Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) (10 page)

Shadows were gathering in the draws and canyons, and there was a faint coolness in the air. Rifle in hand, I went to the opening and looked out. Belle sat quietly. There were no sounds but the pleasant murmur of the water and the crunching of the horses’ teeth as they grazed on the coarse grass. These were pleasant in the stillness.

Then, some distance off, I heard a plane. Belle heard it, too. She got up and came to me quickly.

“Dan, that’s Colin. He has his own plane, you know.”

“Why the plane?” I asked. “He must know where we are…or just about where.”

“I’ve seen them hunt coyotes from the plane,” she answered.

Of course. I had often seen coyotes hunted from the air, and a man could shoot from a plane. But this was rough country for that, unlike the Texas, Oklahoma, or Kansas country that was relatively wide open and flat where they hunted from planes.

I spoke quietly to Belle. “If you get out of here, go to Tom Riley. He’s investigating the Alvarez killing and he strikes me as a solid citizen. Get to him and tell him everything you know.”

“What’s it all about, Dan?”

“I think you know just as much as I do. Two men named Toomey drove a herd of cattle out here in 1872. They dropped from sight and the cattle disappeared. I think the men were murdered and the cattle stolen.

“I have reason to believe they had legal claim to a large area in this region, and that the murderers took over their claims and have lived on them ever since. They have never offered any land for sale, and I don’t believe there has ever been a serious title search made. Any heirs of the Toomeys that there may have been did not even know they were heirs, or that there was anything to inherit. Or if they did know, they were afraid to make any claim for fear of what might happen.

“I believe that since that time the Wells family has lived in fear of losing the place, and that their fear has grown in direct ratio to the value of the land. I also believe that you may be one of the Toomey heirs…but all I have to base it on is a hunch.”

By now the crack through which we had entered was in darkness, and a vague twilight lay upon the land outside, a twilight in which nothing moved.

“All right,” I said. “Mount up.”

Belle swung easily into the saddle and gathered her reins.

There was nothing for it but to ride. To stay bottled up here would gain us nothing; and while they might be waiting somewhere outside, waiting to get us in the open, the light was already bad for shooting, and soon it would be gone entirely. We had our slim chance now, and I meant for us to take it.

So we rode out into the open…and nothing happened. Somewhere a quail called, but I was sure it was a real quail. We walked our horses along the slope, moving from one clump of cedars to the next. The light was almost gone when Belle’s horse snorted and a figure lunged up from the ground and seized the bridle. Another grabbed my horse’s and Reese’s voice came from the shadows. “Drop that rifle, Sheridan!”

A man rode up beside me and reached for the rifle and I swung it—a short, brutal smash against his skull with the butt, as against a ripe melon. Then I rolled from the saddle, hit the dirt behind one of the thick cedars, and remained motionless for a moment.

Horses were rearing and plunging, and I ran, crouching, to the next cedar, slid a few feet on a steep slope, and swung into deeper shadow among a clump of cedar a good sixty feet away.

Reese was swearing as he lunged into the group. “Where is he? Damn it, what have I got here, a bunch of tinhorns?
Where is that man?
”

Had I hesitated even an instant when I left the saddle they would never have given me the chance to escape. It was the immediate move that caught them off-guard. And I was still armed.

Belle had sat perfectly still, simply waiting. “You’d better take care of that man on the ground,” she said calmly. “I am afraid he’s badly hurt.”

Reese paid no attention to her words. “Wait until I get my hands on him.” His voice was hoarse with anger.

“You tried that once,” Belle said, “and you got the worst of it.”

There was the thud of a blow, followed by a moment of silence, then Belle said, “You’re practically safe, striking a woman with her hands tied, Floyd. I always thought you were a coward. I wonder if you could really whip a woman, on equal terms?”

He struck her again, and I came off the ground, hot with fury.

“Cut it out, Floyd!” It was one of the riders who spoke. “Let’s find Sheridan. I didn’t hire out to fight women.”

“By God!” Reese’s voice shook with rage. “I’ll—”

“You think before you do, Floyd.” The rider’s voice was calm. “You ain’t goin’ to get no place fightin’ with your own men. You’ve got yourself a packet of trouble right now.”

Easing back a few steps, I made a miscalculation and a rock gave way behind me. I fell three feet to the bottom of a ditch cut by run-off water, amid a rattle of stones.

Instantly there was a rush of hoofs. “Get him!” somebody shouted, and at least three riders came at me.

My rifle came up, caught one of them in the sights, and I let go my shot. Then I dropped down into the ditch and scrambled on over sharp stones and gravel.

Bullets
whapped
against rocks or whipped by above me, but I was moving swiftly, and under good cover. I had no idea whether I’d hit the man I shot at, but from now on they were going to be a lot more careful hunting around in the dark. No man wants to die, and it was going to be obvious that somebody might…not necessarily me.

The chase suddenly stopped. “Listen!” Reese shouted. “He can’t get far!”

For the moment I was in soft sand, and by now it was completely dark, so I kept moving. There was small chance they would risk killing Belle while I was free, but there was nothing I could do about it for the moment.

When I paused at last I was well up on the side of the mesa and several hundred feet above the trail. At this point the mesa was easily scaled. At places it might even have been done by a man on horseback, or so it had seemed by day, though no trail led upward that I had seen. Certainly it could be scaled by a man on foot.

But no longer was I thinking of my own escape. All I could think of was Belle in the hands of the Wells outfit. Somehow she must be freed from them.

Whatever sense those men out there had possessed was lost to them now. It must have seemed fairly simple to them to invite me to the ranch where an “accident” would occur. But their plans had failed, and they were growing increasingly desperate and reckless.

In my dealings with criminals in the past one thing had become obvious, that all were incurable optimists, as well as egotists. They were confident their plans would succeed, and had nothing but contempt for the law and for the law-abiding citizen.

Colin Wells could have no appreciation of the patience and thoroughness of a good police officer such as Tom Riley. Riley had connected Manuel Alvarez with me. By now, if not before, he would have a question in his mind about the death of Pete Alvarez on the Wells ranch. His patient checking or that of his department would undoubtedly turn up the fact (printed occasionally on the jacket of my books) that I had served in Korea. And undoubtedly Pio’s military record was included in the facts in the hands of the police.

In these days there are few areas in the life of a man that remain secret from even the most casual investigation, and Riley would not be casual. Without a doubt Colin Wells already represented a large question in the mind of Tom Riley, but this Wells would have no reason to suspect.

Although several of the ranch force were deputies, it was unlikely they had participated in any police work other than that connected with their own neighboring properties, or with criminal activity in the immediate area.

But Colin Wells knew that our escape from the ranch would certainly mean an investigation. He would have all the witnesses, but even if he made it impossible to prove a case against him, the clouded title of the ranch would be exposed and an investigation begun to establish ownership.

Suddenly, I knew what I must do. I must get back to the ranch and use the telephone there. I must get an emergency call through to Tom Riley in the city. He could start the wheels of the law rolling even out here.

We were twenty miles or more from the Wells ranch house. Going over rough country and avoiding trails most of the time, it would take me a good many hours to reach it.

I thought of the Bar-Bell, Benton Seward’s place. It was less than half the distance, but Seward would be home and so would his hands. In between was Belle’s place on Cougar Canyon, but I doubted if there was a telephone there. I could not recall that she had said anything about one.

Well, if I was lucky and didn’t fall off a cliff in the darkness, I could perhaps make Seward’s place before daybreak. With a horse I might have made it in less than two hours, but I knew rough country too well to underestimate the time required to cross it.

Ignoring the sounds from behind me, I started out at a fast pace. I came down off the mesa and crossed Cave Creek, hit the old trail that skirted Cramm Mountain, and broke into a trot. Trotting fifty steps and walking fifty, I paused occasionally to listen, and I took time to glance at my watch. Presently I was climbing the old Indian trail, scarcely visible as a faint gray line, that led across Bulldog Mesa.

The trail was an unexpected break. My eyes, long accustomed to looking for such trails, had picked it out of the gloom. When one has ridden such trails for miles across country, one acquires almost an instinct for them. Often I had found and followed trails that were invisible to anyone else not equally experienced.

When I reached Benton Seward’s and crouched beside the stable, my wristwatch told me it was just past three o’clock in the morning. It was very dark, and there was no sound. My eyes, accustomed to the darkness, picked out objects easily. The large ranch house, built of native stone, faced west toward the mountains. On the far side, away from where I now waited, I knew there was a picture window that looked across the Verde. On that side there was a terrace.

Seward was undoubtedly here, and some of the ranch hands would be sure to be around. There should be a dog, but so far there had been no barking. The last thing I wanted was to be set upon by a dog just as I was about to enter the house.

Circling behind the stable, I worked around to the far side. Moving on cat feet, I slipped over the low wall at the edge of the terrace and crossed to the house. The sliding glass door moved easily under my hand—locks were not much used in ranch country—and I stepped through it. Once in the room, I stood still, listening.

The rifle I had left by the door, but the pistol was tucked in my waistband, ready for use. The room was dark, but I could make out a TV set very dimly, and a sofa and a table. My own form blacked out by the shadow of the curtains, I waited and studied the room as best I could. There were two doors, and what seemed to be a bar, and there should be a telephone.

There did not seem to be one on the bar…nor on the table. With the greatest care, I left my place and moved into the room, edging toward one of the doors. The sofa was so dimly seen that I could not be sure whether someone might be lying on it…there was not.

At the door I paused and listened, but I heard no sound. I put out a hand to the knob, and gently I turned it. Slowly, I eased the door open.

My heart was pounding, my mouth felt dry. I left the door slightly ajar, since there was no breeze stirring, and stepped into the space beyond. On my right was a door opening into a kitchen, and there on the table, just inside the door, was a telephone. Carefully, I eased the phone from the cradle and dialed Operator. When she answered I started to speak.

“This is the Bar-Bell ranch. There has been a murder and an attempted murder on the Colin Wells ranch. Please report this to Tom Riley of the—”

“Put it down.”

The voice was cold and level, and filled with menace. Doris Wells, in an enticing green negligee, held an altogether unenticing black pistol. She held it very steadily, right at my belt buckle.

“Put it down—carefully.”

As I started to lower it to the cradle she stepped around me and deftly took it in her left hand. “Operator,” she said, “we’re having a party. I am afraid some of our guests have become somewhat intoxicated. This is their idea of a joke. I’m sorry.”

Even as she was speaking, I moved, reaching for the gun. She tried to step back, tripped over a chair, and the gun went off…and then I grabbed her wrist and twisted the gun free.

Quickly, I flattened myself against the wall, holding the gun ready. She got up off the floor, gathering her negligee together. “You fool!” she exclaimed. “What do you hope to gain by that?”

She gestured…the telephone had dropped back on the cradle. Had the circuit closed before the gun went off? My good sense told me the report must have been too late to have been heard; or if it had been, the operator might not realize it had been a shot…a champagne cork would make a not dissimilar sound.

“What you do not seem to realize,” I said, “is that this has already gotten out of hand. Whatever you hoped to accomplish by inviting me here has already failed.”

“You’re still here. We’ve had a lot of experience with cow thieves, you know. Not one of them ever got off our property.”

“
Your
property?”

The skin around her eyes tightened. “
Our
property!” she repeated.

“You don’t seem to realize that killing me wouldn’t help in the least. Whether you know it or not, I have a certain following, a lot of people like to read my books. My death would have my publisher searching for every scrap I had written, and putting it in the hands of some good writer for completion, if that was necessary. So the very book you’re trying to stop would be published anyway.

“After some litigation you would lose the ranch, but you would still be free. What you are asking for now is a death penalty.”

“Don’t be silly.” Her tone was contemptuous. “Nothing has changed, nothing will change.”

“This much has changed.” The voice came from behind my shoulder, for I’d half turned from the wall, and it was Benton Seward’s voice. “Drop the gun, Sheridan.”