Where the Long Grass Blows (1976) (19 page)

He thought he detected a movement in the shadows and, pausing, he held still for a count of six. Nothing moved. Seeing nothing more, he went to the back door of Scott's place and tapped lightly. The door opened and he stepped in.

Scott stepped back, alarm in his eyes. "Man, you've stirred up a peck o' trouble! You've got the whole country stood on its ear."

He filled a cup with coffee and put it on the table in front of Canavan. "Drink that. Make you feel better."

"Thanks." He looked up at Scott again. Was it his imagination or was the old man acting different than he would have expected? Was this whole affair making him unreasonably suspicious?

"Big trouble's busting loose," Canavan said, I hope I can handle it. Scott, you've got to help me get in touch with those state officers when they arrive.

I've got to see them right away."

His ears caught a faint whisper of movement outside, and the cup stopped halfway to his lips.

He looked up at Scott and felt something turn sick inside him.

Old Man Scott held a shotgun in both hands, the twin barrels pointed right at his chest. "You just sit tight, son, an' you won't get killed. You just do like I say." He raised his voice. "You make a wrong move an' I'll cut you in two!"

He spoke even louder. "All right, out there!

I've got him! You can come in now!"

The door burst open and Voyle was the first man in, with Allen Kinney right behind him, then Tolman and Emmett Chubb.

Chubb's satisfaction was obvious. "Well, Canavan!

Who's top-dog now?" He lifted his pistol.

"Hold it!" Scott's shotgun made a sharp movement.

"Just take her easy there, Chubb! This man's my prisoner. I'm claimin' the reward right now!

Moreover, I'm holdin' him alive for Mr. Levitt!"

"Like hell!" Chubb declared. "The orders are to shoot on sight!"

"Not unless you want a blast from this shotgun!"

Scott said. "Nobody's beatin' me out of my money.

This feller Kinney has a finger on a piece of it, I reckon, but nobody else. Kinney tipped me off, but nobody else gets a hand on that money but us!"

Baffled, Chubb hesitated, wanting to shoot but not liking to take a chance against a shotgun at that range.

Scott was a tough old man and would very likely do just as he threatened.

"He's right, Emmet*," Kinney said. "He got him fir/bill Canavan stared from one to the other. "Sold out!" he sneered. "I might have suspected it!"

Kinney flushed, but Scott shrugged. "A thousand dollars is a lot of money, boy! And they were goin' to get you anyway! I've seen men killed for a sight less, and most of these folks around here would have killed you. They'd have taken a shot at you and talked about it after!"

"We'll take him to jail then!" Chubb said. "This is no place for him."

"You'll do no such thing!" Scott said. "He stays right here until I have the money right in my hand!

When Levitt's paid me, he can do whatever he's of a mind to, but nobody's beatin' me out of my money.

Stay here and help guard if you want, but don't you forget for one minute that he's my prisoner! This shotgun won't forget it!"

Kinney slipped around behind Canavan and lifted his guns from their holsters. Reluctantly, under the pointing shotgun, Canavan backed into a chair and sat down. Shocked by the unexpected betrayal, he could only stare accusingly, appalled by the sudden turn of fortune.

From the high, if desperate, hopes of earlier in the day, he was suddenly thrust back into utter hopelessness.

Yet he was alive, and had Scott yielded him to Chubb he would never have lived to reach the jail.

How could they have known he was even in town? There was but one way ... May must have betrayed him. She and Allen must have planned it together, and when he left her house she must have gotten the word to Kinney at once.

He sat very still, thinking. There had to be a way out. There was always a way, if one could but think of it, and there was no need to waste time in wailing at the fact that he had been betrayed or that he was now a prisoner. The problem he must solve was what was now to be done.

What was past was past. He had only to do with the future. Fortunately, Scott had insisted he be held here, so he would not be murdered en route to the jail.

Chubb dropped into a chair opposite him and held a six-shooter in his lap. I'd like to blast his heart out," he said sullenly. "What frets you so much, Scott?

You'll get your money, dead or alive."

"You just leave him be," Scott said. "If you shoot him, you'll lay claim to it. I wouldn't trust you across the street where that much money was concerned.

Nor any of your crowd."

He chuckled, avoiding Canavan's eyes.

"Levitt will be top man around here from now on, and he's the one I'll do business withand only with him! I'm too old to be shoved out in the cold at my time of life, and I ain't figurin' on it! I'll work with Star an' he'll work with me!"

"I never saw you bein' so thick with him!" Chubb argued, his irritation obvious. "I never even seen him in your store."

Scott chuckled. "How do' you suppose he came here in the first place? Who told him this place was wide open for a smart man?

"Canavan here, he figured the same way. He planned to take over when Pogue and Reynolds were out of it, but he was leavin' too much to chance.

Star Levitt doesn't leave anything to chance."

Bitterly, Bill Canavan stared at the floor, trying to shut out their words. All he wanted was time to think. Otherwise he was finished, really finished ...

And so were Dixie and Tom Venable.

If Mabry and Burt had gone to May's, or had stayed there after stabling their horses, they would have been sold out, too. He listened, straining his ears to catch any distant sound of shooting, but heard nothing. By now both might be dead, led into a trap by him.

Levitt was completely in command now. These others were aware of that and all were jumping on the bandwagon to ride home with the winner. He stared at Kinney, and the young man's eyes wavered and swung away from his. How could he have guessed such a man would sell him out? He would have bet his life on him. ... And that was just what he had done ... and lost.

As for Scott, the old man had been an outlaw most of his life. When a man rides on the wrong side of the law for so long, he can develop a bent that way.

Still, the friends who directed Canavan to him had always said he was a man to ride the river with. But who was he to ride with?

The old man had evidently chosen to ride with the front-runner as he had said, and it was certainly the logical thing to do. Yet he had liked the old man, felt a genuine affection for him. Which only went to prove that one should never let sentiment involve one's judgment.

There was no chance now for Dixie, unless. ... His eyes narrowed with thought.

What would they do with him now? Would they get word to Star that he was a prisoner, then smuggle him out of town to be killed? Or would they bring him out in the open with the evidence arrayed against him, or kill him trying to escape?

If, somehow, he could manage to talk to Ward Clymer or the sheriff! Of course, he would be meeting them with reward posters out on him, with all of Levitt's men prepared to swear to his crimes, and he would be in a bad position to begin with. And what evidence had he?

On his part, Star Levitt would have plenty of evidence arranged for, and more than enough perjured testimony. And, as May had warned him, nobody in town would testify against Star.

They were frightened, or they wanted to ride with the front-runner.

He was through ... finished.

Yet ... there was a slim hope. Mabry and Burt had not been brought in yet, and he had heard no report of their deaths. Their names had not even been mentioned thus far, so perhaps they had not been taken. And they, at least, were loyal Somehow, if they were still alive and free, they would try to help. Somehow they would contrive to free him.

It was going to be a long night, and a longer day tomorrow.

And tomorrow was Dixie's wedding day. ...

Chapter
XVII

The night was endless, and the darkness lasted forever. In the back room of Scott's store, lighted by the small flame of but one coal-oil lamp turned low, they sat in silence, watching the minutes become hours. And for a long, long time it seemed there would be no day.

Scott smoked endlessly at the stub of a cigar that seemed never to have been longer, and seemed never to grow shorter. Chubb smoked cigarettes, pacing the floor, occasionally swearing, turning his head as a lizard does to stare unblinking at Canavan.

Allen Kinney read from a week-old newspaper only just arrived. Voyle yawned, dozed, occasionally smoked.

If you'd let me have him," Chubb complained, "we could all get some sleep."

"No," Scott said.

The door from the back room opened into the store, and beyond it they could see the street And for a long time it was only blackness there, then a faint gray, and finally they could pick out the astonished eyes of the stores across the street.

"You'll die this day," Chubb said, with satisfaction.

"Maybe," Canavan replied, "but have you looked in a mirror this morning?"

"Mirror?" Chubb turned on him. "Why should I?"

"Because you've the mark of death on you, Chubb. You'll not live out the day, I'm thinking, and was he began his lie, "I'm the seventh son of a seventh son, and can see the future. If I were you, I'd make my peace with the Lord."

"You're crazy." Chubb turned away. But a moment later they saw him looking into Scott's shaving mirror.

"The mark of death," Canavan said solemnly.

"You might live out the day, but they rarely do."

The room was silent. Voyle gnawed uneasily at his lower lip. In the street a Mexican went slowly past leading a burro piled high with sticks. An old gray mongrel trotted beside them.

Chubb looked at him. "You're crazy," he said.

"All that stuff about seventh sons. That's nonsense."

"Is it? My uncle foretold his own death. To the minute. Told us he'd die by drowning and everybody laughed, because he was the strongest swimmer anywhere around. And besides, he was going into the desert for two weeks."

"So what happened?" Scott asked.

"He died by drowning ... flash flood. His head struck on a stone when the wall of water hit him.

He was drowned."

"Could happen to anyone," Voyle declared.

"It could," Canavan admitted. "But my uncle foresaw it, just like I'll foresee yours. The exact way hasn't come to me yet, but it will."

Chubb snorted his disgust. "You tell me when you get the rest of it," he said. "Give me something to laugh about"

"That's another thing," Canavan said quietly.

"You're not going to laugh anymore, never any more at all!"

They heard the door slam over at the Bit and Bridle, and Fat stood on the walk, taking the morning air. Down the street a pump rattled, then broke into a rhythmical squeaking. Water gushed into the pail, and they all heard it. Canavan looked over at Scott, but the old man avoided his glance. For a moment Canavan was about to say something sarcastic, but then he figured, what the hell?

His lids fluttered, then closed. Yet behind them he was thinking. With four of them watching he had no chance, none at all.

In a few minutes, at least within the hour, allowing for bad roads, the stage would roll into the street bringing the men from the capital. The stage would halt in front of the Cattleman's Cafe and the passengers would go inside to eat. Within a short time after they arrived he would know his fate ... if Levitt did not come first.

"Also," Scott said suddenly, "you take this shotgun, and I'll assemble some ham an' eggs for you boys.

No reason to go hungry."

Tohnan, who had left some time before, returned now and stuck his head into the door. "Stage a-comin' an' Syd Berdue just blowed in!"

"The W outfit come in yet?" Chubb asked, without turning his eyes from Canavan. "When Dolph Turner comes in, tell him what's happened.

He'll see that Levitt gets the news right off."

Scott was working over the stove, and soon the smell of frying bacon and eggs filled the room.

Despite his situation Canavan realized suddenly that he was hungry, very hungry indeed. He realized for the first time that he had eaten nothing the night before.

Emmett Chubb rose and crossed the room to wash his face and hands. He was a stocky, swarthy man with a square jaw and a dark stubble of beard.

His hair was unkempt, and Canavan noted the notches on his guns. Three on one, five on the other.

The notches stamped the man, for only tinhorns notched their guns as a rule. Eight men dead ...

It was time for him to die.

The only thing I'm sorry for," Chubb said, as he dried his hands, "is that we didn't get a chance to settle this between us."