Marauders' Moon Page 13

  Martha caught a horse and rode out that afternoon. She waited at their meeting place until dusk, her mind in turmoil. Something inside her ached. When she returned that night, Buck was not home yet. As soon as Martha had pretended to eat her supper, she said she was going to ride.

  Once in the saddle, she headed for the Talbots’ shack over east on the edge of the Roan Creek bottom lands. The Talbots were squatters, tolerated by her father because Talbot had a large family and few cattle and rode line for the Broken Arrow three days a week.

  There, in the dimly lighted shack, she was greeted by Talbot himself. She explained she had to write a letter, and that since all their stuff had been burned out, she had neither pencil nor paper nor envelope. Could she borrow?

  She was invited in and set at the mean table, with tablet paper and pencil and a tattered envelope placed before her. She wrote to Britt, asking him to meet her the day after next. Then she borrowed another envelope, put Britt’s sealed letter inside it, and in desperation addressed this to the postmaster at Bull Foot.

  Talbot volunteered the information that he was going to Wagon Mound tomorrow, and Martha gave him the letter to mail.

  Riding back home, she felt as if she were going to cry.

  But, after all, she reflected, I don’t know for sure.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Martha wrote her letter on Sunday night. Talbot rode in with it Monday. It was delivered in Bull Foot that night, and the postmaster opened it early Tuesday morning. He saw it was simply an enclosure, but he did not open it. He had lived in Bull Foot long enough to know what happened to people who earned the displeasure of the Bannisters. Instead, he sent a rider out to the Dollar spread with the letter, a note with it explaining how he had come by it.

  So Britt had the letter early Tuesday morning. He read it, savagely tore it to shreds, and went out to the corrals. He did not want to ride; he wanted to think. The fact that a daughter of Buck Tolleston had ordered him to see her filled him with fury. If he could hurt her right now, he would be glad to. Even the thought that he had talked to her, been with her, offered to marry her, made him angry. A Bannister crawling in front of a Tolleston. He wished savagely that he could avenge all these humiliations, and avenge them in some way that would agonize her. Always in his mind was the picture of that mother he hardly remembered, who had been killed—starved and overworked and beaten—by Buck Tolleston.

  And thinking that, Britt had an idea. It was so sudden, so startling, that for a moment he was afraid to think of it. But the more he thought, the more he liked it. Everything was in his hands with which to do it.

  He strode over to his father’s office. Bannister was out, but Britt knew where the keys to the jail were. He got them, went over to the blacksmith shop where he hung his guns on a peg. Then he asked Symonds to come with him. Crossing to the jail, Britt unlocked the door and told Symonds to lock him in.

  Webb and the three Montana hardcases were lounging on their bunks, their breakfast dishes on the bench in the middle of the room. They gave him no greeting, and he expected none.

  “Stay in your bunk, Cousins,” Britt said. “You others come over here in the corner.”

  It was a long room, so he could talk in a low tone to the three and not be heard by Webb. Webb didn’t care anyway; he had ached and throbbed with the wound. The three Montana men squatted around Britt and he sat in the corner.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” he told them without preliminaries. “I want a man killed. Could you do it?”

  “Not while we’re in jail,” Perry Warren said wryly.

  “You’ll be out.”

  “How much is in it?” Perry asked.

  “Five hundred apiece.”

  Warren looked at the other two. “Suits me. But do we come back to this place when we’re finished?”

  “No. You got the old man mad the other night. I can get him over it quick enough. You’ll be free today. You’ll likely have other jobs to do, but I want this one done first.”

  Warren grinned crookedly and rubbed his beard-stubbled chin.

  “O. K. What is it?”

  “Ever hear of Buck Tolleston?”

  They looked at each other and said they had. Britt told them more about him and who he was—the bank owner in Wagon Mound, a rancher, an enemy of all Bannisters. He finished with: “I want him shot. I don’t care how you do it, only I want it done.”

  “Sounds easy to me,” Warren said at last.

  “It’s not. It’s in San Patricio. If you’re caught, you’ll face a hang-noose as sure as the sun’ll rise tomorrow. I don’t want you to get the idea it’ll be easy. You may have to wait. You can’t be seen, you can’t ask questions. You’ll just have to get his description from me, the description of the ranch, and wait for him. It may take a couple of days.”

  “It still sounds easy.”

  “Good,” Britt said. “I’ll have you out by tonight.”

  He called out the window for the blacksmith to unlock the door and went out. Webb, lying on his bunk, had not heard a word of it. He pretended he was napping. Presently, when the inevitable poker game started, he got up to join it. Since he had been in here, he had become friends wtih these men. They had yarned about themselves, and Webb had joined in, telling enough lies about himself to convince them he was outside the law like themselves. Too, they had respected him for not squealing on them to Bannister. He was one of them.

  He got up, rolled a cigarette, and said, “What’s goin’ on in the outside world?”

  “Good news,” Warren said. “We’re out of the jug tonight.”

  Webb lifted an eyebrow. “How come? Did you come clean to the old man?”

  “Huh-uh. A job for young Bannister.”

  Webb pretended indifference. And then it came out. Britt Bannister wanted a man out of the way. Who was he? A gent by the name of Tolleston. Webb heard this calmly, no expression on his face except one of studied indifference. He had been about to ask if the pardon included him too, but now he knew it didn’t. He had hit Britt Bannister in defense of a Tolleston, and Britt would hardly excuse that. Moreover, Webb had a hunch that this was being planned without Wake Bannister’s knowledge. For if Wake Bannister wanted Buck Tolleston dead, he could have killed him any time these past fifteen years. Webb yawned.

  “I’d take a job like that if it meant gettin’ out of here.”

  The poker game grew tiresome, and Webb dropped out. He walked unsteadily over to the window facing the blacksmith shop and watched old Symonds at work. Yesterday, standing here, Webb had heard something queer. He had heard a man called Mitch say something to Bannister, and for the life of him he could not remember if he had heard the name before, but he was sure he had heard the voice. It sounded very familiar. Today he intended waiting here to see if he could hear the name again. It was tantalizing, not being able to remember.

  It was close to noon when he heard men at Bannister’s door. One voice he could identify as Hugo Meeker’s, another as Bannister’s. He listened and he could pick up the sound of Bannister’s low, penetrating voice.

  “He should be here about three, Hugo. I want Mitch to hear it, so bring him along.”

  “You sure you want him to?” Hugo said.

  There was a pause. “Yes, I’m sure. He’ll be reassured more by that than anything I can do.”

  Hugo said dryly, “I should think so.” The door shut and Webb heard Hugo walk off. Webb stayed in the window, watching Symonds, wondering what was being planned. Sometime, somewhere, not here at Bannister’s, he had heard this Mitch talk. If he could see his face, he might know him. But this barred window was in the same wall as the door to Bannister’s office, and they were many feet apart. Unless a man walked over to Symonds’s shop, it would be impossible to see him from this window.

  Webb scowled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He could feel a several days’ growth of red stubble over the hard line of his jaw. Suddenly his hand paused, and then he smiled slowly. He thought he had an idea.
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  Going back to the poker game, he sat down and took a hand. He kept scratching his face irritably, and when Warren noticed him, Webb said, “I’d give money to get this brush off my face.”

  “Why don’t you shave?” Warren asked.

  “No razor.”

  “I got one.”

  “No water. No mirror.”

  Warren grinned. “Hell, you ain’t growed up unless you can shave without a mirror.”

  “I can’t, though,” Webb said.

  “We’ll get one,” Warren told him. That noon, when their food was brought to them by the bull cook, Warren told him they wanted water and a mirror, and to see Britt Bannister if it was all right. In a short while, he returned with both. The others now decided to shave, and Webb let them take their turn.

  When his turn came, he shaved. As he was washing his face, he managed to knock the mirror off the window sill and shatter it.

  “That’s a swell way to celebrate gettin’ out of jail,” Warren gibed.

  Webb cursed mildly and dried his face, then stooped to pick up the pieces of the broken mirror. The largest he tucked inside his shirt, throwing the rest out of the window.

  When the poker grew tiresome again, the game split up, and Warren and Manny ambled over to their bunks for a nap. Les, the third man, played solitaire, his back to the window. Webb drifted over to the barred window to watch Symonds. But once he was sure the others were not watching him, he propped the large shard of mirror outside the window, adjusting it so that it would reflect the face of the whole wing of the house. And then he waited, not knowing what time it was.

  Soon he saw Hugo approach the office in company with another man who dressed and looked like Hugo himself. Lean, almost slouching, a half head taller than Hugo, he appeared to be a prosperous cattleman. He wore a white shirt, and his boots were black, hand-tooled, and expensive-looking. Only one gun, and that a pearl-handled one, was belted to his hips. Hugo ushered him into the office, and Webb waited. In a few seconds Hugo came out again and disappeared down the way between the outbuildings and the wing. Presently he returned with a companion.

  This’ll be Mitch, Webb thought, seeing them far down the way.

  He studied the reflection in the mirror, watching Mitch, waiting until he got closer. And then, as Hugo and Mitch were about to step into the office, Webb got a good look at Mitch, and immediately he recognized him. That was Budrow, the man Tolleston had sent down to spy for him in Bull Foot! The man who had rawhided him that first night at the Broken Arrow.

  For a moment Webb was amazed, and then the import of this knowledge came to him. Mitch—Budrow he’d heard Tolleston call him—had sold out Tolleston to Bannister!

  It was this man who was responsible for the burning of Tolleston’s and the other ranches. He had plotted with Bannister to raid San Patricio when Tolleston had all the outfits raiding Bull Foot.

  Slowly Webb turned away from the window and sat down on the bench beneath it. No wonder San Patricio was defeated, with a Bannister spy in their camp.

  What was this Mitch Budrow doing in there now? Who was the stranger? The latter could be any of the Wintering County ranchers, since Webb did not know them, but whoever he was, he shared in a new plan being hatched. And what that was Webb could not guess, but he was willing to bet that it concerned San Patricio County and Tolleston.

  Webb rose and paced the floor, oblivious to the others in the room. Warren’s voice yanked him out of his reverie.

  “What in hell’s got into you, fella? You’re trampin’ that floor until a man can’t sleep.”

  Webb looked up at him, his eyes hard, a hot retort on his tongue. And then he smiled and sat down again. “Nothin’. I’m fed up with this bird cage.”

  “You’ll be a damn sight more fed up,” Warren said, and turned over in his bunk.

  And Webb silently agreed with him, feeling a rage which only the knowledge of utter impotence can bring.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Hugo came in the office with Mitch, Bannister indicated the stranger.

  “Mitch, this is Clay Bogardus, from Texas. Mitch Budrow.”

  Mitch shook hands with the stranger, and they all took seats. Bogardus had an easy manner about him, but behind the chill blue of his eyes was a shrewdness that made Mitch uneasy. The man had a rather pleasant face, typical in its high cheekbones, its sun-bleached eyebrows, and in its absence of any expression except keen observance. Bogardus looked to Mitch like a prosperous cattleman, but one who still rode with his riders.

  Bannister passed cigars all around, and the room was suddenly full of pleasant blue smoke.

  “You know of this feud I’ve had with Tolleston and the San Patricio outfits, of course,” Bannister said, by way of beginning.

  Bogardus nodded. “Through Hugo.”

  “Yes. Then you know why I’ve called you.”

  “Not exactly,” Bogardus said.

  Bannister said, “It’s not much. Those ranchers over there are strapped. They want to sell out. I’ve brought you up here to buy out the ranch of one of them.”

  “Who?”

  “Lou Hasker—the Chain Link.”

  “How will I know him?” Bogardus asked.

  Bannister thought a moment. “Redheaded, about twenty-six, medium big. You won’t have any trouble meetin’ him because Wardecker—he’s the sheriff—will likely take you out.”

  Bogardus asked other questions, as to price, the date Bannister wanted the place, whether Bannister wanted to wait for a beef count, and other things. Bogardus was all business, and Mitch listened to the talk with a growing sense of curiosity. He wondered why Bannister wanted the Chain Link and what he would do with it when he got it, and why he was going about buying it in all this secrecy.

  When the questions and answers were finished, Bannister said only, “I want the deed to the place inside a week. Get it for me.”

  He volunteered no other information to Bogardus, and Bogardus seemed to want none. Bogardus rose, shook hands all around, and left, with the parting admonition from Bannister that he was to catch the train at a water tank south of town and ride in like any other passenger.

  Once Hugo and Bogardus were gone, Bannister said to Mitch, “Do you think Bogardus is a man to be trusted, Mitch?”

  Mitch, flattered, thought a moment and said, “I’d say so. I reckon you made a good choice of men.”

  “I think so, too,” Bannister said, evidently pleased. He turned to his desk. “Wait till Hugo comes back, Mitch. I’m goin’ to tell you how I aim to work this whole thing out.”

  Hugo returned in a few minutes, and Bannister waved him to a seat and addressed himself to Mitch. “Have you wondered what’s behind all this, Mitch? Have you decided I’m just an ordinary land hog?”

  Mitch grinned. “I’ve wondered plenty.”

  Bannister smiled at him in a friendly way. “There’s been a lot of things I’ve kept to myself, Mitch. The main one is that the railroad is building through to Wagon Mound. Next month some time their agents come in to buy right of way through San Patricio.”

  The surprise on Mitch’s face was obvious, but he was politely silent.

  “If that went through, Mitch, it would mean that San Patricio County would boom. They’d ship stuff from Wagon Mound without the loss of a head, and we couldn’t do anything to stop them.”

  “I see that.”

  “So I had to get in ahead of the railroad. I wanted to bring this to a head while I still had time. That explains the raid on San Patricio.” Bannister regarded him closely. “But the purchase of the Chain Link is another story.”

  “Why the Chain Link?” Mitch asked, gathering a courage of sorts.

  “Ever ridden over the Chain Link range, Mitch?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Ever noticed anything peculiar about it?”

  Mitch scowled, and finally shook his head. “It’s good range. That’s all I noticed.”

  Bannister looked over at Hugo and smiled a little, then ad
dressed Mitch again. “Ever noticed that Copperstone Creek feeds most of the big ranches in San Patricio County? Ever noticed that the Chain Link is the highest range on the creek?”

  “Come to think of it, it is,” Mitch said.

  “All right, ever noticed that when the Copperstone comes out of the Chain Link Basin into the big canyon it turns north?”

  Again Mitch nodded.

  Bannister leaned back in his chair and smiled faintly. “A couple hundred dollars’ worth of dynamite would cave in those canyon walls to make a dam. It would back the Copperstone up into the Basin. It would take less than eight feet of water at the dam to shove the Copperstone down a draw to the south and into Roan Creek. Roan Creek doesn’t touch a single San Patricio ranch.”

  For a moment Mitch stared at him, and then comprehension showed on his face.

  “And that,” Bannister said, “is why I want the Chain Link. Bogardus will get a clear title to it. He’ll turn it over to me. I’ll move in with a strong crew. Before the railroad builds in there, I’ll have every drop of water on the western slope of the Frying Pans running down the Copperstone. Those ranchers—including Buck Tolleston—will see a market set right down at their front door and they won’t have a handful of cattle to ship, because they won’t have the water to run them.”

  Mitch nodded in mute awe.

  “And once I swing that, Mitch, I think I’ll have a permanent place for you,” Bannister concluded.

  When Mitch had gone, Hugo sat down and cocked his feet up on the desk. The cigarette between his lips had died, and he was staring curiously at Bannister.

  “I don’t savvy it, Wake. That rat could peddle that to Hasker or Wardecker or Tolleston for half what they own.”

  “He won’t,” Bannister said. “This is the greatest favor anyone has ever done him. He’s so damn grateful, he’d die for me now.”