Borden Chantry by Louis L’Amour Page A

stopped and looked back, mentally estimating the load Pearson was putting on his wagon. He whistled softly…Ed must be doing well, for he was buying heavy, very heavy.
    The interior of the bank was cool and shadowed. Lem Parkin was behind the wicket, wearing a green eye-shade and sleeve garters. “Howdy, Marshal! Don’t often see you in here!”
    â€œNot much occasion for it, Lem. My salary doesn’t leave much. Is Mr. Johnson in?”
    â€œIn the office. Door’s open. Just walk on back.”
    Hyatt Johnson was a cool, hard-eyed man with a level gaze and less expression than a hard-boiled egg. He looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered young man with no pleasure. He did want Chantry’s land, and intended to have it. The ten sections Chantry owned were worth little at land prices of the day, and Hyatt Johnson knew that at the moment less valuable land was going for a dollar an acre, and sometimes less, with times the way they were. Borden Chantry’s land was a different story, for he had a good creek running through it as well as several year-around water holes, and Hyatt knew a dozen men who would pay ten to twelve dollars an acre for the place, and jump at the chance. He also knew there were banks in several western towns not too far off who would give Chantry a loan with no argument, and at the best rates.
    Fortunately, Chantry did not know this and Hyatt had no intention of telling him. He wanted the Chantry land. Once he had it, and he was sure he would get it eventually, he would sell off a small piece to recover whatever it cost him and hold the rest.
    Borden Chantry lived off his salary, and no western marshal could be expected to live long, so Hyatt was waiting…not too long, he hoped.
    His lips were a little dry when he looked up. Chantry wasted no time. “Hyatt,” he said shortly, “I am investigating a murder.”
    â€œMurder?”
Hyatt was startled. “You mean a killing?”
    â€œI mean a murder. Tall, nice-looking man, thirty or so. Might be less. Wore a beaded buckskin jacket…Plains Indian-style, but I figure he came from the southwest.”
    Hyatt Johnson sat back in his swivel chair. “You mean you are of the opinion this was not simply a drunken brawl? A casual shooting?”
    â€œI do. It was murder. Then he killer tried to cover it up. He changed the dead man’s shirt, put on his coat. Before he put the coat on, he shot him in the chest so he would have a wound to prove he’d been shot from in front. Then he took him out and dropped him in the street.”
    â€œWhat has all that to do with me?”
    â€œThe first step in figuring out who killed him is to identify him, find out where he stayed, and why he came to town in the first place. Also, he was known to be carrying a poke filled with gold coins.”
    Hyatt Johnson shrugged. “I still can’t see where I come in?”
    â€œHe was in your bank before he was killed. All I want to know is what he wanted here, and if he gave you a name.”
    Hyatt Johnson was disturbed. In all his dealings with ranchers he had found most of them were relatively poor business men, knowing little aside from cattle and grazing, and often with only a rudimentary knowledge of those subjects. To turn a herd of cattle loose on free range and then to make a gather and sell off the fat, mature stock required very little intelligence, as he saw it.
    Now Borden Chantry was showing a brand of reasoning he had not suspected…pure chance, no doubt. Yet why would he take off a man’s coat and shirt when he had obviously been shot?
    â€œYes,” he replied, “I believe…Yes, the man was in here, but he didn’t give me a name. His business, however, was confidential. I am afraid I cannot divulge any part of it.”
    â€œI’m speaking for the law, Hyatt. Not for myself.”
    â€œNevertheless—”
    Chantry stood up. “Looks like I’ll