The town was rich and suspicious and frightened. It was afraid of losing its riches, it was afraid of being exposed, and yet every one of them probably knew the lid was about to blow off.
Somebody had killed Eli Patterson and Jack Moorman, then had moved in and taken control. Undoubtedly all reports leaving town went from Ben Stowe’s office. The shift bosses would be carefully selected henchmen of his.
Everyone in town, in one way or another, had a stake in keeping things as they were.
There was, of course, Wilson Hoyt.
If there was one man Shevlin hoped to have on his side it was Hoyt, and so far as he knew, Hoyt was incorruptible. He was a man of simple purpose. His job was to insure peace in the town, and that he intended to do. Hoyt, Shevlin was sure, had no hand in what was going on, although he might be aware of it. He would make no stand unless somehow it affected his work.
While Mike’s mind was busy with these thoughts, he kept working with his shovel. Now he wheeled his loaded wheelbarrow to the end of the plank runway and dumped it. As he turned around to go back, he saw Eve Bancroft ride her horse up on the dump.
“You’re wasting your time,” she said. “There’s no high-grade there.” “I was beginning to guess as much.” He sensed her dislike, and wondered why she had come.
Her eyes seemed to tighten a little. “Mike, we want you on our side.” He put the wheelbarrow down and straightened up. “You’re choosing up sides? What for?” He pushed his hat back and wiped away the sweat with the back of his hand. “You don’t think shooting a few miners will stop them, do you?” She repressed her animosity with difficulty. “When this fight is over this will be cattle country again, and nothing but cattle.” “You can’t drive pigs from a trough with a switch.” “Ray thinks different.” “Hollister always tried taking in too much territory, but he’s not that much of a fool.” Her fury flared. “Ray Hollister was a big man here before, and he will be again! Now that he’s back, things will change!” “Eve,” Shevlin said patiently, “Hollister will get you hurt. He was never a big man anywhere, and never will be. He just can’t cut the mustard. Years ago, when you were just a child, Ray Hollister had a good ranch that could have kept him comfortable for the rest of his days, but it wasn’t enough for him.
“He wanted to be top dog. He hung around Jack Moorman, and when Jack spat, Ray spat twice as hard; when Moorman grumbled, Ray swore. Well, he tried to be bigger than he was cut out to be, and they ran him out of the country. This time they’ll bury him.” “You’re jealous! You were always afraid of him!” “Ask him about the whipping I gave him out at Rock Springs. The truth is, Eve, that nobody was ever afraid of Ray.” She wheeled her horse, her features rigid with anger. “I’ve tried for the last time! You leave the country, Mike Shevlin, and leave it fast!
You’ve had your chance.” Regretfully, he watched her race her horse down the canyon. She was a pretty young woman, but Ray Hollister had convinced her, and she was one of those who could never see the other side of any question…. Ray was not so old, when you came to think of it. He would be about thirty-eight now, and Eve Bancroft was twenty or so. And that much of a spread in ages was not uncommon in the West…. or in other places, for that matter.
The trouble was that Ray Hollister, driven by a blind fury to realize his ambition, would get somebody killed. All the way along the line Ray had missed the boat, and to a man of his ego that was intolerable. He was striking out frantically now in desperation and bitterness. If he had ever thought of anyone but himself, except those successful people he had formerly idolized, he certainly was thinking of no one else now. Not even of Eve.
As Shevlin worked at the muck pile in the hot end of the drift, sweat pouring from him, it came to him suddenly that there was a way to stop all this.
If the richness of the mines could be brought into the open, suddenly exposed, then Ben Stowe and his crowd would have nothing to fight for, and it would stop Ray Hollister too.
The news that the mines were rich would immediately destroy any chance of Stowe or any of his crowd buying the mines. It would bring in a rush of outsiders, and further buying of high-grade would have to be curbed. And the ranchers would realize, no matter what Hollister might say, that the mines were not about to be abandoned.
But how could he, Mike Shevlin, bring that about?
Nobody would accept the word of a drifting cowhand with a bad reputation. He must have evidence, concrete evidence in the shape of high-grade ore. Moreover, he must locate the cache where the high-grade was hidden. If he did not do this, the thieves would certainly take the gold and escape when their thefts were disclosed. And in such case, Laine Tennison would be defrauded.
By the time Mike had mucked out the drift it was mid-afternoon. Right at the face it was easier, because Burt Parry had gotten a sheet of boiler plate from someone and had placed it on the floor of the drift before firing his shots and bringing down the muck on top of the sheet. This was old practice in the larger mines, but you found little of that sort of thing in such prospect holes as Parry’s.
Mike lined up various lengths of drill steel near the face; then he came out of the drift and carried water up from the spring for a bath.
While he washed he had water getting hot on the stove, and when he had finished he made coffee and a sandwich. He would have a good meal in town, but he knew from long experience that a man was foolish to start out for anywhere without eating something… too many things could happen.
And when he got to town he was going to see Wilson Hoyt first thing.
CHAPTER 5
Wilson Hoyt sat behind his battered roll-top desk, his feet propped up, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Mike Shevlin walked in, and acknowledged his presence with a brief nod and no show of pleasure.
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said bluntly. “What is it?” “I’m going to blow the lid off, and I want you on my side.” Hoyt picked up the stub of his cigar and carefully ground it out before throwing it into the cuspidor. He should have known this job was too good to last.
Slowly and in detail, Mike Shevlin laid out the situation as he saw it. Ray Hollister was in that part of the country, and he had the cattlemen solidly behind him. The water of the creeks was being polluted, and the cattle needed that water. They would attack, the cattlemen would, and that meant killing and burning.
Ben Stowe would fight back, but regardless of who won, the town would lose. And, he added, Ben Stowe was robbing the mine owners.
“They don’t live in Rafter,” Hoyt said cynically, “so it doesn’t matter.” He bit the end from a fresh cigar. “How do you think it can be stopped?” “Arrest Stowe. Arrest Mason and Gentry.
Slap every man of them in jail, then go into the mines and get enough high-grade for evidence.” “What about Hollister?” “Forget him. Bring in the five top ranchers and put them under bond to keep the peace. Then let Hollister stew in his own juice.” “They’re outside my jurisdiction.” “Not if you want to act. Nobody really wants this trouble but Hollister. He’s a sorehead.” Hoyt chewed the cigar thoughtfully, then took his feet down from the desk. “Now you listen to me.
Nobody asked me to stop high-grading. I was brought in to keep the peace, and I’ve kept it.
Now you come in here and try to tell me my business.
“If Ray Hollister starts anything, I’ll kill him, and that goes for you as well. Ben Stowe won’t start anything, because he needs peace and quiet. If you try to blow the lid off this town you’re likely to get killed. And even if you started something, you couldn’t prove a thing.
“Let me tell you something,” Hoyt went on.
“All the high-grade ore comes out of one area between the two mines. At the first sign of trouble, the drifts leading to the stopes where that high-grade ore has been found will be blown up and sealed off.