Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (25 page)

One hand at his throat, I jerked him erect. His face was gaunt, and there was blood on his shirtfront. He had been hit hard by my sudden, hardly aimed shot. “Got you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, damn you, an’ I missed. Put—put me down.”

Lowering him to the ground, I dropped to one knee. “I’ll get a doctor. I saw a sign up the street.”

He grabbed my sleeve. “Ain’t no use. I feel it. You got me good. Anyway—” he stared at me—“why should you get a doc for me?”

“I shouldn’t. You were in the gang killed Ball.”

His eyes bulged. “No! No, I wasn’t there! He was a good old man! I wasn’t in that crowd.”

“Was Morgan Park there?”

His eyes changed, veiled. “Why would he be there? That wasn’t his play.”

“What’s he seeing Booker for? What about Sam Slade?”

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and a man carrying a lantern came up the alley. “Get a doctor, will you? This man’s been shot.”

The man started off at a run, and Lyell lay quiet, a tough, unshaven man with brown eyes. He breathed hoarsely for several minutes while I uncovered the wound. Then he spoke. “The Slades are to get Canaval. Park wants you for himself.”

“What does he want? Range?”

“No. He—he wants money.”

The doctor hurried up with the lantern carrier. Watching him start work, I backed away and disappeared in the darkness. If anybody knew anything about Park’s plans it would be Booker, and I had an idea I could get into Booker’s office.

Booker’s office was on the second floor of a frame building reached by an outside stairway. Once up there, a man would be fairly trapped if anyone came up those stairs. Down the street a music box was jangling, and the town showed no signs of going to sleep. Studying that stairway, I liked no part of it. Booker had many friends here, but I had none, and going up there would be a risk. Then I remembered all the other times I’d had no friends, so I hitched my guns easier on my thighs and went across the street.

Going up the steps two at a time, I paused at the door. Locks were no problem to a man of my experience, and a minute later I was inside a dark office, musty with stale tobacco. Swiftly, I checked the tray on the desk, the top drawer, and then the side drawers, lighting my exploration with a stump of candle. Every sense alert, ears attuned to the slightest sound, I worked rapidly, suddenly coming to an assayer’s report. No location was mentioned and no notation was on the sheet, but the ore had been rich, amazingly rich. Then among some older papers at the bottom of a drawer I found a fragment of a letter from Morgan Park, signed with his name.

You have been recommended to me as a man of discretion who could turn over a piece of property for a quick profit and who could handle negotiations with a buyer. I am writing for an appointment and will be in Silver Reef on the 12th. It is essential that this business remain absolutely confidential.

It was little enough, but a hint. I left the assayer’s report but pocketed the letter. The long ride had tired me, for my wounds, while much improved, had robbed me of strength. Dousing the candle, I returned it to its shelf. And then I heard a low mutter of voices and steps on the stair!

B
ACKING SWIFTLY, I glanced around and saw a closed door that must lead to an inner room. Stepping through it I closed it just in time. It was a room used for storage. Voices sounded and a door closed. A match scratched, and light showed under the door. “Nonsense! Probably got in some drunken brawl! You’re too suspicious, Morgan.”

“Maybe, but the man worries me. He rides too much, and he may get to nosing around and finding something.”

“Did you see Lyell before he died?”

“No. He shot first, though. Some fool saw him take a bead on somebody. This other fellow followed it up and killed him.”

The crabbed voice of Booker interrupted. “Forget him. Forget Sabre. My men are lined up, and they have the cold cash ready to put on the line! We haven’t any time for child’s play! I’ve done my part, and now it’s up to you! Get Sabre out of the way and get rid of Maclaren!”

“That’s not so easy,” Park objected stubbornly. “Maclaren is never alone, and if anybody ever shot at him he’d turn the country upside down to find the man. And after he is killed, the minute we step in suspicion will be diverted to us.”

“Nonsense!” Booker replied irritably. “Nobody knows we’ve had dealings. They’ll have to settle the estate, and I’ll step in as the representative of the buyers. Of course, if you were married to the girl it would simplify things. What’s the matter? Sabre cutting in there, too?”

“Shut up!” Park’s voice was ugly. “If you ever say a thing like that again, I’ll wring you out like a dirty towel, Booker. I mean it.”

“You do your part,” Booker said, “and I’ll do mine. The buyers have the money and they are ready. They won’t wait forever.”

A chair scraped, and Park’s heavy step went to the door and out. There was a faint squeak of a cork twisting in a bottle neck and the gurgle of a poured drink. Then the bottle and glass were returned to the shelf. The light vanished and a door closed. Then footsteps grated on the gravel below. Only a minute behind him, I hurried from the vicinity. Then I paused, sweating despite the cool air. Thinking of what I’d heard, I retrieved my horse and slipped quietly out of town. Bedded down among the clustering cedars, I thought of that and then of Olga, the daughter of Maclaren, of her soft lips, the warmth of her arms, the quick, proud lift of her chin.

C
OMING HOME TO Cottonwood Wash and the Two Bar with the wind whispering through the greasewood and rustling the cottonwood leaves, I kept a careful watch but saw nobody until Mulvaney himself stepped into sight.

“Had any trouble?” I asked him.

“Trouble? None here,” he replied. “Some men came by, but the sound of my Spencer drove them away again.” He walked to the door. “There’s grub on the table. How was it in Silver Reef?”

“A man killed.”

“Be careful, lad. There’s too many dying.”

When I had explained, he nodded. “Do they know it was you?”

“I doubt it.” It felt good to be back on my own place again, seeing the white-faced cattle browsing in the pasture below, seeing the water flowing to irrigate the small garden we’d started.

“You’re tired.” Mulvaney studied me. “But you look fit. You’ve thrown a challenge in the teeth of Park. You’ll be backing it up?”

“Backing it up?” My eyes must have told what was in me. “That’s one man I want, Mulvaney! He had me down and beat me, and I’ll not live free until I whip him or he whips me fair!”

“He’s a power of man, lad. I’ve seen him lift a barrel of whiskey at arm’s length overhead. It will be a job to whip him.”

“Ever box any, Mulvaney? You told me you’d wrestled Cornish style.”

“What Irishman hasn’t boxed a bit? Is it a sparrin’ mate you’re wantin’? Sure an’ it would be good to get the leather on my maulies again.”

For a week we were at it. Every night we boxed, lightly at first, then faster. He was a brawny man, a fierce slugger and a powerful man in the clinches. On the seventh day we did a full thirty minutes without a break. And in the succeeding days my strength returned and my speed grew greater. The rough and tumble part of it I loved. Nor was I worried about Morgan knowing more tricks than I—the waterfronts are the place to learn the dirty side of fighting. I would use everything I’d learned there, if Morgan didn’t fight fair.

It was after our tenth session with the gloves that Mulvaney stripped them off and shook his head admiringly. “Faith, lad, you’ve a power of muscle behind that wallop of yours! That last one came from nowhere and I felt it clean to my toes! Never did I believe a man lived that could hit like that!”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m ridin’ to town tomorrow.”

“To fight him?”

“No, to see the girl, Olga Maclaren, to buy supplies, and perhaps to ride him a little. I want him furious before we fight. I want him mad, mad and wild.”

He nodded wisely at me. “It’ll help, for no man can fight unless he keeps his head. But be careful, lad. Remember they are gunnin’ for you, an’ there’s nothin’ that would better please them than to see you dead on the ground.”

When the buckskin was watered I returned him to the hitch rail and walked into the saloon. Hattan’s Point knew that Lyell was dead, but they had no idea who had done it. Key Chapin was the first man I met, and I looked at him, wondering on which side he stood.

He looked at me curiously and motioned toward the chair across the table from him. Dropping into it, I began to build a smoke. “Well, Sabre, you’re making quite a name for yourself.”

I shrugged. “That’s not important. All I want is a ranch.”

“All?”

“And a girl.”

“One may be as hard to get as the other.”

“Maybe. Anyway, I’ve made a start on the ranch. In fact, I have the ranch and intend to keep it.”

“Heard, about Lyell?”

“Killed, wasn’t he? Somewhere west of here?”

“At Silver Reef. It’s a peaceful, quiet town in spite of being a boomtown. And they have a sheriff over there who believes in keeping it peaceful. They tell me he is working hard to find out who killed Lyell.”

“It might be anybody. There was a rumor that he was one of the men in the raid on the Ball ranch.”

“And which you promised to bury on the spot.”

What this was building to I did not know, but I was anxious to find out just where Chapin stood. He would be a good friend to have, and a bad enemy, for his paper had a good deal of influence around town.

“You told me when I first came here that the town was taking sides. Which is your side?”

H
E HESITATED, TOYING with his glass. “That’s a harder question to answer since you came,” he replied frankly. “I will say this. I am opposed to violence. I believe now is the time to establish a peaceful community, and I believe it can be done. For that reason I am opposed to the CP outfit, whose code is violence.”

“And Maclaren?”

He hesitated again. “Maclaren can be reasoned with at times. Stubborn, yes, but only because he has an exaggerated view of his own rightness. It is not easy to prove him wrong, but it can be done.”

“And Park?”

He looked at me sharply, a cool, measuring glance, as if to see what inspired the remark. Then he said, “Morgan Park is generally felt to see things as Maclaren does.”

“Is that your opinion?”

He did not answer me, frowning as he stared out the door. Key Chapin was a handsome man and an able one. I could understand how he felt about law and order. Basically, I agreed with him, but when I’m attacked, I can’t take it lying down.

“Look, Chapin”—I leaned over the table—“I’ve known a dozen frontier towns tougher than this one. To each came law and order, but it took a fight to get it. The murderers, cheats, and swindlers must be stamped out before the honest citizens can have peace. And it’s peace that I’m fighting for. You, more than anybody else, can build the situation to readiness for it with your paper. Write about it. Get the upright citizens prepared to enforce it, once this battle is over.”

He nodded and then glanced at me. “What about you? You’re a gunfighter. In such a community, there is no place for such a man.”