Suspicion was not a normal attitude for Babcock. He was a man who did his job, whatever it was, did it simply and directly, and with no nonsense, nor did he allow any nonsense from anyone else.
The handling of cattle was not only his job, it was his vocation; it was the biggest part of his life, and aside from the problems of cattle, nothing had ever seemed important for any length of time. He was always concerned with range conditions, water supplies, noxious weeds, and the amount of beef that could be packed on a steer’s frame.
From the hour of rising, usually before sunup, until dusk or after, he lived, breathed, and thought cattle. If Babcock ever dreamed, it was only of greener pastures, clearer water, and a short drive to market. He had never taken time out to consider Ray Hollister as anything but a boss who permitted him freedom in the job he knew best; but now the ugly thought was growing in him that Hollister might actually have been involved with Ben Stowe.
The arrival of Jess Winkler had interrupted his thoughts. He had a sort of respect for the wolfer, but had never liked him, for, as is often the case, the hunter had taken on some of the qualities of the creature he hunted. Winkler could not approach anything–a strange camp, a house, a person, or an idea–without circling warily and sniffing the breeze from every angle. He was a man with the suspicions of a wolf. He had trapped, so he feared traps.
Winkler had held a rough affection for Eve Bancroft, but he had considered her too notional, too feminine. He did not trust Hollister, and he also did not trust Babcock, nor anybody else he could think of at the present time. He was a hard old man whose rifle was an extension of himself.
It had not yet occurred to him that his stake in the game had gone with the death of Eve Bancroft. The idea of taking gold away from the mining outfit appealed to him, and gave direction to his days, at least for a little while.
Two days later, Halloran and John Sande rode in, and as Babcock had promised, they were ready. Winkler would ride in to town to nose about and see what he could discover. The others, after some discussion, decided upon a rendezvous at Boulder Spring. It was close enough to Rafter, had good grass and water, and yet was out of the way.
All was quiet at Parry’s claim cabin when Mike Shevlin returned. But Parry was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any indication that he had been around the place for hours. Mike went back into the mine tunnel, but no further work had been done there.
Suddenly feeling uneasy, he came back to the cabin. The canyon was utterly still.
unnaturally so.
Seated on a bench outside the cabin door, Mike Shevlin cleaned and oiled his Winchester, and then his pistols, working steadily, but with one of the guns always at hand and in operating order.
Carefully, he sorted over in his mind all he knew of Burt Parry, and it was very little.
Where did Burt Parry go when he left the claim. Shevlin wondered. The question had been at the back of his mind, but now for the first time he brought it out into the open to consider.
He certainly had not gone to town, though he had ridden in that direction. Aside from the fact that he had disclaimed any interest in the difficulties of the people around Rafter, and had even disclaimed any interest in the gold or the high-grading, he had said very little. However, one thing stuck in Shevlin’s mind. The first time he had seen Parry in the caf@e, he had been in conversation with Clagg Merriam.
That in itself need not mean anything at all.
Parry seemed a man of some education, appeared to be of eastern background, and he might have some things in common with Merriam.
Shevlin glanced up the canyon now, his eyes resting on the dump at the mouth of the old tunnel -comthe discovery claim, Parry had said.
Coming back to his mind was Hoyt’s comment that the high-grade lay between the two mines, and that at the first hint of discovery the approach tunnels would be blasted shut. Those explosives should be found and removed, but that was not up to him. First, he must find the cache of gold bullion.
Feeling restless, he wandered back into Parry’s tunnel, considering the idea of drilling a round of holes. He scanned the walls, and realized for the first time that the rock showed no evidence of minerals, no quartz, nothing at all but ordinary rock.
Returning to the outside, he backed off to the edge of the bench and studied the slope above the mine.
He saw no promising outcropping, nor any sign of work; yet Parry’s ore was supposed to have been located by a find somewhere on that slope.
Suppose there was no ore there? Suppose this operation, this mining claim of Parry’s, was a fake, a blind, just a useful cover for some other operation? What, then, would it be? An investigator of some kind? It was possible. Or… suppose Parry was put here to watch something?
Suppose during those mysterious absences he was keeping guard over something?
Mike Shevlin sat down on the bench and lit a cigar. Suppose, then… suppose just for the sake of argument that Burt Parry was guarding the gold itself. Was he guarding it for the combine? Or for one of them against the others?
Stifling his excitement, Shevlin began to consider this new possibility. Actually, it was of no importance to him just why Parry was watching the gold, if that was what he was doing. What was important was the obvious fact that if he was watching the gold it must be close by. The mining claim must have been located just where it was for a reason.
Parry always went down the canyon, but did he continue in that direction? Or did he return under cover of the brush in the canyon bottom?
Shevlin had once seen him standing on the dump at the mouth of the old discovery tunnel.
The old discovery tunnel! He got up, his mouth suddenly dry. Suppose ?
He turned away sharply, and picked up his rifle. No use saddling his horse. The tunnel was only a few minutes walk up the canyon.
He had not reached the spring when he heard a clatter of horse’s hoofs on the trail from Rafter. He hesitated, swore softly, then turned around, and retraced his steps.
As he got to the cabin, the rider came into the open area on the bench. It was Red… the miner with whom he had had trouble the day he arrived in Rafter.
“Get your horse,” Red said abruptly.
“Ben Stowe wants to see you!” Mike Shevlin looked at him calmly, then took the stub of the extinguished cigar from his pocket and put it between his teeth. He struck a match with his left hand and lifted it to light the cigar.
“If Ben Stowe wants to see me, he knows where to find me.” Red looked surprised. “You want me to tell him that?” “You tell him whatever you’ve a mind to.” Red stared at him. “I got a damn’ good notion to take you in,” he said.
“All right,” Shevlin replied, “go ahead.
You take me!”
CHAPTER 14
Red hesitated a moment, then backed down.
“The hell with it! If you don’t want to come, that’s your hard luck. I’ll tell Ben.” He wheeled his horse and started away, muttering to himself. From the top of a rise in the narrow trail he glanced back. Mike Shevlin was gone. “Now where the devil–his” Red drew rein and turned in his saddle. Where could Shevlin have gone so suddenly? As far as that went, where had he been coming from when he rode up?
He had acted surprised, and he had seemed hurried.
Red pulled his horse over against the rock wall where they would be less visible, and he watched the canyon for some time. Then he saw a figure appear on the dump of the old discovery claim.
It was Mike Shevlin, and he vanished into the tunnel.
When several minutes passed and he did not emerge, Red swung his horse and cantered off toward town.
All was quiet when he rode up the street.
Hoyt was standing in front of his office, and Doc Clagg was walking along with his sister and that Tennison girl who was visiting them.
The door of Ben Stowe’s office was locked, so Red went across to the Nevada House, where he found Stowe eating.
“He wouldn’t come,” Red said. “He said if you wanted to see him, you knew where he was.” Surprisingly enough, Ben Stowe did not seem angered at that. “All right,” he said mildly.