Mike Shevlin, crouching, his legs cramped and aching, heard their footsteps retreating down the drift. He waited for what he felt was a safe time, and then, with great care to make no sound, he straightened up, took up his cap, and walked to the manway. All was dark and still down below.
Softly, he went down the ladder and tiptoed along the drift.
Far down the tunnel he could see two bobbing lights. After waiting until they disappeared, he crept forward. With gun in hand, he deliberately looked toward the cross-cut where he had seen the rifle muzzle. It was gone.
Scrambling up the pile of muck, he peered over behind it. There was a snug nest among the rocky debris that had been pitched into the tunnel, and scattered here and there among the rocks were crumbs and bits of food. Someone had been waiting here for quite some time; perhaps, by the look of the place, for days or even weeks.
Where had this person gone? Had he slipped away down the drift while Ben Stowe talked to Laine? It seemed to be the only explanation, for if the heavy door had been opened it would surely have made some sound, or some change in the draught of air moving through the mine.
At the opening of the tunnel, his light snubbed out, Mike Shevlin paused and waited, listening, but he heard no sound.
He stepped outside, and not until he was beside his horse did he allow himself to take a long, deep breath of the clean, fresh air. It was good to be alive… very good indeed.
And then he thought of Laine Tennison. Ben Stowe was a sharp customer… how long would he be fooled? Or was he fooled at all?
Perhaps even now.
CHAPTER 16
Mike Shevlin checked his Winchester and shoved it down in the boot. Then he started his horse down the canyon. He was thinking that the man behind that muck pile in the cross-cut must have been Burt Parry. Not a word had passed between him and Ben Stowe… did Stowe know he was there?
And then Shevlin went on to think of his real problem. How could he get the gold from behind that door? First, he would have to get rid of Burt Parry, somehow; and if Parry had been chosen to guard that gold he must be a more salty customer than he appeared to be.
With Parry out of the way, the door would have to be blasted open, or cut open with an axe… and then what? A half-million in gold, if that was what there was in there, is not a matter to be handled with ease. Gold is heavy, and a half-million isn’t something you put in your pocket.
Darkness was upon him now; the stars came out, and a low wind blew from off the sagebrush levels where the cattle grazed. Somewhere ahead of him were Laine Tennison and Ben Stowe.
Eve Bancroft, Gib Gentry, and Lon Court were dead, all killed since he had arrived in town, and yet the problem of the gold was no nearer a solution. Ben Stowe still sat snugly in his office, surrounded by his miners, who were gunfighters.
And back of all this was the major mystery: Who had killed Eli Patterson?
Lights were shining in the windows when Shevlin rode into town. He stalled his horse, and started over to the Bon Ton. He was dead-tired, and hungry. No matter what, he was going to eat now, and then he was going to his room in the Nevada House and get some sleep.
He got to the boardwalk and started toward the door of the restaurant, when it opened suddenly and Burt Parry stepped out. When he saw Shevlin his face seemed to stiffen.
“You! Shevlin!” His voice was brusque, and even as he spoke he was putting his hand in his vest pocket.
He held out several coins to Shevlin. “Your wages. I’m going to quit the claim.” Before Mike could speak he turned his back on him and strode away, walking swiftly.
Puzzled, Shevlin opened the restaurant door and stepped inside. Tom Hayes was there, a man whom he knew by sight, and at a table in the far corner sat Clagg Merriam.
Merriam glanced up, but looked away quickly.
Mike Shevlin ordered his meal, and gratefully drank his coffee. It was hot, black, and strong. Suddenly the door opened and Ben Stowe came in. He shot a glance at Merriam, then went over to where Tom Hayes sat.
“I didn’t know you and Doc Clagg were such friends, Tom,” Stowe said quietly. “Heard you were seeing him today. Or are you sick?” “Poorly.” Hayes’s face was haggard.
“I been feelin’ poorly.” “Too bad. I figured it was something like that.
Well, what else can you expect? A doctor is usually dealing with people who live unhealthy lives.” Stowe slapped Hayes heavily on the back. “Don’t worry about it, Ben. What’s a little stomach-ache when so many people are dying?” Ben Stowe’s eyes shifted to Mike Shevlin, and he crossed over to his table. “Mind if I sit down, Mike?” he said genially.
Hayes got up and left the restaurant hurriedly, and Stowe looked after him, contempt in his eyes.
When he was seated, Stowe took out two cigars, held out one to Shevlin and lighted the other for himself.
“Mike,” he said, “I’ve been giving it some thought. We were pretty close in the old days, you and me, and with Gib gone I’m going to need a man.” His voice lowered. “I’m going to need a man who has guts and a gun. But one who won’t stampede.” “You’re talking,” Shevlin said. He was so tired that he felt he could hardly keep his eyes open.
“I figure a man can always use some money, and you were one who could take it when the chance offered.
What would you say to stepping into Gib’s shoes at the express company?” Their voices were so low that it would not have been possible for anyone else to hear them. The offer seemed to be dropped casually by Stowe, but he added, almost as an afterthought, “There would be a tidy bit coming after this is all over. Gib worked for it, but now he won’t be with us, so why shouldn’t you pick up where he left off?” “I wouldn’t want to end up like Gentry did, Ben.” Stowe brushed off the suggestion with a wave of the cigar-holding hand. “You can take care of yourself.
Anyway, I need you. I needed Gib, for that matter. His getting shot was all a mistake.” Shevlin looked up at Stowe. “You’re damn’ right it was, and I know just what kind of a mistake.” Ben Stowe chuckled. “Figured you did. But look, Mike, we’re playing for big money here. You can’t blame a man for covering all the angles. Now with Gib gone, things are different.
I need you. Gib’s end could have come to that freight line, plus half a million dollars.
half a million dollars, Mike! How long is it going to take you to make that much money?” Mike Shevlin was thoroughly awake now. “Just what has to be done to make that kind of money?” he asked.
Stowe held his cigar in his hand. “Mike, I’m going to level with you. After all, you’ve been up the creek and over the mountain, and you can read sign as well as the next man. I need somebody to handle some freight shipments, somebody tough enough to take those shipments through–regardless of what happens.” “You think I can do it?” “Like nobody else. Better than Gib, even.” “Do you think somebody will try to stop a shipment?” Stowe leaned his big forearms on the table.
“You’re damn’ tootin’, I do. Where do you think Ray Hollister is right now?” Weariness was creeping over him, but he forced his mind to consider Stowe’s offer, an offer so astonishing he could scarcely believe it. The gold was to be placed right in his hands. He wouldn’t have to look for it; he would have it in his charge–but under the suspicious guns of Ben’s gunmen.
Half a million dollars… that would be better than ten per cent of half a million.
Undoubtedly some would be in cash; the rest of the half-million to come from later mining.
He would be a rich man, free to do as he chose, and no strings attached. Of course, Ben Stowe planned to have him killed, but two could play at this game. Suppose he killed Ben Stowe?
He would have all the gold for himself.
He looked at Stowe. “Ben, it sounds like a good deal. You let me sleep on it.” He got up from the table and went towards the door, where he paused a moment. “After all, where else would I get a chance at that much money?” After he had gone, Stowe stared at the door, an ugly look in his eyes. “He’s lying,” he said; “that two-by-four gunfighter is lying. He thinks he can outfigure me. Well, I’ll show him… but first, he’ll take that gold out for me.” He spoke aloud, but not loudly enough to be heard by either Clagg Merriam or the waitress. He sat there alone for several minutes, studying the case in all its aspects. He could find no alternative. Hollister was out there somewhere, and he was the kind who would have to be killed, sooner or later. Hollister never knew when he was whipped, or when he had no chance of winning. Moreover, Hollister, fool that he was in personal relations, was shrewd enough when it came to figuring the angles; and Babcock was with him.