the High Graders (1965)

  The High Graders Louis L'amour *

  Gold Fever

  Folks In Rafter Crossing Said Old Eli Patterson Died In A gunfight, killed i n self-defense. But Mike Shevlin knew it wa s a lie--the man who'd been his only friend had bee n a peaceful man, a Quaker. When word came abou t Eli's murder, Shevlin rode bac k into Rafter--to find a booming gold town, wher e ranching was dying out and the smell of greed and fear wa s thick in the air. He vowed to stick around unti l he learned who put Eli Patterson in th e grave. Mike Shevlin was a man who knew ho w to pick his fights--and he'd just picked one that coul d get him killed.

  COOL RECEPTION

  "You were looking at Patterson's grave," s aid the man with the badge. "He was killed in a gun battle two years ago."

  Anger flared up in Mike Shevlin. "Wh o ever told you that," he said roughly, "lied."

  "Then the coroner lied, Mason lied, an d Gib Gentry lied."

  "Who killed him?"

  "Gentry--in self-defense. Mason was a witness. Patterson still had a gun in his hand whe n the others came up."

  "No coroner's jury in the old times woul d believe that story," Shevlin said. "They kne w Eli too well."

  "The old-timers are gone, or most of them," th e sheriff said. "Times have changed. Why don't yo u ride on?"

  "Why should I?"

  There was irritation in the sheriff's respons e to this. "Because you smell of trouble, and trouble is m y business. You start anything and I'll have to come agains t you."

  "Thanks," Shevlin's tone was dry, harsh.

  "You've warned me, now I'll return th e favor. Don't make my trouble you r business, and don't come against me."

  Chapter1

  Mike Shevlin squatted on his heels in th e driving rain and struck a match under the shelter o f his slicker. The match flared and he leaned forward , cupping the flame in his hand against the face of th e gravestone.

  ELI PATTERSON

  There was no mistake, then; but how in the name o f truth could a peace-loving man like old Eli win d up in a grave on Boot Hill?

  Eli Patterson had been a Quaker, a man of deep conviction who never touched a gun fo r his own use and did not approve of those who did.

  Yet he was dead, shot to death, and buried her e among the victims of gun and knife, and i f rumor could be credited, he had himself died gun i n hand.

  The flame flickered out and the dropped matc h hissed against the sodden earth. "Anybody but him,"

  Shevlin said aloud; "anybody but old Eli."

  The splash of a footstep in a pool of wate r warned him an instant before the voice spoke.

  "Kind of wet up here, isn't it?"

  Mike Shevlin straightened slowly to hi s feet, glad his slicker was unbuttoned and hi s gun ready to hand. Enemies he would surely fin d at Rafter Crossing, but he could expect n o friends. He took his time in facing around, careful tha t his movements be not misunderstood.

  Through the pouring rain and the darkness he could see th e bulk of a square, powerfully built man.

  Lightning flared, throwing the grave crosse s into sharp relief, lighting the water-soaked earth , and making an occasional gleam on stone, but of th e wide face before him he could make out n o detail.

  The other man would see even less of Shevlin , because of the up-turned collar of his slicker and th e pulled-down brim of his black hat.

  "You make a practice of following people?"

  Mike Shevlin asked.

  "It's a wet night to be on Boo t Hill."

  "I've buried men here on wetter nights.

  If need be I can bury more."

  "Ah, I was right then. You're no stranger."

  There was satisfaction in the man's voice.

  Lightning glinted off the badge on his chest.

  Mike Shevlin put a rein to his tongue.

  This was no bumbling old Sheriff McKown, no r anybody he remembered from the Rafter Crossin g he had known. Wanting no trouble, he simpl y said, "I've been here before, if that's what yo u mean."

  The man with the badge shifted his fee t slightly. "Are you Ray Hollister?"

  "If you don't know Ray Hollister,"

  Shevlin replied, "you haven't been around long."

  "Two years. He left before I came."

  Shevlin had an uneasy feeling that had he sai d he was Ray Hollister, the sheriff would have kille d him.

  Wind and rain lashed the grave-covered knoll , whipping the branches of the trees. Off to the right wer e the lights of the town--many more lights than h e remembered. Beyond the town was the gallows fram e and the huddled buildings of a mine, lighted for a nigh t shift.

  "Too wet to talk here," Shevlin said.

  "What's on your mind?"

  "You were looking at Patterson's grave.

  He was killed in a gun battle two year s ago."

  Anger flared up in Mike Shevlin. "Whoeve r told you that," he said roughly, "lied."

  "Then the coroner lied, Mason lied, an d Gib Gentry lied."

  "Who killed him?"

  "Gentry--in self-defense. Mason was a witness. Patterson still had a gun in his hand whe n others came up."

  Suddenly Shevlin knew he was not likel y to be offered a drink nor a hot meal on thi s night. Rain slanted across the windows down there i n town, windows behind which it would be dry and warm, but wher e he might be identified before he found out what h e had come so far to learn.

  Gentry? No, not for a minute. Not Gib.

  Gib would shoot fast enough, but he would never hav e shot Eli Patterson.

  "No coroner's jury in the old times woul d believe that story. They knew Eli to o well."

  Shevlin, who knew most things that might b e expected at a time like this, was prepared for th e match when it flared in the sheriff's hand, and his ow n hand was suddenly before his face, pulling down his ha t brim. The flare revealed only the sheriff's ow n tough, weather-beaten features.

  Now where had he seen that face before?

  "The old-timers are gone, or most of them," th e man said. "Times have changed. Why don't yo u ride on?"

  "Why should I?"

  There was irritation in the sheriff's respons e to this. "Because you smell of trouble, and trouble is m y business. You start anything and I'll have to come agains t you."

  "Thanks." Shevlin's tone was dry, harsh.

  "You've warned me, now I'll return th e favor. Don't make my trouble your business , and don't come against me."

  The sheriff gestured across the valley at th e huddle of mine buildings. "They tell me that's where the old Rafter H headquarters used to be.

  Now they use the old barn as a hoisthouse for th e Sun Strike Mine. That's just one indication. Thi s town is no longer cattle, my friend, it's mining.

  You won't find anybody around who knows you, an d nobody who wants you here. Do yourself a favor an d ride on."

  Mike Shevlin, who had known many men, kne w this was a truly dangerous man. He knew it becaus e the sheriff had not tried to force the issue, as a less experienced man might have done; knew i t because he was calm, talking quietly, tryin g to avoid trouble before it arrived, and because he was s o obviously one of those who knew when and when no t to use a gun.

  The two men walked together toward the gate an d Shevlin closed it carefully behind him, then swep t the water from his saddle with a flick of his palm.

  He gathered the reins and turned his horse so h e could mount without showing his back to the sheriff. Th e latter noted the move with grim appreciation, an d mounted his own horse.

  Just as Shevlin had learned much of the sheriff i n these few minutes, so the sheriff had learned somethin g of the man who loomed only as a dark figure o n a rain-swept hill. There was a hard surenes s about this stranger, and he all
owed for no chances agains t him, and there was also a confidence in him that warned th e sheriff this man who faced him was no outlaw, that i t was even likely he had himself carried a badge.

  "I'll tell you something." Mik e Shevlin, who normally explained his actions to n o man, explained them now in deference to the kind o f man this was. "In my lifetime one man gav e me a square shake without figuring to get something ou t of it. That man was Eli Patterson."

  There was a pause.

  "You'll be staying on, then?" the sheriff asked.

  "I'll be staying."

  The sheriff tried again. "Look," he sai d patiently, "you start shaking the brush to find wha t happened to Eli Patterson and you'll have the whol e town on you."

  Mike Shevlin turned his horse toward Mai n Street. Over his shoulder he said, "It's a small town."

  As he rode away he told himself he was a fool. He should not have come back. What could an y man do to help the dead?

  He had returned because a fine old man wh o had been his friend when he had no friends had bee n murdered, and his killers had gone unpunished.

  Nor could that one murder have made an end to it, for th e wicked do not cease from wickedness, nor doe s evil end with one crime.

  The rain beat a hard tattoo upon his hat a s he walked his black along the street. From th e rain-whipped darkness he peered into the lighte d windows as he passed, windows of houses where h e was a stranger, and past doors where he would not b e welcomed. If he slept in a bed this night i t would be a bed he paid for, and if he ate at al l it would be a meal he bought for cash.

  He drew rein in the muddy street, feeling th e cold rain hammering his shoulders with cruel fingers.

  Saddle-worn and weary from the long riding, h e stared into the windows and knew again that pang o f loneliness with which he always rode.

  There was welcome for him nowhere, neither in thi s place nor anywhere down along the trail.

  Only that kind old man lying in a shamefu l grave had been considerate, kind to a skinny , hollow-eyed boy who had walked into his store s o long ago, carrying little but a man-sized pride.

  Because of this he had ridden a thousand hot , dangerous miles, returning to a town h e remembered without pleasure, to seek out the caus e of an old man's death and to clear his name so that hi s spirit might rest easy in the earth.

  So Ray Hollister was gone. The town would no t be the same without him, but obviously the tow n did not want him back. Not, at least, that par t of the town represented by the sheriff.

  That the town of Rafter Crossing did not lik e Ray Hollister, Mike Shevlin could understand.

  He himself had never liked the man, for Holliste r was a man with a burr under his saddle, a smal l rancher who wanted to be big, who strod e hard-heeled around the town, wanting to be considere d one of the big cattlemen who ruled the destinie s of the Rafter country. Nothing in Hollister's characte r nor in the breadth of his acres entitled him to th e respect he wanted so desperately, and his env y and irritation became a bitter, gnawing thing withi n him.

  Mike Shevlin turned in his saddle, lookin g along the wet street. Three blocks long whe n he had left it, with two saloons, it was seve n blocks long now, with at least six saloons o n the one street. The old Hooker House ha d become the Nevada House, and had a fres h coat of paint. There was an assay office where th e harness shop had been, and a new general store acros s from the one Eli Patterson had owned.

  Windows threw rectangles of light across th e muddy street, and the sound of a tin-panny pian o came from the direction of the Nevada House.

  Thunder rumbled in the mountains. Shevlin started hi s horse, staring morosely at the lights as h e rode on.

  His mind went to the past. Everything here ha d changed, and not even the memory of the way it ha d been was left to him. It was indeed a mining tow n now; not a vestige of the old cow town remained.

  His thoughts reverted to Eli Patterson. The y said Gib Gentry had killed him, but not for a n instant did he believe that. The fact tha t Mason was a witness proved nothing, for Maso n had been a liar as well as a petty thief.

  Gib Gentry and Shevlin had been friends ... o r what passed as such. They had worked together , ridden into town together, been in trouble together.

  Despite that, there had been no real affection betwee n them; they had simply been thrown together as two peopl e are, held together by work and mutual associations, an d considered by everyone to be friends. And both had don e foolish things.

  "You should have had your ears slapped down,"

  Shevlin told himself.

  The trouble was that nobody around Rafter ha d wanted to tackle that job, not even then.

  Now he was thirty years old and the veteran of mor e gun trouble than he cared to remember.

  In the old days Gentry and Shevlin ha d seemed to be two of a kind, reckless and wild , full of ginger, and homeless as a pair o f tumbleweeds. Ready to fight at the drop of a hat, and to drop the hat themselves if need be. An d Gentry had been good with a gun.

  He had been better with a gun than Shevlin i n those days. He was eight years older, and had owne d a gun that much longer and had had that much mor e practice. But a lot of water had flowed under th e bridge since then, and a lot had happene d to Mike Shevlin that could never happen to Gi b Gentry in Rafter Crossing. In the words of th e cow country, Mike Shevlin had been up th e creek and over the mountain since then.

  The rain lashed his face, driven by the risin g wind. This was the story of his life, he though t bitterly--hunting a place to hole up for a while. Thirty years old, and nothing to show for i t but a horse, a saddle, and a couple of guns.

  He was riding past the last of the town's buildings when he remembered the old mill i n Brush Canyon. It might have been torn dow n for the lumber, or burned in some brush fire, bu t if it was still there it would be shelter from the storm and fro m observation. The mill had been old, even in hi s time, mute evidence of a dream that dried up when th e water did. It was unlikely that newcomers woul d know of its existence.

  With no better place to go, he turned into th e trail around the livery barn and started up th e slant of the hill in the driving rain. Brus h whipped at his slicker and at his face, but h e bowed his head and kept on.

  From the crest of the ridge he looked back upo n the town's lights. If he had been a smar t man, he thought, he would now own a ranch or a business of some kind, but he had never known an y way of doing what had to be done than to bull in an d start swinging.

  At the bottom of Brush Canyon h e detected a subtle alteration in the manner of hi s horse, and like any western rider in wild countr y he had learned to depend on the instincts as wel l as on the sight and hearing of his horse, to know it s moods, to be aware of every change of muscle o r movement. Stepping down now from the saddle , Shevlin explored the muddy trail wit h careful fingers.

  What he found was the indentation of a hoof trac k so recent as to be easily discernible in spite of th e rain. That track had probably been made withi n the last few minutes.

  Wiping the mud from his hand on the horse's mane, he walked the horse past the dark bul k of the old mill and dismounted at the stable. Here h e led the horse inside, closed the door behind him , and struck a match.

  On each side of the barn there were a doze n stalls, for it was here they had kept the bi g Clydesdales used to haul logs to the mill, an d to haul away the planks. There were four horse s in the stable now, and they rolled their eyes aroun d to look at him.

  He led his mount to a vacant stall, touchin g each horse as he passed. Two were dry, one wa s slightly damp, and the fourth was as wet as his own.

  Two riders, then, had been here most of the day, th e others arriving since the rain began, and one of the m only minutes before.

  Stripping the rig from his black, he wiped th e horse down with a dry sack he found hanging ove r the side of the stall. Come what might, he was throug h traveling for tonight. Then he checked the othe r horses.

&nbs
p; The first was a cowhorse, the sort to be found i n any remuda, and it wore a Turkeytrac k brand, the old Moorman outfit. The fin e dapple-gray mare was a Three Sevens.

  Obviously this was a woman's horse, for fe w cattlemen would ride anything but a gelding. Th e two geldings in the stable were both branded Ope n AV, a brand unfamiliar to Shevlin.

  He struck a match and checked the dropping s on the floor. The cowhorse and one of the gelding s had been sta4 here since the previous day, but ther e was no evidence that prior to that a horse had bee n here in months. So this was a meeting place, and no t a permanent setup.

  He stepped outside, moving quietly as was hi s usual way, and closed the door softly behind him.

  His attention was immediately riveted on a strang e glisten of reflected light outside the mill's boarded window. With one hand resting on the corne r of the barn, he carefully unfastened his slicker with th e other.

  What he saw was the shine of light on a rain-wet slicker like his own. Somebody wa s standing in the darkness near the mill door, waiting.

  Drawing his gun, Shevlin waited for a flash o f lightning. Poised as he was, the sligh t advantage was his when the shadows were suddenl y broken by the lightning's glare. The other man sho t too quickly, the bullet tearing the wood at th e barn's corner within inches of Shevlin's hand.

  Instantly, at the flash of the other man's gun, Shevlin fired in return.

  The man fell hard against the side of th e building, and his pistol splashed in the water; the n he straightened with a grunt and ran, staggering, into th e woods. A moment later Shevlin heard the poun d of hoofs, and after that all was darkness and silence, wit h only the sound of the falling rain.

  Shevlin walked to where the gun had fallen, an d after a minute or two of groping he found it.

  The tiny slit of light that had warned him of th e watcher's presence was gone, but the door was open a crack and a rifle muzzle covered him.

  "Hold it right there, mister," a voice said , "and holster that gun."

  Shevlin tucked the .45 behind his belt, tryin g to place the voice, which seemed familiar. He walked toward the door, saying conversationally, "We had better talk this over in the light, amigo.