Coroner Creek (24 page)

Chris wasn't listening now; he had seen Younger Miles come out of the store and look upstreet, then downstreet. Something in his manner made Chris look downstreet too. He saw Stew Shallis and another rider coming down the street, watching the livery. Looking upstreet he saw Ernie Coombs and a strange rider at the intersection, and he knew that Miles had got them out of jail, and that this was it. Even as his glance shuttled back to the store, he saw Miles vaulting down the steps, clawing at the gun in his belt.

Chris moved, then. He shoved Della roughly out of the way behind the big sliding door, and grabbed the reins of her horse and vaulted into the saddle. Miles shot first, and Chris heard his shot hit the planks and ricochet in a singing whine out the rear door. He pulled Della's chestnut around and, leaning over its neck, he roweled him down the livery runway toward the rear door, and heard Miles' voice, wild with wrath, yelling, “Cut him off! Cut him off!”

Chris passed the corral in back, hearing a horse thundering into the entrance of the livery, and he pulled his gun and swerved left into the alley, heading instinctively in the direction of the Blackbows.

He had gone only a few yards down the alley when Shallis cut into the alley dead ahead of him. He saw Chris and tried to pull up his horse, and raised his gun. Chris shot twice, and saw the horse, already in a rear, take the hit and go over backwards, and then he swerved right between two sheds, just as the rider behind him opened up. He was in the back yard of a mean little shack, and he cut angling across its greasy, rain-pooled mud. The chestnut stumbled on the slippery boardwalk bisecting the yard and recovered, and then Chris saw the clothesline ahead of him. He ducked flat on the back of his horse and the line raked his back, and then he put his horse in between two houses just as a second shot slammed into the wall of the far house. Swerving the chestnut to keep from running into a child's wagon, he cut across the front yard and was in the street, which petered out onto the flats ahead.

He looked behind him now, and saw it was Ernie Coombs, still bareheaded, who was behind him, close, and he turned and raised his gun and shot. With his left hand and on horseback, his shooting was wild, and he missed, and he could almost see the expression of cold ferocity on Ernie's face as his horse hit the street now and took after him.

His chestnut was in a dead gallop, and when they had left the edge of town and were on the muddy flats, Chris knew the chestnut couldn't take it. Looking back, he saw three riders strung out far behind Ernie who was gaining on him. The chestnut, Chris knew, had been ridden from Box H today, and would play out soon.

As if to punctuate his thought, he heard Ernie shoot. Chris turned in the saddle, and tried again, and again his shooting was bad; and only after that did he realize that his gun was empty.

He tried, fumblingly, to reload, reins over his injured hand, body bent low in the saddle. But he could not fumble the shells from his shell belt, and when he did finally, he could not with one hand force them in the loading gate.

He looked back now and saw that Ernie had pulled a shotgun or rifle from the saddle scabbard, and Chris knew with a gray and hateful certainty that he was cornered unless he could load his gun.

Looking ahead in the fading light of dusk, he made out the distant bulk of Briggs' place. If he could make that, and contrive to dodge in the tangle of those corrals for the few precious moments it would take to load his gun, he might make it.

CHAPTER XIX

Younger's black, which he hauled from the livery corral and mounted bareback in his haste to take part in the chase, quit on him a mile out on the flats. He simply slacked into a walk and then stopped, and only quivered when Younger raked him with his spurs in a fury of impatience. The horse had carried him from the tie camp to Triumph today, and he could not work more. It took Younger only a moment to acknowledge this, and he let the black blow a few moments, and then turned back to town, his temper ugly and wild. As he came up to the livery stable and dismounted he saw a knot of onlookers gathered at the big livery door, and O'Hea was among them. They were standing just out of the rain.

Younger swung down and flipped his reins to the hostler and O'Hea said quietly, “Come along, Younger. You're under arrest.”

Younger stood motionless in the rain, looking over the small crowd. He counted eight Rainbow hands among them, and then he looked at O'Hea.

“What did I do now?”

“Broke Ernie and Shallis out of jail.”

“So where do you put me until you get it fixed?” Younger asked mockingly. He looked the crowd over now, his eyes bold and unafraid, and then he glanced at O'Hea. “Any offense is bailable, short of murder, according to your sheriff's book, isn't it?”

O'Hea nodded.

“Then figure out what you want from me and get the bail from Truscott,” Younger said bluntly. “I'm busy and you always know where to find me.”

He turned his back to O'Hea and, with a magnificent disdain, started across the muddy road. A half dozen Rainbow hands broke from the crowd and followed him, and O'Hea, helpless, watched him go.

On the steps of the store Younger paused and turned to his men. “Arch, you hang around the livery. Maybe Ernie and the boys will miss Danning and he'll come back.”

He went on in the store now, his slicker dripping a thin line of water down the aisle. The lamps were already lighted against the gloom of early evening, and Younger went on back to the office.

Mac was engaged in conversation with a small scholarly-looking man of middle age whom Younger recognized as Travis, the surveyor he had hired.

They stopped talking at Younger's entrance, and rose, and Younger, halting, said in a puzzled voice to Travis, “I thought Mac sent you to Petrie.”

“I just rode in from Petrie, Mr. Miles,” Travis said coldly. “There's been a mistake made somewhere along the line. Mr. MacElvey gave me to understand that you people were low bidders on that freight contract, and that I was to start the road survey immediately.”

“That's right,” Younger said. He was shucking out of his slicker.

“Then you'd better see Mr. Coe at Petrie. He's under the impression Farnum Brothers were low bidders. So are they. Their road crew is there, and the surveyors are already at work.”

“Farnum Brothers?” Younger echoed blankly. “You say you saw Coe?” He let his slicker fall to the floor.

“I did.”

“What did Coe say?” Younger demanded slowly.

“I told you. Farnum Brothers were low bidders. The contract was signed yesterday by Mr. Hardy, Sulinam's treasurer. I saw a copy of the contract.”

Younger stared blankly at MacElvey, who shrugged. Younger strode over to the safe, pulled open the door and squatted long enough to unlock a drawer and pull out a letter. He came back, handed it to Travis, saying, “What does that read like to you?”

Travis read the letter. “A forgery,” he said simply. “Hardy isn't east. He's in Coe's office probably at this very moment. That's not Coe's signature. Do you know it?”

“His signature? No,” Miles said. “Do you, Mac?”

“No.”

Travis put the letter on the desk, saying, “Farnum Brothers bid was some thirteen cents a ton less than your figure. I saw that, too.”

Miles only stared at him with complete bafflement. He started to say something and did not, and he licked the corners of his lips slowly, looking at Travis.

“Somebody,” Travis observed, “has played a very unfortunate trick on you, Mr. Miles. I can imagine your feelings. Nevertheless, I was somewhat inconvenienced myself. I—”

“Pay him,” Younger said softly to Mac.

Mac asked the figure and Travis mentioned it, and Mac wrote out the check. Travis put out his hand to Miles, who was staring out the window, and Miles roused himself with an effort and shook hands. Then he stared again at the window as Travis went out.

A clerk came in and said, “I'll go to supper now, Mr. MacElvey,” and Mac nodded and the clerk went out, closing the door behind him.

Mac went over to the letter and picked it up, and then he said quietly, “You better get a man over to Moorehouse with telegrams of cancellation, Younger. Save what you can.”

“Who did it, Mac?” Younger asked quietly.

“I don't know. There's time to worry about that when you've saved what you can.”

Miles grunted, looking at him. “You suppose Dan hasn't paid for the horses? You suppose our deposit on the wagons hasn't been paid by Sholtz, and the contract signed? You suppose that feed isn't bought and the first of it on its way? The harness bought? The crews signed up by Brush, the lumber bought, the deal closed on the blacksmith shop? The—Oh hell!”

Mac put down the letter and looked at Younger.

“Who did it, Mac?”

MacElvey shook his head. “The Sulinam letterhead is right. I've seen that. The names are right. The talk is right. The—”

“I've lost a fortune,” Younger interrupted quietly. “You know that, Mac? I paid cash for everything, to stretch my money. I mortgaged Rainbow.”

Mac nodded, and he and Younger stared at each other, and again Younger said, “Who did it?”

Mac shrugged, came up to him and said quietly, “Get a grip on yourself, Younger. Every minute we lose before we get telegrams off to Dan and Sholtz and the wagon outfit might be costing us money. Is everybody chasing Danning?”

Younger said absently, “Arch is at the livery.”

“I'm going to send him over to Moorehouse, then. Is that all right?”

Again Younger nodded absently, and Mac left the office. The store was almost empty, for the supper hour was here, and only two clerks remained. Mac went down the steps and ducked under the hitch post and crossed the street to the livery in the rain. Just inside the door, Arch was sitting on a feed bin, talking with the hostler beside him.

Mac went up and said to him, “Got a gun with you, Arch?”

Arch nodded, and Mac put out his hand. “Younger wants it.”

“What's the matter with his?” Arch asked, reaching for the six-gun holstered at his hip.

“Something happened to the hammer,” Mac said quietly. “I don't know anything about guns.”

Arch handed him his six-gun, which Mac took awkwardly by the barrel and started back across the street with it. His attention was attracted by someone standing by the outside door of the livery office in the rain, and when he glanced over, he saw it was Kate Hardison, and he halted.

“Have they got him, Mac?” Kate asked slowly.

“No,” Mac said, and then he added in a kindly voice. “Get out of the rain, Kate.”

She turned wordlessly and went back in the direction of the hotel. Mac, out of sight of Arch now, opened his vest and rammed the gun in his belt and buttoned his vest again. By that time he was inside the store; he shook the rain from his coat and went on through to the office.

The closest building to Chris on Briggs' place as he came on it now was a high corral and he dismissed this instantly. It would have to be the shack, some solid thing that would give him protection in the lowering dusk while he took the precious time to reload.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Ernie had gained only a slight distance. It was too far for effective use of his shotgun, and Ernie, Chris knew, was risking everything on that. Ernie understood and knew, too, the stakes of the race, and he was riding low, urging the last burst of speed from his horse.

Chris already had the shells from his belt in his hand, and now as he rounded the tangle of corrals and headed for the house, he put them in his mouth. Della's chestnut tripped and stumbled, almost foundered and recovered just past the door of Briggs' sagging shack. Chris swung a leg over the saddle and, as he reached the far corner of the shack, he leaped clear. He slipped and fell in the mud and came to his knees, and ran for the corner of the shack. He held the six-gun, loading gate open, wedged in the hollow of his right arm, and patiently, slowly, tried to fumble in a cartridge, and then he heard Ernie's horse at a run. Chris' tracks in the mud were eloquent; Ernie would know where to look for him, and he was on him even now. A dismal gray taste of death was in Chris now. He rose and ran for the back of the shack, at last slipping in the single cartridge.

He heard Ernie's horse pound past the corner of the shack, and he saw Ernie leap from the saddle, gun in hand, just as he put the corner between them. Chris stopped then. He had the single load in. Awkwardly, desperately, he tried with his left hand to spin the cylinder, so that the cartridge would be under the hammer, and then he heard Ernie's pounding step and looked up.

Ernie rounded the corner at a run and hauled up, not eight feet away. He shot once from the hip, even before he halted, and Chris cringed away, waiting for the shot to take him. Nothing happened, except the sting of powder on his cheek. And now the cartridge was in place, and Chris cocked the gun and looked up as Ernie, his face savage and baleful, shot again.

And again came the powder sting and nothing more, and Chris, realizing he was unhit, took two solid steps toward Ernie and lifted his gun. Some wild instinct of survival moved Ernie to raise his gun as a club, and then Chris shot. The slug caught. Ernie in the chest and he sat down abruptly and went flat on his back. He raised one knee and sighed, and his leg straightened out in the mud.

Chris stood there a still moment, shaking, humble with fear, before the slow realization came that the others, whom Ernie had widely outdistanced, were after him too. He stood in his tracks in the rain and loaded his gun, and then ran for Ernie's horse, which had stopped as soon as Ernie had left the saddle.

He mounted and put the horse at a reluctant trot past the shed, and was again out on the flats. Through the lowering dusk he saw the first of the riders a quarter mile on the other side of Briggs' dark shack. He rode steadily for a while, and when it was too dark to see any distance, he swung in a wide half circle toward the west. The others had lost him, or had been sobered by the finding of Ernie. Presently he made the full circle, and headed back toward Triumph, knowing that at last it was here. And oddly now, he thought of what lay beyond, and what Kate said to him last night: “You'll have to get it over with and see, Chris.” He knew now that he wanted to live beyond what would happen next; he wanted to come out of it alive, and a year ago he hadn't cared.