by M. K. Wren
“I couldn’t very well turn ’em down, now, could I?”
Conan reached for his glass, frowning.
“Is that when you and Gil started the feud?”
“Yes. Gil said it was jest to call attention away from the rustling but I knew better. He had it in for Alvin ever since he fired him. So, we started it up, then it sort of took off on its own steam.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, once Pa and Alvin got it in their heads anythin’ happened to one of ’em was the other’s doin’, they kep’ it up on their own. I mean, it had to be that way. I ain’t lifted a hand against the Double D for six months, and I never touched any Runnin’ S property.” Conan stared at him, nonplussed. He believed Aaron and Alvin had perpetuated the feud. His bewildered reaction to the questions about George’s death began to make sense, and Conan recognized a correlative delusion: the delusion about George’s killer.
“Linc, how could Aaron or Alvin possibly maintain the feud without someone finding out?”
“Mebbe the same way Gil and me started it He’s foreman; he always knew where the buckaroos’d be.”
“And where you and your brothers and Aaron would be; Aaron keeps no secrets from the family. But Gil does. You said you bowed out six months ago, but did Gil? What about the gasoline and dynamite at Dry Creek? And the salt blocks? Til take any bets they’ll show a high cyanide content.”
Linc came to his feet, suddenly angry.
“They ain’t nothin’ but plain salt blocks. Gil brought ’em in for the cows we pastured in the canyon.”
“Did he? Then why didn’t he put them out where the cows could make use of them?”
“Well, I—we jest never got around to it.”
“And you never got around to facing the truth—about Gil or about George’s death. How do you explain that?”
“That was Alvin’s doin’, and, no, I don’t think George planned to blow up his rezzavoy. I think he was jest out checkin’ the fence and found it cut, but Alvin saw him and thought he done it.”
“And in a fit of rage, crushed his skull with a handy rock, then tried to cover his guilt by blowing up his own dam. Is that it?”
Linc hesitated, backed up by his cutting tone.
“Sure, that’s it. It must be.”
“Ignoring the improbability of George riding fence at night, how do you explain the fact that the mud on his horse’s hooves came from Dry Creek Pasture—not the reservoir? Did his horse go to that rather inaccessible spot on its own whim?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t give a damn! What the hell do you want from me?”
“Your help, Linc. I want Gil Potts to pay for his crimes, and some of them, at least, are punishable by law.”
“By…by law? You want me to—to testify against him?” His incredulous tone suggested that Conan was asking him to jump out the fourth-floor window.
“That’s the only way you can set yourself free, even if the cause of justice doesn’t move you.”
At that, Linc laughed, a harsh, hopeless, grating sound.
“Oh, damn—set myself free? Flagg, I been all through that. When Bert Kimmons died, I got scared; he was so damn close. I had a bellyful, and I wanted out, but Gil set me straight.” He paused, sagging down into his chair. “This is how it’d be: I go to Joe Tate, tell him about the rustlin’ and the feud, and how my friend Gil was in on it from the start. State’s evidence. Ain’t that what they call it?”
“Yes.”
‘Well, that’s about when ol’ Gil starts shakin’ his head and lookin’ hurt. Won’t know a damn thing about any of it, and you know what? Joe won’t find any proof anywhere to back me up. It’ll be my word against Gil’s, and ever’body knows what a nice feller Gil is, how he looked after me like a brother. The Winnemucca outfit? I can give Joe a couple of names, but they’re jest stable hands, and I got nothin’ to connect ’em with Gil. But once Joe got a look at that canyon, or that bank account and them receipts, I’d be up a crick, and jest because you got the receipts now don’t mean nothin’. They’re carbon copies. Gil wants ’em back, but not to keep me outa jail. We got a sweet set-up, and he don’t want it messed up.”
“You mean he’d rather not kill his golden goose,” Gonan put in sourly.
“You mean me? Right. But if his goose gets cooked, he ain’t gonna get in hot water. So, what happens? I end up in jail, with Gil on the outside laughin’. And talkin’. I know him. I know what he’s like when he gets crossed. He’ll talk his head off. About ever’thing, about…Chari.”
That final realization seemed to bear upon him like a tangible weight; he sat hunched and defeated, while Conan stared at the door, equally oppressed. Linc considered his situation hopeless, yet he didn’t understand how hopeless because he refused to understand George’s death.
The rustling operation at Dry Creek provided a motive for George’s murder, and Conan held the evidence that would tie that motive to Linc. Even if he chose to withhold it, someone else still had the original receipts.
Motive was one thing. Tate still needed opportunity.
“Linc, can you account for your time Thursday night? I mean after eight-thirty; after Sylvia Waite left you.”
His head came up, and at first he was angry, then he relaxed with that bitter, hopeless laugh.
“Word gets around, don’t it? Why d’you wanta know?”
“It was the night George was murdered.”
“You figger I done it?”
“I want to know if you could have.”
“Sure, if I sprouted wings. How the hell d’you figger I’d get out to the rezzavoy without a horse? There ain’t a road within five miles.”
“Not the reservoir; Dry Creek Pasture. The county road comes within a mile of it. Not a bad walk on a moonlit night, and there are horses available in the canyon. Linc, just take my word for it; George was killed at the pasture.”
“But that don’t make sense. What would Alvin be doin’ there? He didn’t know nothin’ about that.”
Conan sighed. “Never mind. Just tell me what you did after Sylvia left you.”
He thought back, then shrugged.
“Well, I got drunk. Surprise.”
“Where?”
“I drove out to the cemetery and sat on Chari’s grave with a .38 in one hand and a fifth of booze in the other.”
“Oh, God. Alone, of course. How long were you there?”
“Till I finished the fifth and Gil found me. I was tryin’ to work up the nerve to put myself out of my misery, but I never made it” He pulled a crooked grin. “Know why? Sylvia. She called ever’thing off that night Well, I figgered if I blew my head open then, she’d think it was because of her, and damn it, her kind’s a dime a dozen.”
“You said Gil found you at the cemetery?”
“Yes. He knows I go out there sometimes.”
“How did he get there? Didn’t he drive into town with you? And where was he while you were with Sylvia?”
“I dropped him off at the Peacock Bar, and he borrered Lex Dailey’s pickup.”
“When?”
Linc hesitated, looking at him curiously.
“Early in the evenin’, I guess. Gil’s got a life of his own, y’know, and he always had a way with the ladies.”
“Is that what he told you? That he met a woman? When did he come for you at the cemetery?”
“I don’t know exac’ly, but it had to be after two-thirty. I got it in my head I wanted to stop for another drink before we went home. Gil had to drive past the Peacock to show me it was closed. They shut down at two-thirty.”
Conan stared out into the street, brows drawn. Now he knew Potts’s mode of transportation to the county road, and knew he had time to reach the canyon, kill George, carry his body to the reservoir, and blow it up by eleven, then return to find Linc at the cemetery after two-thirty.
The only trouble was that Linc would also have had time to make the same trip after eight-thirty, and couldn’t prove he ha
dn’t Tate could add opportunity to motive.
“Linc, was it Gil’s idea to tell Tate the two of you were together all Thursday night?”
“Sure. He said what we did and who we did it with wasn’t nobody’s business.”
“Especially if his business was with George?”
Linc came to his feet, glaring at him.
“What’re you tryin’ to say? You think Gil killed him?”
“Would that surprise you?”
“You’re crazy! Sure, we was rustlin’ cows, but it’s a long way from rustlin’ to murder.”
“What’s wrong, Linc? You can’t accept Gil’s guilt because it makes you an accessory to murder? Not an accidental death, but premeditated murder. George was worried about Dry Creek, but that doesn’t explain his going there that night. Gil probably phoned him with some plausible invention, and George agreed to meet him there.”
Linc only repeated doggedly, “You’re crazy, Flagg.”
“Well, here’s more insane raving. You underestimate Gil’s ambition. He intends his goose to lay bigger and better eggs than his take from the rustling. Have you seen your father’s will? Ownership of the ranch goes to the eldest surviving son.”
“I know that, but what…” He stopped, the light of understanding kindling in his eyes.
“Yes. You’re the eldest surviving now. When Aaron dies, you’ll own the ranch, but Gil owns you, and for all intents and purposes, the ranch will be his. And now he has more than Chari’s death, more than vandalism and theft, hanging over your head. Murder one. Your brother’s murder.”
“But, he—he can’t—what about…Pa…”
“What about him? He’s in the hospital now, in critical condition, but it wasn’t a heart attack that put him there any more than a heart attack killed Bert Kimmons. It was digitalis poisoning.”
Linc was reeling mentally, his taut features glistening with perspiration.
“Poisoning? You got any proof of that?”
“I can’t prove Gil put the digitalis in Aaron’s drink.”
“Then, how—what d’you expect me to do about it?”
Conan looked over at the door again.
“Stop him. Even if Aaron survives this attempt, do you think Gil won’t try again? And sooner or later he’ll succeed. Then what about Ted? If he challenges Gil’s right to the Black Stallion, I doubt Gil will hesitate at burying another McFall. But you’re his golden goose; you’re Aaron’s heir. Without you, all his grandiose plans collapse.”
“Without me?” He stared fixedly out the window. “What am I s’posed to do? Try workin’ up the nerve to put myself out of my misery again?”
“Good God, no. Go with me to Joe Tate. Do what you wanted to do before; turn state’s evidence.”
His eyes shifted, focusing icily on Conan.
“We already been through that. You know what would happen if I went to Joe.”
“But something’s been added. Murder. Murder past and future; George’s murder and Aaron’s. And there’s more hope than Gil let you believe. On the basis of what you tell him, Tate may be able to find evidence to substantiate your story. He’ll have both the Oregon and Nevada police working with him, and there’s at least a chance some proof against Gil will be found.”
“A chance?” He laughed contemptuously. “You wanta give me odds? Meanwhile, I’ll be one well-done goose, and there won’t be nobody in the whole damn county doesn’t know all about—about Chari.”
“The alternative is making yourself a conscious accessory to Aaron’s murder. You can’t plead ignorance now.”
“The hell I can’t! I’m s’posed to swaller all this just because you said it? Who d’you think you are? You been talkin’ about proof—you got any proof against Gil?”
“If I did, it would be in Tate’s hands now.”
“Sure, ’long with that strongbox. So, take that to Joe! You want Gil’s golden goose cooked, you do it!”
“Linc, wait!” He was already at the door before Conan caught up with him.
“Get outa my way!”
“Damn it, will you listen to me!” Conan pushed him back against the wall until he finally subsided, glaring hotly at him, his breath coming fast and hard.
“All right, Linc,” Conan said wearily. “You win.”
“What—what d’you mean?”
“I won’t go to Tate without you. I only hope…” He took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. “It isn’t my choice. It’s yours.”
Linc stared blankly at his hand. “What’s that?”
“The key to a locker at the bus depot.” He gave Linc a moment to absorb that, then asked, “What were your instructions once you got the strongbox?”
“Instructions? You mean from Gil? What differ’nee does it make?”
“None. I was just surprised he trusted you alone on this mission.”
“Oh, Gil trusts me. He stayed home at the ranch.”
“Are you sure?”
“Now listen, you—”
“Never mind. Here, take this.”
He took the key only after a long hesitation. Conan opened the door for him, then leaned against the jamb, taking a casual look up and down the hall. It was empty, but the door to the service stairs was only a few yards away.
“Linc, good luck.” He studied him skeptically, then struck out for the elevator, the key clutched in his hand, making a fist of it. Conan wasn’t proud of the deceit involved in that key, but it wasn’t Linc who inspired it. He closed the door and leaned close to the monitor.
“Jesse, the hook is set. Keep listening.”
CHAPTER 25
Conan had his gun in hand when he heard the footsteps outside the door. He opened it without waiting for a knock and found Gil Potts standing there, hands in his pockets, sunburned face creasing in a slow grin when he saw the gun.
“Howdy, there, Conan. Ain’t you gonna ask me in?”
“Why should I? Your errand boy accomplished his mission.” Then he added sarcastically, “You did overhear that part, didn’t you?”
Potts only laughed. “I heard.”
“Of course. So what do you want?”
He pushed back his hat to scratch his forehead.
“Well, I jest figgered mebbe you and me better have a little talk, friend.”
“About what?”
“About Linc. Y’know, I worry ’bout him. He’s high-strung, that boy; jest like a fine-bred stud. Now, we don’t neither one wanta see him hurt hisself, do we?”
Conan seemed to consider that transparent pretext, then with an indifferent shrug stood aside and waved him in, closing the door after him. Potts homed in immediately on the bourbon and helped himself, using Linc’s empty glass.
“Don’t mind if I do, friend,” he jibed, “but I sure wish you’d stop wavin’ that fancy popgun around.”
“It might come in handy.”
“To use on me?” He took a swig of whiskey and laughed. “Well now, you might have a hard time explainin’ that; shootin’ down an unarmed man who never done you no harm.”
Conan was willing to disarm himself—at least temporarily—to play to Potts’s vanity, but he displayed obvious reluctance as he put the gun on the dresser beside him, only inches from his hand. He didn’t ask for proof of Potts’s lack of arms, despite the bulky sheepskin jacket he wore.
“You don’t call killing a friend of mine harm?”
“Depends on how good a friend he was.” Again he laughed, relishing Conan’s apparent frustration. “Ever’body always said ol’ George was so damn smart; had a fancy college degree to prove it Now, me, the only degree I ever had was a PHD. Know what that means? PHD? Post Hole Digger. Get it?” He tipped up his glass, then licked his lips through a malicious grin. “Yep, ol’ George was so damn smart, all I had to do was pick up a phone, and he come runnin’ right to where I was waitin’ for him, jest like you said. You figgered that one out real good, Conan. I take my hat off to you.” And he did so, with a mocking bow.
&nbs
p; “You mean you admit it? You admit killing George?” He seemed incredulous, and Potts was enjoying himself.
“Sure, I do. I killed him. There y’are. I figger you got that much satisfaction cornin’.”
“What about Bert Kimmons? Will you give me thatsatisfaction?”
“Why not? Jest between you and me, anyhow. Well, ol’ Bert had one foot in the grave already, what with his bad heart. I jest kinda give him a push on in.”
“Put him out of his misery?” Conan asked caustically.
“You might say I done him a favor that way.”
“And Aaron?”
Potts downed more whiskey, frowning sourly.
“Damned ol’ codger. Should be dead already.”
“But, as Doc says, he’s tough. How much digitalis did you give him, anyway?”
He shrugged, grinning again, eyes sliding up to Conan’s.
“Enough. I take off my hat to you on that one, too, friend. Nice piece of figgerin’. Damn, if it wasn’t.”
Conan restrained himself with an evident effort.
“You said you were worried about Linc. Why? He had no part in George’s or Kimmons’s murder—or Aaron’s poisoning. Or did he? Maybe he plays the game better than I thought.”
At that, Potts bridled as if he’d been insulted.
“Hell no, he didn’t have no part in any of that. Why, somethin’ like that’d scare the pee-waddin’ outa him. And he can’t spill any beans he don’t have.” Potts seemed to recover his sardonic humor then; he put down his empty glass and stood grinning, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Matter of fact, I ain’t worried ’bout Linc spillin’ any beans. I got that boy hog-tied, and I figger on keepin’ him that way. Justice, friend. If he’s gonna pay for his sins, I plan on doin’ the collectin’.”
The muscles of Conan’s face were rigid in anger; his hand moved nearer the gun as Potts sauntered toward him.
“Then what are you worried about, Gil?”
“What’re you worried about? You think mebbe I’m packin’ iron after all?”
“I think that’s an unusually heavy coat, considering the temperature.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Well now, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll take it off, and if you figger I can hide a gun anywheres else on me, you’re welcome to look for it.”
