So little money! Twice that pile, and a man was dead. Wiped out—and all he stood for.
Jud Devitt was not a psychologist. He was a brusque and, he believed, an efficient man. He was a practical man, with no thought for the evolution or the degeneration of character. He thought, in this moment of triumph, only of victory. It was not in him to think back over the steps that had brought him to buying a man’s death. Nor did he think of what that implied. Had he thought of it at all, he would have believed that he was as he had always been.
It was quiet in the little office. Sweat trickled along his jaws. His hair was rumpled from the hundred and more times that he had run nervous fingers through it. His face was unshaven, but he did not think of that. His shirt was sweat-stained and should be changed, but he, the carefully dressed and groomed, gave it no thought.
He had won—and if the death of one man might be bought, another might.
He would pay Harvey and Kilbum. He would put them on salary. He would retain them. Such men were valuable.
The world was made for the strong, the ruthless. It was made for kings—these others, they were peasants. Little men standing in the way of progress. Jud Devitt did not think that progress is built upon the efforts of many men, all working toward a goal.
He was not a drinking man, but now he got out the bottle and poured a drink into his water glass. He tossed it off, but the whiskey scarcely touched him. He was drinking the wine of victory, so intoxicating that mere alcohol could not affect him.
He put down the glass and sat back in his chair. He would get a new office. The logging would take months. Then he would make plans. East was the place he should go, but before that there would be other battles to win out here.
He got to his feet again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Outside there was a distant muffle of sound, but it did not cut into his consciousness. No more than did the train whistle that had sounded a few minutes ago. The whistle had escaped his ears, lost somewhere in the welter of thoughts forcing themselves upon him in his moment of victory.
Jud Devitt walked to the window and looked out toward Deep Creek. He would wait three—no, two days. That would be sufficient. If the B-Bar riders had not packed and gone then, he would drive them off.
Dropping into his chair, he began to figure. Suppose he doubled his crew? Suppose he moved in a hundred men?
He could clear that piece off rapidly, fulfill his contract and go on to something else.
Wait. . .
Wheeler had something on his mind . . . find out. He wrote that down. Find out about Wheeler.
First, to get Bob Tripp . . . For the first time then Jud Devitt began to wonder. Where was Bob Tripp?
Tripp should be here, enjoying this moment. Come to think of it, he had not seen him in hours. No matter . . . Tripp was probably already making plans. He was probably wiring for a new and bigger crew.
The mutter of voices forced itself upon him. Someone coming—a crowd, a mob.
Suddenly, he was frightened. Suppose . . . People in this jerkwater town had liked Bell. Suppose they were coming to hang him?
Impossible! Or was it?
He stepped to the window and, standing to one side, peered out.
A crowd of people, both men and women, were coming around the corner, coming toward his office. And in the van was . . . was. . .
He stepped back from the window and felt his heart begin to pound, with slow, heavy, impossibly loud beats. That man walking ahead of the crowd was Clay Bell. Alive . . . not dead.
Wheeling, with an almost animal grant, he jerked open a desk drawer, then another . . . another. He had no gun. He had left it in his room. He had left it at the hotel.
The shock passed. He straightened and faced the door.
“Devitt!”
That was Bell, damn him! Bell, yelling to him.
He stepped quickly to the door and jerked it open. The shock was gone but it had left something behind, something he had never known before—a deep, burning, driving lust to smash, to maim, to kill. . .
“You wanted me?”
His voice was icy cold, yet his body was trembling. There was the hated face, the man he wanted to destroy.
Clay Bell had never wanted to kill a man. He had never even wanted to fight a man. Yet, despite that, he had to admit in all honesty that once the battle was joined, he liked to fight.
Now, for the first time, remembering that Devitt had ordered the attack that had killed Bert Garry, that he had hired killers to shoot him, he found that he did want to fight. Jud Devitt was a man who only understood strength. Clay had handed over his guns with one idea in mind. He was going to meet Devitt on his own grounds, on his own terms.
Wat Williams had said what a fighting man Devitt was. All right. . .
The door burst open in response to his call and Jud Devitt stood there.
Clay felt a curious shock of surprise. The man was disheveled, almost dirty. But he was a big man, and in that moment, standing alone, Devitt showed that he was not afraid.
He was big, both taller and heavier than Clay, and the expression in his eyes was murderous. He started to speak, and then with a whining cry of inexpressible fury, he hurled himself from the door.
Clay stepped forward quickly to meet the attack, but even as he jerked up his hands, Devitt’s body struck him, knocking him back and down. Devitt went down with him, and both men rolled over and scrambled to their feet. Devitt was fast—surprisingly fast. He landed on his feet and he swung. The blow caught Bell on the side of the face and staggered him, but he clinched quickly, back-heeled Devitt, and threw him to the ground.
He stepped back and Devitt came up in a lunging dive. As Clay stepped back, his boot turned on a stone and he fell, taking a wicked swing in the face. Both men got up and walked into each other, swinging with both hands. Devitt was coldly, wildly furious. This man had balked and defeated him but now he was here, where he, Devitt, wanted him. Where he could smash and destroy.
He staggered Bell with a right, and lunged in, butting with his head. Clay raked his face with an elbow, and slammed a right to the body and then a left. Clay jabbed, then pushing Devitt off, shook him to his heels with an uppercut.
Devitt lunged, and his fingers caught Clay’s shirt, ripping it down the front. He grabbed at Clay, and slugging wildly, they went to the ground. They rolled over and over, striking and gouging, and then broke free and scrambled to their feet.
Devitt threw a right, and Clay stiffened a left to his mouth that smashed his lips to a pulp. Instantly, Clay crossed a right to the chin. Devitt took it coming in and swung both hands with savage hatred.
But Devitt’s cold fury was settling into shrewd, driving, fighting skill. He was a man who could fight and who liked to fight. He had never lost a rough-and-tumble battle, and had often boasted he could whip any lumberjack in his crews, and had often proved it.
He bored in, using his head. He punched hard to the body and was surprised to find the punch blocked. Those months in New Orleans with Jem Mace had taught Clay Bell more than a little. Now, fighting for his life, he realized the true value of all he had been taught by the aging bare-knuckle champion.
Clay jabbed a left, moved and jabbed again. Devitt landed hard to the body, and Clay gasped for breath, feeling the sickening force of that punch. Devitt struck him on the kidney and Clay’s knees buckled. He clinched, swung hard to the ear, and felt the cartilage split under his fist. Then he smashed his right to the ribs and broke free. Devitt was streaming blood from the split ear and from his mouth.
Suddenly Devitt feinted, and Clay stepped in and caught a looping right that knocked him down. He rolled over, saw Devitt coming at him to kick, and then hurled himself at Devitt’s legs. The bigger man sprang back and Clay started up. Devitt kicked out, the boot narrowly missing Clay’s head but catching his shoulder and knocking him to his knees again. Devitt rushed and Clay saw the boot swing back and threw himself against the one standing leg. Devitt went down, and then they both got to their feet.