Sam walked slowly forward and kicked the pistol away from Teller's outflung hand. He squatted and looked at the gunman. His bullet had caught him just below and to the right of the left shoulder blade. Teller was dead.
Kenton stood among the men who'd scrambled out of The Mint. His face was puffed and bloody. His men were awed by his downfall and none of them spoke. Suddenly Kenton got his speech back. "Arrest him, Clay!" he roared. "He shot Marv Teller in the back! Arrest him, dammit!"
Sam heard and rose, turning and walked toward Kenton. He saw the man back away and then Clay Bassett thrust a gun in his back and said "Drop the gun, Sam."
Sam stopped dead still. "Don't be stupid, Clay," he said. "By God, you'd better lock him up," Kenton panted between battered lips. "He—"
"It's easy to
see
Marv was shot in the back" Clay said but his voice was uncertain. "He was drunk, Sam, I know for a fact. Get goin'. I wouldn't want to have to kill you."
Standing at the window of the hotel, Molly watched as Clay Bassett walked behind Sam toward the county jail. There was a white line around her mouth and her face was pinched with worry.
Throughout the day Kenton kept to himself in the back room of The Mint, pacing up and down the cramped room, smoking one cigar after another. Now and then he poured a half tumbler of whiskey and downed it. Like most arrogant men of power he was finding bitterness in the physical defeat Sam Harden had handed him.
He had been humbled in front of his men, before the town people. His rage bubbled when he thought about it and he pictured all manners of torture for Sam Harden, the man who had brought it about.
He was in the act of lighting another cigar when he heard a tap on the door. He crossed the room and yanked the door
open. It was Cannonball Buford, a tall, slim man of forty with frosty blue eyes, a hooked nose and mouse-colored hair. He was Teller's one and only friend.
Buford slapped his hat against his thigh and said, "Boss, them Injuns are primed. Breed Catlow went with 'em, to make certain they didn't stop along the way."
Kenton's eyes glistened with satisfaction. "They'll hit the farmers' camp in the grove? You're sure of that?"
"Breed's got that young chief under his thumb. He's more Injun than the Injuns. He'll keep things goin', Boss."
"Fine." Kenton rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You heard Marv got it?"
"Yeah." Buford's blue eyes seemed to lighten. "I guess it's all right if I kill Sam Harden."
"That's too easy," Kenton said. "When we get back from taking care of John Cooney I'm going to hang Sam Harden from the highest tree."
The man considered this in silence. Them he grudgingly nodded. "All right. If that's how you want it." He licked his lips. "All I want is to see him dead."
"You'll see that," Kenton promised. "The men all ready?" "All ready. All o' them."
Kenton touched his puffy, purple face. "Let's ride, then," he said curtly.
XIII
SAM HARDEN
didn't really start thinking until the key clicked in the lock of the jail cell door and Clay stood outside looking in at him. The smirk on Clay's face got through to him.
He gripped the bars with his hands until his knuckles whitened. "Do you know what the hell you're doing?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
Clay hung the iron loop holding the key on a nail in the wall. "Yup," he said. He hadn't done much of anything since becoming sheriff except ride back and forth between the grove and town. It was good to show off to Hannah Evans. It was even better to be able to put a man in jail, especially a big shot like Sam Harden. He didn't think much about whether it was right or wrong. He was simply enjoying it.
"Listen, Clay, you silly bastard," Sam said. "You saw that gunfight. I didn't shoot him in the back on purpose. I was pulling the trigger when he turned and ran."
"Always knew there was a yella streak in him," Clay observed as he rolled a cigarette. He licked the cylinder into shape and twisted the end and stuck it in his mouth. He lighted it, looking at Sam through a haze of blue smoke. "Tough luck, Sam. You gonna have to stay here 'til the circuit judge comes back."
"He just left," Sam said, struggling to keep from shouting. "He won't be back for a month."
Clay was nodding. "He swore me in and left town. They got a murder case over in Tomahawk."
"There's more than one right here in Crossroad Corners," Sam muttered savagely. "My brother for one."
"I mean they got the murderer over there," Clay said. "No use to get all steamed up, Sam. I hated to do it but I got my job same as you."
"You love every damn minute of it," Sam yelled. He cut short a stream of invective as the door opened and Molly came in with a cloth-covered basket in her hand. Her shoulders were straight and her free arm was stiff at her side, hidden in the folds of her skirt.
"Open that cell door, Clay Bassett," she said with spirit. "Sam hasn't had anything to eat for two days and I've brought him something."
Clay dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his boot heel. "Why, sure, Molly," he said affably, swaggering toward her. "I'll have to take a look in that basket and see you're not sneaking him a six-gun. Or a hacksaw." He chuckled at his own humor.
Molly placed the basket on the littered desk. "Look all you please," she invited.
Clay lifted the corner of the cloth and leaned down to peer in. Molly brought her hand from the folds of her skirt and Sam saw that she held a rolling pin. She brought it up over her head with both hands, stood on her toes for leverage, and brought it down on Clay's head with all her strength. Clay dropped like a felled tree and lay still while his hat rolled across the floor.
Molly marched to the wall and got the cell door key and walked steadily to where Sam stood open-mouthed and unlocked the door.
"My God!" Sam said in awe.
She looked at him wide-eyed. "Hurry, Sam, your horse is in back. A fresh one. Food in the saddlebags."
He stared back. "Pretty rough way to get out of jail," he said.
"I—I guess so. I had to do it, Sam. Jesse Kenton's riding out with all his men to fight John Cooney. When they get back they mean to hang you. Fill heard them talking in The Mint."
Sam stepped over Clay's body and got his pistol from the desk drawer. He holstered it and turned toward the back door and then came swiftly back to Molly and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Thanks, Molly," he said softly. "Thanks for everything."
She caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek. "Be careful, Sam," she whispered and he went out. She watched him ride away from the back window and when he was out of sight she hurried out the door of the jail without looking at Clay Bassett stretched on the floor.
It had taken Sam more than two hours under a lowering cloud cover to work out of the valley, heading for the cover of timber. He walked his horse most of the time to save the animal's strength. Once in the pine and brush cover he crossed one ridge after another, pausing only to eat cold bacon and biscuits Molly had thoughtfully put in his saddlebags. After that he kept going, drifting mostly north, keeping the valley in sight on his left but himself hidden from anyone riding down below.
In late afternoon the overcast began breaking up. Long streamers of gold sunlight lanced to the ground and the wind pushed against him. He gave a cynical grunt at the vagrant thought that a storm was coming, bringing either rain or snow. That hope and prayer he'd held for so long seemed unimportant; yet he knew it would provide an answer of sorts. He simply had lost all power to make a wishful thought.