Star Toter Read online

  "How does he know?"

  "It seems that he saw me carry Ray into Ginny Landers' house early this morning."

  "Ginny's house?" He whistled. "So that's where he is!"

  "That's it. And Reta Cable is there with them. You know what that means, Fletcher?"

  Again the doctor's nod was grim.

  "It means the devil to pay—if Mule's allowed to see Steele," he agreed. "I'll put your arms in traction splints for a few days to keep them from being moved. It will be uncomfortable, but the best and quickest method to heal them. As soon as I get them fixed, I'll ride out and deal with the Mule."

  "And how do you propose to do that? He's bad enough sober, but twice as bad when he's drunk."

  "With all that's at stake, I suppose I'll have to shoot him."

  "And hang for shooting him in the back? That would be your only chance. No, Fletcher. Neither one nor the other."

  Something in his tone, more than the words, caused the doctor to regard him attentively.

  "What do you mean?" he demanded. "And why not? He's got to be stopped—and tell me any other way."

  "There is no other way," Locke admitted. "But if you gave him a break, he'd kill you. He's never too drunk to outshoot most men."

  Bannon shook his head stubbornly. "I can do a good job of trying," he growled.

  "Not good enough, I tell you. And we need you alive."

  "Then suggest something better," Bannon protested. "Good Lord, Orin, can't you see what will happen if Steele finds out what he wants to know—not alone to Ray, but to those girls as well? He's been making a desperate search, to no avail, until he's a mad dog let loose. Also, he's wanted Reta for a long while."

  "I know," Locke agreed. "We'll forget Big Mule and concentrate on Steele when the time comes. As soon as you get me fixed up, can you disguise yourself for a trip to Ginny's, then look after Ray? He needs your care badly. If you disguise yourself as a prospector or something, and go to the shop as a customer—"

  "That I can manage, and nobody will guess that it's the town bum," Bannon granted. "But what good will it do to doctor him, if he's to die tonight?"

  "You keep him alive, and I'll attend to the rest," Locke promised. "And never mind the splints, Fletcher. Just bandage my arms so that they won't start to bleed again. But leave them as free as possible, not bulky or clumsy."

  The doctor stared at him. "You sound as though you aimed to use your guns again!" he said, half in derision.

  Locke's reply startled him.

  "I do," he agreed.

  20

  Bannon blinked, glancing toward a half-empty flask on a shelf.

  "I haven't touched a drop for two days," he said accusingly. "Now what did you say?"

  "I figure to do it with your help," Locke explained. "Or rather your guns, since they took mine. Listen, Fletcher. As you see, there are no bones broken; nothing worse than a couple of holes, one in each arm. I can use them a little, though it hurts like the devil. But fundamentally, there's nothing else wrong."

  "Nothing wrong at all," Bannon conceded dryly, "except a bullet hole through each. And you tell me I'm too slow to match lead with a killer!"

  "You are, and so would I be, now. It would hurt so that I couldn't even lift a gun. But if you hypnotize me, Fletcher, so that I won't feel any pain—then I can use my guns today!"

  Bannon stared at him in silence, clearly startled by the suggestion. Yet Locke knew that the thought was not new to Bannon. He believed in the use of hypnosis in medical practice and had used it in the past, even though it had drawn down bitter criticism upon his head.

  "As I understand it, if you hypnotize me, I'll not feel any pain," Locke went on." I can eat a meal and get a few hours of sleep while you look after Ray and keep watch. By the time Steele starts after him, I should be in pretty good shape. And if I'm not bothered by pain, I'll stop him! It's the only way."

  An expression of approval spread slowly over the doctor's face.

  "I'm so sober that at first I didn't trust my ears," he said. "But I believe you've hit it. The notion is radical, but it will work. Whether your arms will have sufficient speed left in them, with a hole in each, even though you feel no pain—that I can't say. It's a risk. But if you can deal with Steele, then the girls and I can tell what we know and get a hearing. After that, with Steele out of the way, there'll be nothing to worry about. But Steele is something else again. Even at your best, do you know what you'd be up against? Steele is one of the best gunmen who ever came to the high country."

  "Name a better way to handle it," Locke challenged.

  "I can't," Bannon conceded. "This is a long change, but it seems to be the only one. One merit is that it will catch Steele off guard. All right, now. Don't try to resist me. I'll do my part."

  The pain, of course, was there. That was an absolute fact, like the existence of sound where there were no ears to hear. But the flesh no longer felt the pain. Being ignorant of its existence, it acted as if there were no pain.

  That was a layman's explanation, rather than a scientific one, but it suited Locke. It was startling, little short of a miracle, Bannon reflected, even though he understood well enough. In a matter of minutes Locke had become a new man. He saw the bandages on his arm, but gave them no further thought. In Orin's present state, Bannon knew that he had forgotten what they stood for, just as he had forgotten his wounds.

  Ordinarily this was not what Bannon could have approved as a doctor. The treatment pleased him, but not the activity which would follow it. Locke would use his arms as though there were nothing wrong with them. That might not be particularly harmful, but neither could it be called an aid to healing. It was a drastic remedy for a desperate situation.

  Locke was sleeping when Bannon left him. During his student days in France, Bannon had done some acting on the side. He walked the street so adroitly disguised that passers-by stared, wondering who he might be, not suspecting that it was the beer-guzzling medico. He moved with a curious exhilaration, having no fears for Locke. He had locked the door to his house, and no one, if he thought to look there, could break in without arousing Locke. A pair of six-shooters was handy to his reach.

  Locke was still sleeping when the doctor returned, carrying a small package which he ostensibly had purchased at the dress shop. The afternoon passed in lazy somnolence; the sun was warm overhead. Nothing disturbed the peace. Whatever hunting Steele was doing must be outside of town.

  It was supper time, an hour short of sunset on the long summer evening, when the doctor awakened Locke.

  "They're coming," Bannon informed him quietly; "Steele and Big Mule and half a dozen others of their crew. Looks as if they're headin' toward the dress shop!"

  Locke glanced alertly from the window. With a fresh clean shirt over his bandaged arms, nothing showed. He was still under the influence of hypnosis, as Bannon had planned, and as he slipped the guns into their holsters, he seemed to have forgotten that there had ever been anything wrong with his arms. The sleep, together with a meal, had made a new man of him. Steele, the doctor reflected grimly, was in for a surprise.

  "Ray's considerably better this afternoon," Bannon added. "He's over the hump, I think."

  The posse were on foot, moving purposefully but not hurrying. Having kept careful watch, Bannon had made sure that they still had some distance to go. Locke could take another route and arrive at Ginny's ahead of them.

  "I'll be along to back you up," Bannon added, and gave his patient a few final instruction, though there seemed little need for that.

  Locke moved swiftly and arrived at the shop. He circled to the rear, toward the kitchen door, rightly judging that it would also be Steele's destination. As he reached the door, the others came in sight, less than a hundred feet away.

  Big Mule had consumed his liquor as scheduled, and he showed few outward effects from it. To him it was what he called it: dishwasher. Only because it had loosened his tongue and made him a creature of contradictory and unpredictable moods co
uld one be sure that he had been drinking.

  He walked beside Steele, both of them silent, Big Mule because he had suddenly lost his volubility, Steele because he was tense and eager. During the day he had made certain that the town was completely under his domination. Men knew what he hunted, and what would happen to Ray Locke if he were found. But news of Grant Cable's death had spread, along with the report of the shooting and discrediting of Orin Locke. This one final gesture would wipe out all effective opposition; men might hate him, but they would fear him more.

  Steele halted, jerked from his pleasant contemplation by sight of a lounging figure before the doorway. He blinked, shocked and startled.

  There was no doubt about it. That was Orin Locke, waiting with arms folded across his chest rather than hanging at his sides; arms which were neither shattered nor bloody. He did not have the appearance of a sick man, and the look on his face was a warning.

  "Did you want something, Steele?" he asked, and took a slow step forward.

  Steele blinked again, not believing the evidence of his eyes. His question proclaimed that he was badly rattled. "What the devil are you doing here?"

  The answer was chilling. "I'm here to kill you, Steele."

  The others were watching warily, Big Mule with renewed interest. Suddenly he guffawed. "That whiskey sure done you some good, didn't it, Locke?" he chortled. "Gran' ol' dishwasher!"

  Though at a loss to understand, Steele was beginning to get a grip on himself. It was clear that Locke was still dangerous, a factor to be reckoned with. But appearances were deceptive. If it came to a showdown, Locke could do no more than bluff. The reflection was reassuring.

  Likewise, Steele had men to back him, and people were watching, though keeping at a discreet distance. His prestige in the community demanded that he go through with this, finish what he had started.

  "I don't want to kill you, Locke." He shrugged. "I tried to make that plain. But I'm here in my official capacity, so stand to the side."

  Locke did not move. "I don't like killing," he returned. "If there was any other way, I'd take it. But it's you or me, Steele—and you're here to murder a sick man who can't help himself. After I've settled with you, I'll tell the folks of the community of the part you've been playing—how you and Cable appointed me sheriff—"

  Steele clutched eagerly at that straw. "Sure we appointed you," he interrupted. "But when we found that you were a crook, I kicked you off the job."

  "You mean when you found that I wouldn't do your dirty work," Locke corrected him. "You've played a smooth game, Steele, up to and including having Cable murdered, because you were afraid of him. But I can prove that you're the leader of the outlaws in this section of the country—"

  He got no farther. Steele had listened in mounting alarm and rage, curiously reluctant to come to grips with this man who should be dead, or nearly so. It seemed that he faced something bigger than a man, which it would be folly to battle. Yet he had to act, or Locke would reveal such damaging truths that no one would doubt his guilt.

  Steele tried again to reassure himself, to remember what had happened to Locke and that this was a bluff; it could be nothing more. He flung himself to the side, half-turning, his hand stabbing for his gun. His nerves were ragged and he was off-balance, but he was still fast. Let any man, any whole man, match lead with him!

  He was in the middle of his draw, his gun barely clear of leather, when a bullet drove him back, hitting his chest like the smash of a grizzly's paw. Locke's arms were no longer folded; he had a gun in each hand, one of them smoking. As Steele faltered and tried to lift his own weapon higher, a second blow pounded him around in a half-turn. He wavered, fell, and seemed to grovel in the dust. Locke's voice rose sharply above the echo of gunfire.

  "Reach, the rest of you! Fletcher, lift their hardware," he added, and watched in silence while his order was carried out. Even Big Mule was too awed to offer resistance.

  "And now git!" Locke snapped. "It's the law speaking. If any of you who've been taking Steele's orders are still in town tomorrow, or ever again, it'll be too bad for you."

  He became vaguely aware that Bannon was beside him, that a pile of guns had been tossed at his feet, that the doctor's arm was thrown behind his shoulders.

  "It's a clean-up, Orin." The doctor chuckled. "Complete, finished, should you ask me! Folks don't require any explanation, for they already know plenty. And after the job you've just done, why, hanged if I won't have to revise my whole opinion of my career! You're a patient that I'm so proud of I could blubber!"

  Then, being first and last a doctor, he looked keenly at his friend, knowing his weariness and strain, and turned as the door opened behind them.

  "Let's go inside," he said. "There are those here who wish to see you!"

  21

  Bannon's words were no overstatement. Ginny was holding the door wide, waiting for him, and in her eyes was welcome, along with other emotions which caused them to swim with unshed tears.

  Locke found himself alone with her in the kitchen, Bannon having gone on to the sick room. At what he saw in Ginny's eyes, Orin knew a deep contentment, a sense of homecoming which had been long absent.

  "Ginny!" he said, and reached out hungry arms. Ginny came to their shelter without hesitation.

  After a moment she raised her head, a puzzled look in her eyes. "Oh, Orin," she murmured, "your poor arms! I heard something about them. Still you seem to be able to use them all right!"

  He was a little puzzled, but it did not matter. The things which did matter were clear enough, and Fletcher Bannon would take care of the rest.

  Presently, with a discreet cough, the doctor appeared in the doorway.

  "If you can spare a little time, there are others who would like to see you," he suggested. "After that, you're going back to my place and to bed. As a doctor, I'm more pleased to have my theory so well verified, but as a plodding medico, I know that flesh should not be subjected to too great an ordeal. Here he is, Ray."

  Ray Locke was conscious and, for the first time since suffering his own wounds, in reasonably good condition. His fever had abated, and there was a rational look in his eyes. Reta stood at the far side of the bed, holding fast to one of his hands. To Locke's amazement, Ray's eyes were almost pleading.

  "Luckily, he wasn't set back by last night's jaunt," Bannon explained. "Now he wants to talk to you, Orin, which is fine. But not for long, for he's still far from well."

  Ray's voice was barely above a whisper. "Reta's told me—what you did," he managed. "I want to beg your pardon, Orin—to ask your forgiveness. I've been—such a fool—"

  "Everything's going to be all right now, Ray," Locke retorted. "Don't let past mistakes worry you. Just get well —for my sake, and Reta's."

  "When you put it that way—I sure intend to," Ray promised. His look at Reta sent the color flooding into cheeks which had been more than usually pale. Presently all of them left Ray, returning to the other room. Reta was as mystified as she was pleased.

  "Ray is so changed since he became better, Doctor." She frowned. "I've always liked him, but now he's so much more—well, the sort of man that I'd wished he could become, the sort that I always thought he might be." She looked about, confused, groping for an explanation, and her eyes fixed on Locke. "So much more like Orin," she finished.

  Bannon nodded placidly. "You'll find him a changed man from now on," he assured her. "It was as I'd long suspected, observing him, remembering how different he had been as a boy. You thought it was bad Levering blood cropping out in him, Orin, but it wasn't that. And though I hate to say anything reflecting on a fellow practitioner —still, we all make mistakes."

  "The plain truth of the matter is that when Ray was in that accident, back before you left the country, Orin, he was hurt worse than he or Emery ever guessed. He was thrown, falling on his head, and he suffered an injury to his skull. That caused a slight pressure of the bone on a certain area of the brain—I'll not go into the technical details, bu
t what it means is that the continuing pressure affected him. It did so to the point where it not only changed his disposition, but also induced criminal tendencies. I had suspected something of the sort, and when he was so battered in that fight the other night and I was called in, I verified my suspicions."

  Bannon cleared his throat. "To correct such a condition required a delicate operation, one that is sometimes dangerous. But once I was considered a good surgeon, and since he was unconscious, I decided that it would be better to risk a complete cure instead of half a one. I operated to relieve the pressure. You can already see the effect, for he has been restored to his normal self. He'll be a real Locke from now on, and a husband, Miss Reta, of whom you can be proud."

  "That's wonderful," Locke said, amazed. "And you, old friend, are a success in your career. You can be doubly proud."

  "Well, I feel more like a man than I have for quite a while," Bannon conceded. "And that's a fact."

  Reta was twisting her hands in her apron. With a doctor's practised eye, Bannon noted it.

  "I'm going to give you something so that you'll get a good sleep, Reta," he said. "This has been a rough ordeal, especially the news about your father. But there is better ahead."

  Reta raised a strained, tormented face to him. "That's bad—Dad being killed," she said. "Yet in a way, I'm almost glad. This way—he's safe."

  "Safe? What do you mean?" Bannon questioned.

  "I mean—he and Steele were partners," Reta explained. "I think that Orin knew it. I didn't, not till last night, though I'd had some dreadful suspicions. But last night, knowing that you'd probably be coming back for me, Orin, I was afraid of what might happen at the ranch, with almost everybody gone. So I took some of Dad's valuable papers."

  She was silent, still twisting her apron, fighting for composure. Then she went on.

  "I'd never seen any of them before—and I didn't intend to look then, only just enough to be sure that I got what should be kept safe. But there was something on one, something I couldn't help noticing—and that made me look at the others." She drew an unsteady breath, her face as white as milk.