Bounty Guns (24 page)

Tip sank into the chair and waved a hand carelessly. “Oh, forget that, Rig. Let's talk about other things,” Tip said gently, and a wiser man than Rig Holman would have been warned by that gentleness.

Rig's smile flashed. It was the old smile, and now Tip saw that it was as phony as tin money.

“Sure,” Rig said. He drew a sack of tobacco from his pocket and rolled a smoke. Tip marveled at how steady his hands were, his gambler's hands.

Rig lighted his smoke and said, “I've been lookin' for you, Tip. I wanted some advice.” He laughed suddenly. “You aren't exactly easy to find these last few days, according to the town.”

“Not very,” Tip said quietly. “Advice on what?”

“I bought a place today. The Shields place. Know it?”

“I've heard of it. Go on.”

“It was up for auction and I picked it up. Fifteen hundred acres. Is it a good buy for fourteen thousand?”

“A very good buy.”

Rig looked up at Lynn. She still held the gun on him. He said nervously to Tip, “For God's sake, Tip. Make her put that gun down! What's the matter with her?”

“Nervous, Rig?”

“Why should I be?” Rig said defiantly. There was a little quiver in the cigarette he was holding. “Well, I bought it,” Rig said, watching Tip. His confidence was just beginning to crack.

“What for?” Tip asked. “Going to ranch?”

“No, I wanted a place to come to now and then. I like to get away from the tables every once in a while.”

“You can get a long way from a gamblin'-table on fifteen hundred acres, Rig. Why so much land?”

“Oh, I only wanted the park up there and the house,” Rig said.

He was sweating, Tip saw. Little beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead.

“That's what I wanted to see you about, Tip.”

“What?”

“I wondered if you'd go half and half with me on the place. You ranch it, and we'll split whatever it makes.” He stared intently at Tip, licking his lips.

Tip understood him. What he was trying to say was, that
if
Tip knew of the gold there, then he was willing to split fifty-fifty with him to keep it a secret. A kind of wicked relish for this scene was having its way with Tip now, and he pretended he hadn't understood.

“Why, Rig, you know I'm ranchin' up in the short-grass country. That is, I will if I can find Blackie's killer and earn that ten thousand.”

“Don't bother with that,” Rig said sharply. “This is a good ranch. It'll make us money. I'll pay you well, too.”

“How much?”

“Why, ten thousand the first year.”

Tip drawled quietly, “That's a nice offer, Rig. Mighty handsome.”

Rig was puzzled. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and for one moment despair showed in his eyes. He couldn't understand Tip's actions. Then he laughed. “Well, I think a lot of you, Tip. I'd like to help you. You don't seem to be doing so well here.”

“I'm makin' out,” Tip said gently. “You'd be surprised, Rig, how close I am to makin' out pretty well.”

Rig swallowed. He shuttled his glance to Lynn, who still held the gun on him, and then back to Tip. Tip's gaze had never left Rig's face.

Rig asked the question then that he knew he was going to have to ask, the question that would be the test. But he wanted to put it off as long as he could. He said, “Makin' out? You haven't got Blackie's killer yet, have you?”

Tip scoured his chin with his hand, regarding Rig with a faint smile. “Not quite yet.”

Here it was. Rig stammered, “You—you know who he is?”

“Oh, yes,” Tip said quickly. “I know who he is.”

“Who?”

There was a long pause. The sweat was streaming off Rig's face, and his hands were shaking so he couldn't stop them.

Tip, his eyes wicked, but a faint smile still on his face, threw a leg over the chair arm and said, “Rig, I come in here for a nice visit with you and then you start talkin' business. It's business, business, business all the time with you. No chance to get set, no chance to light a pipe, no chance to relax. You act like you thought time was money. That's a proverb, isn't it, Rig? ‘Time is money'?”

“I don't know,” Rig said weakly.

Tip swung his leg down, as if he were going to get up. Rig started to rise, and Tip settled back in the chair and threw the other leg up.

“A proverb,” Tip repeated. “That reminds me, Rig. My old man loved proverbs. He was a great reader.” He looked sharply at Rig. “Did you know that?”

“I—didn't know your old man,” Rig said hoarsely.

“That's right, you didn't. Well, he liked to read. He was after what he called a philosophy of life, and he figured he'd look for it this way. Are you listenin', Rig?”

“Yes,” Rig whispered. His face had gone to pieces now.

“He'd read all the proverbs he could find. But you know, Rig, for some proverbs that sound wise you can find other proverbs that contradict them. Let me see.” Tip looked at the ceiling. “Here's two that contradict each other. ‘Make haste slowly,' and ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.' See? They cancel each other, don't they?”

Rig nodded, his eyes desperate.

“Well, my old man got all the proverbs together, threw away all those that canceled out, and guess what he had left? It was his philosophy of life. Do you know what it was?”

“No.”

Tip swung his leg over the chair arm and came to his feet. Rig came to his feet, too.

“It was this. ‘When you're dead, you're dead!' And Rig, you're dead!”

Rig clawed away from him, and Tip grabbed him by the shirt front. He reached in under his coat and brought out Rig's gun and threw it toward Lynn. Then he shoved Rig into a corner.

“Tip, Tip!” Rig pleaded. “Don't shoot me! I'll split it with you, Tip. No, I'll give it to you if you'll let me go!”

Tip stood there unbuckling his gun belt. He let it drop to the floor, then kicked it over in Lynn's direction.

“Shoot you?” Tip drawled. “Hell, no, Rig. That's too easy a way to die for a maggot like you. I'm goin' to peel the skin off your back and see if it's yellow clear down to the bone.”

“Don't, Tip!” Lynn said.

Tip didn't hear her. He swung Rig out of the corner and knocked him over the footboard of the bed. The bed gave in at both ends and crashed to the floor. Rig scrambled up and backed against the wall. Pure terror was on his face.

“Tip, I'll give you all the money I got if you'll let me go!”

“There ain't enough money in the world to buy you off, Rig. Come off that bed!”

Rig Holman saw it was hopeless. He lunged for a chair, and Tip cut across to him and drove a left into his midriff that threw him against the washstand. Rig scrambled to his feet, picked up the water pitcher, and threw it at Tip, who ducked. It crashed into the mirror with a loud jangle and broke against the wall.

Rig had the bowl raised over his head when Tip came at him. He brought it down, and Tip threw up his arm to ward it off. It broke, and a great jagged shard ripped across Tip's cheek, drawing blood; Tip slugged him then, and Rig's head slapped back against the partition and he slid to the floor.

Turning quickly, he kicked up at Tip, catching him on the old wound. Tip's leg crumpled and he went down, and Rig dove on him. The breath slammed out of Tip now, and he felt Rig's slim, strong fingers circle his throat. He wrapped his arms around Rig and squeezed, then kicked with one leg and rolled over. When Rig came under him, he slugged hard at his face, and the thick, slapping sound of knuckle-studded fist on flesh was followed by a moan. Rig turned and sank his teeth into Tip's hand.

Tip came off him, yanking his hand away, and Rig scrambled to his feet now. Lynn, the gun still in her hand, her eyes wide with terror, was backed into a corner. Rig made a dash for the door, and Tip lunged against it. Tip threw him into a corner, then came at him. His back to the wall, Rig Holman had to fight now. He slugged out, and Tip did the same, standing toe to toe with him. Suddenly Rig ducked and then kicked out. Tip twisted, and the kick caught him in the side and he went down across the doorway. Rig leaped across the room, threw open the window, and put a leg out. Then he looked down and drew back, just as Tip reached him. Rig turned now, fury and terror and stark panic in his eyes. He fought like a wildcat, scratching and kicking and cursing through bloody lips. His coat was ripped off his back, and he was dragging it by one sleeve.

Tip's shirt was in tatters, and his face streaked with blood. But now he was fighting coolly, viciously, watching Rig's legs, watching for his openings. Time after time he smashed in blows at Rig's face, and each time Rig tried to dodge away from the open window, Tip stopped him with a rocketing blow that sent him back against the sill.

Lynn was crying, “Oh, Tip, don't. Let him go!” And Tip didn't hear her. Suddenly, Rig lunged at Tip, his arms wide to grab him and hold on to him. Tip caught his lunge, feet planted, and heaved forward. The sill caught Rig in the back and he bent outside. His scream for help keened into the night.

Holding him that way, with his right hand around Rig's throat, Tip slugged him in the face with all his strength and all his weight. He hit him so hard that he tore his own grip loose, and Rig went farther back still, taking Tip, who was off balance, too, with him. Tip grabbed for the window and got it and saw Rig's body slide over the sill, clear it, turn once in the air, and then hit the ground two stories below.

He pulled himself back into the room, and then looked at Lynn. Her face was drained of color and she was looking at Tip with eyes that were dark with fright.

“Oh, Tip,” she moaned, “don't look that way.”

“Give me that gun,” Tip said, and walked across the room, his hand outstretched. Lynn gave it to him, and Tip took it in his hand and opened the door and went out. He went downstairs, Lynn behind him, and through the lobby and out to the corner and rounded it.

There were many people already around Rig Holman, and Tip shoved them out of his way until he was standing beside Rig. Joerns, next to the man holding the lantern, stepped aside, and Tip kneeled by Rig and rolled him over.

Rig Holman was dead, his neck broken. Tip let him roll back on his face, feeling all the strength and rage drain out of him.

He looked up at Lynn, who eyed him silently, and then at Joerns. He stood up, swaying slightly.

“There's the man who killed Blackie Mayfell,” Tip said to Joerns.

“All right,” Joerns said.

Tip thought of something then. He reached down to the tattered rag of a coat that trailed out behind Rig and felt in the coat pocket. He drew out a paper, opened it, and then rose and walked over to Joerns.

“This is the deed you gave Rig Holman, isn't it, Joerns?”

“Why—yes.”

Tip ripped it in half, in quarters, in eighths, then threw the pieces in Joerns's face. The banker backed up, and Tip grabbed his coat and hauled him to him.

“Joerns, I'm still deputy sheriff of Vermilion county and Ball is sheriff. I'll dare you to tell any man, here and now, that Rig Holman owns that ranch.”

Joerns tried to pull away and couldn't, and his face went slack with fear.

“Then—who does own it?”

“Buck Shields owns it!” Tip ripped out. “He's comin' back here and run it, too. You better tell this crowd that any bounty money your bank has put up is withdrawn, too. Tell 'em now!”

Joerns said weakly, “I withdraw it!”

Tip let go of him and pushed him back into the silent spectators, then looked over the crowd. “There's a lot of things you people have been wrong-guessin' on besides me,” he said. “None of it matters much, I reckon, but that Buck Shields and Anna Bolling are gettin' married. This Vermilion county feud is over, for plumb good and all. Buck Shields has found gold under that place of his. If he wants to, he can hire a hundred gunmen to come in this town and pull it down on your heads. It's up to you people. Are you goin' to fight, or are you goin' to let the only straight Bolling and the Shieldses come back here and live in peace, like they want to?”

“Gold!” Joerns said. “Is that what Holman was after?”

“He was after it and he didn't get it!” Tip said belligerently. He looked over the crowd. “Well, what'll it be?”

Someone back in the crowd drawled, “Hell, Red, you can't lick us all. Sure we'll give Buck Shields a chance, and Anna Bolling, too. They don't fight, we don't fight. Is that right?”

A murmur of assent rose from the crowd. Tip said, “There's one way a dozen of you men can prove that.”

“How?”

“Go up there and pull Pate Shields out of jail and give him a horse and send the kid home.”

There was a moment of silence, and then someone yelled, “Come on.”

Tip grinned then, and the tension was gone. He found Lynn by his side and he went into the hotel with her. They didn't talk; there was nothing to say now in this moment.

“Come up and let me wash your cuts,” Lynn said, her voice businesslike and flat.

They went up to her room, and while Tip stood there in the middle of the floor, his shirt trailing down behind him, Lynn washed the blood off his face and arms. Tip watched her deft work, felt her light touch as she worked.

“So it was Rig who shot at me when I went into the sheriff's office?” he asked finally.

“I think so,” Lynn said, pausing in her work. “He came up the stairs carrying a rifle. I was watching his room. When he went in, I slipped into Uncle Dave's room and told him. He got up to help me.”

“Thanks for keepin' him for me.”

“Let's don't talk about it, Tip,” Lynn said quietly.

“I told you it wouldn't be pretty. I reckon I lost my temper.”

Lynn looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Your temper, Tip. Think what it's done for you. It brought you to this town. It got you into this feud. It got you into so many fights that the town rose in disgust to drive you out. It's got you into nothing but trouble.”