Ride the Man Down (12 page)

They were hurting each other. Sam winced as his blow caught Will on the head, and he felt the shock of it in his shoulder. He gave a low, snarling cry and lowered his head and came at Will. His head caught Will in the chest and staggered him back against the wall. Will was brought up with a jarring thud that shook the walls, and then Sam, following his advantage, drove his head again into Will's midriff.

The impact drove the breath from Will. He pumped wild, flailing blows at Sam's head, and then his knees buckled and he fell forward on all fours.

Head down, gagging for breath, he was on his hands and knees when he felt the savage kick in his side. The force of it rolled him over and brought him joltingly against the bunk.

He saw Sam coming at him again now and he rolled out of the way and came to his feet and caught a looping blow on the head that sent him down again. But the pain of it seemed to clear his head.

He saw Sam standing by the table, feet planted wide apart, the coat torn off him, his face smeared with blood and agonized with the effort to get his breath. Will came up and at him then, driving into him with his shoulder and digging in his feet as he wrapped his arms, around Sam and heaved.

Sam clawed at his back, off balance, and then he left the ground and was thrown across the bunk. His heavy body landed angling astride it, and there was a sound as sharp as a gunshot as the dry pole splintered and broke. The whole frame collapsed under his weight. Sam's head was brought sharply against the wall logs, and he half sat, half lay among the shattered poles of the bunk, shaking his head to clear it, already fighting to get up.

Behind his terrible concentration Will saw the shadows of the room change shape and then forgot it as Sam came at him.

Jim Young, who had followed Sam and only now had come into the room, moved quickly across it behind Will to lift the lamp from the table and retreat to the door, holding it shoulder-high to light the room.

Will met Sam's charge with his body half turned, riding the drive of it, and together they stumbled into the table, overturning it against the wall before they, fell across it.

Will, close to Sam now, slugged drunkenly and blindly at Sam's face. He was dragging great shuddering gasps of air into his tortured lungs now. Sam rolled over and came to his knees and then to his feet, Will rising with him.

Will lashed out and missed and fell into Sam, and Sam swung weakly at his head, shoving him away from him.

Will weaved back on his heels and came in again, and now Sam's arms were too tired to lift in defense. His head turned with Will's raking, tearing blow, and when he faced Will again the mark of bloody knuckles lay across his face.

Again Will came at him, stumbling, and Sam, eyes glazed, gave ground, bowing his head and swinging wildly, aimlessly. Implacably, barely on his feet, Will came at him still, hitting him again and again, and when he missed he would fall against Sam and steady himself and lash out again. Behind bruised cheekbones Sam's eyes were glazed, but in them burned a hatred that chilled Jim Young as he watched from the door.

The two of them leaned against each other a moment, gathering strength, and then Will lashed out again. The blow caught Sam in the throat, and he staggered back until he was brought up against the stove.

Doggedly and implacably, every breath rattling in his throat, Will stumbled into him again, swinging wide, tired blows.

Sam made one last stand, bracing himself and swinging his heavy fists with a dragging, terrible weariness. But one of Will's blows broke through his guard and pushed, rather than drove, him off balance. He crashed into the stove, overturning it, bringing down the pipe with a booming racket. Somehow he managed to keep his feet, and Will fell into him, slugging again with slow, grunting viciousness. The weight of him bowled Sam over. He fell across the stovepipe, landing heavily on his back, then rolled over on his side, face to the wall, and did not move.

Will, on his belly among the sooty dust of the pipe, came to his hands and knees now and crawled toward Sam.

Jim Young put the lamp down on the sill and came over to him and put a hand under his arm, and Will shook him off weakly, still crawling toward Sam.

“He ain't fightin' any more, Will,” Jim said.

Again he put a hand under Will's arm, and this time Will didn't fight him. He came to his feet, weaving drunkenly, and Jim pushed his back against the wall and propped him there while Will, head hung in utter exhaustion, breathed in great whistling gusts of precious air.

Presently, when his breath came easier, he raised his head. A corner of his mouth was bloody and swollen where one of Sam's blows had mashed a lip against his teeth. One cheekbone was cut, and so was an eyebrow. His shirt was in ribbons, and on the pale skin of his chest were deep, livid bruises and welts. He raised his hands and looked at his raw and bloody knuckles, and then he moved weakly down the wall to look at Sam.

Jim Young watched him, silent, a little afraid.

Will reached out a foot and rolled Sam on his back. His eyes were closed; there was a faint bubbling sound in his bloodied nose as he breathed.

Will looked stupidly at Jim Young then. “How'd you get here?”

“Followed him.”

Will said, “Get my gun over there and come into town with me.”

Up on the timbered slope above the shack Ray Cavanaugh watched the scene in the yard below. Approaching his place from the Ridge trail moments ago, he had seen the lamplight and had pulled his horse off in the brush and circled wide to reach this spot. He watched now with a breathless concentration as a man he did not know came out of the shack below, put the lamp on the edge of the porch and went back to the door.

Then Will Ballard came out, declining the offer of help from the other man, and walked slowly to his horse.

Cavanaugh had seen enough. He went quietly back to his horse and stood there in the dark, breathing softly. Will Ballard knew. A thin, dismal fear plucked at Cavanaugh as he acknowledged this. He knew he would be hunted tirelessly and implacably, maybe for a week, maybe for months, but in the end he would have to face Will Ballard.

His mind worked now with a slow, sly cunning, for in the dark hours since that day in the rain at Kennedy's he had had time to plan for this. Kennedy was gone, the only witness to the truth. If he framed his story rightly and admitted the killing he could claim the protection of the only man strong enough to fight Will Ballard. He mounted and set off through the timber for Bide Marriner's Bib M.

Chapter 9

Lottie finished her lonely breakfast and carried the dishes from her and her father's breakfast from the table in the kitchen to the sink. She brought out the tin dishpan and sloshed boiling water in it from the kettle on the stove. At the pump by the sink she tempered the water, then rolled her sleeves. She paused for a moment, frowning, then sighed gently.

This was comfortable ritual, which she usually enjoyed, but this morning things were wrong. The news her father had given her at breakfast was disturbing. She rarely saw her father angry, but he had been angry this morning. He had told her, with a biting sense of injustice, the news brought to him from Garretson's late last night. His and Garretson's cattle had been seized by Hatchet.

And Will was not here to explain or to question.

She hurried through the dishwashing, looked at the clock, and was in the act of taking off her apron when she heard the knock on the door.

She crossed the room and opened it and stepped back, smothering an exclamation.

Will stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Oh, Will, what's happened?” Lottie breathed.

“Nothing that won't wash off,” Will said mildly. He crossed to the sink and began pumping water in a basin, and Lottie came up beside him.

Will looked at her and said, “Danfelser.”

“But you and Sam—” Her voice faded away.

“There's lots you don't understand,” Will said gently. “Clear out while I clean up, and dig me out a shirt of your father's. I'll tell you afterward.”

Lottie, after some searching, found a shirt big enough for him, and when she came back Will, stripped to the waist, was bending down in front of the mirror, combing out his snarled black hair.

He took the shirt and shrugged into it, looking somberly at Lottie. “Cavanaugh killed John Evarts,” he said. In short, plain words he told of what had passed at Ten Mile and finally at Cavanaugh's, and all the while he was trying to button the shirt. His swollen fingers were too clumsy, however, and Lottie did it for him, listening to the grisly finish of his account.

Her eyes were dark with pain as she lifted one of his hands and looked at his raw, swollen knuckles.

“Will, what's going to happen?” she asked suddenly.

“I'm going to be busy,” Will answered evasively.

“Will, look at me,” Lottie said sharply.

Will turned dark, sullen eyes on her, and she said, “But you're through. Don't you see that? Hatchet is Sam Danfelser's worry now, and you've fought with him. You're out of it—forced out of it, at last.”

“I don't see it, no.” Will looked at her his eyes still sullen. “What will Celia do when she hears of your fight?” Lottie asked swiftly. “Do you think she'll side with you against the man she'll marry?”

Will couldn't answer her, and Lottie came close to him and put both hands on his chest. “Will, I haven't asked for much. I want to ask it now, though. Leave Hatchet. Pull out of that snarling pack of dogs and let's make a life for ourselves—another life besides Hatchet's.”

“But I can't pull out.”

“You can!” Lottie said passionately. “All along your loyalty is all that's held you—loyalty to John Evarts and to Celia. John's dead now. Hatchet's Celia's, and she's going to marry a man who'll take over for her. This is the time to quit, Will. You've
got
to!”

Will shook his head. “Sam can't handle it. Celia doesn't want him to. I offered to quit, and she wanted me to stay.”

Lottie's face altered a little, but Will did not notice that. He said softly, bitterly, “I don't even want to quit, Lottie.”

“Why?”

Will shook his head, watching her. “Red Courteen and Bide Marriner and Joe Kneen. Sam Danfelser and Cavanaugh and all the others. I don't know. I can't explain it, Lottie.”

“They're all pulling you in,” Lottie said slowly, her voice almost hard. “I'm trying to pull you out. I don't matter that much, Will?”

“That's different,” Will said impatiently.

“It's your pride, you mean,” Lottie said, and she was angry now, angry enough to take advantage of his inarticulate, clumsy arguments. For it had come to Lottie now that her happiness was at stake, and she was fighting for it, woman-wise. She said, gibingly, “See what it's done for you, Will? It's made people hate you so much they want to kill you. It's brought you between a girl and her man. It's kept me dreading to hear a knock on the door for fear it'll be news that you've been shot.” She was fighting now, and out of the depths of her need to convince him she blurted, “It's even made you dishonest, Will.”

Will had taken all this, smarting under its hurt, but at this last accusation protest flared in his eyes. Lottie, seeing it, said defiantly, “You told Dad to put his money into cattle you later took from him—on a whim of your pride.”

“When was this?” Will asked slowly.

“Didn't you know? Your men seized the herd—after you'd told Dad it was safe to go in on shares with Garretson!”

The thin, tenuous thread of Will's patience snapped now, and he spoke with a cold, reckless anger. “Your father has his damned greed to thank for that, Lottie.”

This bald, flat statement held Lottie speechless with surprise, and it sobered her. It sobered Will, too, and they regarded each other carefully, each aware of the danger of further talk. But Lottie's pride had been hurt now and would not let her keep silent. “You deny you encouraged Dad to help Garretson stock his new range?”

“Lottie, Lottie,” Will chided gently. “Whose range? Hatchet's range? Would I do that?”

“He said you did.”

“He asked in that damned sly way of his if there was a risk in moving in. I left it to him. He could read anything into that he wanted, and he did.”

“And his cattle were seized by your men,” Lottie said accusingly.

Will nodded. “They'll stay seized too.”

They faced each other, both knowing there was nothing more to say unless one of them acknowledged wrong. Lottie's new independence was bolstered by the feeling that her father had been made to seem a shabby liar, and her loyalty would not allow her to apologize. Will, knowing he was in the right, was just as stubborn.

It was Lottie who turned to look at the clock and say quietly, tonelessly, “I'll be late for school, Will. I have to go.”

Will moved to the door and opened it, then paused, looking back at her. She would not look at him, and he said, “Good-by, Lottie,” and stepped out.

The thin cold sunlight didn't seem to warm Will as he stepped stiffly into the saddle and rode downstreet. The stores were just opening up, their clerks calling back and forth across the street, some of them sweeping the plank walk in front of their places of business. Will rode past them, unseeing, his thoughts troubled and ugly.

In front of Priest's Emporium he reined up and looked at the building, a gray dislike in his face. The thought that in the midst of all this trouble he would let Lowell Priest's affairs intrude filled him with a harsh contempt of himself, and he rode on. Crossing the four corners, he saw something that made him halt. Celia's black mare was tied in front of the Stockman's House. He regarded it a moment, the aching weariness of his legs and the smarting of his swollen lip reminding him of Sam Danfelser. There was Celia to face too.