Star Toter (7 page)

With each second of delay the chances of failure grew, as the fire spread. Not only would it trap him, but as the light blotted up the last patches of shadow, the gunman out there would have a perfect target.

The killer would need only to keep back in the shadows, beyond the fringe of light, to pick Orin off at leisure if he tried to run for it.

Alone, he would have had a chance; but he wasn't alone. To move falteringly with the burden of Ray in his arms was to be shot down. To remain was for both of them to die. Yet he couldn't desert Ray in this extremity. Ray had played the part of a man tonight, and had made at least partial atonement for the past.

This was a strange homecoming. The old house was doomed. Coolly he weighed the odds. He might try it alone; if there was a single gunman, and he had a lot of luck, Orin might be able to locate him and down him as bullets were poured at himself. But that was in the event of a single gunman. There were probably several; there had been six in the vigilance committee.

Even if there was only one, and he got him, it would be too late by then to return and get Ray out. The flames were moving at whirlwind speed.

It was beginning to get hot, as the three fires, seeking to join in one holocaust, began to make themselves felt. The house was old and as dry as bleached bones on the prairie.

Locke moved back to the bullet-shattered window. He would have preferred another bullet to waiting for the flames. As though anxious to oblige, another one whined past, so close that he could hear it. The killer was over-eager, but there was nothing to shoot back at, no visible target.

He gathered Ray in his arms again and waited; the light was now so strong that they were clearly outlined. There was no fresh shot. What did happen was the last thing that he had expected, on a par with the other events of the wild night.

A figure on horseback came galloping, straight toward and through the closing ring of flame, her hair catching and reflecting the light in mad disarray. It was Reta Cable. Her horse fought the bit, hating the flames, but she forced it ahead with a superb demonstration of horsemanship.

Quickly, Locke stepped outside. Before, he had been partially sheltered by the walls, but now the heat beat with a furnace breath. Seeing and recognizing them, Reta slipped from the saddle, holding to her terrified horse, shouting for him to get on it with Ray.

There was no time for argument, so Locke obeyed. Mounting with a burden in his arms, while the horse tried to plunge, was all that he could manage. There had been no more shooting since Reta had appeared. Probably, while she remained, there would be none.

Settled in the saddle, he held Ray with one arm and took the reins with the other, holding the horse to a steady pace as they dodged back through the all but closing wall of fire, which seemed to make a final effort to bar the way. Reta ran alongside, limping, but remaining there, Locke realized, to give them the protection of her presence.

They passed the fire line and came into the merciful coolness of the night. Locke could scarcely see Reta's face, but it was mixed with as many emotions as tore through himself—apprehension, anxiety, anger.

"What's happened to Ray?" she gasped. "Is he hurt bad?"

"Shot," Locke said succinctly. "He's alive."

Reta came closer, her heart in her eyes. If there had been any doubt before as to how she felt, it was gone now.

"I was to meet him tonight," she explained, gasping. "He didn't come, and then I heard a shot. It seemed to be from off this way, so I came to investigate. When I came in sight, I saw a light. The fires grew so fast that I knew something awful was happening. Then I saw you and Ray."

She had risked her life for Ray's sake, knowing that most men, even the most desperate outlaws, would not shoot at a woman.

Locke was puzzled at the savagery of the attack. It seemed unlikely that any of the original six vigilantes could have been responsible. This was more like the work of one man, though that didn't really make sense.

And why this sudden, frantic desire to murder Ray, at any cost?

There was a lot to which he had no answer, but Locke intended to find out. For the present, however, it was necessary to get Ray where he could rest undisturbed, and to get a doctor to look after him. Reta solved the first problem.

"We'll take him to the Three Sevens," she said, and then a thought struck her, and she looked quickly at him, her face losing its color. "Merciful God! Your father—I just remembered him!"

"The fire won't hurt him," Locke assured her. "He died before it was set."

"I'm sorry," Reta murmured, and her voice told how deeply moved she was. "I didn't know, and for the moment I forgot."

"You saved Ray, not to mention me," Locke said. "It was Pa's heart. And a lucky thing, the way it's turning out."

They went on in silence, Reta walking, leading the horse. Her ankle did not seem to bother her too much. Locke had both hands full, holding Ray and trying to carry him as comfortably as possible. Riding in such fashion was wearying, and hard on an injured man. There was still the possibility that a killer who had gone to such lengths might have second thoughts and go the rest of the way; that at any moment an ambush bullet might whip from the darkness.

But nothing happened. It had never seemed a great distance across to the Three Sevens, but tonight the miles were multiplied, before they saw a light in a window. Reta stumbled ahead, her limp worse, to make ready and to dispatch one of the crew to town for the doctor.

Grant Cable was not at home. He arrived simultaneously with Fletcher Bannon, and the latter set to work at once. Locke had done a good job, and there had been no fresh bleeding. Ray was still unconscious, scarcely breathing. Locke did not need to be told how bad it was.

Cable joined him as he waited in another room. The rancher's face was grave.

"This is bad business, Locke," he said. "Very bad."

"You don't know the half of it," Locke returned, then looked sharply at him. "Or do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"Probably you don't; I hope not. Your daughter's true blue, Cable, and you should be proud of her. On the other hand, Steele is involved in this—and you're mixed up with him."

Cable met his challenging gaze steadily. "I know what you're thinking," he conceded. "But I gave you my word, Locke, regarding what has happened tonight, I don't know what it's all about."

Though he was the acknowledged head of the lawless element, Locke did not doubt his word. There was a streak of decency in him, like the lean in bacon. The manner in which he had raised Reta was proof of that.

"If you say so, that's good enough for me," Locke conceded. "I rode out to the Wagon Wheel tonight, arriving to find six men there. I stayed out of sight a while and watched and listened. They said they were vigilantes, and they called Ray to the door. They had dug up what they called evidence, loot from different robberies, cached or planted in the barn. I don't doubt that they found it, all right. It seemed that Steele had sent them and told them just where to look to find the evidence."

Cable's eyes clouded as he understood the implications. He had known of the rivalry between Steel and Ray Locke, and the cause of it. That Steele would use the newly formed committee of vigilance as an instrument for his private quarrels was startling, but there seemed no doubt that he had done so.

"They questioned Ray about it, then were going to lynch him," Locke went on. "He put up a fight and got shot—probably accidentally. They were still in the mood to string him up; only I stepped in then." His eyes probed the other man's. "What about these vigilantes? What do you know of them?"

Cable hesitated. He was profoundly shocked and disturbed, and after a moment he looked up again. "I don't blame you for feeling as you do, Locke," he conceded. "It's a dirty business. As for the vigilantes, I helped organize them, and so did Steele. Our idea was that they were going to organize anyway, so we figured that we'd be better off if we were in with them, instead of on the outside, with them working against us. But I give you my word that I knew nothing of this other. If Steele is using them for a private feud—and it sounds that way—then he's doing it all on his own.
I
wouldn't do such a thing, particularly against you Lockes. It would be doubly crazy, after your agreement to work with us—"

"I did agree," Locke cut in grimly. "But that was because you had me over a barrel. That's out now, over and done with, since the barrel's smashed."

Cable looked surprised. "There's a lot here that I don't understand," he admitted. "But what I was going to say is, I know that Reta liked Ray. You don't think I'd do anything to hurt her, do you?"

"I think you're doing a devil of a lot that's going to hurt her," Locke retorted bluntly. "She's no child, as you may still think, or a fool. And speaking of barrels, you're putting yourself over one, even if you don't realize it. But I believe you, as far as Ray is concerned. As to what I meant, a lot of other things happened tonight." He went on to describe events, and horror mounted in Cable's eyes at the recital.

"That's infamous," Cable exclaimed. "Setting a fire, knowing that Ray was wounded, the old man sick and blind—I'd like to get my hands on whoever was responsible." He stopped, as though considering the implications, then got control of himself. "I'm sorry, Locke; I truly am. You've no idea who was doing that?"

"I can guess, the same as you. But guessing aside, I'm pretty much stumped," Locke confessed. "Most of it just doesn't seem to make sense. Of course, there's probably a lot here that I don't know about. I aim to go back and have a look and see if I can find anything. Now maybe you understand what I meant when I said that you don't have any further hold on me. My father is dead, and Ray is likely to be. I'm giving you fair warning. You put me in as sheriff, and I intend to use all the power of the law to clean up this country."

Cable nodded soberly. "You can see that I wouldn't have weakened my own position in any such manner," he pointed out. "After what has happened, I don't blame you."

"I owe my life to Reta, and so will Ray, if he lives," Locke said. "I won't forget that, or how much she likes you. Now I'm going to give you some advice, Cable, though I know that most people would a lot rather take castor oil.
Don't play along with Steele any longer!
You can make a break now, or be broken. I'm thinking about Reta."

"I figured I was smart," Cable said finally. "I thought I had everything planned so that nothing could backfire. Now all I'm sure of is that it's a mess."

Fletcher Bannon's face was grave when he came out of the sick room. He nodded to Locke, then to Cable and Reta, who had joined in the vigil.

"He's resting nicely," Bannon told them. "It's what he needs, for nature is the great healer. Generally all that we medicos can do is give a helping hand. There'll be no change for some time, so if you're riding, Orin, I'll go with you."

"I'm heading out past the Wagon Wheel," Locke conceded.

"That suits me fine." Not until they were in the saddle did Bannon speak again. It was well past midnight, and the stars shone high and remote. "What happened?"

Locke told him, and Bannon nodded sympathetically. "It has been quite a night, hasn't it? For you especially. And yet—none so bad, in some ways, I guess."

Locke considered that. "It might have been worse." he conceded.

"Much worse." Bannon nodded. "He had his wish, then was spared farther pain. He lived to tell you that you were forgiven, and to receive pardon in return. As for the rest of it, in India they make a funeral pyre so that the soul may soar more freely, no longer confined by the body. It is a local custom, but in it they have grasped a part of the truth."

He turned in the saddle, and his voice was rich and comforting.

"The point I'm trying to make, Orin, is that what happens to the body is of no great moment. As a man of medicine, I have seen what happens to the physical too often to doubt. There is a vital spark of life above and beyond, and once again your dad is free to ride a greater range across the far divide."

By now they were in sight of the smoking ruins where the buildings of Wagon Wheel had stood. The conflagration had spent itself in a funeral pyre fit for a king. The crew had returned, and were milling about uneasily.

Locke gave them an account of events, questioning them in turn. None knew anything which might be helpful. It was customary for them to take an evening off once month; the vigilance committee, and whoever had returned to set fire to the buildings, had probably known all about that in advance.

"Ray is badly hurt, so he won't be able to direct you for a while," Locke added. "It will be up to you to look after things until he can. Kempton, you take charge for the present. Clear away the ruins and get new lumber. Put up a bunk house first, then a new barn. Otherwise, run the ranch as usual."

He hesitated, then went on slowly:

"You can sift the ashes after they're cool. If you find anything, preserve it for the funeral later. You understand."

Kempton had been with the ranch almost as long as Locke could remember. He swallowed uneasily, blinking as though the glow of the embers hurt his eyes.

"Sure, Orin, sure," he agreed. "We'll do the best we can. But there's a roundup beginning day after tomorrow, starting at Pascoe's down on Red Creek. We were supposed to ride that way tomorrow. But now I don't know—"

"I didn't know about the roundup," Locke confessed. "But go ahead with it. Other things here will keep till you get back. We won't want to hold a funeral service until Ray is able to attend, anyway."

For his own part, Locke was going to be busy with other matters. He skirted the grounds, but it was too dark to see much. The killer who had lurked in the gloom, trying to drive him back into the burning house, was probably a long way off by now. But the shots, striking as they had, could have come from only one particular spot. Searching, first in a wide ring, then in a gradually narrowing one, Locke found a small object, such as might fall from a man's pocket.