“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” Shevlin said, “but there’s no other way of putting it. Ma’am,” -comhe turned to Laine–“I want you to leave town. I want you out of here on the first stage in the morning, at the latest, but I’d prefer that you’d let me drive you out in a buckboard before daybreak.” “It’s as serious as that?” Clagg asked.
Mike Shevlin outlined the situation as he saw it. He told them what he had done about both Ben Stowe and Wilson Hoyt.
“And the gold?” asked the doctor. “You still don’t know where it is?” “No. I’ve got a hunch, but it doesn’t shape up to much. Only I think they’ll make a break to get it out of here. I think they will figure it had better go now, for they may not get another chance any time soon. And they won’t.” “I will not go.” Laine Tennison spoke firmly. “I have business here, and I refuse to be run out of town. I shall stay right here and see it through.” “Now listen–was Mike began.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shevlin.” She smiled suddenly. “I think you knew all the time that I wouldn’t go, although I know you had to try…. No, I shall stay.” She glanced at his cup. “Mr. Shevlin, you aren’t drinking your tea.” He gulped it down, burning his mouth a little, and wanted to swear, but refrained.
“You do not know who is in this with Stowe?” Clagg asked.
“I have an idea.” “Clagg Merriam?” Shevlin looked hard at Dr. Rupert.
“That’s who I had in mind.” “So had I,” Clagg said, and added, “My remote cousin has always been well off. But I know he has been strapped for money for some time now, and he is not the man to mortgage anything unless the return promises to be more than adequate.” For a few minutes, nobody spoke. They sipped their tea in silence, and then Laine said, “Mr. Shevlin, I am afraid I am going to discharge you.” “Why?” “You mustn’t risk your life for me.” He grinned at her. “Ma’am, you’ve made a mistake. I am not risking it for you, but for ten per cent of half a million dollars, and for Eli Patterson.” His eyes twinkled. “Although I’d say if I was planning on risking my life for anybody, you’d be about the prettiest reason I could find.” Laine flushed, but she was not to be turned aside. “A foolish reason, Mr. Shevlin.
A girl would want a live man, not a dead one.” “We have simple feelings out here, Miss Tennison,” Shevlin said. “We’re not a complicated folk. If a man wants to be bad or mean out here in the West, there’s not much to stop him if he’s big enough and tough enough to get away with it.
“On the other hand, if a man is honest it is because he wants to be. It isn’t like back east, where there’s the law and all. Out here there’s mighty little gray, it is black or white, because there’s no restraint, not even much in the way of public opinion–except as to cowardice or the value of a man’s word.
“And when it comes to a fight, a man can’t walk away from it if he’s made it his fight. Not and continue to live in the West. You would want a live man, I’m sure, but you’d also want one who lived up to what he believed. Ma’am, I think this here is my fight now, just as much as it’s yours, and I don’t want a dime of your pay.” He got up and took up his hat. “I’m going out there now and build the biggest fire anybody ever built. I’m going to bust everything wide open and scatter the pieces so far Mr.
Ben Stowe will never be able to put them together again.
“I’m not a smart man, Miss Tennison, so I’m going to charge in, head down and swinging.
You just keep out of the way.” Brazos was dozing in his chair when Shevlin came up to the door of the stable. Startled, the old hostler stared up at him.
“You see Gib Gentry? He started out your way, a-huntin’ you.” “I didn’t go out there.” Shevlin glanced up the dark street, then stepped into the stable, away from the light. He had left his horse a few yards up the street in the shadows.
“Brazos, where does Mason live?” he asked.
Brazos looked at him slowly, carefully, then indicated an alley across the street. “About a hundred yards back of that alley, in a long shack with three windows on this side. You can’t miss it.” “Thanks,” Shevlin stepped outside.
“He won’t be alone,” Brazos spoke after him. “Deek Taylor will be with him.” Deck Taylor was a tough man, a very tough man.
Mike Shevlin mounted his horse and rode across the street and up the alley. He stopped near the long cabin and got down. He went up to the door and tried it. It did not open, so he put a shoulder against it and smashed in.
“Who the hell is that?” Mason’s voice said sleepily.
Shevlin stood to the right of the door, listening.
He had heard a sharp cessation of breathing somewhere ahead of him. “Strike a light,” he said. “I want to talk.” But at the same moment he struck a match himself, and saw a coal-oil lamp on the table before him. Lifting the still warm chimney, he touched the match to the wick. Mason had his head lifted and was blinking at him.
Shevlin looked toward the other occupied bunk.
Deek Taylor, a lean, lantern-jawed man with hard eyes, was there and he was looking at Shevlin with no pleasure.
“I’m talking to him,” Shevlin said, jerking a thumb at Mason. “Are you in this or out of it?” “Well, now, that depends.” “Not a damn bit, it doesn’t. You speak up now. If you’re in it, you can have a belly full. If you’re out of it, you keep your trap shut and lie quiet and you won’t get hurt.” “Hurt?” Taylor swung his legs to the floor. “Well, now–was As his feet hit the floor, Mike Shevlin grabbed the front of his long-johns and jerked him up out of the bunk. As he jerked, he swung a rock-hard fist. Taylor tried to straighten up, he tried to turn, but the fist smashed him on the jaw, and again in the face, then jerked him back to meet the punches. A hard slug in the belly pushed him into a corner.
“If you’re smart,” Shevlin said, “you’ll lie quiet and hope I forget about you.” He turned toward Mason. The gambler was staring, white-faced, and wide awake now.
“Say, who the hell–his” And then Shevlin’s face was in the light, and for the first time Mason saw who the visitor was.
“Mike! Mike Shevlin!” “Sure.” Mike dropped on the edge of Taylor’s bunk, glancing once toward the man with the bloody face who lay sprawled in the corner. “You should have known I’d be back, Mase. Now you tell me: Who killed Eli Patterson?” Mason had picked up the stub of a cigar and he tried to strike a match to it, but the match broke. He tried again, his hand shaking. Mason had never been a brave man.
“Now, Mike, you know I–was “Mase,” Shevlin said quietly, “you saw what just happened to Taylor. I’d have to work you over a damn’ sight worse, and I haven’t got time. Tell me who killed Eli, and then you can ride.” He struck a match and held it to Mason’s cigar.
“Gentry,” Mason began, “he–.” “Gentry took the blame, and he lied. Now you tell me who he lied for. You tell me, Mase, and you’ve got a running start.” He gestured toward the street. “You got any idea what’s going on out there tonight?” he went on.
“Hollister’s back. He’s got the ranchers with him. They’ll come in and they’ll get hell shot out of them, but Stowe will get hurt, too. Then Hoyt and me, we’ll pick up the pieces.” He wished it would be that easy. Ray Hollister’s timing was always bad, and it would be this time too. And Hoyt might not make up his mind fast enough, which would leave somebody in the middle holding a handful of deuces.
And that somebody would be Mike Shevlin.
CHAPTER 9
Mason hesitated, his lips trembling. He remembered Mike Shevlin, but this was a different man from the one he had known. This Mike Shevlin was bigger, stronger, tougher. He was a man of decision, and Mason had just had an object lesson in that. What Taylor might have done had he gotten into action was not the question, for he had been put out of action swiftly and efficiently. And Mason was no Deek Taylor.