Suppose … just suppose that Kettleman were here and were to die here? How many knew of his presence?
The telegrapher at McCartys, and these two, Saxon and Strett.
Lottie had wanted Kettleman dead, and if he died, she would inherit. If he died, opposition to Baldwin would disappear, and if he died and Baldwin knew about it, Baldwin could take advantage of the fact to make some money on the market. The news of Kettleman’s death was sure to have its impact.
He must wire Lottie, and he must find Kettleman. If he was not at the hotel, where was he? Not the Kaybar, for the Kaybar was now in Baldwin’s possession. Perhaps at Nugent’s, or west of here at Fort Wingate.
“Go back to McCartys,” he told Strett and Saxon. “Get a description of Kettleman from that telegraph operator. And get it from him. I want him located, Strett. There is a hundred-dollar bonus to the man who can place Kettleman for me.”
Strett took a cigar from Baldwin’s desk and clipped the end end with his teeth. “You want this Kettleman alive?” he asked mildly. “Or dead?”
Baldwin offered a cigar to Saxon. “I just want to know where he is,” Baldwin said. “And I’d like to be sure he stays some place out of the way. The longer, the better.”
“Sure,” Strett agreed, “if he stayed away, say, oh, say quite a while. Mightn’t that be worth a thousand dollars?”
“Five hundred.”
Strett knew where he stood now. Nobody paid five hundred dollars just to have a man hidden out for a while. “He’s a mighty important man,” Strett replied. “I figure for a thousand dollars I could handle it. Then Saxon and me could take a trip, a real long trip.”
“All right,” Baldwin said, thinking of Buckdun, “that will do it. A thousand dollars.”
The injunction was served, and Baldwin strangely enough made no protest. He took it quietly, and Flint, from the Hole-in-the-Wall, heard of it.
“You will be going home now,” he said to Nancy.
“Home?” There was a sadness about her he had not seen before. “It will not be home again. Not yet.”
She looked at him strangely. “You’ve a fine red horse there. And no brand. How can a horse become five or six years old and not wear a brand?”
“There are places where they don’t brand at all,” Flint said.
Pete Gaddis rode out that day with Johnny Otero and Julius Bent, making a swing around to check the cattle and, if it could be done without shooting, to start pushing Baldwin cattle off.
Flynn was able to sit up. Although it would be long before he was able to sit a horse again, he began handling the range once more, talking with the hands, inquiring about this place or that. Flint was around, but he did not belong somehow. There was a strangeness about them now that he could not understand. For a while they had almost accepted him.
With surprise he realized he had not spat blood for a week, and he felt better. It was time he went back to the hideout.
Yet he was worried. It was not like Baldwin to back down. Nor had he left the country. He had sold off some cattle, but he was holding the rest on Nugent range.
And then Gaddis rode in. “Nugent’s dead,” he said. “He was found in his own ranch yard, shot through the heart.”
“Buckdun,” Rockley said.
“Maybe,” Gaddis said, looking over at Flint. “And maybe not.”
Nancy caught the glance, and realized what it meant. Flint had said he could bring an end to it, and now Nugent was dead. There could be, she assured herself, no possible connection. Her eyes strayed to the high-powered rifle that Flint was never without these days.
Flint looked up to find their eyes on him. Slowly he looked from one to the other. “What’s the matter?” he said.
“The way I look at it,” Gaddis said, “it ain’t reasonable that Port Baldwin would back up like he has done, with or without that injunction. Not unless there was something he wanted done first.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nugent is dead.”
“So?”
“If the boss should be killed he would have a free hand, wouldn’t he?”
Flint waited a full minute without speaking. The idea was one that he had never expected, never dreamed of. They believed he had killed Nugent. They believed that he intended to kill Nancy Kerrigan.
Carefully he got to his feet, rifle in hand. “What would I have to gain?” he asked them quietly. “Where could I gain anything?”
“You have a name,” Gaddis said. “A name that stands for something.”
Flint!
“It is not an uncommon name,” he replied quietly.
“I should know,” Gaddis said.
Flint was puzzled. “Look,” he said, “how do you suppose that injunction was granted? It was I who went to Judge Hatfield.”
“Was it?” Gaddis had faced squarely toward him now. “Flint, I say you’re a liar!”
He was ready to draw, but Flint did not move. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Gaddis. I don’t want to kill you.”
“Or do you mean you don’t want to try when it would be a fair shooting? Your kind pick your own spots. Well, you don’t pick this one! Draw!”
“No!” Nancy spoke sharply. “Pete, stop that. There will be no gunfight here.”
She turned to Flint. “I suggest you ride out of here.”
He merely looked at her. “All right,” he said, and walked to his horse.
Nobody spoke while he saddled up, then Gaddis said, “Ma’am, you’re doing the wrong thing. I tell you he killed Nugent. It had to be him. And he’s gunning for you.
“Look at it straight. When did he get here? Right after Baldwin did. Where does he go when he pulls out? Where did he get his horses? Ain’t he the one had the run-in with Nugent? Tried to get him into a fight then. You heard the story.”
Nancy looked across the fire at Flint’s back. It was impossible, and yet she had no argument against it.
“How do we know he didn’t shoot Ed himself? How do we know he didn’t lead the party that attacked the ranch, and just come on in to find out where we’d go and what we’d do.”
“I got a rope,” Scott said.
“Hold it,” Rockley said quietly, “you’re going off half-cocked, Pete. We don’t know any of this here. Seems to me you’ve got something in your craw.”
Flint turned deliberately and got into his saddle. “I shouldn’t have expected better of any of you,” he said quietly. “The only thing I’m guilty of is making a damned fool of myself.”
“Gaddis,” he said, “I liked you. But you’ve got something in your craw, as Rockley said it. What’s wrong?”
“Flint! — that’s what’s wrong! Everybody knows that name! Known it for years! Why, we figured we had you at The Crossing — !”
“You were there?” Flint asked mildly.
“You’re damned right I was there! I was riding segundo for the Three-X! You killed our boss! Leyden spotted you in the saloon that night.”
Flint was facing them all now, sitting the saddle. “And how many shots were fired into Flint while his arms were held?”
Gaddis flushed. “I — ”
“His arms were held by two brave men,” Flint said, “while the others shot into his body. It wasn’t enough to make it nine to one, you had to hold him, too!”
Rockley was looking at Gaddis. “I never heard that part of it,” he said.
“I wasn’t for that,” Gaddis protested angrily. “I wasn’t for that, at all. Anyway, he was a drygulcher. He was an ambush killer.”
“You shot into him how many times, Gaddis?” Flint repeated.
“How should I know? Nine or ten times … maybe more.”
Flint reached up and, taking his shirt by the collar, ripped it from his body with one jerk. “All right, damn you,” he said bitterly, “how many bullet scars do you count?”
His bare chest was white, dead white, but there were no scars, not one.
“I think, Gaddis, you’ve talked too damned much,” he said. His eyes crossed the fire toward Nancy. “Believe me, ma’am, I only tried to help.”
He swung the red stallion and rode swiftly away.
So he had been a fool. Now he would go back to the hideout and stay there.
If he was going to die, it should be soon.
Chapter 12
When Lottie Kettleman stepped down from the train to the platform at Alamitos she was no more prepared for the town than the town was for her.
Beautiful women were rare in Alamitos, and beautiful women dressed in the the very latest Paris fashions were unheard of. And Lottie’s worst enemy would not deny that she was truly beautiful.
She had red-gold hair with almost violet eyes and the clear, creamy skin that one occasionally sees in truly beautiful red-haired women. Fashion had swung from the hooped skirt to dresses that moulded the figure, and Lottie Kettleman had a figure which appreciated the new styles.