Страница 26 из 52
Michael Latch had been the nephew of George Baca, a half-American, half-Spanish rancher who owned a huge hacienda in California. Neither Baca nor Tony Costa had ever seen Michael. Nor had the man known as Walt, who seemed to be the son of George’s half-brother.
The will was that of Michael’s father, Thomas Latch, the deed was to a small California ranch.
From other papers, and an unmailed letter, Jed learned that the younger of the two men he had buried was Michael Latch. The man and woman had been two friends of Michael’s—Randy and May Ke
“Them Indians must have taken that girl with ’em,” Jed thought.
He considered trying to find her, but dismissed the idea as impractical. Looking for a needle in a haystack would at least be a local job; searching for the girl captured by a roving band of Indians could cover a couple of thousand square miles.
Then he had another idea.
Michael Latch was dead. A vast estate awaited him—a fine, comfortable life, a constructive life which young Latch would have loved. Now the estate would fall to Walt, whoever he was— unless he, Jed Asbury, took the name of Michael Latch and claimed the estate!
The old man who was his new boss rode in from a ride around the herd. He glanced at Jed, squatting near the fire.
“Say, stranger,” he said, “what did yuh say your name was?”
Only for an instant did Jed hesitate. “Latch,” he said quietly. “Mike Latch. . . .”
Warm sunlight lay upon the hacienda at Casa Grande. The hounds sprawling in drowsy peace under the smoke trees scarcely opened their eyes when a tall stranger turned his horse in at the gate. Many strangers came to Casa Grande, and the uncertainty that hung over the vast ranch had not reached the dogs.
Tony Costa straightened his lean frame from the door where he leaned and studied the stranger from under an eye-shielded hand.
“Senorita,” he said softly, “someone comes!”
“Is it Walt?” Sharp, quick heels sounded on the stone-flagged floor. “If he comes, what will we do? Oh, if Michael were only here.”
“Today is the last day,” Costa said gloomily.
“Look!” The girl grasped his sleeve. “Turning in the gate behind him! That’s Walt Seever!”
“Two of his boys with him,” Tony agreed. “We will have trouble if we try to stop him, senorita. He would never lose the ranch to a woman.”
The stranger on the black horse swung down at the steps. He wore a flat-crowned black hat and a black broadcloth suit. His boots were almost new and hand-tooled, but when the girl’s eyes dropped to the guns, she caught her breath.
“Tony!” she gasped. “The guns!”
The young man came up the steps, swept off his hat, and bowed. She looked at him, her eyes curious and alert.
“You are Tony Costa?” he said to the Mexican. “The foreman of Casa Grande?”
The three other horsemen clattered into the yard and the leader, a big man with bold, hard eyes, swung down. He brushed past the stranger and confronted the foreman.
“Well, Costa,” he said triumphantly, “today this becomes my ranch! You’re fired!”
“No!”
All eyes turned to the stranger, the girl’s startled. This man was strong, she thought incongruously. He had a clean-cut face, pleasant gray eyes, hair that was black and curly.
“If you’re Walt,” the stranger continued, “you can ride back where you came from. This ranch is mine. I am Michael Latch!”
Fury and shocked disbelief shook Walt Seever. “You? Michael Latch?” Anger and disappointment struggled in his face as he stared. “You couldn’t be!”
“Why not?” Jed spoke calmly. Eyes on Seever, he could not see the effect of his words on the girl or Costa. “George sent for me. Here I am.”
Mingled with the baffled rage there was something else in Walt’s face, some ugly suspicion or knowledge. Suddenly Jed had a suspicion that Walt knew he was not Michael Latch. Or doubted it vehemently.
Tony Costa shrugged.
“Why not?” he repeated. “We have been expecting him. His uncle wrote for him, and after Baca’s death, I wrote to him. If you doubt him, look at the guns. Are there two such pairs of guns in the world? Are there two men in the world who could make such guns?”
Seever’s eyes dropped to the guns, and Jed saw doubt and puzzlement replace the angry certainty.
“I’ll have to have more proof than a set of guns!” he said.
Cooly, Jed drew a letter from his pocket and passed it over.
“From Tony, here. I also have my father’s will, and other letters.”
Walt Seever glanced at the letter, then hurled it into the dust. He turned furiously.
“Let’s get out of here!” he snarled.
Jed Asbury watched them go, but he was puzzling over that expression in Walt Seever’s eyes. Until Walt had seen the letter he had been positive Jed was not Mike Latch; now he was no longer sure. But what could have made him so positive in the begi
The girl was whispering something to the foreman. Jed smiled at her.
“I don’t believe Walt is too happy about my bein’ here!” he said.
“No—” Costa’s face was stiff—“he isn’t. He expected to get this ranch himself.” He turned toward the girl. “Senor Latch. I would like to introduce Senorita Carol James, a—a ward of Senor Baca’s, and his good friend!”
Jed acknowledged the introduction.
“You must give me all the information,” he said to Tony Costa. “I want to know all you can tell me about Walt Seever.”
Costa exchanged a glance with Carol. “Si, senor. Walt Seever is a malo hombre, senor. He has killed several men, and the two you saw with him—Harry Strykes and Gin Feeley—are notorious gunmen, and believed to be thieves.”
Jed Asbury listened attentively, wondering about that odd expression in Carol’s eyes. Could she suspect he was not Michael Latch? If so, why didn’t she say something? He was a little unsure of himself because they had accepted him so readily. For even after the idea had come to him suddenly that he might take the dead man’s place he had not been sure he would go through with it. He had a feeling of guilt, yet the real Mike Latch was dead, and the heir was a killer, perhaps a thief. All the way on his wild ride to reach here before the date that ended the year of grace Latch had been given, Jed had debated with himself.
At one moment he had been convinced that it was the wrong thing to do, yet he could not see how he could be doing Latch any harm. And certainly, Costa and Carol seemed pleased to have him there, and the expression on Seever’s face had been worth the ride even if Jed did not persist in his claim.
Yet there was another undercurrent here that disturbed him. That was Walt Seever’s baffled anger.
“You say Seever seemed sure he would inherit?” Jed asked.
Carol looked at him curiously. “Yes, until three months ago he was hating George Baca for leaving his ranch to you, then he changed and became sure he would inherit.”
It had been three months ago that Jed Asbury had come upon the lone covered wagon which had been attacked and three people, one of them Michael Latch, had been killed. Could Walt Seever have known of that?
The idea took root. Seever must have known. If that was so, then those three people had not been killed by Indians, or if so the Indians had been set upon the wagon. A lot remained to be explained. How had the wagon happened to be out there alone? And what had become of the girl, Arden?
If it had not been Indians, or if it had been Indians operating for white men, they must have taken Arden prisoner. And she would know the real Michael Latch! She would know Jed Asbury was an imposter, and might know who the killers were.
Walking out on the wide terrace that overlooked the green valley beyond the hacienda, Jed stared down the valley with his mind filled with doubts and apprehension.