Old Jack came out to the horse camp to hear Mike’s account of the shooting, for the rustler had been brought to headquarters draped over a saddle.
Moorman saw the burn on the boy’s arm from a bullet that just missed.
“He told me to take out runnin’ and to keep my trap shut about things that didn’t concern me.
Said I’d live a lot longer. I told him I rode for the brand, and rustlin’ Turkeytrack stock concerned me a-plenty.
“He grabbed for his gun, only I taken my time and he didn’t. He got off the first shot, and he missed.” “Boy”–Moorman shifted his big body in the saddle–“y wore that gun when I first saw you, and I figured you were young for it, but you’ve worked two years for me and this is the first time you’ve ever dragged iron. You’re old enough to wear a gun, all right.” At fifteen Mike Shevlin was as tall as he ever would be, and was stronger than most men. He had never known a day of anything but hard work, and was proud that he could work beside men and hold their respect.
From ten to thirteen he had worked beside his uncle on a mining claim, taking his regular turn with single-jack or double-jack. Swinging the heavy sledges had put power in his shoulders and had taught him to hit with his weight behind it.
As a result, when Turkeytrack rode over to the dances at Rock Springs schoolhouse, or over to Horse Hollow, Mike Shevlin won six fist fights before losing one. And he whipped that man the following Saturday night.
When he rode away from the Moorman outfit and started running with Gib Gentry and Ben Stowe, Eli Patterson warned him against it. “They’re a bad crowd, Mike. They’re not your kind.” Now, listening to the rain outside the old mill, he knew again, as he had realized long before, that Eli Patterson had been right. Gentry and Stowe had always run with the wrong crowd; a man is judged by the company he keeps, and so had Mike Shevlin been judged.
“That old man should never have been buried on Boot Hill,” he said. “To him, that would seem the final disgrace. I intend to find out what happened.” “Ask your friend Gentry,” Eve said.
“You take my advice,” Winkler said, “and you’ll light out as soon as the rain lets up. You take out while you’re able.” Shevlin turned his eyes to the girl. “I didn’t get your name.” “Eve Bancroft. I own the Three Sevens.” But Winkler was not to be sidetracked. “You get out,” he said. “I remember you, Shevlin, and that crowd you trailed with, and I’ve heard of you since, and none of it any good. You leave out of here or we’ll bury you here.” Ignoring the old man, Shevlin rinsed a cup and filled it with coffee. His own cup was among the gear of his saddle.
These were cattle people. But the buildings in town were all mining–assay offices, miners’ supplies, even the saloons now had names reflecting the mining business. So why were these people from the cattle ranches meeting here in secret?
Mike Shevlin’s life had been lived in an atmosphere of range feuds and cattle wars, and this meeting had all the earmarks of a preliminary to such trouble. Why else would a pretty young woman like Eve Bancroft, a ranch owner, be meeting here with an old hard-case like Winkler, and whoever it was that was hiding upstairs?
He gulped the hot, strong coffee. “I’ll bunk in the loft,” he said, “and stay out of your way.” He finished the coffee and set down the cup; then he walked over to the ladder. Putting his hand on the rung to start climbing, he felt the dampness of wet mud under his fingers. Somebody was up there, all right, and waiting for him.
Eve started to speak, but hesitated; Winkler just watched him, his hard old eyes revealing nothing.
Shevlin climbed the ladder and lifted the trap with his left hand. Light shone suddenly in his eyes, but he spoke casually. “You pull that trigger, Ray, and you’re a bigger fool than I thought.” He pushed the loose trap door aside, then went up through the hole and kicked the trap shut without taking his eyes from the two men who waited there for him.
Ray Hollister looked older than he should have, and thinner than Shevlin remembered him. There was bitterness and frustration in the lines around his eyes and mouth, lines that Shevlin did not remember. Ray Hollister had found himself to be a smaller man than he wished to believe, and he hated it.
The other man, Babcock, was a thin, patient man of few loyalties, but they were loyalties grimly held. He believed in Ray Hollister and he believed in cattle; and of the two men, Shevlin was sure Babcock was the more dangerous–an impression that would have both surprised and infuriated Ray Hollister.
“Who told you I was here?” Hollister demanded. “Was it Eve?” “They were expecting you in town, so when I saw four horses in the stable and realized somebody was hiding here, I knew it simply had to be you.” “I’m not hiding! I’ll be damned if I am!” “Who’d you shoot at?” Babcock asked.
“The man who followed him.” Shevlin nodded to indicate Hollister, whose boots were still muddy.
“Whoever it was thought I’d caught him, and he took a blast at me.” “Nobody followed me!” Hollister exclaimed sharply. “They don’t even know I’m in this part of the country!” “Gentry knew,” Babcock reminded him.
“Gib’s all right. He’s cattle.” “Is he?” Babcock asked skeptically.
“You’d better be almighty sure.” Hollister was on edge and belligerent. He had always been a fool, trying to spend with the spenders, gamble with the sharpers, test his strength with the strongest. Sooner or later he would get himself killed, and others with him. Mike Shevlin wanted nothing between himself and Hollister but distance.
“I hear Gentry killed Eli Patterson?” Mike said it like a question.
The atmosphere of the loft altered in some subtle fashion. With years of violence and tension behind him, Mike knew when he had touched a nerve, and he had now.
“Never did figure that out.” Babcock was honestly puzzled. “It wasn’t like Eli to carry a gun.” “Whoever says he carried a gun,” Shevlin replied shortly, “lies. Eli was a Quaker, and he lived by it.” “You can’t be sure of that,” Hollister protested.
“I knew him.” “The hell with that! You never know a man until he’s pushed. All right, you came here to sleep, so sleep. We don’t want any argument.” Shevlin walked to a pile of straw, pulled some out and scattered more over it, then lay down with his slicker stretched over him.
As he relaxed he thought of Eli Patterson. Patterson had lived by his code, and so must Shevlin live by his, different though they might be. In the last analysis it was all a man had to live by. Patterson, a man of peace, had died by the gun. It remained to see how Shevlin would die. This was what he was thinking as his eyes closed. And this was in his mind when he awakened to broad daylight and an empty loft.
He climbed down the ladder and stirred the few coals into a fire. Someone had been considerate enough to leave the coffeepot among the coals. The coffee was hot as hell itself, and black as sin.
Well, now that he was here, what was he to do?
What could he do but what he had always done? He would bull his way in, worry the ones who had something to cover up, and force them into some kind of a move. When men moved hastily they often made mistakes..
He would start with Mason. He saddled up and rode into town.
When he stalled his horse at the livery stable he ignored the hostler who sat tipped back in a cane-bottomed chair chewing the stem of an ancient pipe. He was a thin old man with a narrow face and shrewd blue eyes that told nothing.
Shevlin walked to the door of the stable and stood there, lighting a Spanish cigar. As his hands cupped around the match, he spoke without turning his head. “You’re a long way from home, Brazos.” “This here’s home, an’ don’t you be a-spoilin’ it for me!” “All I want is information.” “In this town? That’s the last thing you’ll get.
This here town is scared. Ever’body rollin’ in money, an’ ever’body scared.” “Have you heard the name of Jack Moorman?” Shevlin asked.
“That’s one of the things scares ’em. Seems he was beat to death in the street one night, but nobody seen it, an’ nobody believes it.” “Any talk about it?” “Not no more. On’y once in a while somebody gets liquored up. Seems ever’body in Rafter suddenly set out to get rich, an’ the on’y two honest men in town got stiff-necked about it. Moorman was one of ’em, so he got himself killed… handy-like.” “And the other was Patterson?” “Inquest ruled it a fair shootin’,” Brazos said, “but nobody paid much mind.