Rafe had Barkow’s signature on the receipt, but that could be claimed to be a forgery. First, a motive beyond the mere value of two thousand acres of land and the money paid on the debt must be established.
That might be all, and certainly men had been killed for less, but Bruce Barkow was no fool. Nor was he a man who played for small stakes. Rafe Caradec lighted a cigarette and stared down the street. He must face another fact. Barkow was warned. Whatever he was gambling for, including the girl, was in danger now and would remain in peril as long as Rafe Caradec remained alive and in the country. That fact stood out cold and clear. Barkow knew by now that he must kill Rafe Caradec.
Rafe understood the situation perfectly. His life had been lived among men who played ruthlessly for the highest stakes. It was no shock to him that men would stoop to killing, or a dozen killings, if they could gain a desired end. From now on he must ride with cat eyes, always aware, and always ready.
Sending Gill to find and buy two packhorses, Rafe turned on his heel and went into the store. Barkow was gone, and Ann Rodney was still out of sight.
Baker looked up, and his eyes held no welcome. “If you’ve got any business here,” he said, “state it and get out. Charles Rodney was a friend of mine.” “He needed some smarter friends,” Rafe replied shortly. “I came here to buy supplies, but if you want to, start askin’ yourself some questions. Who profits by Rodney’s death?
What evidence have you got besides a few of his belongin’s, which might have been stolen, that he was killed a year ago? How reliable were the three men who were with him? If he went to San Francisco for the money, what were Barkow and the others doin’ on the trail?” “That’s neither here nor there,” Baker said roughly.
“What do you want? I’ll refuse no man food.” Coolly, Caradec ordered what he wanted, aware that Baker was studying him. The man seemed puzzled.
“Where you livin’?” Baker asked suddenly. Some of the animosity seemed to have gone from his voice.
“At the Rodney cabin on the Crazy Man,” Caradec said. was I’m stayin’, too, till I get the straight of- this. If Ann Rodney is wise she won’t get married or get rid of any rights to her property till this is cleared up.” “Shute won’t let you stay there.” “I’ll stay.” Rafe gathered up the boxes of shells and stowed them in his pockets. “I’ll be right there. While you’re askin’ yourself questions, ask why Bark ow, who holds a mort gage that he claims is unpd on the Rodney place, lets Dan Shute take over?” “He didn’t want trouble because of Ann,” Baker said defensively. “He was right nice about it. He wouldn’t foreclose. Givin’ her a chance to pay up.” “As long as he’s goin’ to marry her, why should he foreclose?” Rafe turned away from the counter. “If Ann Rodney wants to see me, I’ll tell her all about it, anytime. I promised her father I’d take care of her, and I will, whether she likes it or not! Also,” he added, “any man who says he talked to Rodney as he was dyin’ lies!” The door closed at the front of the store, and Rafe Caradec turned to see the dark, Mexican-looking gunman Gill had indicated in the National Saloon-the man known as Gee Bonaro.
Bonaro came toward him, smiling and showing even white teeth under a thread of mustache.
“Would you repeat that to me, Senor?” he asked pleasantly, a thumb hooked in his belt.
“Why not?” Rafe said sharply. He let his eyes, their contempt unveiled, go over the man slowly from head to foot and then back. “If you was one of “em that said that, you’re a liar! And if you touch that gun I’ll kill you!” Gee Bonaro’s spread fingers hovered over the gun butt, and he stood flat-footed, an uncomfortable realization breaking over him. This big stranger was not frightened. In the green eyes was a coldness that turned Bonaro a little sick inside.
He was uncomfortably aware that he stood, perilously, on the brink of death.
“Was you one of ’em?” Rafe demanded.
“Si, Senor,” Bonaro’s tongue touched his lips. “Where was this supposed to be?” “Where he died, near Pilot Peak, on the trail.” “You’re a white-livered liar, Bonaro.
Rodney never got back to Pilot Peak. You’re bein” trapped for somebody else’s gain, and if I was you I’d back up and look the trail over again.” Rafe’s eyes held the man. “You say you saw him. How was he dressed?” “Dressed?” Bonaro was startled and confused.
Nobody had asked such a thing. He had no idea what to say. Suppose the same question was answered in a different way by one of the others? He wavered and was lost. “I-I don’t know. I-” He looked from Baker to Caradec and took a step back, his tongue at his lips, his eyes like those of a trapped animal. He was confused. The big man facing him somehow robbed him of his sureness, his poise. And he had come here to kill him.
“Rodney talked to me only a few weeks ago, Bonaro,” Rafe said coldly. “Think!
How many others did he talk to? You’re bein” mixed up in a cold-blooded killin’, Bonaro!
Now turn around and get out! And get out fast!” Bonaro backed up, and Rafe took a forward step. Wheeling, the man scrambled for the door.
Rafe turned and glanced at Baker. “Think that over,” he said coolly. “You’ll take the word of a coyote like that about an honest man! Somebodv’s trvin’ to rob Miss Rodney, and because you’re believin’ that cock-and-bull story you’re helpin’ it along.” Gene Baker stood stock-still, his hands still flat on the counter. What he had seen, he would not have believed. Gee Bonaro had slain two men since coming to Painted Rock, and here a stranger had backed him down without lifting a hand or moving toward a gun. Baker rubbed his ear thoughtfully. Johnny Gill met Rafe in front of the store with two packhorses. A glance told Caradec that the little cowhand had bought well. Gill glanced questioningly at Rafe.
“Did I miss somethin’? I seen that gunhand segundo of Shute’s coming out of that store like he was chased by the devil. You and him have a run-in?” “I called him and he backed down,” Rafe told Gill. “He said he was one of the three who heard Rodney’s last words. I told him he was a liar.” Johnny drew the rope tighter. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Rafe. This man had come into town and put himself on record for what he was and what he planned faster than anybody he had ever seen. “Shucks,” Johnny said, grinning at the horse, “why go back to Texas? There’ll be ruckus enough here, ridin’ for that hombre!” The town of Painted Rock numbered exactly eighty-nine inhabitants, and by sundown the arrival of Rafe Caradec and his challenge to Gee Bonaro was the talk of all of them. It was a behind-the-hand talking, but the story was going the rounds, as was the story that Charles Rodney was alive comor had been alive until recently.
By nightfall Dan Shute heard that Caradec had moved into the Rodney house on Crazy Man, and an hour later he stormed furiously into his bunkhouse and gave Bonaro a tongue-lashing that turned the gunman livid with anger. Bruce Barkow was worried, and he made no pretense of not being so in his conference with Shute. The only hopeful note was that Caradec had said that Rodney was dead.
Gene Baker, sitting in his easy chair in his living quarters behind the store, was uneasy. He was aware that his silence was worrying his wife. He was also aware that Ann was silent herself, an unusual thing, for the girl was usually gay and full of fun and laughter. The idea that there could have been anything wrong about the story told by Barkow and Bonaro had never entered the storekeeper’s head. He had accepted the story as others had, for many men had been killed along the trails or had died in fights with Indians. It was another tragedy of the westward march, and he had done what he could-he and his wife had taken Ann Rodney into their home and loved her as their own child. Now this stranger had come with his questions. Despite Baker’s irritation that the matter had come up at all, and despite his outward denials of truth in what Caradec had said, he was aware of an inner doubt that gnawed at the walls of his confidence in Bruce Barkow.
Whatever else he might be, Gene Baker was a fair man. He was forced to admit that Bonaro was not a man in whom reliance could be placed. He was a known gunman and a suspected outlaw. That Shute had hired him was bad enough in itself, vet when he thought of Shute, Baker was again uneasy. The twin ranches of Barkow and Shute surrounded the town on three sides. Their purchases represented no less than fifty percent of the storekeeper’s business, and that did not include what the hands bought on their own.