COMING UP THE trail, Chavis saw how small the shack before him looked against the mass of rock and pine which rose tier upon tier, fading into the far-off peaks ahead. Wind and rain and summer suns had turned the shack a weathered brown-gray. The door hung wide, tilting on one hinge. He gave it a short scrutiny and went on.
This meadow hung narrowly above the valley, between the high rim of the Mogul behind him and the quick fall of the canyon ahead. The trail dropped him into that sunless gorge and curled about a huge rock wall on a ledge hewn from the cliff face. He descended the trail’s loops to the gorge bottom and a mile farther on came upon Oro Creek that fell, glittering like crystal, into the deepening canyon, dark and damp. Mist hung like rain.
This was Sid Vivian’s domain and so he rode with care. He wound on along the dust-yellow road running between close-ranked pines and pushing steadily upward into the Yellows. A few hours of constant climbing brought him through a notch in the mountains and onto a hard-packed trail. Noon had long passed when he arrived at the base of a bald mountain, on top of which sat Sid Vivian’s Flying V.
Chavis dismounted before the long log house and entered without knocking, interrupting the earnest talk of three men sitting at a table. Their glances came to rest on him coldly.
“How are you, Sid?”
Stillness held them. Chavis gave them plenty of time to answer, but when the indifferent silence wore on, he thought, if they weren’t displaying hostility it was bad manners.
Finally Sid Vivian spoke. “Tracy, we are not your friends. Not these days.”
And never before, Chavis thought. He grunted, the rebuff leaving him without visible anger. These were the Yellows, and this was what he returned to: a seething current of intrigue beneath the land’s outward calm.
Pete Vird, the point-shouldered one sitting beside Vivian, smiled blandly; and big Jube Martin, the trio’s muscle, rumbled out, “Chavis—keep movin’, keep movin’.”
“Shut up, Jube,” Chavis said, and shut the door behind him. He leaned against it and looked at Sid Vivian, the man who had started the ball rolling by sending his ultimatum to Majors. Vivian was tall and so rawboned as to seem emaciated. His face was narrow and his long, cruel mouth was grinning lopsidedly. It was a comment on the man’s self-assurance that he had shown no surprise or concern at Chavis’ appearance.
A door behind Vivian swung open and a tow-headed cowboy walked in, his shoulder heavily bandaged. Chavis remembered the man—Ray Corrigan, one of Vivian’s neighbors. Corrigan recognized him and stopped short.
“I thought so,” Chavis said. “You were the boys I met on the trail last night. I hit a man—you, Ray.”
“I didn’t know it was you, Chavis! Honest to God I didn’t!” Corrigan’s voice was a shrill anxious whine.
“Shut up, Ray,” said Vivian, without looking at Corrigan. “That’s right, Tracy. But we weren’t huntin’ for you.”
“Just anybody that happened to ride along that trail,” Chavis suggested. “Or someone in particular?”
“Not a friend,” Vivian said.
He stepped forward. “Who was it, Sid?”
Vivian frowned, then shrugged. “I heard Ben had sent for a marshal. He’s got the law bought off from here to Yuma. I didn’t want one of his paid tin-badges to get in here.”
“Sid, let me tell you something. I don’t tolerate men shooting at me, whether it’s a mistake or not. I shoot back—Ray found that out. And one other thing: I’m back where I was four years ago, ramrodding Chainlink. We took no guff in those days and we will take none now. If a man sets his dogs loose on my range I’ll personally hunt that man down and kill him. Is that plain?”
“You’re walkin’ on thin ice, Tracy. Nobody invited you up here to throw questions around and threaten us.”
“Nobody invited you to start a range war,” Chavis reminded him. “But if shooting starts, you can expect any bullets to be returned double.”
Vivian brought forth a sudden humorless grin. “You frighten me, Tracy.” Then his glance narrowed. “Consider it luck that I’m letting you out of here alive.”
“I came up to serve notice. I’ll have no night riding on Chainlink. Understood?”
“And how are we supposed to get to town without crossin’ Chainlink?”
“Find a way around,” said Chavis, and stepped outside.
Full dark fell half an hour before he unsaddled his horse and left it in the Chainlink corral. When he mounted the porch he stamped his feet to rid them of some of the day’s dust and to announce his presence.
Connie Boyce opened the door and frowned. “I thought you’d gone.”
“What have I done to make you turn against me? I don’t think you really believe I stole that money.”
“Don’t I?”
“No,” he said. “But I can see your hatred, and I regret seeing it in you.”
“Forget it.” She turned away. “Just get out of here—leave me alone.”
He didn’t move. She crossed the room and faced him from that distance, seeing his steady, stubborn glance.
He closed the door behind him. “I saw Sid Vivian. Told him I was ramrodding Chainlink.”
“You said a lot, since you’re not working for me.”
He walked around her to the center of the room, her beauty arousing instincts that he tried to ignore. “Look. Whether you want me or not, you need me. Chainlink is down on its knees and all you need to go over on your face is one good shove from Vivian or Ben Majors. I can stop them.”
“Why should you try?”
“I owe something to your father.”
“He’s dead. And you’ve paid back the money.”
“Money doesn’t settle that land of debt.”
She took time to reflect. “All right. If you think you can save us, go ahead. But I’ve seen toughs before who held the whip. They always use it too hard, until someone stronger takes it from them and whips back.”
“The strong ones usually run things.”
“If they’re also honest.”
“Maybe. But strength’s the important thing. I don’t believe in the meek inheriting any earth hereabouts.”
“No,” she said. “You’d never believe in that.”
He turned and went out.
Sam McCaig was already asleep. Chavis sat on the edge of his bunk, and, in order to drive thoughts of Connie from his mind, considered several items that aggravated the situation shaping up against him here.
Chainlink was the primary strategic target for both Majors and Vivian if they began a serious war on one another. Also, Chavis was not entirely satisfied with Vivian’s explanation about the desert ambush last night. He never could bring himself to trust Vivian; the hill man’s mind ran in hidden and devious patterns that were impossible to follow, except that its total purpose was to benefit Sid Vivian.
Then there was the question of Corey Wate, a mystery that still bothered Chavis. Kicking the fat puncher off Chainlink should have been the end of it, but only a few hours later Wate had returned, riding a new horse he’d gotten from someone, to move furtively across Chainlink. Why?
It might mean nothing, he realized. Yet he knew that he’d be a fool to ignore it.
And finally there was the unknown thief who had ambushed Chavis and Jim Boyce four years ago and stolen Jim’s five thousand dollars. That man most likely had previous knowledge that Boyce would sell his herd in Gunsight, and if so the chances were he had come from the Mogul country. But who was it? Chavis felt that the answer to that question must be tied up with Boyce’s unsolved murder. If he found the killer, he was certain he would have the thief.
He shook his head. Right now he had answers for none of those gnawing questions, and worrying would get him nowhere.
He stripped and slid into his blankets.
In her nightgown, Connie climbed into bed and leaned over to blow out the lamp. She lay back, thinking about Chavis. Perhaps the big man really felt he owed something to her father’s memory; perhaps he had some other motive for staying here. In any case he had moved in, and though she had no liking for the methods he used, she admitted that there was comfort in knowing that now Chainlink had some hope of self-defense. Presently drowsiness made her roll over and close her eyes. . . .
She awoke, startled, and lay perfectly still while she tried to remember what it was that had alarmed her and brought her up out of sleep. Some unidentifiable sound, something foreign to the night.
It came again, a soft scraping, like sandpaper against wood. It sounded nearby. Fright caught her and she lay stiff and listened, hardly breathing. The scraping continued at irregular intervals.
Finally she heard a muffled thud, like bare feet hitting a floor. She sat bolt upright, turning to face the window.
Inside the room stood a huddled shape, caught stark still by her sudden movement. For a moment she sat there and then, terror urging haste, she flung herself toward the door. The man, unrecognizable in the dimness, reached the door first and stood there, a threatening shadow.
“Hold it, sister.”
He spoke in a gruff, disguised tone, but she almost recognized his voice. “Don’t get funny,” he ordered. “I’ve got a partner by the bunkhouse window with a gun. You get silly, he fixes your two prize boys so they’ll never wake up.”
“What do you want?”
“There’s five thousand dollars in this place. Chavis sent it to you. Where is it?”
“You’re crazy!”
“I hope not. Because if that money ain’t here you and your two cowboys won’t be alive to see the ashes of this house.”
Where had she heard this man before?
“In the front room,” she said quietly.
“Show me.”
She heard his heavy footfalls following her into the front; she hesitated, then wrenched open the desk drawer.
He had the bank draft and was gone before she realized it.
She threw the door open and ran across the porch; she jumped to the ground, stumbled, and went on blindly. The man was around the comer of the house by now, but she ran full tilt to the bunkhouse, calling out and pounding on the door.
When it suddenly opened she almost fell inside against Chavis’ chest.
“A man—in the house!” she gasped. “He got the money…”
They heard a crunching of sand, saddle leather creaking, the pounding of suddenly galloping hoofs.
“What money?”
“The bank draft you sent.” She realized that she had her hands on his arms and withdrew them. “He said his partner was here ready to kill you.”
“No one’s been down here. He was bluffing. What about that draft? You’re sure that’s what he was after?”
“He kept demanding it—he threatened to kill you.”
It puzzled him. “That draft’s no good to anybody besides you. I made it out to Jim Boyce; you’re the only one who could cash it.”
“What difference does that make? It’s gone now. Now were finished. Without that money we can’t operate the ranch. I’ll have to sell out.”
“That’s why they took it—to force you to give up.” He swung toward the corral. “But it won’t work.”
He reappeared shortly with his horse saddled. By this time McCaig was outside, dressed and armed. Chavis asked Connie: “How good a look did you get at him?”
“I couldn’t recognize him for sure. But he sounded like one of Vivian’s men—the one they call Pete, I think.”
He mounted. “I’ll be back tomorrow sometime.”
“I’ll come with you,” McCaig offered.
“No; you stay here and keep an eye out. They might be back. If you don’t see me by dark, use your own judgment.” He kicked the horse into motion.
Less than half an hour later he was on the road to the pass, riding at a steady gallop. He knew he made a tall target for any man who might be waiting in the trees by the trailside, but that was one of those necessary chances that lately formed such a formidable part of his life. In a short time, however, night’s blackness was a stout shelter. He dismounted at one point and lit a match, holding his hat over it to shield the light and bending near the ground. A rider had passed here at a gallop quite recently. When he achieved a higher spot a few minutes later he smelled dust hanging in the air. He hit the top of Chainlink Pass, ran across the flats of the Mogul, and dipped down into the Canyon of the Oro.
It was clear to him what Vivian had meant by the holdup. He had been angered by Chavis’ threats, delivered this afternoon in Vivian’s own house. By stealing this draft which had no value to him, Sid Vivian was serving two purposes: he was weakening Chainlink, and he was challenging Chavis’ words. Vivian knew that Pete Vird would be tracked back to the Flying V; he was tolling Chavis into a trap. Chavis, however, had learned the hard lessons of survival from men like Vivian and his rawhiders, and he felt that his awareness of Vivian’s intentions was enough to offset the advantage of surprise Vivian must be hoping for. And one other thing he knew: there was no possibility of peace between Chainlink and men like Sid Vivian. Connie’s impulsively declaring the pass closed to both Spur and the Flying V had been a serious error, but to reopen it would be worse.
Before him the darkened, broken country, shadowed with timber, undulated like sea swells. He was quite close to Vivian’s. He would need light for his next move and so he picketed his horse, wrapped the saddle blanket around him and lay back against the cool earth, dropping into a shallow slumber.
At five o’clock dawn sent forth its signal and he was up. He pressed forward, moving carefully, and soon sunlight cracked through from the east. He found a cautious way among the timber, and presently dismounted and walked crouching to the top of a hill, his rifle in hand.
From the hilltop, he looked down through the pines less than three hundred yards ahead at the Flying V headquarters.
One man – Jube Martin – was crossing the yard from the barn to the house and Chavis let him get inside. He could see two walls from here and there was a long open stretch behind the blind side, which he commanded. No one could get out of that house as long as he stayed here and pinned them. But the five windows facing him gave Vivian and his crew a good chance at him, so he crouched behind a thick-boled pine and methodically put a bullet through each window, working from right to left, to drive them far back inside.
Chavis’ position was not well protected from any angle, and he began to think about moving. He put another magazine of ammunition through the windows, thus clearly announcing his location to any observer, when his back began to chill. It was time to move. To keep Vivian down he threw in three more fast shots, backed to his horse and galloped down the backside of the hill. A quarter mile west he headed north, then east after a short ride. He had thus circled the Flying V.
He left the horse ground-hitched deep in the forest, refilled the magazine tube, and ran forward to the end of the timber, no more than a hundred yards from Vivian’s back door. He laid his sights on it.
As he did so, the door opened and Sid Vivian stepped outside. Showing little concern, he walked to the comer of the house, where he flattened against the wall, removed his hat, and carefully peered up at Chavis’ previous position. Chavis lifted his rifle, rested it against a tree and centered it on Vivian’s back.
“Hold it, Sid. Tell Corrigan to bring out that bank draft.”
Vivian turned his head and looked blandly at the muzzle of Chavis rifle. “You’re dead if you try to push this through, Chavis.”
“So are you, if Ray doesn’t come out with that check in both hands. Leave his gun inside.”
Vivian held his position, apparently hoping for a break. None came. Chavis laid a shot at his feet.
“Okay. Bring out the damned draft,” he called, resignedly leaning back and folding his arms.
Corrigan appeared in the doorway. “Come on up, Ray.” His arm still in a sling, Corrigan looked awkward as he held the slip of paper in both hands and walked slowly forward.
“Still watching you, Sid,” Chavis said. When Corrigan drew near he told the injured man, “Keep going, Ray. I’ll be behind you.”
He headed back into the trees beside Corrigan, walking sideways to keep Vivian in sight. They reached his horse and Chavis mounted. “Hand it up.”
Corrigan did so. “You ain’t that tough, Chavis.”
“Go on back, Ray. On the run.”
Corrigan ran shuffling toward the house. Chavis pocketed the paper and watched until Ray was inside. Vivian was still standing by the comer as Chavis reined around and roweled the horse into the timber.
He had taken up Vivian’s challenge, and he had won at least the first round. The big thing was that he had shown Vivian that his warning of yesterday had been no empty bluff. Vivian now knew that Chavis was playing for keeps. Before long Ben Majors would learn it, too.