Star Toter (12 page)

Locke turned to find Reta by his side, her face strained and anxious. "What is it, Orin?" she asked. "What's happening?"

"Steele has warrants for Ray and me," he explained. "He took my star today and is wearing it himself. He'll likely be along pretty soon."

Such color as had been in her face drained away. "But he can't come in the house without a search warrant," she whispered.

"Maybe that'll delay him," Locke conceded, and did not add the obvious: that a few hours of delay would make little real difference. Steele, if he felt like it, would brush aside technicalities, legal or otherwise. They both knew that.

It was a strange situation. Little had Locke thought, when he returned to the Wild Buttes, that he would soon be risking his neck for Ray. But, like it or not, they were in this together.

Reta conferred with the two men who had remained on the ranch, both being too old for the rigors of the roundup. Toby had been cooking for forty years; Old Mose rode fence, when the weather was right. Both were willing, but their hands trembled as they lugged out almost forgotten guns. Strapped in holsters, the weapons looked formidable, but they would not impress Steele.

They came into sight an hour later, a dozen men, Steele at their head. He was making sure that he had force on his side, and plenty of it.

"You keep back out of sight," Reta instructed Locke. "Let me talk to him. After all, he will want to impress me favorably if he can."

Locke did not place much faith in that, but some who rode with Steele might look askance if he tried to get rough with a woman, particularly when it was her house. Reta waited, while the two old-timers lounged in the doorway beside her, doing their best to look cocky.

The posse halted, and Steele advanced, sweeping off his hat. With the assurance that he had control, he was in an amiable mood.

"Good afternoon, Reta," he greeted her. "I'm downright sorry to have to come here this way. But a job's a job, and when I'm given a warrant to serve, I become an instrument of the law, not having any choice."

Reta's lip curled.

"Since when," she demanded, "did you become an instrument of the law? I thought Orin Locke was the sheriff."

Steele eyed her closely, uncertain whether this was a bluff on her part or if she really did not know. He smiled depreciatingly.

"Locke was sheriff," he admitted, "but only on a temporary basis. When evidence turned up which indicated that he was not the man for the job—proof, in fact, that he was one of the outlaws—then there was nothing to do but make a change."

"I don't believe it," Reta flashed. "Mr. Locke is known across a dozen states as an honest lawman. And in any case, you've no authority to make any changes until my father returns. He appointed Orin Locke in the first place.
You
can't remove him!"

Steele scowled impatiently. Some of the posse were following her reasoning closely, and seemed impressed. Half of the men were his own henchmen, in his employ. He could count on them to go as far as he wished, without asking questions. But, being anxious to appear to do everything legally, he had chosen several other men from the town, men with no axes to grind. That had been a mistake.

"The committee and the court have both concurred in the change," Steele said stiffly. "I'm sorry, Reta, for I find this a disagreeable duty; still, I have no choice but to do it. I have two warrants here: one for the arrest of Orin Locke, the other for Ray Locke. Do you wish to see them?"

"I'm not interested in papers," Reta retorted. "I expect that Orin Locke will be able to take care of himself wherever he happens to be—if you should be unlucky enough to find him. As for Ray, surely you aren't in earnest? You know that he has been shot and is dangerously ill. It might kill him to try and move him. And how could that serve any useful purpose, since he couldn't get away in any case?"

Always of violent temper, Steele was torn between two impulses. He wanted to make a good impression, but he was aware that Reta hated and despised him. Her defense of Ray had made him violently jealous. Temper overrode caution.

"I have my duty to perform," he snapped. "If Ray is here, he's a wanted outlaw—and it might be easier for him if he didn't live to hang!"

He bit his tongue on the last venomous phrase, but it was out. Reta's voice lashed in contempt.

"So you want to move him in the hope that doing so will kill him! It's as I've long suspected, Mr. Steele; you haven't a spark of humanity in you!"

Steele colored uncomfortably, aware that he had put himself in a bad light. "I'm not here to argue about what is right or wrong, but to do a job," he growled. "Will you stand aside?"

Reta faced him, defiance blazing in her eyes. "I will not!" she retorted. "And what are you going to do about it?"

The thought of Ray, in that house, being nursed by Reta, further frayed Steele's temper.

"You're asking for trouble," he warned thickly. "If you don't get out of the way, it'll come!"

"The same sort, I suppose, as happened to the Wagon Wheel?" Reta demanded. "You'll burn the house over our heads to get us out?"

Steele took a backward step, and Reta saw the look which came into his eyes, a look which confirmed her suspicions, indicated assurance that her wild accusation had scored.

In the next instant she went cold with terror. What might have happened she did not know, for at that point Toby chose to intervene.

"Don't get techy, Steele," he warned. "You ain't got no right across this door—and there's a pair of guns that says so!"

Steele glanced at the two old rannies, contempt in his eyes. Reta was quick to grasp the advantage.

"Toby's right," she said. "You can't come in here without a search warrant! A mere warrant for arrest isn't enough."

Steele fought for control. Her barb about burning the Wagon Wheel rankled, since he could not be sure how much she knew. She had been there—it seemed that she was always underfoot at the wrong time, spoiling his plans. After the fire, Locke had found those elk's teeth.

There was an uneasy stirring in the ranks of his posse. One man spoke gruffly.

"She's right, Steele. Sheriff or not, you can't bust into a house without a warrant to search. That's the law."

Had the posse been made up entirely of his own men, Steele would not have stopped for technicalities. As it was, with some of them ready to challenge him, and making a play that he was only enforcing the law, his hands were tied.

"If that's the way you want it, we'll get a search warrant," he growled. "Then we'll be back!"

He swung back to his horse and climbed into the saddle. After all, it might be better this way. He would do everything legally, which was important if he was to remain sheriff. Back in town, he would leave half of this bunch, replacing them with men he was sure of.

He spurred his horse viciously as the truth pushed its way into his mind. The only way that he would get Ray was by force, and the only way he'd ever tame Reta was by showing her that he was master. The thought was grimly pleasurable.

Reta stood in the doorway, unyielding, until the posse disappeared. Then she turned, suddenly drooping.

"They'll be back," she said dully. "And next time, nothing will stop them!"

Locke, who had remained back out of sight, nodded soberly.

"Your father would be proud of you, Reta," he commended her. "You sure faced him down! But you're right. They'll be back."

"I wish Dad was here." She sighed. "But Steele knows that he won't be back for a week—that's why he dares to go so far." Her eyes widened. "He'll go to any lengths now, if he has to."

They were both thinking the same thing. By putting up a fight, they could make it hot for a posse for a while —hot enough so that Steele, enraged, would resort in blind fury to the method which he had already used: burning the house over their heads.

When he returned he would have picked men who would go along with him, regardless of what he did. It would be a fairly simple matter to start a fire and make it appear accidental. Resistance, under those conditions, would be hopeless.

Yet if they submitted, Steele would take Ray, and in his mood of bitter jealousy, he'd make sure that Ray never lived to reach the town.

Locke crossed to the window. Reta's defiance had gained them time. The sun was setting, and it would be dark long before Steele could return. That would suit the new wearer of the star: to have a cloak of darkness when he struck.

But there was one chance. To move Ray again was risky, but it might save his life, which otherwise would be forfeit. Since he would be moved in any case, it had best be done by himself instead of by Steele.

"Toby, you and Mose hitch a team to the spring wagon," Locke instructed. "Fill the bed with straw, and you'll have to stay here, Reta, with Toby and Mose. When Steele returns with his warrant, let him search as much as he pleases. When they fail to find him, there's nothing they can do here."

Reta understood the nagging fear which was in his mind. The memory of roaring flame encompassing them was too vivid to risk again.

"I suppose that's the best chance," she agreed. "But where can you take him?"

"I don't know," Locke confessed. "But anything is better than leaving him here. It's not the best chance; it's the only one."

They worked swiftly. A team was harnessed, the wagon filled with straw. Locke bundled Ray in blankets and removed a door to serve as a stretcher. Using that, they moved him with as little strain as possible.

Locke doubted if Ray knew what was happening. He was awake, but far from rational, his eyes bright with fever. Only a desperate emergency could justify moving so sick a man.

"You'll let me know—as soon as possible?" Reta begged. She made no effort to mask her feelings as she looked at Ray.

"Trust me," Locke replied gently. "And now, carry on the way you've been doing a little longer, Reta. I wish I could be here when Steele returns, but this way, you should manage fine. And my presence would only make matters worse."

"I'll be all right," she agreed mechanically. "But what are you going to do?"

Locke was still wondering as he drove away.

He swung the horses, heading for a little used back road which would finally bring him to town. It would be late when they got there, and with any luck, he might get Ray into the house unseen.

It had been nearly a decade since he had followed this old road, and apparently few had used it during the years. It was overgrown with brush, rocky and rutted. He used all possible care, but the jouncing wagon was no easy vehicle in which to ride, even with the straw. A couple of times they crossed streams, and he stopped to bring Ray a drink of icy water and to bathe his face.

Highpoint was quiet when they reached it. A dog barked in desultory fashion and slunk away, and somewhere a door slammed. Locke tied the team not far from Ginny's house, which was dark. Knowing where she would be sleeping, he tapped softly on the window.

He rapped again, then, realizing how frightened she might be at a summons at such an hour, spoke softly, his face close to the glass.

"It's me, Ginny—Orin."

He heard a stirring then, and after a moment the window was raised. A white-clad figure was outlined, her hands and face dim. Ginny's voice came anxiously.

"What is it, Orin?" she whispered.

"It's Ray," he explained. "I've got him in a wagon. Steele came out to arrest him. It would have killed him if they'd taken him. I had to get him away before they returned with a search warrant—"

Ginny did not wait for him to finish. "Of course," she breathed. "Bring him to the back door. Or do you need help?"

"I'll manage," he promised, filled anew with admiration for her quick grasp of the situation, her readiness to help despite the risk. "I've no right to ask this of you, Ginny—"

"What else is a friend for," she demanded. "Go bring him, Orin."

Cheered, he returned to the wagon, lifting Ray as gently as he could. He seemed to be asleep, not stirring, but it was probably closer to a coma.

No light showed, but Ginny held the door open as he entered. When she closed it, the room was totally dark. Her voice came: "I'll light a lamp—just one moment."

A match flared, a virulent speck of red in the gloom which she drew across the wick of the lamp. Soft light flooded the room as she adjusted the chimney and turned it up. Locke saw that she had carefully drawn the shades. She had thrown a robe over her night dress. Now she led the way up to her own room, to the bed where he had awakened only that morning.

Locke felt as if it were a dream, from which he must soon waken. So much had happened in so little time. It seemed far longer ago than the morning that he had been there; the comradeship which had grown between Ginny and himself made it seem as though there had been no seven-year break in their friendship.

In the brief time at her disposal, Ginny had worked wonders. She had stripped away the sheets warm from her own slumber, replacing them with fresh ones. He laid Ray on the bed, observing thankfully that the wound had not bled again. That was the only encouraging thing about his condition.

Ginny returned with a cold wet cloth, to bathe Ray's face. She studied him intently, then looked up.

"You'd better put the wagon away, Orin," she suggested. "I'll look after him."

"You're an angel." Locke sighed. "I hated to bring him here, Ginny, but there was no other place."

"You did the right thing," she assured him. "No one will know."

That was his hope, but suddenly he realized how difficult it would be to care for Ray and keep his hiding place a secret. He would need visits from Fletcher Bannon, and the doctor would be watched. Ginny would need help caring for Ray, and he could not stay with her. There would be customers coming to her shop—there were so many factors which he had failed to consider.

"Do you mind if I bring Reta Cable to help take care of him?" he asked. "She loves him—and then you wouldn't be alone."

"That will be fine," Ginny agreed. "If you hurry, you should be able to get her here before daylight."