Borden Chantry (14 page)

“You'd trust me? Why, Marshal, I'm just liable to steal one of your own horses and ride out of here. That Appaloosa of yours, now—”

“I'll be ridin' him.”

“Well, one of the others, then. How do you know I won't do that?”

“I don't. But I'm bettin' you're a man of your word.” Borden Chantry put the key in the lock and opened the cell door. “Come on out, Baca. An' just to let folks know you've a right to be out, I'm walking down to the Bon-Ton to buy you a cup of coffee.”

Chapter 14

L
ANG ADAMS WAS seated near the window when they walked in, and Prissy was at a table with Elsie. Hyatt Johnson was at another window table, and all looked up when Borden Chantry walked in with Kim Baca.

“Well!” Lang looked from one to the other, smiling. “This is a surprise.”

“Big Injun won't be around today,” Borden said mildly, “so Baca gave me his parole and he'll be around town.”

“Taking a chance, aren't you?” Lang suggested. “I wouldn't blame Baca if he grabbed another horse and left the country.”

“He won't do it.” Borden sat down and glanced around. Hyatt was watching him, cup poised. Listening, too. “Baca gave me his word, and I believe in him.”

Kim Baca shrugged, and glanced at Adams. “He's a trustin' sort, and there aren't too many left. He still believes in folks, trusts in a man's word. Why, I do believe he'd hire me to care for his horses!”

Chantry turned his eyes to Baca. “Want the job?” he asked gently. “I could use a good man.”

Lang Adams shrugged. “Baca, you'll find Chantry that kind of man, but whatever you do, don't cross him. If you ever ran out on him he'd follow you until he died…or you did. He's like a bulldog…never knows when to let go.”

Conversation picked up and Borden looked out into the night and thought of his next move. He did need Big Injun, and there would have been nobody to care for Baca in jail. Also, he could use Baca.

Secretly, he knew there was yet another reason. Deep inside he was sure Kim Baca was a good man, a better man than most, yet with a taste for expensive horseflesh and not the money to buy it. Yet given a chance, Baca might become any kind of man he wished to be, and Chantry disliked seeing him go to prison where his future would be twisted the wrong way. Given this chance, he might make good. And if so, Borden would do as he promised and speak for him to the judge, a man he knew well as a hard-nosed frontiersman.

The judge believed in stiff penalties, but he was a man of much experience with the world and aware that all are prone to make mistakes. He would, Borden believed, give Kim Baca a chance. He would also sentence him to hang if he failed to make good. He was that kind of man, harsh yet understanding.

Lang Adams was quiet. He talked a little, and when Borden asked him about Blossom Galey, Lang shot a glance at Baca and did not reply for several minutes. “She's all right,” he said at last. “Shorthanded right now, so I may go help her.”

“She lost a good hand in Pin Dover,” Chantry agreed. “Did you know him?”

“To speak to. Yes, he was a good hand…by all I've heard. Killed, wasn't he?”

“Yeah…It was Riggin's last case. The one he was working on when he died.”

“Too bad. He might have found out who did it.”

“Might have? He would have. Maybe he already had, but now we'll never know. We'll never know how much he knew, but we will get Dover's killer.”

“You have a lead?”

“A man always leaves tracks, no matter what he does. George Riggin used to say there were no perfect crimes, just imperfect investigations…Then, when he kills again—”

“You think he did?”

“Of course.” Borden was speaking just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, if they were listening. And there were enough people in this room to let everybody in town know what he thought. “He killed George Riggin, and then he killed Joe Sackett and Johnny McCoy, and he's tried to kill me.”

“If I were you,” Hyatt Johnson said, from the next table, “I'd be careful. He's done pretty well so far.”

“Maybe…but each time he kills he draws the noose tighter. A man leaves a pattern…and this man has.

“In fact,” he pushed back his chair, “I've got a lead, a good lead. That's why I need Big Injun elsewhere and that's why I'm lettin' Baca out on parole, so I can be free to follow it up. When I get back to town I may know just who did it…and why.”

“Need help?” Lang asked. “All you've got to do is ask, Bord. I'll lend a hand. Any man in town will.”

“I know, but this is a job I have to do myself.” He got to his feet. “Come on, Baca, let's get back to the jail. See you tomorrow, Lang. Or the next day. You hold that turkey hunt open. I'll wrap this one up and then we'll do some shooting.”

At the jail he showed Baca to his cell, but left the door ajar. “Good a place to sleep as any, and we've both slept in worse. I doubt if I'll see you tomorrow, but keep your eyes open.”

“I'll do that.” Baca put a hand on the barred door and moved it a few inches. “You really trust a man, don't you?”

“I trust the right man, Baca.”

“You think that killer's going after you?” Baca's eyes searched his face. “You think he'll take that risk?”

“He's got to,” Borden said quietly. “Look at it. He's running scared. He's killed several times, and now I've told everybody that I've got a lead. The way I see it, he doesn't dare take the risk that I do know something.

“The trouble with crime is, you never know who's watching. You may see nobody, hear nobody. You may be sure nobody is anywhere around, but somebody can be and usually is. There's a bum sleeping in a dark doorway, somebody starting to draw the curtains at an unlighted window, the man who forgets something and comes back up the street. Maybe it's a cowboy who decides to catch himself a bit of sleep under a tree, a woman gathering flowers…you never know who's around.

“The way I see it, that killer simply
has
to know. I think he'll follow me to see where I am going and get an idea on what I think I've discovered. And then, when I start back, he'll kill me. Or try.”

“You got guts, I'll give you that.” Baca sat down on his bunk and pulled off his boots. “I'm going to get myself some shut-eye.”

A few minutes later, sitting on the edge of his own bed, Borden Chantry was nowhere nearly so confident. He pulled off his boots, then sat there in the darkness for a moment, staring toward the blank window.

Mora…it all came back to Mora. If he just had the time he might ride down there. But he did not have the time. He was facing a showdown he had invited by his words tonight.

He undressed and got into bed. He was wondering again who the killer might be, planning for his ride on the morrow. The trouble was that with all his thinking he forgot the most important item.

He forgot to remember Boone Silva.

F
OR THE FIRST time in days he felt free. He had never been a man of the towns, although Bess preferred it to the ranch. Still better, she would have liked to live east, in even larger towns. Yet for him, his life was geared to the open range, out there on the sagebrush levels where the cattle grazed and the long winds blew. He rode slowly, savoring the feel of the wind and the vast sweep of distance around him.

He loved the empty lands, the places where no men were, or few men, at least. Yet he was aware he rode with trouble. Somewhere a man was riding to kill him, and that man might have followed him, might be out there now.

Nor was he deceived by the country, knowing it only too well. Some of the land through which he must ride was rugged, but much seemed rolling or smooth to the eye. But there were many arroyos, many folds in the hills where a horseman might ride unseen, many places where a man might lie in wait.

Suddenly, he changed his route. It was the instinct of the hunted man, for he the hunter was now also the hunted. He put his horse up a steep slope, switched back along the slope and topped out on a ridge. Yet with a glance down the far side he crossed over. And only then, when off the skyline, did he look about.

Nothing…yet? Was that dust? A vague something seemed to hang in the air, but was it dust or merely the changing colors of the land? The lighter-colored rock or earth of a slope might give the impression of dust.

He rode back, angling away from his trail toward the southwest, then veering back toward the northeast. Several times he paused to listen. When next he neared the crest of a hill he came to it behind some brush that he could look through without showing anything of himself.

Nothing.

He was uneasy. Was it a sixth sense warning him? A premonition? Or was it simply his knowledge, his awareness that somebody might be hunting him?

Ed Pearson's place was now only a few miles off, and a hunter might deduce that was his destination. So he would circle about and come in from the north. He cut back sharply, went into the scattered cedar and circled around. It increased his distance but also his chances of survival.

Ed's place was in a corner of the hills, a sort of pocket. He had a rough shack, a corral and a lean-to shed. Other than an outhouse standing some thirty yards from the shack, that was all.

The mine tunnel led into the side of the hill not far back of the shack. There was a dump of whitish earth spilled down the slope in front of the tunnel, and some planks to make a runway for his wheelbarrow when he brought out the waste and the ore.

Whether Ed Pearson had found anything was a question. Most of the local people chuckled about Ed's “mine,” and agreed among themselves that Ed lived by killing some rancher's beef now and again, and a small plot of ground he farmed nearby.

Knowing the quality of man he was, Borden Chantry approached with care.

A thin trail of smoke lifted from the chimney, and a couple of horses and a burro stood in the corral. A horse whinnied as Borden rode down the trail, Winchester in hand, eyes alert.

Here at this time was a moment of danger, for his enemy could easily have guessed where he was riding and gone on before. Yet there was no sound until the last, moment when a droop-eared, liver-colored hound came from the door and barked half-heartedly, then came on, whining and wagging its tail.

“Hiya, boy,” Borden said to the dog, then lifting his voice he called out. “Ed? This here's Bord Chantry!”

There was no response, no sound.

Warily, Chantry approached the house. He glanced from it to the mine tunnel.

Nothing.

He glanced quickly around at the hills, seeing nothing. He walked his horse up the small slope to the cabin and got down, rifle in hand.

The old hound whined eagerly and started toward the door, then paused, waiting for him.

“Something wrong, boy?” Borden hesitated, uneasy. Slowly, his eyes scanned the area. There was a rusty wheelbarrow turned on its side, and various pieces of rusting iron lay about. The place was a shambles of odds and ends of junk. Pearson was a fixer, and always hauled off everything nobody wanted in the expectation that someday it would come in handy.

The gray, rocky soil sloped away toward a gully that carried off the rain. There was nothing at all in sight, yet he had the feeling of being watched.

He went up to the door, which stood ajar. “Ed?” he put a hand on the door and pushed it wider. It squeaked slightly on rusted hinges.

Inside, the floor was surprisingly clean, swept freshly. On the table stood a coal-oil lamp, still burning but with the wick turned low, a tin plate and a blue enamel cup, a spoon, a fork and a knife. There was a low fire on the hearth, down to coals now, with a slowly steaming coffeepot at the edge of the coals.

A poker lay there, and when he stepped into the door he could see a rumpled and empty bunk of ragged quilts and a moth-eaten buffalo robe.

Items of clothing, old overalls, a pair of worn boots, and some old coats hung from nails in the wall.

A gun belt hung from a peg near the head of the bed where a surprised man might quickly grasp it.

He looked around. A saw and a hammer lay on the floor, a box of candles such as a miner might use, and some odds and ends. There was a bread-box, a barrel that probably contained flour, some few groceries about, and many cans…undoubtedly some of the supplies he recently bought.

There was no sign of Ed Pearson.

Chantry walked back to the door and standing well back, looked all around…nothing.

Where was Ed Pearson?

He glanced around the shack once more. Everything seemed in place, as if the owner had just stepped out and expected to return at once.

The lean-to shed was open enough, and there was nobody in there…yet what about the mine?

That mine had been the source of a good deal of conjecture. It was widely doubted that any ore existed there, yet Ed succeeded in making a living, and was reported to occasionally have gold dust to sell, or nuggets.

Chantry walked to the cupboard and took down another blue enameled cup, with a little of the enamel chipped from the rim. He glanced at it, distrusting the cleanliness of such cantankerous old bachelors as Pearson, but the cup was spotless. He took up the pot and poured himself a cup.

It was black as sin and strong enough to curl a man's hair, but it was hot, and it tasted good. Cup in hand, he walked almost to the door…but not quite.

A lizard darted halfway across the doorstep, then stopped, panting.

A rider was coming down the far slope.

Chapter 15

I
T WAS NOT Ed Pearson.

It was a long-geared man on a lean strawberry roan that looked to be built for speed as well as staying power, a mighty good horse for any cowhand to be riding. Suddenly, without knowing why he did it, Borden Chantry unpinned his badge and thrust it into his vest pocket.

The man had a lean, sallow face with greasy black hair hanging to his shoulders. He wore a fancy black jacket sewn with beads and spotted with grease stains. He looked at Chantry for a long minute.

“Howdy,” he said.

“‘Light an' set,” Chantry suggested.

“Passin' by,” the man still studied him with blue-gray, flat-looking eyes that revealed nothing. “How far's town?”

“Hour…maybe more.”

The snake eyes did not waver. “Your place?”

“Stopping by,” Chantry was waiting, as was the other man. Each was silent, probing, listening for some indication that would tell him about the other man.

The stranger jerked his head to indicate the tunnel. “What's he got?”

Chantry shrugged. “Says it's gold. Nobody ever found any gold here, and I never saw any of his.”

“Beats all…stayin' in a place like this.” The man looked around, his head turning slowly, without any movement from his body, then the eyes came back to Chantry.

“Who's the law over yonder?”

“Name of Chantry…used to be a rancher until a freeze-up killed his stock.”

“Good with a gun?”

“He gets along.”

The stranger turned his horse, then looked back. Chantry shifted his position a little to keep his right hand free, and when the stranger looked back his eyes riveted on Chantry's side above the belt. Instantly, Borden knew that the movement of his body had pushed part of the badge up from his vest pocket. Chantry did not make the mistake of looking down.

The man looked at Chantry, his black eyes no longer flat and dull. “You Chantry?”

“I am. Are you Boone Silva?”

The eyes flickered, ever so slightly. “Uh-huh.” Then a hand gestured toward the badge. “Quittin'? Why you got it off?”

“No, not quitin'. It doesn't count for much out here. I'm the town marshal.”

“See you in town?”

“I'll be around.”

Silva raised a negligent hand, and cantered away. Borden Chantry watched him go, then took up the rifle from beside the door.

With his left hand he lifted the cup. The coffee was cold. He threw it out, took the cup to the sink and spilled water from a bucket to rinse it out, then walked back to the door. Dust lingered in the air. All was still, the sun was very hot. His Appaloosa stood, head drooping, standing three-legged in the sunshine.

The dog whined and he put a hand on his head. “What's the matter, old fellow? Where's Ed?”

He went to the spring with an old bucket and dipped up water for his horse. While the Appaloosa drank, he looked around. He'd better have a look at the mine tunnel…It had been more than a year since he'd been out this way, but Ed worked on it by fits and starts, and Ed might be up there.

When the horse had drunk its fill, he refilled the bucket for the dog, poured a little in the dog's dish and put the rest of it in the shade. Then, rifle in hand, he walked up the slight slope to the opening.

There were tools about, and an empty can that had held black powder. He saw the circles on the earth where at least two other cans had stood. He stepped into the mouth of the tunnel and called out, “Ed?”

No sound, no response. He took a step further and called out again. “Ed? Are you there? This is Chantry.”

Nothing…Suddenly, just beyond the reach of his eyes, in the darkness where little light fell…Was that a boot?

He started forward, his ankle hooked on a wire or string and he fell forward knowing even as he fell what had happened. The blast of the explosion knocked him flat on the floor of the tunnel. The tremendous blast, augmented by the close confines of the tunnel, seemed to split the mountain apart, and then there was a rending of mine timbers, a crashing of rocks, a trickle of gravel and sand. Then silence and the dust.

He lay perfectly still, perfectly conscious. His every sense was alert, yet he did not move, letting the dust settle slowly, the last trickle of gravel come to an end.

A trap had been set and he had blundered into it. And now he was entombed…buried alive.

Unless he could do something, he was dead.

He pushed himself up to his knees. There were broken rocks all about him, and some splintered timbers. Rocks and dirt fell away from his legs as he got up. He stooped, felt around, and found his rifle.

The mine was completely black, for closed off as it was there was a total absence of light. With no light at all, he would see no better no matter how long he remained here.

He needed light desperately, and felt in his pocket for matches. Ed Pearson would have some candles, somewhere…But where?

Would he bring a fresh one to the mine each time? Or would he…it seemed more logical…keep a store of them in the tunnel itself?

But where? And how deep was the tunnel?

He found matches, and taking one out, struck it, shielding it carefully with his hand against any puff of wind caused by a further fall.

In the dim light of its glow, he looked around.

He saw only the rocks, the dark tunnel ahead…and on the floor of the tunnel the body of Ed Pearson. He had been shot through the head.

Suddenly, on a shelf of rock, Chantry saw a faint sheen of white…The candles!

He took down one of the candles and lighted it, then looked around. There was no comfort in what his eyes told him.

The pile of broken rock and timber had fallen back toward him. And judging by the distance he had advanced into the opening, and the position of Pearson's body, he was at least fifty feet into the opening now. And fifty feet or more of deep rock lay between him and the entrance.

Digging out would not be impossible—if there was no further caving. But what if he spent all that time, and used what air remained, only to have a sudden slide cover the mine entrance? True, the slide might not be great, coming off that hill, yet it could be many tons. And the roof of the tunnel looked none too secure as it was.

Was there another opening? From time to time Chantry seemed to feel a faint movement of air, although that might be his imagination, for the candle flame stood straight and still.

Would not Pearson have made another entrance? An opening for ventilation? Or for escape if need be?

There was a shovel there, and a pick, several drills and a double jack. He recalled seeing a single jack just outside the mine entrance, where Pearson must have been using it for a hammer.

Rifle in one hand, candle in the other, Borden Chantry went off down the tunnel. There were several crosscuts, none of them very deep, but he saw few signs that indicated ore.

Pearson had been a man who lived much to himself, and had never welcomed visitors. And western people being what they were, they left him to his own devices. For every man was free to choose his own life-style as long as he did not encroach.

Borden Chantry had no illusions. He was trapped. Buried alive. Nobody was going to find him and dig him out in the time he had left, and whatever was done, he must do. And quickly. He turned his mind sharply away from thoughts of death, and tried to see clearly just what his position was and what he had to work with.

He doubted that the murderer had known Pearson any better than he did, if as well. Therefore, the murderer could not have known the layout of this tunnel, or mine, or whatever it was. He could only have known the usual gossip that was talked.

Furthermore, there was small chance that the man had the time to explore. Once he had guessed the direction in which Chantry was riding, he must have come straight here, killed Pearson, and set his trap. The ruthlessness of the man, and his willingness to kill, was appalling.

Or was it Boone Silva who had done this? In either case the result was the same…Yet from what he knew of Silva this was not his style.

Chantry stopped short. Suddenly the tunnel had ended.

He stood in a somewhat circular area where Pearson had stoped out a space. On three sides there was broken rock in huge chunks, a few leaning slabs, and much debris. Holding his candle high, Chantry could see the stope was a death trap, for great slabs still hung, half broken free, ready for a shock to drop them. Even where such slabs did not exist, there was plenty of stuff that needed barring down before a man could work there.

Turning, he walked back up the drift. Putting his candle on a small ledge in the wall, he put down his rifle, took off his coat, and went to work.

The air was not too bad yet. How long he could hope to survive he could not guess, but Chantry was not a man to give up. He worked with his hands at first, rolling back huge chunks of rock or tilting slabs out of the way. When he could he started with the shovel, but it was slow work.

He glanced at his watch, then worked on. At the end of an hour, he tried to gauge his progress, and it was so small that it sent a shiver of dread through him.

Of course, he would not need a large hole, and even a small one would permit fresh air to come in. Again he went to work, crawling up toward the place where the pile of debris met the roof.

No longer did he permit himself to think of or judge the time. He simply worked. Time consumed meant nothing to him now, for he was working against death.

Rock after rock he pulled back and rolled away. He could not use a shovel on much of it, although a pick was of use at times. He stopped finally, mopping the salty sweat from around his eyes and trying to catch his breath.

The space where he sat was close and hot. He crawled down off the muck pile and sat on a slab of rock, mopping his face. If only his Appaloosa would go home! Lang Adams or Kim Baca might track him back to the Pearson place and see what had happened. Then he'd have a chance…a small chance, but a chance.

The Appaloosa was used to standing, ground-hitched. It might be some time before he moved off, and Pearson was unlikely to have visitors.

After a few minutes Chantry got up and went back to work. He had no gloves and his hands had soon been brutally torn and scraped, but he tried not to worry or hurry, just to work steadily and methodically. He knew that therein lay his only chance…a slim one at that.

Soon he had burrowed out a hole twice his own length. Maybe he had moved twelve feet of earth…Nearly forty feet to go, if his estimate was right.

Forty feet! It was too much. He worked on and on. Twice the earth caved in and he had the job to do over, but he continued at the same pace, closing his mind to all but what he had to do.

After awhile he crawled out again. And when he was close to the candle, he peered at his watch.

Four hours…and he had done so little. He lighted a second candle from the stub of the first. The flame was eating up air but mentally, he needed it. The darkness was like a tomb, and the flickering candlelight was some measure of hope.

He returned to work. In a few more minutes, he was totally halted. A huge slab, its dimensions unknown, had fallen like a door across his tunnel, blocking all advance. It had fallen flat-side toward him, and there it was, a giant barrier. Working toward the right side of the slab, which was where the open tunnel should be had it not been full of muck, Chantry uncovered three feet of the slab before he came to an edge. Behind it a heavy chunk of rock that must weigh all of two hundred pounds had fallen and was wedged tightly.

Slowly, he backed out of his hole. He mopped the sweat from his face.

His mouth and throat were dry, and he had no water. He sat down on the slab again and rested, trying to think clearly. He felt dull and heavy. Perhaps the air was almost used up. He glanced at the candle…a still, clear flame. But a while ago he had remembered it as flickering…That was a trick the mind could play, for folks usually spoke of a flickering candle. He got up and crawled back in his hole to stare at the boulder, and then to begin digging with the pick, working smaller rocks from under it.

He worked and worked, and after a long time the boulder sagged forward into the hollow he had dug out. There was a clear space above it now—but not enough. Not over six inches…and no air was coming through.

Returning for the candle, he crawled back and held the candle high to see better. There was a sort of hollow behind the boulder and the slab, a good two feet of empty space where he would not have to dig…
if
he could get that boulder out.

He worked at its base until his shoulders ached, and at last it gave and dropped a few inches further. Now he could at least reach beyond it. He did not then begin, though. He backed out of his hole, taking the candle with him, and sat down on the slab.

He was tired, desperately tired. He lighted another candle and looked at his watch…nine hours.

He had been imprisoned here for nine hours. It must be the middle of the night. His lids felt heavy and he wanted to rest…Well, just a few minutes.

Stretching out on the floor of the tunnel he cradled his head on his hat and was almost instantly asleep.

Something cold and wet touched his cheek, and he fought himself out of a heavy sleep, struggling up. Reaching out, his hand struck something hairy and wet. He gasped, jerking back his hand. And then, in the feeble light of the burned-down candle, he saw a glistening, cringing shape. It whined and dropped to the floor, head on its paws.

Pearson's dog!

But how…? He got up so quickly he staggered, and the dog sprang back in dismay, but when he put out a hand to it the dog came eagerly forward. “It's all right, fellow,” he said gently. “But how the devil did you get here?”

He took up his rifle and the candle, and the dog, knowing that he meant to go, started back down the tunnel, running. Fearing he would lose it, he ran also. The dog reached the round stope at the end of the tunnel, and turned swiftly up among the rocks and disappeared behind a slab.