The small talk had made the rounds, each man making his own contribution. The businessmen of Crossroad Corners were making a purse to pay the Indians for a rain dance. It was said that an old retired prospector knew how to make rain by shooting a cannonball into the clouds.
"What clouds?" Kenton grunted, and got no answer.
These men knew what went on in the country and he had learned from one or another tonight all the news that was worth knowing, with a greater detail of background than that contained in the newspaper.
Still, it was an evening all flat and without enjoyment; nothing had gone as he expected. He usually enjoyed these get-togethers, playing poker until midnight and then eating a steak prepared by Leo Maury himself.
Leo bustled in and stood for a moment beside the table to gather their attention. "You ready for the eats, gentlemen?" he asked.
Marv Teller wasn't there or Kenton would have refused. He looked at the others and they nodded with him. Leo withdrew with a promise to bring in steaks before a cat could lick its paws.
Kenton felt no anticipation. Mentally he cursed Sam Harden and the other ranchers for being blind, gutless, and as self-important as a dance hall girl.
Teller glided in as they were eating. He seated himself beside the door. His usually dull eyes were bright and color touched his cheeks. Kenton looked at him curiously.
"Want a steak, Marv?" he asked, wondering what Teller had been up to; he looked as though he'd just done some-
thing highly satisfying. He had his answer in the next few minutes as Fillmore McGee cautiously poked his head into the door, looked all around and then came on in, speaking to Sawyer.
"Doc, I just brought Sam Harden to town. Shot in the head. He's at the hotel."
Births and deaths were important in Crossroad Corners. There was a sudden hush and then a babble of questions. Doctor Sawyer was tapping his mouth with his napkin, pushing back from the table as McGee spoke.
"He still alive?" the doctor asked.
McGee nodded. "Don't see how, but he is, with half his head blowed off."
Sawyer spoke again as he headed for the door. "Which room?" He was a tall, handsome man, slim, with coalblack hair that was streaked with silver.
"Molly'll show you," McGee said and Sawyer hurried away. "Guess you'll want to know the details" McGee then said to Sheriff Winner. "Sam was bushwhacked."
"Them people you got out there, McGee," Kenton said sourly, and the accusation in his voice was plain.
"Know who done it, Fill?" Winner asked.
McGee ignored Kenton. "No, Sheriff. I heard the shot but didn't pay no attention. I got Charlie, my horse, and started for town. Found Sam there on the side of the road. Wasn't for his horse, I'd of drove right by him."
"You think he'll live?" Marv Teller asked. Everybody looked at him in surprise. Marv Teller didn't usually do much talking.
Sheriff Winner struggled to his feet, shaking his head with frustration. "Can't do anything tonight," he said. "I'll be out there at first light an' have a look."
"What with that wind blowin', sign'll all be gone by mornin'," Ketterman declared.
"I'll just do the best I can," Winner said and gave them all a short nod of farewell.
"Let's get outta here, Marv," Kenton said, pushing noisily back from the table. He jammed his hat on his head and strode out the back way, with Teller following.
Outside, in the dark, he wheeled and grabbed Teller's shirt front in an iron grip. "Why'd you do it?" he raged.
"You saw him," Teller said hoarsely. "He kicked me, damn it!"
"You don't burn down a house to fry an egg," Kenton hissed. "You don't never do nothin' without tellin' me first, Marv. You ought to know that."
"This was for me," Teller said in a soft voice. "Let go my shirt, Mr. Kenton."
Kenton stepped back. "We'll have this out now," he said doggedly. "You do what I say and nothin' more, Marv. That's how it's got to be."
"All right," Teller said in an altered voice. "I guess I let myself get carried away."
"Don't let it happen again," Kenton warned. He wheeled away and went toward the hotel.
Several times during the night Sam Harden awoke and moaned with the throbbing pain of a splitting headache. He called for water and never got enough. After a bare sip or two he'd lapse into half-sleep and half-consciousness. He knew he was in the hotel, that the shadowy form of Doc Sawyer was there part of the time, but little else.
It was still dim light when he came fully to his senses. He lay for a time, hazily recalling the night before: the stab of flame, the sensation of falling, the engulfing darkness when he hit the ground. He touched his aching head. It was bandaged. The sharp odor of alcohol cut the musty room odor. The wind pawed at the building, rattling the windows.
Doc Sawyer said, "He's coming around, Molly."
Molly McGee leaned over the bed, smelling of soap and some delicate fragrance. He breathed deeply and found it pleasing despite his condition.
"How do you feel, Sam?" she asked in a soft, sympathetic voice.
He smothered a groan and said, "Awful." He tried to raise himself but relaxed quickly when a sharpened pain reduced him to a cold sweat and a sick stomach.
"Don't try to get up," she said.
"I'm not about to."
"Lie quiet, Sam," Sawyer commanded. "That .44 nearly scalped you. And the fall from the horse didn't help any." lie put things into his black scuffed bag and snapped it shut. "Keep him quiet, Molly."
Sam forced himself to one elbow. "Wait, Doc. While you're here I want to ask you a question or two."
"I know nothing about the circumstances of your accident, Sam."
"No accident. Somebody tried to kill me. Anyway, the question is not about that. Molly, you leave us alone for
a
minute."
Molly hesitated and Sawyer nodded. "Go on, Molly. He needs fresh water anyway." She moved silently out of the room. "Well, Sam, what it it?"
Sam's face twisted in concentration. "There was something damn important . . ."
"You got no business thinking about anything," Sawyer said mildly. "Why not go to sleep and forget it?"
Sam Harden shook his head. "Yesterday was a kind of breaking point day. We're in big trouble here with our cattle and range. But worse than that are other things that can get a man in trouble.
"For instance?"
"Liz Porter killed herself. My brother got drunk and George Balfont almost took a bullet. There's more to come." "Go on, Sam."
"You can answer me this: was Liz Porter pregnant when she killed herself?"
The doctor jerked almost imperceptibly. "You shouldn't have asked me that, Sam," Sawyer said with a sadness in his voice. He went to the washstand, poured water into a bowl and began washing his hands. He dried them and neatly put the towel in place and rolled down his sleeves. He walked to the bed and took his coat from the brass poster and slipped it on. "I can't talk about my patients. It's none of your affair."
"She's dead," Sam said.
"I can't talk about my deceased patients, either," Sawyer said.
"Then she was pregnant?"
"Sam, don't try to read people like you would trail sign."
"How else would you do it? George is my friend and Dub Porter tried to kill him. Dub will try again."
Doc Sawyer frowned. "Meaning that if Liz was pregnant you'd not try to keep George alive? You're a big man in this country, Sam, but don't try to play like you're God."
"There was a time when a man could talk to you, Doc," Sam said with a tiredness that came out in his voice. "How long will I be here while my spread falls apart?"
Sam Harden was depressed; something bad was going to happen, but he wasn't quite sure he knew what it was. The doctor settled his hat on his head and lifted his bag from a chair. "Few