“Gib, you never could see past your nose. There’s one thing you forget–Ray Hollister could go to the governor.” Gentry was incredulous. “The governor?
Aw, Ben, you’re lettin’ this get on your nerves! What interest would the governor have in this place?” “The governor,” Ben Stowe replied, “married Jack Moorman’s daughter, that’s all. And if that isn’t enough, the governor’s father rode in here on a cattle drive as a partner of Jack’s, and after his father died, Jack practically raised him. He was in Washington when old Jack was killed, and if he had been governor then, he’d have raised hell.” Gentry shifted uneasily in his chair. All the pleased excitement of Shevlin’s return was gone. He took his feet down from the desk and wished he had never come to see Ben. Things just weren’t the same any more. Ben was impatient all the time; he never took time for a drink with him, never talked it up like in the old days. And now this about the governor. Of course, he remembered it, now that he thought of it. He had forgotten, that was all.
Anyway, Jack Moorman had been dead for years–that was all over.
“Hollister couldn’t prove anything,” he said.
“He wasn’t even there.” “There are some who were,” Stowe replied sourly, “and when a horse starts swishin’ his tail there’s no telling what burrs he’ll pick up.” Gentry was suddenly hot and uncomfortable. He had never forgotten the contempt in old Jack’s eyes as they battered him to his knees. That look had penetrated to the very core of Gentry’s being, and for months he had waked up shaking with fright and bathed in sweat, remembering those eyes.
The old man never had a chance. Struck down from behind, his gun belt had been cut through, removing any chance of resistance. They had not wanted to use a gun or a knife. There was bad feeling between the miners and the cattlemen, and it was pay day night.
They planned for it to look like something done by drunken miners.
“If you think so much of Shevlin,” Stowe was saying, “you get him out of here. He could make trouble.” When the door closed after Gentry, Stowe put his feet on his desk. No need to tell Gentry the word on Shevlin was already out. There was no longer any need to tell Gentry anything. After they moved the gold, something would have to be done about Gib Gentry. He had outlived his usefulness.
Gentry stood outside under the awning staring down the street. He bit the end from a fresh cigar.
The hell with Ben Stowe. The hell with them all.
He had had more to drink than he had ever had before, but what did it mean, after all? He never had any fun any more, and Stowe had changed.
Hardly talked to him any more, and whenever Gentry came around Ben made it seem as if he was talking nonsense, or was acting like a fool.
Gib Gentry stood there on the street and looked bleakly into a future that held no promise. He wasn’t a kid any more. And he was hitting the bottle too hard. He had known that for some time, but he had never actually allowed it to shape into words before. Uneasily, his thoughts kept returning to Ben Stowe. Ben was a hard man.
He had best step very lightly.
Suddenly he was swept by anger. Step lightly? Who the hell did Ben think he was, anyway? Why the hell should he step lightly for Ben Stowe or any other man?
Now Ben had told him to get Mike Shevlin out of town. Just how was he to go about that? It had been a long time since Gib had seen Mike or heard more than vague rumors of him, but any man with half an eye could see Mike Shevlin had been riding where the owl hooted and the long winds blew… no mistake about that.
It was a hell of a situation when a man like Shevlin might be killed–and he would take a lot of killing. Ben Stowe could be almighty dumb sometimes. He should be able to see that the best thing he could do would be to leave Mike Shevlin alone.
Gib Gentry had always considered himself a hard dangerous man, and he had been all of that, but he was also a man with a love for reliving the old days, sharing a bottle, and talking of the old times. The truth was that Gib, like many another, had never quite grown up. In reliving the old days and replaying the old games, he avoided a hard look at whatever future might lay ahead of him.
It was going to rain again; clouds were gathering over the mountains. Gentry’s cigar had gone out. He stared at it, disgusted, and then turned and walked down the street. Yes, Ben had changed. He cared damned little for his old friends. Somewhere in the back of Gib’s brain a tiny bell sounded its warning, but Gib did not hear it. He was thinking about a drink.
Mike Shevlin followed Burt Parry up the narrow canyon, between occasional trees, clumps of brush, and tumbled boulders or slides of broken rock. When they reached the claim Parry said, “There’s good water at a spring about sixty yards up the canyon, and unless you fancy yourself as a cook, I’ll put the grub together.” “By the time I’d eaten my own cooking the second time, I decided against that.” He stripped the saddle from his horse, and glanced around, but there was little enough to see. Parry’s claim shanty stood on the bench made by the mine’s dump. It was a simple two-room cabin, hastily but securely put together. About thirty feet from it was a small corral, on one side of which was a lean-to shack used as a tool house. Beyond was the opening of the tunnel.
Up the canyon, just visible from where they stood, there was another dump, larger than their own. No buildings were visible there.
“Whose claim is that?” Shevlin asked.
“It’s abandoned. That was the discovery claim for Sun Strike. The gold was found on the mesa right above there, so they decided to drift into the hill from here, but they gave up when they found the ore body lay on the other side of the hill.” When they sat down to eat, darkness was filling the canyon, softening all the harshness of the bleak hills. Shevlin, drinking his second cup of coffee, was listening to the birds in the bottom of the canyon. Suddenly, the sound ceased. Parry was talking, and if he noticed the change he gave no indication of it.
“Many visitors out here?” Shevlin asked.
“The vein seems to be widening out, and I believe in about sixty feet… What was that you said?” “I asked if you had many visitors?” “Here? Why would anybody come out here? They all think I’m crazy to work this claim. I haven’t had two visitors in the past four months.” “How far back does this canyon go?” Parry shrugged. “How the hell should I know?
I never followed it up. About a mile further along it narrows down to just a slash in the mountain.
They say you can touch both sides with outstretched arms. Hell of a mess of rock back in there.” Mike Shevlin got up and went to the door.
He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. It might have been a roving lion, but he had a hunch the birds had shut up because a man was passing.
“When you get up in the morning,” Parry said, “you can muck out that rock I shot down on my last shift. I’ll be riding back into town.” “It’s a prosperous town,” Shevlin commented.
“Less you say about that the better. I stay away from town most of the time, and I never talk about anything but my own claim, or whatever news we hear from out of town.” At daylight, with Parry gone, Mike Shevlin went into the tunnel and settled down to work. He had always rather liked working with a shovel; it had the advantage of giving a man time to think, and he had a lot of that to do.
What it shaped up to was that Ray Hollister had been using the cattlemen as a wedge to get back into power, a power he had been aced out of… and somebody was going to get hurt.
Ben Stowe was no hot-headed, conceited fool like Hollister. He was cold, cruel, and tough in a way Hollister never dreamed of. If Hollister chose to get himself killed, that was his own business, but the way he was headed he would get others killed as well.
Eve believed in Hollister, and it was likely that she was a little in love with him. Babcock was fiercely loyal to Hollister, as he had always been; but had he any idea what Hollister was planning?