The little Texan had punched cattle in here two seasons and knew the area better than most.
Painted Rock was the usual cow town. A double row of weather-beaten, false-fronted buildings, most of which had never been painted, and a few scattered dwellings, some of logs, most of stone. There was a two-story hotel and a stone building, squat and solid, whose sign identified it as the Painted Rock Bank.
Two buckboards and a spring wagon stood on the street, and a dozen saddle horses stood three-footed at hitching rails. A sign ahead of them and cater-cornered across from the stage station told them that here was the National Saloon.
Gill swung his horse in toward the hitching rail and dropped to the ground. He glanced across his saddle at Caradec.
“The big hombre lookin’ us over is the redhead Bo didn’t like,” he said in a low voice.
Rafe did not look around until he had tied his own horse with a slipknot. Then he hitched his guns into place on his hips. He was wearing two walnut-stocked pistols, purchased in Frisco.
He wore jeans, star boots, and a buckskin jacket.
Stepping up on the boardwalk, Rafe glanced at the burly redhead. The man was studying them with frank curiosity.
“Howdy, Gill,” he said. “Long time no see.” “Is that bad?” Gill said, and shoved through the doors into the dim, cool interior of the National.
At the bar, Rafe glanced around. Two men stood nearby drinking. Several others were scattered around at tables.
“Red-eye,” Gill said, and then in a lower tone, “Bruce Barkow is the big man with the black mustache, wearin’ black and playin’ poker. The Mexican-lookin’ hombre across from him is Dan Shute’s gunslingin’ segundo, Gee Bonaro.” Rafe nodded and lifted his glass. Suddenly, he grinned. “To Charles Rodney!” he said clearly.
Barkow jerked sharply and looked up, his face a shade paler. Bonaro turned his head slowly, like a lizard watching a fly.
Gill and Rafe both tossed off their drinks, and ignored the stares. “Man,” Gill said, grinning, his eyes dancing, “you don’t waste no time, do you?” Rafe Caradec turned. “By the way, Barkow,” he said, “where can I find Mrs. Rodney and her daughter?” Bruce Barkow put down his cards. “If you’ve got any business,” he said smoothly, “I’ll handle it for em!” “Thanks,” Rafe said. “My business is personal, and with them.” “Then,” Barkow said, his eyes hardening, “you’ll, have trouble! Mrs. Rodney is dead. Died three months ago.” Rafe’s lips tightened. “And her daughter?” “Ann Rodney, was Barkow said carefully, “is here in town. She is to be my wife soon. If you’ve got any business-was “I’ll transact it with her!” Rafe said sharply. Turning abruptly, he walked out the door, Gill following. The little cowhand grinned, his leathery face folding into wrinkles that belied his thirty-odd years.
“Like I say, Boss,” he chuckled, “you sure throw the hooks into “em!” He nodded toward a building across the street. “Let’s try the Emporium. Rodney used to trade there, and Gene Baker, who runs it, was a friend of his.” The Emporium smelled of leather, dry goods, and all the other varied and exciting smells of a general store. Rafe rounded a bale of jeans and walked back to the long counter backed by shelves holding everything from pepper to rifle shells.
“Where can I find Ann Rodney?” he asked.
The white-haired proprietor gave him a quick glance and then nodded to his right. Rafe turned and found himself looking into the large, soft, dark eyes of a slender, yet beautifully shaped girl in a print dress. Her lips were delicately lovely. Her dark hair was gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She was so lovely that it left him a little breathless. She smiled, and her eyes were questioning. “I’m Ann Rodney,” she said. “What is it you want?” “My name is Rafe Caradec, was he said gently. “Your father sent me.” Her face went white to the lips and she stepped back suddenly, dropping one hand to the counter as though for support.
“You come-from my father? Why, I-was Bruce Barkow, who had apparently followed them from the saloon, stepped in front of Rafe, his face flushed with anger.
“You’ve scared her to death!” he snapped. “What do you mean, comin” in here with such a story? Charles Rodney has been dead for almost a year!” Rafe’s eyes measured Barkow, his thoughts racing. “He has? How did he die?” “He was killed,” Barkow said, “for the money he was carryin’, it looked like.” Barkow’s eyes suddenly turned triumphant. “Did you kill him?” Rafe was suddenly aware that Johnny Gill was staring at him, his brows drawn together, puzzled and wondering. Gill, he realized, knew him but slightly and might easily become suspicious of his motives. Gene Baker also was studying him coldly, his eyes alive with suspicion. Ann Rodney stared at him, as if stunned by what he had said and somehow uncertain.
“No,” Rafe said coolly, “I didn’t kill him, but I’d be plumb interested to know what made you believe he was dead.” “Believe he was dead?” Barkow laughed harshly.
was I was with him when he died! We found him beside the trail, shot through the body by bandits. I brought back his belongings to Miss Rodney.
“Miss Rodney,” Rafe began, “if I could talk to you a few minutes-was “No!” she whispered.
“I don’t want to talk to you! What can you be thinking of? Coming to me with such a story? What is it you want from me?” “Somehow,” Rafe said quietly, “you’ve got hold of some false information. Your father has been dead for no more than two months.” “Get out of here!” Barkow ordered, his hand on his gun. “You’re torturin’ that poor young lady!
Get out, I say! I don’t know what scheme you’ve cooked up, but it won’t work! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this town while the goin’ is good!” Ann Rodney turned sharply around and ran from the store, heading for the storekeeper’s living quarters.
“You’d better get out, mister,” Gene Baker said harshly. “We know how Rodney died. You can’t work no underhanded schemes on that young lady. Her pa died, and he talked before he died. Three men heard him.” Rafe Caradec turned and walked outside, standing on the boardwalk, frowning at the skyline.
He was aware that Gill had moved up beside him.
“Boss,” Gill said, “I ain’t no lily, but neither am I takin’ part in no deal to skin a young lady out of what is hers by rights. You’d better throw a leg over your saddle and get!” “Don’t jump to conclusions, Gill,” Rafe advised, “and before you make any change in your plans, suppose you talk to Tex about this? He was with me, an’ he knows all about Rodney’s death as well as I do. If they brought any belongin’s of his back here, there’s somethin’ more to this than we believed.” Gill kicked his boot toe against a loose board. “Tex was with you? Durn it, man! What of that yarn of theirs? It don’t make sense!” “That’s right,” Caradec replied, “it don’t, and before it will we’ve got to do some diggin’. Johnny,” he added, “suppose I told you that Barkow back there held a mortgage on the Rodney ranch, and Rodney went to Frisco, got the money, and paid it in Frisco-then never got home?” Gill stared at Rafe, his mouth tightening. “Then nobody here wouldknow he ever paid that mortgage but Barkow? The man he paid it to?” “Mat’s right.” “Then I’d say this Barkow was a sneakin’ polecat!” Gill said harshly. “Let’s brace him!” “Not yet, Johnny. Not yet!” A horrible thought had occurred to him. He had anticipated no such trouble, yet if he explained the circumstances of Rodney’s death and was compelled to prove them, he would be arrested for mutiny on the high seas-a hanging offense!
Not only his own life depended on silence, but the lives of Brisco, Penn, and Mullaney.
Yet there must be a way out. There had to be.
Rafe Caradec stood there in the bright sunlight he began to understand a lot of things, and wonder about them. If some of the possessions of Charles Rodney had been returned to Painted Rock, it implied that those who had returned them knew something of the shanghaiing of Rodney.
How else could they have come by his belongings?
Bully Borger had shanghaied his own crew with the connivance of Hongkong Bohl. Had he taken Rodney by suggestion? Had the man been marked for him? Certainly, it would not be the first time somebody had got rid of a man in such a manner. If that were the true story, it would account for some of Borger’s animosity when he had beaten Rodney. No doubt they had all been part of a plan to make sure that Charles Rodney never returned to San Francisco alive, or to Painted Rock. Yet believing such a thing and proving it were two vastly different things. Also, it presented a problem of motive. Land was not scarce in the West, and much of it could be had for the taking. Why, then, people would ask, would Barkow go to such efforts to get one piece of land?