Star Toter Page 8

  The bewilderment of utter exhaustion, caused largely by the long chill of the water, had been like a smothering blanket when he had gone to sleep. There was still bewilderment when he awoke, a sense of unreality such as had not come to him in years. He sat up, conscious of stiffness in every protesting muscle, looked around, and his wonder grew.

  He was in a bed, between white sheets. It was a softer bed than he had been accustomed to, and there were lacy curtains at the window, a pink geranium on the window sill. There was a dressing table and mirror, with a stool before it. Besides these were articles distinctly foreign to his experience, things unmistakably feminine: a comb and brush, a small hand mirror, a bottle of colored lotion.

  Good Lord, what's happened to me? Locke wondered. Where am I? He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, and the accumulated aches and stiffness caused by the long exposure creaked through joints and muscles. He looked anxiously around for his clothes and found no sign of them.

  There was a small rug on the floor, and he rested his feet on it, moved gingerly to a curtain which walled away a corner of the room, peered hopefully behind, then drew back, abashed. There were garments there, but certainly not his own.

  His dismay was growing. As he heard a light step in the next room, he jumped hastily for the shelter of the bedclothes. Ginny's voice came from beyond the door.

  "Are you awake, Orin?"

  Relief drove out part of the dismay. This must be Ginny's house—her room, her bed. How he had gotten there was past his understanding, but that it was Ginny rather than a stranger was reassuring.

  "I'm awake," he croaked, still not too sure if he was, or if this would turn out to be a dream at the tag end of a nightmare. The door opened and Ginny came in, cheerfully smiling, his shirt and pants over her arm. Both had been dried and cleaned and pressed.

  "Good morning, Orin," she greeted him as matter-of-factly as if this were an everyday happening. "I hope you're feeling better."

  He eyed her uncertainly. "I'm fine, thanks," he managed. "But how on earth did I get here, Ginny?"

  "I brought you here," she explained. "I found you on the street last night, almost in a state of collapse. You had fallen, and were past going another step, it seemed. But it was only a little way here, and you managed, with me helping. You were asleep as you walked, I think. I don't suppose you remember."

  "No, I don't," he confessed. "The whole thing seems like a nightmare—"

  "You were caught in the cloudburst, weren't you?" Ginny nodded. "I've been hearing how bad it was, a few miles from town. You must have almost drowned."

  "It was bad enough," he agreed, then came back to the present. "But you shouldn't have brought me here, Ginny." Dismay surged in him. "It isn't right! What will people say? I'd never have come here if I'd known what I was about."

  "I don't suppose you would," she agreed. "But 1 couldn't get you any farther, and besides, you needed taking care of. No one need say anything, or know about it. I'm sure no one saw you come here, in the dark. When you leave, you can step out with a package under your arm, as if you'd just stopped in to get something."

  Her calm acceptance of the situation eased his worry. She studied him with a calm appraisal. "I guess what you needed most was rest," she decided. "I expect you'll be pretty sore and stiff for a while, but you're strong. Here are your clothes. I did the best I could with them."

  "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. And if you'd like to shave, I'll get Dad's old razor."

  "Looks like I could stand a shave, all right," Locke agreed, glimpsing himself in the mirror. She left the room, and he dressed, blushing as he realized that she must have gotten him out of his soaked garments and into bed.

  He knew that he would never have reached his own room without help. If he had fallen and spent the night lying out at that high altitude, cold, soaked, exhausted and unconscious—then he would never have wakened.

  Or if he had been discovered by any of those who followed King Steele, he would have been equally badly off. Knowing that, Ginny had done the sensible thing without question or hesitation.

  The cheerful aroma of hot cakes and coffee greeted him as he stepped into the next room. Ginny turned from bending over the stove, her cheeks warm from the heat.

  "Right over there," she said, and indicated the razor, a mirror and a bowl of hot water. Locke shaved, nor did she question him until they were seated at the table.

  "You're feeling better?" she asked.

  "I'm going to be fine, thanks to you," he agreed. "I can never thank you enough, Ginny."

  "That's a rule that works both ways," she returned. "I think you know how it feels to be friendless, to feel as if you were all alone in the world, without a single one who mattered. It's pleasant to have a friend who you know is a friend."

  Because he could understand so well, he had no reply. If the years had been bad for him, they must have been even worse for her.

  "Here are your guns," Ginny said. "I've oiled and dried them, and I think they're in good working order, though I doubt if your cartridges will be dependable."

  "I'll stop at the hardware store and get a fresh supply," he answered, amazed anew at her attention to every small detail. She realized that a gun meant a lot to a man in that town, and doubly so to him. He had not told her about Ted Foley or the attack on the stage, giving only enough details of the flood for her to understand. Even so, she had a good notion what was happening in Highpoint, the savage cross-currents between which he had been caught.

  It came to him that there were many things which he wanted to tell her, matters which all at once had become vital to them, but this was neither the time nor the place.

  "I'm not going to try and thank you, Ginny," he said. "Not now. Later, there's a lot I'll want to say."

  "I'll be ready," she promised. "Don't forget those cartridges," she warned.

  13

  Fury had shaken King Steele as an earthquake crumples the earth's crust. The failure of his men, and the certainty that the gold shipment was lost, burst upon him like an incredible chapter from a tale of Arabian Nights. That one man could so circumvent the many arrayed against him was all but unthinkable.

  Nothing had worked as Steele planned, but some of the events might be shaped to his own ends. With luck, the whole episode might prove more profitable than otherwise.

  "You say the sheriff's dead?" he demanded. "Are you sure?"

  Big Mule nodded. The name had been foisted upon him both because of his physical size and his stubbornness, and it had clung after his real name had been conveniently forgotten.

  "There ain't a trace of him to be found," he said. "And if you'd seen how that water come down, and the stuff it washed, the way it buried the stage—" He shrugged. "We found two o' the stage team half a mile away. They'd been washed there an' lodged on a bank, six feet higher'n the valley floor. Yeah, I reckon he's under that pile somewhere."

  "It sounds that way," Steele conceded. Since events had taken this turn, it might be time to crowd his luck. One bold stroke could give him control of the Wild Buttes.

  "The whole thing, of course," he added, "was an accident."

  Big Mule eyed him sharply, then grinned heavily. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sure was. Some accident."

  "Do you know where Cable is?" Steele asked, and Big Mule studied him carefully. The question sounded irrevelant, as though he were changing the subject, but Big Mule knew his employer too well to be fooled.

  "Yeah," he agreed. "He's down Red Creek way. Gone to the roundup."

  "Accidents sometimes happen at a roundup," Steele mused. "Fatal accidents."

  Big Mule's lips tightened, then slowly spread to reveal a row of stained teeth.

  "Yeah," he conceded. "Sometimes they do."

  "I like accidents better—when they look like accidents," Steele added. "It ought to be a good night for ridin' south, Big."

  Big Mule stood and stretched mighty arms, flexing fingers like well stuffed sausages.

  "Reckon I'll
be moseyin'," he said, and went out.

  Many men rode for a look at the place where the cloudburst had poured down, shaking their heads at the devastation. The area was comparatively narrow, a circle only a few miles in circumference. But inside the circle the water had really spilled.

  It was not a matter of public knowledge that Locke had been out there or that he had had anything to do with the stage. But since his bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of him, it was assumed that he must have gone that way and been trapped.

  Not too much about the real happenings of the day before was known. The vigilante guards had ridden for hours, watching the lumber wagon, before someone discovered that their freight was only a dummy box, far too light in weight to contain the gold which it was supposed to hold.

  "So you got caught in your own rope," Steele decided. "Well, that being so, we'll let you rest in peace, the great two-gun marshal, dying in performance of his duties." He stepped out into the sunshine and halted in staring amazement. Sheriff Orin Locke was just emerging from the hardware store, his belt stuffed with cartridges which gleamed with newness.

  Big Mule lost no time in riding out of town, swinging to the east and south, down through a placid foothill country where Red Creek flowed. Once out of town, he made camp and slept the rest of the night.

  "No reason why a man should wear himself out hustlin'," he assured his horse. "I get plenty tired of always being on the jump. And another thing. Once this job's done, I'm gonna have me a few drinks of whiskey. Killin' is dry business."

  It was nearing mid-forenoon when he unexpectedly encountered Grant Cable. The boss of the Three Sevens was riding north, alone, even as Big Mule rode south.

  For the first time in his career, Cable was a prey to doubts and uncertainties. Across the years he had been sure of himself, knowing what he wanted and how to get it. His mind had been trained to follow a devious course, doing it so adroitly that he had long filled a dual role without even his daughter suspecting him. It had seemed that he was far too clever ever to need to worry.

  His talk with Reta had shocked him out of his complacency, and the subsequent interview with Locke had jarred him to the depths of his being. When you played such a game, you dealt, of necessity, with men of little scruple. So it was well to remember that what the other fellow might do was unpredictable.

  But he had forgotten his own rule, and King Steele had pulled a switch, with the result that the sheriff was no longer under their control. What worried Cable was not so much what might happen to himself as the dire possibility which Locke had suggested—what would happen to Reta when she found out?

  He had welcomed the chance to go to the roundup, so as to have a few days' delay before facing the issue. But as soon as he arrived at Red Creek, he had realized that dodging settled nothing.

  This had to be faced and fought through, and the sooner the better. After a sleepless night, Cable saddled a horse and started north again, his mind made up.

  He'd side with the sheriff, since that was what Reta wanted. What might come of such a course was obscured by uncertainty, but for the first time in years his mind was at peace. As he rode, he toyed with the idea of making restitution to certain victims of past injustices, chief among them Ginny Landers. But that, so far, was only an idea.

  He recognized Big Mule without surprise. The Mule was probably bringing a message from Steele. Cable pulled up. "Howdy, Big," he greeted him.

  Big Mule knew luck when he met it on the trail. At the roundup, among men from many outfits, it might be difficult to contrive the proper sort of "accident" and at the same time make certain that it was of a sufficiently final nature. Here, with just the two of them on a lonely road, it could be simpler.

  "Howdy, Grant," Mule returned affably, and pulled to a stop also. "You headin' back already?"

  "Thought I would," Cable agreed. "You got some news?"

  "Yeah." Mule nodded. "Just for you." He swung his own horse. "If you're headin' back, that saves me from going any farther."

  Cable's suspicions were not aroused. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Been a cloudburst up that way since you left," Big Mule explained, and went on to recite the series of events as they were commonly known, giving also the inside details which Cable would expect—how the attackers had been beaten off by the sheriff, who had unexpectedly been with the stage; how Locke had killed three of the quartette; the escape of the one outlaw and subsequent pursuit of the stage; how, as they had been certain of success, the cloudburst had struck, forcing them to flee for their lives.

  Cable listened, appalled. This was the plan which he had outlined to Steele, but later he had told Steele that they would make no attempt to take this particular gold shipment. Steele had taken matters into his own hands. The wanton killing of Red Foley and the subsequent disaster which had overtaken the sheriff left him with mixed emotions.

  But apparently Steele, having shown his hand, was willing to play along with him again, now that the sheriff was out of the way. Why else should he send Big Mule with word of what had happened? And the death of Locke did alter the situation.

  Big Mule observed him as he talked. Cable was intent on the report, completely unsuspicious. A plan formed in the Mule's mind as they rode. Steele wanted an accident. Here it could be nicely contrived.

  These were foothills, by comparison with the Wild Buttes, but fair-sized for all that, climbing toward the sun. They were on a narrow trail dug from the side of the hill, barely wide enough for a vehicle to travel. At intervals were turnouts where one wagon could wait for another to pass.

  Ahead and below was a steep, grassy slope, shelving down sharply for thirty feet to Red Creek. The Red flowed placidly, undisturbed by the storm which had poured its waters into Queasy the day before. Bright-hued dragonflies sported above the water. A kingfisher gave its rattling cry from the opposite shore, perching upon the dead branch of a willow.

  Big Mule, as befitted his size, rode a big horse. With a sharp touch of the spurs he swung it, knowing from experience that such spurring would set it to bucking and plunging. Expertly he turned the first lunge, to send it crashing against the plodding horse which Grant Cable rode.

  Not until he glimpsed the triumphant look in Big Mule's eyes did Cable begin to suspect his danger, and by then it was too late.

  Caught off-balance, the lighter cayuse was forced off the road in a quick shove. It tried frantically to regain its feet, to check its sliding plunge down the slope, but the hill was steep, the coat of grass as slick as a duck's back. Its feet had been knocked under by the shove, and there was no chance to regain them.

  Big Mule watched, his hand close to his holstered gun, alert to the possible need for it. A look in both directions had assured him that no one else was around to see what was happening.

  There would be no need for the gun. A mishap like this was a matter of chance or luck—good or bad, according to your way of looking at it. A horse might slip and take a tumble and land at the bottom of the slope, none the worse. Again, it might fall half the distance and break its neck.

  This was even better. Big Mule saw the cayuse come to a jerky stop in the shallow edge of Red Creek. It kicked spasmodically, then was still, lying on its back, feet upraised, head twisted at a grotesque angle under it. To fall in such a manner was unusual, but the luck of the trail was never certain.

  The kingfisher, squawking raucously, flew away, and the dragonflies, disturbed, moved a little farther downstream before they resumed their darting. Nothing else moved.

  Grant Cable lay as unmoving as the horse. He was in the water, pinned down by the saddle-horn which bored into his chest, the weight of the dead cayuse upon it. His face was in a pool which flowed above his wide distended eyes.

  14

  King Steele broke stride, shocked. He had accepted the apparently established fact that Orin Locke was dead. To see him was unsettling.

  Locke's clothes gave no indication that he had been caught by the cloudburst. T
hat was a minor mystery. But there was no doubt in Steele's mind that Locke knew of the part Steele had been playing and of the reaction to be expected. Only the method was in doubt, and it behooved him to move first, to forestall this star toter.

  Up to now it had been a risky game, but from now on it would be a contest with no holds barred, a fight to the death.

  A crowd was beginning to collect, men who were equally surprised to see the sheriff alive. A crowd could be useful or dangerous, depending on how it was swayed. Nearly everyone would be friendly to the sheriff if given a chance. They were thinking of the Orin Locke who had become almost a tradition, the man who had handled the bank robbers so easily. It was time to move fast.

  Steele did. He moved to confront Locke, and his greeting sounded friendly. "So you're alive, Locke! Everybody has been giving you up for lost after that cloudburst."

  Locke was stiff and sore, though the rest and breakfast had done much to restore him. But this morning he'd be slow with a gun—not too much, but only a fraction could mean the difference between life and death. The promptness with which Steele had begun this showed that the outlaw boss was heading for a showdown.

  "I hope people won't be too disappointed," Locke returned.

  Steele's reply took the onlookers by surprise. "That depends," he said. "I won't mince words, Locke. There's too much at stake for this whole community, just as there's been too much going on which is unexplained. Where did you spend the night?"

  Locke wasn't going to answer that. There had been nothing wrong in what Ginny Landers had done, and her act had probably saved his life. But if he told the simple facts, few would believe him or accept the true version of the story. He shrugged.

  "I've been around," he said.

  "So it seems," Steele agreed. "And you're still around —but it might have been a darn sight better, Locke, if you'd died in that flood—died as the hero you've made folks think you were. You even had Cable and me fooled, and now we want some explanations. It seems that you knew that gold shipment was going out on the stage yesterday, though everybody else thought it was to go by wagon. And you're the only one who did know that it was on the stage! Which raises a mighty interesting question: How did you know?"