Coroner Creek (11 page)

Ernie laughed, and Bill Arnold stepped carefully away from him. He had seen the mule look in Andy's face, and did not like it. Ernie said now in a bold and confident voice, “Go ahead, make yourself trouble, Andy. Get hung on account of a tough drifter.”

Andy's glance shuttled to the creek. Chris was on his knees in the water, clumsily scooping water with his good hand onto his face and his hair and onto the back of his neck. His other hand lay in the water.

Ernie's speech was a little hurried now—smooth and persuasive and softly Texan and reasonable. “Andy, you don't know what you're doin'. This is land protected by the law. You and that saddle tramp are as good as in the pen now if we want to report you. Now take him and get out of here, and I'll tell Miles to forget it.”

Andy still watched Chris. He saw him come to his feet, shake the water from his hair and then turn to face them, and his wet and shining face held a look that made Andy afraid again. Chris walked out of the creek, his wet clothes clinging to him. Then his pace increased, and he was heading straight for Ernie. There was a kind of indomitable fury in him as he stumbled once and caught himself and then broke into a run.

When Ernie swung at him as he came on, Chris did not even pause. He butted Ernie in the face with his head and kneed him savagely in the groin, and Ernie went over backwards, tripping over a log. Chris, too, tripped on the log and sprawled, face down, but even as he fell his feet were driving him forward, always forward. Ernie yelled and rolled over, and Chris came at him with the ferocity of a demented animal. Ernie struck at him and kicked at him, wild in panic, but could not stop him.

When Chris hit him with his body and wrapped both arms about him and lifted him up, Ernie smashed down at his head with fisted hands as if he were driving nails with a hammer.

Chris threw him forward and followed him down, and they fell on a log which caught Ernie in the small of the back. His breath was driven from him in a great shuddering cough.

Chris had never let go of him; now he pulled himself astride Ernie and put his right forearm under his chin and bent Ernie's head back and down, so that Ernie's back was bowed over the log. Again and again, Chris drove sledging, wild blows at his face and Ernie struggled convulsively, kicking wildly. Suddenly his struggling stopped.

Then Chris took the pressure off his chin and slugged again, and this time, because Ernie's face was where he could hit it and he was still blind with his fury, Chris forgot and drove his right hand into Ernie's face.

The shock and pain of it brought a low groan from him and, still astride Ernie, Chris hugged the hand to his chest and bent his head, waiting for the pain to go. It was then Bill Arnold broke for the brush, and Andy let him go.

All of them now, Andy included, walked slowly toward Chris. His hand still hugged to his breast, Chris turned and came off Ernie, who slid to a sitting position on the ground and fell over on his side.

Chris' face was bloodless with the pain, but his eyes, Andy noticed, were still crazy mad.

Chris held his hurt hand out and looked at the Rainbow men, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet as he asked, “How'd he do it?”

Stew Shallis tried to speak and no words came out. He cleared his throat and said in a thin phlegmy voice, “Stomped on it.”

Chris turned back to Ernie then and pulled him over so he was on his face, arms outflung. He put his foot on Ernie's right wrist, and with his left boot he stamped solidly time and again on the back of Ernie's hand. Ernie jerked convulsively, soundlessly, and subsided.

Chris lifted his wild gaze again now to the Rainbow crew, and was silent a moment as he carefully cradled his crippled hand against his chest.

Presently he said, “Which one of you is Tip Henry?”

There was a long pause and Tip Henry said, “That's me.”

Chris slowly extended his injured hand now and pointed at Tip, his arm straight and unwavering and sighted like a gun. “You homesteaded this place for Miles, Tip,” Chris said. “You'll live on it a year, and half those nights I'll come back here and shoot it up until you move or I kill you. Get off it!”

His hand fell to his side, and was drawn up against his chest immediately. Cradling it thus, his eyes now sought Andy. “Andy, find me my horse.”

CHAPTER VIII

When Miles left the hotel dining room after dinner that noon, Big Ben Lavendar beckoned him from one of the lobby chairs where he was talking, and Younger went over. He shook hands with Ben, who had a ranch out north by the dune country, and said hello to Travis, a small scholarly looking man who did surveying work at the mines up around Petrie in the Blackbows. Waycross, who owned the hardware store and was postmaster, winked solemnly at him. They were competitors, but Younger had made it a point to keep his friendship.

Ben Lavendar said, “Sorry to hear about Sam. Truscott showed me the letter.” His broad, wind-ruddied face showed a concern that Younger tried to match in his own expression. Ben Lavendar, with Truscott and Walt Hardison, made up the board of commissioners.

“A rest will do him good,” Younger said soberly.

“I'm glad you can spare that young redhead,” Ben went on. “Good man. Wish he'd marry my daughter, if I had a daughter.”

Younger laughed with the rest of them and went on out. Crossing over to the store, he smiled faintly. Mac was in, as O'Hea's deputy. The talk this noon in the dining room had confirmed Lavendar's opinion. Only Walt Hardison was against it, and he, Younger reflected, couldn't do anything about it. He tramped back through the main aisle of the store, pausing only to speak to a couple of punchers from Crowfoot, his neighbor to the west.

Back in the office, he shucked out of his coat and stretched lazily. The flat ropes of muscle across his shoulders stretched his white shirt almost to the tearing point. He saw the stack of ledgers MacElvey had set on his desk for the monthly review of the status of his affairs, which were prospering.

Closing the door he sat down, half turned his chair to the window and began going over the books. This, after all, was the deepest pleasure he knew. In them he could read a story that was completely personal and delightful, the story of his own wisdom and shrewdness. For instance, he saw now where the sum he had spent setting up the tie-cutting camp over on the south slope of the Blackbows was going to be sufficient, according to Mac's report. The crew was ahead of schedule, and his contract with the railroad for several thousand ties would be met well within the deadline and he could clear close to eighteen hundred dollars. He thought of that with pleasure and tried to remember the exact sum of the original investment.

Minutes later, he mentally hauled himself up; he hadn't been thinking of Mac's figures, he'd been thinking of Danning. Shaking his head, as if to reprove himself, he turned now to Mac's estimate on the Sulinam job. It was in a separate folder, its pages well thumbed, its contents known to him by heart. For this was his boldest gamble, and it involved his whole future. A stamp mill was being built in Case Valley out on the flats thirty miles to the west of Triumph to service the dozen mines scattered nearby in the Blackbows. The Sulinam mine above Petrie was in an almost inaccessible spot high in the Blackbows, perched on a big deposit of only medium-grade gold ore, and with the building of the Case Valley stamp mill, Sulinam had seen the possibility of working their medium-grade deposits. Accordingly, Sulinam had asked for bids on the moving of 175,000 tons of ore from its mine to the Case Valley stamp mill. Whoever got the contract would have to build a road and haul out over it, in big ore wagons. The outlay of money for the wagons, for the teams, for the blacksmith shops, for the buildings, for the crews, for the feed, for the commissary, the road crews, the tools, the surveying and maintenance, had at first disheartened Younger. It was too big for him to handle, he had believed, and the time limit to completion too short. But Mac, who seemed to know something of everything, had broken down the cost figures, and had shown Younger how it could be done. By sending his own man south into good horse country and by paying cash for horses, he could get his teams cheaply. By paying cash for secondhand wagons, he could get the wagons at a bargain figure. By using his tie-camp crew for cutting the road, he could pare the cost of the road down to a fraction of what other contractors would have to spend, and be well within the time limit.

And Younger, in the end, had decided to gamble. He had mortgaged Rainbow to get the cash, and borrowed steeply, but if he got the contract Mac had shown him that he would be a rich man. The bid would be let next Monday morning, now, and Younger, with Mac's figures memorized, knew for certain that his bid would be low. If it was not, nothing was lost. Already, Dan Fairshine had the horses chosen, and Sholtz had found the wagons; they only awaited telegrams that Miles' bid was low to put down the cash and quickly start in motion the whole machinery which, when it was finally working smoothly, would mean Younger was on his way to becoming a rich man.

Younger studied the folder now, but again his mind wandered to Danning, and this time he let it. He pondered Danning's probable first move. Whatever it was, it would be bound to get him in trouble, for Younger had been unable to find a chink in his own armor. But if that were so, why did he feel so uneasy? He remembered Mac's question, “Have you known him?” and again he wondered.
I've covered up
, he thought grimly.
Not a one of them got out of it, not even the woman on the stage. Tana didn't know me, and he's dead; the old man's dead and even the Army's given up
.

He heard the door open and he looked up irritably, the residue of the worry still on his face. It was a stern face, cruel now with temper and irritability, and his dark secret thoughts had made his eyes ugly. This was what Abbie saw when she stepped in, and it stopped her abruptly in the doorway. The expression on Younger's face was only fleeting, and it vanished immediately. An expression of indifference replaced it—that and a quick appraising glance at her clothes.

“I'm busy,” Younger said.

“All right. You're never alone, though, and I wanted to tell you something.” She smiled faintly and added, “About business, so don't yawn.”

Younger was yawning. He finished it, unmoved by her jibe, and shoved the folder onto the desk and leaned back in his chair.

Abbie wore a light frilly dress with red ribbon threaded through the hem of the skirt. Her parasol which matched it, she laid across MacElvey's desk and sat down in his chair.

Younger watching her, said, “Seen your father?”

Abbie nodded. “He told me you told him to write the letter.”

“I did. It's either sick leave for him or take his medicine. Mrs. Harms has already spread the story of what happened at Henhouse. The next puncher that gets liquored up at Melaven's will hooraw your father out of town. A sheriff has got to make his orders stick or get out.”

“I suppose that's true,” Abbie said quietly, her dark eyes watchful and alert. “That doesn't mean his salary stops, does it?”

“No. He'll draw salary. I'll pay Mac's.” Younger smiled unpleasantly. “I'll keep him pensioned, if that's what's worrying you.”

Anger flickered in Abbie's dark eyes. “You'll keep him pensioned or your wife will go back to baking pies, Younger.”

“All right, all right; he's taken care of,” Younger said irritably. “He's still sheriff, too. Now what do you want?”

“Has Frank Yordy seen you?”

“Yordy? No. Why would he?”

“He said he wanted to, told me to tell you. He thinks you'll want to buy some information about the Harms place he claims to have.” She paused. “I hope you kick him off the walk.”

Younger grunted. “I know more about the Henhouse than he'll ever know.” He frowned. “When'd he see you?”

“After Danning threw him off the place yesterday. He said he'd be at Briggs' place for three or four days. He wanted you to ride out.” Abbie rose now and picked up her parasol. “He's a four-flusher, Younger, and he'll get you in trouble.”

“With my own sheriff?” Younger asked dryly.

“All right, but—”

“Sure, sure,” Younger cut in brusquely. “I don't even want to see him. Now let me alone, will you?”

He reached for the folder again and Abbie went out of the office without bidding him good-by, closing the door behind her.

Younger opened the folder, then looked at the wall, speculating idly on what Yordy wanted of him. He'd told Abbie the truth; he knew everything about Henhouse there was to know. He knew Della had borrowed money from Truscott with which to feed that bunch of two-year-olds she was holding through the winter. Now there was an idea so half-witted it would take Yordy and a couple of women to think it up, he reflected. He also knew that Della and her mother made a poor living once the crew was paid off, and he knew further that they would make a lot poorer living once they'd lost Thessaly and a couple of other spots whose grass he could move in on legally. No, there was nothing Yordy could tell him.

He went back to his books, Yordy forgotten, and was interrupted again only when the clerk stuck his head in at six o'clock to say good night.

Younger finished quickly, yawned, stretched, put on his coat and hat and went out into the street. He turned up it and went into Melaven's corner saloon for his nightly drink. The bar was against the south wall, and a scattering of customers were bellied up to it. The tile floor was cool and white, yet its whiteness did not disturb the pleasant gloom of the place, which was now lighted against the dusk of the street. A couple of men were playing cribbage at one of the six big card tables which lined the windows opposite the bar, and the rest of the tables were empty.

Miles walked over to the bar and said, “Hello, Hughie,” to the short, florid-faced Irishman tending bar. Out of habit, he read again the framed sign on the back bar, “If you can't stand up on a tile floor, you're drunk. Go home,” and accepted the bottle of whisky Melaven set before him, and poured a drink.