It was dark and still out there . . . and at any minute a man could die.
Miller walked to the door and stood outside for some time. Finally he came in. “Firing at the Gap,” he said. “They won’t get through.”
Bob Tripp was dead tired but he could not sleep. He had watched the men load up for the drive to the Gap, then he had gone back inside. This was something of which he wanted no part. Many of the lumberjacks had done some hunting, a few of them had served in the Army, but most of them were men unskilled at fighting, and from talk around town Tripp knew they were facing a salty lot of fighting men.
Bob Tripp was no coward, and he was also not a fool. Anyway, he had orders to stay in town.
Jud Devitt had lost his head. It was sheer insanity to send that bunch out there to tackle the curly wolves from the high country who worked for Bell.
Boots scraped on the gravel outside and a light tap came on the door. “Who’s there?”
“Williams. Open up.”
Tripp unbarred the door and Williams slid into the room. His face was drawn and white. “Bob, that kid died a while ago. Jones is packin’ a gun for Simmons!”
“Didn’t Simmons go to the Gap?”
“The Boss kept him here.”
Williams mopped his face, then tucked the bandana in his pocket. “Bob, I’m leavin’. I’ll fight, but I’m no killer, and I don’t cotton to the ways of Duval and Simmons. Nor Jud Devitt, either, for that matter.”
Bob Tripp sat down on his cot and began to pull on his boots. When he had tied the laces he sat there, staring at the gray rectangle that was the window. The room itself was in total darkness. Suddenly he reached under the cot and pulled out a carpetbag. He began to take down clothes and stuff them into it.
“There’s a train at daylight, Wat. I’ll go with you.”
“We can wait in the brush across the tracks,” Williams said.
It was Jim Narrows who told Pete Simmons about Garry’s death.
The burly Simmons was more the thug than the lumberjack. He had found occasion to shove Narrows around and had enjoyed taunting the older man. Jim Narrows was not a vindictive man, but neither was he a man likely to forget. When he heard that Bert Garry was dead he had deliberately walked by the shack where Simmons and Duval bunked. Duval had led the attack on the Gap, and Simmons was alone.
Pious Pete was smoking on the step when Narrows came along. “Evenin’, Simmons.”
“Who is it?”
“Narrows. Just came from the Tinker House.”
“What’s up? Seems a lot of stirrin’ around?”
“You’re a dead man, Pete.”
Jim Narrows said it quietly, without emotion. He could almost feel sorry for the man, but he remembered how he had put the boots to Bert Garry. He had seen what those calks could do to a man’s face.
“Huh?”
Jim took his time. He lighted his pipe. “Pete, that kid died tonight.”
“Garry?” Simmons was on his feet.
“You’d better get a gun, Pete.” Narrows spoke quietly. “When Shorty Jones heard that Garry was dead he just turned and walked out. He’s lookin’ for you, Pete.”
Simmons turned and blundered through the door.
“Better not strike a light,” Narrows advised. “That would only hurry it.”
Jim Narrows walked away down the little slope. There was little time left for Pete. Knowing Shorty Jones, Narrows had no doubt of the outcome. Bert Garry had been a fine lad, but it was never good to see a man frightened.
Pete Simmons strapped on a six-gun and picked up a shotgun. He went down the alley, hesitated at the street, then crossed to the livery barn.
A solitary light glowed over the door of the stable and there was nobody in sight. For a long while Simmons studied that street; then he crossed swiftly. It was past one in the morning and nobody was around. Even the hostler was asleep.
Simmons got a horse and saddled him clumsily, then led him to the door. Dropping the bridle reins, he stepped into the light to look down the street.
As he appeared in the light he heard a boot scrape on gravel. He stiffened, standing where he was, his mouth dry, his heart pounding heavily.
“You took your time, Pete.”
Simmons’ last vestige of fighting courage surfaced. “I ain’t running!”
“Goin’ for a ride, then? Didn’t figured you was the type to ride under the stars, Pete.”
Simmons held the shotgun but the muzzle was down. He wished it was higher. He wondered how long it would take to come level. And just where was Shorty? Simmons strained his eyes at the shadow. There was a line of something darker—was that Shorty?
There would be little time. A fraction of a second, only. He would have to swing the gun up. Suppose his finger missed the trigger guard?
“The kid never wanted trouble, Pete. We didn’t even know there was a fight on. We had just come in for a drink. We’d been ridin’ dusty, all day.”
Shorty Jones’ voice sounded nearer. “He was a good kid, Pete. It ain’t good to see the life stomped from a boy like that. Even up, it might have been different. You ganged us.”
“It was orders!” Simmons’ throat was hoarse. His eyes probed the darkness, not quite sure.
“You’ll never stomp another man, Pete—not ever.”
Simmons’ lips felt parched. He could do with a drink. Where was Shorty? He took a firmer grip on the shotgun. His palm was sweaty—suppose the gun slipped?
Something seemed to move in the darkness and Pete Simmons’ nerve broke. He sprang aside and swung up with the shotgun. His finger groped for a trigger but got both at once, and the shotgun roared and jumped in his hands.
The darkness was deceiving and he was frightened. He sprang back and, dropping the shotgun, groped for his pistol.
Shorty Jones stepped into the half-light. The post near him had taken most of the blast. A few shots had hit him and a thin trickle of blood showed on his cheek.
“Good-bye, Pete.”
Shorty fired twice, lifting his gun and taking his time, the two staccato reports blending. Simmons shrugged high his shoulders and rose on his tiptoes, then fell.
Shorty Jones looked down at the man, waiting carefully. Simmons shuddered, slowly his muscles subsided, and he was dead.
Shorty thumbed cartridges into empty chambers and bolstered his gun. He turned and walked slowly back up the street. When he was almost at the Tinker House he stopped to roll a smoke. He did not look back.
In the dining room of the Tinker House men sat huddled over their coffee. They heard the heavy boom of the shotgun, then the two sharp, deliberate shots.
In his office down the street Jud Devitt had heard those shots too. Now he sat across the desk from two men, “Things have changed,” Harvey said.
“We don’t like it,” Kilburn added.
“Who fired those shots?” Devitt asked irritably. “Who was that? I thought it was you.”
“It was Jones. He killed Pete Simmons.”
Jud Devitt compressed his lips. Another mark against Clay Bell. He felt angry and uneasy. Nothing seemed to be going right. This town was a jinx, everything had gone wrong here, in a stupid hick cattle town! “What do you mean—things have changed?”
“We took on a job. It looked pretty good. Now it doesn’t look good any more.”
“You’re quitting?” Devitt sneered.
Stag Harvey shook his head. “Call it what you like. This here’s our business. We don’t like to lose. You’ve lost.”
Jud Devitt was suddenly cold and angry. “Don’t talk like fools!” he said. “I’ve not lost! I can’t lose! My man in Washington—”
“Hardy Tibbott came back today. Tonight. He’s been in Washington. Clay Bell got the grazing right secured for ten years.”
So that was how a dream ended? A beautiful, foolproof plan. This timber, so close to Mexican Central’s main line that transportation was a minor item. He could bid far below the others and still make a rich profit. And now it was over. If Tibbott had come back with the grazing permit then it was ended. Even if his men broke into the Deep Creek range, he was finished.
And all because of one man.
He looked up from his desk. “All right,” Devitt said, “I’ll make it five thousand dollars if he is dead before sundown tomorrow.”
“No.”
Jack Kilbum shifted his feet and Stag looked at him. Kilburn spread his hands, and Harvey knew what he meant. They were broke.
“Five thousand.” Devitt repeated the sum. “I have it here.”
Stag Harvey looked down at his hands. He had never deliberately gone in for killing. Fighting, yes. Yet he had always known, he realized now, that it would end this way. That if he continued to use a gun he would end by doing this. And Clay Bell was a good man.