by Noel Loomis
“But the coyotes,” Quist broke in, “—and buzzards—left enough of his face to show—?”
“I said his face was gone,” Thornton stated grimly. “It wasn’t just the coyotes. Somebody had used a shotgun on him. The features were completely destroyed—”
“Just how good are you with a shotgun?” Quist interrupted again.
“I’m not so bad—” Thornton commenced, then broke off as the import of Quist’s words struck him. His face went white, then crimson with anger. “Damn you, Quist? If you think—” Fists clenched, he started toward Quist.
“Hold it,” Quist snapped. “All right, it was a dirty question, but I wanted to catch you off guard. My methods aren’t always ethical. I learn things any way I can. If that riles you, that’s too bad. But I’ve learned something. Either you’re a damn’ good actor, or you didn’t kill Porter. Not with a shotgun anyway. And—I’m sorry, Gene, for acting that way.”
Somewhat mollified, Thornton said irritably, “I’ve heard you were a right cynical hombre and hard as nails. Now I believe it.” He forced a slight smile. “If I’d been guilty, your methods might have worked at that. I’ll admit there’ve been times when I felt like turning a gun on Porter—but I’m not such a lousy shot that I’d have to get close in with a scatter-gun. Matter of fact, that sort of business would be more in his own line. He used to hunt around here with a shotgun—but the dirty son always used a ten-gauge, regardless how small the game. Oh, he brought down a lot of birds though—”
“And likely so torn with shot there wasn’t much left to eat,” Quist said understandingly. “That’s what I call a game-hog.”
“You hit the nail on the head,” Thornton said. “And I figured him a hog in more ways than one. Just so he could bring back more game than anyone else, he was satisfied. Greedy as hell.” Thornton paused, “And yet I’ve got to give the devil his due. There were times when he could be right pleasant, and put out quite a line of palaver. But after you got to know him… Well, there was always a sort of trickiness to the man—probably what is called smart in a business way.” The young man grinned suddenly. “After some consideration I think I’ll take your kind of ethics.”
“Thanks,” Quist nodded. “I reckon we’d best be getting along down to the lobby. Your sister will be waiting.”
“You’re right.” Thornton started toward the door, then his gaze fell on the violeted-bonnet on Quist’s table. He started to say something, then checked the words. Quist picked up his sombrero and followed Thornton through the doorway, closing and locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER 6
A CAUTIOUS SHERIFF
They found Kate Porter seated in the lobby of the Clarion House when they descended the stairs. Beyond the lobby a wide double-doored entrance showed the way to the hotel dining room. Quist said he hoped she hadn’t been waiting long. The girl told him she’d just come down from her room. She’d left off the long traveling coat, but otherwise was dressed as Quist had seen her earlier in the day. Her shining blond hair showed it had had a thorough brushing.
Thornton said, “Kate, you should dress that way more often. It’s becoming. I’d expected you’d change into riding skirt the minute you hit your room.”
“I intended to, but it was too much trouble,” the girl said shortly. Her dark eyes went to Quist.
Quist said, “If you’ll wait just a minute, I want to check at the desk and see if any telegrams have come for me.”
“No hurry,” Kate said. “It’s too early for the dining room to be filled yet.”
Quist crossed the lobby to the desk and complimented the clerk on getting the beer up to his room so quickly. The clerk looked pleased. “The barman was just on the way to your room, Mr. Quist, when Gene Thornton came back and said he’d take the beer to your room.”
“So Gene said,” Quist commented carelessly. “I’m sorry if Gene had to cut his business short on my account.”
“I don’t think he did,” the clerk replied. “Mr. Thornton had just started out, after you went to your room, when the sheriff came in. They stood and talked near the door a minute, then the sheriff left. Gene turned back to the lobby just in time to catch the barman.”
“Thanks. So long as I didn’t interrupt any business,” Quist said casually. The clerk asked a question. Quist said, “Oh, sure, the room’s fine. Very pleasant.” He nodded and turned back to Kate Porter and her brother.
Light from the setting sun still filtered through the dining room windows, though a man waiter was moving about the room lighting oil lamps suspended on brackets from the wall. There were only a few tables occupied. People at one table spoke to Kate and Gene, as they passed to a table in the far corner. A waiter arrived to take their order. There was little conversation until the food arrived, then Gene said something about the hotel putting out good meals. Quist surveyed his steak, fried potatoes and stewed tomatoes and conceded the food looked good. There were hot biscuits and coffee as well. Quist noticed that the girl ate very little. Later more coffee and apple pie arrived. The dining room had filled by this time. There was a buzz of conversation and sounds from cutlery and dishes. Once or twice Kate nodded absent-mindedly to diners, her manner saying plainly that she wanted no conversation or expressions of sympathy.
With the second cups of coffee, Quist and Thornton rolled cigarettes and lighted them. Kate said finally, “Gene, does Dad know?”
Gene shook his head. “Leastwise, I didn’t send any word to him. He’d just feel he should get saddled up and ride in. I didn’t see how that would help things any—and him not at all.”
Kate turned to Quist. “Our father is a cripple.” Quist expressed the usual sympathy. Kate went on, “Oh, he’s not bedridden or anything of the kind. It’s just that he’s not up to riding very often. He does ride, now and then, but it takes a lot out of him.”
Gene took up the story, “His pony went over a cutbank a few years ago, one night during a storm when he was out working with one of the herds. The herd started to run and Dad took after them. It was too dark to tell what was happening or where he was headed. Anyway, the horse broke its neck and Dad’s spine caught a lot of damage—the sort of damage the doctors don’t seem able to repair. So it wouldn’t help any to have him make that ride from the ranch.”
“I suppose there’ll be an inquest,” Kate said.
Gene nodded. “Doc Ingram—he’s our coroner, Greg—has set it for ten tomorrow morning.”
Kate bit her lip. “I wanted to get out to the ranch first thing in the morning, but—”
“Maybe it can be arranged so you won’t have to show up at the inquest, Kate. After all, there’s nothing you can tell. You weren’t even here when—when he was brought in. And I’ve already—re—identified the body—”
“If it’s necessary I be at the inquest, I’ll be there,” Kate said shortly. “People are mighty ready to talk sometimes, and I don’t intend to have anyone saying I was afraid to show up—”
“Afraid?” Quist put in. “Why put it that way?”
“Maybe you’ll realize,” Kate said bitterly, “when you’ve been around here a day or so. Right, I wasn’t here when the body was brought in. There’s the chance Lloyd was killed yesterday, or the day before, for all we know now. I happened to be in this section yesterday and the day before. It may be necessary I account for my actions.”
“Now, look here, Kate,” Gene started, “I don’t think—”
“I do,” the girl said tersely, and changed the subject, with the remark that if they were through, she was going back to her room.
In the hotel lobby, Gene told her he’d see what he could learn and then return. A few minutes later, Quist and young Thornton stepped into the street. Thornton said, “Where now, Greg? Anybody in particular you’d like to meet?”
“The sheriff, for one, and that ranger who found Porter’s body, but I’d just like to sashay around and look the town over, sort of settle that supper with a walk.”
Gene nodded and t
hey started out, the young man pointing out certain buildings, saloons and so on. Main Street, it appeared, had originally been named Drovers’ Street, but custom had finally settled on Main. There were a number of cross streets, running north and south, the principal ones of which were known as Mesquite Street, San Antonio, Austin and Alamo Streets. Farther north and running parallel with Main were two thoroughfares given over to a residential section to a large extent, and known as Lamar and Houston Streets. South of Railroad Street, along which the tracks ran, was the town Boot Hill and a scattering of Mexican adobes surrounded by mesquite and other forms of brush. At the far east end of town were the white-washed cattle pens, at present empty but due to be filled to overflowing when beef round-up was completed, in the fall.
Only a few lights shone along Main Street by this time, but Quist spied in his walk several saloons, a brick bank, another hotel at the west end of town known as the Drovers’ Rest Hotel, two good-sized general stores, now dark, a county building and various other structures of commercial enterprise. There were plank sidewalks on either side of Main and an almost unbroken line of hitchracks. The roadway was unpaved but pretty well packed down from the passing of years of wagon traffic and pounding hoofs.
A broad rectangle of light splashed across the sidewalk where the sheriff’s office stood at the southwest corner of Main and Mesquite Streets. It was a blocky building of rock-and-adobe with an open doorway set to the left of a broad window. Above doorway and window a plank awning reached across the sidewalk to be supported by uprights set at the edge of the roadway, and from this awning hung a sign reading: Office of Sheriff, Clarin County. The sheriff was working over some papers on his desk, by the light of an oil lamp, when Quist and Thornton entered the office. Quist was introduced and the two men shook hands.
Elisha Corliss was younger than Quist had expected, probably in the vicinity of twenty-eight or -nine. He wasn’t tall, but stockily built with not an ounce of superfluous fat on his frame. He was sandy complexioned, with steady eyes, a rather stubborn jaw and a close-cropped mustache. He wore overalls, riding boots, a woolen shirt open at the throat and a blue bandanna handkerchief knotted at his breast. A black, narrow-brimmed sombrero was shoved to the back of his head and a forty-five six-shooter was buckled at his hip.
The sheriff gestured toward a couple of straight backed chairs and Quist and Thornton sat down. Quist glanced around the office. There was a sheet-iron stove in one corner, with smoke-pipe disappearing through the ceiling. There was no fire in it at present, of course. Along the opposite wall was a cot with neatly folded blankets. A rack on a back wall held guns and handcuffs. Next to the rack a closed door led to jail cells at the rear of the building. There was tacked on the walls a topographical map of Clarin County, a couple of calendars from meat-packing companies and a few reward bills for “wanted” men.
The sheriff drew a cigar box from a drawer of his desk and held it open to Quist. Quist took one, Gene refused. The sheriff took one for himself and held a scratched match for Quist. The box was put back in the drawer. Blue and gray smoke swirled through the office. Occasionally men passed on the sidewalk outside or a pony loped along the roadway. The men talked trivialities for a time. Quist learned the sheriff was nearing his second term of office and that he’d made a good enough record so he expected to run for a third term. He had a rather deliberate manner that Quist liked, that of a man sure of himself in most things. He commented finally,
“Of course I knew you’d arrived, Mr. Quist.”
“Such things usually aren’t kept secret,” Quist smiled, “much as I like to drop in on a job unannounced. Who told you?”
“The depot stationmaster. He’d had a telegram from one of your division superintendents, named Fletcher. It was a relief to him to know you were coming. And then the hotel clerk told it around that a room had been reserved for you. A good many people nowadays know of your reputation, Mr. Quist.”
Quist uttered a deprecating laugh. “I’m afraid I’m considerably overrated. Just because I’ve had a lot of luck on a few cases, folks get an idea I’m infallible. I’m not, by a long shot.”
Gene Thornton had been moving a bit uneasily on his chair. Now he broke in, “Lish, have you seen Doc Ingram again?”
“Not yet,” the sheriff replied. “Howsomever, Gene, I don’t know as it’ll do any good. You know Doc—now, wait, I don’t like it any better than you do, but I’ve got to admit Doc is within his rights.” Elisha Corliss turned to Quist. “There’s an inquest over Porter coming up tomorrow morning. Doc Ingram wants that Mrs. Porter testifies as to anything she might know. Gene doesn’t like the idea—”
“Good God, Lish,” Gene broke in, “can you blame me? That would be an ordeal for Kate. You know how a lot of folks in this town are.”
“I don’t blame you a-tall,” the sheriff responded. “And I feel exactly as you do. But Doc figures if she is able she should testify. After all, he didn’t insist on her going through that identification business. He was willing to take your word for that—for which same I was grateful. I told you how things stood when I came to the hotel this evenin’. I said I’d talk to him again, as you asked, when I saw him. I just haven’t seen him yet. With no deputy here, I’ve got my hands full of work, reports, expense accounts and such—”
“Perhaps,” Quist suggested, “come inquest time, Mrs. Porter could get an attack of the vapors or something.”
Even Gene smiled. Lish Corliss grinned broadly. “You don’t know Kate Porter or you’d never say that. Even if she did, nobody would believe it of her—not Kate Porter. It’d be just about as ridiculous as me refusing to show up with testimony on the same grounds. I’d be laughed out of town, and while nobody will ever laugh Kate Porter out of town—”
Gene Thornton got to his feet. “I told Kate I’d be back soon. But first I’m going to see Doc Ingram, find out if he won’t listen to sense.”
Corliss shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you ask me, Kate wouldn’t want it that way.”
Thornton said a bit testily, “You know her better than I do, I suppose?”
The sheriff colored, but replied, even-voiced, “In some ways I may, at that, Gene.” He paused, “Just why are you so against Kate testifying—oh, I know, you mentioned the ordeal and all that, but knowing Kate—”
“I’m going to look for Doc Ingram,” Thornton said abruptly. He got to his feet. “I’ll be at the hotel tonight, Greg, in case you want to see me, or anything. Lish can tell you what’s what around Clarion City as well as I can—maybe better.”
Silence built up between Quist and the sheriff for a few moments after Gene Thornton had departed. Cigar smoke drifted lazily above the chimney of the oil lamp. Quist finally broke the quiet. “I heard you say something about not having a deputy, Sheriff. Is he laid up?”
“I’ve never had a deputy here,” Corliss replied. “You see, Clarin County being rather sparsely settled doesn’t bring in as much taxes as some counties. I was elected to office on the platform that said I’d do without a deputy here until things got more prosperous. I’ve made it work through nearly two terms now—”
“Must keep you right busy—prisoners to feed and so on.”
Corliss smiled. “I don’t have many prisoners.” The smile left his face suddenly. “Though the way things have been going of late…” He broke off, then, “Maybe if I don’t get some prisoners right soon, there won’t be any third term for me. As to running this job, well I do have some help. Clarion City has a town marshal, old Dave Eldred, and I pay him five bucks a month out of my salary to see to feeding prisoners and so on. Dave is glad for the extra money. The town don’t pay much, and I don’t suppose it should, considering Dave’s age. I reckon you’d have to call it a sort of honorary office as much as anything. Dave helped settle this region, fought the Indians in the old days and so forth. He’s due for some help in his old age—not that he’s decrepit or anything of the sort. He keeps an eye on things, tells me when trouble is boiling, and genera
lly I can nip trouble in the bud if I know in time.”
“Seems like a workable arrangement,” Quist nodded. “I don’t suppose there is anything you can tell me about the death of those two teamsters who were killed the night the train was stalled.”
“Not a damn thing more than I suspect you already know.” Corliss scowled. “A dirty business that, and the town is right well stirred up. I’ve done what I can to uncover the killer—or killers—which seems to be exactly nothing. All I know is the station master got orders to hire two teamsters to go to a stalled train and pick up some freight. We never saw old Corny Callahan and Ringbone Pardee alive after that. And for what? For somebody to steal some jam or preserves or something. There must have been a mistake some place. Was your road shipping some gold or money through about that time?”
“Not that I know of,” Quist stated truthfully. “Lish, I understand you had a Ranger sent here. Why?”
Corliss considered. “Could be I was a bit hasty, but I’d rather be safe. You see, this town was right stirred up about those teamsters. Callahan and Pardee had lived here a long time. Everybody knew ’em and they were well-liked. Of course, your railroad came in for a lot of underserved blame for not protecting folks it hired. Like any town this size, Clarion has its riff-raff, and hotheads are always looking to stir up trouble. Like I said, if I hear of it in time, small trouble I can nip in the bud, but what’s been building up isn’t small. And by myself I can’t scare it off. I’ve got my limitations.”
“I see your viewpoint,” Quist put in, “and so…?”
“Marshal Eldred came to me one day and said he’d heard rumors that a bunch of hoodlums were going to teach the T.N. & A.S. a lesson. Y’see, your road is blamed for the deaths of those two teamsters. It was planned to set fire to the stock-pens east of town, tear up some rails and ties and raise hell in general. It was even hinted the depot would be set fire. Maybe it was just talk, but I didn’t like it. On top of all this, it’s known that the Thorntons, including Kate Porter, own quite a chunk of stock in your railroad, and certain unthinking people have tried to throw blame on the Thorntons too—”
