“Hey!” came a voice that was muffled.
“Pull him off me! He smells worse’n a hide-skinner.” Mike swung down and, catching the wolfer by the buckskin jacket, lifted him up. The other man crawled up from where he had been sprawled between two fallen trees, wedged in by the dead wolfer’s body. He was scarcely more than a boy.
“He come at me when I got up after jumpin’ him, an’ I wasn’t set for it. I went over backwards, just a-holdin’ that knife.” “You held it in the right place,” Mike said.
He looked with no regret at the fierce old man, cold and dangerous as any of the wolves he had hunted so long. “Are you hurt?’ “Scratched.” “Better go through their pockets and see if there’s any addresses. They’ll maybe have kinfolk who’d wish to know.” “They’d of had us,” the boy said, “hadn’t been for you coming a hellin’ down that slope.” He thrust out his hand. “They call me Billy the Kid.” Shevlin grinned at him. “That makes four of them I’ve met–and you aren’t Bonney.” “I ain’t Claiborne, either. My name is Daniels.” Mike Shevlin walked his horse back to where Ray Hollister lay, and he sat looking down at him. “I’ll tell them where you are, Ray,” he said, “and if there are any who see fit to bury you, they can ride up and do it. We haven’t the time.” As he looked at him, he was remembering him all down the years. When he had first known Ray Hollister he had a good working ranch, but he was never satisfied… he had gotten a good woman killed, and a few men, and now he lay there, come to it at last.
“String ’em out!” he yelled at the men with the mules. “We’ve got ten miles to go!” Babcock had been disarmed, and his arm was bound up and in a sling. “You goin’ to bury them?” he said to Mike.
“Who’s got a shovel?” Mike asked. Then he added, “Bab, if you want to stay here and bury them, you can.” Babcock stared at him. “I never figured you for a unfeeling man,” he said.
“I lost a lot of feeling the night Eve Bancroft died. I didn’t like her, but that girl would have ridden a-blazin’ into hell for Ray Hollister, and he let her go alone.” The mules were strung out and Billy Daniels was up ahead, riding point.
“What you goin’ to do with me?” Babcock asked.
“Hell, I’ve got no place for you, and nothing against you except damn’ poor judgment in bosses. Ride along with us, and when we hit the flat you cut out for Rafter.” “Rafter?” Babcock was incredulous. “With this arm? I’d go through hell a-gettin’ there!” “What do you think’s waiting for us down there at Tappan Junction, Bab?” Shevlin said quietly. “I figure you’ve had yours.” They rode on a few steps, and then Mike Shevlin said, “Ben Stowe’s waiting down there.
He’s waiting for us.”
CHAPTER 20
Two miles short of Tappan Junction the narrow trail played out, and they could see ahead of them the two buildings of the settlement in the bottom of a great basin. The twin lines of steel came out of the west and vanished into the east.
At Tappan there was a corral with a chute for loading pens, a water tank for the trains, a combination saloon, post office, and general store, and across the tracks, the telegraph office.
Adjoining the office was a waiting room with two windows, furnished with a single bench and a pot-bellied stove.
No horses were in sight, but there wouldn’t be– they would be in the pens. Several cattle cars and one boxcar were standing on a siding.
Mike Shevlin, weary from his long ride, stared across the flat through the drizzling rain. It lacked an hour of sundown, and darkness would come early, with that cloud-covered sky.
Beside him, drawn and pale, rode Babcock.
He had lost blood, he sagged with weariness; he was not going to make it through to Rafter Crossing.
He knew it now, and so did Mike Shevlin.
Only an iron will and a rawhide body had brought him this far. He needed rest and care, and they were down there waiting for him, just beyond a full-scale gun battle.
“This makes it my fight, Mike,” he said.
“I’ll ride in with you.” “Bab, what do you suppose Ben Stowe would do if you rode in there now… alone?” Babcock tried to think it through. His brain was fuzzy, and it required an effort to assemble his thoughts. “Damned if I know. He’d probably ask me what happened, then he’d either shoot me or leave me be.” “You ride in there, Bab. Tell him anything he wants to know. I’m betting he’ll want to know everything you can tell him, and I don’t believe he’ll shoot you. Ben Stowe only kills when he thinks there’s a good reason–you’re out of this now, and he’ll see it plain enough. Tag Murray is down there, and he’s pretty good with a wound, better than some doctors I know. You ride on in.” Babcock hesitated, and glanced back at the mule train. “What about them, Mike? They’re Ben’s hired gunmen.” Shevlin looked at him wryly, then dug into his pocket for a cigar. It was a fresh one, and he enjoyed lighting it. “Bab,” he said, “unless I miss my guess, one or more of those boys are supposed to salt me down while we’re crossing the flat out there. Unless Ben is saving me for himself.
“I said Ben Stowe only killed when there was good reason, but I’ll make two exceptions to that -comRay Hollister and me. He’d take pleasure in killing either of us.” “You and him were mighty thick, one time.” “Stowe and Gentry were thick; and Gentry and me, we rode saddle partners a while. But Stowe never liked me, and I never liked him.” “Mike… look there!” It was Billy Daniels who had come up to them. “That there rider on this side, that’s a woman!” Also, one of the men who had carried a pick-handle that day in the mine, had also come up.
“That’s Red on the paint–where would he get a woman?” “Hell!” Billy spat. “That’s that Tennison girl. Nobody else rides sidesaddle with the style she’s got!” Babcock glanced at Shevlin. “So there you are,” he said. “Now are you goin’ to ride in there, hell a-whoopin’?” “Go on in, Bab,” Mike said again.
“Tell him anything he wants to know, and don’t you worry none about me.” Babcock still hesitated. “Mike, I ain’t up to much, but damn it, man, you’re cattle!
I’ll ride in there with you, or I’ll cover your back, whatever you’re of a mind to.” Shevlin put a hand on Babcock’s shoulders. “Go on in, Bab,” he repeated.
Babcock touched a heel to his horse and went off across the grass.
“What’s the matter with him?” Billy Daniels asked. “What was he figurin’ to do?” Mike Shevlin stepped his horse around, and they were all there, facing him, with the gold train just beyond.
His eyes went from one to another, curiously, somewhat mockingly. “Why, he just figured one of you boys was about to shoot me in the back. He figured Ben Stowe had put you up to it. How about it, boys? Any of you want me? If you do, you don’t need to wait.” His Winchester was in the boot, his slicker was hanging open and loose, and both his hands were in sight.
There were five of them, and they were spread out before him like a hand of cards, all jacks or aces, not a deuce in the lot.
These were hard men, who rode a hard trail in a hard country, and he faced them, waiting. One showdown at a time, he told himself. When I ride up to Tappan Junction, I want to keep my eyes up front.
Billy Daniels moved his hands out in front of him and folded them on his saddlehorn. “The way I see it, you fought beside us back there. You came down off that slope when you didn’t need to, and you saved our bacon–some of us, anyway.” “Why, sure!” Also agreed. “That man down there is payin’ our wages, but this looks a mite different.” “You want help?” Billy said.
“No help… you just leave me ride down there and talk this over with Ben. I mean, we go in with the pack train, but the rest of it is up to Ben and me, and whoever’s down there with him.” “Why that’s fair enough,” Also commented. “I hear tell Ben Stowe is something to look at with a gun. I’d sort of like to see the cut of the man I’m workin’ for.” “Thanks, boys. Bring in the train, will you?
But look, stay clear of Ben Stowe and me, and if you see that lady in trouble, give her a hand.