Raw Land (8 page)

He saw Milt's head sky-lined, and then Pres ran. Another shot roared out in the night, and he felt the passing of the bullet over his head. He dived into the nearest brush, lost his hat, and started running again, bent over. Another and yet another shot hammered out, but they were farther away now. And then he achieved the next ridge, and he paused to listen.

He heard a high, wild cursing off in the direction from which he had run.

He raised his voice and yelled, “Remember what I said, Barron!”

For answer, he got more of Milt's vicious cursing. Afterward Milt rammed his gun in his waistband and slid down to the arroyo. A wicked and savage anger had its way with him for a while. He had almost done it, almost killed the only man beside Will who knew his real identity. One second longer there on the slope and his slug would have caught Pres in the back, silencing him forever.

As he tramped down the arroyo again, he became calm. He wasn't afraid of Pres turning him up; the man wouldn't lose his last chance of getting Will's place just for revenge. But it left Milt with the other alternative, that of persuading Will to get rid of the place. And deep down within him, Milt, knowing Will's bottomless stubbornness, figured it might not be so easy.

He heard the sound of horses approaching down the arroyo. That would be Will, who couldn't have helped but hear the shots.

Out of the darkness, a horseman suddenly appeared, and Will called harshly, “That you, Milt?”

“Will!” Milt called.

Will rode up, holstering his gun. “What were those shots?”

“I don't know,” Milt said, his voice spuriously excited. “Somebody took a shot at me, Will!”

Just then Pinky and Ollie rode up, too. Will told them everything was all right, and they headed down the arroyo again. Will dismounted and led his horse over to Milt.

“What happened, now?”

“I walked as far as the drift fence and had a smoke! All of a sudden, somebody shot at me from the arroyo bank! Who was it, Will?” His voice was tense with excitement.

Will said slowly, “I dunno. Likely somebody hangin' around watchin' our beef, and they thought you had 'em spotted.”

There was a short silence, and then Milt burst out, “No! You're just sayin' that, Will. I tell you, somebody knows me here! They knew it was me! They were tryin' to kill me!”

Will said gently, “Easy, fella. Nobody knows you here.”

Milt came closer to him, and his voice was low and strained. “Look, Will. Let's pull out of here! I tell you, somebody knows who I am! It isn't safe!”

“You're excited,” Will said calmly. “Hell, it was some of Pres Milo's crew prowlin' around, and they figured to scare you off.”

But Milt shook his head violently and grabbed Will's arm. “I tell you, Will, they know me here! I've felt it! Look.” His voice was pleading now. “You don't own the place yet, Will! Don't buy it! Tell Chap Hale you've changed your mind, and let's pull out of here!”

“And leave Chap stuck with this place he can't use? I couldn't, Milt.”

“Pres Milo wants it, Becky Case said! Let Chap sell it to him!”

“I couldn't,” Will said gently, patiently. “Look fella. You're spooky. Somewhere else looks better now. But they're all the same, Milt—not so good as this. They'll let us alone here. And if they crowd us, we can live back there in the Sevier Brakes for a year. We can't do better, Milt.”

Milt said desperately, “But they'll kill me, Will. I tell you, they know! I've got to get out of here!”

It was one last desperate plea, and for a full minute Will regarded him in the silence. He was glad he couldn't see Milt's face, for Milt was afraid. He'd been scared, and scared badly. But Will wasn't going to let Milt's fear stampede him. He said gently, “You're spooked, Milt. Nobody knows you.”

“You won't let Chap have it and pull out?”

“I can't.”

Milt turned away, and tramped down the arroyo. His anger was more than half genuine, for he knew that Will was being stubborn, and that he'd failed in his first attempt. Now, he'd have to approach it some other way, and with Pres's help—if he could get it.

Chapter Six

D
OWN A
S
INISTER
T
RAIL

Milt sulked the next morning. Will and Pinky tended to a long-overdue shoeing job on the
remuda
. It was hot in the wagon shed, which Will was using as the temporary blacksmith shop, and their equipment was none too good. Three of the horses were sore-footed, and between their temper and the heat, Will was in an edgy temper. He was remembering Milt's talk of last night, and he couldn't see much but trouble ahead for them. They had been here on the spread less than a week, and already Milt was moody. But what was worse, when he was in one of his sulking moods, he refused to work. Will didn't mind that, except that Pinky and Ollie, noting it, would think it queer and might start wondering. And all morning Milt, whose rightful job this was, piddled around with a hammer and a handful of nails, trying to patch up the rotten boards of the horse trough.

Finished with his job, he came over to the wagon shed and lounged in the doorway. It was his big bay gelding, still sore-footed from the long drive across the stony Capitan desert, that Will was shoeing. He was an ugly devil, shy of anyone but Milt, and he kept sidling away, ears back, waiting for the chance he wanted.

Pinky, sensing his mood, backed wide in a circle and cursed him in tuneless passion, adding, “If I get close enough to you, you walleyed jughead, I'll kick you in the belly so hard I'll curl your toes.”

Milt said quietly from the door, “I don't reckon you will.” Milt's eyes were sultry and wild, and on his face was a look of insufferable insolence that could be a red flag to a man in Pinky's harassed mood.

Will said quickly, “Pink, go get us a bucket of water and let me handle him.”

Pinky looked belligerently at Milt and walked out. Will was stripped to the waist in the heat. He walked up to the big bay's head and started to stroke his nose. His long, lean muscles rippled as his arms moved, and he absently clucked at the horse, watching Milt. He said gently to Milt, “Maybe I ought to tell each man to shoe his own string.”

Milt said quietly, “Maybe you had.”

Will left the horse and walked slowly over to Milt, a smile on his face. “Look, fella. You want to be careful with Pinky and Ollie. They don't know you. If they don't like your talk, they'll tie into you.”

Milt looked amused. “I can take care of that, too.”

“You don't get it,” Will said. “They think you're my foreman. They'll take orders from you as long as you work with 'em.”

“Meanin' I'm not workin' this morning?”

“That's it.”

Milt straightened up and went to his horse and untied his halter.

“Let it ride,” he murmured.

Will was puzzled. He knew Milt in all his moodiness, and now he was a little afraid of it. He glanced up at the house, saw that Pinky was still in the kitchen, and came over to Milt.

“Look, fella,” he said affectionately. “Forget last night, can't you? Nothin' will happen. We're safe here.”

Milt said, “Sure,” and didn't look at him. He led the bay out to the corral, turned him in, then took his rope off his saddle on the poles.

Scowling, Will drifted over to the corral. Milt was working out his little chestnut mare from the bunch in the corral that had already been shod. He separated her, spooked her back away from the others, shook out his rope, made his cast, and led her over to his saddle and bridle on the corral poles.

Will came up and leaned on the corral, the skin of his back and arms a dead white compared to his hands and face. He said idly, “Goin' to take a look around?”

Milt looked at him quickly, hotly.

“What if I am?” he asked.

Will shrugged and said nothing, only regarded Milt with puzzled affection.

Milt swung the saddle on, cinched it up, and then said, “I'm goin' to town.”

Immediately Will thought of Mary Norman. “Think you ought to?” he murmured.

Milt wheeled and stared at him. “Hell, Will, am I a prisoner here?”

Will shook his head. “If you ain't in town, then nobody can see you,” he pointed out. “Besides, you'll hit town about dark. You aim to stay all night?”

“Do you care?” Milt asked hotly.

Will straightened up. “I don't care, Milt. I'm thinkin' of you. But if you want to head for town, go ahead. It's your risk.”

“That's what I've been tryin' to tell you, Will,” Milt said shortly.

He led the mare out the gate, closed it, swung into the saddle, and slowly lined out for town. His back was straight, cocky, somehow arrogant.

Will watched him go with a mingled exasperation and foreboding. He didn't want him to go to Yellow Jacket, and yet he couldn't tell Milt the reason. For if he did, Milt would laugh and then seek out Mary Norman the first time he was lonely for a woman. It was his way never to think of the risk, to always choose the reckless way, to damn the consequences. It was this in him that Will knew he would have to fight. It was Milt's neck, yet he was more careless of it than anybody else.

The appearance of Pinky, lugging a bucket of water from the cookshack, stirred Will to action. He went into the wagon shed, donned his shirt, and, when Pinky appeared, said, “Let's call it a mornin', Pinky. I've got to go to town.”

Will's first impulse was to catch up with Milt and ride in with him. But when he was finished giving Pinky orders for the afternoon's work, Milt was already out of sight over the mesa's rim-rock. It came to Will with a feeling of small hurt that Milt had foreseen his coming along, and that he'd ridden ahead on purpose.

Will didn't hurry. He never caught sight of Milt on the ride, and he drifted into Yellow Jacket at suppertime. He had supper alone, and afterward strolled down the long street in the dusk, a big, lonely man who nodded to everyone and yet really spoke to nobody.

At full dark, he drifted into Hal Mohr's saloon, collected the papers, and took a seat at one of the back tables where he could watch the door.

By ten o'clock, Will had dropped two dollars in a poker game that bored him, when Milt came in. Milt's face was sulky, faintly wicked-looking, and the way he came up to the bar, abruptly pushed his hat off his forehead, folded his arms, and let his shoulders sink with deep exhaustion, told Will that Milt's mood had not left him. Will concentrated on his cards.

Soon he looked up to see Milt standing over him watching him with smoky, sultry eyes. Milt suddenly grinned then, as if apologizing. Will cashed in his chips, and he and Milt drifted over to the bar.

They ordered drinks, and then Milt said, “I'm sorry for the raggin', Will. I'm just edgy.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and third finger and then stared in the bar mirror, grinning at Will.

“Forget it,” Will said. He straightened up. “Well, I'm ridin' out.”

Milt fell in behind him as they left the saloon. Out on the boardwalk, Will stopped and took a deep breath of air, clearing the smoke of the saloon out of his lungs. Upstreet, a single puncher was tramping toward the four corners, whistling cheerfully, his boots ringing hollowly on the boardwalk.

And then, crashing into that silence, came the boom of a single gunshot.

Following it, there was a heavy thudding, as of something falling down a stairs.

Will looked across and upstreet in the direction from which the sound had come. He and Milt exchanged brief glances and headed upstreet. The puncher had stopped his whistling and was staring across the street.

Then there was the added sound of a man running downstairs, taking the steps four at a time. And suddenly, from out of the stair well that led to Chap Hale's office, the shadowy figure of a man appeared, paused, then cut in back between the buildings.

Will ran, then. He dodged under the tie rail and hauled up in front of Chap Hale's stairs.

There on the bottom landing, half sprawled onto the boardwalk, was Chap Hale.

Will stopped, knelt, took one look at Chap's chest, saw the stain spreading there, and knew Chap was dead.

The puncher came up beside them then; and Will rose, pulling out his gun.

“He went this way,” he said. “Come on.”

Will knifed in between the two buildings, Milt and the puncher at his heels. It was Will who first burst out into the dark alley, looking up and down it. Toward the four-corners end of the alley, he saw a man running.

Will snapped a shot at him, and the running man turned and fired wildly at them. Then he cut to one side and disappeared into the tangle of sheds and barns to the left.

Will reached the spot first and saw a door of a barn on the left swinging shut and heard a sound inside the barn. He turned and shouted to Milt and the puncher, “He's in here! Surround it!”

He followed his own orders then, and cut around to the front of the barn. The puncher was next, and he paused at the long side of the barn.

Will couldn't see Milt, but he yelled, “You in the alley, Milt?”

“Back here,” Milt called.

“He's in here,” Will said. “I'm damn sure of it.”

The puncher drawled, “Well, if he is, he ain't goin' to get out, then.”

Will said, “Move up this way a little where you can see the door here. I'm goin' in after him.”

“Better be careful,” the puncher protested.

Will paid no attention. He yanked the door open and dodged inside. Then he stopped to listen. He heard the nervous stomping of animals in their stalls, and that was all. A cold anger hammered through his veins as he listened, knowing that unless he had a light here, he could pass within a foot of the man without knowing it. On the other hand, a light would attract the man's fire.