Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (27 page)

Morgan Park was glaring, fighting for control. He could see that unless he kept his temper and acted quickly his plans might be ruined. Something of what I’d said apparently touched Maclaren, for he was nodding.

“I’ll have to think it over,” Maclaren said. “This is no time to make decisions.”

“By all means.” Turning, I took Olga’s arm. “Now if you’ll excuse us?”

Morgan’s face was a study in concentrated fury. He started forward, blood in his eye. Putting Olga hurriedly to one side, I was ready for him, but Canaval stepped between us.
“Hold it!”
Canaval’s command stopped Park in his tracks. “That’s all, Park. We’ll have no trouble here.”

“What’s the matter?” he sneered. “Sabre need a nurse-maid now?”

“No.” The foreman was stiff. “He gave me his word, and I gave mine. As long as he is on this place my word holds. If the boss wants him to go, he’ll go.”

I
N THE SILENCE that followed, Maclaren turned to me. “Sabre, I’ve no reason to like you, but you are my daughter’s guest and you talk straight from the shoulder. Remain as long as you like.”

Park started to speak, but realized he could do nothing. He turned his heavy head, staring at me from under heavy brows. That gaze was cold and deadly. “We can settle our differences elsewhere, Sabre.”

Olga was worried when we got outside. “You shouldn’t have come, Matt. There’ll be trouble. Morgan is a bad enemy.”

“He was my enemy, anyway. That he is a bad enemy, I know. I think another friend of yours found that out.”

She looked up quickly, real fear in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your friend D’Arcy. He comes of a family that does not frighten easily. Did you ever have a note of acknowledgment from him?”

“No.”

“Strange. I’d have said such a man would never neglect such an obvious courtesy.”

We stood together, then, looking out at the night and the desert, no words between us but needing no words, our hearts beating together, our blood moving together, feeling the newness of love discovered. The cottonwood leaves brushed their pale green hands together, and their muted whispering seemed in tune with our own thoughts. This was my woman, the one I would walk down the years with. The leaves said that and my blood said it, and I knew the same thoughts were in her, reluctant as she might be to admit it.

“This trouble will pass,” I said softly, “as the night will pass, and when it has gone, and the winds have blown the dust away, then I shall take you to Cottonwood Wash—to live.” Her hand stayed in mine, and I continued. “We’ll build something there to last down the years until this will all seem a bad dream, a nightmare dissipated by the morning sunlight.”

“But could you ever settle down? Could you stay?”

“Of course. Men don’t wander for the love only of wandering, they wander because they are in search of something. A place of one’s own, a girl, a job accomplished. It is only you who has mattered since the day I rode into the streets of Hattan’s Point and saw you there.”

T
URNING TOWARD HER, I took her by the elbows. Her breath caught and then came quickly and deeply. Her lips parted slightly as she came into my arms, and I felt her warm body melt against mine, and her lips were warm and seeking, urgent, passionate. My fingers ran into her hair and along her scalp, and her kisses hurt my lips as mine must have hurt hers. All the fighting, all the waiting, melted into nothingness then.

She pulled back suddenly, frightened yet excited, her breasts rising and falling as she fought for control. “This isn’t good! We’re—we’re too violent. We’ve got to be more calm.”

I laughed then, full of the zest of living and loving and seeing the glory of her there in the moonlight. I laughed and took her arms again. “You’re not exactly a calm person.”

“I?” A flush darkened her face. “Well, all right then. Neither of us is calm.”

“Need we be?” My hands reached for her, and then I heard someone whistling. Irritably, I looked up to hear feet grating on the gravel path.

It was Canaval. “Better ride,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past Park to drygulch a man.”

“Canaval!” Olga protested. “How can you say that?”

His slow eyes turned to her. “You think so too, ma’am. You always was an uncommon smart girl. You’ve known him for what he was for a mighty long time.” He turned back to me. “Mean what you said back there? About peace and all?”

“You bet I did. What can we gain by fighting?”

“You’re right,” Canaval agreed; “but there’ll be bloodshed before it’s over. Pinder won’t quit. He hated Rud Maclaren, and now he hates you. He won’t back up or quit.” Canaval turned to Olga. “Let me talk to Sabre alone, will you? There’s something he should know.”

“All right.” She gave me her hand. “Be careful. And goodnight.”

We watched her walk back up the path, and when my eyes turned back to him, his were surprisingly soft. I could see his expression even in the moonlight. “Reminds me of her mother,” he said quietly.

“You knew her?” I was surprised.

“She was my sister.”

That was something I could never have guessed. “She doesn’t know,” he explained. “Rud and I used to ride together. I was too fast with a gun and killed a man with too many relatives. I left and Rud married my sister. From time to time we wrote, and when Rud was having trouble with rustlers, I came out to lend a hand. He persuaded me to stay.”

He looked around at me. “One thing more. What did you mean about the Slades?”

S
O I TOLD him in detail of my trip to Silver Reef, the killing of Lyell and the conversation I’d overheard between Park and Booker. Where I had heard the conversation I did not tell him. I only said there was some deal between the two of them that depended upon results to be obtained by Morgan Park.

It was after midnight when I finally left the Bar M, turning off the main trail and cutting across country for the head of Gypsum Canyon.

Mulvaney was waiting for me. “Knowed the horse’s walk,” he explained. Nodding toward the hills, he added, “Too quiet out there.”

The night was clear, wide, and peaceful. Later during the night, I awakened with a start, the sound of a shot ringing in my ears. Mulvaney was sleeping soundly, so I did not disturb him. Afterward, all was quiet, so I dropped off to sleep once more.

In the morning I mentioned it to Mulvaney.

“Did you get up?” he asked.

“Yeah. Went out in the yard and listened, but heard nothing more. Could have been a hunter. Maybe one of the Benaras boys.”

Two hours later I knew better. Riding past Maverick Spring I saw a riderless horse grazing near a dark bundle that lay on the grass. The dark bundle was Rud Maclaren, and he was dead.

He had been shot twice from behind, both shots through the head.

He was sprawled on his face, both hands above his head, one knee drawn up. Both guns were in their holsters, and his belt gun was tied down. After one look I stood back and fired three shots as a signal to Mulvaney.

When he saw Maclaren, his face went white and he looked up. “You shouldn’t have done it, boy. The country hated him but they respected him, too. They’ll hang a man for this!”

“Don’t be foolish!” I was irritated, but appalled, too. “I didn’t do this! Feel of him! It must have been that shot I heard last night.”

“He’s cold, all right. This’ll blow the lid off, Matt. You’d best rig a story for them. And it had better be good!”

“No rigging. I’ll tell the truth.”

“They’ll hang you, Matt. They’ll never believe you didn’t do it.” He waved a hand around. “He’s on your place. The two of you have been feudin’. They’ll say you shot him in the back.”

Standing over the body with the words of Mulvaney in my ears, I could see with piercing clarity the situation I was in. What could he have been doing here? Why would he come to my ranch in the middle of the night?

I could see their accusing eyes when the death was reported, the shock to Olga, the reaction of the people, the accusations of Park. Somebody wanted Maclaren dead enough to shoot him in the back. Who?

VIII

Strangely, the morning was cool with a hint of rain. Mulvaney, at my request, had gone to the Bar M to tell Canaval of the killing, and it was up to Canaval to tell Olga. I did not like to think of that. My luck held in one sense, for Jolly Benaras came riding up the wash, and I asked him to ride to Hattan’s to report to Key Chapin.

Covering the body with a tarp, I mounted and began to scout the area. How much time I had, I did not know, but it could not be much. Soon they would be arriving from Hattan’s, and even sooner from the Bar M. One thing puzzled me. There had been but one shot fired, but there were two bullet holes in Maclaren’s skull.

Carefully, I examined the sand under the body and was struck by a curious thing. There was no blood! None on the sand, that is. There was plenty of blood on Rud himself, but all of it, strangely enough, seemed to come from one bullet hole!

There was a confusion of tracks where his horse had moved about while he lay there on the ground, but at this point the wash was sandy, and no definite track could be distinguished. Then horses’ hoofs sounded, and I looked up to see five riders coming toward me. The nearest was Canaval, and beside him, Olga. The others were all Bar M riders, and from one glance at their faces I knew there was no doubt in their minds and little reason for speculation that I had killed Rud Maclaren.

Canaval drew up, and his eyes pierced mine, cold, calculating, and shrewd. Olga threw herself from her horse and ran to the still form on the ground. She had refused to meet my eyes or to notice me.

“This looks bad, Canaval. When did he leave the ranch?”

He studied me carefully, as if he were seeing me for the first time. “I don’t know, exactly,” he said. “No one heard him go. He must have pulled out sometime after two this morning.”

“The shot I heard was close to four.”

“One shot?”

“Only one—but he’s been shot twice.” Hesitating a little, I asked, “Who was with him when you last saw him?”

“He was alone. If it’s Morgan Park you are thinkin’ of, forget it. He left right after you did. When I last saw Rud he was goin’ to his room, feelin’ mighty sleepy.”

The Bar M riders were circling around. Their faces were cold, and they started an icy chill coming up my spine. These men were utterly loyal, utterly ruthless when aroused. The night before, they had given me the benefit of the doubt, but now they saw no reason to think of any other solution but the obvious one.