Star Toter (4 page)

"His heart doesn't bother him too much, then?"

"His heart? I don't know. He never says anything about it. Did it bother him?"

"It used to," Locke said briefly. For a moment she eyed him queerly, seeming to understand that there had been no correspondence between them during the years. Abruptly, tactfully, she changed the subject.

"I am glad that Dad picked you as sheriff," she assured him. "It shows his good judgment. He's really rather good at picking men, I think. And I'm sure that it wasn't what King Steele would have wanted—a man like you for sheriff."

"What gives you that opinion?" Locke asked.

"Oh, a lot of things. The sort of man that Steele is, for instance." She was absently tracing a pattern in the dust with one finger. "I guess I'm not being very clear, but if Dad likes this, then I'm sure that Steele won't. And I'm glad."

"Why should you be glad? Steele and your father seem to be friends. Don't you like him?"

Her eyes blazed with unexpected fire.

"I hate him!" she said fiercely. "You see—well, Steele hasn't been in this country very long, only a couple of years. We've been here six years. Steele hit the town with hardly more than the shirt to his back. Now he's one of the biggest men in the Wild Buttes, and a man doesn't get money and power at that rate by any ordinary methods. He's ruthless."

"He has the appearance of a gentleman."

"That's just a pose. He knows how to put on an act and to spend money, other people's money. But he's still ruthless. He's gotten control of half the country because he has no scruples. What worries me so much is that Dad has seemed to like him, has been friendly with him. I used to think that they would be sure to clash, but so far they haven't. But if Dad backs you, then I don't think he and Steele will be friends much longer."

Locke could understand more than she guessed. It was clear that she idolized her father, which seemed to indicate that there were strong qualities of good in the man, as well as evil. Apparently she had no suspicion that he was leagued with Steele, and that basically he was the same sort of man.

It was clear why the two worked together. Both were strong, both ruthless and greedy for power. Apparently they had come close to a clash, and had been canny enough to recognize the dangers inherent in such a fight. Neither had felt strong enough at the time to risk a battle with the other, in which one would have to dominate and the other be utterly crushed.

So they had united their forces, and in union there had been strength.

"You know Steele rather well, I take it?" he asked.

"Too well!" Reta flashed, and color surged in her cheeks. "He's called at the Three Sevens often, supposedly to talk to Dad, but mostly to see me. I haven't given him much encouragement, I can tell you."

"But such talk isn't a nice way to welcome you home, Sheriff. And I do want you to feel that you are welcome! Now, if you'll help me back on my horse, I won't disturb you any longer."

Locke lifted her into the saddle, and she smiled down at him.

"You do that very well," she said demurely, "as if you were used to assisting damsels in distress! If you're around, I expect that my ankle is apt to be slow to heal! But I do thank you—and I mean what I said about being friends. I know there's been some misunderstanding between you and your folks, and I hope that it will soon be cleared up. Anyhow, please feel free to come to the Three Sevens at any time. You won't need to pretend that you're there just to see Dad!"

Color tinged her cheeks again, but her eyes were steady. She seemed about to say more, but changed her mind, smiled and galloped away. Neither of them knew that King Steel had also ridden abroad that day, or that, seeing first one and then the other heading as for a tryst, he had been near enough to hear Reta's outburst.

Heading back for town, Locke encountered Fletcher Bannon, and the worn black bag tied behind the saddle told that Bannon had been on one of his infrequent professional calls. Bannon's eyes glinted at sight of the sheriff's star. "So!" he said. "They have picked you for the sacrificial lamb, then."

"It may be that your phrasing is apt." Locke shrugged.

"Since I have a pair of ears to rival those of a coyote, much filters into them." Bannon sighed. "But it might be that they've saddled the wrong nag, eh?"

Locke shrugged again. How much Bannon might suspect, he did not know. But he couldn't say anything, even to his old friend.

"You've been on your professional rounds?" he asked.

"Professional rounds, he says! Bless you, Orin, for the sound of those words. They bespeak a long departed glory. But once in a while, when our good contemporary Emery is otherwise occupied or some poor devil can't pay his fee, they do remember Fletcher Bannon. And strange as it seems, most of them get well!"

"Naturally," Locke agreed. "Drunk, you're a better doctor than many a sober medico. A lot of people would be surprised to learn that you had studied in France and Germany, that you once were consulted by a prince and had big ideas."

Bannon's eyes kindled with the reflected flash of old fires. "Ideas!" he echoed. "So I did, Orin, so I did. Ideas which were the ruin of me! When I tried hypnotism as an adjunct to medicine, and made a cure, was I applauded? Was I acclaimed a hero, a trail blazer? No. To the populace at large it was the black art, smacking of the devil! Why do I weep in my beer, like the old, broken, defeated fool that I am?"

"Or take surgery. Men shudder away from it. But with the knife, properly used, and proper cleanliness, much can be done. I dreamed dreams—and I blubber in my beer! No, no, Orin, professional rounds do not apply to me."

He tilted his head, suddenly tense. "But with a friend like you returning, I should be as gay as a lark—which I am. Listen! From the sound, it's a job for you, as our new custodian of the law!"

Locke heard it also. Hotpoint was just ahead, and there were two quick gunshots, followed after a short interval by three. Locke put his horse to a run.

Those guns had not spoken falsely. Here was trouble. Locke slowed, a sudden coldness in him as though the temperature had dropped instead of risen where the buildings and sidewalks reflected back the heat.

Two men were in the street, both with bandanas draped across their faces. One was red, the other blue; slitted eye holes had been cut in them. The door of the Highpoint Bank stood open, and a man lay sprawled, half in, half out of the doorway. No one was near him.

This was a bold daylight robbery, which in itself was enough to tell Locke that these men were his meat, a pair of independent raiders and not a part of the outlaw organization controlled by Cable and Steele. They would not do things so crudely, and certainly would not rob their own bank.

But the crime, if crude, was also effective. The street was full of men, aroused and angry citizens who resented what was taking place and were anxious to put a stop to it. Despite overwhelming numbers, they were keeping well back and away from the outlaws, cowed by the pair's brashness.

The robbers still had a short way to go to reach their horses, and one of them was weighed down with a bulging gunny sack full of loot. Nonetheless, they were masters of the situation. Luck and ruthlessness had favored them as they had stepped out from the bank. They had grabbed a passer-by for a hostage, and were using her now for a shield, so that no one dared shoot or try to stop them.

Ginny Landers was the hostage.

One outlaw held her in his arms, carrying her along as easily as though she had been a child. Apparently she had tried to struggle, but he had put a stop to that with the same brutal efficiency which had caused the populace to abandon any attempt at shooting and to shrink back, appalled. The muzzle of the outlaw's forty-five was close against Ginny, an unmistakable threat.

As they walked, she served as a fairly adequate shield in front, and no one was behind them. The threat was repeated by the man who held Ginny.

"Any of you try anything, and she gets plugged!" he warned. "We're going out of here."

A few more steps would bring them to their horses. Yet to try and stop them would be to insure swift and certain death for Ginny.

The pair moved deliberately, taking their time, grimly sure of themselves. Locke's eyes swept the street, taking in every detail from long practice. Then one gun was out of the holster, glinting in the sun, its thunder savagely breaking the strain.

They were passing in front of the Beer Bottle Saloon, directly below the gallon-sized bottle fastened by a wire loop above the doorway. Locke's bullet shattered the bottle, sending a rain of broken glass and liquid spilling upon them. As he had guessed, the bottle was not filled with real beer, though that would have done well enough for his purpose. His nose told him what it was: colored coal oil.

The rancid kerosene made a shower over them; then Locke moved in fast, taking advantage of his opportunity. One outlaw was momentarily blinded. The other tried to shoot back, and Locke fired a second time, driving a bullet through his left leg and sending him sprawling. The loot sack spilled as he fell.

It happened so fast that the onlookers were dazed and not quite certain what was happening before their eyes.

Locke was in control. His glance fell anxiously where Ginny had been spilled as unceremoniously as the kerosene. "You hurt?" he asked.

Her dress reeked with oil. The blood had been driven from her face when they had seized her, and it was just starting to flow back. Still she contrived to smile.

"I'm fine," she replied. "But I never supposed that beer had such an awful taste!"

She turned away from the clumsy interest of the crowd, picking her way down the street toward her own home. There were plenty eager to help with the prisoners. Someone voiced a suggestion: "What they need is to be strung up."

"Yeah, and why waste time?" another man seconded him. "The sooner the better!"

Locke eyed them coldly. His voice, as brittle and hard as shore ice, cut through the rising clamor. "Speaking as a man, I'm in full agreement with you that hanging's what they deserve. But my name's Orin Locke, and I'm speaking as sheriff. There 'll be no lynching; don't forget they're my prisoners!"

There was magic in the name. A few had heard of his appointment, though to most it was news. But when he told them, none failed to understand.

A ragged cheer went up. There was no further talk of lynching. Locke moved across to the bank, and what he suspected was confirmed. The man lying sprawled in the doorway was dead.

The pair would hang for their crime in due course and by process of law rather than by lynch mob. Yet they had come within a shade of success. Only the bottle above the doorway had afforded a solution and a way of stopping them. The crowd was loud in praise of what he had done, but Locke brushed their compliments aside impatiently. He had been lucky. In any case, dealing with outlaws was an old routine. His thoughts were with Ginny.

Once the prisoners were in jail and he had sent for Fletcher Bannon to treat the wounded man, Locke moved up the steep side street to the dressmaking establishment. Seen under the light of day, the building was older, shabbier. It was not a good business location. Only one thing could commend it—a low rental. Again he wondered what had happened to bring Ginny, heiress to the Three Sevens, to such a state. From what he knew about Grant Cable, who now claimed the ranch as his own, it was not hard to guess that there had been crooked work.

He hesitated before the outer door, then opened it. As he closed it behind him, Ginny's voice came from somewhere at the back. "I'll be with you in just a minute. Please make yourself at home."

"I'll do that," Locke agreed. "Take your time, Ginny."

"Oh! It's you, Orin." There was relief and a swift warmth in her tone. She appeared in the doorway, twisting at a long rope of her hair, a couple of hairpins held between strong white teeth. Removing the pins, she rolled the braid expertly into place and fastened it into a coil.

"I've been scrubbing," she volunteered. "But I still reek of coal oil. Not but what I was thankful for that particular bath! I didn't see what you or anybody could do—and I was terrified!"

There was a small cut on her forehead from some of the broken glass. Though she had kept busy cleaning up, he could sense the nervous reaction and her need to talk.

"I want a cup of coffee, and so will you," she declared. "There's still some cake left, too."

Locke followed her out to the kitchen. Not content with the cake, she set about scrambling eggs, putting bread and butter on the table. He raised no objection, and they ate in silence, but in growing companionship. Finally Locke pushed back his chair with a sigh.

"That's the last of the cake," he observed. "One worry off your shelf."

"Somehow, since you've returned, I feel as though there's no need to worry much about anything," Ginny returned seriously. "We've got real law here at last, and there is a sense of security in the world. I haven't felt that way for a long while."

"Being here makes me feel it's a homecoming, too," Locke assured her, but inwardly he was far from calm. He had made a good, even a spectacular beginning as a sheriff. People would believe all that they had heard about him as an officer, and they would have the same high expectations as Ginny.

The bad part was that he was in no position to deliver the goods.

A fly buzzed near the ceiling, and a sleepy cat, roused from its nap, came from behind the stove, yawning. It blinked calculatingly, then rubbed purringly against Locke's leg. He stroked it absently.

"How did your father lose the three Sevens, Ginny?" he asked. "You didn't give me any details."

"It seems there was a mortgage," she explained. "I hadn't known about it. Dad never mentioned it, and I was stunned when I found out. But—" she spread her hands in a helpless gesture— "there was nothing that could be done. They told me at the bank that they wouldn't foreclose if I could find a purchaser within a reasonable time. Mr. Cable took over the mortgage and paid me a thousand dollars besides."