Raw Land (24 page)

He reached in his pocket for his gun. Pres's hand streaked to his holster. Case yanked at his gun—and the sight caught on the edge of his pocket. He tugged savagely, and it came loose. But in that half second that the sight was tangled, Pres's gun swung up. He took careful sight and shot once.

The shot caught Case in the chest, slamming him backward. He caught himself, braced his feet, and raised his gun. He got it only chest-high when it boomed loudly in the room, and the slug slapped into the bar at Pres's feet.

Case looked at him with glassy eyes, tried to speak, and then his knees buckled. He fell on his side and rolled over on his back and lay still.

Men were bending over him when Phipps stepped in. Pres came up to him and offered his gun and said, “It was self-defense, Phipps. Ask anybody here.”

Phipps listened to them absently. Man after man told of how Case had come in, how he had threatened Pres. Phipps knew what the story would be. He pushed Pres's gun back and looked down at Case, at peace at last.

“Give a hand with him, will you?” he asked sadly.

He did not speak, did not look at Pres. He only followed the men who carried Case out, and did not once look back.

Afterward Milt went over to the hotel and wrote another note. It said:
Miss Becky: You'd better come to town at once. Your Father is ill.—Milt Barron
.

He signed it and took it down to the livery stable and paid a boy two dollars to ride out with it to the Nine X.

It was a wise move, and he was rather proud of it. It meant that Becky would not be on hand tomorrow when he talked with Will. She didn't like him, and he didn't want her influencing Will at this crucial moment.

Chapter Twenty

A M
AN
'
S
P
ROMISE

It was a gray morning, and Will was sleeping after breakfast. It had tired him even to cook a meal, and he was ashamed of it. All he wanted to do was sleep and eat. A Nine X rider could have walked in on him any time, and he wouldn't have known it.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and, coming awake, he realized it might be a stray rider. He opened his eyes and started to sit up, then saw it was Milt.

He had never seen Milt look this way before, never seen him so beaten and dispirited.

“What's the matter with you, fella?” Will drawled. And he asked instantly, “Wouldn't Case give you the money?”

Milt sat down on the edge of the bunk. “I dunno, Will. Before I had a chance to ask, somebody made me a proposition.”

“What?”

“A lot's happened since yesterday,” Milt went on. “First thing is, Case is dead. He chose Pres, and Pres killed him.”

“Poor Becky,” Will said slowly. “She knew it was comin', I reckon.”

“Second thing is,” Milt said bleakly, “somebody knows me here, Will.”

Will sat upright, eyes wide. “Who?”

“Pres Milo.”

For a long moment Will only stared at him, and then he murmured, “How'd he find out?”

“You remember that painted locket I've got of my mother? Well, I never told you, but it opens up. On the inside is a picture of my dad. On the inside of the back is some engraving, somethin' like: ‘To Murray from Mother and Dad.' Well, yesterday Pres searched my camp at the wagon. He found the locket. I'd smashed it shut, and I didn't think it would open, but he opened it. He saw it and guessed it was me.”

Will said nothing, and Milt went on doggedly, “Third thing is, Chap Hale made out a deed to you, Will, before he died.” He handed the deed to Will, who opened it. “Pres stole it from the safe that night he robbed Chap's office.”

Will looked from the deed to Milt.

“But why?”

“He didn't want you to get the land. He knew Case would be executor, and that if you couldn't show a deed, the land would go to Case. That's why he made the deal with Case.”

“But why did he give it to you now?”

Milt laughed bitterly. “He figures he can make you deed the land to him now. If you don't, he says he'll turn me up and you, too, for hidin' me.”

Will looked again at the deed. “Is that why Case tried to kill him?”

Milt nodded mutely, and Will let the deed fall to his lap. Milt got up and said, “Well, I'm goin' to drift, Will.”

“Drift where?”

“I dunno, but I'm goin' to clear out of here today, now. Pres said he'd give you a day to decide. That'll give me time enough to get into the brakes. Then you can tell him to go to hell. You can ride into town and show the deed to Phipps. It'll show Phipps that you and Chap never quarreled about the deed, so you couldn't have killed him. Pres will try to hang the dead-wood on you. He'll claim you been hidin' me. Deny it. When he brings out the locket, you can tell him I give it to you when we split up months ago. They can't find me to prove it, so you'll be in the clear.”

“Wait a minute,” Will said slowly. “You mean you're goin', clearin' out?”

Milt nodded.

“But why?”

Milt laughed shortly. “Don't be a damn fool, Will. If I stay here, it'll mean you got to deed your land to Pres. And that land's worth a fortune, so Pres says. It's worth enough that Case tried to kill him over losin' it.”

Will threw the deed on the table. “Take it back to him and tell him to keep it. Tell him I'll deed him the damn land and welcome!”

“But you're losin' a fortune!” Milt said slowly.

“To hell with a fortune,” Will said curtly. “I'm goin' to hide you, Milt. This deed will keep his mouth shut for a couple of weeks until I can ride out of here with you.”

“But dammit, man—”

“It's settled,” Will said flatly. “Money don't amount to a damn. The important thing is to keep him off our necks until I can drift with you, Milt.”

Milt came over and stood looking down at Will. “Look, fella,” he said quietly. “I been around your neck long enough. You've lost a place, you've got shot, and you're outlawed, all on account of me. I better drift alone. You've done all you could and more, Will. If you figure you owe it to me to keep your promise, forget it. You've done all a man could, and it's up to me, now.”

“Where'll you go?”

Milt shrugged.

Will brought his hand down violently on the table. “No. Milt, you're cagey enough when it comes to business, but stickin' with me is your only chance! Sure as hell you'll give yourself away. You're too reckless! You don't care! And if you think I'm goin' to see you hanged, just because I dropped you to make some money, you're loco as hell! You're stickin' with me!”

“I can't let you do it!” Milt said doggedly.

“I've done it,” Will said flatly. “You're goin' to ride into town tonight, tell Milo that I agree, pick up a deed form and bring it out here. You and Becky will be my witnesses to the deed. I'll sign it and show it to Pres. Tell him it's his if he gives me another week to get on my feet. After that, we'll mail it to him and ride out, and be damned to the land!”

“You can't do it, Will!”

“I can do anything for a friend,” Will said simply.

Milt's gaze dropped, and he sat down on the bunk, staring at the floor. He felt a cold and dismal feeling of shame, and he couldn't look at Will. Will misinterpreted that. He said softly, “Look, Milt. Remember when I rode up to the Double Bar O, flat broke, ridin' the grub line? Remember when old Harley told me he'd feed me one meal and then for me to get out? Remember, you watched me eat, and then asked me if I could wrangle horses? Remember how you argued with Harley, and finally ordered him to hire me? In five years, you'd made me ramrod of your spread. I don't forget that, Milt. You gave me a hand when I was down. What kind of man would I be if I—”

“Quit it, Will!” Milt cried.

Milt looked at him. For an instant, an almost ungovernable impulse welled up in him to tell Will the whole rotten thing and ask his forgiveness. But he was afraid, afraid of Pres, afraid of Charlie Sommers, and afraid mostly of Will. For some day, surely as the sun rose, Will would find out the whole slimy story behind Senator Mason's killing. It was the story of how a young newspaperman, for more money than he'd ever seen, had boldly published lies and slander about a good man. He'd been brought to justice in the courts, but he couldn't tolerate a beating. He'd killed Senator Mason for it, and then fled. His innocence was fiction, although the men who first bribed him used it as a political rallying-cry. No, when Will found out the truth, he would hate him. It was too late to turn back now. It was too late for everything except to grab what money he could and flee to another country where he could start over. The time to tell Will was past, and Milt knew with dismal conviction that he could never look back, never have mercy, never ask it.

Will said gently, “All right, fella. But that's the way it stands.”

Milt had to thank him now. He wondered if he'd choke as he spoke—if, as he had believed when he was a child, his tongue would turn black at mouthing such lies.

Will said gruffly, “If you try to thank me for this I'll break your neck. Get out of here.”

Milt rose, not looking at him, put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it, and went out.

Becky listened to Phipps's quiet story in the office that morning. She saw it as the tragic story of her father, aging and too ambitious, blinding his conscience to take a short cut to the ease which most men worked a lifetime for. He'd paid for it. Every hour of these last ten years had been payment. Death was welcome to him, she knew, and she couldn't feel much sorrow. Right now she couldn't even hate the man who'd killed him.

Phipps agreed with her when she said she wanted the burial that morning. Two of the three people Angus Case cared for most—his daughter and his friend, John Phipps—were there. Chap Hale was already dead. To get the crew in for the funeral would mean leaving roundup, and it would take days. And Becky couldn't, wouldn't wait that long.

It was a quiet service, only a handful of people attending. Angus Case had been an unfriendly and proud man during his lifetime, a person the town and the ranchers didn't understand and didn't like. And few would really mourn him, Becky knew.

Afterward she rode back to town in Phipps's buggy. There was only one person in the world she wanted to see now, and that was Will. But Will was leaving. Or was he? Wouldn't she inherit the land now, and couldn't she give it back to him? She was almost ashamed of her lightness of heart when she thought of that.

First, though, she remembered she was mistress of the Nine X. There was buying to do, for the ranch must run as it had always run under her father. She stopped in at Dunn's, ordered supplies, had a special sack of grub put up for Will, and then called for the Nine X mail.

She wanted to ride to see Will first, but she knew she wouldn't. She must first ride out to the ranch, tell the men of her father's death, give orders to Tip. Afterward, her duty done, she could see Will.

The Nine X was deserted, except for Tomás and one of the punchers Becky had sent for last night when she'd got news of her father's illness. Now that her father was dead, she wondered if she should go on with this roundup, which was the whim of a man who feared his cattle had been stolen. But if the crew returned Will might be discovered. She told the puncher of her father's death and sent word to Tip to keep on with the roundup.

Afterward she went into the house. Will's grub she put on the table, and then she remembered the mail. She stepped to the door, called to the puncher, who was just riding out, to wait a moment, and then she returned to the mail. She began to sort it, and when she came to Pres's letter, put it aside. Then she put the crew's mail in a sack and gave it to the puncher, who rode off.

Coming back to the kitchen table, Becky looked again at Pres's letter, which Mr. Dunn had put with the Nine X mail by mistake. It came to her with a shock that she'd seen that bold writing before. She went over to a cabinet, took down a note, brought it over, and compared the writing. They were the same. The note was one she had received last night from Milt Barron!

What was Milt Barron doing writing to Pres? They didn't know each other, hadn't seen each other except at Will's place before the fight. Or had they? Becky kept thinking of Milt, his sulky manner, his veiled insolence, and the fact that through his carelessness Will had been shot. And she thought of Pres, the man who had killed her father. For a moment, a suspicion arose within her and crystallized, the suspicion that Milt knew Pres well and was writing to him. She knew then that she would always think this, holding to it with a woman's stubbornness until it was proven otherwise.

Well, why not find out for herself? Why not open it? Some deep honesty in her told her that was shabby, dishonorable. But was it? If Pres was sent to the penitentiary, where he belonged, wouldn't people open his mail to make sure he wouldn't harm them further? Of course they would. Then why shouldn't she?

It was a devious argument, and she despised herself for resorting to it, yet the fact wasn't changed. Why was Milt writing Pres?

With sudden decision, she took Pres's letter, opened it, and read the note. Finished, she sank into a chair, her gaze still on the note. Milt was double-crossing Will, some way! And Pres was the one who had killed Chap Hale! Pres and Milt were partners—partners in looting Will of the Pitchfork!

Some of it she didn't understand, but Will might. Becky changed swiftly to Levis and blue shirt, put the letter in her pocket, and ran out to the corral. She was in such a hurry that she completely forgot Will's grub. Tomás saddled her horse, and she set out for the line camp at a dead gallop, leaving the Mexican stable hand puzzled.

Becky arrived at the line camp just at dusk, her horse almost floundered. Will had seen her approach, and he was standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb to favor his wounded leg.