Raw Land (10 page)

Will's face was smooth, impassive, but he felt a cold apprehension at Becky's words. He said slowly, “I'm afraid to leave the ranch without a boss in case there's trouble out there.” He drawled, “What do you mean, question?”

Slow color crept into Becky's face, but she said stubbornly, “You won't get mad, Will, if I tell you about something that happened tonight?”

“No.”

Becky said earnestly, “The other day when Pres and our men rode up to your place and were going to burn it, I told Dad. I was there so he knew it was the truth. I asked him to fire Pres.” She hesitated and then went on in a dull voice. “You remember, I told you I thought Pres was blackmailing Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he is. Dad admitted it to me. He said he couldn't fire Pres. I argued with him for five days. I never gave him a moment's peace. I wanted him to come to Chap Hale and tell him the story. Chap's his oldest friend. He didn't want to, but he finally agreed that if anyone could tell him what to do to get rid of Pres, it would be Chap. You understand?”

Will nodded, listening intently.

“This afternoon we drove in together, Dad and I. We got in after dark, and went straight to Chap's office. But there was somebody there ahead of us. I heard him, there in the office. He and Chap were arguing, and they didn't hear us. We went away, but I recognized the man's voice who was talking to Chap.”

“Who was it?”

“That's what's queer, Will.” Becky said slowly. “It was Milt Barron.”

Milt watched Will, sagging between two men, hauled into the lighted sheriff's office. From his position between two dark stores across the street, he could see that Will was walking, and that he wasn't hurt. And then, for the first time since the fight in the alley, he turned his thoughts to what had happened there. Right now, it seemed as if it hadn't happened.

He'd been standing in the alley, gun drawn, and had just shouted to Will reassuring him he had the alley covered, when he had heard a soft voice from inside the barn. “Milt?”

It was Pres. For a moment, he had stood there, stunned. Pres Milo was the man who killed Chap Hale!

Then Pres had opened the door and slipped out, gun in hand. Pres had whispered, “When this is over, come to the station.”

And before Milt had had a chance to answer, Pres slipped off in the dark. Pres had assumed that Milt would have to help him, and he'd been right. Milt had let him escape.

Milt looked bleakly toward the dark hulk of the station upstreet. Pres was a cheap killer. Why in hell had he ever told Pres tonight before he met Will in the saloon that he had talked with Chap Hale? That was what did it, that was what caused Chap's death. He'd met Pres by the hotel, just after he'd left Chap. They'd walked to the edge of town and back in the darkness, and he'd told Pres that Will was determined to buy the ranch. He told him how he'd gone to Chap and pleaded with him not to sell the ranch to Will. His grounds for pleading had sounded sensible—as Will's friend and foreman, he didn't want to see him stuck with a piece of worthless property. Chap agreed, but said it was Will's business. Milt insisted, Chap refused, and there had been an argument. But Chap was adamant, and Milt left him.

Pres had listened to all this, grunted, said good-by; and Milt went over to the saloon where Will was. Pres had gone up Chap's stairs, waited for him, and killed him.

Across the street now in the sheriff's office men were talking. Milt stepped out on the walk and headed slowly, reluctantly for the station where Pres said he would be. He knew with dismal conviction that the time for him to act had passed. If he'd shot Pres there in the alley, he would be clear. But he couldn't shoot Pres now; it was too late, and he couldn't explain it.

Milt approached the dark station and walked around to the platform in front.

A man stirred in the shadows and said, “Here.”

Milt walked up to him and said in a small wicked voice, “I don't know why I don't kill you now, Pres.”

Pres laughed. “Yes you do, fella. I'm through worryin' about you. You cut down on me now and Will Danning will know you let me out of the barn, won't he? And what'll you tell him?”

Milt said hotly, “What did you kill Hale for? What sense does it make?”

“You don't see?”

“Hell, no!” Milt said savagely. “He had nothin' to do with it, nothin' at all.”

“Listen,” Pres sneered. “You told me Will Danning didn't own the place yet, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“And that Chap Hale had the deed?”

“Yes.”

“Then Danning ain't goin' to own it. Chap can't deed him the place if he's dead, can he?”

Milt was mute. It was the truth, a truth that hadn't dawned on him. He felt a loathing for Pres, but beyond that he had to admit Pres had done the only thing that would forestall Will's getting the place.

Milt said, “Now what'll happen to the place?”

“I dunno,” Pres said. “It'll give us time, anyway.”

Milt said tonelessly, “You're a hardcase, aren't you, Pres? You'd kill any man that stands in your way, wouldn't you?”

Pres was silent, uneasy.

“There's nothin' I can do about Hale,” Milt went on. “He's dead, and I didn't know you'd kill him or I'd never have told you what I did. But I'm goin' to make you a promise, Pres.”

“Yeah?” Pres asked slowly.

“You hurt Will Danning, and, by God, I'll kill you!” His voice was low, passionate, wild, and in it was more threat than was in his words.

Pres said uneasily, “Take it easy, Milt. Hell, I won't hurt Danning. We can get the place now.”

Milt said nothing more. He turned on his heel and walked away. His thoughts were bleak and terrible as he tramped across the cinders to the boardwalk. He felt a guilt in Chap Hale's death. True, the old man was eighty; death didn't matter so much. But what did matter was that Pres was drawing him into something evil and sinister, and he was helpless to pull out. Slowly and irrevocably, he was being drawn into it.

He passed the sheriff's office, and immediately afterward the door opened. He heard it shut, heard a woman's footsteps on the boardwalk, and then a voice called, “Milt Barron!”

Milt waited. It was Becky Case, he saw, as she came closer. He touched his hat and smiled, feeling a lift at the sight of something as beautiful and clean as this girl.

She fell in beside him and said, “I just saw Will.”

“He's all right, isn't he?”

“Yes. He had a message for you.”

Milt looked at her curiously, and Becky went on. “He said he wanted you to go out to the ranch tonight, right now, without coming to see him, even.”

Milt said uneasily, “Did he say why?”

“He said he was afraid to leave the ranch alone in case—well, in case it was raided again. By us, I suppose.”

Milt laughed boyishly. “That's a funny message comin' from the people he's supposed to be afraid of.”

Becky laughed. They were even with the hotel now, and Milt wanted to go in and talk with her. He was hungry for a woman's company, hungry for just a look at a pretty woman. There was a scattering of men in the lobby, Milt could see as he glanced through the lobby window.

And then, just as he was about to look away, he yanked his gaze back.

There, half turned to him, sitting under one of the overhead lamps and talking to a couple of men, was Charlie Sommers.

Milt felt his stomach coil in fear. He stared at the man, fascinated, and then Becky's voice said, “You've been holding that door handle for a half minute, Milt. Aren't you going to let me in?”

“Sure. Yes, sure,” Milt said hastily. He looked at Becky, a sick smile on his face, and touched his hat.

“Good night.”

He was gone down street, head turned toward the opposite sidewalk, before Becky had time to answer him.

Chapter Seven

F
RAME
-U
P

A little before noon next day Will was hauled before the justice of the peace, whose chambers were the Masonic Hall over Dunn's General Store, and fined twenty-five dollars. The fine was suspended, but not before the judge, true to Charlie Sommers's prediction, gave Will a scolding for accusing innocent people of serious crimes. Will took it without a word, and afterward was freed. Sheriff Phipps, with Chap Hale's murder on his hands, put in only a perfunctory appearance, warned Will to keep away from Harry Mygrave, and then went out to resume his investigation at Chap's office.

Will went to the barbership to get cleaned up. Lying there in the chair, eyes closed, while the barber shaved him, he had several things to think about. First was Milt. Will had stayed awake far into the night trying to puzzle out why Milt would have wanted to see Chap. And did his talk with Chap have any connection with Chap's death? With a stern impartiality, Will made himself consider that, but he couldn't see any connection. Milt was with him when Chap was killed, and he'd joined in the hunt for the killer. No, Milt was clear—but why had he argued so violently with Chap?

The other thing that troubled Will was the disposition of the spread. Chap still owned it. There might be some tiresome court requirements to go through before Will could get it. However, Chap's letters and the fact that he had accepted Will's money would be proof enough to the court that the executors of Chap's estate would be morally bound to turn over the spread to him.

He didn't know what to think of Chap's death. Who could have killed him, and why? Will met a blank there. He knew nothing about Chap, about his enemies. Chap had lived a lifetime here, and all men have enemies. Will didn't have a clue to his death; only Phipps could unravel that killing.

The other thing that troubled him was the presence of Charlie Sommers. It could mean that he was on Milt's trail, or it could mean nothing except that he was passing through on business of his office.

Before he ate Will had a drink in Mohr's saloon and learned that Chap was to be buried early that afternoon from the small white church down one of the back streets. Will didn't go to the services, but he was the first one at the small bleak cemetery out on the flats where the fresh earth from Chap's grave was drying in the sun.

A lot of people were at Chap's funeral, among them Phipps, Case and Becky, and Pres Milo. The words that were spoken there didn't mean much to Will; he thought of Chap only as an old man with a passionate interest in justice, a man who had befriended him and counseled him—and whose counsel he had not followed. And during that service he made a private vow that he would get Chap's killer if it turned out to be Milt himself. He would see Mygrave, too—sheriff or no sheriff.

After the services, Will hunted out Sheriff Phipps, who was dressed in a hot black suit. The old man looked sad, for Chap Hale was one of his friends. He greeted Will coolly when Will spoke to him, and led him out of the slow stream of people who were heading for their buggies and horses at the cemetery tie rail.

“I'd like to ask a couple of questions, sheriff,” Will began.

Phipps nodded.

Will asked, “Do you know the man that waited on the landing for Chap?”

Phipps angrily shook his head. “If I did, would I be here now?”

“Who are Chap's heirs?”

“Relatives back East.”

“Who's handlin' his property?”

Phipps looked at him curiously.

“His executor is Angus Case.”

Will was inwardly dismayed at that, but his lean face was impassive. Only the gray eyes gave a hint of trouble as he thanked Phipps, and the sheriff went on.

Will saw Becky and Angus Case walking slowly toward their buggy, and he followed them, determined to learn everything now.

Case was just picking up the reins when he saw Will approach. Over his face came an expression of stolid dislike.

Will touched his hat to Becky and then said to Case, “I understand you're Chap's executor, Case.”

“That's right.”

“I want to explain what you'll find when you look over Chap's papers.” Will said evenly. “He bought the Pitchfork place for me, you know.”

“So I heard.”

“But the title is still in his name,” Will said.

Case stared at him, frowning.

“How's that?”

“Chap thought maybe after I'd seen the place that I'd change my mind about wantin' it. So he bought it in his own name. I didn't change my mind, and he was goin' to make over the title to me. I don't think he got around to it before he died.”

Case said slowly, “Then the spread ain't yours legally?”

“It was bought with my money, but the title's in Chap's name.”

Case looked at him a long moment, and then cleared his throat.

“You'll get your money back,” he said.

Will flushed. “I don't want the money, Case. I want the spread.”

Case said, smiling thinly, “I'm to be the judge of that, I reckon. As Chap's executor, I have the right to dispose of the property.”

Will was getting mad, and he knew it and didn't care. “You'll sell it to me, Case, or I'll make you!” he said thickly.

“How?”

“I've got Chap's letters. I've got a receipt for the money spent. It'll stand up in any court in the Territory. I'll tell Chap's heirs of this swindle.”

“It'll have to hold up in court,” Case said grimly, “because that's where it'll wind up.”

“You'll fight it then?”

“Till hell freezes over, and then I'll buy it to keep it from you,” Case said curtly. “Good day.”

Will watched them drive off. Becky looked at him, fear in her eyes, and she smiled nervously. Will didn't see her smile and wouldn't have cared, anyway. Slowly, surely, he was growing to hate Case with a hatred that scared him. The thought that checked his anger was the knowledge that the court would award him the Pitchfork.