Star Toter (6 page)

Locke was surprised at the answer, and Ray appeared equally so. "Vigilance committee?" he repeated. "I hadn't heard of anything of the sort."

"If you was to live much longer, you'd hear of a lot of things," was the significant retort. "I guess you have a right to know by what right we're actin', though. We're vigilantes, actin' for the law—"

"Law?" Ray's lip curled. "You sound like it! I happen to know that there's a new sheriff in the county, and he has a reputation for doing his own work. He didn't send you."

"You're darn right he didn't send us. Whether or not he'd come after you if he knew about this, I wouldn't know. From what I've heard of him, I don't think he'd shirk, but it's a chore he wouldn't relish, the same as a lot of others that need doing, and we're going to help clean up this country. We're giving you a chance to talk. Better make use of it!"

Ray had been startled and nervous, but his uneasiness seemed to have disappeared. Locke felt an unwilling admiration for the coolness he showed.

"I'd like to hear some more about your side of it," Ray returned. "Where do you think you get any authority to band together to enforce law, without the sheriff even knowing of it? And how did you know just where to look to find stuff that I didn't know was hid around here?
That
I'd certainly like to know!"

Another of the group, silent until then, supplied the answer.

"Steele told us—"

"Shut up, you fool!" the spokesman muttered, but the damage had been done. Ray's face darkened.

"Steele, eh?" he nodded. "That's about what I'd expect. The man's a crook, and everybody knows that he hates me. And you poor chumps run like lackeys when he snaps his fingers!"

That angered them because it was true. "Insultin' us ain't going to do you any good. Steele didn't send us. He received a letter accusin' you, and telling where you had stuff hid. He asked us to be mighty careful to get the facts, and to be sure of what we were doing, in case you were innocent. But as far as I'm concerned, I've seen plenty. You admit that you're a thief, then you abuse us when we ask about this loot we found. I reckon we've all heard enough."

Ray's face was a study. "You fools," he said bitterly. "I thought you were talking about something else—"

"Take his gun," the leader ordered wearily. "We've all the evidence we need. We'll string him up—"

Up to then, no gun had been drawn, no hostile act performed on either side. Ray was outnumbered six to one, and he knew that the crew was unlikely to return for hours, not soon enough to be of any help. But as they closed in on him he leaped to meet them. His fist caught the spokesman and knocked him clear off the porch. Lowering his head, he rammed a second, butting him in the stomach like a goat and knocking him sprawling.

The others piled on him in a pack, but he was far from subdued. He fought like a wild man, and Locke watched with increasing admiration.

The fight was becoming a wild melee. The men had rolled off the porch to the ground below, all seven mixed together, the six apparently unable to subdue Ray. He realized clearly that to be captured now was to be lynched. If at the start they had entertained notions of fairness, those had been driven out by anger. Convinced by his resistance that he was guilty, they would lose no time in stringing him to a tree if they could.

The if was a sizable one. Half of the six were just about out of the fight, and it almost looked as though Ray, single-handed, might lick them all. Locke's admiration was increasing. He'd had to learn in a hard school for these last seven years, and he could appreciate the struggle which Ray was putting up.

All at once a gun cracked, and the fight was over. Whether it had been fired deliberately or by accident, Ray was wounded. Still Locke waited, wondering what their reaction would be under such circumstances. That could have a vital bearing on Ray's future as well as on his own.

The answer came without delay. One man had manhandled and all but defeated six, and the humiliation rankled. The leader, panting for breath, gave the order. "Get a rope over the limb of that nearest tree," he ordered. "We ain't wasting any more time!"

Ray had been standing, his face a washed-out white like old snow, one hand clasped over his stomach. He seemed too surprised to move or speak, and now he crumpled to the ground. As the others stared indecisively, a furtive horror in their eyes, Locke stepped forward.

"There'll be no lynching," he warned sharply. Dropping on his knees beside Ray, he added grimly, "If you haven't killed him already." He made a swift examination, while fear tightened his nerves. The wound was an ugly one, through the stomach. If it was not already fatal, it might easily prove so.

Ray's heart still beat, and he set about applying such first aid measures as he had learned. The important thing was to check the bleeding, and he contrived partially to do so.

Still intent on his task, he spoke sharply. "He needs to be on a bed. Find something that can be used for a stretcher, and we'll get him into the house. One of you burn leather to town; bring back Doc Bannon. If you can't find him, get Emery. But move!"

Struck by the silence, he looked up then. He was alone with Ray. Sobered by his appearance, and by the realization that what they were doing was not only outside the law, but that they had in all likelihood murdered a man, the self-styled committee had undergone a change of heart. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, they had silently slipped away.

That meant that none of them would be going for a doctor; none remained to lend a hand. Whatever was to be done was up to him. Grimly Locke lifted Ray in his arms, moving as gently as possible. He crossed the porch and kicked open the door. After seven years, he entered the old house again.

The house was dark. Perhaps his father was asleep. Deaf as he was, the elder Locke would probably not have heard the disturbance. He was also blind, so nearly helpless that he would be forced to wait until someone came to tell him what was going on.

Such waiting could be agony, but it would have to be endured awhile; Ray had to come first. Despite the gloom, memory served Locke. He came to a bedroom and went in, lowering Ray onto the bed. There was a coal-oil lamp on the stand, and he had matches. Presently he had a light.

The second step, like the first, was up to him. There was still fire in the kitchen range, and the tea kettle, singing softly, was half full of hot water. A sheet served for bandages. Locke cleaned the wound and bandaged it, making a compress to check the bleeding. He hesitated as to the next step. To ride to town and bring Bannon would take hours, and it might be as bad to leave Ray alone so long as to wait and watch over him, dispatching a messenger when the crew returned. Either way, the odds were long.

There were good reasons for staying. There was still the possibility that the self-styled committee might return. Also, his father, if awake, would wonder why Ray did not come to tell him what was going on. Perhaps Ray Locke, Sr., would be able to sit with Ray while Orin made the trip for the doctor.

Picking up the lamp, Locke started through the silent house with a mixed feeling of eagerness and dread. The elder Locke was a man of strong convictions and equally strong passions. He had always favored his younger son, probably because of the untimely loss of the boy's mother.

He had been shocked and outraged by the news, which he had not questioned, that Orin Locke was a thief. Even the return of the supposedly stolen money had made no difference in his attitude. Dr. Emery had explained it as a defensive quirk of the mind; badly upset, Ray Locke, Sr. had probably saved his life by maintaining his belief in the son he loved best.

Here was his room. The figure on the bed stirred, passing an uncertain hand before his eyes, as though the light bothered them. In that light, a closer look at the gaunt figure shocked Locke. The years of his exile had aged the older man far more than he had expected.

His father sat up in bed, looking at him questioningly. It took a moment for Locke to remember, to realize that the eyes could not see. Then his voice came, and with the acute sense of the blind, he knew that it was not Ray who had entered.

"Who is it?"

Locke set the lamp carefully on the stand. It was as well to be direct.

"It's me, Pa," he said. "Orin."

He waited, uncertain what to expect, not even sure that the deaf ears had heard. Then, to his surprise, a white, veined hand groped toward him and a transfiguring smile spread across the wasted face. The voice was barely above a whisper.

"Orin! Thank God, boy—you've come back! Come closer."

Incredulity and relief mingled in Locke. This was the last thing that he had been prepared for. He hunkered beside the bed, taking his father's thin hand in his own.

"Pa! You're not mad at me any more?" The years rolled back.

The gray head on the pillow moved in slow negation. "No, Orin, I'm not mad—not any more, son. I know now that I never should have been. I want to ask your forgiveness, boy, for all the things I said and thought about you. I guess I was kind of crazy, somehow. I should have known better. I found out the truth—tonight."

Something had happened tonight, before Orin came, before the vigilantes arrived. That would account for the strangeness in Ray, his subdued manner when they had first questioned him, perhaps even his admissions that he might be a thief.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, lately," his father went on. "I've had lots of time for that, and I began to realize that I'd been blinded by prejudice, which is a lot worse than not being able to see the sun. It came to me, when I really thought about matters, that a lot of things that I sort of took for granted just didn't fit. I guess I never did give you a square deal, Orin. You always were a good boy, and I want you to know that I remember. Tonight I've been lyin' here, praying that you'd come, so that I could tell you—before it was too late."

Locke was deeply moved. "It's all right, Pa," he muttered. "Don't blame yourself. I understand."

"I'm glad you do, Orin. Ray sure fooled me. I guess he more or less fooled himself, too. Sometimes that's easy to do. He ain't all bad—there's some good in him. I heard you were back, and that you were the new sheriff. Folks wouldn't give you a job like that unless they thought you were a good man and had a good record. So I got to wondering, and tonight I asked Ray. I told him I wanted the truth, and what I had figured out."

Old Ray Locke was silent awhile, a shadow of pain across his face. Then, gathering strength, he went on, "Ray gave it to me finally—said it was the way I'd guessed. He admitted that he'd gambled and stolen that money, not you. You paid the debt and took the blame, partly for him, but mostly for me, didn't you? I never guessed that you thought as much of your old dad as all that."

"You always meant a lot to me," Locke said huskily, thinking of the days when a real comradeship had existed between them.

"I sure was a fool to believe such things about you, Orin, and to treat you the way I did. I wanted you to know that. I've been tryin' to fight down the pain around my heart—to keep alive until I could tell you—"

His voice faltered. The fingers clutched convulsively at Locke's hand, then grew abruptly lax. Startled, Locke looked closer, feeling for the pulse. There was none, but there was a look of peace on the wasted face.

Locke moved back. For the moment he had almost forgotten Ray. Now the problem was intensified. There was still no sound of any of the crew returning, no one to help. But the need was ever greater.

There was no noticeable change in Ray's condition. He lay unconscious, almost like a dead man. Orin would have to leave him, have to ride and find Bannon. Since Ray had been man enough finally to admit the truth, to clear Orin in their father's eyes, it was easier to think kindly of him.

Locke blew out the light and turned toward the door, then stopped at a sound. Were some of the crew returning at last?

There was no repetition of the sound, nothing to break the stillness of the night. Standing, his muscles tense, Locke had a feeling something was wrong. Then he caught the smell of smoke, followed by the crackle of flames. The drift of smoke came from the rear of the house. Crimson-tinted light made sudden eerie shadows against a window, and in the reflection he saw a pile of brush, stacked on the porch against the door, now burning with sudden violence. That indicated that the wood must have been soaked with coal oil.

Locke raced along a dark hallway toward the front of the house, but even before he reached it another growing patch of light indicated what he would find. A second pile of brush had been shoved against the door and also lit. A third blaze was at the side of the house, all three spreading with terrifying speed.

Rage threatened to choke him, but Locke fought it down, for this was the time for a cool head. Was this the work of that self-styled vigilance committee, or was another bunch responsible? In any case, the perpetrators didn't intend that anyone should leave here alive.

There was just one thing to be thankful for. His father, ill and blind moments before, was mercifully beyond any hurt from the flames. But with Ray and himself it was different.

He must get outside, with Ray, and soon. Moving his brother again would not be good for the injury, but it was not a question of choice. Locke ran back to the bedroom, raised the window, then picked Ray up in his arms.

The flames were close enough on either side to give plenty of light for any watchers. As he started to climb out the window, a bullet shattered the glass almost beside his head.

Locke dodged instinctively, flinching away from the impact of the bullet. That shot had not been intended as a warning, to drive him back and hold him in the burning house; it had been aimed to kill. But the flickering, uncertain light and his own movements had caused a near miss.

Inside, he hesitated, feeling a frenzy of despair. If he had been alone he could have chanced it, running fast, shooting back at whoever was out there. The odds would be against him, but there would be at least a fighting chance.