The Big-Town Round-Up

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XXXII

  MR. LINDSAY RECEIVES

  Between two guards Clay climbed the iron steps to an upper tier ofcages at the Tombs. He was put into a cell which held two beds, oneabove the other, as in the cabin of an ocean liner. By the side of thebunks was a narrow space just long enough for a man to take two stepsin the same direction.

  An unshaven head was lifted in the lower bunk to see why the sleep ofits owner was being disturbed.

  "I've brought you a cell mate, Shiny," explained one of the guards."You want to be civil to him. He's just croaked a friend of yours."

  "For de love o' Gawd. Who did he croak?"

  "'Slim' Jim Collins. Cracked him one on the bean and that wasa-plenty. Hope you'll enjoy each other's society, gents." The guardclosed the door and departed.

  "Is that right? Did youse do up 'Slim,' or was he kiddin' me?"

  "I don't reckon we'll discuss that subject," said Clay blandly, butwith a note of finality in his voice.

  "No offense, boss. It's an honor to have so distinguished a gent for acell pal. For that matter I ain't no cheap rat myself. Dey pinched mefor shovin' de queer. I'd ought to get fifteen years," he said proudly.

  This drew a grin from Lindsay, though not exactly a merry one. "Ifyou're anxious for a long term you can have some of mine," he told thecounterfeiter.

  "Maybe youse'll go up Salt Creek," said Shiny hopefully.

  Afraid the allusion might not be understood, he thoughtfully explainedthat this was the underworld term for the electric chair.

  Clay made no further comment. He found the theme a gruesome one.

  "Anyhow, I'm glad dey didn't put no hoister nor damper-getter wit' me.I'm partickler who I meet. De whole profesh is gettin' run down at deheel. I'm dead sick of rats who can't do nothin' but lift pokes,"concluded the occupant of the lower berth with disgust.

  Though Clay's nerves were of the best he did very little sleeping thatnight. He was in a grave situation. Even if he had a fair field hisplight would be serious enough. But he guessed that during the longhours of darkness Durand was busy weaving a net of false evidence fromwhich he could scarcely disentangle himself. Unless Bromfield cameforward at once as a witness for him, his case would be hopeless--andClay suspected that the clubman would prove only a broken reed as asupport. The fellow was selfish to the core. He had not, in thetelling Western phrase, the guts to go through. He would take the lineof least resistance.

  Beatrice was in his thoughts a great deal. What would she think of himwhen the news came that he was a murderer, caught by the police in aden of vice where he had no business to be? Some deep instinct of hissoul told him that she would brush through the evidence to theessential truth. She had failed him once. She would never do itagain. He felt sure of that.

  The gray morning broke, and brought with it the steaming smell ofprison cooking, the sounds of the caged underworld, the sense of lifeall around him dwarfed and warped to twisted moral purposes. A wardencame with breakfast--a lukewarm, muddy liquid he called coffee and astew in which potatoes and bits of fat beef bobbed like life buoys--andClay ate heartily while his cell mate favored him, between gulps, witha monologue on ethics, politics, and the state of society, as theserelated especially to Shiny the Shover. Lindsay was given tounderstand that the whole world was "on de spud," but the big crookshad fixed the laws so that they could wear diamonds instead of stripes.

  Presently a guard climbed the iron stairway with a visitor and led theway along the deck outside the tier of cells where Clay had been put.

  "He's in seventy-four, Mr. Durand," the man said as he approached."I'll have to beat it. Come back to the office when you're ready."

  The ex-pugilist had come to gloat over him. Clay knew it at once. Hispupils narrowed.

  He was lying on the bed, his supple body stretched at graceful ease.Not by the lift of an eyelid did he recognize the presence of his enemy.

  Durand stood in front of the cell, hands in pockets, the inevitableunlit black cigar in his mouth. On his face was a sneer of malevolentderision.

  Shiny the Shover bustled forward, all complaisance.

  "Pleased to meet youse, Mr. Durand."

  The gang politician's insolent eyes went up and down him. "I didn'tcome to see _you_."

  "'S all right. Glad to see youse, anyhow," the counterfeit passer wenton obsequiously. "Some day, when you've got time I'd like to talk wit'youse about gettin' some fall money."

  "Nothin' doin', Shiny. I'm not backin' you," said Jerry coldly."You've got to go up the river."

  "Youse promised--"

  "Aw, what the hell's eatin' you?"

  Shiny's low voice carried a plaintive whine. "If you'd speak to dejudge--"

  "Forget it." Durand brushed the plea away with a motion of his hand."It's your cell pal I've come to take a look at--the one who's goin' tothe chair."

  With one lithe movement Clay swung down to the floor. He saunteredforward to the grating, his level gaze full on the ward boss.

  "Shiny, this fellow's rotten," he said evenly and impersonally. "He'snot only a crook, but he's a crooked crook. He'd throw down his ownbrother if it paid him."

  Durand's cruel lips laughed. "Your pal's a little worried thismornin', Shiny. He ain't slept much. You see the bulls got him right.It's the death chair for him and no lifeboat in sight."

  Clay leaned against the bars negligently. He spoke with a touch oflazy scorn. "See those scars on his face, Shiny--the one on the cheekbone and the other above the eye. Ask him where he got 'em and how."

  Jerry cursed. He broke into a storm of threats, anger sweeping overhim in furious gusts. He had come to make sport of his victim andLindsay somehow took the upper hand at once. He had this fellow wherehe wanted him at last. Yet the man's soft voice still carried the noteof easy contempt. If the Arizonan was afraid, he gave no least sign ofit.

  "You'll sing another tune before I'm through with you," theprize-fighter prophesied savagely.

  The Westerner turned away and swung back to his upper berth. He knew,what he had before suspected, that Durand was going to "frame" him ifhe could. That information gained, the man no longer interested him.

  Sullenly Jerry left. There was no profit in jeering at Lindsay. Hewas too entirely master of every situation that confronted him.

  Within the hour Clay was wakened from sleep by another guard with wordthat he was wanted at the office of the warden. He found waiting himthere Beatrice and her father. The girl bloomed in that dingy roomlike a cactus in the desert.

  She came toward him with hands extended, in her eyes gifts offriendship and faith.

  "Oh, Clay!" she cried.

  "Much obliged, little pardner." Her voice went to his heart like waterto the thirsty roots of prickly pears. A warm glow beat through hisveins. The doubts that had weighed on him during the night were gone.Beatrice believed in him. All was well with the world.

  He shook hands with Whitford. "Blamed good of you to come, sir."

  "Why wouldn't we come?" demanded the mining man bluntly. "We're hereto do what we can for you."

  Little wells of tears brimmed over Beatrice's lids. "I've been soworried."

  "Don't you. It'll be all right." Strangely enough he felt now that itwould. Her coming had brought rippling sunshine into a drab world.

  "I won't now. I'm going to get evidence for you. Tell us all aboutit."

  "Why, there isn't much to tell that you haven't read in the papersprobably. He came a-shootin' and was hit by a chair."

  "Was it you that hit him?"

  "Wouldn't I be justified?" he asked gently.

  "But did you?"

  For a moment he hesitated, then made up his mind swiftly. "Yes," hetold her gravely.

  She winced. "You couldn't help it. How did you come to be there?"

  "I just dropped in."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  He had burned the bridges behind him and was lying glibly.
Why bringBromfield into it? She was going to marry him in a few days. If herfiance was man enough to come forward and tell the truth he would do soanyhow. It was up to him. Clay was not going to betray him toBeatrice.

  "The paper says there was some one with you."

  "Sho! Reporters sure enough have lively imaginations."

  "Johnnie told me you had an engagement with Mr. Bromfield."

  "Did you ever know Johnnie get anything right?"

  "And Clarendon says he was with you at Maddock's."

  Clay had not been prepared for this cumulative evidence. He gave a lowlaugh of relief. "I'm an awful poor liar. So Bromfield says he waswith me, does he?"

  "Yes."

  He intended to wait for a lead before showing his hand. "Then you knowall about it?" he asked carelessly.

  Their eyes were on each other, keen and watchful. She knew he wasconcealing something of importance. He had meant not to tell her thatBromfield had been with him. Why? To protect the man to whom she wasengaged. She jumped to the conclusion that he was still shielding him.

  "Yes, you're a poor liar, Clay," she agreed. "You stayed to keep backCollins so as to give Clarendon a chance to escape."

  "Did I?"

  "Can you deny it? Clarendon heard the shots as he was runningdownstairs."

  "He told you that, did he?"

  "Yes."

  "That ought to help a lot. If I can prove Collins was shootin' at me Ican plead self-defense."

  "That's what it was, of course."

  "Yes. But Durand doesn't mean to let it go at that. He was here tosee me this mo'nin'." Clay turned to the mining man, his voice low butincisive. His brain was working clear and fast. "Mr. Whitford, I havea hunch he's going to destroy the evidence that's in my favor. Theremust be two bullet holes in the partition of the rear room whereCollins was killed. See if you can't find those bullet holes and thebullets in the wall behind."

  "I'll do that, Lindsay."

  "And hire me a good lawyer. Send him to me. I won't use a smart onewhose business is to help crooks escape. If he doesn't believe in me,I don't want him. I'll have him get the names of all those pulled inthe raid and visit them to see if he can't find some one who heard theshots or saw shooting. Then there's the gun. Some one's got that gun.It's up to us to learn who."

  "That right."

  "Tim Muldoon will do anything he can for me. There's a girl lives withhis mother. Her name's Annie Millikan. She has ways of finding outthings. Better talk it over with her too. We've got to get busy in ahurry."

  "Yes," agreed Whitford. "We'll do that, boy."

  "Oh, Clay, I'm sure it's going to be all right!" cried Beatrice, in aglow of enthusiasm. "We'll give all our time. We'll get evidence toshow the truth. And we'll let you know every day what we are doing."

  "How about my going bail for you?" asked her father.

  Clay shook his head. "No chance, just yet. Let's make our showing atthe coroner's inquest. I'll do fine and dandy here till then."

  He shook hands with them both and was taken back to his cell. But hopewas in his heart now. He knew his friends would do their best to getthe evidence to free him. It would be a battle royal between the truthand a lie.