“What?”
“I saw Stag Harvey and Jack Kilbum comin’ out of Jud Devitt’s office at two in the mornin’. They had a lot of money they were splittin’.”
So there it was.
All along Clay had feared this would happen. Devitt was a man who did not know how to lose, he could not bear to lose. Now, driven into a corner, he was buying a killing. Yet how far a step was that from the beating Simmons and Duval had given Bert Garry?
“Shorty, how about you sitting down over there with a cup of coffee? Sort of keep your eyes open?”
Shorty nodded assent and moved to the seat from which the approach to the hotel could be watched.
Colleen put her hand over Clay’s. “Clay . . . what is it? What does it mean?”
Harvey and Kilbum might be sure-thing operators but not dry-gulchers. They would meet him in the street or out on the plains, but it would be a man-to-man operation with an even break all around—as much as one man could get from two. At least, he would see who was shooting and he would have his chance to shoot back. But these men were past-masters of guncraft. They would choose the time, and they would arrange the situation to put him in a tactically bad position.
“I’ve been told about those men, Clay. What does it mean? You can tell me.”
He looked up from his plate and directly at her. “Yes, Colleen, I think I can tell you. I think I can tell you anything. I think you’re a woman who would walk beside a man. I think you’ve got nerve.”
He took a swallow of coffee, then put down his cup. “Harvey and Kilbum hire their guns. They are tough, dangerous men. Harvey and me have always sort of walked circles around each other. Kilburn, he don’t like me much. But they fight as a team.”
“You think Jud hired them—to kill you?”
“Would he?”
She sat very still, measuring what she knew of the man. His quick, hard decisions, his ruthlessness, his arrogant resentment of failure. He had a love of doing big jobs quickly, a love of winning. Victory to him was a compelling necessity.
It must have seemed a very simple thing to a man of his ability and his confidence to come into a town like Tinkersville and log off the Deep Creek range. It was a much smaller job than many he had undertaken, and one that must have seemed to offer no obstacles. He had been brusque and confident and sure . . . and then he had met defeat at every point.
Clay Bell had not been frightened by his usual aggressive tactics. He had not been bluffed, and he had met Jud Devitt’s attempts at every point and had beaten him. Devitt’s effort to frighten the B-Bar by having two of their men beaten had backfired. It had not left them short-handed enough, and it had not stopped them.
She remembered Jud Devitt from back east. Well-dressed, confident, very sure of himself and disdainful of others. He had seemed a big man there, a man who got things done, the sort of a man whom everyone admired. Girls had envied her, for beside him their men seemed insipid and tame.
In the days that followed her arrival in Tinkersville she had seen his brusque confidence take a rude shock. She had seen hard lines at the comers of his mouth, had seen him irritable and even brutal. She had seen the true nature of the man emerge. He was a man thoughtless of others, despising all but himself, riding roughshod over personalities and feelings.
She looked up at Clay.
“Yes, Clay, I believe he would. He can’t take defeat. He isn’t big enough. He can’t even admit it.” She hesitated, suddenly aware of the sensitiveness of the man she faced, of his thoughtfulness, of. . .
“Clay, what will you do?”
“Why,” he made up his mind even as he replied, “I’ll go see Stag and ask him about it.”
She started to protest and he grinned at her suddenly. “Now don’t start acting like a wife!”
Something inside her seemed to catch and hold itself very still. She seemed suddenly short of breath, and she looked up at him and for a long moment their eyes held across the table.
“Save it,” he said quietly, “for other times, later. I’ve been thinking about that, you know.”
“So have I.”
Had she? Suddenly she knew it had been there, between them, every second of the time. Even when they were not together.
“I’m not going to wait for them to set it up,” he told her. “I’m going to meet them halfway. I’ll have to, if I want to live.”
He stood up and leaning suddenly across the table he kissed her on the lips. Then he straightened, the action so smooth and easy that it had gone unnoticed in the dining room.
The door opened and a lean, brown man stepped inside. He wore a brown beaver sombrero and a brown vest, and his face was long and tanned. His legs were slightly bowed and he wore two guns, tied down.
It was Montana Brown. “Boss, I hear talk around. If it’s to be Harvey and Kilburn, I want in.”
Shorty Jones started to protest.
“He’s right, Shorty. Montana had a run-in with Kilburn once . . . besides, you had your action last night.”
“Kilburn an’ me,” Montana said, “we got it to settle.”
“All right.” Clay put a hand on Brown’s shoulder. “We’ll do it this way . . .”
Quickly and concisely he outlined his plan, and Montana nodded agreement as he listened.
“You,” he turned to Shorty, “locate Devitt and keep an eye on him. Don’t make a move unless he tries to cut in. If he does, he’s your meat.”
Rush Jackson, Hank Rooney, and Bill Coffin rode into town shortly before noon and went to the bar at the Homestake. With sure instinct, they knew the showdown was at hand. Jones met them and apprised them of the situation here. The men who had been watching cattle were down at the ranch and were keeping an eye on both the Gap and The Notch.
It was still and warm. The sky was bare of clouds, the dust gathered heat, the unpainted, gray, false-fronted buildings reflected it. Over the desert, heat waves rippled and danced between the eye and the faraway hills. Somewhere out there a faint plume of dust lifted.
In his office at the bank Noble Wheeler sat before his worn desk, his fat face shadowed and dark with worry. He knew as well as did the others that a showdown was coming. His own part in it he did not know.
Sam Tinker moved to his chair on the porch of the hotel. Judge Riley went up to his room and took off his coat Seated at his desk in shirt and suspenders, he began a letter to go back east. There was no sound in the street. Occasionally a rig rattled through, or a horse stamped. Once or twice he heard voices, and once, laughter. These only served to emphasize the stillness of the town. It lay quiet, poised, and waiting. . ..
Jud Devitt got up from his desk. His shirt was stained with sweat from where he had been lying on the divan a while before. There were circles of sweat under his arms. He mopped his face and swore softly. He had not shaved, but this morning he was scarcely conscious of it. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow.
Why the devil didn’t they get it over with! Anger stirred him . . . was it so complicated to shoot a man?
He looked out the window.
Down the street a man sat in the shade of an adobe, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was smoking, and he wore a gun. It was Shorty Jones.
Jud Devitt drew back from the window, his mouth suddenly dry. Jones had killed Pete Simmons last night. What did he want here now?
Chapter 18
Rush Jackson came up the street and into the hotel. He paused beside Clay. “Saw Stag down at the station, buyin’ a ticket.”
“Maybe he’s goin’ to grab his soogan and run,” Montana suggested, then shook his head. “Ain’t like him.”
Bell weighed the idea. He knew that Harvey and Kilburn needed money, and neither man was the sort to dodge a fight when it offered cash on the line.
“No,” he said finally, “they’ve seen you boys in town. They’ll make their play, then hit the train running.”
“Then we can figure the time,” Brown said thoughtfully. “They’ll make their try just before train time.”
Ed Miller was listening. “This is Saturday. Three trains today. One comes through about three this afternoon.”
About three. . .