Raw Land (12 page)

Pres lay over his horse's neck and roweled him, and another shot cracked out. But it was dark as pitch down here, and whoever shot was aiming for the sound.

He raced down the continuous alley until he reached the stock pens, turned west, rode to the edge of town, then doubled back north at a slow walk. A block away toward town he heard men shouting and the sound of running horses.

Leisurely, the sack across his saddle horn, he rode north out of town. A twenty-minute ride brought him to an arroyo, and he turned up to it. A half mile farther he dismounted, built a small fire of dead chamiso stalks, and then settled down to look at his loot.

The deed to Chap Hale from the company was not there.

Pres rolled a smoke and considered his next move, wishing he knew where the deed was. A deep disgust rose within him as he realized that Will Danning might have it by now in spite of what Milt had told him. He didn't think so, though. But his next move was certain. He sacked the papers, kicked sand over the fire, and rode back to town. There was nobody near Chap's office, but all the horses were gone from in front of the saloon. He threw the sack of papers in the doorway without dismounting, rode on to the livery stable, turned his horse into the corral, and went back to the hotel.

He took a key down from the board, noted on the register which room Angus Case had, then went upstairs. The room he had picked out for himself had pen and paper on the desk. Tearing the hotel letterhead off the paper, he sat down and was a long hour composing a note.

At the finish of it, he rose, turned down his light, and went down the corridor to Angus Case's room. He knocked loudly, and presently the door opened. Angus Case stood there, his pants drawn on over his underwear.

Pres brushed past him into the room, and Case shut the door behind him.

“What do you want?” Case asked without enthusiasm.

Pres didn't answer immediately. He sat down in the only chair, and Case came over and sat nervously on the bed. Pres's face was still swollen, but his features were slowly settling into their brutal thick-lipped naturalness. He shoved his hat back on his sandy hair, yawned, and said, “Hear anything tonight?”

“Like what?”

“An explosion?”

“No.” Case peered at him. “What was it?”

“I blew Hale's safe. I figured the whole town would be awake.”

“You—did what?”

Pres smiled faintly. “Blew his safe. I was lookin' for that deed from the land company so you wouldn't get it.”

Case only stared at him. Pres yawned again and said, “It ain't there. I looked through all the stuff.”

“Then Danning's got it?”

“I don't reckon.” Pres gestured with a thick thumb toward the paper he'd laid on the desk. “Read that.”

He made no move to hand it to Case, and Case rose and came over to the table. He fumbled around in his coat for his iron-rimmed glasses, put them on, and then read what Pres had just written.

Dear Mr. Hale:

I might have took your body gard job if you hadent tolt me who you was afrade of. Im a marryed man now mr. Hale and I now you done me favirs but I dont hone to go agenst will Daning or his gunnies, you beter get some yung man who aint got a fambly and who aint scaired to go agenst danning like me. If he sed hed kill you he will, you beter go away
.

Tod Rinker

Case looked at Pres, and there was puzzlement in his face. “Where'd you get this?”

“I wrote it.”

“But what for?”

Pres stifled another yawn and said carelessly, “You got to go over Hale's papers, ain't you? You're his executor.”

“Yes, what's this got to do with that?”

“Slip that in your pocket,” Pres said. “When you and Phipps start picking up Chap's stuff tomorrow just slip that in with the other stuff.”

Case straightened up slowly and took off his glasses. “I see,” he mused. “You want it to look like Danning quarreled with Chap, or maybe murdered him?”

“Maybe he did,” Pres suggested.

On Case's face was a look of loathing. “You mean you'd frame a man with a murder?”

“Not me,” Pres said gently. “You will.”

“I won't!”

Pres rose and yawned again. “You'll do it,” he said carelessly. “You'll get to thinkin' after I go. You'll find you'd like to have Danning off the Pitchfork, too. Then”—here he smiled faintly and looked at Case—“you'll do it because I say so.”

“But—”

“Save it,” Pres said. He went out, shutting the door gently behind him.

Chapter Nine

O
NE
A
GAINST THE
L
AW

Land, like houses or dogs, can grow old and wear out. And the Sevier Brakes, Will thought that morning, were worn out. He had started out early with sour-faced old Ollie Gargan to locate the east boundary and take a look at what few of their cattle they could see.

The brakes were really the lands draining the headwaters of the Sevier river, far to the east and south. They were clay dunes, mostly, capped by a rotting schist that gave them a scabby appearance. Wind and rains had fantastically eroded them, but their labyrinthine canyons had some order if you understood them. All the arroyos, in spite of endless twisting and turning, drained down from a height of land that was obscured by the fantastic spires and spines of the ridges. A wiry bunch grass and the stubborn grama were scattered on the lesser slopes and the rare flats, and the only water was in scattered springs. It was a sorry range, Will thought; even old man Harkins, who located the springs, never conceded cattle would thrive on it. The beef they saw during that morning's ride was gaunt-ribbed from foraging, and Will was glad that nobody but the crew ever saw his beef. If they did, they would be certain that Will Danning was raising cattle as a screen for something else, since he couldn't possibly make money ranching.

Ollie regarded the land and the cattle in glum silence all morning. Will thought the desolate wasteland was depressing him, but when they had spotted their east boundary corner and turned back toward the spread, Ollie shook his head and spat.

“How long you aim to keep me working here, Danning?” he asked.

“As long as you do your work. Why?”

“What work?” Ollie made a hopeless gesture indicating the country. “You won't have no beef left after a rain. They'll shelter up in them deep arroyos, and when the head of water comes down they'll drown. Or break their legs.”

“It's not that bad, Ollie.”

“It's worse,” Ollie said. “You stick here and you'll raise a runty breed of culls you can't give away. It ain't in a cow to scrounge for grass the way they'll have to. And what about roundup?”

“What about it?”

Ollie spat again in disgust. “You can't drive 'em. Hell, you'll have to build traps at every water hole.”

Will smiled, but Ollie regarded him accusingly. Ollie was trying to gauge just how far he could go with his new boss, and he was encouraged by Will's easy way with him. He was determined to get everything off his chest.

He said grimly, “Another thing. Am I 'sposed to take orders from you or Barron?”

“Barron's my foreman,” Will said flatly. “He'll give you orders when I don't.”

“And who'm I 'sposed to tell things I see?”

Will glanced at him curiously. The old man's jaw was clamped shut, and he was looking straight ahead. “I don't get it,” Will murmured.

“What you do ain't any of my business,” Ollie went on. “But what I do is your business, and what your foreman does is your business, ain't it?”

“It depends,” Will said slowly.

“Well, I'm goin' to tell you what I saw and then shut up,” Ollie went on. “The other night when we heard them shots and rode up to the drift fence, I heard Milt tell you he was smokin' by the fence and somebody cut down on him. Is that right?”

Will nodded.

“He was talkin' to somebody,” Ollie said. “He was sittin' down in the arroyo, and the other man was standin' off a ways. They started off together up the bank. Milt did all the shootin', too.”

“How do you know?” Will said, after a moment's pause.

“I was ridin' that fence next day, like you told me. I seen the tracks. I don't snoop, but I seen it and I figured to tell you, that's all.”

Will was silent. Presently, he said, “Thanks, Ollie,” and lapsed into silence again. He didn't understand the implications of what Ollie told him. Whom had Milt talked to, and then shot at? Milt didn't know anybody here that he could sit down in the sand and talk to—except Becky Case. And he wouldn't shoot at her. Then it must have been somebody from outside, somebody Milt had known before. But why was it necessary to lie to everyone? Will didn't know, but he felt a vague uneasiness about Milt. There was something about Milt's actions that wasn't right, and yet he couldn't put his finger on it. One thing that angered him was that Milt, by his actions, was making the crew suspicious. He'd have to have another talk with Milt and, even if hard words were passed, make him understand the suicidal risk he was running.

It was late afternoon when they rode into the place. Will rode past the house, noticed nobody seemed to be around, and went on down to the corral where he turned his horse in. Afterward, he came into the cookshack for a drink of water and listened. Pablo wasn't even here. There was absolute silence. He heard Ollie walk into the big room and, apparently, sit down.

Wearily, Will tramped through the passageway into the big room, his eyes on the floor. When he stepped into the big room, he looked up to see where Ollie was.

He was looking into Sheriff Phipps's two guns. The whole crew, including Milt, was sitting against the far wall. There were four other men besides Sheriff Phipps there, and they all held guns on the crew.

Will looked at them and then at Phipps, an immediate anger mounting into his smoky eyes. He said, “So that's why the place looked dead.”

“We've been waitin' an hour,” Phipps said. “I'm takin' no chances on you, Danning.”

Will said nothing.

“I'm arresting you,” Phipps said slowly, “for the murder of Chap Hale.”

Will's jaw sagged in amazement and then he said with savage scorn, “You damned old fool, I heard Mygrave tell you that both me and Milt were standin' in front of the saloon when Chap was shot! You think I can shoot around corners?”

Phipps said harshly, “Let me finish, Danning. I don't claim you murdered him yourself; I claim you had him murdered by one of your men. The only man in your crew besides yourself that couldn't have done it is Barron, here. As for the rest, one of them done it!”

“And
why
would they kill him?” Will demanded angrily. “Chap was the only friend I had here. Why would I hire him killed?”

“Because he wouldn't sell you this place.”

“But he would!”

“You got the deed?” Phipps asked.

Will shook his head. “You know damn well I haven't! He didn't have time to make it out to me before he was killed!”

“I know he
wouldn't
make it out to you,” Phipps said grimly. “Where were you last night?”

“Right here.”

“With your crew?”

“Every man jack of 'em.”

“And I suppose you played poker for a couple of hours and then went to bed,” Phipps said angrily.

“That's right, except it was rummy.”

Phipps said thinly, “Chap Hale's office was robbed last night. The safe was blown. You aim to tell me now that it wasn't you that done it, lookin' for that deed?”

Will was speechless; he stared at Phipps with bleak, murderous eyes, not knowing what to say.

And then he said in a flat, toneless voice, “You ain't got proof anyone killed him, you ain't got proof of any motive, you ain't got proof I was even in town last night, and still you aim to arrest me and my crew for Chap's murder?”

“A couple of other things figure in it,” Phipps said. “One of them is that Case heard a man arguing in Hale's office the night Chap was killed. He figures it was you.”

Will didn't even look at Milt, and Milt didn't deny it. Behind his anger, Will wondered at that and was unreasonably hurt. But Phipps was taking something out of his pocket, a piece of paper, and he extended it to Will.

It was Pres's note. Will read it and read it again, and then looked up at Phipps, eyes questioning.

“That was found in Chap's papers,” Phipps said.

“And where were the papers?” Will asked softly.

“Scattered to hell and gone.”

Will smiled wickedly. “Whoever wrote this could've left it lyin' with the rest of the papers when he blew the safe, couldn't he?”

Phipps shook his head. “That was in a drawer in the desk you missed, Danning. Case, Chap's executor, and me searched the office this mornin'. Case found that in a locked drawer.”

“Case found it,” Will sneered. “Well, well. Of course he couldn't put it there, and pretend he'd just come on it.”

Phipps said calmly, “I figured you'd say that. You claim Harry Mygrave let Chap's killer go, too, and Mygrave is the straightest man I know. Angus Case is about the next straightest, and now you claim he's a crook.” Phipps shook his head. “Trouble with you is, you figure everybody's as crooked as you, Danning. You'll have time to think about that in jail, though.”

“And you're goin' to take my whole crew to jail?” Will drawled.

“All except Barron. He couldn't have shot Chap, because he was with you.”

Then it was safe to act, Will thought. Milt wouldn't be arrested if he kept his mouth shut and didn't lose his temper.

Will frowned, pushed his hat back, put his hands on his hips, and said, “All right, Phipps. I'll go with you. But the law don't give you the right to ruin a man when you arrest him on suspicion of murder, does it?”