We met nobody in the sun-drenched street. The place seemed dead, as though the whole population were up working on the dam. We tied our horses to the hotel rail and Jean led me in by the back way. Pauline stared at us as we entered, and then there was the rasp of a chair and James McClellan stormed toward me, his face scowling with sudden anger.
“I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, Wetheral, for a long time!” His fists were clenched. His eyes were cold and there was an ugly set to his jaw.
There was only one thing to do. “Was it you or Trevedian — or both of you — who set fire to our trucks last night?”
He stopped in his tracks. “What’s that? Are you trying to swing something on—”
“I’m not swinging anything on you,” I said. “I’m just asking you, McClellan. Were you in on it?”
“In on what?” He had halted. Pauline had hold of his arm. Her face was white. They were both staring at me.
“There’s about two thousand gallons of fuel gone up and two trucks. Shots were tired. You’re damn lucky it was only a dog that got hit.” I turned toward the office. “Mind if I use the phone?”
“You brought it on yourself,” he said. “If you phone the police, then Trevedian will report what happened.”
“I’m not phoning the police,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m phoning for more fuel.”
The office was empty. I got hold of the phone and put a personal call through to Jeff Hart at Jasper. Then I sat there, waiting, feeling sleep creeping up on me, trying to keep myself awake. I heard voices in the kitchen, and then a door slammed and all was quiet. Half an hour later my call came through and I explained to Jeff Hart what had happened. He couldn’t get away himself, but he’d talk to Johnny and ring me back in the evening.
I went out into the kitchen then. It was empty. I sat down in the chair by the stove and went to sleep. It was Pauline who woke me. She had made me some coffee and there was a plate full of bacon and eggs waiting for me.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” I murmured sleepily.
“It is no trouble.”
“Where’s Jean?”
“She is with Miss Garret, I think.”
“Jean told you what happened?”
“Oui. I am very sorry.” She smiled, a flash of white teeth. “I am sorry also that you do not stay. But it is dangerous for you.”
“I’ll have to stay till this evening. I’m waiting for a call.”
“No, no. It is dangerous, I tell you.”
I looked at her, a mood of frustration and annoyance taking hold of me. “Another nursemaid, eh?”
“Please?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Jean came in then. “We must go now, Bruce. There are some men coming up from the bunkhouse. I think Trevedian sent them up.”
I explained about the phone call. But all she said was, “Do you want to get beaten up?”
“You think I’m no good in a scrap?”
She hesitated fractionally. “You’ve been ill,” she said. “I don’t think you’re very strong.” She must have guessed what I was thinking, for she added, “The way you handled Jimmy won’t work with them.”
She was right, of course, but it went against the grain to appear a coward. And yet it wouldn’t do any good. Reluctantly I got to my feet.
Pauline suddenly touched my arm. “I will fake your call for you, if you wish.”
“That’s kind of you, Pauline,” Jean said.
I hesitated, feeling caught in the web of a woman’s world, feeling like a skunk. “All right,” I said, and told her what I wanted to say. “If he can come, arrange where I can meet him. Okay?”
She nodded, smiling. “Okay. I will leave a message for you with Miss Garret.”
I thanked her and we went out the back way and round to the front to get our horses. There were about a dozen men coming up the street, a rough-looking bunch headed by a man I recognized, the man who had been on guard at the hoist the night we ran the rig up to the Kingdom. He was a little fellow with bandy legs and a mean face.
“That’s him!” he shouted. “That’s the rat!” And he began to run toward us. The others followed at his heels, and they were almost on us as we unhitched our ponies and swung into the saddles, I heeled my animal into a canter, and side by Bide we drove through them. But as I passed, the Fellow shouted a remark. It wasn’t aimed at me. It was aimed at Jean. It was just one word, and without thinking I reined up and swung round. I caught a glimpse of the color Baring in Jean’s face as she called to me to ride on.
The whole bunch of them were laughing now, and thus emboldened the little bow-legged swine called out, “Why d’yer keep her all to yerselves?” He leered at Jean and then let his filthy tongue run riot.
I don’t know what got into me. I hadn’t felt this way in years — that sense of being swept up in a red blur of rage. I pushed my horse toward him. “Say that again,” I said. All that had happened in the last twelve hours seemed condensed into that one sordid little figure. I saw the trucks blossom into flame, the spurt of the gun as it was emptied at the dog, the look of tired resignation on Garry Keogh’s face. I saw the man hesitate, glancing round at his companions, and then, with sudden truculence born of the herd, he mouthed that one word again.
I dug my heels into my horse’s ribs and drove straight at him. I saw him fall back, momentarily knocked off balance, and as the horse reared I flung myself from the saddle, grappling for his throat as my arms closed round him. We hit the dirt of the street and I felt his breath hot on my face as it was forced out or his lungs with a grunt. Then hands reached for me, clutching at my arms, twisting me back and pinning me down against the gravel. Fingers gripped my hair, and as my skull was pounded against the hard earth I saw half a dozen faces, panting and sweaty, bending over me.
And then there was the sharp crack of an explosion and something whined out of the dust. The faces fell slack, and as I sat up I saw Jean sitting close alongside my horse, the Luger that had been in my saddle bag smoking in her hand. And her face was calm and set. She held the ugly weapon as though it were a part of her, as though shooting were as natural as walking or riding. The men saw it, too, and they huddled together uncertainly, their faces unnaturally pale, their eyes looking all ways for a place to run.
“Are you all right, Bruce?” she called.
“Yes,” I said, struggling to my feet.
“Then get on your horse.”
She leveled her gun at the hunch standing there in the street. “Now get back to Trevedian. And tell him next time he tries to shoot my dog. I’ll kill him.”
She slipped the automatic back into my saddle bag, and in silence we turned and rode down the street and out of Come Lucky. For a long time I couldn’t bring myself to speak. Only when we had reached a clearing above the ford and had dismounted did I manage to thank her.
She looked at me and then said with a wry smile, “Maybe I should thank you — for rushing in like a school kid just because of a word.”
The way she put it hurt, but there was a softness in her eyes and I let it go. “How did you know the gun was in my saddle bag?”
“I felt it there when we stopped on the way down. It was partly why I came. I was scared you might—” She hesitated and then turned away. “I don’t quite understand you, Bruce. You’re not predictable like most people.” She swung round and faced me. “Why didn’t you give up when you found you were faced with a big company?” And when I didn’t answer, she said, “It wasn’t ignorance, was it? You knew what you were up against?”