Raw Land (20 page)

“He's not been here.”

Case scowled and turned his horse into the corral. The sun was just setting, and Case, walking toward the bunkhouse with Becky, felt at peace with the world. Riding through his range today he had seen the new green after the rains. The prospect of good grass, on top of the knowledge that all the grass in the Territory could die and it wouldn't affect his bank balance in another year, gave him a feeling of solid prosperity.

He saw Tip, Pres's
segundo
, step out of the bunkhouse and come toward him. Tip was a grave-faced young man, a far better man than Pres. Right now he looked saddle-worn and hungry.

“What is it, Tip? Where's Pres?”

“I figured he was with you,” Tip said. “There's plenty up, too. You're havin' your beef rustled, Mr. Case.”

Case's good humor shriveled instantly. These were the words he had feared more than anything else for the last ten years. He recognized his feeling for what it was—a thief's hatred of being robbed—but it didn't help. He knew instant, savage anger.

“How do you know?”

Tip told him how he and Barney had come across the sign of cattle being moved into the brakes. They followed the sign until the herd split, one half going east, one half north, and then it started to rain. An hour's drizzle in that sandy stuff blotted out the tracks, then the arroyos began to run, wiping out the last signs. He recited it in a tired, excited voice.

When he finished, Case said, “How many head?”

“A pretty big herd, looked like,” Tip said.

“And Pres hasn't been here?”

Tip shook his head. Becky knew what her father was thinking and she saw his squarish face settle into a stubborn cast. He had never made a secret of his hatred for cattle thieves, and she remembered dimly that long-distant fight with Harkins. It was something he never talked about, but it had left its scar on him, she knew. And now Pres was absent. Intuitively, she knew her father's suspicions.

He said to Tip in a kindly voice, “Thanks, Tip. Tomorrow you better start shovin' the stuff away from the brakes and put a line rider over there.”

“I'll take a couple of men and comb them brakes if you say so,” Tip offered.

Case made a wry face. “It'd take a year,” he said and turned toward the house.

Becky laid out a cold meal for him in the kitchen; he ate in silence. Becky watched him with troubled eyes, wanting to help him and not daring to let on she knew why Pres thought he could get away with this.

Presently she said, “Dad, do you think Pres is behind this?”

Her father looked startled. “What makes you think he is?”

“Because he knows you're afraid of him. He'd dare to do anything, knowing that.”

Case's gaze wavered, then fell. He pushed his plate away and went upstairs to his room. Becky heard him pacing the floor far into the night.

Next morning, Case was wearing a gun. The last time he'd worn one, Becky remembered, was the day he'd ridden in to greet Will Danning. Before that, he hadn't worn one for years.

That morning Tip sent out a line rider; and afterward, Becky saw them break out the roundup wagon and start repairing it. Case worked with them, just like one of his hands.

At noon, Becky couldn't hold her curiosity. “What are you doing with the wagon, Dad?”

“Roundup,” Case said briefly. “I'm goin' to find out how much beef I'm missin'.”

“But can't you wait until fall?”

Case looked bleakly at her, his eyes fanatic. “No,” he said bluntly.

It was after supper when Tomás knocked at the back door, and when Becky opened it, he said, “Pres, she's come back.”

Case, in the other room, heard him. He put on his coat and went outside.

Pres was dismounted, standing in the doorway of the bunk-house talking to the crew when Case came up.

Pres said, “I got a story to tell you, Case, that's goin' to hurt.”

Case said nothing. Pres went into the office, lighted the lamp, and sat down wearily. He looked as if he'd lost ten pounds; his clothes were filthy, his beard stubble ragged, his eyes wicked and red from sleeplessness.

“You've had some beef stole,” Pres announced.

“I know that,” Case said narrowly. “Where have you been?”

“I was kidnaped!” Pres said viciously. “That damn Danning picked me up at the piñon line camp, took my gun away from me, and made me help rustle a herd of Nine X stuff!”

Case said nothing. Pres, watching him, had the uneasy feeling that he had never seen Case like this before.

“Where'd the beef go?” Case asked.

“It's shipped. They made me sign the bill of lading for the stuff. Half the stuff was shipped, the other half run off north into the brakes.”

“Why was half of it shipped?” Case asked in a meager voice.

“Because Danning wanted my name on the bill of lading to frame me with you!” Pres said hotly.

Case looked as if he didn't believe it, and Pres made the mistake of insisting. “Damn it, don't you see he knows about our setup?”

“How would he?” Case said thinly.

“I don't know, but he does! I tell you, he's tryin' to queer our deal, Case! He figures you'll think that now we're partners, I can steal you blind and you can't yell.”

“How does he know I can't yell?” Case asked softly. “How does he know you're blackmailin' me?”

Pres settled into sullen silence. Case went on, his voice implacable. “Tell me what happened—all of it.”

Pres started by telling him of being picked up at the piñon line camp.

“What were you doin' there?” Case interrupted immediately.

Pres squirmed, and then lied. He'd lost his horse in the rain and made for the camp. Then he told of Will and two of his crew finding him, of gathering the beef, of pushing it into the brakes and of meeting two more men.

Again Case interrupted. “Where'd he get the men? His crew is in jail.”

“How do I know?” Pres shouted angrily. “He had 'em.”

“Go on.”

Pres took up the story, but now he had the conviction that it sounded false as hell, and he was angry. And the more angry he got, the more he tried to insist that it was the truth he was telling. He got to the loading, and Case cut in again.

“How'd the cars get there?”

“Danning ordered 'em!” Pres shouted. “I tell you, it was a frame-up from the beginning.”

Case said nothing, and Pres went on, explaining how he was taken back to the brakes and set afoot, and how it took him two days to reach here.

“But that's your own horse you're ridin',” Case pointed out.

“I picked him up at the edge of the brakes,” Pres said desperately. “Danning left him there.”

Case didn't speak. He stared at Pres, his gray glance boring into him. Then he said softly, “You're lyin', Pres. You're lying in your throat. Your story stinks to heaven. You knew I'd be in town for a week. You figured now that our partnership was signed, you could do any damn thing you pleased to me, and I wouldn't kick, couldn't kick. You'd cut in on the big money anyway, and I couldn't shake you. So you rounded up a bunch of saloon bums and rustled my stock. To alibi yourself with this cock-and-bull story about Danning, you shipped half the stuff and drove the other half off for your crew to sell.”

“I swear, I never—”

“You didn't even bother to go over your story,” Case went on implacably, his voice getting harsher. “Where would Danning get the men? He's hidin' alone. And you forgot to mention Milt Barron, his foreman. Wouldn't Milt have been with him? And you say you were afoot, and yet you ride in on your own horse. And best of all, you say Danning knew about our partnership. That's a damn crude lie, Pres—it's the one I gag on.”

This was a new Case, one who wasn't afraid to stand up and fight. Pres, seeing it, fell back on the old sneering bluff.

“Take it easy, Case. You can get just so tough with me, and then I remember Harkins.”

“Harkins be damned!” Case said savagely. “Where you're goin' there won't be any sheriffs to tell it to!”

Pres saw Case's hand streak for his gun, and he acted automatically. He dived for the lamp on the desk, slamming into Case as he lunged. The lamp went out, and a gun boomed savagely in the small room. Pres picked up the chair and swung it wildly and heard it crash into Case, and Case shot again. The shot was so close it scorched the sleeve of Pres's shirt.

In a wild panic, Pres clawed for the door, yanked it open, and boiled out into the night. He ran for his horse, leaped in the saddle, and roweled the tired gelding savagely.

Three more shots came from the door in rapid succession, all misses. Pres rode out beyond the gun range and then pulled up, the lights of the ranch behind him.

His rage almost strangled him. He'd kill Angus Case the moment he could get his hands on a gun. He'd go back and kill him tonight with an ax, a singletree, anything! And then it dawned on him that he couldn't. If any harm came to Angus Case, then everything he'd worked for these five years past, everything he'd dreamed of, would be gone. For Angus Case held the deed to the Pitchfork, and unless Case worked the deposit back there in the brakes, Pres would never get a dime.

He turned thoughtfully toward town then. He'd taken a beating from Milt, a tricking from Danning, and was shot at by Case. Yet he was alive, bound to make a fortune if Case made one. The only thing wrong with that was that he'd have to get Danning before Danning spoiled everything again. He thought he knew a way.

Chapter Seventeen

J
UST
A
BOUT
L
ICKED

Milt was still in his blankets in the bunkhouse when he heard the horse come into the yard. He rolled out of the bunk, pulled his boots on, and grabbed a gun. He was still a bit shaky from last night's drinking, but not so shaky that he wanted to take a chance on somebody trapping him.

He went swiftly into the big room and put his head around the doorjamb.

Becky Case, standing on the porch, watched him with curiosity.

A sheepish look came over Milt's face; he ran his fingers through his hair to comb it and put his gun down.

“Mornin',” he said thickly and stepped aside.

“Good morning,” Becky answered. She was wearing Levis, a checked shirt, and a flat-brimmed Stetson. Walking into the room, she paused just beyond the doorway and looked at the litter. Food, clothes, bottles, everything that Milt had used for a week, seemed to be scattered about the room.

Becky said nothing, and Milt felt a sullen resentment at her silence. He cleared a seat for her, mumbling, “I'm not a very good housekeeper, looks like.”

Becky only smiled, looking at him with covert curiosity. Was this the cheerful chap she'd known as Will's foreman? Something was changed about him. In the first place, the beard stubble that blurred his face was blond. It looked queer in contrast to his dark hair. And then he seemed to be heavier; his cheeks had filled out, and his tan was lighter, and his Levis seemed tight at the waist, as if he were putting on weight. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, as if he'd been drinking too much. His sultry temper was evident in the sullen set of his mouth.

Becky said swiftly, “I came over to see if you'd take me to Will.”

“Anything wrong?” Milt asked.

“Pres and Dad have quarreled at last.”

Milt stared at her, openmouthed. Becky said quickly, “Is there anything wrong?”

“No. No,” Milt said hurriedly. He hadn't been sure that day, but he'd thought he'd killed Pres. And he hadn't.

“Will you take me to him?”

Milt grinned faintly, and it was the kind of a grin that Becky didn't like. What it intimated was that he knew she was in love with Will and had to see him. The fact that it was partly true made Becky resent it all the more.

“Sure I will,” Milt drawled. “I'm due with grub up there tonight.”

Becky sat back with relief.

Milt said, “I'll clean up a little, and then we'll start.”

He built a fire in the kitchen, and Becky heard the rattle of dishes. He came back into the room, his face lathered, and went straight to a bottle of whisky on the table and poured himself a drink.

“That's breakfast,” he said. “Won't join me, will you?”

“No, thanks,” Becky said. She had acquired a sudden and definite distaste for his company, but it had to be tolerated if she were to see Will.

A long time later, Milt reappeared. He was shaved, his face washed, his hair combed, his clothes changed. He looked more like the man she remembered, but not wholly. He was in a surly mood, too.

Milt collected some groceries in a sack and went out to the corral and saddled up. Becky was waiting when he rode up and started off in the direction of the arroyo.

“Hadn't you better make sure we're not being watched and followed?” Becky asked.

“How?”

“Make a circle of the place and see if there are any new tracks.”

Milt laughed. “They haven't watched me for a week. No, we're safe.”

Becky wasn't certain, but then Milt should know what he was doing. He settled into a surly silence after that, and all afternoon they rode without speaking. Once he lost his way in the maze of canyons, and they had to backtrack a mile.

Darkness came, and Becky was getting tired and hungry, but Milt made no suggestion that they stop and eat. Idly, Becky wondered how much Will had confided in Milt, and hoped it wasn't much. Somehow, she didn't like him.

They were in the deep canyons now, and the gloom was so profound that Becky could not see her way. But Milt evidently knew every twist and turn. They rounded a sharp bend, and a faint light seemed to relieve the gloom. Then they cut left again, and a campfire lay ahead of them a hundred yards away. Under the overhang of a high cliff and raised some six feet above the arroyo bed was a cave, its entrance black and deserted-looking in the firelight.