Mistakes Can Kill You Page 11

  Corbus stared at Bastian, a cold hint of danger filtering through the normal stubbornness of his brain. Something told him this was perilous going, yet he was stubborn, too stubborn. He smiled slowly. “Kid,” he drawled, “supposin’ I don’t want to drink with no tenderfoot brat?”

  Corbus never saw what happened. His brain warned him as Mike’s left hand moved, but he never saw the right. The left stabbed his lips and the right cracked the side of his jaw, and he lifted from his feet and hit the floor on his shoulder blades, out cold.

  Fletcher and the third tough stared from Corbus to Mike. Bastian was not smiling. “You boys want to drink?” he asked. “Or do we go on from here?”

  Fletcher stared at him. “What if a man drawed a gun instead of usin’ his fists?” he demanded.

  “I’d kill him,” Bastian replied quietly.

  Fletcher blinked. “I reckon you would,” he agreed. He turned, said, “Let’s have a drink. That Boot Hill out there’s already got twenty graves in it.”

  Garlin glanced at Colley, his eyebrows lifted. Colley shrugged.

  “I wonder what Corbus will do when he gets up?” he said.

  Garlin chuckled. “Nothin today. He won’t be feelin’ like it!”

  Colley nodded. “Reckon you’re right, an’ I reckon the old man raised him a wildcat! I can hardly wait to see Kerb Perrin’s face when we tell him.”

  “You reckon,” Garlin asked, “that what we heard is true? That Ben Curry figures to put this youngster into his place when he steps out?”

  “Yep, that’s the talk,” Colley answered.

  “Well, maybe he’s got it. We’ll sure know before this trip is over.”

  Noise of the stagecoach rolling down the street drifted into the saloon, and Mike Bastian strolled outside and started toward the stage station. The passengers were getting down to stretch their legs and to eat. Three of them were women.

  One of them noticed Mike standing there and walked toward him. She was a pale pretty girl with large gray eyes. “How much farther to Red Wall Canyon?” she inquired.

  Mike Bastian stiffened. “Why, not far. That is, you’ll make it by morning if you stick with the stage. There is a crosscountry way if you had you a buckboard, though.”

  “Could you tell us where we could hire one? My mother is not feeling well.”

  He stepped down off the boardwalk and headed toward the livery stable with her. As they drew alongside the stage, Mike looked up. An older woman and a girl were standing near the stage, but he was scarcely aware of anything but the girl. Her hair was blondish, but darker than the girl who walked beside him, and her eyes, too, were gray. There the resemblance ended, for where this girl was quiet and sweet, the other was vivid.

  She looked at him and their eyes met. He swept off his hat. The girl beside him spoke.

  “This is my mother, Mrs. Ragan, and my sister Drusilla.” She looked up at him quickly. “My name is Juliana.”

  Mike bowed. He had eyes only for Drusilla, who was staring at him.

  “I am Mike Bastian,” he said.

  “He said he could hire us a rig to drive across country to Red Wall Canyon,” Juliana explained. “It will be quicker that way.”

  “Yes,” Mike agreed, “much quicker. I’ll see what I can do. Just where in Red Wall did you wish to go?”

  “To Voyle Ragan’s ranch,” Drusilla said. “The V Bar.”

  He had turned away, but he stopped in midstride.

  “Did you say … Voyle Ragan’s?”

  “Yes. Is there anything wrong?” Drusilla stared at him. “What’s the matter?”

  He regained his composure swiftly. “Nothing. Only, I’d heard the name and”—he smiled—“I sort of wanted to know for sure, so if I came calling.”

  Juliana laughed. “Why, of course! We’d be glad to see you.”

  He walked swiftly away. These, then were Ben Curry’s daughters! That older women would be his wife! He was their foster brother, yet obviously his name had meant nothing to them. Neither, he reflected, would their names have meant anything to him nor the destination, had it not been for what Roundy had told him only the previous day.

  Drusilla, her name was. His heart pounded at the memory of her, and he glanced back through the gathering dusk at the three women standing there by the stage.

  Hiring the rig was a matter of minutes. He liked the look of the driver, a lean man, tall and white-haired. “No danger on that road this time of year,” the driver said. “I can have them there in no time by taking the canyon road.”

  Drusilla was waiting for him when Mike walked back.

  “Did you find one?” she asked, then listened to his explanation and thanked him.

  “Would it be all right with you,” Mike said, “if I call at the V Bar?”

  She looked at him, her face grave, but a dancing light in her eyes. “Why, my sister invited you, did she not?”

  “Yes, but I’d like you to invite me too.”

  “I?” She studied him for a minute. “Of course, we’d be glad to see you. My mother likes visitors as well as Julie and I, so won’t you ask her, too?”

  “I’ll take the invitation from you and your sister as being enough.” He grinned. “If I ask your mother, I might have to ask your father!”

  “Father isn’t with us!” she laughed. “We’ll see him at Ragan’s. He’s a rancher somewhere way up north in the wilds. His name is Ben Ragan. Have you heard of him?”

  “Seems to me I have,” he admitted, “but I wouldn’t say for sure.”

  After they had gone Mike wandered around and stopped in the saloon, after another short talk with a man at the livery stable. Listening and asking an occasional question, he gathered the information he wanted on the gold shipment. Even as he asked the questions, it seemed somehow fantastic that he, of all people, should be planning such a thing.

  Never before had he thought of it seriously, but now he did. And it was not only because the thought went against his own grain, but because he was thinking of Drusilla Ragan.

  What a girl she was! He sobered suddenly. Yet, for all of that, she was the daughter of an outlaw. Did she know it? From her question, he doubted it very much.

  Doc Sawyer cashed in his chips and left the poker game to join Mike at the bar.

  “The twentieth, all right,” he said softly. “And five of them are going to carry shotguns. There will be twelve guards in all, which looks mighty tough. The big fellow at the poker table is one of the guards, and all of them are picked men.”

  Staring at his drink, Mike puzzled over his problem. What Roundy had said was, of course, true. This was a turning point for him. He was still an honest man, yet when he stepped over the boundary it would make a difference. It might make a lot of difference to a girl like Dru Ragan, for instance.

  The fact that her father also was an outlaw would make little difference. Listening to Sawyer made him wonder. Why had such a man, brilliant, intelligent, and well educated, ever become a criminal?

  Sawyer was a gambler and a very skillful one, yet he was a doctor, too, and a fine surgeon. His education was as good as study and money could make it, and it had been under his guidance that Mike Bastian had studied.

  “Doc,” he said suddenly, “whatever made you ride a crooked trail?”

  Sawyer glanced at him suddenly, a new expression in his eyes. “What do you mean, Mike? Do you have doubts?”

  “Doubts? That seems to be all I do have these last few days.”

  “I wondered about that,” Doc said. “You have been so quiet that I never doubted but that you were perfectly willing to go on with Ben Curry’s plans for you. It means power and money, Mike—all a man could want. If it is doubt about the future for outlaws that disturbs you, don’t let it. From now on it will be political connections and bribes, but with the money you’ll have to work with, that should be easy.”

  “It should be,” Mike said slowly. “Only maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to.”

  “Conscience rear
s its ugly head!” Sawyer smiled ironically. “Can it be that Ben Curry’s instructions have fallen on fallow ground? What started this sudden feeling? The approach of the problem? Fear?” Doc had turned toward Mike and was staring at him with aroused interest. “Or,” he added, “is there a woman? A girl?”

  “Would that be so strange?”

  “Strange? But no! I’ve wondered it hasn’t happened before, but then you’ve lived like a recluse these past years. Who is she?”

  “It doesn’t matter, “ Mike answered. “I was thinking of this before I saw her. Wondering what I should do.”

  “Don’t ask me,” Sawyer said. “I made a mess of my own life. Partly a woman and partly the desire for what I thought was easy money. Well, there’s no such a thing as easy money, but I found that out too late. You make your own decision. What was it Matthew Arnold said? I think you learned the quotation.”

  “‘No man can save his brother’s soul, or pay his brother’s debt.’”

  “Right! So you save your own and pay your own. There’s one thing to remember, Mike. No matter which way you go, there will be killing. If you take over Ben Curry’s job, you’ll have to kill Perrin and Molina, if you can. And you may have to kill them, and even Ben Curry, if you step out.”

  “Not Dad,” Mike said.

  “Don’t be sure. It isn’t only what he thinks that matters, Mike. No man is a complete ruler or dictator. His name is only a symbol. He is the mouthpiece for the wishes of his followers, and as long as he expresses those wishes, he leads them. When he fails, he falls. Ben Curry is the boss not only because he has power in him, but also because he has organization, because he has made them money, because he has offered them safety. If you left, there would can a chink in the armor. No outlaw ever trusts another outlaw who turns honest, for he always fears betrayal.”

  Bastian tossed off his drink. “Let’s check with Roundy. He’s been on the prowl.”

  Roundy came to them hastily. “We’ve got to get out of town, quick!” he said. “Ducrow and Fernandez just blew in and they are drunk and raisin’ the devil. Both of them are talkin’, too, and if they see us they will spill everything!”

  “All right.” Mike straightened. “Get out horses. Get theirs, too, we’ll take them with us.”

  Garlin and Colley had come to the bar. Garlin shook his head. “Ducrow’s poison mean when he’s drunk, and Fernandez sides him in everything,” Garlin informed. “When Ducrow gets drunk he always pops off too much! The Boss forbade him weeks ago to come down here.”

  “He’s a pal of Perrin’s,” Colley said, “so he thinks he can get away with it.”

  “Here they come now!” Roundy exclaimed.

  “All right—drift!” Bastian ordered. “Make it quick with the horses.”

  IV

  Saloon doors slammed open and the two men came in. One look, and Mike could see there was cause for worry. Tom Ducrow was drunk and ugly, and behind him was “Snake” Fernandez. They were an unpleasant pair, and they had made their share of trouble in Ben Curry’s organization, though always protected by Perrin.

  Bastian started forward, but he had scarcely taken a step when Ducrow saw him.

  “There he is!” he bellowed loudly. “The pet! The Boss’ pet!” He stared around at the people in the barroom. “You know who this man is? He’s—”

  “Ducrow!” Mike snapped. “Shut up and go home. Now!”

  “Look who’s givin’ orders!” Ducrow sneered. “Gettin’ big for your britches, ain’t you?”

  “Your horses will be outside in a minute,” Mike said. “Get on them and start back fast!”

  “Suppose,” Ducrow sneered, “you make me!”

  Mike had been moving toward him, and now with a panther-like leap he was beside the outlaw and with a quick slash from his pistol barrel, floored him.

  With an oath, Snake Fernandez reached for a gun, and Mike had no choice. He shot him in the shoulder. Fernandez staggered, the gun dropping from his fingers. Mouthing curses, he reached for his left-hand gun.

  But even as he reached, Garlin—who had stayed behind when the others went for the horses—stepped up behind him. Jerking the gun from the man’s holster, he spun him about and shoved him through the door.

  Mike pulled the groggy Ducrow to his feet and pushed him outside after Fernandez.

  A big man got up hastily from the back of the room. Mike took one quick glimpse at the star on his chest.

  “What goes on here?” the sheriff demanded.

  “Nothing at all,” Mike said affably. “Just a couple of the boys from our ranch feeling their oats a little. We’ll take them out and off your hands.”

  The sheriff stared from Mike to Doc Sawyer and Colley, who had just come through the door.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “I don’t believe I know you hombres.”

  “That’s right, sir, you don’t,” Mike said. “We’re from the Mogollons, riding back after driving some cattle through to California. It was a rough trip, and this liquor here got to a couple of the boys.”

  The sheriff hesitated, looking sharply from one to the other.

  “You may be a cowhand,” he said, “but that hombre”—he pointed to Sawyer—“looks like a gambler!”

  Mike chuckled. “That’s a joke on you, boy!” he said to Doc. Then he turned back to the sheriff. “He’s a doctor, sir, and quite a good one. A friend of my boss.”

  A gray-haired man got up and strolled alongside the sheriff. His eyes were alive with suspicion.

  “From the Mogollons?” he queried. “That’s where I’m from. Who did you say your boss was?”

  Doc Sawyer felt his scalp tighten, but Mike smiled.

  “Jack McCardle,” he said, “of the Flying M. We aren’t his regular hands, just a bunch passing through. Doc, here, he being an old friend of Jack’s, handles the sale of the beef.”

  The Sheriff looked around.

  “That right, Joe?” he asked the gray-haired man. “There a Flying M over there?”

  “Yes, there is.” Joe was obviously puzzled. “Good man, too, but I had no idea he was shipping beef!”

  The sheriff studied Bastian thoughtfully. “Guess you’re all right,” he said finally. “But you sure don’t talk like a cowhand.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mike said swallowing hard, “I was studying for the ministry, but my interests began to lead me in more profane directions, so I am afraid I backslid. It seems,” he said gravely, “that a leaning toward poker isn’t conducive to the correct manner in the pulpit!”

  “I should say not!” the sheriff chuckled. “All right, son, you take your pardners with you, let ’em sleep it off.”

  Mike turned, and his men followed him. Ducrow and Fernandez had disappeared. They rode swiftly out of town and took the trail for Toadstool Canyon. It wasn’t until they were several miles on the road that Sawyer glanced at Mike.

  “You’ll do,” he said. “I was never so sure of a fight in my life!”

  “That’s right, Boss!” Garlin said. “I was bettin’ we’d have to shoot our way out of town! You sure smooth-talked ’em. Never heard it done prettier!”

  “Sure did,” Colley agreed. “I don’t envy you havin’ Ducrow an’ Fernandez for enemies though.”

  Kerb Perrin and Rigger Molina were both in conference with Ben Curry when Mike Bastian came up the stone steps and through the door. They both looked up sharply.

  “Perrin,” Bastian said, “what were Ducrow and Fernandez doing in Weaver?”

  “In Weaver?” Perrin straightened up slowly, nettled by Mike’s tone, but puzzled, too.

  “Yes, in Weaver! We nearly had to shoot our way out of town because of them. They were down there, drunk and talking too much. When I told them to get on their horses and go home, they made trouble.”

  Kerb Perrin was on dangerous ground. He well knew how harsh Ben Curry was about talkative outlaws, and while he had no idea what the two were doing in Weaver, he knew they were trouble-makers. He also knew they
were supporters of his. Ben Curry knew it, and so did Rigger Molina.

  “They made trouble?” Perrin questioned now. “How?”

  “Ducrow started to tell who I was.”

  “What happened?”

  Mike was aware that Ben Curry had tipped back in his chair and was watching him with interest.

  “I knocked him down with a pistol barrel,” he said.

  “You what?” Perrin stared. Ducrow was a bad man to tangle with. “What about Fernandez?”

  “He tried to draw on me, and I put a bullet in his shoulder.”

  “You should’ve killed him,” Molina said. “You’ll have to, sooner or later.”

  Kerb Perrin was stumped. He had not expected this, or that Mike Bastian was capable of handling such a situation. He was suddenly aware that Doc Sawyer had come into the room.

  Bastian faced Ben Curry. “We got what we went after,” he said, “but another bad break like Ducrow and Fernandez, and we’d walk into a trap!”

  “There won’t be another!” Curry said harshly.

  When Mike had gone out, Doc Sawyer looked at Ben Curry and smiled.

  “You should have seen him and heard him,” he said as Molina and Perrin were leaving. “It would have done your heart good! He had a run-in with Corbus and Fletcher, too. Knocked Corbus out with a punch and backed Fletcher down. Oh, he’ll do, that boy of yours, he’ll do! The way he talked that sheriff out of it was one of the smoothest things I’ve seen!”

  Ben Curry nodded with satisfaction. “I knew it! I knew he had it!”

  Doc Sawyer smiled, and looked up at the chief from under his sunburned eyebrows. “He met a girl, too.”

  “A girl? Good for him! It’s about time!”

  “This was a very particular girl, Chief,” Sawyer continued. “I thought you’d like to know. If I’m any judge of men, he fell for her and fell hard. And I’m not so sure it didn’t happen both ways. He told me something about it, but I had already seen for myself.”

  Something in Sawyer’s tone made Curry sit up a little.

  “Who was the girl?” he demanded.

  “A girl who came in on the stage.” Doc spoke carefully, avoiding Curry’s eyes now. “He got the girl and her family a rig to drive them out to a ranch. Out to the V Bar.” Ben Curry’s face went white. So Doc knew! It was in every line of him, every tone of his voice. The one thing he had tried to keep secret, the thing known only to himself and Roundy, was known to Doc! And to how many others?