“No. Robber’s Roost covered miles, an’ outlaws used to work back an’ forth from the Hole in the Wall to the Roost an’ clean down over the old horse-thief trail to the border. We heard about a lot of men we never saw. Jud Kynell was around when I was a kid. He’s some ten years older than me, as I figure it.”
“Know anything about him?”
“That’s about all, except that he did this; rodeoin’ I mean. That and he wears my brand.” Deke explained about what he had overheard, and his belief that the outlaw wore a deep scar on his chest. “There was an awful lot of blood for a scratch,” he finished. “I figure it ripped pretty deep.”
“That’s an item.” Carson was thoughtful. “Son, I got a tip that Kubela was headed this way, ridin’ with another man.”
“Haskell, most likely.” Deke looked at Carson. “You better watch it. Those two are killers.”
“I know.” Carson got up. “Kid, can you sling that gun you’re wearin’?”
Deke smiled. “Some…what have you got in mind?”
“I’m goin’ to swear you in as a deputy. Everybody figures I’m no longer an officer…you see this?”
The older man held forth a wallet containing a badge and some papers. “Deputy U.S. Marshal. It’s my theory those two were comin’ here, an’ comin’ to meet their boss, get that gold an’ hightail it out of the country. I trailed those boys to the vicinity of Forlorn Hope Spring in the foothills of the Opal Mountains, an’ I’d bet that gold ain’t cached more than a few miles from there.”
* * *
BILL BLY’S RIDE on Highbinder was something to see, for the big red horse was a fighter, and Bly, say what one would of the man, was a rider. They went out of the chute like a miniature explosion and the red horse leaped for the sun. He landed and swapping ends he let go with both hind feet, almost standing on his head.
Then he settled down to a wild, unrestrained and wholly murder-minded job of bucking. Eyes rolling, the beast went to work with a will, but when the whistle blew Bly was still on deck.
Bly walked back to the chute with the crowd’s roaring cheers around him. It had been a great ride, a wicked ride. As he passed a small group of men not far from the chute, he saw Jerry Haskell. The lean-faced man nodded toward the opposite end of the arena, and tapped his pistol butt.
Bly walked on to where Shadow, an evil-eyed grulla, was being saddled for Deke Murphy, who perched on the side of the chute. Deke dropped into the saddle as Bly glared up at him. “Nice ride!” Deke said. “Too bad Highbinder was feelin’ sort of poorly!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Bly snapped.
Deke’s head came up with a jerk and his mouth opened in astonishment. Those words!
“You ready?” Red Roller glared at him. “Better get your mind on your business, boy! This one’s a fighter!”
“I’m ready!” Murphy was suddenly grim and cold. “Give ’im air!”
Shadow was a horse with a mission. He hated men, all men, but he reserved a special and bitterly vindictive brand of hate for those who tried to ride him. He came out of that chute like a rattlesnake with the DT’s and went to sunfishing.
He jumped straight up, all four legs hanging and his back bowed like an angry cat. Hitting the ground he went straight up again as if lifted by a charge of powder.
Deke hung on as the horse twisted his whipcord body sharply to the left. Switching and humping, that bronc went to work to give the crowd a show and to beat his rider into submission. He bucked straightaway, seesawing wickedly as he jumped, and contorted his back and writhed his spine.
He headed north with a wicked forward jump, then sprang straight back and swapped ends three times. Deke felt air under him and for one frantic instant thought he was a goner, but then he slapped the saddle with the seat of his Levi’s and the world around him was a crazy quilt of tossing color and blurred shadows where nothing seemed to exist but that writhing, twisting, fighting explosion beneath him.
Somewhere far off he heard a whistle blowing and suddenly the horsemen were tearing toward him.
But Shadow was not through. Shadow had his own ideas about quitting and this was not the time or the place. He swapped ends and headed for the stands on a dead run, with the horsemen swinging to follow.
At the wall of the stands, he swung broadside and hurled himself at the board. Deke, in a long leap, grabbed at the front rail of the stands and left the saddle with a bound, leaving the frustrated, screaming horse behind him to be gathered up by the riders.
Dazedly, he stared around at the cheering crowd, then he managed a grin. He pulled his hat from his head and lifted it, and then as his hand came down, his face went blank with astonishment. There was a bullet hole through the crown!
Instantly, he remembered.
Shut up, you fool!
Wheeling, he vaulted over the rail and dropped to the ground. His hand felt for his gun, and it was still with him. He started across the arena, walking fast. Bill Bly stood alone, staring at him. Behind Bly, back by the barns, Carson held a pistol on Haskell. Haskell slowly lowered a rifle to the ground. Deke stood there looking at Bly.
* * *
SUDDENLY, THE NOISE of the crowd seemed gone, and he stood alone in the sun-washed stillness, his legs spread, staring at the man who faced him. Out of the tail of his eye he saw a man step slightly away from the crowd, partly under cover of the stands. It was Cass Kubela.
“I know you now,” Deke said.
“You’re crazy!”
“Open your shirt then, an’ if you’ve no scar on the left side of your chest, I’ll apologize.”
“Go to the devil!” Bly said viciously.
Between them a cigarette lay in the dust, lifting a thin column of hazy smoke upward. A horse stomped in a chute, and somewhere a child cried in petulant irritation. And then out of the corner of his eye, Deke saw Kubela’s gun coming up.
Kubela’s gun came up, and Deke pivoted on the ball of his left foot and fired from hip level. He felt Kubela’s bullet hit him, and he fired again. The outlaw took a staggering step forward and fell headlong, the gun dribbling from his fingers.
Bly, with a snarl of fury, had grabbed for his gun. As it swung up, Deke came around and fired!
Bly took it standing, a little puff of dust leaping from his gray shirt. Bly stepped forward, seemed to hesitate, then his knees wilted under him and he folded up like a punctured accordion.
Dazed, Deke turned, thumbing shells automatically into his gun. The crowd was pouring from the stands, moving desperately to get out of the way of any more shooting.
Deke’s leg felt numb, and he turned and stared down at it. There was no blood or sign of injury, and then he saw the smashed silver ornament on his belt over his right hip where the bullet had struck and glanced off.
Tim Carson rushed up to him. “You hurt, boy? Did he get you?”
“No.” Deke limped over to Jud Kynell’s body. Bending over, he pulled back the shirt. There on the man’s chest was a ragged white scar made by the muzzle blast of his gun on that night long ago when he and Deke had struggled over it. “Funny, I never figured Bly was my man,” he said. “Not until I heard his voice just before I came out on Shadow.”
“I knew,” Carson said, “in fact we’ve been pretty sure for over a year, but just lacked the right dope on him. Then he talked to Carol today about the holdup, an’ he mentioned it was two hundred thousand. That was kept secret, an’ nobody ever knew but the outlaws an’ the government. Just one man at the mines actually knew an’ he kept his mouth shut. Tyin’ that in with what else we knew, it had to be him.”
* * *
CAROL’S HAND WAS on his arm, and he looked down. “You know,” he said, “wearin’ your colors brought me luck, I think.”
“Then why not keep wearing them?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am,” he said, smiling, “that’s not a bad idea…and it’s probably safer to ride when there’s no one shootin’ at you!”
Down Paagumene Way
* * *
STEVE COWAN LEANED back against a packing case on the jetty at Paagumene Bay, New Caledonia, lazily watching the shipping. It was growing dark, and would soon be night.
Five ships were anchored in the harbor, all of them with cargoes for American troops. One, her freight discharged, was loading chrome from lighters.