War Party (Ss) (1982) (3 page)

This was the man she loved. This man, this tall, narrow-hipped man with the quiet face and the faintly amused eyes. His bronzed hair glinted in the light as he stepped into the door, but there was no amusement in his eyes now. They were shadowed with worry.

"Steve . . . whaf s wrong?"

He looked at her suddenly, as if detecting a new ring in her voice. And for the first time he shared his troubles with her. Before he had always brushed off her questions, assuring her everything would be all right.

"Heard somethin' today. Old Man Miller has hired a man. A killer."

She caught his arm. "Steve? For you?"

He nodded, closing the door. He took off his hat and started for the wash basin.

Then he smelled the coffee and saw the cup freshly poured.

He looked up at her. "Mine?"

She nodded, almost afraid for him to try it. Such a little thing, yet a mark for or against her.

He dropped into the chair and she saw the sudden weariness in his face. He tasted the coffee, then drank.

"A man named Bud Shaw. He's already here."

"You've seen him?"

"Not around here." He was drinking his coffee. "I saw him in El Paso once, when I first came west. He's a known man."

"But he kills for money? They can really hire men to kill someone?"

"This is a hard country, Laurie, and there's a war for range. Men hire out to fight as they join armies of other countries. I don't know as I blame 'em much."

Laurie was indignant. "But to kill for money! Why, that's murder!"

Steve looked up quickly. "Yes, if they drygulch a man. Bud Shaw won't do that. He'll meet me somewhere, unexpected like, and I'll have my chance." He got up. "I shouldn't be telling you this. The country's rough on womenfolks."

He glanced at his empty cup. "Say, how about some more coffee?"

For a long time she lay awake. How like a little boy he looked! In the vague light from the moon she could see his face against the pillow, his hair tousled, his breathing even and steady. Suddenly, on impulse, she touched his cheek. Almost frightened, she drew her hand back quickly, then slid deeper under the coarse blankets and lay there, her eyes wide open, her heart beating fast.

When breakfast was over and he had picked up his rifle, she stopped him suddenly.

"Steve .. . teach me to load the shotgun."

He looked around at her and for an instant their eyes held. Suddenly, his cheeks flushed. He turned back and picked up the shotgun, but his eyes avoided hers. Carefully, he showed her how the shotgun functioned, then at the door, he pointed. "See that white rock? If they come here, stop 'em beyond that. If they come closer . . . shoot."

She nodded seriously,
and he looked at her again, and suddenly he gripped her shoulder hard. "You'll do, Laurie," he said quietly, his voice shaken, "you'll do."

She was sitting where she could see out the door and down the trail when she heard the horse. She got up quickly and put her sewing aside. Heart pounding, she went to the door.

It was a lone man, riding a mouse-gray horse. A shabby old man, but he wore a neat,
N
arrow
brimmed hat.

He stopped on the edge of the woods and sat his horse there, one hand on the rifle, watching the door. He let his eyes drift slowly over the place, but she had a curious feeling that he was watching her, too, all the time his gaze wandered.

Then he let the horse walk forward and when he stopped he looked at her. "Howdy, ma'am. Mind if I git down?"

"Please do." He swung down, then leaving his horse ground hitched, he walked up to the door. "Passin' by," he said, "and I reckoned I'd try some of that there coffee."

When he was seated she poured a cup, and watched his expression anxiously. He tried it, tasted it again, then nodded. " A mite more coffee, ma'am, and you got it."

He looked around the neat little cabin, then out over the yard. The corrals were new and well built, the cabin was solidly constructed and the stable was no makeshift.

"Seen anything of Big Lew Miller?"

"No." She looked at him suddenly. "Look, did you ever hear of a man named Bud Shaw?

He's a killer. A man with a gun for hire."

The old man touched his mustache thoughtfully. "Bud Shaw? The name seems sort of familiar." He looked up at her, his eyes veiled and cold. "A killer, you say? Where did you hear that?"

"Steve told me today. Oh, he said that this man Bud Shaw was different than some, that he'd give a man a chance before he killed him. But I don't think that matters.

"Look," she leaned toward him, "you know outlaws. If you didn't, you wouldn't be living at Hustler's Springs. At least, Steve says that's a hangout for them. If you know how I can meet Bud Shaw and talk to him, I wish you'd fix it up."

He drank coffee and then rolled a smoke. She watched the slim brown fingers, almost like a woman's. Not one shred of tobacco spilled on the floor. When he had touched his tongue to the cigarette he looked around at her. "What you want to see him for?"

She had a notion of talking to him. No man could be so cruel as to-well, it wasn't right to shoot people, and Steve was a good man, only trying to build a home. That's all. And he wanted children, and ... she was explaining all this when he interrupted.

"I take it you've changed your mind about runnin' off?"

She flushed. "I-I must have been mad. He does need me. You believe that, don't you?

I mean -you think he really does?"

At the last her voice was pleading.

"A man needs a woman. No man is right without one, believe me. And with Steve it's got to be the right woman. He's that kind of man."

"But you said you didn't know him?"

"I don't. Not rightly, I don't. But folks hear things." His voice was suddenly sour.

"Lady, Steve Bonnet won't kill easy. Not for Bud Shaw or nobody. Why do you reckon the Millers ain't killed him? There's four Millers. Why ain't they done it?"

He struck a match and lighted his smoke. "The Millers tried it, but there was five of them, then. Your husband killed one Miller and put another in the hospital."

Steve had killed a man. Somehow the fact was not so shocking as it might have been a day or two before. Probably that was why he hesitated to condemn even a hired killer.

The old man got to his feet. "I'm driftin', ma'am. See you sometime."

"Wait." she went to the cupboard and hurriedly took down a pan of biscuits. "I just baked these, and some bread. Take them along." She took a brown loaf from the cupboard and put it with the biscuits into a sack. "That is one thing I can do!" Her chin lifted a little. "I can bake bread."

The old man looked at her thoughtfully. "Thanks, ma'am. I appreciate this. First time anybody has given me anything for a long time."

"And don't forget, you promised to come over and teach me how to make soap."

He actually smiled. "Sure enough, I did at that"

When he was gone she looked down the trail again. And returning to her chair, resumed her work.

It was almost dusk when she saw the rider. For an instant she was sure it was Steve, and then he vanished into the trees. Quickly, she got up, closed the window shutters and got the shotgun. Then she put out the light and waited. It was not yet dark outside and she could see clearly.

A long time later a soft rustle outside the window caused her shotgun to lift. A man rounded into the door and her finger was tightening on her trigger when she recognized Steve.

Frightened, she got to her feet. "Oh, Steve! I might have shot you!"

He glanced at her, his eyes wary. "You're alone?"

"Why-of course! Who would be here?"

He walked to the bedroom and drew back the blanket that curtained the door. When he returned to the kitchen he paused, looking around. "Somebody scouted the place today. A man ridin' a small horse."

She started to explain, then caught herself. If she told about the friendly old man then she must explain how they had met, and that she had planned to leave Steve.

That she could not bring herself to do. Not now.

He was watching her, an odd look in his eyes. Her hesitation had aroused his doubts.

"It must have been a mistake," she said guiltily. "I saw no one."

Her voice trailed off, but she knew she was a poor liar. Steve dropped into a chair and looked at her, frowning a little. To avoid his eyes she hastily began to put food on the table, and then, desperately, tried to open a conversation. Somehow her words trailed off into nothing.

Each time their eyes met, Steve deliberately looked away.

"Steve-what's wrong?"

He did not meet her eyes. He got up. "Nothin'. Just tired, I guess."

At daylight she was up and she got breakfast, her heart tight and cold within her.

Steve said nothing, only once when he finished combing his hair and turned away from the glass, their eyes met. His face looked drawn and lonely. Laurie longed to run to him and . ..

"You be careful," he said, sitting down at the table. "Don't let anybody in here.

The Millers -they might try anything."

"Have you seen that other man?" "Shaw?" He shook his head, watching her fill his cup. "No. He's the one worries me. That was no Miller horse that I tracked. That Shaw- he might try anything. All a man knows is that he'll be where he's least expected."

He waited inside the door for a long time before he went to the stable. He stood there, just studying the place, the trees, the hills. Reluctantly, he stepped out and then moved to the stable, flattened against the wall, then went in.

She waited breathless for him to emerge. When he came out he took a quick look toward the house.

He did not trust her. Laurie knew that now. He believed ... but what could he believe?

Suddenly, she started out. "Steve!" she ran toward him. "Steve! Don't go!"

He hesitated. "Work to be done. If I hide today, what about tomorrow, and the next day? I can't hide all the time. I got to go on."

The old man came up to the house just before sundown and he was walking, carrying his inevitable rifle. He came up to the door and waited until she saw him.

"Ma'am, I got to talk to you."

"You*d better go away." Laurie's small face was stiff with worry. "Steve saw your tracks. He-doesn't trust me."

"You told him about me? You described me?" he asked quickly.

"No. I told him I had seen no one. He didn't believe me."

"I got to come inside, ma'am. Bight away. I got to get out of sight."

She looked at him, saw the queer tightness in the parchment-like brown skin. She hesitated only a moment, then stepped aside.

"You'll help us?"

'
I'll
help you."

"Against Bud Shaw, too?"

He looked at her. "Yes," he said wryly, "even against him."

Then they heard the horse. A lone horse, and he was coming fast. From somewhere a shot sounded, then a volley. Then another shot.

The old man swore viciously. He started forward, then shrank back.

It was the gelding, and Steve Bonnet was clinging to the saddle horn. He half-fell from the saddle and, with a start of horror, Laurie saw the blood on his shirt and face, blood on his sleeve. He lunged, tripped on the step, and then before she could move to help him, he scrambled into the door. "Laurie!" his voice was hoarse. "The
shotgun! They're coming.
"

He grasped the door edge and half-turned, and then he saw the man standing by the table.

Laurie saw a sudden stillness come over his face, a strange coolness. His one good hand, his left, halted above the gun in his waistband. The butt was turned for a right hand draw ... it was an awkward chance.

"Hello, Bud," he said quietly.

Laurie cried out, a stabbing little cry.

"Hello, Steve."

The man waited, looking at Steve.

"Go ahead," Steve said bitterly. "You've given me my chance. I'm ready."

Bud Shaw looked at him, and nodded gravely. "Sure you are, Steve. I knew that. You'd always be ready." He waited and Laurie could hear the clock tick, and somewhere outside the slow movement of approaching horses with cautious riders.

"You're a lucky man, Steve," Bud said quietly, "you've got a game wife, a fine wife."

Slowly then, with conscious and obvious deliberation he turned and went out the door.

He stopped there with his feet wide.

They heard the horses coming on, then heard them stop. Steve stared at Laurie, listening.

Then he dropped his hand for the shotgun and lifted it. She could see the blood on his sleeve, reddening his right hand.

"All right, Lew," it was Bud Shaw speaking, "you can stop right there."

"Never knowed you for a turncoat, Bud," Big Lew spoke carefully.

"I told you I was through," Bud Shaw spoke reasonably, "I told you plain."