• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

That was it. The futility of arguing showed briefly on Hyatt’s face. He asked, “What about the woman?”

Dyke shook his head. “This Cliff said she didn’t want any part of it, but you forced her into it. We’re not bothered about her. Just you and Rady there.” He nodded directly at Mitchell.

Mitchell frowned. Hurriedly then his eyes swept the clearing. Rady wasn’t here! He called to Dyke, “I’m not Rady! He’s the one with the Remington …was out by the road.”

Dyke studied him before answering. “There wasn’t anybody out there.”

“Then he got away, but I sure as hell ain’t Rady!”

“Who’re you supposed to be?”

“Dave Mitchell. I just rode in a little while ago looking to camp.” He saw Hyatt watching him, a grin softening the dark bearded face.

“Rady,” Hyatt said, “are you drunk or something?”

Mitchell stared at him with disbelief. “What’s the matter with you? Tell them who I am!”

Hyatt shook his head. “There’s no use in that, Rady. Let’s own up…take our medicine like men.”

Mitchell’s eyes went to Dyke. “Listen. This man’s crazy. I suspected it before. Now I’m sure.”

“If I was in your shoes,” said Dyke, “I might pull the same stunt.”

Mitchell paused. “All right”—his glance went to the woman—“ask her.”

She looked at Mitchell, then shook her head. “He’s not Rady. His name is Mitchell.”

Dyke said, “Uh-huh, and you’re Mrs. Mitchell.”

“I never saw him before this evening.”

“Claire,” Hyatt said sympathetically, “there’s no use. Rady’s got to take his medicine just the same way I do.”

The woman’s face was cold and showed no emotion. “He had a fight with this man Mitchell and lost. That’s why he wants to see him hang.”

“Claire! …Rady and I were just kidding! You thought we really meant it?”

Mitchell looked at Dyke again. “You said that holdup was day before yesterday. I can prove I was at Whipple then. I was just discharged yesterday.”

“What’s your proof?” Dyke asked.

“Ask anybody at Whipple!”

“Rady,” Hyatt said, “delaying it a few days ain’t going to help any, they’ll still hang you. Let’s get it over with.”

Mitchell’s expression changed suddenly and his hand went to his chest. “My discharge order! It’s dated yesterday!”

“Keep your hand out of that coat!” Dyke snapped. He nodded to one of the men near Mitchell. “Take a look.”

The man stepped in front of Mitchell. His hand went over the shirt, then to the inside coat pocket. “Nothing,” he said over his shoulder.

Mitchell’s hand came up. He felt the empty pocket, and the part of his shirt that was torn—

“Listen, while we were fighting my shirt was ripped. The paper fell out, that’s what happened. Look around there, right where you’re standing!”

Dyke continued to study Mitchell, but some of his men moved about, looking at the ground and scuffing the sand with their boots. A man said, “I don’t see nothin’,” and another said, “Not around here.” Watching them, the tension building and becoming unbearable. Mitchell suddenly tore himself from the men holding him. They started after him and Dyke called, “Let him go!”

Mitchell came on, his eyes searching the ground, then dropped to his hands and knees, his fingers brushing the sand, smoothing it, and carefully he covered the area where the fight had taken place. He came up slowly and sat back on his heels. “It’s not here,” he said wearily. Then: “Wait! When I was pulled off my horse—” He came to his feet quickly.

Dyke asked, “You ever on the stage?”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Mitchell screamed. “Can’t you see that!”

“I see a man fighting awful hard,” Dyke replied, “for a life he don’t deserve.”

“What do you expect me to do!” Mitchell paused then. He breathed in and out and said, more calmly, “I swear to Almighty God I had nothing to do with that holdup.”

“That’s what this Cliff said,” Dyke answered. “Before I broke his jaw.”

“Rady,” Hyatt spoke up, “you don’t want that to happen to you, do you?”

Mitchell ignored him. Still looking at Dyke he said, “Isn’t there a doubt in your mind?” Dyke didn’t answer and in the silence their eyes