Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) (17 page)

Bill Canavan arose from his place and returned to his horse. He untied the dun, then stood for a moment, thinking. The feeling was on him of something about to happen, a restless, uneasy sense that worried him. He walked off, leading the horse.

He came off the ridge, concealed by the ridge itself, and came down into the sandy wash behind the ranch. There he stood for a long moment, listening.

Then he led the horse up the wash until he was behind the stable, and in the deep shadows there he dropped the reins. The dun would not move from the place, as he had discovered ere this.

Loosening his guns in their holsters, he looked toward the isolated cabin. Then, taking a long breath, he went down into the gully and up to the house. It was dark enough now so his shadow would merge into that of the house. A man standing alone might be visible, certainly would be if he moved. But against the blackness of a building or a haystack, he could not be seen.

Stark and alone, the little cabin stood on the knoll, a gloomy little building that seemed somehow ominous and strange. When alongside the building, he stopped and stood for a few minutes, listening for sounds from within. He heard nothing.

A low wind whispered around the eaves, and from the ranch house itself there came a rattle of dishes. The sound came clear on the cool night air.

In the distance thunder rumbled again, and a wind skittered a few dry leaves across the hard ground.

The only window in the cabin was curtained from within by what might be an old blanket. After a moment of waiting, he moved to the door.

His heart pounded against his ribs. He seemed to have trouble getting his breath. He took several long, even breaths to ease the tension and to prepare himself for whatever might come. Flattened against the building, he listened again ... Nothing.

It was darker now, for the looming clouds were nearer. The rumble of thunder sounded like a gloomy lion, muttering in his cage. Canavan reached out and touched the doorknob. The metal felt strangely cold to his fingers, and with his right hand on his gun butt, he turned the knob. The door was locked.

Gently, he released the knob. The pause irritated him. He had built himself up for a crisis that now was frustrated in this most obvious of ways. The piling up of suspense made him reckless. A glance toward the ranch reassured him. There was no movement. Dahl must have gone inside for his slicker.

Here was a puzzle he must solve, and he probably would never have so good a chance again. Behind this locked door might lie the answer to many things. Certainly he must know, once and for all, what was here. If it was nothing, then at least one more item could be scratched. First, he must know.

And the lonely cabin might be a death trap.

Light now streamed from the bunkhouse windows.

The dim light previously seen might have come from a lamp with the wick turned low, yet now it was bright. Dahl might still be inside. Once there was a loud splash, as somebody threw some water from a basin to the ground outside. Taking the knob in his hand he turned it, then putting his shoulder to the door he braced his feet and pushed.

The construction was flimsy enough. The cabin was old, and whatever was here was evidently guarded well enough by Dahl and the others to keep it secure.

Canavan relaxed, took a deep breath, and pushed again. Something cracked sharply and instantly he drew back and flattened against the wall, his hand on his gun.

From within the cabin there was no sound. From the other buildings there was no unusual sound. He waited an instant, listening. Then, hearing nothing, he turned sharply around and put his shoulder to the door. It gave way so suddenly that he fell, catching himself on his hands and knees. He arose swiftly, gun in hand, but all was still. Whatever damage he had done to the door had been done before, and it had simply needed opening.

Eyes wide in the darkness, he peered around, trying to make out what the room contained, for it was simply one room and no more.

The door standing open let in a little gray light.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a chair lying on its side, a worn with an empty basin, and a cot covered with rumpled bedding. Against the wall were several boxes, stacked in a neat pile. Nothing else seemed to offer anything.

Crossing to them, he hefted the top box. It was not heavy. Slipping the blade of his hunting knife under the thin slat that topped the box, he pried, ever so gently, not wishing to break his knife. The slat loosened and he dug his fingers into the crack. Risking the screech of a nail, he pulled up the slat.

If there was any sound it was lost in a convenient rumble of thunder.

Inside the box there was sacking, and when that was parted, he found stacks of round cans, slightly larger but not unlike snuff cans. Lifting one to his nostrils, he sniffed curiously. From the box came a pungent, half-forgotten odor.

"So that's it?" he muttered. He frowned thoughtfully.

It did not clarify the position of the Venables ... although in some way, it might.

For a moment, he stared into the darkness.

Dixie? He could not believe it Nor Tom, when it came to that. Yet who was to know? Dark currents flow through the hearts of men, and even the seemingly most decent people sometimes Not That he could not believe! Not of either of them nor of Levitt, for that matter. He was, whatever else he might be, a strong man, strong-willed, and with nothing in the way of superficial weakness. His character was flawed, seriously flawed, but not in that direction.

Pocketing three of the small cans, he replaced the boards as best he could to conceal the most obvious damage. Then he slipped outside and pulled the door closed behind him.

Disturbed by the sudden turn of events, he went back to his horse. He stood there a moment, reassuring the animal that it was not abandoned. Then he went around the stable toward the house.

Nearby was a window, and he moved up under the trees and hesitated there, taking stock. He should get out now before he was discovered. But, on the other hand, if he could see Dixie, if he could get her to leave with him. ...

Eavesdropping was something he had no taste for, but he had to know who was inside and what was taking place. He hesitated only a moment longer, then moved into the darkness close to the house and to the side of the window.

It was the dining room of the small ranch house, and three people sat at the table. Dixie was there, looking pale but composed, and beside her, Tom Venable. At the head of the table sat Star Levitt!

The window was opened slightly and he could hear their voices. Levitt was speaking.

"To me it is the obvious solution, Dixie." His tone was suave, but decisive. "We shall be married in this house on Monday.

Do you understand?"

"You can't get away with this!" Tom said angrily, but the undercurrent of hopelessness was obvious in his tone. "It's the devil of a thing! Dixie hates you.

What sort of mind can you have?"

"Not your sort, evidently, Tom. There are different sorts of minds, you know. Some wish to have a woman who loves them. That's nonsense, you know.

Much better to have a woman who hates you ... detests you. The very fact that you love a woman deprives you of the strength to deal with her. Love is for peasants. I shall be much more amused by having a woman who hates me, who would like to kill me!

Think of the man who handles tigers in a cage.

Handles them with a whip! That's the style."

"You're insane," Tom said.

Levitt shrugged. "Perhaps. There are many of us about. You've read too many romances, Tom. Someday you will learn." He smiled. "In fact, if you stay with us, I am sure you will learn."

He sipped his coffee. "It will be convenient to be married to Dixie. Aside from the fact that she is very beautiful, very spirited and proud, there remains the fact that if anything ever did go wrong here, a wife cannot testify against her husband. With her as my wife, I scarcely believe you'd ever care to bring any charges against me, Tom. But on the other hand, I mean to make this relationship very lucrative for you. I wouldn't want my brother-in-law to be a pauper, you know, so I shall see that you do very well." He smiled. "And become even more deeply involved. You can't blame a man for protecting himself."

"I've a damned good notion to-was Tom half rose from his chair.

"Have you, Tom? If I were you I'd make no trouble. None at all. You're in very deep, you know.

Murder is a nasty charge, and now smuggling as well. Oh, yes! I've managed to arrange things so, if anything ever happens, it is you who have done all this." He waved a careless hand. "And there is evidence to prove it. Even if somehow you got out of the murder charge, there would still be enough to send you away for twenty years. ... And, although I should regret it, your sister, too. So I'd relax and enjoy things if I were you.

"Also, if you were exposed as operator of a ring of opium smugglers, think of the effect on your proud old father and his bad heart!"

"If it weren't for my father," Tom Venable said quietly, "I'd kill you with my bare hands!"

Levitt smiled. "I think not, Tom. I am several times stronger than you. I am stronger than anyone you have ever known or are likely to know. I've had a few fights, you know, if one wished to call them that.

But so far I've never needed more than one hand."

"You know, Tom," Dixie's tone was casual, conversational.

"I really believe we should talk this over between us. I am not at all sure that prison wouldn't be preferable to a marriage with Star Levitt."

Levitt's face was ugly. "You're flattering!" he commented dryly. "And not very appreciative. What would have happened to Tom had I not gotten him away from that mess and brought him here?

Canavan's ears missed a few words, but then Levitt went on, his tone a shade louder.

"Yes, I really believe I should have earned your gratitude. Instead I find you falling for an ordinary, drifting cowhand."

Dixie Venable's eyes lifted from her plate.

"It does no good to tell you, Star. Forwith that vast ego of yours, you could never understand. But Bill Canavan, the drifting cowhand you speak of, is several times the man you could ever have been, even if you hadn't become a thief and a blackmailer of women."

Canavan's heart gave a great leap, and in that instant he would cheerfully have gone right through the window, glass and all, and cheerfully given his life if it would have helped. Yet even in his elation at her praise of him, he could not but admire her coolness and composure. Even in such a moment and in such a place, subject to any whim of the man across the table, a man who had already demonstrated his capacity for ruthlessness, she handled herself with courage. He stared into the window, his heart pounding.

And just then she lifted her eyes and looked right into his.

For an instant that seemed an eternity, their eyes held. Then she turned her head, passing a dish to her brother with an idle comment that ignored Levitt completely.

When she spoke again, her voice was a little louder, as if she wished for him to hear. "Well," she said, "everything is all right for the time being. At least, Star, you have given me until Monday."

He drew back from the window. That message was for him, and between now and Monday was a lifetime ... three whole days.

Three days in which much might be done, in which he might somehow get her away from here or in which he might kill Star Levitt Now, he knew that was what he would do if worst came to worst. Never yet had he actually hunted a man down to kill him. Nor had he ever set out to kill a man. He had killed, but only in defending himself or whatever or whoever it was he was protecting. He had never belted on a gun for the purpose of killing.

There had been times. ... He remembered that desperate moment on the old Butterfield stage when three men had suddenly leaped down in front of the stage and ordered the others to throw up their hands.

The driver had made a move to quiet his team, and when he moved they shot him. In an instant, Canavan fired. He fired one barrel, then the other, and two men were on the ground. And he nailed the third with a pistol shot at eighty yards. Brought him down, at least Two of the men lived to hang, and the day they were hung Canavan was driving stage in place of the man they had murdered ... his shotgun beside him.

That had been long ago, and he never thought back to the moment. The time for action had come and he had not thought, but simply reacted as was necessary. And he had brought the stage and its passengers and shipments in safely.

It was time to leave. From the darkness under the trees, he surveyed the ground he must cover.

It was very dark now, with occasional flashes of lightning.

He started for the stable and his horse and, just as he stepped past the last tree, a huge old cottonwood, a man stepped out of the darkness.

"Pete? Is that you? You got a match?"

It was Kerb Dahll Recognition came to them at the same instant, and Dahl let out a startled grunt and went for his gun.

There was no chance to grapple with the man, no chance for a quick, soundless battle. Too much space intervened between them, and even as Dahl's hand closed over his gun butt, Canavan fired.