The new road had reached as far as the sycamore grove the morning Manring arranged to work with Bowen’s stump-pulling detail.
He waited until the wagons were unloaded and the convicts had moved off before he went over to Frank Renda, who had dismounted and was standing near the equipment wagon.
Manring touched the brim of his straw work hat. “Mr. Renda-”
“What do you want?”
Manring leaned over the end gate of the equipment wagon then, reaching for the handle of a shovel. “I want to work with the stump pullers.”
Renda rolled a fresh cigar between his lips and clamped it in the corner of his mouth. He moved leisurely to the end of the wagon to scratch a match against the gate board. “Before,” Renda said, “it was to get off that job.”
“I’m not talking about permanent,” Manring murmured. “Put me on it a couple of days…long enough to find something out.”
“What’ve you heard?”
“Nothing yet. Bowen and Ike got their heads together. That’s all I know. Set me with them a couple of days and we’ll know more.”
“What’s your price this time?”
“I’ll let you know. After I think about it.”
“Keep talking like that,” Renda said, “your price’ll be the punishment cell.”
Manring’s eyes raised briefly. “Look, I don’t have time to be polite. Either put me with them or don’t.”
“They find out what you’re doing,” Renda said, “some morning we’ll shovel you out of the barracks.”
“That’s my worry.”
“I know it is,” Renda said. “I’m just curious to know what you want in return. You got about the softest job now-riding that scraper.”
“If I’m going to pull stumps,” Manring said impatiently, “I better get at it.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll have to get rid of the Mexican.”
Renda nodded. “Send him over. I’ll put him on the scraper.” He watched Manring shoulder the long-handled shovel and walk off toward Bowen’s group.
Now another one to watch, Renda thought. And he wondered if it was worth it. You didn’t trust anybody in this business, least of all a man who would inform on his own kind. Still, a man like that could be valuable and sometimes having one around was worth it, even if you couldn’t trust him.
Manring had been right about Bowen planning to jump the supply wagon that day. It had marked the beginning of Manring as an informer. And it was a strange beginning, because he had given the information without first asking for a reward. It was not until days later, after Bowen and Ike were in the punishment cell, that he asked to be taken off the stump-pulling detail. And then only hinted that perhaps he would learn other things that would be worth passing along.
Because he had been right the first time, there was no reason to doubt Manring now. That Bowen and Pryde might be up to something made considerable sense. Some men you could beat till your arms fell off and they still wouldn’t learn. Bowen had tried it once. You could tell by looking at him that he had the itch to run, and you could bet safely that he’d try it again.
And Pryde. Serving thirty years. Only six of them behind him. Thirty years for killing a man with a broken whiskey bottle in a saloon fight. Yes, Pryde qualified. With twenty-four years to go-no time off-he’d be more likely to run than Bowen. But Ike would be more choosy about how the break would be made, because he had more time to think about it.
So let Manring snoop, Renda thought. Make him tell whatever he learns. And if his price is out of line, then throw him the hell in solitary. Let him think it over by himself. He thought then: Which is what you ought to do with Lizann.
But you wouldn’t be sure of Willis’s reaction. Willis was weak, and by now too whiskey-soaked to think for himself. But if something were to happen to Lizann-No, you couldn’t be sure what Willis would do…even afraid as he was.
Since his talk with Lizann, Renda had thought it out very carefully. There were only two ways she could leave Five Shadows. Either try to run away by herself, or try to summon help from the outside. Both of these avenues were blocked. He read every piece of mail she wrote or received and a Mimbre followed her whenever she took her sorrel out. So Renda told himself she was bluffing. She was being wearisome, trying to get him excited, because there was nothing she could do about her situation.
Still, as Lizann had predicted, he continued to think about it, and merely telling himself that she was bluffing did not ease his mind.
Manring was confident now that Renda would believe almost anything he might tell him. That was a sign that his luck was still running. No, it wasn’t all luck. Getting in with Renda wasn’t luck. Arousing Bowen’s interest in the dynamite wasn’t luck either. It was work and thinking and sweating and being five jumps ahead of any luck that could turn against you.
The luck had been in the beginning. First, seeing the basis of a plan come apart with the word that Bowen was ready to run. Bowen the dynamiter, without whom the plan was nothing. So there had been no choice and informing on Bowen had been a good way to test his luck.
Manring reasoned it this way: If Bowen escaped, or, if he were killed in the attempt, the dynamite plan was finished. But if Renda knew beforehand that Bowen was going, they would be ready for him and Bowen would have only a slim chance at best. He might be killed; but, to Manring, the odds leaned slightly toward his being taken alive. Perhaps with gunshot wounds, but nevertheless alive.
As it happened, Bowen was taken and Manring’s luck began its run. That he had tested his luck with a man’s life in the balance rose to his conscience only briefly. He shrugged it off with the thought that if Bowen had been killed, he deserved it. He would be repaid for that night in the Prescott jail cell: the night Bowen slugged him four times before the deputy pulled him off.
It was not until a few days after Bowen and Pryde had been thrown into the punishment cell that Manring realized that he had not asked Renda for a reward. He could not risk Renda suspecting that he had informed on Bowen for any other reason than for a reward. So he asked to be taken off stump-pulling.
Now he was doing the same thing in reverse. Nearing the end of the canyon, it was time to be working with Bowen again. When the dynamite arrived he would still be with Bowen. Renda would be asking what he had learned and he would have to stall Renda. But that could be done, he was sure. And Pryde. It was too bad Ike was still working with Bowen. But maybe something would happen to Ike.
Bowen was backing the team into position, Pryde pushing down on the long handle of his shovel, levering the stump, and the Mexican was passing the chain through the stump’s shallow roots. Pryde saw him first. He said, “Here comes Earl.” And now the three of them paused. They waited expectantly, watching Manring coming toward them.
As he reached them, Manring’s eyes went to the Mexican and he lowered the shovel. “Renda wants to see you.”
The Mexican’s hand moved to his chest. “Me? What does he want with me?”
“Don’t get overheated. You’re going on the scraper.”
“On the scraper? But why does he want me?”
“Ask him. I don’t run the place.”
The Mexican rose slowly, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Maybe he thinks I did something that I didn’t do.”
“You’re going on the scraper. That isn’t punishment.”
The Mexican shook his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“You’re just jumpy,” Manring said.
“I’m jumpy since the time Chick Miller went to see Renda.”
“Go on, get out of here.”
Manring’s eyes followed the Mexican as he started off toward the equipment wagon, then his gaze returned. He looked from Pryde to Bowen as he said, “I got transferred.”
