Savage Range (23 page)

Jim reached out and took Cruver's hand and squeezed it. Cruver smiled then, his great beard parting.

“You're a bucko boy, Jim,” he whispered. “Some other time, some other place, we'd have made a pair.” His eyes closed. “Too late,” he murmured. “Too late.”

He was quiet then. Nobody seemed to realize that he was dead, for Jim asked him a question. Cruver looked as if he was thinking about it, trying to answer. But there was no answer.

Jim looked up and said to Haynes, “That satisfy you, Haynes? James Buckner, the real heir to the grant, was killed by these men. And Mary Buckner is the rightful heir now.”

“Mebbe,” Haynes said. “It don't change what you done, though.”

“No,” Jim agreed quietly.

Haynes turned his attention to Warren, who was laid out on the floor. “Now, why was he in on this? And who is he? What's his real name?”

Nobody could answer that. Haynes went over and searched the man. There were papers in his coat pocket, some letters, and Haynes pocketed these, then turned to Jim and Cope.

“Well, it's jail for you, Wade.”

They filed over to the office, the crowd growing behind them. Jim Wade's crime had been replaced by so many others that the townspeople did not seem hostile.

Mary Buckner was waiting in the sheriff's office. She took one look at Jim, shifted her glance to Cope, and then said in a dead voice, “You're holding Jim, Sheriff?”

“I am,” Haynes said.

Mary looked at Jim. “What happened, Jim?”

“Bonsell broke into the bank with Cruver and Warren. He killed Warren, shot Cruver, and took the charter. We caught him down at the stable.” He said faintly, “Cruver talked, Mary. He admitted the murder of your father.”

“But I don't care!” Mary cried. She turned to Haynes. “You can't hold him, Sheriff! You can't! He's innocent!”

Haynes only shook his head and turned to the people crowding the office. “Clear out of here!” he said harshly. “Cope, you stay. I want Ben Beauchamp brought in here, too. The rest of you clear out.”

They all cleared out except Scoville. To Scoville, the sheriff said, “You too, mister.”

“I'll stick,” Scoville said.

“And I say you'll get out!”

“Sheriff,” Scoville drawled, “I got a gun on me. God knows I'd like to shoot you. Just say that again and I will. Just give me a chance.”

While he was talking, Lily Beauchamp slipped in through the door and closed it after her. Cope said to Haynes, “Sit down, Link. These people all belong here. Sit down here long enough to listen to the whole story.”

Haynes sat on the desk, Mary in his chair, and Lily on the bench. The others listened while Cope talked. He talked first about Mary Buckner, bringing it up to the time Jim stepped in as the Excelsior foreman. Then he switched to Jim. He told of Bonsell's plan to saddle the burden of driving the squatters out on Jim's shoulders. The success of the scheme, Haynes had already seen. Then he told of what Jim had done since the jail break, how he had tried to avoid all this bloodshed.

Haynes listened carefully. When Cope was finished, Haynes said, “There's only one thing in that whole story that interests me as a sheriff, Cope.”

“What's that?”

“You broke a prisoner out of jail and hid him. That's a crime.”

To Ben Beauchamp, he said, “I don't want you. You can go any time.” And then he settled back against the wall, his face smug and implacable.

Cope was speechless. That a man couldn't see what was plain as day, Cope couldn't understand. He wasn't angry; he was beyond that.

“Then you'll prosecute Jim?” he stammered.

“Unless somebody can prove that he didn't do it.”

“But they're all dead! Except that outfit of gun fighters! And they're scattered to the four winds!” Cope protested.

“That's about it,” Haynes said.

Jim looked over at Mary and then said, “Let that work itself out, Cope.” To Haynes he said, “That charter. It belongs to Mary Buckner. Since you don't have to use it for evidence, will you give it to her?”

Haynes shook his head stubbornly. “No. It belongs to Harvey Buckner.”

“But he stole it from Mary!”

“So you say. Can you prove it?”

Patiently, Jim went back over the old story. Haynes had heard it once, and he didn't appear interested. He toyed with a pen on the desk, listening idly to Jim's words. Then, while Jim talked, he shuffled through the pile of papers he had taken from Warren's pocket and which were lying on the desk. One caught his attention, simply because it was addressed to James Buckner, not to Ray Warren. Curiosity whetted, he ignored Jim's talk and drew the letter from its envelope. Jim, seeing what a hopeless thing he was trying to do, fell silent. Haynes didn't even notice the silence, for he was reading. And as he read, his eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. When he finished, he turned back and read it through again.

Then he looked up at Jim Wade and said, “Well, I'll be damned.”

“What?”

“This here is a letter from Max Bonsell addressed to Jim Buckner. What's it doin' on Warren?”

Nobody could answer that.

“It says,” Haynes said slowly, “that the squatters is mostly driven off the Excelsior. Thirteen of 'em were killed. It also says that Bonsell's plan to frame Jim Wade with their murders worked right smart. It says that I'd got Wade in jail, but he broke loose.”

With a growl, Cope grabbed the letter from the sheriff's hands and read through it. A slow grin broke over his face and he looked up at Haynes.

“Well, Sheriff, who's lyin' now?”

Haynes said sheepishly, “It looks like you was right about it, Wade.”

“And I'm right about the charter,” Jim said quickly.

He didn't see Mary's long sigh of relief, didn't see her covertly dab at her eyes. All Mary could understand of this was that Jim Wade, forgetful of himself, was trying desperately to convince Sheriff Haynes that she was the true heir to the Ulibarri acres.

Sheriff Haynes said, perhaps out of injured pride, “Maybe.”

“Let's see that charter,” Jim asked.

Sheriff Haynes unfolded the oilcloth. Inside, there was a limp paper folded three ways and yellow from age. Gently, Jim laid it flat on the desk, and they gathered round to look at it. It was written in the delicate, spidery hand of a court secretary, in ink old and faded. At the bottom was the Spanish emperor's signature, below it the heavy wax seal of the royal arms.

Jim searched for anything about it that would help, but there was nothing. The Ulibarri mentioned was lost in the dim pages of history, and standing here tonight was a girl in whose veins ran his blood.

“Look familiar?” he asked Mary quietly.

Mary nodded. “Yes, even the wrapper is the same.”

“The oilcloth, you mean?”

Mary nodded. “I was so afraid I would hurt it. It seemed fragile, almost like dust. I had to protect it, and I thought the oilcloth would help.”

Jim picked up the oilcloth. It was an ample square, its creases cracked away. Looking at its shiny side, Jim noticed a watermark on it, a pinkish stain which made a vague pattern of a fleur-de-lis.

“Where did you keep the charter, Mary?” he asked idly.

“In my trunk.”

“Always?”

“When I was in Wyoming, yes. There wasn't a bank in the town.”

Jim regarded the oilcloth with a frown. “Was it in your trunk when it was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“And you've still got the trunk?”

“It's over in my hotel now.”

Jim raised his glance to Haynes. “What have we got to prove here, Haynes? That Mary is entitled to the charter?”

“Maybe she is,” Haynes said. “Only Harvey Buckner had it. It's my duty to return it to his heirs. If you want it, you got to sue for it.”

“But you don't believe it was stolen?”

“Might have been. I got to have proof.”

“And if it was stolen, you'll return it to her?”

Haynes paused a moment, impressed by the importance of his decision. “Yes, I reckon I would.”

Jim picked up the oilcloth and said, “Come along.”

“Where?” Haynes asked.

“With me. You, too, Mary.”

All of them filed over to the hotel, where Mary got her key. They went up to Mary's room, and Jim lighted the lamp.

“Where's your trunk, Mary?” he asked.

She pointed under the table. Jim got down on his knees, hauled it out, and lifted its contents onto a chair. He was smiling as he turned his glance up to Mary, then shifted it to Haynes.

“Come here Haynes. See the design on the paper that trunk is lined with? All right. See the design on this corner of the oilcloth? Now take a look at the bottom of that trunk. You'll see a stain, a water stain. That trunk sat out on some depot platform in the rain and it got soaked. The water seeped through the bottom, and the design came off on the oilcloth. They're the same.”

He rose and watched Haynes poke around in the trunk. Then the sheriff rose.

“What more proof do you need, Haynes, that Mary Buckner once had that charter in that trunk? And if she hasn't got it now and Buckner has, don't that prove it was stolen?”

Cope swore softly, looking at Haynes. They were all looking at the sheriff. The evidence was conclusive. And while Sheriff Haynes was a stubborn man, he was also an honest one. He had admitted one error tonight; he wasn't afraid to admit another.

“It looks like the charter is hers,” he announced quietly.

Cope let out a whoop of joy that might have come from a thirteen-year-old. He hugged Mary to him, patting her back, while she smiled over at Jim.

Sheriff Haynes scratched his head. “Well, it looks like I ain't got any business with you folks at all,” he said. “Only Cope.” He looked long at Cope. “Jack, you got a pretty record in this man's town. If I've said anything agin you, it was in anger.” He put out his hand. “You're still the best man we got. And if you want to break my jail again, you're welcome to it.”

He smiled broadly and went to the door. “Good night, folks,” he murmured, and stepped out.

There were Scoville and Lily together, and there was Ben, clear-eyed and erect, holding Lily's other hand. And there was Cope next to Mary, and Jim next to her.

They all looked at each other, and it was Mary who said quietly, “And this is the end.”

“Not quite,” Scoville said, smiling. “Me and Lily aim to get married.”

Lily looked over at Jim, and much lay in that glance. There was a secret between them, a conversation that Lily had once had with Jim at the jail window. She had meant it when she said it, maybe meant it now. Only this was her man. He was fine and brave and honest, and he'd be good to her. That's what Lily's eyes were trying to say. And Jim Wade only smiled and nodded imperceptibly, then shook their hands.

Afterward, when Scoville and Lily and Ben and Cope had gone, Jim talked with Mary for a long hour until dawn began to light the east.

When he rose, a tall shape in that light, he took his hat and fumbled with it. How could a man say good-by?

“Where is it now, Jim?”

“Texas, I reckon. And you?”

“Here. Where I belong.”

Jim looked long at her, so lovely and desirable and frail.

Mary saw that look. She said quietly, “Why don't you say it, Jim?”

“What?”

“What you're thinking.”

Jim said quietly, “All right, I will. I never saw a more beautiful girl than you, Mary. I love you so much that I'll never get you out of my blood.” He paused. “There. That's what I was thinking, Mary.”

“And I love you the same way, Jim,” Mary murmured.

Jim dropped his hat. For one split second, he stood there, then moved toward her.

She was in his arms and she said quietly, “Oh, Jim, Jim, haven't you seen it? Couldn't you read it in my face, my eyes, for a long, long time?”

“Quiet, girl,” Jim ordered, speaking into her hair, her body close to his. “I don't want to wake up.”

About the Author

Luke Short is the pen name of Frederick Dilley Glidden (1908–1975), the bestselling, award-winning author of over fifty classic western novels and hundreds of short stories. Renowned for their action-packed story lines, multidimensional characters, and vibrant dialogue, Glidden's novels sold over thirty million copies. Ten of his novels, including
Blood on the Moon
,
Coroner Creek
, and
Ramrod
, were adapted for the screen. Glidden was the winner of a special Western Heritage Trustees Award and the Levi Strauss Golden Saddleman Award from the Western Writers of America.

Born in Kewanee, Illinois, Glidden graduated in 1930 from the University of Missouri where he studied journalism. After working for several newspapers, he became a trapper in Canada and, later, an archaeologist's assistant in New Mexico. His first story, “Six-Gun Lawyer,” was published in
Cowboy Stories
magazine in 1935 under the name F. D. Glidden. At the suggestion of his publisher, he used the pseudonym Luke Short, not realizing it was the name of a real gunman and gambler who was a friend of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. In addition to his prolific writing career, Glidden worked for the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. He moved to Aspen, Colorado, in 1946, and became an active member of the Aspen Town Council, where he initiated the zoning laws that helped preserve the town.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.