Raw Land (25 page)

Becky slipped out of the saddle and strode across to him. Now that she saw Will, her courage faltered. How could she tell him about Milt?

He hobbled out to meet her, his face grave. He had shaved while she was gone, and the hollowness in his cheeks, his sunken eyes made her sad.

He took her hands in his own rough ones. “Milt told me about your dad, Becky.”

“He was lucky,” Becky said bitterly, and then she shook her head. “I didn't mean that, Will. Come inside.”

Will, puzzled at her brusque manner, followed her in. Becky struck a match, lighted the candle, and came over to Will and put her hands on his shoulders and forced him onto the stool.

She stood in front of him, her eyes grave and troubled. “I know you think I'm queer, Will. But don't judge me now. Just answer my questions, will you?”

Will nodded slowly.

“Do you know Milt's writing?” she asked.

Will nodded. Becky gave him the note Milt had sent her, and Will glanced at it. “Yes, that's his.” He looked up, as if waiting for the rest.

Becky bit her lip. Her resolution was failing her. This was going to hurt—hurt him terribly. She said softly, “You think a lot of Milt, don't you, Will?”

“You know I do,” Will said.

“It—it would hurt you if he got in trouble?”

Will started to rise, and Becky put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Is Milt in trouble?”

Becky couldn't say any more. She took out Milt's letter to Pres and handed it to Will. “That came for Pres, Will. I opened it.”

Will took out the letter and read it. Becky walked to the door; she didn't want to watch him. She listened, though. She could hear Will's breathing soften and then die away. There was a long, long silence that ran on until Becky couldn't bear it any longer. She glanced over her shoulder. The paper had fallen from Will's hand, and he was staring at the floor. Then he raised his hands and buried his face in them. Becky came slowly across to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

When Will looked up, minutes later, Becky could have cried with pity for him. His eyes were the eyes of a hurt animal, bright with pain, unbelieving, tortured.

Becky murmured, “Does it matter so much, Will?”

Will shuddered, and then he began to speak. “Matter? I dunno, Becky. You see, Milt is Murray Broome.”

“Murray Broome—the murderer?”

Becky could have bitten her tongue out after she said it, but Will only nodded. “I reckon he's a murderer. I don't know. I came here to hide him, Becky. That's why I bought the Pitchfork—to hide him. I thought he was my friend.”

Becky knelt by him. “Will, what does it all mean? The note?”

Will said dully, “Just what it says. I dunno. He writes about the original partnership. I think way back when I first came, Becky, that Pres and Milt threw in together. That's why Milt wanted me to pull out and sell the place. That's why he was so mad when I wouldn't. Then I reckon Pres turned to your dad for help. I busted that up. And then this deed, Chap's deed to me, showed up. Milt said Pres had it all the time. He couldn't have.” He looked at Becky now. “Today Milt came here and told me that Pres was blackmailin' him. Said Pres knew he was Murray Broome. Said Pres would keep quiet if I turned the place over to him.”

“And you said you would?”

Will nodded.

“Oh, Will,” Becky said softly. “How could he do it? He knew you were so loyal, so kind, that you'd give the place to Pres rather than betray a friend. He counted on it—that—that Judas! He and Pres were in partnership to swindle you out of whatever it is that's on your spread!”

Will nodded, staring at the floor.

“Will,” Becky said. “Didn't you know Murray Broome was crooked? Hadn't you read about it?”

“He was good to me,” Will said dully. “He gave me work when I was nothin' but a saddle bum. He was good to me. I figured they lied about him. He said they did, and I took his word.” He glanced at her with a deep, dismal hurt in his eyes. “Chap told me he was crooked. Charlie Sommers did. Everybody did—only he was my friend, Becky.”

Becky nodded. Will rose and hobbled to the door and stood there, looking out into the night. Becky knew she couldn't help him, that this was some deep hurt to his pride that would never heal. She sat quietly on the bed, watching him, silent.

Presently, Will turned to look at her. His stare was so intent that it almost hurt. Then he looked away again. Afterward, he came over to the table. His gun and shell belt lay there, and he picked up the belt and strapped it on. His eyes were distant, cold.

Alarm was in Becky's eyes as she watched him. She wanted to cry out—to stop him. She knew where he was going. She'd known it, in the back of her mind, when she read the letter, but now that it was here she couldn't bear it.

Will palmed the six-gun out, opened the loading-gate, spun the chamber, and holstered the gun. He picked up Milt's note to Pres and pocketed it.

“Wait, Will,” Becky pleaded softly. “You can't make the ride.”

“No.”

“Then I'm going with you! I know where Milt hid your saddle and staked out your horse.”

“You stay here,” Will said mildly, absently.

Becky despaired then. She couldn't reach him, couldn't touch that part of him that was driving him to this. He couldn't make town! His wound would break open again, and he'd bleed to death. And even if he did make it, he wouldn't be a match for Milt. Becky was afraid. She came to her feet and went over to him.

“Will, have you got to?” she asked softly.

Will nodded. “I promised a man,” he murmured. Becky didn't know what he meant, but she watched him hobble out to her horse. He swung up into the saddle and rode off, not looking back.

Becky watched him until he was out of sight, then she came back and blew out the candle. She ran out into the night now, heading down the slope. At the edge of the arroyo, she plunged into a thicket of willows and came out lugging Will's saddle and bridle from where Milt had cached it.

Taking the bridle, she headed down along the arroyo, running until she was out of breath, and then walking. Down here a half mile or so, in a cottonwood motte, Will's horse was staked out. She wasn't going to stay here and wait for somebody to tell her that he was dead.

The wound on his leg did break. The pain was so constant that the only way Will could tell was by the warm, wet feel of blood. He bound it with his handkerchief, not bothering to stop.

His thoughts during that ride into Yellow Jacket he could never recall later. They were not thoughts of shame at being taken in by a friend, nor at the thought of confronting Charlie Sommers. They were strange, unimportant thoughts, like Milt's laugh, or his way with women. Or of that time over in the Tetons when Milt shot that buck deer, wounding him. He came up to him, ready to put the last bullet into him, and the buck looked at him, proud, alert, sick, still fighting. Milt had walked away from him, and Will had to kill him. It was little things like this that filled Will's mind, as if he were recalling things about a person already dead.

His wound never stopped its slow seep. Will rode into the deserted street of Yellow Jacket, and it was late. He heard the wailing
whoosh
of the night freight piling into the west, not stopping. It was just the way it was that first night—the train wailing off to the upper reaches of the bench, the street silent, obscurely lighted, the cluster of ponies at the tie rail in front of Hal Mohr's saloon. There was a difference tonight, though; the window of the sheriff's office was lighted.

Will put his horse in there and sat in the saddle a moment, gathering his strength. Then he swung off—and fell flat on his face in the bitter dust as his leg gave way.

He pulled himself up by grasping the tie rail, and clung to it until the pain in his leg had subsided a little and the dizziness was gone. Then he hobbled toward the door of the sheriff's office, swinging up his gun as he went.

He opened the door and stepped inside. Phipps, reading at his desk, slowly turned his head. He was looking into the muzzle of Will's gun.

Swiftly, Phipps's gaze rose to Will's face. Will said, “You yell, and I'll shoot you this time.”

There was something in his soft, tight voice, in his pale, fanatic face that told Phipps this was true. He was looking at the gaunt face of a man in whose cold gray eyes was naked murder. His reopened wound was pooling blood on the floor.

Phipps said softly, “What do you want?”

“Charlie Sommers. Get your keys and go let him out.”

Phipps wanted to argue. Caution, his instinct of self-preservation told him not to. With one hand he picked up the lamp, with the other reached for his keys, and rose. Will followed him into the cell block.

Charlie Sommers came off his cot, blinking at the light. He saw Will, and then Will's leg, as he came to his feet. His cheeks were not so ruddy now; he was unshaven and pallid, his face still scarred from his beating, but his eyes were steady and curious. Phipps stood aside, watching them.

“I come back to keep my promise, Charlie,” Will said.

“You found out he's a crook?”

Will nodded.

“Where is he?”

“Here. In town. I've been hidin' him, Charlie. He was my foreman all the time.”

Charlie rapped out, “Phipps, let me out of here!” as if he were giving Phipps orders.

The sheriff opened the cell. Charlie took the lamp from him, put it on the floor, then ordered Phipps into the cell. He ripped up a blanket, said, “I'm takin' no chances, John. Afterward I'll explain,” and proceeded to gag and bind the sheriff. Will leaned against the cell, taking the weight off his leg, closing his eyes.

Charlie's voice roused him. “You all right? You're bleedin', Will.”

“I'm all right,” Will said softly.

They passed through the sheriff's office. On the way, Charlie Sommers picked up Sheriff Phipps's gun and belt and strapped them on.

“Where is he?” Charlie asked.

Will eyed the saloon, and said softly, “Charlie, I kept my promise to you. But he's mine, you understand? He's mine.”

“But—”

“I know what you'll say,” Will said tonelessly. “You're a marshal, sworn to bring him to justice. But if you try to stop me, I'll kill you.”

Charlie eyed him obliquely and said meagerly, “All right, Will.”

They headed toward the saloon, crossing the empty street in the deep dust. Far upstreet there was a new horse at the tie rail, and someone was standing by it. Will noticed it but paid no attention.

On the boardwalk in front of the saloon, Will said, “There'll be someone with him, Charlie. Pres Milo. They'll fight.”

He didn't wait for Charlie's answer, only shouldered through the doors. A couple of punchers were talking to Hal Mohr at the bar. There was a five-handed poker game going on at a table against the wall. Pres and Milt were sitting in on it.

Will started for the table, and Pres saw him first. Pres's face froze, and he kicked Milt under the table. Milt looked up and saw Will, and Charlie Sommers beyond him.

Will stopped there, some four feet from the table, facing Milt. Milt's face went loose and blank, and his eyes narrowed faintly, and the cards fell out of his hand. The other players slipped out of their chairs, leaving Milt and Pres side by side.

A slow, strained look of fear crept into Milt's eyes, and his upper lip was beaded with perspiration.

He didn't move, didn't take his eyes off Will. “Hello, Will,” he said in a soft, dismal voice.

Will had Milt's note to Pres in his hand. He tossed it on the table, Milt reached for it, gaze still on Will, and unfolded it. His glance dropped to it for a brief second, then rose to Will's face.

“That does it,” he said quietly.

“I reckon it does,” Will drawled.

“I won't draw a gun on you, Will,” Milt said quietly. “Go ahead.”

It was this that almost changed Will's mind. The bleak look in his eyes altered for a moment, letting pity edge in. And then it came back, and his face was hard as iron.

“It won't do any good, Milt,” he said in a far-off, distant voice. “You've worked that for the last time.”

His hand fell to his gun. Milt exploded into action. He turned the table over in one sweeping heave. It caught Will on his game leg, and he went down. Pres dodged for the back of the room, and Charlie's gun lashed out at him. Charlie hit him, knocking him into the tables. Milt stepped out from behind the table. He wasn't going to run. His face was twisted with the hatred a man holds for another man whom he has sold out.

Back against the wall, Milt's gun swung up, and he shot. The slug whistled past Will's head, and it brought the bar glasses down in a metallic jangle.

Will's gun arced out and he fought to his feet. Again Milt shot wildly, savagely, hastily, stabbing his gun as if it were a knife. Will's gun swung up, and when Milt's shirt pocket lay between the sights he fired.

The slug knocked Milt back against the wall. His chin came up, a wild grimace contorted his face. He stayed that way, every muscle straining, and then he sagged. His filmed eyes looked bitterly at Will, and he reached out for the table that wasn't there. He fell then, on his face, sprawling across an overturned chair, one hand dangling in the rungs.

Will dropped his gun. Charlie was kneeling by Pres. His one shot had caught Pres under the armpit, ranging through his ribs to his heart. Will wiped his palm across his eyes, as if to get this sight forever out of his mind, and then tramped through the door.

Waiting outside the door was Becky. She came into his arms, a low moaning cry escaping her. She hugged him tightly, her head against his chest.

“Oh, Will! Are you all right?”

Will didn't answer, stroking her hair, holding her to him. Charlie Sommers passed him on the run, heading for the sheriff's office.