Nelson Nye - Rafe

Now the sounds were close enough to sort out. It was plain the feller had got out of his saddle; you could hear the scrape and scuff of his boots in between the sharper footfalls of his horse; probably leading the critter. It was easy to picture them that way, the man crouched over, eyes batting around, as he unraveled Rafe's sign.

If this was Spangler's gun fighter he wouldn't be used to this kind of thing, likely making hard work of it, getting madder with every stride. But, account of his trade, he'd have his eyes peeled too, which could account for the time it had taken him to get here.

Rafe, ears stretched, held his breath in cold suspense, knowing the feller must be pretty near up to where those tracks he'd just made took off toward the rock. Would the bastard notice? Would suspicion bite into him? Would he come straight on, paying no attention to the overlay of boot marks?

All sound suddenly quit. By this it was obvious the man had spotted something. The horse shook its head, Rafe heard its bit chains, the crop of its teeth going through green stems. Feller'd probably left it. Rafe dared not wait any longer.

Pistol lifting he raised up off the ground, coming onto his knees, enabled by this to see a part of the clearing, the man's head and shoulders. About three strides from his horse and faced half away the feller, crouched above a rifle, had his stare fixed on the rock.

"Lookin' for me?" Rafe called, and you could see the shock of it hit the guy, and then he was whirling, Rafe crying fiercely, "Drop it, you fool!"

The man was mightily tempted. It was in the brightness of that spinning look, in the whiteness of his knuckles. But in the end he let the carbine go.

Rafe licked his lips. "An' now the belt."

The guy had to make his fight all over, but the best chance was gone. He unbuckled the belt with a bitter sigh, the weight of it slithering down his legs.

Rafe said thinly, "Hike over to that rock. An' be careful, mister. I'll be right behind you."

The feller uncorked some pretty foul language but in the end, still grumbling, strode off in the direction indicated. Rafe was right on his heels. Just before they arrived at the rock, the barrel of Rafe's six-shooter flashed up and came down across the top of the man's head. He staggered, trying to turn, and then, eyes hating, went down in a heap.

In a matter of moments Rafe had him gagged and sufficiently trussed that it should be some while before he'd be in a position to discuss what had happened. Rafe went back to the man's mount, dumped off the saddle, slipped the headstall and, with a whack of his hat, sent the horse larruping south. The animal might not go far, but he would sure as hell take some hunting.

Now that he had this weight off his back there was no urgent reason for Rafe going into Dry Bottom. He could head for the hills above the Ortega Grant, and this he was considerably minded to do, but to get into that country there were plenty of desert miles to be covered. Nobody who had his head on straight would figure on thumbing his nose at no desert, and you wouldn't get far carrying water in your hat.

Looked like he was going to have to go into town anyway. And if he took that much risk he might as well go whole hog and habla with Chilton. He sure didn't put no trust in that feller, but the banker appeared to call the tunes around here. A man would get farther under his umbrella than he could mucking around as a masterless Rebel. Rafe guessed he'd better find out where he stood.

Hurrying back to Bathsheba he climbed into the saddle and kneed the mare out into the open. He felt about as conspicuous traveling those back lots as a goldfish swimming through a dish of tea. There might be others of Spangler's crowd in this town, and there was no doubt at all how Jack Dahl felt with the wreck of his place probably still unpaid for. But Rafe wasn't going back across that desert without water, not with Duke's whole crew maybe out there waiting for him.

He couldn't see, as he drew nearer, that he'd attracted any attention. If there was people on the street he guessed they was mostly under the wooden awnings; there sure didn't seem to be much going on. Coming up in back of the bank he took another long look and reluctantly got down, and stood another couple of minutes before he turned loose of the reins. Rubbing his fists, nervously flexing his fingers, he walked around to the front and gingerly stepped in.

The same moth-eaten moose heads stared down from the walls and the same dusty eagle was roosting over the door to the big man's private cubbyhole. Then he saw jack Dahl with his face black as thunder coming out of the banker's suddenly flung-open door. But the man stomped past without a second look. He was sure grinding his molars. Rafe, bringing his head around, went on in.

Ed Sparks with a wheatstraw clamped in his jaw stood beside the banker's desk, hat in hand, his look as devoid of expression as a gambler crouched over an ace-full on queens.

The banker said, "Well, so you've finally come round," and drummed fat fingers while he considered Rafe uncharitably. Then he said, very dry, "That'll be all for now, Ed."

Sparks put on his hat and departed.

"Close the door," Chilton said, and after Rafe heeled it shut, "How'd you get past Spangler's snipers?"

Rafe told him. Then, thumbs hooked over shell belt, he grumbled, "Didn't reckon you'd have any more time to waste on a feller that stacked up no better than I did."

"That bastard's still in the saddle."

Rafe stared, finally nodding.

"What happened?"

"Well, I went out there," Rafe said, wondering how much the old skinflint knew. "Reckon you figured, on account of the name, it would be apple pie with brown sugar on it." He snorted. "We never got down to the huggin' an' kissin'. Not even the girl would give in I was Rafe. Whilst I was augerin' with Duke an' her father some warthog snuck up an' bent a gun over my head. When I come to I was back here l in town. Guess that's about the size of it."

The banker reached a cheroot from a box, ran a tongue over its dryness, poked it into his face and fired up. Rolling the weed across crockery teeth while he continued to stare, he said through the smoke, "And what name were you born with?"

"The same. Rafe Bender."

The banker's hard eyes crawled over him like beetles. His cheroot lobbed out smoke. "Can you make it stick?"

"I'm goin' to sure as hell try!"

X

"Well, it figures," Chilton sighed after another intent look. "What about your hands? This ain't going to be duck soup."

"I ain't goin' to be caught like that again, neither." Rafe scowled, impatient with so much jawing. "Am I still on the payroll or ain't I?"

Chilton puffed some more, finally pitched his stogie into a spittoon. "I don't figure to pour good money after bad—"

"Hell's fire!" Rafe snarled. "You ain't put a cent in my pockets up to now!" Looking rabid, he leaned over Chilton's desk. "I got to eat, too! I been pretty hard used goin' after your chestnuts—"

"All right," the banker said in a considerably milder tone, "we can do business. But make sure you remember I can't afford to have my name linked with failures. Next time you come out the bottom side of the deck you better spread your wings and keep right on going."

Though he fumed inside, Rafe was unable to find a match for such words. In any deal with this kind of whistleberry, a man was outvoted from scratch. Just the same, determined to have the last say, he growled. "I'll need a canteen, a good high-powered rifle—better get me a tellyscope, too, while you're at it. An' a couple of weeks' grub, an' a pack horse to tote 'em. An' if you don't want that guy I tied up bargin' in, better send someone out for this stuff in a hurry."

They glowered at each other. But Rafe, in this matter, was top dog, and both knew it. Looking riled enough to chew up bar iron, Chilton called in one of his clerks and gave instructions. "An' fetch 'im around to the back," Rafe said, boldly helping himself from Chilton's box of cheroots.