Blood on the Moon (4 page)

Jim drove two shots toward Sweet, and then, stooping low so as not to silhouette himself against the saloon window, he ran downstreet. Sweet’s fire searched him out, and ahead of him a store window collapsed in a jangle of glass at his very feet. And now Sweet’s shooting was echoed by the first shots of the crew in the saloon. A slug boomed into the plank walk and caromed up past him in a long whine.

He found protection two doors down—an opening between two buildings. He turned down it and heard Sweet shout, “The back alley!” Somebody was pounding down the boardwalk toward the opening.
Jim lunged noisily through the litter of cans and weeds and bottles cluttering the open area. Once he turned and threw a shot back through the opening, and then he burst out into the alley.

It was pitch black, save for the square of light on a shed thrown by the rear window of the saloon. He turned down the alley, his boots pounding on the cinders. Suddenly from ahead of him came the sound of a running horse. It was on him, riding him down, and he lunged to one side, sprawling in the cinders.

He rolled to his knees, cursing, and looked back. For a brief instant the rider was in the light of the saloon’s high window, and in that time Jim saw the rider hurl something through the window, shattering the glass. He also identified the rider by the thick auburn hair glinting in the light. It was Carol Lufton.

He started down the alley again, the dim cross street far ahead. Before he had reached it two men rounded the corner of the building and started to shoot down the alley. He flattened against a shed and looked back in the other direction. The back door of the Bella Union suddenly yanked open, flooding the alley with light. Two more men, the phony Riling and the boy, piled out into the alley, and a man from the street end yelled, “He’s between us.”

Jim faded around the corner of the shed, searching for shelter. He found a door, opened it and stepped inside. The gloom here was profound, smelling of dust and fresh resin. He judged he was in somebody’s woodshed. He worked toward the rear of it and was finally against the alley wall. The shouted talk now was muffled somewhat, but he heard enough to know they were arguing hotly, shouting directions. Calling for lanterns, probably, he thought.
None of them wanted to close that dark gap of alley that they were sure held him.

Jim’s breath slowed down and he listened. His mind was searching for some way out of this, yet everything that occurred to him was soon discarded. If their search was thorough he was cornered. He wondered objectively what they would do with him when they found him and debated on the wisdom of fighting.

He was aware now that the talk had died down, and he moved slowly across to the door.

Halfway across he heard a shout that he couldn’t mistake.

“Here’s Tate!”

Tate Riling? What would a Blockhouse man be doing mouthing that name, except to curse it? Jim was puzzled, and he listened.

“Tate! Tate! Careful how you come up!”

There it was again, this time from the street. Jim moved over to the door, puzzled, and opened it gently. Through the crack of the door, past the corner of the adjoining barn, he could see two men—one of them the phony Tate Riling—talking animatedly, gesturing with a gun to a man Jim couldn’t see.

Jim gauged his chances and stepped outside. The big man hadn’t seen him. He moved swiftly across to the barn and in the sheltering wedge of darkness worked up to the corner of the barn. The talk out there came into focus. He heard: “…and wanted a job ridin’ for us. But he saw how it shaped up and made the first play.”

“Then get him, get him!”

It was Tate Riling’s voice; Jim couldn’t mistake it. He didn’t understand this, yet he did understand
that these men were looking to Tate for orders, and he was safe.

He stepped out from the corner of the barn. The boy saw him first and yelled, “There he is!”

Jim stood motionless on the outer fringe of the lantern light. They wheeled and split, lifting their guns, and then he was looking at Tate Riling.

“Jim Garry!”

The words exploded from the lips of Tate Riling like an oath, and then his booming laugh lifted into the night. He was a massive man, tall, with tremendous shoulders, built solid, with great thick hands and long arms. The lantern on the ground lighted his face from below, giving it a depth of jaw that almost hid his neck. Close-cropped pale hair that burred out even at the temples widened a face that was long jawed and had a quality almost mastifflike. He just missed being ugly, with a nose that was broad with thick volutes, but the humor in his face saved it. He smiled often, as now, and it hinted at the tremendous vitality and drive of the man. He would command or die; everything about him suggested boldness. Only his eyes, quick and a burning blue, held the reserve of a slyness and cunning that Jim knew.

Riling turned to the men. “That’s Jim Garry, dammit—the man I sent for! He’s no range detective.”

He strode over and grabbed Jim’s hand and almost mashed it in his grip and flung an arm over Jim’s shoulder. He said, “What went wrong, Jim? Who started this?”

Jim said thinly, “Ask these buckaroos, Tate.”

The men at the end of the alley now came up.
They were all here, along with a couple more that had come with Tate. There was a wicked dislike in their faces as they eyed him.

But it took Milo Sweet to voice it. He said suspiciously, “If that’s Garry what was he doin’ at the Blockhouse?”

So they’d seen him go into Lufton’s place and thought him a Lufton hand. Jim almost smiled at that, thinking how simple it would be to put things to rights. A couple of spoken sentences and it would be clear. Yet some cross-grained stubbornness held him silent. He didn’t like these men, not even if he was going to work among them.

“Blockhouse?” Riling echoed. “Jim went into Blockhouse?”

“I seen him,” Sweet said.

Riling looked at Jim now, and Jim’s face was bland, faintly curious. “That’s right,” Jim said. “I delivered a note from him to his women. What about it?”

Riling scowled. “But Blockhouse is the outfit that’s tryin’ to run us out of the country.”

“Am I supposed to know that?” Jim countered.

And then Riling’s face broke into his brash, friendly grin. “Why, hell, no, Jim. I’d forgot.” He turned to the crew. “I never wrote Jim about our fight. I told him I needed him and to come up, and I never mentioned Blockhouse. So quit chewin’ leather, boys, and go in and get a drink. Me and Jim will be with you in a little while.”

When the crew had drifted into the Bella Union through the back door Riling regarded Jim with an amused affection. “Same old Jim. When lightning strikes you’re there.”

“Wasn’t a fair test,” Jim drawled, but he grinned too.

Riling took him by the arm and they turned up the alley, and Riling asked questions about the journey, and Jim knew Riling was glad to see him. Jim answered and then inquired about Riling’s affairs. He didn’t get an answer immediately.

They were at the mouth of the alley now, and Riling paused. Across the street was Sun Dust’s hotel, the Basin House, and Riling contemplated it thoughtfully.

“How am I doing?” he asked, echoing Jim’s question. “I won’t tell you; I’ll show you, Jim.” He pointed to the hotel. “We’ll go over there, and you sign for a room and we’ll go up. I’ve got a piece of business to do.”

Jim was curious now, but he knew Riling wouldn’t talk until he was ready. They went into the lobby of the Basin, and Jim signed the register at the desk under the stairs and was given a key. Several men were idling in the lobby chairs, but neither Riling nor Jim paid them much attention.

Upstairs Jim unlocked the door to his room and went in and lighted the lamp. Riling, however, stood in the doorway, looking down the corridor. Presently Jim saw him lift an arm and wave and then step back into the room, a faint smile on his bold face.

Soon there came a knock on the door, and a man stepped quickly into the room, closing the door behind him. He turned, and when he saw Jim a look of petulance crossed his face.

He was one of the lobby sitters downstairs, Jim remembered, and was curious. He was the sort of
man that Riling, or any man who worked with cattle and horses, would take an instinctive dislike to. Of medium size with a comfortable paunch, he wore the old-fashioned frock coat and flowing tie of a politician. His watery blue eyes were close set to a narrow nose, and his full pursed lips were cherry red in a sallow face. He wore his sparse sandy hair long at the back, and he wore a full black Stetson that was wide brimmed and well brushed. He was carrying a small black valise, which he did not put down.

There was a faint note of amusement in Riling’s voice as he said, “Jim, this is Mr. Jacob Pindalest, the United States agent for Ute Indians over on the reservation.”

Jim put out his hand, and Pindalest tentatively gave his. His hand was soft and damp, and he looked curiously at Riling, waiting for an explanation of Jim’s presence. There was a sour whisky reek about him.

“This is Garry, my partner,” Riling said.

“Partner? You didn’t tell me you had a partner, Riling.”

“I am now.”

Pindalest looked distressed. “Before we go on I’d like to have it understood how he’ll figure in this.”

“You mean money,” Riling said dryly. “I’ll share with him, so you don’t need to worry, Pindalest.”

The agent seemed relieved. He came over and put the valise on the table and said, looking obliquely at Jim, “There’s the—uh—item we were discussing the other day, Riling. I think you’ll find it satisfactory.”

“Gold eagles are usually satisfactory, aren’t they?” Riling asked dryly. He was amused by the pompous
circumspection of the agent, and now he smiled openly. “I told you Garry is my partner, Pindalest. What I know he knows.”

“To be sure,” Pindalest said. He was uneasy now, and when Jim shoved a chair toward him he shook his head nervously. “No, I can’t stay, thank you. I must be going.”

“Scared?” Riling asked.

Pindalest flushed. “I am merely being cautious, Riling. If we were discovered together our whole plan might be jeopardized.”

“That’s right,” Riling said. “Now all you have to do is sit back and wait for me to swing it.”

“Exactly. I’m counting on you.”

“And on your money too,” Riling observed. He put out his hand and Pindalest took it.

“Good luck,” the agent said. “If you need my help let me know.” He shook hands with Jim and then went out, first peering up and down the corridor to make sure he wasn’t seen.

When he was gone Riling looked at Jim and made a wry face. “That,” he said, “is our partner, Jim. He’s a cross between a rabbit and a very timid snake.”

He went over to the valise and hefted it and said, “And that is our working capital—courtesy of the United States government.”

Jim was frowning, not understanding, and Riling laughed. “Sit down and listen to a story.”

They rolled smokes, and then Riling jerked his thumb at the black bag. “There’s ten thousand dollars in there, Jim. With it I’m going to buy twenty-five hundred head of Lufton’s Texas beef at a little over three dollars a head.” He grinned. “Cheap enough, isn’t it?”

“Too cheap,” Jim said, puzzled. “Where’s the catch?”

“There isn’t any.” Riling put a foot on the chair and shoved his hat off the back of his forehead. “You met Lufton, you say?”

Jim nodded. “Camped with him last night.”

“Did he tell you he was shovin’ his beef across the Massacre River into Massacre Basin here?”

“That’s right. Said the Indian agent had refused his beef, framed a whisky-peddling charge against him, and then denied him reservation graze.”

“True. Did he tell you that the army from Fort Liggett has orders to seize all his beef that’s still on the reservation by the first of November?”

“No,” Jim said.

Riling smiled. “Well, that’s the layout, Jim—the neatest scheme a man ever rigged—and I’m proud of it. It’s my own.”

“But what is it?”

“Just this. I’ve organized these nesters—a dozen of ’em—to fight any move Lufton makes to shove his herd across the Massacre into the Basin. They’re mad and they’ll fight, because they figure they’re fightin’ for their range. They’re not; they’re fightin’ for me. Because if they can keep Lufton out of the Basin he won’t have any graze for his herd after November first. He’ll have no range to move on to. And if he’s caught on the reservation on the deadline, his herd is seized by the army at Pindalest’s request. So what does he do?”

“Sell?”

“To me. Cheap, because he’d rather get a little money for the stuff than lose it all to the army.” He paused. “Once I’ve got ’em, I sell them to Pindalest
for less money than the government contracted to pay Lufton in the beginning.”

“And how much is that?” Jim drawled.

Riling laughed softly and said, “These are the figures. The government contracted to pay Lufton through Pindalest over a hundred thousand for the herd. The money is banked here in Sun Dust. But Pindalest refused the herd. So when the deadline comes I take this ten thousand that Pindalest advances me and buy the herd from Lufton. I sell them back to Pindalest for sixty thousand.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “I make fifty thousand, and Pindalest makes the difference between sixty thousand and a hundred thousand, or forty thousand.” He paused. “And your share of that, Jim, is twenty thousand, two fifths of my loot. Did I lie to you in my letter?”

Jim was silent a moment, considering this, and then he asked idly, “What do I do to earn it?”

“Fight,” Riling said bluntly. “Lufton’s tough. These nesters aren’t. You’ll make up the difference.”

Jim stared thoughtfully at Riling. This scheme was like him, daring and bold and unscrupulous. He’d organized his small army into a weapon with which he could blackmail Lufton. There was a wry admiration in Jim for Tate’s scheme, and he thought of the money. It was more money than he’d ever seen, and earning it wouldn’t be hard.

“Well?” Riling said.

“Why not?” Jim murmured.

Riling grunted with satisfaction and picked up the valise and tucked it under his big arm. “Your first job,” he said, “is to get on the good side of these nesters. You better start now. So come along.”