Star Toter (11 page)

Big Mule knew luck when he met it on the trail. At the roundup, among men from many outfits, it might be difficult to contrive the proper sort of "accident" and at the same time make certain that it was of a sufficiently final nature. Here, with just the two of them on a lonely road, it could be simpler.

"Howdy, Grant," Mule returned affably, and pulled to a stop also. "You headin' back already?"

"Thought I would," Cable agreed. "You got some news?"

"Yeah." Mule nodded. "Just for you." He swung his own horse. "If you're headin' back, that saves me from going any farther."

Cable's suspicions were not aroused. "What is it?" he asked.

"Been a cloudburst up that way since you left," Big Mule explained, and went on to recite the series of events as they were commonly known, giving also the inside details which Cable would expect—how the attackers had been beaten off by the sheriff, who had unexpectedly been with the stage; how Locke had killed three of the quartette; the escape of the one outlaw and subsequent pursuit of the stage; how, as they had been certain of success, the cloudburst had struck, forcing them to flee for their lives.

Cable listened, appalled. This was the plan which he had outlined to Steele, but later he had told Steele that they would make no attempt to take this particular gold shipment. Steele had taken matters into his own hands. The wanton killing of Red Foley and the subsequent disaster which had overtaken the sheriff left him with mixed emotions.

But apparently Steele, having shown his hand, was willing to play along with him again, now that the sheriff was out of the way. Why else should he send Big Mule with word of what had happened? And the death of Locke did alter the situation.

Big Mule observed him as he talked. Cable was intent on the report, completely unsuspicious. A plan formed in the Mule's mind as they rode. Steele wanted an accident. Here it could be nicely contrived.

These were foothills, by comparison with the Wild Buttes, but fair-sized for all that, climbing toward the sun. They were on a narrow trail dug from the side of the hill, barely wide enough for a vehicle to travel. At intervals were turnouts where one wagon could wait for another to pass.

Ahead and below was a steep, grassy slope, shelving down sharply for thirty feet to Red Creek. The Red flowed placidly, undisturbed by the storm which had poured its waters into Queasy the day before. Bright-hued dragonflies sported above the water. A kingfisher gave its rattling cry from the opposite shore, perching upon the dead branch of a willow.

Big Mule, as befitted his size, rode a big horse. With a sharp touch of the spurs he swung it, knowing from experience that such spurring would set it to bucking and plunging. Expertly he turned the first lunge, to send it crashing against the plodding horse which Grant Cable rode.

Not until he glimpsed the triumphant look in Big Mule's eyes did Cable begin to suspect his danger, and by then it was too late.

Caught off-balance, the lighter cayuse was forced off the road in a quick shove. It tried frantically to regain its feet, to check its sliding plunge down the slope, but the hill was steep, the coat of grass as slick as a duck's back. Its feet had been knocked under by the shove, and there was no chance to regain them.

Big Mule watched, his hand close to his holstered gun, alert to the possible need for it. A look in both directions had assured him that no one else was around to see what was happening.

There would be no need for the gun. A mishap like this was a matter of chance or luck—good or bad, according to your way of looking at it. A horse might slip and take a tumble and land at the bottom of the slope, none the worse. Again, it might fall half the distance and break its neck.

This was even better. Big Mule saw the cayuse come to a jerky stop in the shallow edge of Red Creek. It kicked spasmodically, then was still, lying on its back, feet upraised, head twisted at a grotesque angle under it. To fall in such a manner was unusual, but the luck of the trail was never certain.

The kingfisher, squawking raucously, flew away, and the dragonflies, disturbed, moved a little farther downstream before they resumed their darting. Nothing else moved.

Grant Cable lay as unmoving as the horse. He was in the water, pinned down by the saddle-horn which bored into his chest, the weight of the dead cayuse upon it. His face was in a pool which flowed above his wide distended eyes.

King Steele broke stride, shocked. He had accepted the apparently established fact that Orin Locke was dead. To see him was unsettling.

Locke's clothes gave no indication that he had been caught by the cloudburst. That was a minor mystery. But there was no doubt in Steele's mind that Locke knew of the part Steele had been playing and of the reaction to be expected. Only the method was in doubt, and it behooved him to move first, to forestall this star toter.

Up to now it had been a risky game, but from now on it would be a contest with no holds barred, a fight to the death.

A crowd was beginning to collect, men who were equally surprised to see the sheriff alive. A crowd could be useful or dangerous, depending on how it was swayed. Nearly everyone would be friendly to the sheriff if given a chance. They were thinking of the Orin Locke who had become almost a tradition, the man who had handled the bank robbers so easily. It was time to move fast.

Steele did. He moved to confront Locke, and his greeting sounded friendly. "So you're alive, Locke! Everybody has been giving you up for lost after that cloudburst."

Locke was stiff and sore, though the rest and breakfast had done much to restore him. But this morning he'd be slow with a gun—not too much, but only a fraction could mean the difference between life and death. The promptness with which Steele had begun this showed that the outlaw boss was heading for a showdown.

"I hope people won't be too disappointed," Locke returned.

Steele's reply took the onlookers by surprise. "That depends," he said. "I won't mince words, Locke. There's too much at stake for this whole community, just as there's been too much going on which is unexplained. Where did you spend the night?"

Locke wasn't going to answer that. There had been nothing wrong in what Ginny Landers had done, and her act had probably saved his life. But if he told the simple facts, few would believe him or accept the true version of the story. He shrugged.

"I've been around," he said.

"So it seems," Steele agreed. "And you're still around —but it might have been a darn sight better, Locke, if you'd died in that flood—died as the hero you've made folks think you were. You even had Cable and me fooled, and now we want some explanations. It seems that you knew that gold shipment was going out on the stage yesterday, though everybody else thought it was to go by wagon.
And you're the only one who did know that it was on the stage
! Which raises a mighty interesting question: How did you know?"

The crowd had become suddenly quiet. Locke shrugged again. "I had a hunch."

"A hunch!" Steele rolled his eyes. "It looks to me as if you had inside information that nobody else knew or was supposed to know. I suppose you'll say that you went along as sheriff to guard the gold. We'll believe you—if you tell us where it is now!"

Steele was scared and desperate. He played a risky game, knowing that Locke would hesitate to denounce him, to tell what he knew about him. Without supporting evidence, that would sound as if he was trying to lie his way out of a bad situation.

What could he say? That Steele and Cable had put him in as sheriff, because they were the leaders of the lawless? No one would believe that. It would raise other questions ever harder to answer.

"You seem to know what happened to the stage," Locke answered. "The gold was in it."

"The gold was in it to start with," Steele agreed. "But I'm beginning to pack strong doubts that it was in it when the flood struck. It appears that we made a mistake, Locke, putting you in as sheriff. You had a reputation, and that fooled us. Before you left this country, you had another, and that wasn't so good. And the rest of the Lockes have a reputation that's not so good either. There's been a lot going on around here since you returned, and it needs plenty of explaining."

He waited, then, as Locke made no reply, stepped forward.

"Cable's away for a few days, so that leaves it up to me to act for the committee. Maybe I'm making a mistake, but I'd rather be right now than sorry later. We put you in as sheriff to serve on a temporary basis. Since a change seems desirable, the committee has the power to make it."

He reached and unpinned the sheriff's star. Locke allowed him to do so, his face set grimly. Maybe Steele did have that right; maybe not. But a piece of tin wasn't going to make much difference in the final outcome, one way or another.

Steele was seeking to blacken him in the eyes of the populace, to tear him down as he had built him up. He was forced to accept that for the present, since his story, against Steele's, would get him nowhere.

"For the present, I guess I'll have to wear this myself," Steele added. "I don't want the job, but a line has to be drawn somewhere, and I propose to do it." Turning, he strode away.

Locke watched, tight-lipped. This was the build-up for a showdown, and he had no one but himself to blame that it had come this way. The others watched, their greetings unspoken. As he made no defense, gave no answer, he saw suspicion grow in their eyes. This was working out as Steele had hoped.

He had intended to go to his office, but it was his no longer. He turned instead to the livery stable and got his horse, which had returned of its own accord the day before. Then he headed for the Three Sevens. He'd see how Ray was getting along, then make his plans.

Reta met him at the door, a different Reta, with tired lines under her eyes but a determinedly cheerful smile.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Orin. I'd heard that you might be lost, after yesterday. Ray has been asking for you. He didn't believe you were killed, but I was afraid."

"I'm doing fine," Locke assured her, relieved that she did not notice the absence of his star.

"How is Ray?"

"I don't know." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Right now he's asleep. When he's awake, he is so restless. He keeps asking for you, but he seems so feverish, so awfully ill."

"At least he's alive," Locke pointed out reassuringly. That was considerable, considering the nature of Ray's wound. It was surprising that Ray should ask for him, even in delirium.

Ray looked white and wan. Reta kept sponging his face with a cold wet cloth. He stirred restlessly but did not awaken. Reta followed Locke from the sick room.

"I feel so helpless," she confessed. "I'm frightened, Orin. Not just on account of Ray, either. I don't know what's come over me, but I have a feeling as though something dreadful were about to happen."

It could be woman's intuition, a premonition or hunch. Call it what you would, Locke was afraid it might be based on substantial grounds. Steele would not be content with halfway measures. He had gone too far to draw back.

Reta, looking from the window, gave an exclamation. "Here comes Dr. Bannon!"

Fletcher Bannor swung down from his horse and came up the walk, looking as ageless as ever. His eyes fastened on Locke's horse with relief, but there was little of his usual puckish manner today.

"I hear that you're a man of mystery, Orin," he greeted him. "But at least you're alive. That's the big thing."

He went to the sick room, but soon came out.

"Ray's doing as well as can be expected," he reported; "better than I really hoped, though he's still a long way from being out of the woods. So are we all, for that matter."

It seemed to Locke that he was ill at ease. He strove, not too successfully, for his old, half-mocking humor.

"I don't know what it is, Orin, whether it's the prestige of you and the Cables trusting to my professional services again, or if it's just one of those streaks that come now and again, but I'm really being kept busy as a medico. I'm so out of practice that it seems strange to make a round of calls."

"Right now, I have to get over on the west branch of Queasy Creek, to the Simpson farm. I'll have to travel right along, for this is a race with the stork. For the first time in years, when I crave leisure, I find myself busy."

They were outside now, and as the door closed behind them, Bannon's joviality dropped from him.

"Darn it, if this wasn't an emergency, I'd stick here," he groaned. "I can still use a gun passably well."

"What do you mean?"

"Plenty. The main reason why I rode this way instead of straight to the Simpsons' was in the hope of finding you here. There's the devil to pay, Orin. You've stirred Steele up, gotten him scared—and when he's scared, he'll stop at nothing. He's letting it be known that the vigilantes found proof on the Wagon Wheel that Ray was one of the outlaws—and he's reminding people that you're a Locke as well, that you left the country branded as a thief, and that now there's fifty thousand in gold missing, on account of you!"

Bannon leaned from the saddle. "He's gone to the judge—trust him to observe the forms—and obtained warrants for you and Ray. He'll be along any minute to serve 'em. He means to see the death of both of you before the day is over!"

Nothing could be said in contradiction of the doctor's appraisal. Steele was out to finish the Lockes this time —Ray because he stood first in Reta's affections, and Locke because it had come to a point where only one of them could survive.

Steele considered that he had the situation well in hand. He was doing this under the cloak of the law, striking when few were around to oppose him. The fact that to move Ray might swing the delicate balance was part of Steele's calculations. Should Ray manage to survive rough treatment, there were other ways .

The bitter part was that there was so little to do in return. All that they could do was wait for Steele to play his hand, and he seemed to hold all the trumps—with the exception of the guns in Locke's holsters.