Guns Of the Timberlands (1955) (18 page)

"I'm not going to wait for them to set it up," he told her. "I'm going to meet them halfway. I'll have to, if I want to live."

He stood up and leaning suddenly across the table he kissed her on the lips. Then he straightened, the action so smooth and easy that it had gone unnoticed in the dining room.

The door opened and a lean, brown man stepped inside. He wore a brown beaver sombrero and a brown vest, and his face was long and tanned. His legs were slightly bowed and he wore two guns, tied down.

It was Montana Brown. "Boss, I hear talk around. If it's to be Harvey and Kilburn, I want in."

Shorty Jones started to protest.

"He's right, Shorty. Montana had a run-in with Kilburn once . . . besides, you had your action last night."

"Kilburn an' me," Montana said, "we got it to settle."

"All right." Clay put a hand on Brown's shoulder. "We'll do it this way . . ."

Quickly and concisely he outlined his plan, and Montana nodded agreement as he listened.

"You," he turned to Shorty, "locate Devitt and keep an eye on him. Don't make a move unless he tries to cut in. If he does, he's your meat."

Rush Jackson, Hank Rooney, and Bill Coffin rode into town shortly before noon and went to the bar at the Homestake. With sure instinct, they knew the showdown was at hand. Jones met them and apprised them of the situation here. The men who had been watching cattle were down at the ranch and were keeping an eye on both the Gap and The Notch.

It was still and warm. The sky was bare of clouds, the dust gathered heat, the unpainted, gray, false-fronted buildings reflected it. Over the desert, heat waves rippled and danced between the eye and the faraway hills. Somewhere out there a faint plume of dust lifted.

In his office at the bank Noble Wheeler sat before his worn desk, his fat face shadowed and dark with worry. He knew as well as did the others that a showdown was coming. His own part in it he did not know.

Sam Tinker moved to his chair on the porch of the hotel. Judge Riley went up to his room and took off his coat Seated at his desk in shirt and suspenders, he began a letter to go back east. There was no sound in the street. Occasionally a rig rattled through, or a horse stamped. Once or twice he heard voices, and once, laughter. These only served to emphasize the stillness of the town. It lay quiet, poised, and waiting. . ..

Jud Devitt got up from his desk. His shirt was stained with sweat from where he had been lying on the divan a while before. There were circles of sweat under his arms. He mopped his face and swore softly. He had not shaved, but this morning he was scarcely conscious of it. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow.

Why the devil didn't they get it over with! Anger stirred him . . . was it so complicated to shoot a man?

He looked out the window.

Down the street a man sat in the shade of an adobe, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was smoking, and he wore a gun. It was Shorty Jones.

Jud Devitt drew back from the window, his mouth suddenly dry. Jones had killed Pete Simmons last night. What did he want here now?

Chapter
18

Rush Jackson came up the street and into the hotel. He paused beside Clay. "Saw Stag down at the station, buyin' a ticket."

"Maybe he's goin' to grab his soogan and run," Montana suggested, then shook his head. "Ain't like him."

Bell weighed the idea. He knew that Harvey and Kilburn needed money, and neither man was the sort to dodge a fight when it offered cash on the line.

"No," he said finally, "they've seen you boys in town. They'll make their play, then hit the train running."

"Then we can figure the time," Brown said thoughtfully. "They'll make their try just before train time."

Ed Miller was listening. "This is Saturday. Three trains today. One comes through about three this afternoon."

About three. . .

The morning drew on and the sun was warmer. There was no sign of Devitt. Shorty Jones loafed in the shadows, moving with them. The slivery gray boards of the walks grew hot. Montana walked to the pitcher and poured a glass of water. The street was almost empty.

A rig came in from the south. It stood a moment in the street while the driver went into Kesterson's and hurried out again. He jumped into the rig, whirled it around the corner and out of the street.

No horses stood at the hitch rails. The few people whose business took them to the stores made hurried purchases and went home. Others stayed within doors, yet a good many were around.

Clay Bell went to his room and slipped out of his boots and gun belts, placing the guns close at hand on a chair by the bed. Heavy with weariness, he dozed off, awakened, then slept.

In his office Jud Devitt paced the floor, swearing. Remembering, he went to his safe and counted out twenty-five hundred dollars. About to return the black box to the safe, he hesitated, struck by some vague feeling of caution. There was not much left, but. . .

Suddenly, he stuffed the rest of the money in his pockets, returning the empty box to the safe and locking the door. Then he went to the window and looked out. Jones was hunched beside the building, smoking.

Devitt took the twenty-five hundred dollars and stuffed it into a small canvas sack.

Sam Tinker had been thinking, and he was a man who made his decisions slowly and with great care. He put down his pipe and heaved himself from his chair. Then he lumbered down the steps and across the street to the bank.

Noble Wheeler sat behind his scarred desk, waiting. The door opened and Sam Tinker came in. He did not sit down. Sam Tinker was a big man, and when he stood like that he looked enormous and awe-inspiring. He mopped his face with a blue bandana, then stuffed it into his pocket.

"Noble," he said, "I started this here town, an' she bears my name. I like her. She's had her ups and downs, but she's been a fair to middlin' place to live. I aim to keep her so."

"Why, sure." Wheeler sounded puzzled. "What can I do to help?"

Sam Tinker mopped his face again. "You can leave town."

"What? What did you say?"

"There's a three o'clock train on Saturday an' you'll close the bank now. I want folks' money left here for 'em. That will give you time to pack. You take that train, an' we don't never want to see you no more."

Wheeler's face flushed, then paled. "Have you gone crazy, Tinker? What sort of talk is that?"

"I said my say. You be on that three o'clock train. Just about that time Stag Harvey and his partner will try to kill Bell. Devitt put 'em up to it."

"What's that got to do with me?"

Sam Tinker looked at him unpleasantly. He disliked a traitor and he disliked a coward. Noble Wheeler was both.

Coolly, he enumerated the things Wheeler had done. He had brought Devitt to town. He had refused Bell a loan. He had tried to get an old charge raised against Brown, and he had tried to kill Clay Bell.

"Who says that?" Wheeler was both angry and frightened.

"Clay trailed you--that boy could trail a quail across a salt flat. When he finishes with Harvey he'll come lookin', or his boys will."

Noble Wheeler sat very still. He looked down at the desk and at his hands. He looked around the dingy little office, at the fly-specked windows. His fat lips worked and twisted with wordless protest.

Then he threw his hands wide. "But--this is my business! It's all I've got in the world!"

Sam Tinker did not reply. Grimly, he stood waiting. The thought of the B-Bar hands went wildly through Wheeler's mind.

He remembered the body of Pete Simmons, lying bloody and dirty before the livery stable door, the horse he had hoped to ride standing ground-hitched near by. He remembered the body of the man the B-Bar men had brought in from the ranch, the other men who had been merely wounded. He remembered Montana Brown's lean hatchet face, and the hard impudence of Bill Coffin. He licked his lips.

"You came into town with mighty little money," Sam Tinker was ruthless. "You made some here. You leave with what you got on you."

"That's robbery! That's--"

"You goin'?" Sam's voice was deceptively mild. Noble Wheeler looked up and did not like what he saw. Sam Tinker had come into this country when the Apaches held it. He had outlasted them.

"I--I'm goin'."

His hands fluttered helplessly. Then he saw the gun in the drawer, and suddenly something stilled inside him. He had never killed, but. . . He looked up and saw that Sam Tinker held a tiny .41 derringer in his hand.

"See you're on that train," Tinker said, and held open the door.

Heavily, Wheeler got to his feet. He hesitated, started to frame some new protest, but the gun motioned and he walked outside.

It was hot in the street, and his mouth tasted like old copper. He squinted his eyes against the sun, and then turned and went up the steps to his rooms. At the head of the steps he looked at his huge old watch. It was twenty minutes past two.

Judge Riley looked up when Colleen came into the room. He was sealing the letter he had written. "You wanted to come west, Colleen," he said quietly. "I hope you'll not be sorry."

"There was a reason behind it, Dad. Maybe a better reason than I knew."

"It will be good to get back again," he said thoughtfully. Then he put his hand on the letter. "I've resigned my post."

"You shouldn't."

"But you wouldn't want to stay here after this, and I want to--"

"Dad," she interrupted, putting her hand on his arm, "I'm not going back. I'm staying here--on the B-Bar."

His eyes searched hers and her face held a smile, despite her pallor. "I belong here, Dad. I want to stay . . . with him."

Judge Riley sat down. "He's a good man. A better man by far than Jud Devitt. But Colleen"--he jerked his head toward the street--"he's got that to do. Someday he may have to do something like it again."

"He's my man. He'll be my husband. Whatever he does won't change that."

Judge Riley looked at the letter a minute, then hesitated. If Clay Bell were killed. . .

She seemed to understand what he was thinking. Her chin was set, her lips tight. Then she smiled at him. "Tear it up, Dad. We're staying."

Judge Riley picked up the letter, so painfully written, and tore it across. He dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

A huge fly buzzed against the window glass. Down the street a door slammed . . .. They waited, listening . . ..

Chapter
19

At twenty-five minutes past two Clay Bell came down the stairs from his room and ordered a cup of coffee in the dining room.

He sat very still at the table, thinking over his plans. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and tentatively moved his shoulder. His hand was no longer stiff and he felt good. The rugged life and good food of the cattle country had brought him out of the weakness left by his wound.

He drank his coffee slowly, and when the cup was half empty, he rolled a smoke. When he was lighting up, the door opened and Jackson came in.

"Stag's down at the livery barn. Kilburn's nowheres in sight."

"Thanks."

"If Stag comes up the street you'll have the sun in your eyes."

"I thought of that."

As he smoked he considered the situation. Jud Devitt could be considered as out of the picture for the duration of the fight. Shorty was watching him, and Shorty was no man to fool with.

Mentally, he surveyed the walk from the livery barn, timing Stag. He knew that Harvey was the planner, that he would have calculated the killing with cold-blooded accuracy. Kilburn would be spotted where he could be of most help.

He turned suddenly and looked at Coffin, who had come into the room.

"Bill, a few days ago I saw you aping my walk. Could you do it again?"

Coffin flushed sheepishly at the accusation, but at the question his eyes sharpened.

"I reckon," he said slowly.

"Then switch hats with me."

Bill Coffin looked briefly into Clay's eyes, then exchanged hats.

Colleen came down the steps and looked across the room toward him, yet instinctively she knew this was no time for her to approach him. She walked across the room to her father and sat down there with him.

Clay got to his feet and settled his guns in place. With Coffin he walked to the door, where they conversed in low tones, then Clay turned and left Coffin standing at the door. He walked back through the room and as he passed Colleen he dropped his hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently. Then he went on, without speaking.

When he was gone there was silence in the room. Sam Tinker could feel the sweat on his face. His mouth felt dry. He looked at Coffin standing in the door, his back toward the room. The blond cowhand was smoking a cigarette.

Somewhere a dog yelped . . . then there was silence. The town seemed to be without movement. Far across the hills, a train whistle sounded. It was still miles away.

Judge Riley cleared his throat and looked across at Colleen. Neither spoke.