Borden Chantry by Louis L’Amour Page B

have to get a court order,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.”
    Hyatt Johnson was irritated. Now where did this cowboy ever hear of a court order? “Very well,” he replied tersely, “now if that is all—?”
    â€œFor the time, Hyatt, for the time.”
    Borden walked back to the street, feeling his defeat. To tell the truth, he knew nothing about court orders. He had read or heard somewhere of somebody getting one to get at some papers. Well, he could try.
    He would see Judge Alex McKinney.
    For a few minutes he simply stood in the street. It was an easy street, lazy-seeming and dusty, too warm part of the time, too cold and windy at others, yet it had the advantage of being familiar.
    He knew all the people on that street, knew what they were about. He recognized the rigs that stood there, knew the brands on the saddled stock along the hitching rail, and knew who rode most of the horses. Most of them were men he had worked with, men he knew and trusted. Yet somewhere among them was a murderer, which proved there was at least one man he did not know.
    Who? Who killed the stranger, and why? Why would a man want to kill?
    For gold…the most obvious reason, or for revenge, for fear, or over a woman. In a sudden fit of anger, maybe, in a dispute over a card game or horse-race or something. Yet a man in such a shooting had every chance of not even being arrested, and if you wished to kill a man you could find some reason for drawing on him.
    Unless, of course, you knew the other man was better with a gun than you were. Or…even if he might be
al-most
as good. Such a man might die but kill you in the process.
    Sorting over what he knew, he realized that nobody had told him the whole truth. Kim Baca knew more than he admitted, and so did both Johnny McCoy and his son. It was very likely that Hyatt Johnson knew enough to clear up the case.
    Hyatt…a cool, hard, careful man. A good shot at deer or antelope…or turkeys, for that matter, and a man who always played with the odds in his favor.
    Johnny, who drank too much, who was notoriously short of money…and Kim Baca, who had the skill, the intelligence, to outwit any of them. “Including me,” he said aloud.
    He had to see the judge about a court order and he must talk to Mary Ann. He walked across to the Bon-Ton, feeling guilty because he was procrastinating. He was avoiding going out to Mary Ann’s. Some of the town gossips would see him going in there and their tongues would wag.
    Prissy was over from the post office. She usually brewed her own tea in the back of the office, so if she was here it was because she was either picking up gossip or spreading some. Still, Prissy was a good woman, a good postmistress, and a public-spirited citizen. She was also a good person to have on your side if it came to politics or business about the town or country. She not only would say what she believed, but she believed a lot of things and said it about all of them.
    He sat down near the window where he could watch the street. He knew she would be inquiring, but he was also curious about what she had come over for. It took no more than a minute to find out.
    â€œMary Ann’s a sick woman, that’s what Doc Terwilliger says. He says she’s got consumption. She needs rest.”
    Elsie Carter was over from the hotel, and she half-turned in her chair. “Wonder some of those folks out west wouldn’t show up. Just don’t know, prob’ly, but Mary Ann Haley helped them when they needed it. Least that’s what they say.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Prissy demanded.
    â€œWhy, it was out Nevada way. Or maybe it was in Montana. Smallpox hit that mining camp an’ everybody come down with it. Most of the womenfolks in town got scared and they ran. They got out, and those men that could travel, they went, too.
    â€œThere was maybe twenty, twenty-five men left in town, and most of