Ride the Man Down (10 page)

There was no anger in Will now, only a kind of wicked fatalism. He said, “How many days do you want?”

“I didn't understand it,” the girl went on heedlessly. “Not until I heard the men talking at supper about John Evarts' disappearing.” She looked at Will, and his face was bleak, uninterested. She said, “Two days, I guess,” and Will nodded and went out.

He heard the quiet laughter of men on the saloon porch as he approached, and he shifted his gaze across the street to the tie rail in front of the store.

His horse was gone.

He hauled up, his attention arrested now. Again he heard the quiet laughter on the saloon porch and he thought he heard Schultz's voice along with Red Courteen's. With an effort of will, he put Ray Cavanaugh from his mind and forced himself into awareness.

He tried now to think back to when he left the saloon and of what he had only half heard Schultz say. Something about being in a hurry. And then it came to him. Schultz, remembering the bitter indignity of having to foot it home from the seep that day, was giving Will a taste of the same tough treatment. He was putting him afoot.

Seeing it, a welcome, reckless rage came to Will then, and he stood there tasting it in his mouth, feeling it take hold of him. For too many days he had been patient and accepting, seeing nothing he could get his hands on and hit. Now he knew John was murdered and something to hit was here, set up by this clumsy Schultz, and Will felt a hard and savage joy.

He stepped back farther from the road now and cut back into the deep darkness between the hotel and saloon. At the rear of the saloon he paused and softly opened the door. It let onto the back room, which was deserted now. Two billiard cues lay on the table among a scattering of balls.

Will softly stepped inside and moved forward, pausing by the table to look into the barroom. It was deserted, too, but standing in the swing doors, a hand on each one, pushing them out, stood Red Courteen. Red would enjoy this, Will thought wickedly.

His glance fell to the billiard table, and then he picked up three balls, cradling two of them in his left hand, holding the third in his right hand. He stepped clear of the table and threw.

The ball caught Red Courteen squarely in the back, and the wind was driven from him in a savage grunt as he pitched forward through the doors.

Will threw the second ball through the right-hand front window, shattering it in a jangle of glass. The third ball struck the window sill of the left window and caromed heavily through the glass into the darkness. A man outside howled curses, and then came the stampeding of feet as they all ran to get off the porch.

Will lifted his gun now and shot out the big overhead lamp. This left him with the pool-table lamp at his back, and someone outside, seeing him, let go a shot. It slammed into the ball rack on the rear wall, knocking it off its nail, and it crashed to the floor, spilling balls in all directions.

Will wheeled back against the wall and shot again, now at the lamp in the room. Its light was wiped out, and now he stood there, listening to the shouting outside, and smiled. Seeing a faint reflection of light from, the bar mirror, he moved deeper into the barroom and picked up a chair and hurled it at the mirror. A series of crashes followed as the mirror collapsed into the stacked glasses which tumbled into the racked bottles and brought the whole upper works of the back bar down.

Will hurled another chair at Red Courteen's office door and then moved farther into the room, clinging to the wall.

He listened, and there was no sound from outside.

“Come on in, Red. Bring Schultz with you!” he yelled.

His answer was a fusillade of shots through both windows. He moved to a side window and kicked it out and stood by it, listening above the sound of the shots in front. Somebody pounded past the window on his way to the rear of the building.

Afterward Will slipped out the window, dropped to the ground, and moved toward the front of the building.

There was a man standing at the corner of it, flattened against the wall, and Will came up on him and put a hand on his shoulder and spun him around. It was Ed Germany, and when he saw Will he said quickly, “Hunh-unh. I'm not in this, Will.”

Will stood by him and peered out into the street. From a corner of the blacksmith shop and from the far corner of the store men were shooting into the saloon.

Will said, “Your new friends aren't so tough, Ed,” and he drifted into the darkness, moving far downstreet. When he was in complete darkness he crossed the road, and now he heard someone with a shotgun, probably the store clerk, blasting away at the rear door of the saloon. He came up the road now until he was a hundred feet from the blacksmith shop and on the same side of the street.

Fading into the darkness behind the old mill boiler, he reloaded, watching the patient marksmen—two of them—at the corner of the blacksmith shop.

Now he stepped out and shot twice at the figures by the building and, turning, he ran behind the boiler and, still running, cut back of it, heading for the rear of the shop.

One man pounded past the rear corner, and Will collided with the second as they both ran for the corner. Will put a hand on his back and shoved viciously, and the runner sprawled off into the darkness, and Will heard him crash among the stacked scrap iron beyond the back wall of the shop.

Rounding the corner now, Will saw Schultz paused by a window in the store's rear, feverishly loading his gun. Will shot once and he saw Schultz half turn to look and then, panic on him, dive for the store's rear door.

He had it half open when Will hit, crashing it shut. He caromed off it into Schultz, and they both went down. Will fell into the woodpile away from Schultz, who scrambled to his feet. Will slipped once getting up and shot again at Schultz, who was running blindly along the rear of the faintly lighted store building.

And then Will, running again now, heard a crash and the shriek of rending boards, and above that the wild cursing of Schultz. He hauled up, seeing Schultz on the ground Bide's foreman, in his panic, had run full tilt into the shed forming the L at the rear of the store.

Schultz velled wildly, “Don't, Will!”

He staggered heavily to his feet now and moved into the dim light cast through the rear window of the store. Beyond them, out in the street, the shooting continued with the same senseless vehemence.

Schultz had his hands shoulders high, and one leg of his overalls was ripped almost off and was dragging. A jagged gash in his leg was bleeding, and his heavy face now was distorted with his deep, heavy breathing.

Will, breathing heavily, too, said, “Where's my horse, Russ?”

“In the blacksmith shop,” Schultz panted.

Will waited until his breath eased, and then he said, “Russ, you tell Bide I'm through waiting. Tell him that.”

He left Schultz and went back to the blacksmith shop and pulled open the doors. The shooting in the street was muffled in here, and Will led his hone out into the night and mounted.

He put him behind the old boiler and then, reining up in the street, he called, “Red! Red Courteen!”

The shooting slacked off and Will yelled, “I'll be back and pay you, Red!”

Almost at once the shooting was resumed, and this time in his direction. He rode off down the road, listening, and above the hammering din of the shooting he heard Red Courteen's wild cursing.

Chapter 7

Ike Adams was not in a loving mood as he rode toward Hatchet this afternoon. This morning his last two real cow hands had quit. They were certain that the disappearance of John Evarts was the start of a bitter fight, and they didn't want any of it. They refused to wait for Will even, directing that their pay be mailed them. That left Hatchet with Ike, the cook, and the two rawhiders. Ike was bitter about the Young brothers. Hatchet's reputation was something dear to Ike, and he did not like to see it placed in the care of a couple of broke, thieving saddle bums who were rawhiders in the bargain. Proof of their shiftlessness, if further proof were needed, had been presented to Ike this morning.

On leaving Hatchet he had directed them to ride a piece of the west boundary and meet him at a spot on the north range, where Ike expected another of the Indian Ridge trash would have run in some cattle. The cattle hadn't been there, and no trouble occurred, but the defections of the Young boys galled him. On the way back he had occupied his time with framing a blistering report on them to Will.

He came into Hatchet through the low hills to the north and skirted the house, and only when he was in the clear did he see the knot of horses and men down by the corral.

He put spurs to his horse and, approaching closer, saw Harve Garretson from up in the Indigos. He was dismounted and he was talking vehemently to the two rawhiders. They were lounging lazily against the corral gate, listening idly, while a mounted man, a hand of Garretson's, watched.

As Ike rode up the Young boys glanced over at him, and Garretson, seeing them look, turned in Ike's direction. Garretson was a colorless, nondescript man of middle age who had a reputation of being a shrewd trader and minding his own business. He was dressed in a black suit, and his roan mustaches were so full they gave him a lugubrious air.

When he saw Ike he gestured wildly, pointing to the horse pasture, and said angrily, “Ike, I've got a hundred head of cattle in there and I want 'em back!”

Ike looked sharply at the Young boys. Mel had a boot heel hooked over one of the gate poles, and his battered Stetson was shoved back off his forehead. He was chewing idly on a hay straw and when he looked at Ike his eyes were mild, innocent.

“What's this?” Ike demanded.

“You told us to watch out for any strange beef this side of the line, didn't you?”

Ike looked at Garretson and said cautiously, “Some of your stuff stray over, Harve?”

“Five miles over,” Jim Young drawled. He was squatted by Mel, and his eyes also were innocent, Ike noticed.

Garretson said angrily, “I'll give you a chance to return 'em, Ike, and I'll forget to tell Will about this.”

Ike, up to now, had been faintly embarrassed, remembering that Garretson, like all the outfits in the Indigos, had been good neighbors to Hatchet. But Ike didn't like threats, and after considering this a moment he decided it was a threat.

He said, “I'll tell him myself. How far over the line was your stuff?”

“Five miles,” Jim Young repeated.

Ike said flatly, “I'm askin' him,” to Jim Young.

Mel said, “Jim just wanted to be sure you heard right.”

Ike, nettled, turned back to Garretson. “That right?”

Garretson came over to him and put a hand on Ike's horse, and now his voice was confidential. “That's right, Ike. Only let's get some sense into this talk.”

Ike didn't say anything, and Garretson went on persuasively, “You know and I know that Will and John Evarts don't aim to try and keep all of old Hatchet. They can't. Well, these cattle”—he gestured toward the horse pasture—“are my claim to that chunk that borders on me. That's only reasonable, ain't it?”

“You're pretty sure,” Ike drawled ominously.

“Sure?” Garretson laughed easily. “Know who's part owner of them cattle with me, Ike? Lowell Priest.”

Ike was startled. The whole country knew that Will was going to marry Lottie Priest someday. Certainly Priest wouldn't allow his cattle to be driven onto Hatchet, risking seizure, unless Will had given the word to go ahead. But Will hadn't said anything to him, and that was enough for Ike.

He said, “Mebbeso. I'll ask him.”

“That's right,” Garretson said, and he turned to the Young brothers. “I told you fellows this was Priest's herd. Now help me cut 'em out!”

“They'll keep right here,” Ike said.

Garretson turned on him. “You mean you're goin' to hold 'em anyway?”

“Till Will says to drive 'em back, I am.”

Garretson stood there, speechless with anger. Jim Young rose and handed him two six-guns and drawled mildly, “We'll let you know what he says.”

Garretson took the two guns, gave one to his man, who had watched this with utter indifference, and tramped over to his own horse. He stepped into the saddle and pulled his horse around, facing Ike.

“You'll be damn sorry for this, Ike!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “The whole scummy crew of you will get your time for this!”

“Good-by, Mr. Garretson,” Ike said dryly.

Garretson roweled his horse, and his puncher fell in beside him, and they rode rapidly down the fence line.

Ike looked over at the herd in the horse pasture. Garretson's bunch had been the biggest catch yet. The grass was nearly gone in the pasture, and Ike didn't have any idea what Will was going to do with all the captive cattle, but it was at least tangible evidence that Hatchet was fighting. He looked now at the Youngs.

Mel said, “We kind of figured we already had this bunch, and we didn't have that other bunch you was talkin' about, so we brought 'em in.”

“Any trouble?”

“One fella argued. We didn't bring him along.”

Ike grinned then, and surprisingly the Young brothers grinned back at him.

“Maybe,” Ike said in a dry, dubious voice, “you'll make Hatchet hands yet.”

Chapter 8

It was the following afternoon that Celia heard the door into the office close and she said, “Wait, Sam,” and went into the corridor. Paused there, she listened, head tilted and looking absently at Sam, who had ceased his pacing in the exact center of the pattern on the living-room carpet.

She heard movement in the office and started hurriedly down the corridor. Halfway, the office door opened and Will started through it and then, seeing her, he stopped and stepped back into the office.

Celia came forward slowly, a kind of dread holding her back. She first saw the somber ugliness in Will's deep-set eyes, the tough, unforgiving set of his lean jaw, and she knew.