Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (36 page)

“What’s that? What’d you mean?” Booker stared at me.

“Because you were too greedy. You’ll never rob another man, Booker. For murder, you’ll hang.”

He protested, but now he was cornered and frightened. “You killed Rud Maclaren,” I told him, “and if that’s not enough, you killed one of Slade’s men from ambush. We can trail your horse to the scene of the crime, and if you think a western jury won’t take the word of an Indian tracker, you’re wrong.”

“
He
killed Maclaren?” Canaval asked incredulously.

“He got him out of the house on some trumped-up excuse—to show him the silver, or to show him something I was planning—it doesn’t matter what excuse was used. He shot him and then loaded him on a horse and brought him to my place. He shot him again, hoping to draw me to the vicinity, as he wanted my tracks around the body.”

“Lies!” Booker was recovering his assurance. “Sabre had trouble with Maclaren, not I. We knew each other only by sight. The idea that I killed him is preposterous.”

He got to his feet. “In any event, what have the ranches to do with the silver claim of which you speak?”

“Morgan Park found the claim while trailing a man he meant to murder—Arnold D’Arcy, who knew him as Cantwell. Arnold had stumbled upon the old mine. Park murdered him only to find there was a catch in the deal. D’Arcy had already filed on the claim and had done assessment work on it. Legally, there was no way Park could gain possession, and no one legally could work the mine until D’Arcy’s claim lapsed. Above all, Park wanted to avoid any public connection with the name of D’Arcy. He couldn’t sell the claim, because it wasn’t his, but if he could get control of the Bar M and the Two Bar, across which anyone working the claim must go, he could sell them at a fabulous price to an unscrupulous buyer. The new owner of the ranches could work the claim quietly, and by owning the ranches he could deny access to the vicinity, so it would never be discovered what claims were being worked. When D’Arcy’s assessment work lapsed, the claims could be filed upon by the new owners.”

“Booker was to find a buyer?” asked Tharp.

“Yes. Park wanted money, not a mine or a ranch. Booker, I believe, planned to be that buyer himself. He wanted possession of the Bar M, so he decided to murder Rud Maclaren.”

“You’ve no case against me that would stand in court!” Booker sneered. “You can prove nothing! What witnesses do you have?”

We had none, of course. Our evidence was a footprint. All the rest of what I’d said was guesswork. Tharp couldn’t arrest the man on such slim grounds. We needed a confession.

T
OM FOX LEANED over the table, his eyes cold. “Some of us are satisfied. We don’t need witnesses an’ we don’t need to hear no more. Some of us are almighty sure you killed Rud Maclaren. Got any arguments that will answer a six-gun? Or a rope?”

Booker’s face thinned down, and he crouched back against his chair. “You can’t do that! The law! Tharp will protect me!”

Sighting a way clear, I smiled. “That might be, Booker! Confess, and Tharp will protect you! He’ll save you for the law to handle. But if you leave here a free man, you’ll be on your own.”

“An’ I’ll come after you!” Fox said.

“Confess, Booker,” I suggested, “and you’ll be safe.”

“Aw! Turn him loose!” Fox protested angrily. “No need to have trouble, a trial an’ all! Turn him loose! We all know he’s a crook, an’ we all know he killed Rud Maclaren! Turn him loose!”

Booker’s eyes were haunted with fear. There was no acting in Tom Fox, and he knew it. The rest of us might bluff, but not Fox. The Bar M hand wanted to kill him, and given an opportunity, he would.

Right then I knew we were going to win. Jake Booker was a plotter and a conniver, not a courageous man. His mean little eyes darted from Fox to the sheriff. His mouth twitched and his face was wet with sweat. Tom Fox, his hand on his gun, moved relentlessly closer to Booker.

“All right, then!” he screamed. “I did it! I killed Maclaren. Now, Sheriff, save me from this man!”

I relaxed at last, as Tharp put the handcuffs on Booker. As they were leaving I said, “What about Park? What happened to him?”

Tharp cleared his throat. “Morgan Park is dead. He was killed last night on the Woodenshoe.”

W
E ALL LOOKED at him, waiting. “That Apache of Pinder’s killed him,” Tharp explained. “Park ran for it after he busted out of jail. He killed his horse crossin’ the flats an’ he run into the Injun with a fresh horse. He wanted to swap, but the Apache wouldn’t go for the deal, so Park tried to drygulch him. He should have knowed better. The Injun killed him an’ lit out.”

“You’re positive?” D’Arcy demanded.

Tharp nodded. “Yeah, he died hard, Park did.”

The door opened, and Jonathan Benaras was standing there. “Been scoutin’ around,” he said. “Bodie Miller’s done took out. He hit the saddle about a half hour back an’ headed north out of town.”

Bodie Miller gone!

It was impossible. Yet, he had done it. Miller was gone! I got to my feet. “Good,” I said quietly. “I was afraid there would be trouble.”

Pinder got to his feet. “Don’t you trust that Miller,” he said grudgingly. “He’s a snake in the grass. You watch out.”

So there it was. Pinder was no longer an enemy. The fight had been ended, and I could go back to the Two Bar. I should feel relieved, and yet I did not. Probably it was because I had built myself up for Bodie Miller and nothing had come of it. I was so ready, and then it had all petered out to nothing at all.

Olga had the Bar M and her uncle to run it for her, and nobody would be making any trouble for Canaval. There was nothing for me to do but to go back home.

M
Y HORSE WAS standing at the rail, and I walked out to him and lifted the stirrup leather to tighten the cinch. But I did not hurry. Olga was standing there in front of the restaurant, and the one thing I wanted most was to talk to her. When I looked up she was standing there alone.

“You’re going back to the Two Bar?” Her voice was hesitant.

“Where else? After all, it’s my home now.”

“Have—have you done much to the house yet?”

“Some.” I tightened the cinch and then unfastened the bridle reins. “Even a killer has to have a home.” It was rough, and I meant it that way.

She flushed. “You’re not holding that against me?”

“What else can I do? You said what you thought, didn’t you?”

She stood there looking at me, uncertain of what to say, and I let her stand there.

She watched me put my foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but she did not. Yet when I looked down at her she was more like a little girl who had been spanked than anything else I could think of.

Suddenly, I was doing the talking. “Ever start that trousseau I mentioned?”

She looked up quickly. “Yes,” she admitted, “but—but I’m afraid I didn’t get very far with it. You see, there was—”

“Forget it.” I was brusque. “We’ll do without it. I was going to ride out of here and let you stay, but I’ll be double damned if I will. I told you I was going to marry you, and I am. Now listen, trousseau or not, you be ready by tomorrow noon, understand?”

“Yes. All right. I mean—I will.”

Suddenly, we were both laughing like fools and I was off that horse and kissing her, and all the town of Hattan’s Point could see us. It was right there in front of the cafe, and I could see people coming from saloons and standing along the boardwalks all grinning.

Then I let go of her and stepped back and said, “Tomorrow noon. I’ll meet you here.” And with that I wheeled my horse and lit out for the ranch.

E
VER FEEL SO good it looks as if the whole world is your big apple? That was the way I felt. I had all I ever wanted. Grass, water, cattle, and a home and wife of my own.

The trail back to the Two Bar swung around a huge mesa and opened out on a wide desert flat, and far beyond it I could see the suggestion of the stones and pinnacles of badlands beyond Dry Mesa. A rabbit burst from the brush and sprinted off across the sage, and then the road dipped down into a hollow. There in the middle of the road was Bodie Miller.

He was standing with his hands on his hips, laughing, and there was a devil in his eyes. Off to one side of the road was Red, holding their horses and grinning too.

“Too bad!” Bodie said. “Too bad to cut down the big man just when he’s ridin’ highest, but I’ll enjoy it.”

This horse I rode was skittish and unacquainted with me. I’d no idea how he’d stand for shooting, and I wanted to be on the ground. Suddenly, I slapped spurs to that gelding, and when the startled animal lunged toward the gunman I went off the other side. Hitting the ground running I spun on one heel and saw Bodie’s hands blur as they dove for their guns, and then I felt my own gun buck in my hand. Our bullets crossed each other, but mine was a fraction the fastest despite that instant of hesitation when I made sure it would count.

H
IS SLUG RIPPED a furrow across my shoulder that stung like a thousand needles, but my own bullet caught him in the chest and he staggered back, his eyes wide and agonized. Then I started forward, and suddenly the devil was up in me. I was mad, mad as I had never been before. I opened up with both guns. “What’s the matter?” I was yelling. “Don’t you like it, gunslick? You asked for it. Now come and get it! Fast, are you? Why you cheap, two-bit gunman, I’ll—”