Marauders' Moon Page 6

  There was a long pause then, and then Martha said quietly, “I know.”

  “And you’ve never returned it?”

  “How could I, Britt?” Her voice was almost hard with bitterness. “What chance have I had to know you, to see how you live, what it would be like to be together, who your friends are—oh, everything! We’ve met only when we could sneak away, and then we almost talk in whispers for fear of being overheard. I hate it, Britt!”

  “You know how we can fix that, Marty. Get your horse and we’ll ride down to Bull Foot and be married by tomorrow morning.”

  Marty laughed shortly. “Do you think your father would let it stand that way? Do you think mine would?”

  “I don’t reckon they’d have much-to say about it.”

  “Don’t you? Well, I do. I know them—both of them. They’d rather see us dead than have a Tolleston married to a Bannister.”

  Webb’s jaw sagged in surprise. The man Martha was meeting was Britt Bannister of the family that was anathema to Buck Tolleston!

  But Martha went on. “No, Britt. That won’t settle it. Before we could ever have any peace together, this senseless feud has to be settled. We couldn’t pick up and leave what we’ve grown up with, and still be happy. That skeleton is too big to lock in any closet.”

  “The world’s big, Marty,” Britt said. “We could try.”

  “But some day my father is going to kill yours, or yours is going to kill mine! How would we feel then?”

  Britt said nothing.

  “And instead of feeling better, I think it’s getting worse.”

  “How do you mean?” Britt asked quickly.

  “Remember our promise. We were never to tell secrets, never to be disloyal.” She hesitated. “But haven’t you noticed it, Britt?”

  “Maybe I have, now that you mention it,” Britt said slowly. “Let me think back.”

  Webb wanted to see this man, and determined to. Taking off his Stetson, he inched his way forward, hugging the ground, until his head was at the very edge of the arroyo bank. Then slowly he raised himself on his elbows and peered over the edge.

  There, sitting on the ground beside Martha, was a man about Webb’s age. His hat lay in the sand beside him, so that Webb could get a glimpse of his face. Below sleek black hair his face was much the same as his father’s, although Webb did not know that. His eyes were the same blue, without the chill in them, and the nose was as fine and sharp. Only the chin was a little less firm, and his smile was much more ready.

  “Remember the time we first met, Britt,” Martha said. “You were eight and I—”

  She never finished, for the bank on which Webb was resting caved in with a gentle rumble and Webb, still on his belly, coasted down the bank and pulled up at the bottom in a fog of dust. He looked up to find himself staring into the gun of Britt Bannister.

  Picking himself up, Webb murmured, “Now I might have known that,” and grinned. Martha stood beside Britt, and the surprise was just washing out of her face, giving way to anger.

  “And just who are you?” Britt asked coldly.

  Webb jerked his head toward Martha. “She’ll tell you.”

  “He’s a county prisoner dad brought home last night. I think he was implicated in the Wagon Mound hold-up.”

  Britt’s eyes changed a little.

  “Escaping? After a horse?”

  “I got one, thanks,” Webb said, still grinning. “No. This was the first job Tolleston set me to.”

  “What?”

  “This.”

  “Eavesdropping?” Martha asked.

  “I think your dad called it spying.”

  Britt’s glance swiveled to Martha, but his gun remained cocked, steady, more than a leap away from Webb.

  “Is that straight?” Britt asked her.

  “It could be,” Martha answered coldly. “I hadn’t told you yet, but he questioned me again last night.” She said to Webb, “What did he tell you to do?”

  “He wanted to know where you went—wanted me to spy on you.”

  “You overheard everything?”

  Webb nodded, and he felt the blood crawling up to his face. “I climbed up there because I figured you might leave your horses. I—I aimed to steal one and hightail it. Your dad gave me a windbroke horse and I can’t escape on it.” He grinned a little as he spoke. “You see, I never held up the bank. I don’t know anything about it—except that I’d like to get out of here.”

  Martha said, “And you expect me to give you mine?”

  “I’d sure be obliged,” Webb said earnestly. “I’d give you mine. He’d take you back.”

  Martha’s lip lifted in contempt. “You think I’d betray my father that way?”

  Webb shook his head. “No, I didn’t reckon you would. I just wanted to make sure.”

  Martha said nothing for a moment, then asked Webb, “You know this is Britt Bannister—the son of the man dad has sworn to kill?”

  Webb nodded.

  “And if he finds out, you know what will happen?”

  “I can guess,” Webb said.

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  Webb grinned. “Not a word. If you’ll give me your horse, I’ll never see him again.”

  “And if I won’t, will you go back and tell him?”

  Webb shook his head. “I reckon not. It doesn’t interest me.”

  “That’s a lie,” Bannister said sharply. “Buck Tolleston would free you for this information—he’d give anything to know it! And I reckon you know that!”

  “He wouldn’t, Britt!” Martha said quickly. “He wouldn’t free a bank robber!”

  “That wouldn’t matter to Buck,” Britt cut in. “I’m trying to think of what would happen to you if he was told, Marty.”

  Martha’s eyes flashed, and her mouth was open for a hot retort when Britt said to Webb, “I know how I’ll take care of you, mister.”

  Reaching for his sack of Durham, Webb shrugged. “I reckon I do, too,” Silently Webb was wondering if Britt Bannister knew there was a warrant out for Webb in Wintering County.

  He was sure Martha knew it. What Bannister was about to say, Webb guessed, was that he would take Webb over into Wintering County. And once there, Webb knew, it would be discovered that the law wanted him. But if he could bluff it out, he intended to.

  So he said, looking at Martha, hoping against hope that she would understand and keep his secret, “Haze me out of the country. That’s what you mean, don’t you?”

  “No,” Britt said. “You’ll come home with me.”

  Martha looked at Webb, and he returned her look, his face impassive, waiting. She must have understood, for he heard her say, “Oh, no. Britt. You can’t do that.”

  “Why not? If he goes back to the Broken Arrow, he’ll tell your dad.”

  “But you can’t take him with you!” Martha said vehemently.

  Britt looked strangely at her. “Why not?”

  Martha’s glance at Webb seemed to say: What can I do? She turned to Britt. “What will you do with him? Keep him locked up for a year?”

  “It’s been done,” Britt said stubbornly.

  “But that’s cruel, Britt!”

  “Would you rather have your dad find out?”

  Martha did not know what to do. She looked at Webb appealingly, and Webb said calmly, “Tell him.”

  Britt’s look was puzzled. Martha sighed. “All right, Britt. Haven’t you heard, or don’t you remember, that this is the prisoner McWilliams brought into Wagon Mound—a prisoner of Wintering County? He’s wanted for train robbery in your county, and they’ll arrest him as soon as you take him back.”

  “So much the better,” Britt said, smiling a little. “It’ll save us keeping him locked up.”

  “But you can’t do that, Britt!”

  Britt scowled. “What is this? Are you tryin’ to defend a man who’s pulled off two robberies?”

  “I don’t believe it!” Martha said. “I don’t”—She hesitated, blushing a l
ittle, and then blurted out: “Anyway, I would hate myself if I sent a man to jail.”

  “If he’s guilty?”

  “I’m not,” Webb put in. “I happened to be riding the train, and when your law couldn’t find the robbers, they claimed it was an inside job. There was a tinhorn gambler I knew ridin’ that same train, and to work off an old grudge, I reckon he gave the law my name.”

  “See?” Martha said.

  Britt looked more puzzled than ever. “Are you takin’ the word of a saddle tramp against county officers, Marty?”

  Martha said flatly, “I don’t believe it, Britt. Anyone could see he wouldn’t hold up a train—or a bank, for that matter.”

  “Your dad thought so.”

  “I still don’t care. Anyway, dad didn’t have him locked up.”

  Britt smiled meagerly. “No. He brought him out so he could do this dirty work for him.”

  Martha winced, but she was not through fighting. “You know that’s not true, Britt. But even if it was, it wouldn’t change matters. I’m not going to send this man to jail for something he never did, just because he was obeying dad’s orders.”

  Britt said patiently, “All right, suppose you think of somewhere we can put him where he won’t talk to your dad.”

  “But he’s said he wouldn’t!”

  Bannister laughed shortly. “Be sensible, girl. What are we to him? Why wouldn’t he trade what he knows if it meant freedom.” He looked coldly at Webb. “I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m thinkin’ of you, Marty, when I say he has to be put somewhere where he won’t talk.”

  “You could always shoot me,” Webb drawled. Immediately, he was sorry he said it, but he was fed up with being discussed and disposed of like a muley steer. And the look Martha gave him seemed to suggest that he was using a poor coin with which to pay her back for siding in with him.

  “Well?” Britt said to her.

  “I don’t know. If you’re going to, you’re going to, Britt.” Then she said, “Could you take him with you—and still not turn him over to the law?”

  “Dad’s the law in Wintering County,” Bannister said. “And he doesn’t interfere much with me. Yes, I could take him home, and he wouldn’t be turned over to the sheriff.”

  “Is that your promise, Britt?”

  “It’s my word.”

  Martha turned to Webb. “I’m sorry. If—if we knew more about you—or if what we do know didn’t look so bad—we could take your word.”

  “That’s right,” Webb said dryly. “I got a bad record—accordin’ to all the big augers around here who believed somebody else, who believed a crooked tinhorn.”

  Britt cut in coldly, “Where’s your horse?”

  Webb told him. Walking down the arroyo with Britt and Martha riding dose behind him, Webb raged inside himself. From now on, he swore, there was going to be more scrapping and less submission on his part. If Britt Bannister ever slacked his attention once, from now on, Webb would slug him, take his horse, and jump the country—and the reward posters be damned. He wondered if Britt would go back on his word to the girl and turn him over to the Wintering law. But he did not understand why Martha Tolleston had taken his part, insisting that Britt not give him over to arrest. The only reason he could find was that Buck Tolleston had confided his doubts as to Webb’s guilt to her. And this didn’t seem right.

  At Webb’s horse, Britt dismounted, and, while Martha held the gun on Webb, Britt tied his ankles together beneath the sorrel’s belly. Webb regarded her with curiosity as she stood before him, and she avoided looking at him.

  When all was ready, Britt said to Martha, “Your dad will send out men, after they miss this man, won’t he?”

  Martha nodded.

  “Then hold tight and say nothin’. Let them think what they want. The one thing that’ll work for you, Marty, is that you’ve still got your own horse. So they can’t prove you talked to this man, or he’d have taken it away from you.”

  Martha nodded and they rode off, Webb ahead. He was headed for a new kind of prison—and in the very camp of the Bannisters.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It had been dark for hours when Britt and Webb pulled into the Dollar spread. Instead of approaching it from the north, as would have been natural, Britt circled around to the west, so that he would first go through Mex-town—the district where the adobes of the field hands lay huddled. Webb regarded the place with wonder. Seeing all the lights below, he thought they were about to enter a town. But as they approached, he could see the barns, the corrals, the bulk of the huge house, and now he understood a little more of what Wardecker had told him of Bannister.

  Britt, meanwhile, was having a prolonged argument with his conscience. It would be so much easier to turn this redhead over to the sheriff in Bull Foot tomorrow, and get him out of the way for good. But he had promised Martha he would not. Of course, a man could be held here on the Dollar indefinitely; it had been done before. A man doesn’t walk or ride away from a place where more than a hundred people are watching him night and day. But this was no ordinary case.

  Suddenly Britt decided to play the hunch he had had from the first, and which had led him to enter Mex-town first. Those five hardcases from the north country were putting up in the old bunk house. Not knowing or caring about the Wagon Mound robbery, Britt saw nothing strange in their being there; Wake Bannister always seemed to have a mysterious bunch of strangers around him, usually tough. These would be the men that would guard this man for him.

  The old bunk house—in use when Bannister first took over this place and designed to house the dozen vaqueros which had since been replaced by white hands—lay just behind the Mexican cantina. It had come to be regarded as the place to put up those men whom Bannister did not invite to the main house. Britt ordered Webb past the cantina, and they reined up in front of the long, single-story stone building.

  A man was lounging in the door, a light to his back, and he observed the two men in silence.

  “Give me a hand here, will you?” Britt asked him.

  The man came out beside Britt’s horse.

  “Put a gun on that man while I untie him.”

  The man complied with a grunt, and Webb was freed, then told to dismount.

  “Into the bunk house,” Britt told him.

  The three Montana men playing poker with a Mexican looked up as Webb stepped in. They looked at him a long moment, and finally one of them, the oldest, apparently, said from around a match in the corner of his mouth, “Well, well. They still swarmin’ over you, son?”

  Webb smiled faintly. It was the man who had asked him during the bank hold-up if he wanted the cuffs off. The significance of their presence here was not lost on Webb. Wintering County—or perhaps Bannister—had been behind the hold-up after all, and Tolleston’s hunch, based as it was on a false premise, was nevertheless correct.

  Britt looked sharply at this man. “You know him?”

  “Seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “He was handcuffed to a tin star the last I seen. Over in Wagon Mound.”

  Another Montana man looked at Webb and said, “The hell he was. I don’t remember that, Lute.”

  “Sure. I offered to turn him loose, but he was bein’ a good boy that day.”

  “He’s goin’ to be from now on,” Britt said, and added generally to the room, “How you fixed for money, boys?”

  They looked at each other. The younger Montana man laughed and looked at the man with the match in his mouth. “You tell ’im, Lute.”

  Lute grinned sheepishly. “Why, last night I was pretty well fixed. I ain’t now.”

  “I am,” the younger man said, and laughed again, feeling his stack of chips.

  “Then you want to make some?” Britt asked.

  “Sure. How easy is it?” Lute asked.

  “Plenty. I want this man guarded day and night. I don’t ever want him out of sight of one of you. If he makes a break—let him have it. Understand?”

 
Lute looked speculatively at Webb. “Play poker, son?”

  Webb nodded.

  “All right,” Lute said. “I don’t reckon he’ll be out of this chair much.”

  “What about the rest of you?” Britt asked.

  They all nodded or said “Yes,” and Britt pulled out a wallet and emptied it of gold coins, which spilled all over the table. The noise woke the other two Montana men, who were sleeping in their bunks.

  “That much every week,” Britt said, and he told the others his proposition.

  Lute looked carelessly at the money. “What’s the catch in this, Bannister?”

  “So long as he stays here, there’s none. If he gets away, there’ll be plenty,” Britt said slowly. It was the kind of speech his father would have made.

  There was a movement in the door and Britt turned to behold Hugo Meeker lounging in the doorway.

  “Evenin’, gents,” Hugo drawled, and they answered him. “The old man’d like to see you when you got a minute to spare, Britt.”

  “All right.”

  Hugo left, and Britt resumed his business. “I don’t know how hard you boys are drinkin’, but it won’t be an excuse. You better understand that.”

  Lute put in mildly, “You don’t want him to run off. All right, he won’t.”

  Britt turned and went out. Walking across the plaza, leading the two horses, he thought he could understand why his father liked to use men like those five. They did not ask questions, they understood, and they acted. All they needed was a little money.

  He turned his horses over to the horse wrangler at the main corral with instructions that the Broken Arrow horse be turned loose at the county line tomorrow. Then he headed for the wing of the house where Bannister’s office was. In spite of the fact that the main house with its wings contained something like thirty rooms, Wake Bannister only used three of them: his office, his bedroom, and a small dining room off the kitchen. For the most part the rest of the house was clean and well-kept—and empty, except when there were guests.

  A light was on in the office, and Britt entered without knocking. Hugo Meeker was talking to Wake, and he made the polite gesture of getting up to leave when Wake waved him back. It was all right with Britt, too. Ever since he could remember, there had been no secrets from Hugo, and sometimes in the past Hugo had gentled Bannister’s harsh discipline to his son. Britt liked him.