the High Graders (1965) (14 page)

Shevlin did not trust Stowe, and he was sur e that Stowe would kill any man with whom he ha d to share as soon as that man was no longer necessary. Bu t as Shevlin saw it, Gentry was necessary. ... An d why kill him here?

He might have been followed from town, and if h e had been killed intentionally, he obviously ha d been followed. But this was not a place where Gentr y would normally come, so far as Shevlin knew.

So what was the alternative? Gentry must hav e been killed by mistake. Shot in the dark , mistaken for someone else.

What someone? The answer was plain. For Mik e Shevlin himself.

That also made sense of Gentry's message.

Gib had been riding to warn him, and he had bee n mistaken for Shevlin and killed.

Lon C-- ... Shevlin kne w no such name. Yet Gib had evidently thought th e name would mean something to him, or he would not have trie d so hard to write it.

With the toe of his boot, Shevlin erased the nam e written in the sand. Then he hoisted Gib'
s body to the saddle, tied it there, and hung th e bridle reins over the pommel. Gentry'
s horse would go home.

All was dark and silent when he rode up to th e claim. He stripped the rig from his horse an d picketed it on a grassy slope near th e spring, where it could drink from the run-off. H
e waited in the darkness, listening. After a while h e walked back to the cabin and turned in.

He awakened with the sun shining in his eyes through th e open door. Burt Parry was standing outside , looking up the canyon, a peculiar expressio n on his face. For some reason that expressio n surprised Mike Shevlin.

At that instant Parry seemed anything but th e casual man he had been before. He was holding hi s Winchester in a position to throw it to his shoulde r for a quick shot.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, Shevli n swung his feet to the floor. The bunk creaked an d Parry looked around quickly.

"Thought I saw a deer," Parry said, lowerin g the rifle. "We could use some venison."

"Now that's an idea!" Shevlin exclaimed.

"How about me going for a hunt?"

Parry chuckled. "You tired of mucking already?

I'll have another round of shots ready to fir e almost any time." He took Shevlin's appearanc e in at a glance. "You look like you could use som e sleep. What time did you get in?"

"Daybreak, or thereabouts."

He expected a comment on the happenings i n town, but none came. He volunteered nothing , and the two men ate breakfast, talking idly of th e mining claim and Parry's plans for doing som e exploration work in an effort to find the lode h e hoped would lie deeper in the mountain.

There was only one explanation for Parry'
s lack of interest: he simply did not know wha t had happened in town. And that meant he had not bee n in Rafter at all.

Where, then, had he been?

Chapter
11

Deliberately, Mike Shevlin offered n o comment on the happenings in Rafter, and Bur t Parry asked no questions. But Mike knew that th e town and all the country around must be talking wit h excitement about the killing of Eve Bancroft.

The killing of a girl in a western town was itsel f enough to start such talk, but Eve Bancroft was owne r of the Three Sevens. It was not the largest ranch i n that region, but it was one of the big ones.

As he worked, Mike Shevlin tried to find a way through this situation, but there seemed to be none.

He had attempted to stir up the hornet'
s nest, but the cattlemen and Ray Hollister ha d done more than he ever could have. Yet nothing in th e situation had changed.

A girl was dead. Ray Hollister wa s disgraced. Eve Bancroft had called upon hi m to back his words with action and he had welshed. H
e had hung back, and Eve had ridden to her death.

What they might have done had Hoyt not bee n there, Shevlin could not guess. Hoyt could sto p them, as he never could have stopped Eve, for to lif t his hand against a girl, a decent girl, wa s unthinkable to a man of Hoyt's stripe. And Be n Stowe, solid, unshaken, still sat his throne in th e center of the community.

Shevlin's thoughts returned to Gib Gentry.

Without a doubt, Gib had been riding to warn hi m when he was killed, and without a doubt he had bee n killed mistake for Shevlin. Somebody had bee n lying in wait, and by now that somebody knew he ha d killed the wrong man.

Each time Shevlin wheeled a load to the end of th e dump, he took his time to breathe in plenty of th e fresh air, and to look around. It was very quiet.

Parry had gone off again, and Mike was alone a t the claim, but there was work enough to keep him bus y until mid-afternoon, barring the unexpected.

He wondered what effect Eve's death would hav e on the people of Rafter. They were not all bad--i n fact, they were no worse than most people in mos t towns. Perhaps a few more had been willing to g o along than would usually be found, but there must have bee n some dissenting opinions, even though the people who hel d those opinions had kept still.

Such fear as he had seen in Rafter could no t continue very long. The people were wary, they doubted ever y stranger; they lived with the worry that at any momen t the house they had built would come tumblin g about their ears.

He was working close against the face of the drift , scraping up the last of the rock, when it cam e to him.

Lon Court ...

Of course. He had heard the name. Gentr y had scratched Lon C into the sand before h e died, and Shevlin remembered that he had onc e heard talk of Lon Court, a killer, a ma n who worked for big cattle outfits, or anyon e else who had need of his services. A m ysterious, solitary man who could be hire d to kill. He was just such a man as Ben Stowe woul d have hired.

Undoubtedly Court had scouted the minin g claim. He might even now be lying up on th e lip of the canyon across from the tunnel mouth, and with ever y barrow of rock Shevlin had wheeled out he ha d been a sitting duck.

There was no longer any hesitation in Mik e Shevlin, for he knew now what he must do. H
e must get out of the tunnel and get to his guns, an d he must get out of the canyon, which was a death tra p with a man like Court stalking him. And then he mus t find Court and kill him.

There was no alternative, no other wa y possible, for Court would never quit once he ha d undertaken a job. He, Mike Shevlin, mus t hunt the hunter, stalk the killer, and he mus t kill him.

He put down his shovel. The last barrow coul d stand where it was. There was, of course, a chance tha t Lon Court was not waiting on the hil l opposite; he certainly would not be unless there wa s an easy escape from it. Trust a killer lik e Lon Court to take no unnec risk.

Shevlin went as far along the tunnel as h e could without getting into the sunlight, and then h e squatted down and peered out, keeping well in th e shadow. By squatting, he could see the rim withou t going further. He stayed there and studied it for a long time.

No brush grew on the rim, and there were n o boulders, no spot where water had cut into the ri m and made a place where a man might li e concealed. Flattening himself tight to the wall , Shevlin worked his way to the tunnel mouth. Then h e emerged quickly and went toward the cabin, makin g three sudden turns for objects in his path , turns sufficient to make timing hi s movements awkward for anyone watching. Onc e inside the cabin, he stripped off his shirt , washed his chest and shoulders, then combed his hair, an d belted on his gun. He thrust a secon d six-shooter into his waistband and took up hi s rifle.

The black horse was picketed on the gras s near the spring, but the killer must descend into th e canyon to get a good shot at him there. Mik e Shevlin did not think Lon Court would take suc h a gamble.

He went to his horse, took the saddle from a shelf in the rock close by, and saddled up. Th e horse tugged toward the run-off stream, so whil e he let the gelding drink, Shevlin listened.

That canyon worried him, and he recalled th e sudden cessation of sound from the birds that he ha d noticed. Something--and he was sure it had been a man--had walked up that canyon in the lat e afternoon.

Leaving the black with trailing reins, he wen t down to the bottom of the canyon and worked his wa y across it. Here and there were the tracks of smal l animals ... a porcupine or badger whos e tracks were somewhat smudged ... many quai l tracks ... the tracks of a prowling coyot e ... and on the far side where a dim trail woun d under the rim, the smudged tracks of a tal l man's boots.

So someone had gone up the canyon. Th e tracks were a day or two old; but searchin g further, he found other, more recent ones.

He had turned to go back to his horse whe n he happened to look down the canyon. Standing o n the old dump--the place Parry had said was th e discovery claim of the Sun Strike--was Parr y himself. He held a rifle, and he was staring dow n the canyon toward the claim.

Gathering the bridle reins, Shevlin starte d along the path from the spring to the claim. H
e watched Burt without turning his head toward him , striving to appear unaware of the other man'
s presence.

Suddenly, Parry heard him, and turne d sharply. He held his rifle ready, and Shevli n was himself poised to drop to one knee and fire, i f it came to that. He had no idea why Parr y might decide to shoot, but the other man's oddl y secretive manner made him wary.

Parry spoke. "I was looking for you.

Did you finish up at the claim?"

"Sure ... all but the last wheelbarrow. I j ust played out, figured to go in after it later. Yo u been in town?"

Parry's eyes searched his. "There was hel l to pay. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I knew Eve. She offered me a job, you know, and I was kind of upset over it.

Just didn't feel like talking about it. Besides, I f igured you knew."

They walked back to the claim. Bur t Parry's open, casual manner returned.

"Too bad," he said; "she was a prett y girl."

Mike Shevlin paused. "Burt," he said , "have you ever been in a western town when a goo d woman got killed?"

"No ... why?"

"You've got something to learn. Even when an y kind of a woman is killed or hurt, I'v e seen a town go wild. Believe me, there's a lot of talking and thinking, and checking of hol e cards going on in that town and in all the Rafte r country right now. This ain't over--not by a lon g shot."

Parry's brow furrowed, but then he shrugged.

"Hell, I'm out of it. I've never mixed i n their squabbles."

"That won't cut any ice. Vigilantes hav e a way of lynching the wrong folks. You ever hea r of Jack Slade? He got drunk on th e wrong night and raised a lot of hell, so whe n they started lynching the Plummer gang they just hun g him, too, on general principles."

Parry scowled, and rubbed his jaw. They pause d at the cabin. "You riding in?"

"Uh-huh." Mike let his eyes scan th e rim with a swift but careful glance. "And I ma y just scout me a quick way out of this country. I m ight decide to tuck in my tail and run."

He had no such intention, but he trusted no on e any longer, and it was just as well to keep his plan s to himself. And he had several things to do that migh t keep him out of town.

Rafter Crossing lay in a shallow valley , with the Sun Strike Mine occupying a bench sout h of the town; further back and somewhat higher was th e Glory Hole. The ridges were timbered , except for the one where the mines wer e located, but in the low country there were no tree s except along the infrequent water courses.

Here were cottonwoods or low-growing willows.

Mike Shevlin had punched cows over thi s country for several years, which was to say that he kne w it intimately. When a cowhand hunts strays , gathering stock for a roundup or a cattle drive , he works every draw, every canyon. Soon there's no t an inch of the country he hasn't seen, or tha t hasn't been described in detail by othe r cowhands. But today Mike Shevlin was not huntin g strays, he was hunting a man.

Hiding out in wild country is not as simple a s it may seem, for a man must be in the proximity o f water. Andfora man who does not wish to be seen , that means a water hole that is off the line o f travel, and out of the area covered by drifters o r cowhands working the range. Such a man must have no t only water, he must have freedom from observation , easy access to and from his hide-out, and especially a good field of observation to watch anyone who migh t be approaching.

Such places were few in this region. The nee d for water limited them drastically, for water wa s scarce, and most places where it could be found ha d been settled on. There were only a few othe r places that remained, and Mike Shevlin believe d he knew them all. As he rode he took the m one by one and examined them with care, and when he ha d ridden six miles he had eliminated all bu t one.

Boulder Spring was not as remote as suc h places usually are; it was only off the beate n track. Moreover, in that particular area, wate r was not scarce. Anyone riding to Boulder Spring fro m any one of three directions must cross a small stream, and in the fourth direction there was a good water hole. It was the perfect hide-out, an d there was no reason for anyone to go there at all.