“And maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” “Talking about me?” Tom Healy stood in the doorway. There was no humor in him now. He walked on into the room and faced Mabry across the table. When he spoke his voice was low but positive. “This company is my business.
We won’t do any business between Cheyenne and Salt Lake with bigger companies ahead of us.
We’re going to Alder Gulch. You don’t think I know what I’m doing. I do.” “None of my business. You handle it your way.” He gathered his gear and went out the door with Healy looking after him. More than anything else, Healy wanted Mabry with them, respecting the knowledge the other man possessed, knowledge and experience he dearly needed.
Yet it was not in him to ask. Had Janice not been there, he might have suggested it, but having seen the way she looked at Mabry, Healy knew he did not want Mabry along.
At the door, Mabry turned. He looked past Healy at Janice and said, “Luck.” His shoulders filled the doorway as he went out. For several minutes after he was gone nobody said anything.
“Knew him in Dodge,” Williams said suddenly, “and again in Utah. He’s salty.” “Has he really killed so many men?” “He has. Killed one at Doan’s store.
Fellow name of Les Benham was going to cut Mabry’s herd. Mabry said he wasn’t.” “Did they cut it?” “Too busy burying Les Benham.” Across the road in a small cabin Griffin looked up from his bunk. His shoulder was on the mend, but he was feeling weak. Barker nodded toward the curtained doorway. “Anybody in there?” “We’re alone. What’s on your mind?” “Two hundred fast dollars for you.” “Never started a conversation better.” Griffin sat up and began to roll a smoke. “What’s the story?” “Two hundred dollars if Mabry doesn’t last out the week.” “No.” “No?” “I want to spend the money I make.” “Scared?” Barker sneered.
“You bet I am. I don’t want any part of him.” “Three hundred?” Griffin said nothing and Barker waited. He did not want to go higher, but remembering Janice, he knew that more than money was involved. He had rarely wanted one woman more than another, but he wanted this one. Moreover, there was three hundred in that small sack of Healy’s, and if the information from his spy in the bank was correct, there was fifteen thousand in gold hidden in those show wagons.
Mabry might ride away, but Barker was no gambler. And he had seen the way Mabry and Janice looked at each other. There was no place in his plans for interference by a man of Mabry’s caliber.
“No,” Griffin said at last, “I won’t touch it.” “I’d think you’d hate his guts.” “Mabry?” Griffin’s eyes were venomous. “I do. I’d kill him in a minute if it was safe.” “There’s no reason he should even see you.” Griffin stared at the comforter on the bed. He hated snow and cold, and with money in his pocket he could go to California. California would be nice this time of year. He’d worked for Hunter quite a spell, or he would never have gone after Mabry for him, but knowing Hunter, he did not want to return and report his failure. The old man had a reputation as an honest cattleman and he did not like hired gunmen who were able to talk. But California was no good to a dead man.
“They wouldn’t find him until spring,” Barker argued, “if they ever found him. You could be a hundred yards off, and if you missed you’d have time for another shot.” Mabry had only two hands. He was only a man, and Griffin had never been bested with a rifle.
Bellied down in the snow with a good field of fire.
..
Griffin threw his cigarette into the fire. “I’d want it in gold.” “Half tonight, the rest when the job is done.” Barker must feel those wagons carried real money. Maybe he could get in on…
No, not where women were involved. You could steal horses and kill sheep, you could even murder a man in broad daylight and have a chance, but if you molested a decent woman you were in real trouble. He shoved a chunk of wood into the potbellied stove. What kind of a man had he become? Once he would have shot a man for even suggesting that he hire his gun. Now was he ready to take money for murder? With Hunter, the brand had been involved, a ranch he was riding for.
But this was murder. Where was it a man made the turn?
What happened to change him? He had once been a kid with ideals….
“All right,” he said, “get me the money.” That was the kind of man he had become.
KING MABRY had been absent five days when he crossed the creek again and rode up to Hat Creek Stage Station. He told himself he was a fool to return here and to half kill a horse and himself to do it. Yet the thought of Healy’s taking off into the winter with those women angered him. The least he could do was ride along and see that they made it. After all, he was going in that general direction himself.
Yet when the station came in sight there were no vans and no evidence of activity.
Suddenly worried, he came down the hill at a spanking trot. At the barn he swung around behind it. The vans were gone!
The hostler came to the door as he swung down.
“That black of yours is gettin’ mighty restless.
He’ll be glad to see you.” “When did they pull out?” “The show folks?” The hostler stoked his pipe.
“Day after you did. Barker, he was in a fret to get off. They figured on leavin’ today, but he’d have it no way but to start right off. Said the weather was just right.” Mabry looked at the snow-covered fields. He could see the ruts in the snow left by sled runners.
“Switch saddles,” he said. “I’ll be riding.” The hostler hesitated. “That there Griffin,” he said, looking carefully around, “he’s been askin’ after you. Ever’ day he comes to see is your horse still here.” Crossing to the stage station, Mabry ate hurriedly and got what supplies he would need.
As he went through the saloon he saw Griffin sitting at a table idly riffling cards.
Following the southern slope of the hills, Mabry rode westward. The air was crisp and cold. There was no wind and the smoke of the chimneys at Hat Creek had lifted straight into the sky. The black horse was impatient, tugging at the bit.
“Going home, boy?” Mabry asked him. “Back to Wind River?” Rising over the crest of a hill, the black’s ears went up suddenly and Mabry turned in the saddle to look where the horse was looking. Nothing….
He was not fooled. The black horse was mountain bred, born to wild country. He had seen or smelled something.
Mabry swung down the slope to the edge ofeathe trees and skirted the timber, keeping the line of trees between himself and the direction of the horse’s attention.
This was an old game, one he had played too often to be easily trapped. Whoever was out there must be trailing the vans or himself. He changed direction several times, avoiding snow fields and keeping to hard ground. Barker had camped at Lance Creek the first night out. Seeing that, Mabry pushed on. The black horse ate up space and that night they camped at a spot Mabry chose as he rode past. Riding by, he swung wide and circled back, camping where he could watch his own trail.
He made shelter for himself and his horse in a matter of minutes. He cut partly through a small tree, then broke it over to the ground, trimming out the branches on the under side, leaving those on top and at the sides. The cut branches he piled on top or wove into the sides. With other boughs he made a bed inside on the snow.
He tied his horse under a thick-needled evergreen close by, then wove branches into the brush for a windbreak.
Over a small fire he made coffee and a thick stew. When he had eaten he rolled in his blankets and closed his eyes for sleep. Before he slept he thought of Janice. Yet it was foolish to think. What could there be with him for any girl? He was a warrior in a land growing tame.
The wind rose and moaned low in the evergreens. The coals of the fire glowed deeply red against the dark.
Irritably he thought of Healy and the company up ahead. They were making good time, getting farther and farther from any possible help or interference, farther into this wide, white land of snow and loneliness. Barker had rushed them out of Hat Creek… to get them away before Mabry returned?