Marshal Jeremy Six #3

by Brian Garfield

  He was looking at the door Carolyn had gone through. “She’s a fine little girl.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  He said gravely, “That doesn’t just happen.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. Suddenly he said, “I take it she doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “She may have heard your name mentioned. Probably she knows we knew you. That’s all.”

  “Do you plan to tell her?”

  “Perhaps, when she’s a good deal older.”

  “But you do intend to tell her.”

  She countered: “Will you force me to if I say no?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “So long a time,” she murmured. “You can’t believe you can come to me now and start picking up pieces?”

  “I don’t know,” he said again. He found an ash tray for his cigarette, and lighted a new one.

  Julianne said, “I’ve done my best to protect her from the truth about all of us.”

  He made a face and then wiped it away. Julianne said to him, “You look so old.”

  “Prison can do that.”

  “When did you start wearing glasses?”

  “When I burned my eyes out trying to read by the light of a candle twenty feet away outside the bars.”

  She whispered, “I’m sorry, Nick. I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “everything’s just fine and dandy, just so long as you’re sorry.”

  “Please, Nick. Don’t.”

  His face was a bitter mask. “Why not? Haven’t I got it coming to me?”

  She looked at him as she might have looked at a stranger whom she didn’t want to meet. Nick Story said, “So you took up with Tave Lockyear.”

  “We were married and lived happily ever after.”

  “Did you, Julianne?”

  She said, “I’m off balance. Please don’t take advantage of me.” She crossed the room toward a window. He watched her walk: every move she made was vital and alive.

  The corridor door banged open. An enormous shape filled it: Tave Lockyear, tall and stout, a heavy man with broad shoulders who carried himself on the balls of his highly arched feet; he moved into the room like an athlete, but his face was cross and sulky. “You’re an honest-to-God bastard, Nick. You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming here.”

  “What else do you like about me?” Story asked with a one-sided smile.

  “God,” said Lockyear, taking a first close look at him. “You look eighty years old.”

  “I don’t feel a day over sixty-five,” said Nick Story.

  Lockyear’s broad face flushed under the stare of Story’s silver-hued eyes. Little Carolyn came into the room and her mother spoke to her: “Let’s leave the men to their business talk, dear.”

  At the door, Julianne turned and gave Story a long, level look. Story’s face dropped slowly. The two women left the room.

  When the door closed, Story said, “A handsome pair of ladies, Tave.”

  Lockyear’s eyes were the color of rusty iron. “Why did you come here?”

  Story said, “I’m glad you asked me that, Tave, because I’m going to tell you.”

  “Well? What do you want, Nick?”

  All humor vanished from Story’s cheeks. “Just what the devil do you think I might want?”

  “If I’d been sure, I wouldn’t have asked. I never pretended I could follow the crazy way your mind works. Now let’s have it. I’m a busy man.”

  “Busy making plans to slaughter Matthew Dane and his crew, I imagine. Or would I be wrong about that?”

  Lockyear said, “Speak your piece and clear out. I don’t want you around here.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “No. If you came for money, all right. But I don’t want you around my wife.”

  “You don’t get this yet, Tave. You’ve got no choice in the matter. Only one man in this room is in any position to dictate terms—and it may be a new position to you, but you are no longer that man.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Nick. I never kowtowed to any man.”

  “You will,” Story answered.

  “No. Not today or any other day. Nick, you are asking to be dead.”

  “On the contrary,” Story purred. “I expect you to protect my life—at all costs, if necessary.”

  It made Lockyear laugh. He had a high-pitched laugh that made his big head bob up and down; he seemed to find Story’s talk genuinely amusing. “You always were an arrogant sonofabitch,” he said, “but this time you’re even outdoing yourself.” He stopped laughing as abruptly as if he had thrown a switch. “I told you, Nick, I’m a busy man.”

  “Sure you are,” Story said. “But how busy do you think you’d have been if I’d let you spend the seven years in prison with me?”

  “I always wondered why you didn’t.”

  “Probably the same reason why you didn’t murder me to keep me from squealing on you.”

  “Possibly,” Lockyear conceded. “Come on—come on. What do you want?”

  “My share. My whole share,” Story said. “What did you expect?”

  “All right.” Lockyear snapped off his words. “I’ll get that much cash together and get it to you, whenever you say. Put up at the saloon in town until I can get it for you.”

  “It’s not that simple, Tave.” Story lighted a cigarette from the glowing stub of his old one; he pursed his lips to blow out a funnel of smoke. “I figure I’ve got some interest payable on top of the capital investment.”

  Lockyear’s teeth clicked. “How much?”

  Story traced his finger idly along the inlaid base of an ornate table lamp—a whale-oil lamp, rare on the frontier. “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said in an abstracted tone.

  “Let me know when you decide.” Lockyear turned toward the door.

  “Hold it,” Story barked. Lockyear stopped and turned back to face him. Story said, “Do you think you’re rid of me that easily? You’re forgetting a few items, Tave—and for a man in your shoes that can be damned unhealthy.”

  “Then for God’s sake what do you want?”

  Nick Story’s gaze traveled around the room. “The best,” he said, “is good enough for me.”

  The pupils of his eyes were pinpoints; the silver irises around them seemed enlarged through the lenses of his glasses. He went to the biggest chair in the room and sat down luxuriously with a proprietary air, tapping his palm against the chair arm as if to test the strength and fabric.

  Lockyear moved his bulk forward until he towered over Story. It did not seem to bother Story. Lockyear said, “It would be very smart for you just to take your money and go. It might even keep you alive, Nick.”

  “No fun in that,” Story murmured. He grinned around an exhalation of cigarette smoke. “Quit thinking about killing me, Tave. I’ve deposited a sworn, sealed statement where it will be opened if I die. Your freedom depends on my good health.” He looked up sharply. “And don’t you ever forget that.”

  “You slimly little bastard.”

  “Your eloquence has never failed to amaze me,” Nick Story said mildly.

  Lockyear said, “The penalty for blackmail in this territory is damned severe.”

  “Sure it is. But who’s going to turn me in? You? No, Tave. Not you. You’ve got too much to lose. And nobody else knows about it. Unless, of course, I should meet with an accident. Then the whole world would know—and you’d be on your way to the hang rope. So you’d better sweep all the creepers out of my path every time I decide to go for a walk—because if I should happen to trip and break my neck one day, it would break your neck too. Now, what do you say to that?”

  Lockyear had composed himself; now he showed a thin smile as he took out a cigar, bit off the end and lighted up. He said, “Here’s what I say to it, Nick. You’re walking a tight wire. One day you’ll fall off.”

  “If I do you’ll fall with me.”

  “Maybe—maybe.”

  “Now you�
��re the one who’s fooling himself.”

  “Who says your unsupported testimony would convict me? It would be my word against your written deposition.”

  “I’ve told them where to look to find the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Now, I’d be a little silly if I told you that, wouldn’t I?”

  Lockyear snorted. “There’s no evidence, and you know it. And in case it hadn’t occurred to you, the holdup was almost eight years ago. The seven-year statute of limitations has run out. They couldn’t lay a finger on me.”

  “Murder,” Story said softly, “is a capital crime. And the statute of limitations does not apply to capital crimes.” He grinned. “I studied a little law in prison. Had plenty of time to study. It really is a shame you got too greedy to split four ways.”

  Lockyear was wearing a pearl-handled revolver in an exposed shoulder-holster. Story was looking at the fancy little gun with interest. Finally he looked up, still grinning. “There’s no point in arguing with me, Tave. I’ve had seven years to plan this, and believe me there are no loopholes. Either you jump when I say ‘Frog’, or you jump when they cut the trapdoor out from under you. You see, a man always has a choice. But sometimes the choice may not be too appealing.”

  “You’re a devious little runt,” said Lockyear, “but you’ve got plenty of guts.”

  “Sure. I’ll grow on you, Tave. You may even learn to like me.”

  “What do you want from me, Nick?”

  “Half.”

  “Half of what?”

  Story spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “Half of everything. The whole works.”

  “You’re out of your mind!”

  “Am I?” Story chuckled. “There are times, Tave, when one must rise above principle. Especially when one’s wife and daughter are involved.”

  Lockyear’s body became rigid; his eyes narrowed down. “You’d use them against me?”

  “And just what have you been using against me?” he demanded. “Where in hell do you think you get off calling me names?”

  Lockyear said in distinct syllables, “I’d hate to see those glasses smashed to slivers all over your face.”

  “You bet you would. Don’t even think that way, Tave. You’d just be ending a promising career.”

  “Yours, Nick?”

  “Disbelieving me would be the biggest mistake of your life. And the last.”

  “No. My biggest mistake was letting you live after that payroll robbery.”

  “Maybe so,” said Story. “But under the circumstances, your regret seems a little whimsical, wouldn’t you say?” He laughed slowly, hunched over his concave chest; he took a long deep drag on his cigarette. “Now you add stupidity to your sins. Well, if you had killed me, you’d have lost Julianne. I guess that’s why you didn’t.”

  “Let’s leave her out of this.”

  “How can we?” Story waved his cigarette around. “All right, Tave. I think we understand each other well enough. I’ve told you what I want. Full partnership. But you’ll get something for your money. I think I can tell you how to whip Matthew Dane. But first you’ve got to tell me what’s really behind this feud.”

  “Land,” said Lockyear. “I settled this valley five years ago. Brought in cattle and a crew, built this place, and brought my trade to Rifle Gap. The town would have died out otherwise, because the mines petered out just about that time. Then along comes Matthew Dane from Texas, with his own herd and looking for a place to stay. I told him this valley was mine. He figured maybe I wasn’t big enough to hold onto it. I’m proving him wrong.”

  Story had started to chuckle in the middle of Lockyear’s speech. Now he said, “That’s the story you’ve given out. But it’s not the real truth, is it?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “Because I know you, Tave. You’ve always calculated risks. You’d never figure a few acres of grass was worth the lives of God knows how many cowboys, or the risk of your own life and your family’s. No, there’s got to be more to it than just some pasture.” He put out his cigarette. “Might as well give it to me. We’re partners, remember?”

  Lockyear’s mouth corners turned down. “All right. You’ve heard of the Aztec Land and Cattle Company?”

  “Hash Knife outfit. Sure.”

  “It’s a big corporation. Got started when the railroad decided to sell off a million acres of its right-of-way land. But the Hash Knife wants to expand. They’re quietly buying up land—in the Smoke River country east of here, and all along the Arrowhead country to the west. It’s already the biggest ranch in Arizona. Before long, it will be the biggest one in the world. And only one thing stands in their way.”

  “The Concho Basin.”

  “Exactly. If Hash Knife wants a continuous piece of land, they’ve got to own this valley, to connect the other two districts together.”

  “When did you find out about this?”

  “Just after Dane moved in.”

  “Sure. And you don’t want him to share in the profit.”

  “It’s going to be a whale of a profit, Nick,” said Lockyear. “I’m the only holdout along the whole Mogollon Rim. If Hash Knife wants this land, they’re going to have to pay through the nose. And I don’t propose to split down the middle with a Johnny-come-lately Texas cowboy.”

  “Does Dane know about this?”

  “Sure he does. Hash Knife has approached both of us. They won’t stick their noses in until they know who they can deal with, but they’ve made it plain that whoever establishes claim to the valley can name his own price.”

  Story said, “How much is in it?”

  “Who knows? The sky’s the limit, Nick.” His excitement had made Lockyear forget his resentment. “At least half a million dollars.”

  Story grinned at him. After he lighted a cigarette, he said, “Why didn’t you just make a deal with Dane?”

  “Because he’s just as greedy as I am. He wants whole hog too.”

  “Then you’re a pair of stupid fools,” said Nick Story. “But you’re going to lose half anyway—to me—now that we’re partners.”

  “You said you had an idea about whipping Dane.”

  “It may take a little thinking out. But basically—”

  A hard fist banged on the front door. Lockyear went over to it and admitted the swarthy tough who had met Story at the gate. The tough said, “Monday’s here.”

  “Send him up,” Lockyear said.

  Shortly, a lanky man in a bright blue shirt strode into the room. He wore a pair of Colt six-guns cross belted at his hips. “You Lockyear? I’m Tom Monday.”

  “Glad you got here, Monday,” said Lockyear. He spoke to Nick Story: “We’ll finish that conversation later, Nick.”

  “No hurry,” Story murmured.

  “Come on back to my office,” Lockyear said to the gunfighter. Tom Monday’s cool blue eyes lay against Nick Story speculatively; then Monday followed Lockyear out of the room.

  But Lockyear returned a moment later, alone. He said, “I just want to warn you, Nick. Julianne is out of bounds to you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t push me,” Lockyear warned. “You can push a man too far, Nick.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Tave. Dead wrong.” Story gave him a mock innocent smile. “But I’m a reasonably careful man. I won’t cripple you. But you can be damn sure that when I prick a man, I want to see him bleed. Remember that.”

  “Stay away from her,” Lockyear muttered darkly.

  “That’s a crude threat. That way of doing things is going out of style, Tave. Nowadays it takes a subtle touch.”

  “I never met a man yet who was subtle enough to outlive a bullet in the brain.”

  Nick Story got out of his chair, moving lazily. “If that’s meant to be a threat, I hope it’s the last one you’ll make. Because I won’t put up with many more.”

  “You’ll put up with quite a bit, I think, before you’ll kill the goose that lays t
he golden egg,” said Lockyear. He smiled slightly. “You see, I’ve got a little edge on you too, Nick.” He turned and left the room.

  Nick Story took off his glasses and cleaned them on the corner of a tablecloth. The bridge of his nose carried two bright red pads where the glasses pinched them. He blinked and coughed, picked up his cigarette and went back to the big soft chair. When he sat down he was smiling.

  Eight

  Six enjoyed a bath and a shave at the tonsorial parlor. Just on sundown, he entered a Chinese cafe and ordered dinner.

  Shortly after he had sat down, Steve Rafferty came into the cafe with his shoulder swathed in bandages and his arm in a triangular sling. Rafferty came over to Six’s table and pulled out a chair without invitation. When he sat down, he said, “For a town about to blow sky-high, this is the quietest place I’ve ever seen. Maybe you’d call it the calm before the storm, hey? I haven’t seen two people you could rub together any place in town. Look at it.” He swung his arm around.

  The cafe was all but deserted. Six regarded the newspaperman without friendliness or humor; his eyes seemed to have retreated back into the sockets. But Rafferty was a rushed young man, all self-confidence and impatience; and it was one of his most evident weaknesses that he was impervious to the anger, preoccupation, or indifference of other men. It was also a strength, for Rafferty was a reporter.

  And so, oblivious to Six’s black mood, Rafferty started up his customary flood of talking:

  “You see, I took a leaf from your book, packed that green shirt away and pulled out this drab outfit. I didn’t mind being mistaken for a gunfighter, but when a kid challenged me to draw on him, it was a bit much. You ever seen this Tom Monday character? What does he look like? Anything like me? Jesus, Six! I can’t get anything out of anybody. Nobody knows anything around here. The whole town’s got a sudden case of clam. It’s as though they’re afraid that if they open their mouths, the sky will part and a bolt of lightning will come down and sizzle them. I don’t get it, I really don’t. What harm can it do to talk to me? I’m not going to shoot anybody. What the devil is wrong with everybody?”

  Six wasn’t listening to any of it. The counterman brought Six’s meal and Six began to eat mechanically, without hunger.