Stowe realized now that his contempt for Merriam had blinded him to the depths that might lie within the man. He had been so sure that he was using Merriam, that he had not considered the other side of the coin. Suppose Clagg Merriam had been using him?
He, Ben Stowe, was operator of the mines.
yes. But if suddenly the operation was taken out of his hands, if the governor suddenly sent a corps of investigators into the area, he alone would be sitting in a vulnerable position.
True, Clagg Merriam stood to lose all he possessed if anything went wrong, but Merriam might have some ace-in-the-hole of which Stowe was unaware. And Merriam had been smart enough to plant Burt Parry in a worthless claim where he could watch the gold cache.
Ben Stowe considered his long-range plan for removing Gentry, and then using Clagg Merriam and his share of the gold as a means to establishing himself on a respectable footing in Rafter, and in the state. Folks didn’t look to see how a man came by money, he told himself; they only looked to see if he had it. But he could not feel easy now.
He got up and paced the room, muttering to himself. With a thick finger he reached up and ripped open his shirt collar–the thing seemed to be choking him. Maybe he was playing the fool, with his ideas of respectability. How long could he make it stick without blowing up? He’d be better off to take the half-million and run. Why be greedy?
His eyes narrowed with thought, and he stared at the flame of the coal-oil lamp. Well, why not do it that way?
The gold train would be going over the mountain to Tappan Junction. At the Junction a railroad car was already spotted to receive it, a car that was supposed to be loaded with hides, and was, in fact, partly loaded with them.
Mike Shevlin could take the gold across the mountain if anybody could, and arrangements had already been made on the other side. Stowe had received word that his men were waiting at the Junction.
The car was routed right through to the East, where the gold could most easily be disposed of… or enough of it, at any rate.
Stowe had taken eastern trips before, so no one would be surprised when he took the stage out of town for the railroad, carrying only one bag.
They would all see he was taking nothing with him, and they’d never believe he was cutting out. The more he thought of it, the better he liked the idea. The gold would reach the Junction about the same time he did, and there was never anybody at the Junction but the telegraph operator, or some passing cowhand who stopped by to pick up the news.
He considered the matter with care. He would write a letter of resignation to leave behind, attributing his leave-taking to the unsettled conditions, the unfortunate slaying of Eve Bancroft, and the accompanying events. That way they would have nothing on him, nothing at all. The charges down in the mine would be set off, the drifts that led into the stopes where the high-grade had been mined could be shot down, and all they could ever accuse him of would be quitting his job.
The more he thought of it, the better he liked it.
He would have half a million dollars, and nobody the wiser. There were, of course, a few details to be taken care of.
He called in the men he needed and gave the necessary orders, and after that he went through his desk; all the while he was thinking of Burt Parry. The more he considered the situation, the surer he became that Parry had been posted to watch the gold; and no doubt he was still there, or somewhere close by.
Then his thoughts shifted to Clagg Merriam.
What could he do about him? Even if Parry was eliminated in one way or another, Merriam would be aware within a few days that the gold had been removed, and he would raise hell.
Yet what could he do? To start any legal action would be to reveal his own part in the swindle; and Merriam was not the type to kill. Not, at least, the type to cope with Ben Stowe. So the thing to do about Merriam was simply to do nothing. Let Merriam do whatever he wished, and then Stowe would do what was necessary.
He checked his gun, thrust another into his waist band and shouldered into his coat. It was clouding up again, and looked like rain… so much the better. Fewer people would be riding out on a rainy night, fewer people who might see a train of mules starting over the mountain toward the Junction.
The street was empty when he went out. He stood for a moment, collar turned up against the wind, and then he crossed the street toward the livery stable. Once, on the far side of the street, he turned and looked back toward the lights of the mine. He grinned wryly. “To hell with it!” he said aloud.
Suddenly he felt free; he felt relieved, as if he had dropped a great burden.
There had been no movement in the shadows up the street, and he had seen no one. But he himself had been seen.
Jess Winkler was too canny an old hunter to reveal himself, and he held still in the shadows, his cold eyes watching Ben Stowe. And suddenly, as surely as if he had been told, Winkler knew: Ben Stowe was cashing in. He was checking out of the game, out of the town, and out of the country.
After a few minutes Winkler went to his own horse and followed Stowe at a discreet distance.
At the mouth of Parry’s canyon, Stowe turned in.
“By the Lord Harry,” Winkler muttered, “Ray was right! He’s goin’ to move that gold.” Behind a low sandhill, under cover of greasewood that topped it, Winkler hunkered down to wait and watch. Scarcely an hour had gone by when the first of the mules appeared. Winkler counted forty, some of them probably carrying the grub and outfit for the guards.
He watched them trail off across the country, keeping just off the main trail. He counted nine men in the party, and Ben Stowe was not one of them. But Mike Shevlin was.
“I’d rather it had been Ben,” Winkler said to himself.
He watched them for several more minutes, then went to his horse and rode wide around and headed for Hollister’s camp.
In the first gray light of day, when only an arrow of red had found the clouds above, Mike Shevlin drew up and waved the first man by, with the mules following. He waved them into an opening among the enormous tumbled boulders that were piled all around. The rider hesitated, and started to speak.
“Go ahead,” Shevlin said shortly. “You can’t miss it.” Shevlin tugged his sombrero a little lower on his head and swore softly. The dust had settled around his shirt collar and his neck itched from dust and sweat. He was playing it by ear… he had no real plan–just a vague, half-formed idea that seemed to be taking shape in the back of his mind.
He knew none of these men, although two were the men he had seen inside the mine; but he knew the breed. It was a breed of tough men, men hired for their guns, or for their willingness to use violence, men working here today, and five hundred miles from here next week or the week after. Their bodies lie in many an arroyo, in unmarked boot-hill graves, or churned into mud on the grasslands of Kansas or the Indian Territory.
Some of them were good men, good in the sense of courage and physical ability, but for the most part they were men who sought what they thought of as easy money, although it rarely was. They earned three times as much as the average cowhand, and as a rule they lived a third as long.
He knew their kind, for in a sense he was one of them. The difference was that he had chosen to ride on the side of the law–and when you came down to it, that was quite a difference.
He had deeply ingrained within him a respect for the law, and the need for it. He knew that otherwise life would be a jungle, and he knew, too, that many of those who made out to despise the law the most, found themselves wishing for its protection.
He watched them go by, counting off the burro-loads as they passed, and checking off the men too. Not one familiar face among them, and he had hoped to find at least one. After all, the West wasn’t that big… not as far as population went, and he had ridden a lot of trails. Had he found one man who knew him, he might well have found an ally, and he desperately needed one.