stale smoke from the night-long vigil of the menfolks, and went into her bedroom. When the sound of shuffling feet on the stairway came to her, along with the muffled talk and faint grunts of exertion, she closed the door. They were bringing Yace down in his coffin. She changed to her riding-clothes, Levi's and denim jumper, and went outside.