the High Graders (1965)

Gold Fever

Folks In Rafter Crossing Said Old Eli Patterson Died In A gunfight, killed i n self-defense. But Mike Shevlin knew it wa s a lie--the man who'd been his only friend had bee n a peaceful man, a Quaker. When word came abou t Eli's murder, Shevlin rode bac k into Rafter--to find a booming gold town, wher e ranching was dying out and the smell of greed and fear wa s thick in the air. He vowed to stick around unti l he learned who put Eli Patterson in th e grave. Mike Shevlin was a man who knew ho w to pick his fights--and he'd just picked one that coul d get him killed.

"You were looking at Patterson's grave,"
s aid the man with the badge. "He was killed in a gun battle two years ago."

Anger flared up in Mike Shevlin. "Wh o ever told you that," he said roughly, "lied."

"Then the coroner lied, Mason lied, an d Gib Gentry lied."

"Who killed him?"

"Gentry--in self-defense. Mason was a witness. Patterson still had a gun in his hand whe n the others came up."

"No coroner's jury in the old times woul d believe that story," Shevlin said. "They kne w Eli too well."

"The old-timers are gone, or most of them," th e sheriff said. "Times have changed. Why don't yo u ride on?"

"Why should I?"

There was irritation in the sheriff's respons e to this. "Because you smell of trouble, and trouble is m y business. You start anything and I'll have to come agains t you."

"Thanks," Shevlin's tone was dry, harsh.

"You've warned me, now I'll return th e favor. Don't make my trouble you r business, and don't come against me."

Chapter
1

Mike Shevlin squatted on his heels in th e driving rain and struck a match under the shelter o f his slicker. The match flared and he leaned forward , cupping the flame in his hand against the face of th e gravestone.

There was no mistake, then; but how in the name o f truth could a peace-loving man like old Eli win d up in a grave on Boot Hill?

Eli Patterson had been a Quaker, a man of deep conviction who never touched a gun fo r his own use and did not approve of those who did.

Yet he was dead, shot to death, and buried her e among the victims of gun and knife, and i f rumor could be credited, he had himself died gun i n hand.

The flame flickered out and the dropped matc h hissed against the sodden earth. "Anybody but him,"

Shevlin said aloud; "anybody but old Eli."

The splash of a footstep in a pool of wate r warned him an instant before the voice spoke.

"Kind of wet up here, isn't it?"

Mike Shevlin straightened slowly to hi s feet, glad his slicker was unbuttoned and hi s gun ready to hand. Enemies he would surely fin d at Rafter Crossing, but he could expect n o friends. He took his time in facing around, careful tha t his movements be not misunderstood.

Through the pouring rain and the darkness he could see th e bulk of a square, powerfully built man.

Lightning flared, throwing the grave crosse s into sharp relief, lighting the water-soaked earth , and making an occasional gleam on stone, but of th e wide face before him he could make out n o detail.

The other man would see even less of Shevlin , because of the up-turned collar of his slicker and th e pulled-down brim of his black hat.

"You make a practice of following people?"

Mike Shevlin asked.

"It's a wet night to be on Boo t Hill."

"I've buried men here on wetter nights.

If need be I can bury more."

"Ah, I was right then. You're no stranger."

There was satisfaction in the man's voice.

Lightning glinted off the badge on his chest.

Mike Shevlin put a rein to his tongue.

This was no bumbling old Sheriff McKown, no r anybody he remembered from the Rafter Crossin g he had known. Wanting no trouble, he simpl y said, "I've been here before, if that's what yo u mean."

The man with the badge shifted his fee t slightly. "Are you Ray Hollister?"

"If you don't know Ray Hollister,"

Shevlin replied, "you haven't been around long."

"Two years. He left before I came."

Shevlin had an uneasy feeling that had he sai d he was Ray Hollister, the sheriff would have kille d him.

Wind and rain lashed the grave-covered knoll , whipping the branches of the trees. Off to the right wer e the lights of the town--many more lights than h e remembered. Beyond the town was the gallows fram e and the huddled buildings of a mine, lighted for a nigh t shift.

"Too wet to talk here," Shevlin said.

"What's on your mind?"

"You were looking at Patterson's grave.

He was killed in a gun battle two year s ago."

Anger flared up in Mike Shevlin. "Whoeve r told you that," he said roughly, "lied."

"Then the coroner lied, Mason lied, an d Gib Gentry lied."

"Who killed him?"

"Gentry--in self-defense. Mason was a witness. Patterson still had a gun in his hand whe n others came up."

Suddenly Shevlin knew he was not likel y to be offered a drink nor a hot meal on thi s night. Rain slanted across the windows down there i n town, windows behind which it would be dry and warm, but wher e he might be identified before he found out what h e had come so far to learn.

Gentry? No, not for a minute. Not Gib.

Gib would shoot fast enough, but he would never hav e shot Eli Patterson.

"No coroner's jury in the old times woul d believe that story. They knew Eli to o well."

Shevlin, who knew most things that might b e expected at a time like this, was prepared for th e match when it flared in the sheriff's hand, and his ow n hand was suddenly before his face, pulling down his ha t brim. The flare revealed only the sheriff's ow n tough, weather-beaten features.

Now where had he seen that face before?

"The old-timers are gone, or most of them," th e man said. "Times have changed. Why don't yo u ride on?"

"Why should I?"

There was irritation in the sheriff's respons e to this. "Because you smell of trouble, and trouble is m y business. You start anything and I'll have to come agains t you."

"Thanks." Shevlin's tone was dry, harsh.

"You've warned me, now I'll return th e favor. Don't make my trouble your business , and don't come against me."

The sheriff gestured across the valley at th e huddle of mine buildings. "They tell me that'
s where the old Rafter H headquarters used to be.

Now they use the old barn as a hoisthouse for th e Sun Strike Mine. That's just one indication. Thi s town is no longer cattle, my friend, it's mining.

You won't find anybody around who knows you, an d nobody who wants you here. Do yourself a favor an d ride on."

Mike Shevlin, who had known many men, kne w this was a truly dangerous man. He knew it becaus e the sheriff had not tried to force the issue, as a less experienced man might have done; knew i t because he was calm, talking quietly, tryin g to avoid trouble before it arrived, and because he was s o obviously one of those who knew when and when no t to use a gun.

The two men walked together toward the gate an d Shevlin closed it carefully behind him, then swep t the water from his saddle with a flick of his palm.

He gathered the reins and turned his horse so h e could mount without showing his back to the sheriff. Th e latter noted the move with grim appreciation, an d mounted his own horse.

Just as Shevlin had learned much of the sheriff i n these few minutes, so the sheriff had learned somethin g of the man who loomed only as a dark figure o n a rain-swept hill. There was a hard surenes s about this stranger, and he allowed for no chances agains t him, and there was also a confidence in him that warned th e sheriff this man who faced him was no outlaw, that i t was even likely he had himself carried a badge.

"I'll tell you something." Mik e Shevlin, who normally explained his actions to n o man, explained them now in deference to the kind o f man this was. "In my lifetime one man gav e me a square shake without figuring to get something ou t of it. That man was Eli Patterson."

There was a pause.

"You'll be staying on, then?" the sheriff asked.

"I'll be staying."

The sheriff tried again. "Look," he sai d patiently, "you start shaking the brush to find wha t happened to Eli Patterson and you'll have the whol e town on you."

Mike Shevlin turned his horse toward Mai n Street. Over his shoulder he said, "It's a small town."

As he rode away he told himself he was a fool. He should not have come back. What could an y man do to help the dead?

He had returned because a fine old man wh o had been his friend when he had no friends had bee n murdered, and his killers had gone unpunished.

Nor could that one murder have made an end to it, for th e wicked do not cease from wickedness, nor doe s evil end with one crime.

The rain beat a hard tattoo upon his hat a s he walked his black along the street. From th e rain-whipped darkness he peered into the lighte d windows as he passed, windows of houses where h e was a stranger, and past doors where he would not b e welcomed. If he slept in a bed this night i t would be a bed he paid for, and if he ate at al l it would be a meal he bought for cash.

He drew rein in the muddy street, feeling th e cold rain hammering his shoulders with cruel fingers.

Saddle-worn and weary from the long riding, h e stared into the windows and knew again that pang o f loneliness with which he always rode.

There was welcome for him nowhere, neither in thi s place nor anywhere down along the trail.

Only that kind old man lying in a shamefu l grave had been considerate, kind to a skinny , hollow-eyed boy who had walked into his store s o long ago, carrying little but a man-sized pride.

Because of this he had ridden a thousand hot , dangerous miles, returning to a town h e remembered without pleasure, to seek out the caus e of an old man's death and to clear his name so that hi s spirit might rest easy in the earth.

So Ray Hollister was gone. The town would no t be the same without him, but obviously the tow n did not want him back. Not, at least, that par t of the town represented by the sheriff.

That the town of Rafter Crossing did not lik e Ray Hollister, Mike Shevlin could understand.

He himself had never liked the man, for Holliste r was a man with a burr under his saddle, a smal l rancher who wanted to be big, who strod e hard-heeled around the town, wanting to be considere d one of the big cattlemen who ruled the destinie s of the Rafter country. Nothing in Hollister's characte r nor in the breadth of his acres entitled him to th e respect he wanted so desperately, and his env y and irritation became a bitter, gnawing thing withi n him.

Mike Shevlin turned in his saddle, lookin g along the wet street. Three blocks long whe n he had left it, with two saloons, it was seve n blocks long now, with at least six saloons o n the one street. The old Hooker House ha d become the Nevada House, and had a fres h coat of paint. There was an assay office where th e harness shop had been, and a new general store acros s from the one Eli Patterson had owned.

Windows threw rectangles of light across th e muddy street, and the sound of a tin-panny pian o came from the direction of the Nevada House.

Thunder rumbled in the mountains. Shevlin started hi s horse, staring morosely at the lights as h e rode on.

His mind went to the past. Everything here ha d changed, and not even the memory of the way it ha d been was left to him. It was indeed a mining tow n now; not a vestige of the old cow town remained.

His thoughts reverted to Eli Patterson. The y said Gib Gentry had killed him, but not for a n instant did he believe that. The fact tha t Mason was a witness proved nothing, for Maso n had been a liar as well as a petty thief.