What they might have done had Hoyt not been there, Shevlin could not guess. Hoyt could stop them, as he never could have stopped Eve, for to lift his hand against a girl, a decent girl, was unthinkable to a man of Hoyt’s stripe. And Ben Stowe, solid, unshaken, still sat his throne in the center of the community.
Shevlin’s thoughts returned to Gib Gentry.
Without a doubt, Gib had been riding to warn him when he was killed, and without a doubt he had been killed mistake for Shevlin. Somebody had been lying in wait, and by now that somebody knew he had killed the wrong man.
Each time Shevlin wheeled a load to the end of the dump, he took his time to breathe in plenty of the fresh air, and to look around. It was very quiet.
Parry had gone off again, and Mike was alone at the claim, but there was work enough to keep him busy until mid-afternoon, barring the unexpected.
He wondered what effect Eve’s death would have on the people of Rafter. They were not all bad–in fact, they were no worse than most people in most towns. Perhaps a few more had been willing to go along than would usually be found, but there must have been some dissenting opinions, even though the people who held those opinions had kept still.
Such fear as he had seen in Rafter could not continue very long. The people were wary, they doubted every stranger; they lived with the worry that at any moment the house they had built would come tumbling about their ears.
He was working close against the face of the drift, scraping up the last of the rock, when it came to him.
Lon Court.
Of course. He had heard the name. Gentry had scratched Lon C into the sand before he died, and Shevlin remembered that he had once heard talk of Lon Court, a killer, a man who worked for big cattle outfits, or anyone else who had need of his services. A mysterious, solitary man who could be hired to kill. He was just such a man as Ben Stowe would have hired.
Undoubtedly Court had scouted the mining claim. He might even now be lying up on the lip of the canyon across from the tunnel mouth, and with every barrow of rock Shevlin had wheeled out he had been a sitting duck.
There was no longer any hesitation in Mike Shevlin, for he knew now what he must do. He must get out of the tunnel and get to his guns, and he must get out of the canyon, which was a death trap with a man like Court stalking him. And then he must find Court and kill him.
There was no alternative, no other way possible, for Court would never quit once he had undertaken a job. He, Mike Shevlin, must hunt the hunter, stalk the killer, and he must kill him.
He put down his shovel. The last barrow could stand where it was. There was, of course, a chance that Lon Court was not waiting on the hill opposite; he certainly would not be unless there was an easy escape from it. Trust a killer like Lon Court to take no unnec risk.
Shevlin went as far along the tunnel as he could without getting into the sunlight, and then he squatted down and peered out, keeping well in the shadow. By squatting, he could see the rim without going further. He stayed there and studied it for a long time.
No brush grew on the rim, and there were no boulders, no spot where water had cut into the rim and made a place where a man might lie concealed. Flattening himself tight to the wall, Shevlin worked his way to the tunnel mouth. Then he emerged quickly and went toward the cabin, making three sudden turns for objects in his path, turns sufficient to make timing his movements awkward for anyone watching. Once inside the cabin, he stripped off his shirt, washed his chest and shoulders, then combed his hair, and belted on his gun. He thrust a second six-shooter into his waistband and took up his rifle.
The black horse was picketed on the grass near the spring, but the killer must descend into the canyon to get a good shot at him there. Mike Shevlin did not think Lon Court would take such a gamble.
He went to his horse, took the saddle from a shelf in the rock close by, and saddled up. The horse tugged toward the run-off stream, so while he let the gelding drink, Shevlin listened.
That canyon worried him, and he recalled the sudden cessation of sound from the birds that he had noticed. Something–and he was sure it had been a man–had walked up that canyon in the late afternoon.
Leaving the black with trailing reins, he went down to the bottom of the canyon and worked his way across it. Here and there were the tracks of small animals… a porcupine or badger whose tracks were somewhat smudged… many quail tracks… the tracks of a prowling coyote… and on the far side where a dim trail wound under the rim, the smudged tracks of a tall man’s boots.
So someone had gone up the canyon. The tracks were a day or two old; but searching further, he found other, more recent ones.
He had turned to go back to his horse when he happened to look down the canyon. Standing on the old dump–the place Parry had said was the discovery claim of the Sun Strike–was Parry himself. He held a rifle, and he was staring down the canyon toward the claim.
Gathering the bridle reins, Shevlin started along the path from the spring to the claim. He watched Burt without turning his head toward him, striving to appear unaware of the other man’s presence.
Suddenly, Parry heard him, and turned sharply. He held his rifle ready, and Shevlin was himself poised to drop to one knee and fire, if it came to that. He had no idea why Parry might decide to shoot, but the other man’s oddly secretive manner made him wary.
Parry spoke. “I was looking for you.
Did you finish up at the claim?” “Sure… all but the last wheelbarrow. I just played out, figured to go in after it later. You been in town?” Parry’s eyes searched his. “There was hell to pay. Why didn’t you tell me?” “Well, I knew Eve. She offered me a job, you know, and I was kind of upset over it.
Just didn’t feel like talking about it. Besides, I figured you knew.” They walked back to the claim. Burt Parry’s open, casual manner returned.
“Too bad,” he said; “she was a pretty girl.” Mike Shevlin paused. “Burt,” he said, “have you ever been in a western town when a good woman got killed?” “No… why?” “You’ve got something to learn. Even when any kind of a woman is killed or hurt, I’ve seen a town go wild. Believe me, there’s a lot of talking and thinking, and checking of hole cards going on in that town and in all the Rafter country right now. This ain’t over–not by a long shot.” Parry’s brow furrowed, but then he shrugged.
“Hell, I’m out of it. I’ve never mixed in their squabbles.” “That won’t cut any ice. Vigilantes have a way of lynching the wrong folks. You ever hear of Jack Slade? He got drunk on the wrong night and raised a lot of hell, so when they started lynching the Plummer gang they just hung him, too, on general principles.” Parry scowled, and rubbed his jaw. They paused at the cabin. “You riding in?” “Uh-huh.” Mike let his eyes scan the rim with a swift but careful glance. “And I may just scout me a quick way out of this country. I might decide to tuck in my tail and run.” He had no such intention, but he trusted no one any longer, and it was just as well to keep his plans to himself. And he had several things to do that might keep him out of town.
Rafter Crossing lay in a shallow valley, with the Sun Strike Mine occupying a bench south of the town; further back and somewhat higher was the Glory Hole. The ridges were timbered, except for the one where the mines were located, but in the low country there were no trees except along the infrequent water courses.
Here were cottonwoods or low-growing willows.
Mike Shevlin had punched cows over this country for several years, which was to say that he knew it intimately. When a cowhand hunts strays, gathering stock for a roundup or a cattle drive, he works every draw, every canyon. Soon there’s not an inch of the country he hasn’t seen, or that hasn’t been described in detail by other cowhands. But today Mike Shevlin was not hunting strays, he was hunting a man.