“Mighty small field, Clay. Tibbott, he’s out o’ town somewheres. Doc McClean’s busy with that cowhand o’ yours. Kesterson ain’t been off the sidewalk for two months.”
“Jud Devitt?”
“Couldn’t say. Mostly he rides a buckboard or that bay hoss he got from Feeney. Hear he had him a run-in with that filly of Judge Riley’s. She took up for you.”
Ordinarily, this would have distracted Clay. Tonight it did not. Later he would remember it, but for now there was another problem.
Suppose he eliminated Jud Devitt? And shooting from cover did not seem like Devitt’s way. Morton Schwabe? He had never seen the man in a store-bought suit—not the pants, anyway.
Noble Wheeler.
It made no sense. Wheeler had been instrumental, he now believed, in getting Devitt to come to Tinkersville; he might have done other things, but the small profit in a timber venture was hardly enough—at least, the small part that Wheeler would get.
The man who had waited for him knew of the path up the mountain. Whoever it was that had climbed down the bank and knocked those samples off the wall had used that path. A party of men could not approach it unseen. Nothing but a man afoot or a rider would climb it, and a rider on a good mountain horse.
If that ore now, if that ore was valuable . . . If it was gold—but it was not. Clay Bell knew gold when he saw it. “Wheeler have a gray horse?”
Sam Tinker spat into the darkness off the end of the porch. “Keeps a couple of horses in the stable back of the bank. Wouldn’t take a man long to find out!”
Clay Bell dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his toe. Then he stepped off the porch into the darkness. Waiting until there was no one visible along the street, he walked slowly across. Had anyone come out Bell would have appeared to be only another puncher going casually about his lack of business.
This town was alive with danger for him. His life would not be worth a plugged peso if either Devitt or Wheeler—if Wheeler was his man—knew he was in town. Devitt might not have him killed, he would certainly like to see him maimed.
All was dark behind the bank. Bell walked along, hesitated, looking up at the dark windows. Was there a face there? Imagination. . .
The stable door was open, and there were three horses. The one in the end stall was a gray. His lighted match told him that. The horses rolled their eyes at him, and the gray blew nervously. Bell lowered the match . . . the hoofs were small, well-shaped, freshly shod. The tracks were plain to see in the earth of the stable floor—and they were familiar.
Clay Bell straightened and blew out his match. For an instant he held it, smelling the sulphur and thinking. Then he walked outside. Only when he was away from the stable did he drop the match.
Chapter 13
Bill Coffin had a memory for a pretty face. And his raid on the Devitt road camp had whetted his appetite for more such attacks. In either case, a waiting game was no part of his way of life.
Shorty was in a receptive mood. He had been anxious to see Bert Garry, and now that the tide of battle had turned their way, it looked like a chance to slip away to town. Rooney was at the ranch, and as far as he knew, Clay was also. And there was always Mahafee, never to be ignored when battle was in prospect.
Moreover, his mind had been unable to let go the feeling of honor remaining from the night he had seen Pious Pete Simmons boot Garry into unconsciousness. No stranger to the rougher sides of life, Shorty Jones had grown up in a land and a time when men fought with guns, with knives, and more rarely with their fists. But to jump in the face of a man already down with calked boots was the ultimate in ugliness.
“All right,” he agreed finally, “let’s go.” Bill Coffin was as concerned with the blonde as with carrying the war to the enemy camp. If she was a dance hall girl she would be at the Homestake. Saddling up, they moved out cautiously so as to alarm neither Hank Rooney nor the men at the road camp. Neither man was unaware of the danger that lay ahead. Tinkersville was teeming with lumberjacks, and those who had been forced to walk to town in their sock feet were eager for some chance to retaliate.
Unaware that Coffin and Jones had started toward town, Clay Bell left the stable and, after a glance up at the dark windows of Wheeler’s quarters, he walked back to the street.
At the Tinker House and the Homestake, lights were bright and there was the sound of tin-panny music and loud laughter. Occasionally a man appeared on fte Street, walking toward the bunkhouse or to another saloon. As he waited in the shadows, Colleen Riley came from the hotel and, after pausing for a word with Sam Tinker, came down the steps and turned up the street toward Doc McClean’s.
Standing in the deep shadow, his hat pulled low, he watched her pass the window, saw the momentary light upon her face, and heard the rustle of her skirts. Back in the stable a horse stamped, and somewhere a door slammed.
Clay Bell glanced sharply down the street, his eyes going from door to door with quick, searching glance, and then he stepped out of the darkness and crossed the street toward Colleen.
She turned quickly as she heard his steps, and he spoke. “Oh! It’s you,” she said.
He fell into step beside her. Back on the porch, Sam Tinker rolled his pipe in his lips and spat. Things were looking up.
“You shouldn’t be in town, you know.”
He liked the sound of her voice, and the suggestion of worry that was in it.
“I wanted to see Bert.” When they had taken a few steps he added, “And to thank you for all you’ve done for him. Doc’s a great fellow, but no comfort to a man when he’s down.”
“I’ve been glad to do what I could.” She stopped and put her hand on his arm. Her face was shadowed with worry. “Clay, Bert has pneumonia. We’ve been afraid of that.”
Clay Bell stared down the street. If Bert had pneumonia he might die. And if Bert Garry died, Clay knew there would be no holding the B-Bar. His boys would come to town, with or without him, and they would leave dead men on the street. Not even he could stop or prevent it, for these men rode for the brand and possessed a fierce, almost feudal loyalty for those with whom they rode. And Bert Garry had been the youngest of the lot, and a favorite.
“There’ll be trouble if he doesn’t pull through. Two years ago rustlers killed a rider of mine. We trailed them down. Bert and I, we circled around a hill to cut off anybody who escaped. Before we could get up the boys had killed all four rustlers and set fire to the place.”
“I’ve tried to tell Jud. So have others.” Where they stood there was deep shadow. Out over the desert a coyote spoke to the moon, his shrill voice yapping sounds that trailed away and died. He stood silent, wanting to speak of other things, yet uncertain of how to begin.
“He’s different these days,” she said finally. “Not like himself.”
“Jud’s a front runner, Colleen. He’s used power and money to win, and he is used to winning. I think he has always had an advantage before.”
“I’m afraid of what he may do if he begins to think he’ll lose.”
“He will lose.”
They were silent again, and almost automatically they began to walk on toward McClean’s together.
“And then what will you do?” he asked suddenly. “If he loses, I mean?”
“I don’t know. Father may go back East. But he likes it here, and this was a temporary appointment.” She looked around at him. “Jud engineered it. I suppose you know?”
“I figured so.”
“Clay—did you know about Morton Schwabe?”
“What about him?”
She explained quickly, and saw his face stiffen with surprise, then grow grave. “The man’s a brute. Not fit for any commission. And he’s an enemy of mine.”
She told him about the injunction and Devitt’s plan—that Schwabe was to serve it. He held himself still, considering all it might mean. Here again was evidence of a guiding hand that must be that of Noble Wheeler. By himself, it was doubtful if Devitt would have arrived at the choice of Schwabe for marshal. That had to be suggested to him by someone who knew of the rancher’s enmity for Bell.