Borden Chantry by Louis L’Amour

back there was a tack room and a smaller door, and beside that door a barrel with several sticks in it and a wornout broom. A sack lay on the floor near it.
    A rifle could have been placed there and hidden under the sack. Yet there were a number of places in which it might have been concealed. No doubt it was gone now.
    After awhile, his head throbbing painfully, Chantry walked home, pausing to lean against a building at one point, his head feeling heavy and awkward.
    Bess met him at the door, her face shocked at his expression.
    â€œOh, Borden! Borden, what happened? You’ve been shot!”
    â€œNot shot.” He tried to grin. “Just rapped on the skull. I’d better sit down, Bess.”
    She helped him to a chair, then went to the sink for water. It felt good just to sit down. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. In a moment he felt the soothing touch of the warm cloth as Bess dabbed away the matted blood in his hair.
    â€œIt’s a nasty cut, Borden, and it’s all discolored…bruised.”
    â€œI’ll be all right. He was waiting for me, just inside the freight barn.”
    â€œWho was it, Borden?”
    â€œI wish I knew…But I’ve a clue. A small clue, but a clue.”
    â€œWhat is it, Borden?”
    â€œNo…not now. I’d rather not say, and you’d think it too unimportant…And maybe it is.” He got up unsteadily. “I’m going to bed, Bess. All I need is rest.”
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    T HE GRAY, SLIVERY wood of the boardwalks was hot to the touch. The dusty street was empty and still. It was just short of noon, and the town was quiet, waiting, listening.
    Judge McKinney sat in the Bon-Ton over an early lunch. He was a big old man in a threadbare gray suit, the vest spotted from food spills at some bygone meal. Under his black hat his hair was gray and thick, his beard the same.
    â€œSorry to hear about Borden Chantry,” he said to Hyatt Johnson. “He’s a good man.”
    â€œA good rancher…At least he was. But do you think he’s the man for this job, Judge? Why, he told me yesterday he planned to get a court order from you to examine the bank files. That’s unheard of!”
    â€œNot quite, Hyatt. Not quite. It’s been done a time or two, and Borden’s not a man to go off on a tangent. If he wants to see your files he no doubt has good reason.”
    â€œBut I can’t let—”
    Judge McKinney leveled his cool gray eyes at Johnson. “Hyatt, if I write a court order for Borden Chantry to see your files, he’ll see them.”
    Hyatt Johnson hesitated. That was not what he wanted, not what he wanted at all. He had been so sure that a word to the judge…Well, he was the banker, and the judge was the authority. Weren’t they on the same side? He hesitated, waiting just a moment, then he said, “Judge, I’d never refuse a court order, of course. But the files have confidential information…I am sure you wouldn’t want everybody having access to your personal financial information, nor would I. I think—”
    â€œHyatt,” McKinney smiled, “I doubt if there’s anything in those files that Borden Chantry doesn’t know. As for my finances, I venture to say that Priscilla could give you a clearer statement on them than you could…or I, for that matter.
    â€œIn a town of this size there are no secrets, and I am sure that if Borden Chantry wants information, he should have it.”
    â€œPerhaps.” Hyatt Johnson was irritated, and McKinney noticed it. “I sometimes think he’s getting too big a sense of self-importance. Why, he’s taking a simple shooting and building it all out of proportion! You’d think the President had been shot!”
    â€œAnd why not?” McKinney sipped his coffee, then wiped his moustache. “Is not every man important in his own way? Which one of us is not important to someone? I daresay to