abstract justice. He’d be in a hell of a shape if they pulled out and left him.
Scowling, he said abruptly: “Would a — ”
But the big man cut in ahead of him. “Lafe,” he said around his chaw of tobacco, “I think this jigger knows a heap more’n he’s sayin'. He’s too cool a hand t’ be plumb honest.”
The sheriff’s surprised look — and there was a kindling suspicion building up a brightness in it — passed from Reifel to the big man and back again. With a narrowing stare searching Ben’s face he murmured, “Put your cards on the table, Chet. Say what’s in your mind.”
“It don’t strike me as likely he could of seen that bird’s eyes close enough t’ know their color an’ be talkin’ to us now. He says the guy throwed down on him — ”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Your own words do that. You must of met him more’n a hour ago. Moon’s higher now — stands t’ reason it must be brighter. Yet I can’t tell what color
your
eyes are though I’m close enough to you t’ see the sweat marks on your shirt.”
The sheriff spoke out of a tightening silence. “Mister, what Chet says shows some pretty straight thinkin'. Had you met that guy before?”
Reifel’s reluctant nod was forced through doubt. “If he’s the guy I’ve got in mind,” he said, “we’ve swapped looks three-four times this month.”
“Where?” Chet asked.
“In Paradise.” Reifel tried to see where this line might be taking him but the burning agony of that hole in his chest made thinking an irrational process right then and he said, hoping truth might bolster his position, “Mostly around Cy Turner’s livery.”
It was only after he had made this assertion that the folly of his words flew back to mock and scare him. But big Chet seemed not to notice. He was tramping through his own thoughts. Their doggedness was in his voice, the distrust they bred was in his stare. “If he was close as you make out, an’ comin’ right at you, I still can’t see how that coyote missed. That shot oughter knocked you hell west an’ crooked!”
An edge of scorn cut through Reifel’s glance and brightened with the leaping conviction that at last this quibbler had kicked the door wide open.
Relief pulsed through him like a heady wine. He could have laughed in their faces. For in his spiteful attempts to cut the ground from under Ben this blundering fool had shown the way to safety.
No longer was Reifel afraid to have the Law discover he’d been wounded. That wound, exposed now, would confirm his story. It would make this pumpkin-roller look like a ninny.
He grinned at them tightly. “It came near enough.” He yanked open the front of his shirt and pulled it back so the clumsy bandaging wrapped about his chest would be plainly visible. He sat back to enjoy the look on Chet’s face while those bloody rags did his talking for him.
But Chet didn’t goggle. His saddle creaked again as he abruptly leaned closer, intently staring. The expected bewildered chagrin didn’t touch him. No sign of disappointment reshaped his expression. With his eyes like fire opals he swept up the snout of his .45-90 and cried in a voice turned savage with triumph: “Lafe! Come alive an’ put a rope on this guy!”
Ben Reifel froze through an eternity of silence.
The sheriff was staring at big Chet stupidly. “Man, are you crazy?”
Chet’s laugh was an ugly sound in that stillness.
“You been complainin',” Lafe said, “because the guy wasn’t shot. Now he shows you he is — ”
“If his story was true I knew damn well he was shot. So I’ll ask you now what I been askin’ myself. How come there ain’t no blood on his shirtfront? How come there ain’t no bullet hole through it?”
6. HEART OF NIGHT
T OO LATE Ben saw the jaws of the trap.
The sickness of fear was in his soul and the desperation born of his danger. Through crashing heartbeats every jungle instinct of the man who’s been hunted wildly urged
Scowling, he said abruptly: “Would a — ”
But the big man cut in ahead of him. “Lafe,” he said around his chaw of tobacco, “I think this jigger knows a heap more’n he’s sayin'. He’s too cool a hand t’ be plumb honest.”
The sheriff’s surprised look — and there was a kindling suspicion building up a brightness in it — passed from Reifel to the big man and back again. With a narrowing stare searching Ben’s face he murmured, “Put your cards on the table, Chet. Say what’s in your mind.”
“It don’t strike me as likely he could of seen that bird’s eyes close enough t’ know their color an’ be talkin’ to us now. He says the guy throwed down on him — ”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Your own words do that. You must of met him more’n a hour ago. Moon’s higher now — stands t’ reason it must be brighter. Yet I can’t tell what color
your
eyes are though I’m close enough to you t’ see the sweat marks on your shirt.”
The sheriff spoke out of a tightening silence. “Mister, what Chet says shows some pretty straight thinkin'. Had you met that guy before?”
Reifel’s reluctant nod was forced through doubt. “If he’s the guy I’ve got in mind,” he said, “we’ve swapped looks three-four times this month.”
“Where?” Chet asked.
“In Paradise.” Reifel tried to see where this line might be taking him but the burning agony of that hole in his chest made thinking an irrational process right then and he said, hoping truth might bolster his position, “Mostly around Cy Turner’s livery.”
It was only after he had made this assertion that the folly of his words flew back to mock and scare him. But big Chet seemed not to notice. He was tramping through his own thoughts. Their doggedness was in his voice, the distrust they bred was in his stare. “If he was close as you make out, an’ comin’ right at you, I still can’t see how that coyote missed. That shot oughter knocked you hell west an’ crooked!”
An edge of scorn cut through Reifel’s glance and brightened with the leaping conviction that at last this quibbler had kicked the door wide open.
Relief pulsed through him like a heady wine. He could have laughed in their faces. For in his spiteful attempts to cut the ground from under Ben this blundering fool had shown the way to safety.
No longer was Reifel afraid to have the Law discover he’d been wounded. That wound, exposed now, would confirm his story. It would make this pumpkin-roller look like a ninny.
He grinned at them tightly. “It came near enough.” He yanked open the front of his shirt and pulled it back so the clumsy bandaging wrapped about his chest would be plainly visible. He sat back to enjoy the look on Chet’s face while those bloody rags did his talking for him.
But Chet didn’t goggle. His saddle creaked again as he abruptly leaned closer, intently staring. The expected bewildered chagrin didn’t touch him. No sign of disappointment reshaped his expression. With his eyes like fire opals he swept up the snout of his .45-90 and cried in a voice turned savage with triumph: “Lafe! Come alive an’ put a rope on this guy!”
Ben Reifel froze through an eternity of silence.
The sheriff was staring at big Chet stupidly. “Man, are you crazy?”
Chet’s laugh was an ugly sound in that stillness.
“You been complainin',” Lafe said, “because the guy wasn’t shot. Now he shows you he is — ”
“If his story was true I knew damn well he was shot. So I’ll ask you now what I been askin’ myself. How come there ain’t no blood on his shirtfront? How come there ain’t no bullet hole through it?”
6. HEART OF NIGHT
T OO LATE Ben saw the jaws of the trap.
The sickness of fear was in his soul and the desperation born of his danger. Through crashing heartbeats every jungle instinct of the man who’s been hunted wildly urged
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