Across the street and down a few doors, a man stepped out to the edge of the walk and looked across at Shevlin. Mike knew that look, that attitude. The man was suspicious.
To be a stranger in this town, an unaccounted-for stranger, was enough to excite fear. Mike Shevlin’s every instinct warned him he was in danger, danger increasing with every minute. These people had been parties to theft and had turned their eyes from murder… and they would turn their eyes from another.
There were too many pairs of new boots, too many expensive saddles here; too many men had ivory- or pearl-handled guns. Somebody had been shrewd enough to let a whole community get its fingers sticky. By simply looking the other way while the miners high-graded a little gold, the men who operated the mines had made the townspeople accomplices to their own theft.
Each buyer of high-grade, each tradesman who accepted it over a counter, took a portion of profit from the transaction, and because it was known by all to be stolen gold, they took a higher profit than usual.
Eli Patterson and Jack Moorman were dead, and they were men Mike Shevlin had respected. Each in his way had been kind to the lonely, half-starved boy who rode his crow-bait of a horse into town. Each in his own way had helped to make him a better man than he had any right to be…. Some things Mike Shevlin had told no man.
It was true he had worked with his uncle on a mining claim, but it was a miserable claim that made them a living, no more. And then there had come the day when the roof caved in, burying his uncle under the mountain.
The boy who was Mike Shevlin had walked away, leading his horse down the mountain because it was in bad shape to carry him over the rough terrain.
The mine tunnel was a fitting grave for his uncle, and he lay buried there with the hopes he had never quite lost.
Of his father, Mike had never talked. He had been killed out on the plains by men who found him selling whiskey to Indians. His mother had died a few years later in a miserable shack on the edge of town, a far-away cow town. But she had taught him a few things: to make his own way in the world; to accept nothing he had not earned.
That had been little enough on which to build a life until, after leaving his uncle’s claim, he had come to Rafter and met Eli Patterson, and afterwards Jack Moorman. Instinctively he honored these men who stood staunchly by what they believed. The thought of these men was in his mind now.
The Bon-Ton Restaurant, just down the street, was still Open. Mike crossed over and went down the walk. Opening the door of the restaurant, he stepped inside.
The coal-oil lamps with reflectors behind them filled the room with light. There were several unoccupied small tables, and two long tables covered with white cloths, for family-style meals. A sideboard covered with glasses and stacks of plates stood against the wall; on its right a door opened to the kitchen.
Three men, apparently miners off shift, sat together at the end of the nearest table. At the far end of the other table sat two men, one in the rough clothes of the frontier, the other in a well-tailored dark gray suit.
Shevlin dropped to a seat on the bench at the nearest table, admiring the smooth expanse of white linen. The last time he had eaten in this restaurant the tables were covered with oilcloth.
The waitress brought him coffee, and over it he began to consider the situation. He must talk to Mason. He felt a curious reluctance to meet Gentry… after all, the man had been his comrade, they had worked and fought side by side.
Now he thought that Gentry might become his enemy, and he did not want that.
But Gentry must be protecting somebody. If he had not killed Eli himself–and Brazos’ evidence implied he had not–he knew who had killed him.
But why should Gentry go out on a limb to protect someone else? Who was that important to him? It was unlike Gentry to take credit for another man’s killing… especially the killing of Eli Patterson.
As Mike Shevlin drank his coffee, he looked at the two men at the other table. The man in the tailored suit looked familiar, but Mike’s attention was diverted by one of the miners at his own table. He was a stocky, red-headed man, who had been staring hard at Mike, trying to attract his eyes.
“You’ve come to the wrong town,” the miner said suddenly; “we ran all the cattlemen out of here long ago.” Mike Shevlin smiled pleasantly. “I’m double-action–cattle or mines. I can swing a single-jack or double-jack as good as the next man.” “Where’d you ever work in the mines?” “All over the country. Silverton, Colorado… down in the Cerbat Range in Arizona… over at Pioche and Frisco.” “They’re full up here. Nobody hirin’.” “Doesn’t look like I’ll find a job, then, does it?” The redhead was trouble-hunting. The type and the pattern were familiar. There was one in every town, always trying to prove how tough he was.
sometimes there was more than one. And they were rarely the really hard cases. They had nothing to prove.
Deliberately, Mike kept his tone mild.
He understood the pattern and accepted it, but if Red wanted to push trouble he must do it on his own.
He would get no trouble from Shevlin. There was trouble enough without that.
At the other table the man in frontier clothes looked around. “If you’re a miner, I can use you,” he said. “I’m Burt Parry– I’ve got a claim in Cottonwood Canyon. If you’re serious about a job, meet me at six-thirty for breakfast here, and we’ll ride out.” Parry got up from the table. “I’ll have those figures for you, Mr. Merriam,” he said to the man in the gray suit. “I’ll have them tomorrow or the day after.” He paused by Shevlin’s table. “Tomorrow morning, six-thirty… right?” “I’ll see you,” Shevlin said. “I’ll be here.” The waitress placed a dish of food before him, and he picked up his knife and fork.
Merriam, the man had said. That would be Clagg Merriam. Mike had seen him only once or twice in the old days, for Merriam was often out of town. He was a bigger man than Mike remembered, with a strong face and a smile on his lips that did not reach to his eyes.
The redhead moved down the table opposite Shevlin. “You didn’t tell him your name,” he said.
“He didn’t ask,” Shevlin replied mildly.
“Well, I’m asking.” “None of your damn’ business.” Shevlin spoke in such a gentle voice that it was a moment before the meaning got to the redhead.
When he realized what had been said, Red smiled. He wiped his palms on the front of his shirt. Then he stood up very slowly, still smiling, and reached across the table to grasp the front of Shevlin’s shirt.
Shevlin dropped his knife and fork, and his left hand grasped Red’s wrist, jerking him forward.
There was an empty dish on the table that had held mutton. With his right hand Shevlin pushed the miner’s face down into the dish and, gripping Red’s left hand, he coolly wiped his face around in the cold mutton grease.
Abruptly, Shevlin let go and Red came up, half over the table and spluttering with fury.
Shevlin jerked the butt of his palm up under the man’s chin and sent him toppling back over the bench to the floor beyond. During the entire action he had scarcely risen from his seat.
For a second, Red lay stunned, then with an oath he started to rise. A voice stopped him.
“Cut it out, Red! This time you’ve swung too wide a loop. This gent would clobber you good!” Shevlin looked around. There he was–older, of course, and heavier. Yes, and better dressed than Shevlin ever remembered him. His face was puffy, and he looked like a man who was living too well–something nobody could have said of the old Gentry.
“Hello, Gib,” Mike said. “It’s been a while.” Gentry thrust out a big hand. “Mike!
Mike Shevlin!” There was no mistaking the pleasure in Gentry’s voice. “Man, am I glad to see you!” Shevlin took the hand. It was all wrong, he thought. Whatever else Gentry might do, he would not kill a man like Eli. A tough man, Gentry was, even a cruel one at times, but a man who fought with fighting men.
Shevlin was aware of the room’s attention.
Clagg Merriam was watching them, his face unreadable. Red was slowly wiping the grease from his face.
“Come down the street, Mike,” Gentry was saying, “and I’ll buy you a drink for old time’s sake.” Reluctantly, Shevlin got up from the table.