Hiding out in wild country is not as simple as it may seem, for a man must be in the proximity of water. Andfora man who does not wish to be seen, that means a water hole that is off the line of travel, and out of the area covered by drifters or cowhands working the range. Such a man must have not only water, he must have freedom from observation, easy access to and from his hide-out, and especially a good field of observation to watch anyone who might be approaching.
Such places were few in this region. The need for water limited them drastically, for water was scarce, and most places where it could be found had been settled on. There were only a few other places that remained, and Mike Shevlin believed he knew them all. As he rode he took them one by one and examined them with care, and when he had ridden six miles he had eliminated all but one.
Boulder Spring was not as remote as such places usually are; it was only off the beaten track. Moreover, in that particular area, water was not scarce. Anyone riding to Boulder Spring from any one of three directions must cross a small stream, and in the fourth direction there was a good water hole. It was the perfect hide-out, and there was no reason for anyone to go there at all.
It lay several miles off the travel routes in a huddle of low ridges and hills, a patch of heaped-up, sun-burned boulders, browned by time and the wind and sun. Around them lay an acre or so that was flat sand grown up with a little mesquite, a little cholla, and some cat-claw. On the ridges juniper grew.
In among the rocks, and not easily found, was a cold spring of very good water. Wind blew through the rocks and over the spring, so the air right at the water was always cool, and often cold.
In under the boulders were several low caves where a man might bed down, and each of them had more than one approach. On low ground nearby, in the open but actually difficult to see, were places where a man might leave a couple of horses.
Most of the Rafter range that lay in this direction had been abandoned since the mines started up and old Jack was killed, and few riders would be rustling around near Boulder Spring.
Though Lon Court might have holed up at any of the other spots, Mike Shevlin was gambling that Boulder Spring was the place.
Next he reviewed the little he knew of Lon Court. The man was not a gunfighter–he was a killer. He hunted men the way old Winkler hunted wolves; he stalked them, and killed them when he could do so safely. That did not imply the man was a physical coward, and Shevlin was sure he was not. To Lon Court killing was a business, and he took no chances on being wounded or being seen by his victims or by anyone else. The very nature of his calling depended on being unknown.
To secure his own safety, Mike Shevlin knew he must find Lon Court before the killer found him, but there was little time, for he must also find the gold.
He was sure that Gib Gentry had been deliberately set up in the freighting business so the gold could be shipped with maximum security and a minimum of talk, and now that Gentry was out of the picture, who would take over? Who would handle the shipment? And might they not direct every effort toward getting the gold out of the country while they could?
He had tried to stir things up so that Ben Stowe would be forced to make a move, yet now Stowe might settle right back and wait, for he was a canny man, and not one to be hurried.
Suddenly, the horse’s ears came up sharply. Shevlin slowed his pace a little, searching the country.
He stopped none too soon, for even as his own mount became motionless, a rider emerged from a draw about two hundred yards off. He was a tall man riding a long-legged grulla, a tough, mouse-colored mountain horse. The man wore a narrow-brimmed hat and a nondescript gray coat. And he was following a trail.
Shevlin’s position was excellent. His horse had come to a dead stop, half sheltered by boulders, stunted juniper, and low brush. He spoke softly to his horse, and sat his saddle, waiting.
The man held a rifle in his right hand, and he rode slowly, checking the trail from time to time.
He was surely following someone, following with great care, and it was Shevlin’s guess that the man’s quarry was not far ahead of him. And at the same instant Mike Shevlin realized with startling clarity that this was Lon Court.
He was as positive of it as if the man had been identified by a pointing finger. Everything about him filled the picture Shevlin had made from bits he recalled hearing; coupled with this was the man’s presence here, and his manner.
Mike Shevlin slid his rifle from its scabbard and let the rider take a little more lead.
Then he started his own horse down the trail after him.
CHAPTER 12
He left the trail to his horse, hardly daring to shift his attention from the man ahead of him for a moment. He would get only one chance if Lon Court saw him, for the man would shoot– instantly, and with accuracy.
Who was the man following? Obviously it was someone only a short distance ahead, or he would be riding with greater speed. He was keeping his eyes on the trail left by the rider, and he too was taking no chances.
The man’s horse, the nondescript clothing -comnei of them stood out. He merged into the background of desert and boulders, so that at a greater distance than he was from Shevlin he would have been scarcely visible.
The day was warm. Sweat trickled down Mike Shevlin’s neck, beaded on his forehead. He shifted his hands on the Winchester and dried his palms on his shirt front. By now Court was slanting up the hill, as if about to top out on the crest.
Court dismounted and, rifle in hand, moved to the top of the ridge. He was casing his rifle to his shoulder when suddenly he seemed to freeze, his attention riveted on something beyond the ridge.
Mike Shevlin’s horse was in sand now, walking carefully and making no sound, and Shevlin was closing the distance between them, drawing steadily nearer the sniper on the ridge.
When still perhaps sixty yards off, Shevlin drew up and dismounted, trailing his reins. He desperately wanted to know what lay beyond that ridge, to see who it was that Court was stalking, but there was no possibility of that.
Lon Court was as dangerous as a cornered rattler, and never so dangerous as he would be now, if caught in the act. Only his concentration on his job had permitted Shevlin to come so close as this.
The warm air was still. The only sound was a cicada singing in the brush near the road.
Shevlin, careful not to start a stone rolling to warn Court, worked his way silently along the slope.
Then he paused and, choosing two small pebbles from the gravel near his feet, he flipped one at Court’s horse. The grulla jumped and snorted.
Lon Court whipped around as quick as a cat, looking toward the horse.
“Over here, Lon!” Lon Court wheeled and fired in the same instant, but he fired too soon. His bullet was a little high, but Mike Shevlin’s was more carefully aimed. Pointed for the middle of Court’s chest, it struck the hammer on the rifle and deflected upward, ripping Court’s throat and jaw.
Desperately, Court tried to work his rifle, then he dropped it and grabbed for his six-shooter.
He was on his feet, standing with them slightly apart, the old narrow-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. His yellow mustache showed plainly.
Shevlin stepped off to his right and fired again, the bullet turning Court, whose shot went wild.
Court brought his gun back on target just as Shevlin fired his third shot, putting it right through Court’s skull.
Mike walked up to the dead man and looked down at him. He felt no regret or pity.
Lon Court had chosen his path with his eyes open, and must have known that someday it would end just as it had. In his time he had killed a lot of men, and now he lay dead himself, killed by one of those he had been sent to get.
Returning to his horse, Shevlin mounted up and went over the ridge. In the valley beyond there was a dim trail, an old trail. On it he found the tracks of a horse, and followed them.