Who Wants to Live Forever?

by William MacLeod Raine

  Rogers held the bill in his hand suspiciously. He never did any work and he lived on nothing a year, but it was his experience that five-dollar bills were not so easily come by as this.

  'What you want me to do?' he demanded.

  'I'll tell you as we go along. It won't take half an hour.'

  'You'll tell me now,' the loafer differed.

  'You owe John Webster three dollars, don't you?'

  'What if I do? I ain't got through borrowing it yet.'

  'I want you to go with me and tell him you've come to pay it back. That is all you have to do.'

  This did not make sense to Rogers, and he said so. 'I don't get this. Who are you? And what difference does it make to you if I never pay John back?'

  Bill Nuney saw that he was not getting far on this line. Shep needed more urgent persuasion. He pushed the barrel of a revolver into the man's belly. 'Less talk from you,' he ordered. 'Just do as I say.'

  The eyes of Rogers bulged and his jaw fell. 'Goddle-mighty, don't shoot me,' he gasped. 'I haven't got a nickel, mister.'

  'You've got five dollars, and there will be five more on top of that if you behave right. You are as safe as an old lady in church. Walk beside me down the alley to the road. Take it easy and don't try any monkey-shines.'

  Bill put the gun under his coat as they started. Rogers mentioned that he had a bad heart and excitement was bad for him. Maybe somebody else could do this job better. Nuney told him that he could do it fine and that his heart did not need to act up because there wasn't going to be any excitement. 'You don't even need to pay the three dollars,' he added with a grin. 'Just say you are going to pay it.'

  Rogers's heart had another shock when they reached a car in which two masked men sat. He was invited to get into the back seat, and did so after a mumbled protest. Nuney sat beside him and one of the two in front started the engine. Along back streets the car took a roundabout way to the jail. While going there, Nuney talked into the ear of their unwilling passenger.

  All Rogers had to do was to call to the jailer that he had come to pay the three dollars he owed. Webster would be surprised and pleased to get this news and he would come to the door to receive it. Rogers need bear in mind only two things. The first was that if he did not speak in a perfectly natural voice, it would be too bad for him, and the other that he had better forget what any of them looked like since they were a tough bunch of bad hombres who would certainly not forget what he looked like if he tallied.

  The car was stopped fifty yards from the jail, an old square brick building set well back from the street. The hill men stood close to the building by the door when Rogers called to the jailer. After the third call, Webster came to a window and asked who wanted him. Rogers told who he was and why he had come.

  Webster was certainly surprised. 'Where did you get the three dollars, Shep?' he asked.

  'I found a wallet with five hundred dollars in it belonging to a dude from Boston. He gave me twenty-five bucks for returning it.'

  The jailer knew that there had been two or three tourists from Massachusetts in town. It did not occur to him to doubt the story. He came down wearing slippers, his nightgown thrust into the top of his trousers. As soon as he opened the door and saw the three masked men, he knew he had been trapped.

  'We want Brick Fenwick,' Nuney told him.

  'Now — now, boys, you can't do anything like that,' Webster remonstrated. 'A little fun is all right, but—'

  Mullins pushed a gun into his back. 'Don't talk,' the outlaw snapped. 'Move along and get yore keys. Stick right here with us, Rogers, till we turn you loose.'

  The jailer made one more attempt to dissuade the masked men. 'I don't know any of you, but you're going to get in bad if you pull off a jail break.'

  'Don't argue,' Nuney said. 'Unless you want to be pistol-whipped. Get yore keys and take us to Fenwick's cell.'

  Webster got the bunch of keys and led them upstairs. He opened the outer cell and let the rescuers into it. From the inner cage Brick Fenwick growled at his rescuers.

  'Where the hell you been all this time?' he demanded. 'Does Black think he can let me rot in this hole and do nothing about it?'

  'We're doing something about it, Brick,' Nuney answered mildly. 'We didn't know till this morning you were here. Did you expect us to come in open daylight and bust the calaboose open? You got no kick coming. You haven't been here forty-eight hours yet.'

  'It seems like forty-eight years,' Fenwick complained. At Webster he yelped, 'Hurry up and get that door open, or I'll break you in two when I get out.'

  'He's doing his best, Brick,' expostulated Nuney. 'Soon as he picks the right key, he'll get it open.'

  The steel door swung open and Fenwick stepped out. He took the key-ring from the jailer and swung the heavy bunch of keys against the man's forehead. The knees of Webster buckled and he slid down the metal door to the floor.

  'No need of doing that, Brick,' said Nuney. 'He treated you all right, didn't he?'

  'Don't tell me what I'm to do,' Fenwick snarled. 'I do as I please… Fling the fellow into the cell and see how he likes being locked up.'

  Mullins and Vallejo picked Webster up by the head and the heels and dropped his unconscious body on the cot inside.

  'What about Rogers?' Mullins wanted to know.

  'Who is he?' Brick asked tartly.

  'The fellow we used to get Webster downstairs,' explained Nuney. 'I owe him five dollars more. He won't bother us any.'

  Fenwick caught the man by the back of the neck and flung him into the cell with the jailer. He locked the door and made for the stairs. 'Let's go!' he barked.

  Bill Nuney stayed long enough to peel another five-dollar bill from his roll. This he pushed between the bars where Rogers could get it.

  As the car crossed a bridge on the edge of town, Fenwick reached out of the window and dropped the keys into the stream. Five minutes later he woke up to the fact that they were not on the right road for the Rabbit Ear Gorge country.

  'Where we headin'?' he questioned.

  'For Casa Rita,' Nuney told him.

  'No. Black can't order me around like a slave. I'm going back into the hills.'

  'Better stop the car, Carlos,' the lank cowboy said, 'Brick wants to get out.'

  'I don't either,' Fenwick denied. 'Take me home.'

  Bill Nuney was fed up with the rescued prisoner's surliness. Like other men he usually walked around the young killer carefully rather than run the risk of angering him. But Bill was a bold young scamp who did not intend to be trampled upon even by a man with Fenwick's reputation.

  'I'm not lookin' for any trouble, Brick,' he said quietly, 'but we have our orders and I reckon we'll carry them out whether you go along or not.'

  Carlos unexpectedly backed Nuney up. 'Si, señor,' he nodded. 'But if Mr. Fenwick say no, he do not wish to go, I will run the car back to town and let him get out.'

  'Is Black at Casa Rita?' Fenwick inquired sourly.

  'No,' Nuney replied. 'Cash is there.'

  'And Frawley?'

  Bill shook his head. 'Jim is at the ranch nursing his wound. He acts like a Jap rifle had ripped him to pieces.'

  'What wound? Did that wolf Stevens get him?'

  There was subdued mirth in Nuney's voice as he gave information. 'The little lady who used to be his boss put a pill in him for not remembering how to treat a lady. It punctured his laig and Jim is an interesting invalid, you might say. Doc Hinman figures that with careful nursing he'll continue to cumber the earth.'

  'Was he shot bad?'

  'Hell, no! But to listen to Jim, you'd think we had better be ordering his coffin. He squawks plenty.'

  Carlos came back to the question that had been raised. 'Do I turn the car and go back to let Mr. Fenwick out?' he asked.

  'I'll go to Casa Rita,' Brick decided. 'But if I don't like the layout, I won't lift a hand. I'm tired of playing Tick Black's game for him. He sits up there in the hills getting richer every year and the guys that hav
e done his dirty work are either dead or broke. Me, I'm getting sick of it.'

  Mullins was by nature a malcontent. 'That's sure enough so, Brick. We run the risk and he rakes in the dough.'

  'Not all of it,' Nuney mentioned. 'On this deal there is a cut-in for us.'

  'What is the deal?' Fenwick asked sullenly. 'I'm not reaching in to pull something sight unseen out of a grab bag.'

  'Some dude beef is coming into Casa Rita tonight. From the J Bar outfit. We're to receive it and do some branding.'

  'Where?'

  'In the draw above the Montoyo Flats.'

  'And after we have done that?'

  'Why, I reckon we beat it back to the hills.'

  Brick's jeering laughter was offensive. 'You're certainly easy, Bill.'

  'Meaning what?'

  'Ever hear of a fellow called Arnold, who claims he is a tenderfoot with t.b. and rides for Stevens? Well, Tick thinks he is a Government man checking up on a black market. Soon as we have done the branding, Cash will drop it gently to us that Arnold is to be bumped off. Of course that's a nice easy job, not half as hard as touching up the J Bar brand. You won't mind it a bit, Bill.'

  'I won't have a thing to do with it,' Nuney said bluntly. 'I'm no killer.'

  The shallow, hooded eyes of Fenwick fastened on him. 'You're too soft for this business. It takes a man with sand in his craw. I suppose yore idea would be to sit around and do nothing while this fellow gathers evidence to send you to the pen.'

  Nuney flushed angrily. 'Maybe I'm not so soft as you think, Brick. Anyhow, I'm going to have a chance to toughen up. In a few days I'll be in the Marines. What killing I do will be on the level and for Uncle Sam.'

  'That's nice,' Fenwick retorted with gentle malice. 'Bill is going to be a hero, boys.'

  Nuney glared at him, but did not answer.

  CHAPTER 26

  Brand-Blotters at Work

  LIKE OTHER Arizona packing plants the Gibson Company had recently cut down from three shifts to one, pending a Government adjustment of prices. The packers claimed they could not operate without loss when there was a ceiling on their product, but none on livestock. This was one of the many inevitable tangles that had to be straightened out by the agencies trying to keep living costs from getting too high.

  Since the demand for meat was great, Stevens could understand how an unscrupulous operator like Jubal L. Gibson would welcome an illicit supply of beef on the hoof without inquiring too carefully from where it came. No doubt he safeguarded himself by requiring proof of ownership, though the low price of the stuff he bought from Black's dummies must make him aware of crookedness.

  Both Stevens and Arnold were convinced that an examination of the packing plant's books would show no evidence of guilt. The checks paid would be normal. Refunds by Black in cash would go into Gibson's own pocket and no entry of this would appear in the books. Proof of theft must be made by an examination of the hides. Since the last raid had been nearly two weeks ago, it was very likely that the hides had already been shipped to a tannery. But there was a chance that some of them were still in the company warehouse. If it was possible, they meant to get into the building and find out.

  The job of getting into the warehouse must be done by forcible entry while the night watchman was in some other part of the plant. If caught, they would face a charge of burglary.

  During the day they made the acquaintance of a workman who had been employed on the graveyard shift while the company was operating at full capacity. He was quite willing to drink a couple of free beers with two amiable strangers, and from him they pumped information he did not suspect was of any importance to them. Before parting company with him, they had a mental map of the physical plant and knew the routine habits of the night watchman.

  It was after midnight when they walked cut of their hotel and got into the car Hal had left parked against the curb near the side entrance. As Hal drove down the main street, a sedan pulled up to the sidewalk in front of them. Out of it stepped four men. Two of them Hal did not know, but the others were Fenwick and Mullins. Cash Polk emerged from the shadowy alley to meet them.

  Hal kept going, hoping they would not be noticed and recognized. To his companion he said, 'Brick Fenwick in that car.'

  Arnold's gaze was glued to the men on the sidewalk. 'I saw him. They didn't even look at us.'

  'That's a break. We'll have to decide what is best to do?'

  Hal swung round the next corner and halfway down the block stopped under a cottonwood in a vacant lot.

  'Do you think Black sent them to kill us?' Arnold asked.

  'I left Brick Fenwick under Sheriff Elbert's charge, as I told you. Black must have got him out somehow. Perhaps he gave bond. Brick is boiling mad at me, and of course Cash has been in touch with Black. They did not come here to blow their money. This town doesn't offer entertainment enough. One of two reasons brought them — either to rub us out, or to take care of a bunch of beef stuff due to arrive.'

  'Or to do both,' Arnold suggested.

  They agreed that whatever the rustlers had come to do would be taken care of before morning. Black was too wily an old bird to have so many of his men hanging around any longer than necessary. The best plan seemed to be to keep an eye on the hill men. Soon the object of their coming would develop. If they had in mind murder, Arnold and Stevens would try to get out of their way and avoid a clash. But if cattle were being delivered from another raid, this might be a good opportunity to gather evidence.

  They drove around the block and stopped opposite the side entrance of the hotel. Arnold scouted the Black party while Hal remained in the car.

  From the corner Arnold saw the automobile of the cattle thieves still standing where they had seen it stop. Several of the men were grouped beside it, possibly talking over plans. Four men got into the car. It started down the street toward the hotel.

  Arnold ran back to Hal. 'They're coming this way,' he warned.

  The two men waited, nerves tense. Polk might have told his confederates where Arnold and Stevens were staying and this might be the attack. As the sedan passed the street intersection without stopping, Hal drew a breath of relief. Apparently the rustlers were not just now after them.

  After a few moments he started the car, without putting on the lights. They swung in back of the hill men, staying well in the rear. The lights of the sedan guided them.

  'Looks as if they were going back home,' Arnold said.

  If so, the reason for their coming to Casa Rita was not clear. There would be no sense in driving forty miles, and after a five minute's stay heading for the place from which they had just come.

  The road dipped down from the mesa to the desert stretch known as the Montoyo Flats. The moon was out, and it shone on a hillside of sahuaro to the right of them, the giant cactus looking like monuments in a ghostly graveyard. They passed this and came to the undulating floor of the valley.

  'Blackout,' Hal said. 'We must be getting warm.' He stopped the car.

  The lights of the sedan had gone out. They listened. Presently the light night breeze carried to them the faint sound of wheels moving.

  'They are leaving the road,' Arnold remarked.

  'Going where?'

  'You tell me.'

  To them there came the bawling of a steer.

  Hal said, 'Listen.' The bellow reached them again. 'This is where we cache the car and foot it,' Hal decided, and swung the wheel sharply into the cholla growth beside the road. Somewhere in front of them, not far distant, was the rendezvous of the thieves.

  'They must have pulled off another raid,' Hal guessed. 'If we are lucky, we may get the evidence we want right now.'

  'And if we are unlucky?' Arnold asked dryly.

  'If we are too unlucky Tick Black will sleep easier,' his friend answered. 'But I don't expect it to be that way.'

  They did not return to the road, but worked their way through the cactus growth toward the bawling of the restless steers. Hal was in the lead, because he
knew this outdoor life better than his companion. He moved slowly, careful to avoid stepping on any dry growth that would crackle beneath his feet. That they were too far from the scene of activity to be heard he knew, but it was possible that the rustlers had put out sentries to protect them from discovery.

  The ground fell away in front of them. It was not light enough to see clearly, but Hal guessed this was the rim of a draw running down into Montoyo Flats. Judging by the noise made by the stock, the outlaws must be at work several hundred yards farther from the road. This was reasonable, since they would not want to be too near anybody traveling to or from Casa Rita.

  Hal turned to the left, well back from the arroyo rim to escape likelihood of being seen. He whispered into Arnold's ear a warning against speaking or making any sound as he crept forward. They might stumble into a watcher at any time.

  The bellowing of the stock was louder. A man's voice drifted to them. Stevens went down to his hands and knees, and Arnold followed suit. They edged toward the draw, taking advantage of every clump of greasewood or cactus that offered concealment. Hal scanned every dark mass as he hitched his body into greater danger. At times he lay crouched for several minutes without moving. He had to be sure that what looked like a bush was not a sitting man.

  Smoke tickled his nostrils, and there was a slight luminosity in the atmosphere. Somebody had lit a fire. The moon was obscured by scudding clouds, but, when Stevens and Arnold looked into the draw from back of a heavy screen of vegetation, there was sufficient light to make out the dark forms of men against the background of the fire and the shapes of several trucks.

  The night raiders had made coffee. One of them was pouring it into the cups held by others. Two or three were lounging on the ground at ease. The small glow from their cigarettes went on and off like fireflies in the night. The watchers could hear voices, though the distance was too far to understand what was said.

  Hal could not see the branding irons, but he knew they were being heated to change the marks of ownership on the cattle in the trucks. He was pretty sure the steers had been stolen from some pasture in the Soledad Valley. There was a chance that they belonged to him.