When he had gone only a few feet he saw where the horse had dug in hard and taken off on a hard run. The rider must have been at that point when he heard the shots.
Shevlin was almost on the edge of town, still following the tracks, before he caught sight of the rider. It was Laine Tennison.
She pulled off to the side of the trail and waited when she saw him coming.
“Scare you?” he asked.
“Was that you back there?” “Uh-huh. I was one of them.” She looked at him searchingly. “What happened?” “There was a man named Lon Court. Been around for years. He hires out to big cattle outfits or anybody who has killing they want done. He was laying for you.” “And you stopped him?” “Don’t make a lot of it. I was on his list, too.” “You… you killed him?” “Ma’am,” Shevlin said dryly, “you never get far talking things over with a man holding a gun. And this here man wasn’t much given to talk.” “What’s going to happen now?” “As a result of that? Well, when a man like Lon Court dies nobody cares much. Not in this country, in these times.
“As to what will happen, I wouldn’t know.
We’re going to ride into Rafter, you and me, and this time you’re going to stay there with the Claggs, and don’t leave there or I’ll quit the whole thing. I can’t be running around looking after you, with everything else I’ve got to do.” The streets were strangely empty when they came into town. After leaving Laine at the Claggs’, Mike Shevlin rode to the sheriff’s office.
Wilson Hoyt looked up sourly, and with no welcome. “All right, what’s your argument?” “I just came in to report a shooting. Lon Court is dead.” Hoyt knew the name. He turned the idea over in his mind, growing angrier by the minute.
“Who the hell brought him in here?” he said.
“Somebody who wanted Laine Tennison killed. Somebody who wanted me killed, and who killed Gib Gentry by mistake.” “You think Court killed Gentry?” “The only man who was supposed to be riding that trail that night was me,” Shevlin said.
“Only Gentry was coming to see me–to warn me, in fact.” Wilson Hoyt considered this. He put it together with a few other facts. Gib Gentry had been drinking the night before he was killed, but that was not unusual, for Gib had been hitting the bottle a lot these last few months.
Hoyt had, in his slow, methodical, yet thorough way traced Gentry’s movements.
Nobody had anything to conceal and they trusted Hoyt, as they had, for the most part, liked Gentry. Gentry had been a rough-and-ready but free-handed man who made no enemies. The last man who had spoken to Gentry was Brazos, when Gib got his horse, and Gib had definitely been riding after Shevlin.
What disturbed Hoyt was the knowledge that just before Gentry went to the stable for his horse he had a brief talk with Red, and then Red had ridden off out of town. Shortly after, Gentry had gone for his horse.
“Lon Court hadn’t been in town,” Hoyt said. “I didn’t even know he’d been in the country. If I had, I’d have run him the hell out of it.” “Lon Court never rode a mile without being paid for it,” Shevlin said. “Who do you think stands to gain by having me killed? By having Laine Tennison killed?” “Where does she fit into th?” “Somebody thinks she might be an owner.
Clagg Merriam learned the other night that she had wealthy connections in Frisco. The Sun Strike is owned in Frisco.” “They wouldn’t murder a woman.” “You forget mighty quick. What about Eve Bancroft?” “That was a mistake.” Wilson Hoyt looked up at Shevlin sharply. “Clagg Merriam? What the hell has he got to do with this?” “He’s the man behind Ben Stowe.” Hoyt’s little world of certainties was toppling.
“Like hell!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Merriam scarcely knows Ben–and he’s a respected man.” Mike Shevlin did not feel like arguing with him.
He would leave it to Hoyt’s solid common sense. He was tired, but there was much to be done.
He leaned over the desk. “Hoyt,” he said, “your nice playhouse is ruined for good, and you might as well look at it straight.
Maybe you can pull this town out of the hole it’s in… maybe you can’t. I figure most of these folks–even those who’ve been shutting their eyes to what goes on–are good folks, given a chance.
“But Eve Bancroft is dead, and that’s getting to them. They won’t stand still for it, the way I see it. All you’d have to do would be to get up and make a stand, and you’d have them behind you. If you don’t, your rep as a town pacifier is finished, because there’ll be more killings.” “You said Court was dead.” “Do you think he would have to do it all? I know Ben, Hoyt; I’ve known him a long time.
He’s a mighty tough man, grown tougher with years, and he plays hard. Believe me, they got Gib by mistake, but I’d lay a bet he was on the list to die… after he’d done his job for them.” It made sense, of course. Wilson Hoyt was a man of no illusions, and once he faced the situation he would see the thing straight. Like many another man, he faced the fact of change reluctantly. He had had two good years in Rafter, relatively peaceful years, and although he must have known the situation could not last, he had been willing to go along with it. His own job was to keep the peace, not to be a guardian of morals… that was the way he had allowed himself to think.
But now he could no longer stand aside. He had made a move; he had averted the calamity of a street battle between miners and cattlemen–and Eve Bancroft had been killed. He had believed it was over then, but here was Mike Shevlin, assuring him it had only begun.
Lon Court was dead, but that had happened out of town, and was not his concern. The presence of Lon Court was, for somebody within the town had brought him here.
And now Shevlin had brought Clagg Merriam into the picture. Hoyt hated to think Merriam was involved, yet in the back of his mind he must have sensed it all the time. His surprise had been purely vocal… within himself he had felt no such surprise. A man could not move around such a small town without knowing a great deal that was not on the surface.
“All right, Mike,” Hoyt said at last, “I’ll see what I can do.” He looked up with sudden discouragement.
“Hell, Mike, what’s a man to do? I figured this was my place to roost. I thought I’d dug myself in for life.” “Maybe you have. Look at it this way, Hoyt. You straighten up this mess, straighten out the town, and with no more fuss than necessary, and you may be home. They may want you to stay.” Wilson Hoyt nodded slowly, doubtfully.
As Shevlin walked out, Hoyt stared bleakly across the street at nothing at all.
Ben Stowe pushed the heavy ledgers away from him and pulled open the drawer where he kept his cigars. He selected one, bit off the end, and lit up. Then he sat back and put his feet up on his desk, inhaling deeply. He exhaled the smoke slowly and stared out of the window toward the mountains.
Clagg Merriam was right. They would have to ship some gold. Their working capital was finished. Without cash from somewhere, they could buy up no more gold; and when they stopped buying they would lose control, once and for all. When gold was shipped from the town through business channels, questions would be asked, men would come flooding in.
The deals for the mines must be closed at once, but there had been no response from San Francisco since his last offer. were they investigating? And if so, who?
Clagg Merriam, he knew, was worried about Laine Tennison, the pretty girl over at the Doc’s place…. Well, Lon Court would take care of that.
Ben Stowe scowled with irritation. That damned Gentry! He would have to go riding out just when Court was expecting Mike Shevlin. Ben was not in the least disturbed by Gentry’s death, for the time had been appointed… but he had needed him to handle the gold shipment first.
With Gib Gentry dead, all his nicely arranged setup was spoiled. Moreover, who did he know who could be trusted with that much gold?
Above all, trusted not to talk, and trusted not to let it be taken away from him?
He could handle it himself, but the town needed a tight rein right now, and he dared not be away. And most important, the offer might come from the mine owners, and he must act promptly.