the High Graders (1965) (3 page)

"Know where a man can find work?" He was shakin g with chill, but he fought the tremble from his voice.

"Need help myself," Patterson had lied.

"Cold makes me stiff. There's a wagonload of stuff out back that need s unloading."

"I'm hunting a riding job," the boy sai d proudly, holding himself tall.

Patterson shrugged. "Take it or leav e it."

Pride fought with hunger, and lost. "I'l l take it," the boy said, "but if anybod y asks you, I'm a rider, not no day hand."

Patterson nodded, and taking a silver dolla r from his pocket, he said, "Dinnertime. You eat u p and come back."

The half-starved youngster had looked at the ol d man with cold eyes. "I ain't earned it.

I'll eat after."

Later in the day Jack Moorman walke d into the store, tough, hearty old Jack. El i nodded to indicate the boy. "Friend of mine , Jack, just rode in. I don't reckon he'
s really rustling work, but if you need a hand, he's a rider."

Moorman turned his head to look, taking in th e story at a glance. He was a bluff, kindl y man. "Can you ride bog, boy?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. And I can rope an' tie, an d I've got the best cuttin' horse in this her e country." He gestured toward the sorry-lookin g buckskin at the hitch rack.

"That crow-bait?" Moorman scoffed. "Why , I wouldn't have that rack of bones on the place!"

"Keep your job then," Mike Shevli n replied brusquely. "I'll not work for a ma n who judges a horse by the meat on him."

Surprised, Jack Moorman glanced aroun d at Eli as if to say, "Hey, what is this?"

Then he said, "Sorry, son, no offens e intended. You just come on out and bring your horse. I s urmise all he needs is a bait or two o f oats and some grama."

Following that meeting with Jack Moorman , Mike Shevlin had worked two years fo r Turkeytrack, filling out and growing taller. An d no man in the outfit had shouldered extra work becaus e he was a boy, nor had Mike backed away fro m trouble. Not even on the day when he rode up to a rustler with a tied-down Turkeytrack calf and a brand half altered.

Old Jack came out to the horse camp to hea r Mike's account of the shooting, for the rustler had bee n brought to headquarters draped over a saddle.

Moorman saw the burn on the boy's arm from a bullet that just missed.

"He told me to take out runnin' and to kee p my trap shut about things that didn't concern me.

Said I'd live a lot longer. I told hi m I rode for the brand, and rustlin' Turkeytrac k stock concerned me a-plenty.

"He grabbed for his gun, only I t aken my time and he didn't. He got off th e first shot, and he missed."

"Boy"--Moorman shifted his big body i n the saddle--"y wore that gun when I first saw you , and I figured you were young for it, but you've worked tw o years for me and this is the first time you've ever dragge d iron. You're old enough to wear a gun, all right."

At fifteen Mike Shevlin was as tall a s he ever would be, and was stronger than most men. H
e had never known a day of anything but hard work, and wa s proud that he could work beside men and hold thei r respect.

From ten to thirteen he had worked beside his uncl e on a mining claim, taking his regular turn wit h single-jack or double-jack. Swinging the heav y sledges had put power in his shoulders and ha d taught him to hit with his weight behind it.

As a result, when Turkeytrack rod e over to the dances at Rock Springs schoolhouse , or over to Horse Hollow, Mike Shevli n won six fist fights before losing one. And h e whipped that man the following Saturday night.

When he rode away from the Moorman outfi t and started running with Gib Gentry and Ben Stowe , Eli Patterson warned him against it. "They'r e a bad crowd, Mike. They're not your kind."

Now, listening to the rain outside the old mill , he knew again, as he had realized long before, tha t Eli Patterson had been right. Gentry an d Stowe had always run with the wrong crowd; a man i s judged by the company he keeps, and so had Mik e Shevlin been judged.

"That old man should never have been buried o n Boot Hill," he said. "To him, that would see m the final disgrace. I intend to find out wha t happened."

"Ask your friend Gentry," Eve said.

"You take my advice," Winkler said, "an d you'll light out as soon as the rain lets up. Yo u take out while you're able."

Shevlin turned his eyes to the girl. "I d idn't get your name."

"Eve Bancroft. I own the Thre e Sevens."

But Winkler was not to be sidetracked. "Yo u get out," he said. "I remember you, Shevlin , and that crowd you trailed with, and I've heard of yo u since, and none of it any good. You leave out of her e or we'll bury you here."

Ignoring the old man, Shevlin rinse d a cup and filled it with coffee. His own cup wa s among the gear of his saddle.

These were cattle people. But the buildings in town wer e all mining--assay offices, miners' supplies , even the saloons now had names reflecting the minin g business. So why were these people from the cattle ranche s meeting here in secret?

Mike Shevlin's life had been lived in a n atmosphere of range feuds and cattle wars , and this meeting had all the earmarks of a preliminar y to such trouble. Why else would a pretty youn g woman like Eve Bancroft, a ranch owner, b e meeting here with an old hard-case like Winkler, an d whoever it was that was hiding upstairs?

He gulped the hot, strong coffee. "I'l l bunk in the loft," he said, "and stay out of you r way."

He finished the coffee and set down the cup; t hen he walked over to the ladder. Putting his han d on the rung to start climbing, he felt th e dampness of wet mud under his fingers. Somebody wa s up there, all right, and waiting for him.

Eve started to speak, but hesitated; Winkle r just watched him, his hard old eyes revealin g nothing.

Shevlin climbed the ladder and lifted the tra p with his left hand. Light shone suddenly in hi s eyes, but he spoke casually. "You pull tha t trigger, Ray, and you're a bigger fool than I t hought."

He pushed the loose trap door aside, the n went up through the hole and kicked the trap shu t without taking his eyes from the two men who waited ther e for him.

Ray Hollister looked older than he shoul d have, and thinner than Shevlin remembered him. Ther e was bitterness and frustration in the lines around hi s eyes and mouth, lines that Shevlin did no t remember. Ray Hollister had found himself to b e a smaller man than he wished to believe, and h e hated it.

The other man, Babcock, was a thin, patien t man of few loyalties, but they were loyaltie s grimly held. He believed in Ra y Hollister and he believed in cattle; and of the tw o men, Shevlin was sure Babcock was the mor e dangerous--an impression that would have bot h surprised and infuriated Ray Hollister.

"Who told you I was here?" Holliste r demanded. "Was it Eve?"

"They were expecting you in town, so when I sa w four horses in the stable and realized somebody wa s hiding here, I knew it simply had to be you."

"I'm not hiding! I'll be damned if I a m!"

"Who'd you shoot at?" Babcock asked.

"The man who followed him." Shevlin nodde d to indicate Hollister, whose boots were still muddy.

"Whoever it was thought I'd caught him, and h e took a blast at me."

"Nobody followed me!" Holliste r exclaimed sharply. "They don't even know I'
m in this part of the country!"

"Gentry knew," Babcock reminded him.

"Gib's all right. He's cattle."

"Is he?" Babcock asked skeptically.

"You'd better be almighty sure."

Hollister was on edge and belligerent. H
e had always been a fool, trying to spend with th e spenders, gamble with the sharpers, test his strength with th e strongest. Sooner or later he would get himsel f killed, and others with him. Mike Shevlin wante d nothing between himself and Hollister but distance.

"I hear Gentry killed El i Patterson?" Mike said it like a question.

The atmosphere of the loft altered in som e subtle fashion. With years of violence and tensio n behind him, Mike knew when he had touched a nerve, and he had now.

"Never did figure that out." Babcock wa s honestly puzzled. "It wasn't like Eli to carr y a gun."

"Whoever says he carried a gun," Shevli n replied shortly, "lies. Eli was a Quaker , and he lived by it."

"You can't be sure of that," Holliste r protested.

"I knew him."

"The hell with that! You never know a man unti l he's pushed. All right, you came here to sleep , so sleep. We don't want any argument."

Shevlin walked to a pile of straw, pulle d some out and scattered more over it, then lay down with hi s slicker stretched over him.

As he relaxed he thought of El i Patterson. Patterson had lived by hi s code, and so must Shevlin live by his, differen t though they might be. In the last analysis it wa s all a man had to live by. Patterson, a man of peace, had died by the gun. I t remained to see how Shevlin would die. This was wha t he was thinking as his eyes closed. And this was in hi s mind when he awakened to broad daylight and a n empty loft.

He climbed down the ladder and stirred the fe w coals into a fire. Someone had been considerat e enough to leave the coffeepot among the coals. Th e coffee was hot as hell itself, and black as sin.

Well, now that he was here, what was he to do?

What could he do but what he had always done? H
e would bull his way in, worry the ones who ha d something to cover up, and force them into some kind of a move. When men moved hastily they often mad e mistakes. ...

He would start with Mason. He saddled up an d rode into town.

When he sta4 his horse at the livery stabl e he ignored the hostler who sat tipped back i n a cane-bottomed chair chewing the stem of a n ancient pipe. He was a thin old man with a narrow face and shrewd blue eyes that tol d nothing.

Shevlin walked to the door of the stable and stoo d there, lighting a Spanish cigar. As his hand s cupped around the match, he spoke without turning hi s head. "You're a long way from home , Brazos."

"This here's home, an' don't you b e a-spoilin' it for me!"

"All I want is information."

"In this town? That's the last thing you'll get.

This here town is scared. Ever'body rollin' i n money, an' ever'body scared."

"Have you heard the name of Jack Moorman?"

Shevlin asked.

"That's one of the things scares 'em. Seems h e was beat to death in the street one night, but nobod y seen it, an' nobody believes it."

"Any talk about it?"

"Not no more. On'y once in a while somebod y gets liquored up. Seems ever'body i n Rafter suddenly set out to get rich, an' th e on'y two honest men in town got stiff-necke d about it. Moorman was one of 'em, so he go t himself killed ... handy-like."

"And the other was Patterson?"

"Inquest ruled it a fair shootin',"

Brazos said, "but nobody paid much mind.

Nobody went to the inquest, an' you never hear d less talk about anything. Seemed like the y was all too anxious to get their fists into th e honey-pot."

"They say Gentry did it," Shevlin said.

"Why, now. He was the one showed up at th e inquest an' took the blame."

"You don't think he did it?"

"You take a hostler now--he's like a bartende r or a waiter," was the way Brazos answered.

"Folks just naturally talk as if they wasn'
t there at all, or else was born without ears.

Folks get so used to 'em they even forge t they're around.

"I heard the shot that killed Patterson,"

Brazos went on. "Heard it plain--onl y shot fired that afternoon--but at the time I thought nothin g of it. Some drunk is always shootin' around.

"I didn't have no time to get curious, eve n if I was of a mind to. Gentry, he come ridin'
i n about that time. He'd promised to top off a ba d horse for Clagg Merriam, so he took off hi s coat and his gun belt and hung them on the nai l by the stall.

"Whilst ever'body was at the corral, I t ook a look at Gentry's new guns. The y was Smith and Wessons, and I'd heard tell o f 'em, but never looked at 'em before. Mind you , I'd no idee anybody had been shot.

"Mike, Gentry's guns was full-loaded an d clean as a whistle. There'd been no time for hi m to clean 'em after that shot was fired ... couldn't hav e been more than a minute until he came ridin g in, and he was in plain sight for a few second s before that. About ten minutes later somebody cam e runnin' in and said Patterson was dead."

"Who did they say did it?" Shevlin asked.

"Nobody had any idee. Then along abou t sundown it got around that Gentry'd done it, an d had turned himself in to the sheriff. There was a hearin', an' Mason testified he seen it an'
i t was fair shootin'."

"Thanks, Brazos. You keep your ear s open, you hear?"

A buckboard driven by a girl was turning i n to the door as he spoke.