Bounty Guns (12 page)

He pounded around the corner of the wagon shed to find the lantern guttering in the same spot. And Ben Bolling, alone, was closing the corral gate. One whole side of him was a smear of dust.

When he saw Tip he stopped, as if he were not going to believe his eyes, and then his mouth opened with wordless cursing. Tip grabbed him by his open vest and shook him, and said wildly, “You're comin' with me, Bolling. Now get two horses out here. If they come back before you're through, I'll gun you, so help me, and shoot my way clear.”

Bolling gave up then. He brought out two horses, put bridles on them, and then, Tip, in an agony of waiting, said, “Never mind the saddles. Get on.”

He swung up after Bolling. He was waiting for his horse to pitch, but Bolling was too beaten to have thought of giving him a salty horse.

Tip cut Bolling's horse across the rump, and they angled off toward the cookshack. The cook, standing in the doorway, saw them, dodged inside, and they pounded past him. Seconds later, his rifle hammered futilely into the night.

Tip held to a gallop, hugging the flank of Bolling's pony, until they made the timber. Then he pulled up and listened, holding the bridle of Bolling's horse. Far off to the north, a racket of gunfire drifted to him.

He turned to Bolling and said mildly, “It'll be just twice as hard to break you out of where you're goin'. Now, get on.”

CHAPTER 8

“Where'd you hear that?” Buck demanded of Pate at dinner next day.

“Clem Dockstader,” Pate said, his eyes bugging. “It's all over town. He brung him in last night, they said. Ben Bolling looked like he'd been drug through a rifle barrel backward.”

“And he's in jail now?” Buck asked.

When Pate nodded, Buck looked up at Lucy, who had stopped her serving long enough to listen to Pate's story.

“On what charge?” Lucy asked.

“Killin' Uncle Haig.”

Cam Shields, already finished, tilted back in his chair and sucked on a toothpick, his eyes sleepy-looking and at the same time watchful. “He couldn't of killed Haig,” Cam drawled. “He was right here when Haig was shot.”

“What do you care?” Buck asked. “He's in jail, that's the main thing.”

“No, it ain't the main thing,” Cam said irritably. “If Ball can throw them Bollings in jail on a bogus charge, it's a leddy-mortal cinch he can throw us Shieldses in, too, if he notions it.”

Buck put down his fork. “The Shieldses aren't doin' anything that they could be put in jail for, Cam. You better get that through your head.”

Lucy put in, looking at Cam, “Ben Bolling tried to burn us out and kill us. Don't you think that's enough to jail him for?”

“I ain't talkin' about what Ben Bolling done,” Cam said, his narrow face stubborn. “I'm talkin' about what he didn't do. And he never killed Haig.”

“He done just as bad!” Pate said hotly. His mop of tow hair lay in an unruly wing over his forehead, partially covering one eye. Cam reached over and mussed Pate's hair and grinned. “All right, younker. Don't take my hide off.”

Pate didn't like to be treated like a ten-year-old, and he subsided in sullen silence. Buck assigned the work for the afternoon, then went out. Presently he rode into town. Pate went out to the corral to saddle up, and Cam followed him. The timbers of the barn were still smoldering. Cam's face was thoughtful as he leaned on the corral poles, watching Pate snake out a new horse for the afternoon riding. When, on the first cast, Pate laid a loop over his pony, Cam said, “You're better at that than I am, Pate.”

Pate flushed with pleasure, knowing it was true. He was an all around better hand than Cam was, only Buck had forbidden him to carry a gun of any sort, or even discuss the Bollings with anybody. Buck was an old woman in some ways, Pate thought, but he was a lot more of a man than Cam.

He threw his saddle on the gelding under Cam's watchful gaze.

“Did you see Ben Bolling, Pate?”

“Hunh-unh. Ball wouldn't let me in.”

“Was he marked up, did you hear?”

Pate said idly, “I never heard.”

“Of course, them lawmen would half kill Haig before they throwed him in jail, but not a Bolling. He's too high and mighty to touch.”

Pate ceased work. “Come to think of it, they just said Ben was dirty, like he'd been wrassled around.”

“Haig wasn't dirty,” Cam said grimly, “he was bloody. He was a Shields, though, and there's a difference.”

Pate looked at him. “You mean, they beat up Uncle Haig before they throwed him in jail, just because he was one of us?”

“That's what I mean,” Cam said, a spurious bitterness in his voice. “That-there sheriff's office is fightin' for the Bollings, and doin' it legal, too.”

“I don't see that,” Pate said, his interest roused now.

“You don't see no Bollings dead, do you?” Cam challenged. “You don't see no buildings of theirs burned down.”

“But Ben Bolling is in jail.”

“He'll go free,” Cam scoffed. “Why, they ain't even holdin' him on a charge that will hold water, and Tip Woodring knows it.” He shook his head. “That's just a front. They're tryin' to make it look to Buck like they was goin' to be fair. Fair!” he snorted contemptuously.

“You think they won't hold Ben?”

“How can they? All Jeff Bolling or Murray Seth has got to do is swear Ben was with them, and he'll walk out of that jail. Haig went out of it a dead man.”

Pate knew that was so, and he felt sudden anger. This morning, he had thought Tip Woodring a pretty fine
hombre,
but when Cam pointed out a few things it looked a little different. Ben Bolling wasn't hurt, and he'd been arrested on a charge that they'd have to free him on. Pate knew that because he'd seen Ben Bolling here the night of the fight. Uncle Haig was arrested and died in jail. Ben Bolling, a far more guilty man in Pate's eyes, would walk out of jail a free man.

Cam, watching Pate shrewdly, said, “That's what gravels a man, Pate. Here this old Ben Bolling has killed half our family and tried to burn us out. No worse man was ever met. Even his girl won't stay around him. He's a killer with a plumb black heart. And he's goin' free.”

Pate said hotly, “Somebody ought to shoot him!”

“Sure they should,” Cam agreed, adding, “They shot Haig in jail, didn't they?”

Pate suddenly thought of something, and looked swiftly at Cam. Cam wasn't looking at him; he was drawing circles in the dust with the toe of his boot. Pate was glad Cam hadn't seen him then, because Cam sometimes had a pretty good idea of what a man was thinking, without having to be told.

Pate turned back to his cinching, and Cam looked up. “Look here, Pate,” Cam said. “If Ben Bolling gets out of jail, the chances are he's goin' on the warpath again. And you ain't carryin' a gun.”

“Buck said not to,” Pate murmured sullenly.

“What would you do if you met some of them Bollings, or one of the Dennis outfit this afternoon?”

“Run, I reckon.”

“And what if they run you down?”

Pate bit his lip. “Nothin'.”

Cam lifted out his six-gun and offered it to Pate. “Here, you better carry this.”

Pate looked at it longingly and then away. “No, Buck said not to.”

“Buck ain't got good sense,” Cam said. He let a little of his real contempt for Buck slip into his voice, and that was a mistake. Pate looked up sharply.

“Who said he ain't?”

“I never meant that, really,” Cam said hurriedly. “I meant, he don't understand that you're in danger.”

Pate said firmly, “If he thought I was in danger, he'd tell me to carry a gun. If you want me to carry one, you better ask Buck. He's the Big Augur around here now, Cam, not you.”

The spell was broken now, and Cam could see he had lost. He watched Pate ride away, and his lip was curled in contempt. He almost had him there for a while, almost convinced him that Ben Bolling needed killing. Somehow, this gave Cam a feeling of power, and he smiled to himself. He saw where he'd made his mistake. If he'd approached it from another angle, like Pate would be doing Buck a favor and probably save his life if he did to Ben Bolling what the Bollings did to Hagen, then Pate would have been primed to kill. But, no, he'd muffed it.

He turned toward the house, walking slowly. He was a fool to try and bring any of his cousins in on this. They hadn't liked Hagen Shields, simply because Hagen was a better man than Buck. So they couldn't be expected to feel the way he did about Hagen's death. The idea that had come to him when he listened to Pate's news this noon was suddenly more than an idea. It was a resolve that had been sidetracked for a moment out there in the corral, but now it was back, hard and shining and implacable.

Lucy watched him go through the kitchen to his bedroom and return with a rifle. She said, “You aren't riding off the place, are you, Cam?”

“Oh, no,” Cam said easily. “I saw some deer sign over across the
cienega
yesterday. I think I'll make a try for them.” He went out.

Lynn Mayfell and Anna Bolling cooked their first supper in their new rooms above the
Inquirer.
Originally the rooms had been leased by two lawyers attracted to Hagen by reports of the feud and the possible lawsuits that would follow. But there were no lawsuits in this feud, and after the lawyers had got a bellyful of waiting for clients that never came in, they drifted away.

The supper dishes were stacked, and Lynn and Anna were working on curtains that would afford them some privacy this night. The big table in their front room was covered with material and they were sewing industriously, chatting, when they heard slow footsteps on the outside stairway. Lynn went to the door and found Tip Woodring climbing the stairs at a snail's pace. His leg was stiffened by bandages, for among all the wild shots thrown his way last night at the Three B, one had hit him in the thigh. It was a clean wound, but one that was painfully sore and stiff.

But whatever pity Lynn had felt for him had vanished this afternoon when he announced that he was making them a visit tonight, and that the reason for that visit was to question Anna Bolling about Blackie Mayfell. Lynn was all for waiting, saying that in her own good time Anna Bolling would tell her of discovering Blackie. Tip, goaded by impatience, had refused. The only way they'd learned what little they did know was by demanding it and getting it, wasn't it? This, of course, led to argument which grew heated and ended in a quarrel. All Tip would promise was that he wouldn't give Lynn's identity away. Lynn had left him, her face flushed with anger, and wondering if she were turning into a shrew. The number of times she had talked to Tip Woodring without being infuriated by something he said or did could be counted on one hand. It worked the other way, too. Her very presence seemed to inspire Tip with a cross-grained deviltry. But Lynn didn't care what he thought of her, as long as she knew her quarreling stemmed from the fact that she was trying to discover the murderer of her father.

Tip stepped inside and said, “Evenin',” to Anna and nodded a little coolly to Lynn.

Tip said to Anna, “I'm sorry I had to do that to your father, Anna.”

“Don't be sorry, Tip. You had to do it. Sit down, please,” Anna said. Tip hobbled over to a chair and settled into it, putting his hat on the floor.

Lynn thought angrily,
He's mealy-mouthed. He knows he's going to bully her, and starts it out by being polite.

But as soon as Tip was seated, he said, “Anna, this is going to be a tough night for you. I've got a hunch you'll be sorry I came, mighty sorry.”

Lynn didn't know why, but she felt relieved at that, and rather proud of Tip, although she wouldn't admit it to herself. “I'll go finish the dishes,” she said.

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Tip said. “You'll stay here. Anna will need your help. When I get too rough, you can tell me to call off the dogs.” He grinned in a friendly way, and Anna, bewildered, looked at Lynn for help. Lynn shrugged.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Anna said.

Tip looked at her troubled face. It was a strong face, not beautiful, but there was character in it. She looked like a girl who had met trouble face to face, and Tip felt ashamed that he was going to make her face it again. He pulled out his pipe, packed it, lighted it, and said, “It's about Blackie Mayfell, Anna.”

Something like terror passed fleetingly over Anna's face, and Tip felt a pity for her. He hardened himself, however, and went on. “Blackie Mayfell was killed on Three B land. We know that.”

“Who is ‘we'?” Anna asked shrewdly.

Tip flushed. That had been a slip of the tongue. “The man who sent me and myself.”

“Who did send you?” Lynn asked curiously. She had been wanting to ask this a long time, and she was glad now that Anna had given her the chance.

Thoughtfully, Tip leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and said to Anna, “I'll tell the truth if you will, Anna. How about it?”

“What are you going to ask?” Anna said, color creeping into her face.

Tip said sharply, “I'm supposed to be asking the questions, Anna, not answering them.”

“Stop your bullying,” Lynn said quietly.

Tip grinned swiftly and settled back in his chair. “I came here from Forks on a business proposition, Anna,” he said. “I'm earnin' ten thousand dollars if I find Blackie's killer.” He went on to tell of the deal with Rig Holman.

When he was finished, Anna said bluntly, “That's not much to your credit, Tip. Finding a man so you can blackmail him.”

“I know it,” Tip said quietly. “Only I got starved out down south. Ten thousand dollars means the difference between starvin' again and ownin' a nice spread. I don't care much about the rules for gettin' it, either, blackmail or no blackmail.”