the High Graders (1965) (5 page)

There comes a time for a man to draw a line, an d Mike Shevlin had drawn his, and he ha d ridden away from Rafter, from Gib Gentry, Be n Stowe, and all the rest of them. And now he had com e back to a changed town. The old, easy friendshi p was gone. The hospitality of the West wa s no longer here. This town was alive with fear, wit h suspicion, and with hatred, and he, of all people, woul d find no welcome.

For surely every man here, and every woman too, wa s his enemy. What he had been asked to do and wha t he wished to do were bound together. If he found the ma n who had killed Eli Patterson, he would als o expose the plot to high-grade gold; and if h e did that the prosperity of this town would end.

What was right, and what was just? Had he the righ t to come into th place and shatter its prosperity? Her e people dressed better, lived better, had bette r houses than in other such towns. There was more mone y spent over the bars, more money in the stores; but with th e prosperity there would be, for some men, a sense o f power. The leaders of all this, the men who created an d planned it, had won acceptance of corruption, an d now there was no limit to what they might ask an d force the town to accept--or was there?

There must be people here, good people, restless with what wa s happening, people who wanted to be free of fear. Bu t he did not know these people, and had he known them h e knew they would not trust him, not Mike Shevlin.

What he did he must do alone. And now h e stood there pondering on it.

Across the street and down a few doors, a man stepped out to the edge of the walk and looked acros s at Shevlin. Mike knew that look, tha t attitude. The man was suspicious.

To be a stranger in this town, an unaccounted-fo r stranger, was enough to excite fear. Mik e Shevlin's every instinct warned him he was in danger , danger increasing with every minute. These people had bee n parties to theft and had turned their eyes from murde r ... and they would turn their eyes from another.

There were too many pairs of new boots, to o many expensive saddles here; too many men ha d ivory- or pearl-handled guns. Somebody ha d been shrewd enough to let a whole community get it s fingers sticky. By simply looking the other wa y while the miners high-graded a little gold, the me n who operated the mines had made the townspeopl e accomplices to their own theft.

Each buyer of high-grade, each tradesma n who accepted it over a counter, took a portion o f profit from the transaction, and because it was known by al l to be stolen gold, they took a higher profi t than usual.

Eli Patterson and Jack Moorman wer e dead, and they were men Mike Shevlin ha d respected. Each in his way had been kind to th e lonely, half-starved boy who rode hi s crow-bait of a horse into town. Each in his ow n way had helped to make him a better man tha n he had any right to be. ... Some things Mik e Shevlin had told no man.

It was true he had worked with his uncle on a mining claim, but it was a miserable claim that mad e them a living, no more. And then there had come the da y when the roof caved in, burying his uncle under th e mountain.

The boy who was Mike Shevlin had walke d away, leading his horse down the mountain because it wa s in bad shape to carry him over the rough terrain.

The mine tunnel was a fitting grave for hi s uncle, and he lay buried there with the hopes h e had never quite lost.

Of his father, Mike had never talked. He ha d been killed out on the plains by men who found hi m selling whiskey to Indians. His mother had died a few years later in a miserable shack on the edg e of town, a far-away cow town. But she ha d taught him a few things: to make his own way in th e world; to accept nothing he had not earned.

That had been little enough on which to build a lif e until, after leaving his uncle's claim, he ha d come to Rafter and met Eli Patterson, an d afterwards Jack Moorman. Instinctively h e honored these men who stood staunchly by what the y believed. The thought of these men was in his mind now.

The Bon-Ton Restaurant, just down th e street, was still Open. Mike crossed over an d went down the walk. Opening the door of th e restaurant, he stepped inside.

The coal-oil lamps with reflectors behind the m filled the room with light. There were severa l unoccupied small tables, and two long table s covered with white cloths, for family-styl e meals. A sideboard covered with glasses an d stacks of plates stood against the wall; on it s right a door opened to the kitchen.

Three men, apparently miners off shift, sa t together at the end of the nearest table. At the far en d of the other table sat two men, one in the roug h clothes of the frontier, the other in a well-tailored dark gray suit.

Shevlin dropped to a seat on the bench at th e nearest table, admiring the smooth expanse o f white linen. The last time he had eaten i n this restaurant the tables were covered with oilcloth.

The waitress brought him coffee, and over i t he began to consider the situation. He must tal k to Mason. He felt a curious reluctanc e to meet Gentry ... after all, the man had bee n his comrade, they had worked and fought side by side.

Now he thought that Gentry might become his enemy , and he did not want that.

But Gentry must be protecting somebody. I f he had not killed Eli himself--and Brazos'
e vidence implied he had not--he knew who ha d killed him.

But why should Gentry go out on a lim b to protect someone else? Who was that importan t to him? It was unlike Gentry to take credit fo r another man's killing ... especially the killin g of Eli Patterson.

As Mike Shevlin drank his coffee, h e looked at the two men at the other table. The ma n in the tailored suit looked familiar, bu t Mike's attention was diverted by one of the miners a t his own table. He was a stocky, red-headed man , who had been staring hard at Mike, tryin g to attract his eyes.

"You've come to the wrong town," the miner sai d suddenly; "we ran all the cattlemen out of her e long ago."

Mike Shevlin smiled pleasantly. "I'
m double-action--cattle or mines. I can swing a single-jack or double-jack as good as the nex t man."

"Where'd you ever work in the mines?"

"All over the country. Silverton , Colorado ... down in the Cerbat Range i n Arizona ... over at Pioche and Frisco."

"They're full up here. Nobody hirin'."

"Doesn't look like I'll find a job , then, does it?" The redhead was trouble-hunting. Th e type and the pattern were familiar. There was one in ever y town, always trying to prove how tough he was ...
s ometimes there was more than one. And they were rarely th e really hard cases. They had nothing to prove.

Deliberately, Mike kept his tone mild.

He understood the pattern and accepted it, but i f Red wanted to push trouble he must do it on his own.

He would get no trouble from Shevlin. There wa s trouble enough without that.

At the other table the man in frontier clothe s looked around. "If you're a miner, I can us e you," he said. "I'm Burt Parry--I've got a claim in Cottonwoo d Canyon. If you're serious about a job, mee t me at six-thirty for breakfast here, and we'l l ride out."

Parry got up from the table. "I'll have thos e figures for you, Mr. Merriam," he said to th e man in the gray suit. "I'll have them tomorrow or th e day after."

He paused by Shevlin's table. "Tomorrow morning , six-thirty ... right?"

"I'll see you," Shevlin said. "I'll b e here."

The waitress placed a dish of food befor e him, and he picked up his knife and fork.

Merriam, the man had said. That would be Clag g Merriam. Mike had seen him only once o r twice in the old days, for Merriam was often out o f town. He was a bigger man than Mik e remembered, with a strong face and a smile on hi s lips that did not reach to his eyes.

The redhead moved down the table opposit e Shevlin. "You didn't tell him your name," h e said.

"He didn't ask," Shevlin replie d mildly.

"Well, I'm asking."

"None of your damn' business." Shevli n spoke in such a gentle voice that it was a momen t before the meaning got to the redhead.

When he realized what had been said, Re d smiled. He wiped his palms on the front of hi s shirt. Then he stood up very slowly, still smiling , and reached across the table to grasp the front o f Shevlin's shirt.

Shevlin dropped his knife and fork, and his lef t hand grasped Red's wrist, jerking him forward.

There was an empty dish on the table that had hel d mutton. With his right hand Shevlin pushed the miner'
s face down into the dish and, gripping Red's lef t hand, he coolly wiped his face around in the col d mutton grease.

Abruptly, Shevlin let go and Red cam e up, half over the table and spluttering with fury.

Shevlin jerked the butt of his palm up under th e man's chin and sent him toppling back over th e bench to the floor beyond. During the entire action h e had scarcely risen from his seat.

For a second, Red lay stunned, then with a n oath he started to rise. A voice stopped him.

"Cut it out, Red! This time you'v e swung too wide a loop. This gent would clobbe r you good!"

Shevlin looked around. There he was--older , of course, and heavier. Yes, and better dresse d than Shevlin ever remembered him. His face wa s puffy, and he looked like a man who was living to o well--something nobody could have said of the ol d Gentry.

"Hello, Gib," Mike said. "It's bee n a while."

Gentry thrust out a big hand. "Mike!

Mike Shevlin!" There was no mistaking th e pleasure in Gentry's voice. "Man, am I g lad to see you!"

Shevlin took the hand. It was all wrong, h e thought. Whatever else Gentry might do, he woul d not kill a man like Eli. A tough man , Gentry was, even a cruel one at times, but a man who fought with fighting men.

Shevlin was aware of the room's attention.

Clagg Merriam was watching them, his fac e unreadable. Red was slowly wiping the grease from hi s face.

"Come down the street, Mike," Gentry wa s saying, "and I'll buy you a drink for old time'
s sake."

Reluctantly, Shevlin got up from the table.

The last thing he wanted was a drink. What h e wanted was food and coffee, gallons of coffee.

"The town's changed," Shevlin sai d tentatively as they emerged on the street. "I d on't see many of the old faces."

"Gone ... gone with the cattle business."

Shevlin waited until they had taken a fe w strides, and then he asked, "What happene d to Ray Hollister?"

Gentry's smile vanished. "Ray? Go t too big for his boots, Ray did. He lef t the country ... and just in time."

"He always did try to take big steps."

"Say!" There was obvious relief i n Gentry's tone. "I'd forgotten about the time yo u two tangled out at Rock Springs. You neve r did get along with him."

The thought seemed to please him. Gentry reste d a big hand on Shevlin's shoulder as they reached th e door of the Gold Miner's Daughter. Mik e restrained his distaste. He had never liked to b e touched, and had not cared for Gentry'
s back-slapping good humor.

To get to the point, he asked, "Are yo u ranching, Gib?"

"Me?" Gentry opened the door, and went o n speaking as they entered. "The cattle business i s a thing of the past in this country. No, I'm in th e freighting business. Hauling for the mines-s upplies in, gold out, working twenty to thirt y rigs all the time."

Mike saw no familiar faces in th e saloon. Gentry lifted a hand and the bartende r tossed him a bottle, which Gib caugh t deftly. Then the bartender tossed two sho t glasses, which Gentry caught just as easily with th e other hand. He had always been fast with his hands for a big man ... and fast with a gun.

Gentry was in a genial, talkative mood , and Shevlin was willing to listen. A cowhand , Gentry told him, had struck gold on the ol d Rafter H while sinking a post hole. Withou t saying a word to anyone he had gone off to Sa n Francisco and obtained financial backing, the n returned and bought the Rafter H headquarter s area.

Polluted water from the mill flowed into th e creek, spelling ruin for the Rafter H and the othe r cattle outfits. They fought, and among th e casualties was the cowhand who had discovered th e gold.

"Mighty convenient, I figure," Gentr y commented, refilling his glass, "but it didn't d o anybody any good. Turned out he had sold hi s entire interest to that Frisco outfit. There wa s trouble a-plenty with Turkeytrack and Rafter , but nothing we couldn't manage."

"We?"

Gentry winked. "Now, Mike, you know ol'

Gib. I never let any grass grow under m y feet, you know that, an' there's more money in gol d than in cattle. The trouble started when I hire d on as guard at the Sun Strike."

"Trouble?"

"Shooting trouble, Mike. Ben Stowe was bos s of the guards, an' you know Ben. He knew wher e to pick up a few salty boys down in th e Panhandle country, and after we'd buried two o r three of the local boys that was the end of it."

Trust Ben Stowe to know who had to be killed.

The backbone of any cow outfit lies in tw o or three fighting men whom the rest follow. Pu t them out of the picture, and the rest would b e likely to lose heart. Mike Shevlin had see n it managed that way more than once, and had seen i t tried at other times.