War on the Cimarron (14 page)

“I know,” Corb said.

“Then whoever it was wrecked the wagons and stampeded the herd last night wanted it to look like it was you gettin' even with us for stealin' your whisky.”

“But my whole crew was in the house when you burned it last night,” Corb pointed out.

“I know, I know,” Milabel said wearily. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “Well, it looks like you're right.”

“Sure I'm right. You need any more proof?”

“What do you want to do?”

“First thing,” Corb said, “is for us to quit fightin'. We're just wreckin' each other so Christian can step in.”

“What else you think we ought to do?”

Corb stood up. “That's up to you,” he said quietly. “If you want to throw in with me to lick this Christian. I'll do it. We'll call a truce long enough to run him out of the country.”

Milabel said, “There's one thing I didn't tell you. One of my trail hands was killed last night.”

He and Corb looked at each other, and Milabel said, “The first thing we ought to do, then, is to have that reward for Frank Christian raised to two thousand dollars. You and me will put up the fifteen hundred extra. And this time it will be ‘dead or alive'.”

Corb nodded. “Now you're talkin'.”

Milabel rose. “I'll think about the rest of it. I'll ride over in a couple days and let you know. I want to get Puckett's permission, and I'll have to use the army telegraph at Reno.”

“There's no hurry,” Corb said. “Think it over.”

Milabel nodded. “Understand,” he said, “I ain't got any love for you, Corb. I'll smash hell out of you someday. This is just a truce, see?”

“I do,” Corb said dryly. “Those are my sentiments exactly.” And he left the place, unmolested.

Chapter XII

From his seat in the gloom of the Murphy Hotel front porch in Darlington Red Shibe had already picked up enough talk to know that he and Frank had made a mistake in stampeding Milabel's herd. For the night they had elected to stampede the herd was the same night Milabel had chosen to corner all Corb's crew in the shack and burn it down on top of them. Milabel would know Corb couldn't have raided his herd. Once he knew that, he would question the wagon wrecking, and Frank's plan would go up in smoke, Red thought gloomily.

Red decided to sit it out to the bitter end and find out, if possible, who was suspected of stampeding the Circle R herd. He was listening to the talk with only half attention when he saw a woman's figure on the boardwalk across the street. She paused opposite the hotel and stared across at the porch.

Red watched her curiously, until suddenly he came to his senses. This was Edith Fairing, and she was looking for him. The day Frank was in jail and Red took Edith home he had left her with the admonition that if she ever received another warning note to come to the hotel porch every night until she found him.

Red rose, left his chair and crossed the street to Edith.

“Trouble?” he asked, touching his hatbrim as he stepped on the boardwalk.

Edith said, “No,” smiling a little, and then added, “I think we'd better walk away from my house until I explain.”

Red fell in beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't see this girl without remembering that she would now be Morg Wheelon's wife if he hadn't left Morg alone that night. She was too young for sorrow, too pretty, and he wished he could drive that haunted look from her eyes.

When they had passed the corner Red said, “Did you get another note?”

“No. Scott Corb is at the house, Red.”

Red stopped, staring at her. “Corb? Did he—”

“No, he's very polite. He wants to talk to Frank.”

“What about?”

“He won't say. He said he couldn't find Frank, didn't know where to look for him, and that he thought I might be able to get in touch with him.”

Red said, “Is he alone?”

“He's alone in the house. But he may have men outside. That's why I suggested we walk away from the house.”

“Good girl,” Red murmured.

“Do you want to take him to Frank?”

“I dunno,” Red said. “I'll hear him talk first. You turn around and go home. I'll drift back and take a look around the house before I knock on the door.”

When Edith had gone Red swung into the closest alley and made his way by a devious route to the Fairings' small house. There was something almighty queer about this—unless Corb figured he was licked and wanted to make a deal. But that wasn't like Corb. Red grinned when he thought of Frank laying eyes on Corb. Frank was in a savage temper after the Circle R stampede. Beach had been fired. Frank blamed himself for the useless death of that trail hand, although Red-had tried to convince him that the man was a hired gunnie of Milabel's and that Beach Freeman was guilty anyway. And, to boot, the news of their blunder and the sight of Corb wouldn't help Frank's temper.

When he reached Edith Fairing's place Red investigated the alley and the barn. Then he walked the street on both sides of the road and even circled the block to see if any men were hidden out around town. Almost satisfied but still wary, he came back to the Fairing house and knocked on the door.

Edith let him in and took him into the parlor. Corb was standing there, hat in hand, waiting. His bland face didn't change at sight of Red, but his wicked little eyes studied him minutely.

“Better leave the door open,” Red said to Edith. “I don't like the smell in here.”

“I want to see Christian, Shibe,” Corb said, ignoring Red's gibe.

“That's a bushwhack trick that's old even for Indians, Corb,” Red jeered.

“I haven't any men here,” Corb said. “Look and see, if you want to. I'll give you my gun and we won't be followed.”

“Frank will shoot you on sight,” Red said.

“No, he won't. He'd better not, because I have some information he wants.”

“About what?”

“I'll tell him when I see him.”

Red leaned up against the table and regarded Corb with grudging admiration. “For a skunk,” Red drawled, “you got more gall than a government mule, Corb. You can't tell Frank anything he wants to know. You can't do him any favor, except drop dead.”

“Red!” Edith said in a half-frightening voice. Corb was the power here, and Red was talking to him like any saddle bum.

Red looked over at her and grinned. “You ain't afraid, are you, Edith? Look at him. He's just an old man with weasel eyes and a black heart and a snake's brains.” He looked over at Corb, but Corb was regarding him placidly. Corb wasn't being baited tonight.

“Let's talk business,” Corb said. “Will you take me to Christian?”

“What's to prevent your hard cases from trailin' us and cuttin' down on Frank when we meet him?”

“It's night, and you can't trail at night,” Corb pointed out dryly. Then he said casually, “Can't you get it through your thick head I want to talk to him? You've got a wagon and a crew, haven't you?”

Red didn't answer.

“I know you have because I saw them,” Corb went on. “Take me to your crew and then bring Frank in to talk.” He sneered. “You ought to feel safe enough that way.”

Red's freckled face flushed a little. “You're a pretty cagey hombre, Corb. You know damn well I'll take you to Frank just to prove we ain't scared of you.”

“Do it, then.”

“I will,” Red said grimly. He walked over to Corb, took the gun from his shoulder holster, searched him for other weapons and, finding none, motioned him to the door. Corb went out.

Edith said, “Be careful, Red,” and her eyes were worried.

Red grinned reassuringly. “Not me. If I could rawhide that coyote into a fight and lift his scalp I'd try it in a minute.”

“No, you wouldn't, Red,” Edith said calmly. “You'll be careful.”

Red looked strangely at her, and when she smiled faintly he gulped, grinned, mumbled, “I reckon I will,” and said good night.

Outside Corb was waiting for him. Red said, “Meet me in front of the hotel,” and walked upstreet.

Once he had his horse he said, “We'll go out of town my way, Corb. You just follow.”

Red started toward the river, but as soon as he was away from the town's lights he circled and went out the south road. Once there, he made a wide swing west and to the north, occasionally stopping to see if he was being followed. Corb was patient through it all, even when Red ordered him to stay set and made a wide circle over their backtrail. After that Red made for the wagon in a straight line, and they rode for two hours without exchanging a word.

Otey's wagon was pulled up in a swale by a deep, wide feeder creek of the Paymaster, screened from any but the most prying eyes by the willow thickets and the high creek banks.

They were challenged by Joe Vandermeer, but Red was identified, and they dismounted and walked to the dying fire. Red built it up, and the crew came awake.

Otey, from his blankets, said suddenly, “What's that lobo doin' in camp?” eying Corb balefully.

“You just keep a gun on him,” Red grunted. “He wants to make medicine with Frank.”

Red went out and stepped into the saddle again and rode out west. As soon as he was out of hearing of the camp he turned north, and the night was unbelievably black after the light of the fire. A quarter mile up the creek, after making no attempt to cover the sound of his movements, he whistled twice. Almost behind him and close came the answering whistle. Neither Red nor Frank were taking a chance on being caught in camp.

“Frank?”

Red got only a grunt in reply, and he walked in that direction. Presently he saw Frank's blankets on the ground. He squatted beside them and said, “Corb's in camp. Wants to talk to you.”

Frank's voice was not sleepy as he echoed, “Corb?”

“That's right. And listen, kid. Milabel caught Corb and his crew at the shack last night and burned them out. Shot a couple of his men.”

Frank didn't speak for a moment, and then he said bitterly, “So our stampede was for nothin', then?”

“Looks like it. Corb's crew couldn't be in two places.”

Frank didn't say anything, but Red knew how he felt. This was a long, waiting game at best, and now the little work they had done was for nothing. Frank pulled on his boots, strapped on his gun belt and rose. They rode double back to camp, coming in from the south.

As Frank dismounted and walked into the circle of firelight Corb might have been warned by his looks. Long hours in the saddle and food snatched when he could eat it had gaunted Frank into a lean, wolfish-looking rider. His gray eyes that had once been calm were smoldering and sultry, and the line of his unshaven jaw was heavy and dogged. Red had seen men come out of prison looking that way. It was from too much defeat and too big odds, and only fighting men looked that way. And Red had learned to drink his whisky and walk out of a saloon when he saw them. He wondered if Corb had.

Frank stalked up to the fire, and Corb stood opposite him, warming his hands. The crew was standing away from the fire, regarding the meeting with expectant faces.

“I won't offer you anything to eat or drink,” Frank said softly. “We feed the dogs away from the camp.”

Corb's face didn't change. “I want to talk to you, Christian, not eat your food.”

“Go ahead and talk.”

Corb looked around him. “In private,” he said in a low voice.

“Get the hell out of here, then,” Frank said.

“All right, all right,” Corb said pacifically. “Don't get so redheaded.”

Frank didn't say anything, and Corb looked down into the fire, feeling for a way to begin.

He looked up presently and said, “That raid on Milabel's herd was a mistake. You tried to blame it on my crew, but Milabel had me and my crew cornered at the shack.”

“How do you know I tried to blame it on your crew?” Frank asked.

Corb smiled, and the ends of his pale ragged mustaches lifted a quarter inch. “I've talked to Milabel,” Corb said. “It was a nice play, Christian, only you were in too much of a hurry. We're on to you.”

“So you and Milabel are pardin' up,” Frank drawled. “How come?”

“It was you,” Corb said bluntly. “I was all ready to tangle with Milabel over burnin' the shack, but he called somethin' that night about my wreckin' his wagons that didn't make sense. I took my time and looked around and guessed the rest, then went to him.”

Frank said thinly, “Did you come here to brag?”

“I'm tellin' you,” Corb said, “Milabel and me ain't fightin' each other any more. We're fightin' you.”

“I'm scared,” Frank said.

“You ain't scared,” Corb said evenly. “You're mad. But you ain't so mad you can't see what this means.”

“You tell me,” Frank said.

Corb said, “Whatever happens to Milabel's cattle, his crew or his range, he's goin' to let me alone, because he'll figure it's you and not me that's doin' it. Do you get that?”

“So far.”

“Me and Milabel are workin' together to down you. We're poolin' our information and we're aimin' to nail you. You get that?”

“Sure.”

“Suppose I get a tip on your movements, take it to Milabel, and we take both our crews halfway to Kansas to corner you.” He paused, his black eyes glittering and intent. “You can take your crew, burn the Circle R, wreck all the gear, drive his horses clean out of the country, scatter his cattle all over three reservations and grass-fire his range. He's got shippin' dates to meet. He won't have time to meet them, he won't have horses for his crew, and when he gets his cattle back they'll have all the tallow run off and no grass to put it back on with. When Puckett takes a look at that setup he'll pull out, because he'll have had to forfeit a quarter million in beef contracts he couldn't meet.”