Star Toter (2 page)

"The best thing that you can do," Ray went on deliberately, "is to get on your horse and ride back out. There was no call to come back."

Locke's big fists knotted at his sides and his face took on a frosty look. Seeing it, Ray recoiled, but Locke choked down the words which flooded his throat. If he said anything, he'd say too much, and for the present it was better to listen and learn. He turned, pulled himself onto his horse and rode away.

Highpoint was still awake. Once sober and old beyond its years, it was enjoying a belated youth, a brawling adolescence as unsavory as it was out of place. Its saloons were full, and in every outward aspect it was one with the towns where Orin had worn a marshal's star and administered the law. None of that was in Locke's mind as he left his horse at the livery stable and returned to the street. He'd have to find a place to stay; also, he must make up his mind what to do.

Highpoint's growth was symptomatic of a mushrooming mining town. There was no hotel. The old hostelry had been torn down to get at the gold beneath it, and no one had bothered to replace it. There would be rooms, of a sort, over saloons, but a man had to be inured to plenty of noise to sleep in such places. This was a far cry from the big, rambling house on the Wagon Wheel where he had hoped to rest.

Locke turned abruptly, then pulled up short, almost bumping into a pedestrian hurrying the other way. He murmured an apology, beginning mechanically to lift his hat as he saw that it was a woman. Then he looked more closely at the widening eyes uplifted to his, the fresh if rather weary young face beneath them.

"Why, hello, Orin Locke!" she breathed.

There was a dawning smile in her eyes, welcome in her face. For a moment he was at a loss, and then he knew her. "Ginny Landers!" he said. "Is it really you?"

The freckles were a shadowy memory, the legginess replaced by the perfection of a graceful colt. "It's me," she agreed. "Oh, it's good to see you, Orin. I didn't know you were back."

"I just returned," he said, and eyed her with quick suspicion. Reta Cable had told him that the Landers were no longer on the Three Sevens. And here was Ginny, on the streets of a wild town at that hour of the night—She read the thought in his mind and smiled gently, placing one hand lightly on his arm.

"I live in town, Orin," she said, a certain matter-of-fact resignation in her manner. "I have a dressmaking shop, and I was just delivering a rush order to a lady who had to have it this evening." She eyed him quizzically, still with that faint smile in her eyes. "I don't know whether it would be quite circumspect or respectable to ask you into my establishment at this hour to talk! You see, I live in rooms at the rear. Still, we're old friends—" Her friendliness was warming. She was tall for a woman, though she came only to his shoulder. Her hair reminded him of the sheen of a blackbird's wing; her eyes were a steady blue.

"Maybe I could buy a bolt of calico or something," he suggested. "I'd sure like to talk to you, Ginny. Or I can come around tomorrow."

"You can come now if you want to," she returned, a certain recklessness in her voice. "We never know what tomorrow will bring."

"That's true enough," he agreed, and walked beside her, suddenly at a loss for words. They veered to a side street, quieter than the others, climbed steeply where the sidewalk ended, and stopped at a house which he remembered vaguely. She unlocked the door, busied herself lighting a lamp, then crossed to draw the shade.

This was her workroom, with a table and chairs and a sewing machine, and bolts of cloth on shelves at the side. She looked at him, and again a faint smile moved the corners of her mouth.

"I'm going to make coffee," she said. "And I don't think it's any worse for you to drink it in the kitchen than here, do you?"

It was unconventional, but it was warm and friendly, and he sensed that she had divined his deep need for friendliness. He followed her to the kitchen, fragrant with odors of baking, sat in a rocking chair and watched with pleasure as she stirred the dying fire in the range.

The furniture was old. The chair in which he sat had been broken and its back replaced with a strip of carpet, which curved comfortably to fit his back. The odor of coffee came pleasantly to his nostrils.

She was setting out half a cake, slicing it, moving with graceful dexterity. "I'm awfully glad you came, Orin," she said. "I like to make a cake once in a while—it reminds me of the old days. But even if I eat twice as much as is good for me, still it usually grows stale. Fortunately, this one is not too old, so I hope you'll help me out by eating two or three pieces."

As she talked, pouring the coffee, Locke sensed something else. She too, was lonely for companionship.

"It's awfully good cake," he assured her. "And it's good of you to take pity on me. But what happened about the ranch?"

She seated herself opposite him, the smile gone from her eyes. "Dad died two years ago. After things were settled, there wasn't much left. I had supposed that everything was in fine shape, but it didn't turn out that way."

She smiled then, and changed the subject adroitly. "And you've grown famous since you went away. Everybody knows who Orin Locke is."

"Never mind me," he protested. "Tell me about yourself."

There was little to tell, she insisted. She was a dressmaker, and that was all there was to it. Judging by the room, he judged that she was not too prosperous.

He left after a second piece of cake, with an invitation to come again.

On the street Locke paused, debating where he should seek a room. As he hesitated, a stranger accosted him. "Got a match, feller?"

"Yeah." Locke fumbled in a pocket and produced the match. The other man accepted it wordlessly, flicked it alight with his thumb nail and raised it toward the cigarette already between his lips. The light revealed a harsh bulldog face and a head hunched between massive shoulders. But there was scant time for Locke to make this appraisal.

The flare of the match was close to his own face also, and as it flickered out without touching the tip of the cigarette, he sensed that the man had simply wanted to get a look at him. Now, satisfied with what he had seen, the man was bringing his other hand up in swift and deadly gesture, the muzzle of a gun centering at point-blank range on Locke's chest.

Though startled, Locke was too old a campaigner to be caught completely off-guard. The look in the other man's eyes telegraphed his intention, though it was only a split-second warning.

The twin six-shooters in his own holsters were too far away. Already the muzzle of the other gun was centering on Locke's chest. But the killer had been forced to stand close so that the match would throw its light into Locke's face. Locke's knee came up in a plunging forward thrust, burying itself in the gunman's groin.

Gasping with agony, the other man gave way, the gun wavering. An instant later Locke twisted it away, rage boiling in him at the callousness of the attack. While the other man still writhed, Locke clipped him alongside the head with the barrel of the forty-five, a damaging blow which drove his opponent to his knees, taking the fight out of him. Locke stood poised, gun ready for a second blow.

"Who sent you to kill me?" he demanded. "Talk fast!"

The gunman hesitated, cringing, throwing up a hand before his face. "I'll talk," he whined. "You're Locke, ain't you? Well, who'd send me after you except someone from Wagon Wheel?"

Here was confirmation of what Locke had feared. Who else but Ray Locke would know or care that he was back in the country? Ray had manifestly been afraid, fearful that he might lose the things which he had acquired by treachery. It was grim, but he did not doubt that the man was telling the truth.

Abruptly he turned away, walking fast. In the glare of brightly lit windows a sign reared above the boardwalk:
Beer Bottle Saloon
. An oversized beer bottle was suspended in a wire loop above the door, filled with what looked like liquor. But liquor would bring no surcease for what ailed him.

Locke ate in a cheap and greasy restaurant, new since his day, cheap as the new Highpoint.

Someone stopped beside his stool, a slight, wispy man with straw-colored hair and watery eyes. He squinted nearsightedly.

"You Orin Locke?" he asked, and his voice was surprisingly deep and full—Locke studied him.

"Locke's my name," Orin acknowledged. "Why?"

"There's a couple fellers want to talk to you. Business."

Locke hesitated, of a mind to refuse. Business! He knew what that meant. It was always the same when he came to a town, for his reputation preceded him. Still, what did it matter? What else was there for him, wherever he might go? The old zest was gone, and it could never be recaptured. Something in him, a part which had been sick for a long while, had died during the night. He might as well listen to what they had to say.

He shrugged, tossed a silver dollar onto the counter and stood, looming tall in the gloom of the restaurant. "Lead the way," he invited. "Time is what I've got plenty of."

"Orin Locke? For sheriff? Are you crazy?"

It was a big room and, for Highpoint, remarkable, this office in the rear of the Wild Buttes Saloon. It contained luxury undreamed of by most citizens of the town, by the patrons of the outer room. Here was fine furniture, upholstered in leather. An Oriental rug covered the floor; an oil painting of good taste and considerable value hung on the wall. The other fittings showed the same careful selection; expense had been no consideration. There was no other room in the town like it.

Nor were there other men in the Wild Buttes to match the two who conferred. Physically, both were big, but in different ways. Grant Cable, who lounged comfortably in a deep chair and smoked a long black cigar, was a perfect example of what the successful rancher and cattleman should be.

He was in his early fifties, a tall man now putting on poundage. His dark brown hair was fringed with gray, and his face was big to match the nose, strong to measure up to the wide, firmly set mouth. Calmness dwelt in his eyes, in every deliberate gesture. A slightly mocking smile was in his eyes as he listened to his companion's incredulous exclamation.

No one but King Steele would have thought of talking to Cable in such a manner. This was Steele's office, just as the Wild Buttes was his saloon. And everyone in the Wild Buttes knew that these two men, between them, held most of the power and wealth of town and country, that they controlled Highpoint and the Wild Buttes. Destiny was in their hands.

Steele's were quick and nervous, yellow-stained from continual rolling of cigarettes. Scarcely had one been consumed before he was twisting at another. He was considerably younger than Cable, tall and broad, a man who walked with imperious stride as he jumped to his feet to pace back and forth, looking at the world from greenish eyes beneath hair almost completely colorless. But there was nothing colorless about the man. The room showed that he had wealth. Those who knew him understood the ruthlessness with which he had obtained it.

Cable chuckled, flicking ash off his cigar.

"Crazy?" he repeated. "I don't think so, King. You're not forgetting that Cassell is buried?"

"Nor why," Steele snapped, "he was too headstrong to handle. But from all reports, this Orin Locke is even more so. I happen to know that Cassell was a sort of protege of his, once his deputy, and proud to pattern himself after him. Locke has a reputation to match that of Wild Bill Hickok, or Pat Garrett or any of that crowd. That's just the sort of sheriff we don't want."

"I'm new since Locke left this part of the country," Cable said comfortably. "But compared to you, King, I'm an old-timer around here. Maybe I know a few things concerning local history that haven't come to your ears. You'll have to admit that, as far as the public is concerned, Orin Locke would be the perfect man for the job."

"For the public, yes." Steele sat down jerkily, beginning to roll a fresh quirly, spilling some of the brown grains on the elaborate rug. "But maybe
you
don't know one part of recent history, Grant. It happened last night. I sent Toomey Harris to kill Locke!"

The tip of the cigar twitched. Cable's eyes narrowed.

"And he only hit town yesterday afternoon. Wasn't that rather precipitate?"

"Maybe." The word was arrogant. "But I run the town, Grant, just as you run the country—that's our agreement. And it struck me that a man like him, coming here just after Cassell was buried, would be the popular choice for sheriff, and so could be a blasted nuisance. I've heard a lot of local history. So I got hold of Harris and took steps."

He scratched a match and puffed jerkily, his face betraying none of the devious reasons behind this action.

"And what happened?" Cable asked expectantly.

Steele hunched his shoulders. "As I gather it, Toomey asked Locke for a match, scratched it in his face to see that he had the right man, and brought up his gun with his other hand at the same time. Apparently reports haven't been wrong about this star toter. He's a streak of lightning, if Toomey Harris's appearance is anything to go by. After being trapped that way, Locke took his gun away from him and worked him over. And I use the word advisedly."

"That's interesting." Cable smoked, a smile at the corners of his mouth. "And you picked a man from the Wagon Wheel to do the job."

"I figured Toomey was the man for such a chore."

"You would. From your account I'm more convinced than ever that Locke is our man for sheriff. In fact, I sent for him, and if I'm not mistaken, he's here now. Come in," he called, as there was a peculiar knock on the door.

The wispy man opened it, but did not enter. He stood back, and Locke, after a quick appraisal of the two men in the room, went on in. Cable came to his feet, and Steele was quick to follow.

"Mr. Locke?" Cable asked, and extended his hand. "I'm Grant Cable, of the Three Sevens. This is King Steele, who owns this saloon and about half the town."

Locke accepted their handshakes, studying both men. Cable waved him to a chair, observing that he had not bothered with any of the usual polite formalities. In fact, so far Locke had said not a word.