Law Of the Desert Born (Ss) (1984) (28 page)

After explaining briefly, he added, "I've nothing against you, but tell me. Who paid you to come here?"

"I have no idea." She drew a letter, written on the already-familiar tablet paper, from her purse. It was an offer of five hundred dollars if she would claim to be the sister of the prisoner and use her wiles on the marshal. If that failed, she was to offer a bribe. "I wasn't much good at it," she told him, "or else you aren't very susceptible."

Sabre chuckled. "I'm susceptible, but you're better in the theater. I've seen you in New Orleans as
. W
ell as El Paso. In fact, you're very good."

Her smile was brilliant. "I feel better already! But"-h
er face became woeful--what will we do? The company went broke in El Paso, and now I won't get the rest of my money. I'd planned on the pay to get us back East again
.

-You still have the bribe money?"

She nodded.

-Then keep it.
He shrugged.
After all, to whom could you return it? You just go back to El Paso and get the show on the road
.

The door opened before she could protest, and Nat Falley came in with Gilbert and Cobb. Falley smiled quickly, looking from the girl to Sabre. Gilbert looked worried, and Cobb was frowning. When they were seated, Sabre explained about the bribe money.
You agree?" he asked.

Gilbert hesitated, then shrugged.
S'pose so.
Cobb added his agreement, and then Falley.

-You seem to have handled a bad situation very well,
Falley said.
Who was hurt by that shot?
Shroyer. He's in jail with a broken leg
.

-You'll try him for that old killing?" Falley demanded. Sabre shook his head, looking at the mining man again. "No, I promised him immunity."

-What? You'd let him go?" Cobb protested.
But you know he's one of the worst of them!"

-He talked,
Sabre said quietly.
He gave me a sworn statement. Since then, I've been gathering evidence." "Evidence?"

Falley sat up straight. Only Cobb seemed relaxed now. He was watching Sabre, his eyes suddenly attentive. Nat FaIley crossed and uncrossed his legs. He started to speak, then stopped. His eyes were on Sabre. Gilbert hitched his chair nearer.

-What evidence?" Gilbert demanded.
What did you find out?"

-All we need now is a jury. We can hold our trial today. That's one blessing," he said grimly,
about making your own law and haying no court calendar to consider.

"But who was it? Who is behind this crime?"

Matt Sabre looked into the tightly drawn face of the man opposite him. "Don't try anything, Falley," he said quietly. "I've had you covered under the table ever since you came in."

To the others, he explained, "There was more behind it than the loot. Falley was trying to grab all the valuable claims by having the owners murdered. Checking over the list, I noticed the apparent coincidence, that the victims not only carried money but in each case owned a valuable claim. The murderers got the money, while Falley moved in and took over the claims. Rafe Berry and Breidenhart were the right-hand men.
With his left hand, he drew a tablet from his coat pocket. "Ever see that before?"

Cobb leaned forward. "Why, it's Fa!ley's! Those are his notations on the pages, I'd know them anywhere!" "Flip the pages to the back and you'll see the note you found, Gilbert, will fit perfectly in one of the torn sheets. The same thing is true with the note that reached me.''

Cobb looked at Falley. "Anything to say, Nat? He's got you cold."

"Only that he'll never get out of town alive.
FaIley's eyes were ugly. "I made sure of that
.

Cobb disarmed Falley, and then at a movement near the door, their heads turned. It was Johnny Call.

Matt Sabre nodded to him. "I was hoping you'd come around, Johnny. I wanted to say good-by."

"Good-by?" Johnny blinked stupidly. "What's the idea?"

"Why, you're leaving town, Johnny. You're leaving inside the hour-and you're not coming back
.

"Who says so?" Johnny took a sliding step farther into the room. His hands hovered above his guns. "Who says so?"

"

"Johnny' =Sabre's voice held a great patience---you'll do all right with guns as long as you shoot up old men and common cowhands, but stay away from the good ones. Don't start anything with Jeff Milton, Bat Masterson, or Luke Short. Any one of them could tell just when you're going to draw by the way you move your feet.
My feet?" Johnny looked down. Instantly, his eyes came up, only now he was looking into Sabre's .44 Russian.

-That's it, Johnny." Sabre was low-voiced.
You aren't good with a gun; you've just been trailing with slow company. And you think too slow, Johnny. Now unbuckle your belts."

For a long minute, Johnny Call hesitated. He had bragged that he would kill Matt Sabre. He had told Nat Falley he would kill him. But Matt Sabre was a dead shot, and the range was less than twenty feet. Carefully, he unbuckled his belts and let them drop.
Now get out of town, Johnny. If you're here after one hour, I'll kill you.
His eyes held Call's.
Remember, it's better to be a live cowhand than a dead gunman
.

Call turned and went out the door, and. he did not look back. Matt got to his feet.
Let's go, Falley."

Heavily, the man got to his feet. He glanced at his former friends and started to speak, then walked out ahead of Sabre.

Claire Gallatin looked after Sabre.
He's-he's quite a man, isn't he?" she said, wistfully.

Gilbert nodded slowly. "Any man," he said,
can run a town with killings, if he is fast enough. To clean up a tough town without killing, that takes a man!"

*

Author's
Note: BLOODSUCKING TICKS

Among the parasites that afflicted cadie on the western range, bloodsucking ticks were the worst. They fattened on the blood of ranchers' cattle, but there is no record of a tick ever raising a cow itself.

The following story, "Trap of Gold" has already been collected in WAR PARTY. I'm only including it as an extra story in this volume as well because the unauthorized edition of my frontier stories contains the magazine version of this story, and I did not want any of my readers to feel that this authorized edition of LAW OF THE DESERT BORN was "missing" anything.

*

Wetherton had been three months out of Horsehead before he found his first color. At first, it was a few scattered grains taken from the base of an alluvial fan where millions of tons of sand and silt had washed down from a chain
. O
f rugged peaks; yet the gold was ragged under the magnifying glass.

Gold that has carried any distance becomes worn and polished by the abrasive action of the accompanying rocks and sand, so this could not have been carried far. With caution born of harsh experience, he seated himself and lit his pipe, yet excitement was strong within him.

A contemplative man by nature, his experience had taught him how a man may be deluded by hope, yet all his instincts told him the source of the gold was somewhere on the mountain above. It could have come down the wash that skirted the base of the mountain; but the ragged condition of the gold made that improbable. The base of the fan was a half mile across and hundreds of feet thick, built of silt and sand washed down by centuries of erosion among the higher peaks. The point of the wide V of the fan lay between two towering upthrusts of granite, but from where Wetherton sat, he could see that the actual source of the fan lay much higher.

Wetherton made camp near a tiny spring west of the fan, then picketed his burros and began his climb. When he was well over two thousand feet higher, he stopped, resting again, and while resting, he dry-panned some of the silt. Surprisingly, there were more than a few grains of gold even in that first pan, so he continued his climb and passed at last between the towering portals of the granite columns.

Above this natural gate were three smaller alluvial fans that joined at the gate to pour into the greater fan below. Dry-panning two of these brought no results, but the third, even by the relatively poor method of dry-panning, showed a dozen colors, all of good size. The head of this fan lay in a gigantic crack in a g
r
anite upthrust that resembled a fantastic ruin. Pausing to catch his breath, he let his gaze wander along the base of this upthrust, and right before him the crumbling granite was slashed with a vein of quartz that was literally laced with gold!

Struggling nearer through the loose sand, his heart pounding more from excitement than from altitude and exertion, he came to an abrupt stop. The band of quartz was six feet wide, and that six feet was cobwebbed with gold.

It was unbelievable, but there it was.

Yet even in this moment of success, something about the beetling cliff stopped him from going forward. His innate caution took hold, and he drew back to examine it at greater length. Wary of what he saw, he circled the batholith and then climbed to the ridge behind it, from which he could look down upon the roof. What he saw from there left him dry-mouthed and jittery.

The granite upthrust was obviously a part of a much older range, one that had weathered and worn, suffered from shock and twisting, until finally this tower of granite had been violently upthrust, leaving it standing, a shaky ruin among younger and sturdier peaks. In the process, the rock had been shattered and riven by mighty forces until it had become a miner's horror. Wetherton stared, fascinated by the prospect. With enormous wealth there for the taking, every ounce must be taken at the risk of life.

One stick of powder might bring the whole crumbling mass down in a heap, and it loomed all of three hundred feet above its base in the fan. The roof of the batholith was riven with gigantic cracks, literally seamed with breaks like the wall of an ancient building that has remained standing after heavy bombing. Walking back to the base of the tower, Wetherton found he could actually break loose chunks of the quartz with his fingers. The vein itself lay on the downhill side and at the very base. The outer wall of the upthrust was sharply tilted so that a man working at the vein would be cutting his way into the very foundations of the tower, and any single blow of the pick might bring the whole mass down upon him. Furthermore, if the rock did fall, the vein would be hopelessly buried under thousands of tons of rock and lost without the expenditure of much more capital than he could command. And at this moment, Wetherton's total of money in hand amounted to slightly less than forty dollars.

Thirty yards from the face, he seated himself upon the sand and filled his pipe once more. A man might take tons out of there without trouble, and yet it might collapse at the first blow. Yet he knew he had no choice. He needed money, and it lay there before him. Even if he were at first successful, there were two things he must avoid. The first was tolerance of danger that might bring carelessness; the second, that urge to go back for that "little bit more" that could kill him.

It was well into the afternoon, and he had not eaten, yet he was not hungry. He circled the batholith, studying it from every angle, only to reach the conclusion that his first estimate had been correct. The only way to get to the gold was to go into the very shadow of the leaning wall and attack it at its base, digging it out by main strength. From where he stood, it seemed ridiculous that a mere man with a pick could topple that mass of rock, yet he knew how delicate such a balance could be.

The tower was situated on what might be described as the military crest of the ridge, and the alluvial fan sloped steeply away from its lower side, steeper than a steep stairway. The top of the leaning wall overshadowed the top of the fan, and if it started to crumble and a man had warning, he might run to the north with a bare chance of escape. The soft sand in which he must run would be an impediment, but that could be alleviated by making a walk from flat rocks sunken into the sand.

It was dusk when he returned to his camp. Deliberately, he had not permitted himself to begin work, not by so much as a sample. He must be deliberate in all his actions, and never for a second should he forget the mass that towered above him. A split second of hesitation when the crash came--and he accepted it as inevitable-would mean burial under tons of crumbled rock.

The following morning, he picketed his burros on a small meadow near the spring, cleaned the spring itself, and prepared a lunch. Then he removed his shirt, drew on a pair of gloves, and walked to the face of the cliff. Yet even then he did not begin, knowing that upon this habit of care and deliberation might depend not only his success in the venture but life itself. He gathered flat stones and began building his walk. "When yo
u
start moving," he told himself,
you'll have to be fast."

Finally, and with infinite care, he began tapping at the quartz, enlarging cracks with the pick, removing fragments, then prying loose whole chunks. He did not swing the pick but used it as a lever. The quartz was rotten, and a man might obtain a considerable amount by this method of picking or even pulling with the hands. When he had a sack filled with the richest quartz, he carried it over his path to a safe place beyond the shadow of the tower. Returning, he tamped a few more flat rocks into his path and began on the second sack. He worked with greater care than was, perhaps, essential. He was not and had never been a gambling man.