They were waiting for him down there. Wryly, he considered the situation. It would solve a lot of problems for Devitt if he were put out of business, yet it was not in him to duck an issue, and the issue lay right down there among those gatherings of men.
If they should gang him, not a hand would be lifted in his aid, unless it was that of old Sam Tinker. He built a smoke, taking his time. At that, Tinker, old as he was, might be the best man in town.
First, he must talk to Noble Wheeler. He stepped into the saddle, and only then lighted his cigarette. He drew deep on the smoke and it tasted good. Mentally, he smiled at himself. He could feel that old steadiness inside him, that queer sort of calm he always felt when going into trouble. And he had known a lot of trouble. Perhaps more than any one of those men. Perhaps more than any dozen. It had not been like this that first day when the Comanches hit the wagon train when he was a youngster. Yet he had scored a hit with his first shot.
He walked his horse the fifty yards to the bank, the only moving thing along the street. He felt sweat trickle down his cheeks, felt the good feel of the horse between his knees, saw without turning his head the dark groups of men, one of them before the bank.
One of these men had a swollen jaw. It was Pete Simmons. Simmons stood almost in the doorway, but Clay could step around him. He had no intention of doing so. He stepped down from the horse and walked straight at Simmons, looking straight ahead. Simmons did not move. Bell walked on and Simmons held his ground until with one more step he would have walked right into him, and then Simmons gave ground. Bell went on into the bank. Noble Wheeler looked up from his desk, his fat face wreathed in smiles. “Howdy, Clay! Glad to see you!” Bell dropped into a chair and shoved his hat back on his head. Wheeler’s vest was spotted and soiled, his cheeks unshaven.
The little office smelled musty and old, as if long unaired. The sunlight made a small rectangle of light upon the floor, and glinted from the brass cuspidor.
“Noble, I’m going to need some money to see me through.”
Wheeler traced a design upon his desk with a stub of pencil. “You owe me a good bit, Clay,” he said ponderously. “I’d like to help, but the way I see it, with Devitt taking your best range—”
“He isn’t taking it.”
Wheeler looked up out of his pale eyes. “Folks think he’ll get it, Clay. He’s got money and political influence. To tell you the truth, Clay, the bank can’t risk it. Right now you’re a mighty unsafe risk.”
Clay drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. Now that it had come, he realized he had more than half expected just this. He could not pay his hands without money, and he owed Kesterson over at the store. Kesterson was friendly, but a sharp businessman.
“Wheeler,” he protested quietly, “I’ll pay every cent, you know that. We’ll win—we simply can’t lose. He can’t even get on the plateau.”
“You sure?”
“He knows I own the Gap. I also own The Notch.” Clay took off his hat and turned it in his hands. “Sooner or later this was bound to come. I made sure my range was protected, and you can be sure that I thought of everything.”
Noble Wheeler shifted his heavy body. So he owned The Notch? Wheeler wanted to ask a question, but decided against it. He had his own ambitions in regard to Deep Creek, but they must wait. But he was surprised and irritated that Bell had shown the forethought to buy those two pieces and so control fifty thousand acres of range.
The thought worried him. What else did Bell know? Or would he guess?
“I’d like to help you,” he said, putting on a helpless air, “but money is tight and I’ve got some loans coming due. Sorry, Clay.”
At the store, Kesterson filled his order without comment. As he stacked the groceries he started to speak, hesitated, and said nothing.
Once more in the saddle, Clay headed for the station. Behind him a lumberjack yelled, “Better grab a train while you’re able, cowhand!”
Somebody else gave vent to a raucous yell, and it was followed by jeers and catcalls. Clay rode steadily on, his face a mask. When he dismounted at the station he noticed that the lumberjacks were bunching together and following.
He went into the station with rapid strides. “Jim! Bell. Can I talk to you?”
Jim Narrows rolled the curtain away from the wicket and looked out. “Howdy, Clay. What can I do for you?”
“Get me about a dozen cars. I want to ship cattle.”
Narrows was embarrassed. “Sorry, Clay. I can’t get ’em.” He leaned toward Bell. “Betwixt you an’ me, we got orders to ship no cattle for you. Comes from higher up. Looks like they’re fishin’ for that lumber contract.”
“I see . . . thanks, Jim.”
He hesitated, staring out the door. So they had blocked him there, too. Devitt thought of everything. The circle was drawing tighter.
“Clay.”
He turned back to Narrows.
“There was a wire sent about Monty Brown.”
“Devitt?”
“No.” Narrows leaned closer. “It was Wheeler.”
Clay Bell stared at the station master. “Wheeler sent it?”
“His very own self.”
Bell turned away. “Thanks, Jim. Do you a favor some day.”
He walked outside and stopped abruptly. One of the lumberjacks had untied the palouse and mounted it, and a dozen others made a tight cordon between himself and the horse. They stood staring at him and grinning. He recognized the situation and understood it. Here was real trouble.
They were out to get him now. If he drew a gun he might kill one man, but he could not kill them all. The men he faced knew that and were prepared to gamble. A flicker of movement caught the tail of his eye, a movement from the open door of a barn hayloft.
The flicker of movement had been sunlight on a rifle barrel.
Chapter 8
Bell took his time. He was a tall, serene man at this moment, showing no sign of nerves or hesitation, merely a man studying a situation and seeking a way out. At least twenty of the burly lumberjacks stood around. A few showed malice, some merely rough good humor, but all were waiting to see what he would do.
His eyes strayed down the street, flickering past the loft door where he had detected movement. There was nothing to be seen, but he was not fooled. The unknown marksman was in position and ready. The shot had to come at the right time, when its origin would not be obvious.
This was an old story to Clay. He dropped his cigarette into the dust and shifted his position slightly. It put a man between himself and that loft door.
He glanced at the appalousa, restive under the strange rider, then at the men around him.
“You boys sure like to gang up on a man, don’t you?” He drawled his words, smiling a little, his manner casual. “What’s the matter? Afraid to fight one man at a time?”
A big man shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. “I’ll fight you, now or—”
Clay’s fist smashed his lips even as he spoke. Then he crossed a right and the thud of his fist was like the butt end of an axe striking a log. The lumberjack fell flat on his face and instantly, Bell whistled.
The appalousa whirled and lunged through the crowd toward Bell, scattering lumberjacks in every direction. The rider sawed on the bit, and the palouse tossed his head, then stuck it between his legs and kicked out wickedly. He took a stiff-legged hop and ducked his head again and the jack went over his head into the dirt.
As the horse spun, Bell grabbed the pommel and swung to the saddle, shucking his Colt as his toe kicked into the stirrup. He tilted it and blasted a shot at the loft door even as the rifle spoke. He heard the whip of the bullet past his ear, but his own bullet had scored. The man in the loft let go his rifle and lunged to his feet, holding his wounded arm. Bell fired again, and the man leaned far out from the door and then hit the dust of the street on his face, falling like a sack of meal.
Clay Bell put his horse into the street and went down the main drag at a pounding run. A lumberjack ran from the Tinker House to see what had happened and Bell threw a shot into the planks at his feet. The man dove at the door, clawing for the latch.