by Noel Loomis
“Meaning just who?” Quist asked.
Corliss scowled. “I’ve a hunch it started with Judd Lombardy and his L-Bar-D outfit. They’re a sort of hard bunch, and there’s been bad feeling between the L-Bar-D and Thornton’s Rocking-T for some time. The hands are always niff-nawing at each other. There’s been some fist fights but so far no gun-play. But talk has been getting hotter and hotter between the two outfits, and I could see it would only need a spark at the right moment to have the whole thing blaze out in a range war.”
“Could be,” Quist conceded. “And there’d be other outfits sure to be drawn in on both sides.”
“That’s the way I looked at it. So there I was in a sort of fix. On one hand a range war building up. On the other, the threat of some gang rioting and destroying railroad property in my county. I needed more help than Marshal Dave Eldred could give me. Then I happened to think that my old friend Jim Craig, Captain of Rangers, Company K, was in camp at Bandera. I telegrammed him about my troubles. He wired back that Sergeant Fred Arbuckle was just winding up some business at Kingboro—that’s only about thirty-five miles north of here, in the next county,—and that he’d telegraph Ranger Arbuckle to come right down here and lend me some moral support—and more if needed. Which same he did. Arbuckle arrived day before yesterday.”
“I think you did right,” Quist commented. “Often just the presence of a ranger has a quieting effect on a town ready to go on the prod.”
The sheriff smiled wryly. “Arbuckle affected me that way too. From the moment he come in here and presented his credentials, I began to feel better. Things have already quieted down some, there’s been less talk, though with Lloyd’s Porter’s body being brought in this morning, some sort of fire may get fresh fuel.”
“A ranger always inspires confidence in law-abiding men,” Quist said. “And you acted right. It’s better to be cautious than wrong later.”
Corliss said half-apologetically. “’Course, if I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have yelled for help to Jim Craig—”
Quist laughed. “Buffalo chips. You pin your faith to that ranger.” Abruptly, he switched conversation to another subject: “What can you tell me about Kate Porter?”
For a moment there was no reply. Quist could sense Corliss withdrawing, tightening up inside, throwing up certain barriers. Once more the sheriff proved to be cautious. “In just what way?” he asked slowly.
“Any way and all ways you can think of,” Quist replied. “I’m after information. Why did she marry Porter? Why not somebody else? Why not you, for instance?”
With an effort, Corliss held himself in check. Fiery red spots on his cheekbones burned fiercely against the angry paleness of his face. Tiny muscles bulged at the corners of his mouth. Finally, he spoke, “I thought, Mr. Quist, you came here to look into that theft from one of your freight trains. Is an investigation of Lloyd Porter’s death included?”
Quist asked quietly, “Do you know of any reason why it shouldn’t be, Sheriff?”
“That’s something I can’t say.” Corliss’ voice was calmer now. “As to why Kate Porter married Lloyd Porter, instead of me, or someone else, I’d suggest that you ask her about that.” Abruptly, he got to his feet. “It’s evening drink time for me. Let’s cross the street to the Amber Cup and lift a couple. We might find Sergeant Arbuckle there too.”
“That,” Quist agreed, “is a right idea.” He was thinking, Corliss isn’t ready yet to commit himself on Kate Porter. He’s being cautious again.
CHAPTER 7
FLIRTIN’ WITH DYNAMITE
The two men left the sheriff’s office, after the oil lamp had been turned low. Quist said, “You aiming to leave your door open?”
Corliss nodded. “The night air will cool it off. Get that ’dobe and rock chilled a mite and it won’t be so hot in here tomorrow. Nothing to steal worth stealing. Only got one prisoner in the cells back there.”
“Anybody important?” Quist asked.
Corliss shook his head. “Just one of the scum-crowd that hangs around town. He’s married to a Mexican woman. Lives south of the tracks. Ranger Arbuckle was over that way the day he arrived here. Heard the woman screaming, found the man beating her up. Arrested the fellow and brought him in. The J.P. gave the dirty scut a week in the hoosegow to teach him women shouldn’t be hit.”
“That’s one good thing about being a ranger,” Quist commented. “They’ve authority any place in the state. Often I find myself handicapped and have to stop and get proper authority for arrests if they take place away from railroad property.”
There were fewer people on the street now, and practically the only places open were saloons, lights from their windows patterning sidewalks here and there along Main. Ponies stood at hitchracks, widely-spaced, heads drooping, patient. Quist glanced up. Above, the indigo-black sky was powdered with stars. A soft breeze carried along the roadway bringing with it the faint scent of sagebrush from the open country.
They crossed the street, rounded a tierail and mounted two steps to the small porch fronting the swinging-doored entrance to the Amber Cup. A long bar ran along the right wall of the entrance, with behind it pyramided glasses, bottles and a wide mirror. A closed door was set in the rear wall. Three round tables and chairs were arranged next to the wall at the left. There was sawdust on the door. Corliss said, “Mickey Kurtz is the only barkeep in town who’ll pay money to have sawdust freighted in. Cleanest bar in town to my way of thinking.”
There weren’t many customers in the saloon. Five cowhands played seven-up at one of the tables. A tall man with a once-white, wide-brimmed sombrero stood by himself at the far end of the bar. Near the entrance end of the bar, three men in citizens’ clothing discussed hay and feed prices over their whiskies. At the center of the long counter were four men in cowtogs, empty glasses before them. Mickey Kurtz, the bartender and proprietor, a balding, middle-aged man in a white apron, was lazily mopping with a bar-rag some drops of spilled liquor.
“There’s Ranger Arbuckle at the far end,” the sheriff said. “C’mon, you wanted to meet him.” He nodded to the cowmen as he passed. Arbuckle shoved back his white sombrero, as they came near and smiled, “Don’t speak, Sheriff. I don’t think it’s going to be necessary to introduce me to Greg Quist. I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Quist, that I almost feel like I know you.” He had very white teeth and a contagious grin.
Quist shook hands and mentioned that he’d heard Sergeant Fred Arbuckle had already had a sort of soothing effect on Clarion City.
“Nothing owing to me in particular,” Arbuckle replied. “It’s the rangers’ reputation that does the work. Nowadays, mostly, all’s necessary is for a ranger to put in an appearance, and trouble stops. But credit for that goes to the rangers of years ago, and it still has its effect on people.” He had a slow rather drawly way of speaking. “Y’know, Greg Quist, if you ever get tired of being a railroad operative, the—”
“Railroad dick.” Quist smiled.
“Have it your way. But if you ever want a change of jobs, I’ve got a strong hunch the rangers would be almighty glad to have you. You’ve done some great work on your cases.”
Quist said thanks. Mickey Kurtz approached for orders. Both Quist and the ranger took beer. Corliss had a neat two fingers of bourbon. Quist noted that Arbuckle wore but one gun. Many of the men in the ranger force carried two weapons. The single six-shooter said considerably for Arbuckle’s ability with a gun. Otherwise he was dressed as so many other rangers of that day—the white sombrero, dark trousers tucked into knee boots, woolen shirt and bandanna. He wore an open vest over his shirt. No coat, at present.
The men drank in silence for a few minutes. Arbuckle went on, “However, I don’t figure just putting in an appearance is going to do the trick this time. It looks to me like I’ve got my job cut out, if I’m going to find the man who massacred Lloyd Porter. Lord, what a mess!”
“You’re sure it was a man?” Quist asked.
“I ca
n’t imagine any woman dong a job like that?” Arbuckle replied.
The sheriff had got slightly red in the face at Quist’s words. Now, Quist continued, “What I meant—maybe there was more than one man involved.”
“How you figuring, Greg?” Arbuckle frowned.
“Well, there were the two teamsters killed, and now Porter. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite logical for one man to do all that.”
“Ye-eah,” the ranger said slowly. “I see what you mean.” He frowned. “You got an idea that the teamsters’ deaths and Porter’s killing all came from one source.”
“Something like that,” Quist admitted. “Do you know of anything to the contrary that says I’m on the wrong track?”
“Can’t say that I do,” Arbuckle replied. His white teeth shone suddenly. “Y’know, this thing shapes up better than I figured. Y’see, as I saw it, the sheriff and I would be working on Porter’s killing, while you would be interested only in the theft of railroad freight and uncovering the rats who killed those two teamsters. If you’re right, Greg, and all this dirty work is tied together, we’ll be working together. We can exchange ideas and notes and so on—” He broke off and his face fell somewhat. “But maybe working with Lish and me doesn’t take your fancy. I’ve always heard you liked to work alone—sort of a lone-wolf business with you.”
Quist said dryly, “I’ve never yet seen the time when an exchange of ideas—from good men—didn’t work out to everyone’s advantage. Let’s have another drink.”
Mickey Kurtz was called up to replenish the glasses. One of the cowmen at the middle of the bar called to Corliss. “Hey, Lish, I’m just buying one. How about you hombres getting in on it?”
Corliss shook his head. “We just ordered. Thanks just the same, Judd,”—and turned his back on the cowmen.
Arbuckle laughed. “Now that wasn’t polite, Lish. You know Lombardy was looking for an excuse to meet Greg.”
“I figure Greg will meet him soon enough,” Corliss growled. “It’s something he won’t be able to avoid.” Quist asked a question. The sheriff said, “The big hard-looking hombre is Judd Lombardy, runs the L-Bar-D outfit, that one with the black hair hanging down to his eyebrows. Two of ’em are cowhands, named Lockwood and Merker. Good hands far’s I know. Never heard anything against ’em, but can’t say I like ’em, either. The thin wiry-looking jasper with the beaded Indian band around the crown of his sombrero is named Gilly Deray—and a mean customer or I miss my guess. Nor did I ever hear of him doing any work on the Lombardy outfit. Him and Lombardy just seem to sort of pal around. Maybe he’s a bodyguard for all I know.”
“Any reason why Lombardy should need a bodyguard?” Quist asked.
“None that I know of,” Corliss replied promptly. “Deray hasn’t been in these parts long. So far he’s done nothing that would warrant me taking him in. But I don’t like the cut of the bustard. He’s got four notches cut in his gun-butt. Whether that means anything or is just bluff, I can’t say. He’s killed no one around here—that I know of—yet.”
Quist smiled. “Meaning that you expect him to?”
“It wouldn’t be any surprise,” Corliss said.
Arbuckle put in, “I think Lish has the right idea. That Deray’s got a cruel streak in him. Yesterday I saw him sitting out back of the Warbonnet Saloon. The skunk had caught a horned toad and cut one rear leg off, and was laughing his head off the way the poor critter was skitterin’ sidewise. He was just about to slice off a front leg when I convinced him it wasn’t a good idea.”
“What did you do?” Corliss asked.
“Put the frog out of misery when Deray left.” Arbuckle didn’t explain what he’d said to Deray.
The three were midway through their second drinks when Judd Lombardy and Gilly Deray left the two cowhands and sauntered down to the end of the bar. Lombardy said, “What is this, a lawmen’s convention? Sheriff, ranger man and—” he paused—“the T.N. & A.S. Railroad dick, I suppose. What y’all so exclusive about?”
“Maybe we like it that way,” Corliss said shortly. Arbuckle didn’t speak, but Quist noticed that the ranger shifted his gun a little nearer the front. Corliss sighed, then said shortly. “This is Greg Quist—special operative for the railroad. Judd Lombardy—Gilly Deray.”
Quist was engaged in rolling a brown paper cigarette and didn’t see the proffered hands the two men stuck out. He looked up, nodded, and ran the edge of the brown paper along his tongue, twisted the end of the cigarette and scratched a match. Smoke spiraled slowly from his lips, while he looked the two over. Hard looking men, both. Neither had shaved for some days. A lock of hair cut a black triangle across Lombardy’s forehead; the man’s heavy eyebrows almost met above his nose.
Lombardy scowled and drew back his hand. Quist’s gaze went to Gilly Deray, swarthy, wiry-thin; Indian-bead band about the crown of his shapeless sombrero of indiscriminate color; orange neckerchief at his throat. And the gun holster tied with rawhide thong low on right leg. Deray stared steadily at Quist. Quist considered Deray’s eyes the coldest he had ever seen—pale blue with a hard marble-like shine to them. Something queer about the pupils too: it was difficult to tell when the man was looking at you. There seemed to be a perpetual unwinking stare about those eyes.
Corliss said, “I’m surprised to see you in the Amber Cup, Judd. Thought you and your outfit generally patronized the Warbonnet Saloon.”
“You’re right,” Lombardy said shortly. “We just sort of had an idea the great”—a certain sneer in the tones—“railroad dick might come here. Wanted to see what a really big man looked like.”
Quist smiled. “Could be you hombres are looking beyond your capabilities.”
Lombardy blinked and brushed the black triangle of hair from his eyes. “What’s that again?” he said suspiciously.
Quist said curtly, “Forget it.”
Deray spoke for the first time, his voice thin and rather high-pitched. “There’s some things we can’t forget, Quist, the same being those two poor old teamsters that got killed. When’s your road going to do something about that bushwhacking?”
“What makes you so sure it was a bushwhacking?” Quist asked quietly. “Just what do you know about it?”
“Me?” Deray’s eyes hardened to pin-points. “Hell, I don’t know nothing about it. You insinooatin’ I had anything—”
“No, I didn’t think you had anything,” Quist snapped. “I still don’t think you have anything. And now, it’s up to you to prove otherwise. It’s your play, Deray.”
Deray’s hard gaze flitted to Quist’s right leg. Not seeing a holstered gun hanging below the coat he said, “Any man that talks that free should arm hisself.”
Quist said, “Don’t let that bother you, Deray. It doesn’t bother me.”
The ranger laughed softly. “Doesn’t scare easy, does he, Deray?” His voice hardened. “Take my advice and head for your bunk, Deray. You’re flirting with a bruise.”
“Aw-w, cripes, ranger,” Lombardy laughed harshly, “Gilly was only hoorahin’ the dick a mite. No call for you to butt in. Ever see a town that didn’t want to josh a newcomer, just to see what he had—”
“You saw what he had,” Arbuckle said shortly, “and I don’t like that kind of joshin’. For your own good I’m telling you both to get out, before Mr. Quist decides to run you out. You damn’ fools don’t seem to know when you’re flirtin’ with dynamite—and a damn’ short fuse attached—”
“But, look here, Arbuckle,” Lombardy started a protest, “we got rights as citizens—”
Arbuckle spoke politely, “How would you like to have your head knocked from under your hat, Lombardy? Didn’t I speak plain enough for you?”
Lombardy began to back away, face, working angrily. Deray said, “Come on, Judd. Let’s go over to the Warbonnet. We’ll see the railroad dick sometime when he’s not protected by the rangers—”
“I expect to be around here a lot, Deray,” Quist said quietly. “And I don’t need ranger protecti
on. Like to make a special appointment for tomorrow?”
Deray didn’t reply, but headed toward the swinging doors. Lombardy was still backing away. He said hotly, “You’ll hear more of this, ranger man. A citizen has rights. I’m aiming to write the governor—”
“Don’t do it,” Arbuckle snapped, “it might remind the governor to regret that he pardoned you.”
Lombardy’s jaw dropped. He swallowed hard. Then without another word he turned and barged through the entrance doors.
Corliss laughed. “Sounds if you had something on Lombardy, Fred.”
“Not a thing,” Arbuckle chuckled. “That was a shot in the dark. I reckon I was just as surprised as anyone else when I see how it took hold on Lombardy. Maybe his past life might bear checking into.”
Mickey Kurtz came sliding along the bar. “My thanks to you gents for the way that was handled. I’d as soon those scuts took their trade some place else. Drinks are on the Amber Cup. What are you having?”
CHAPTER 8
DOC INGRAM’S STORY
Ten minutes later, Quist stated that he’d had enough to drink for a while and thought he’d take a walk. The sheriff asked, “Any place in particular you’d like to go, Greg?”
“I’d thought of drifting down to the undertaker’s—or maybe it’d be drifting up—wherever the place is—and taking a look at Porter’s body. Can’t tell what might be learned.”
“It’s on Main, near Alamo Street. I’ll take you up there. I promised Gene Thornton I’d talk to Doc Ingram again, and I’ve a hunch we’ll find Doc still there.”
“Good.” Quist asked Arbuckle, “Feel like coming along, Fred?”
