by M. K. Wren
Conan watched him strip off the jacket and toss it onto the bed, his suspicion unfeigned now. It was inconceivable that Potts had come here without a weapon. He had only been dallying with his prey, and there was an element of sadism in that, but Conan let him enjoy himself because it served his own purpose; those casual confessions were on tape now.
But he knew Potts’s obvious course; knew why he was here, standing grinning and relaxed only a few feet away, apparently unarmed. He considered Linc’s mission accomplished, the strongbox safe. Conan was only a liability to him now.
A knife, perhaps, like the switchblade so adroitly slipped into Linc’s hand Saturday night; another act of sadism. Or perhaps a small handgun…
“You wanta frisk me, Conan?” Potts held his arms out from his sides, eyes glittering in malignant anticipation. “Have at it. Don’t want you worryin’ yourself none.”
“Shut up, Gil. No, I don’t want to—”
“Oh, I forgot. My hat No tellin’ how many six-shooters I got hid in this ol’ Stetson.”
It was beautifully done, and Conan might have admired the sleight of hand under other circumstances. Potts, loose as a rubber band, suddenly snapping taut, sweeping Conan’s gun aside with one hand, the other arcing toward him, cobra-swift and armed now; terrifyingly armed.
It wasn’t a gun hidden in the hat, but perhaps something equally deadly.
A hypodermic.
Its contents were an unknown quantity, and that more than the lightning attack threw Conan’s timing off.
He twisted away, the shining needle skimming within an inch of his arm, its lethal potential the whole of his awareness, and the chop to the wrist that should have sent it flying only deflected it as he stumbled backward and slammed unexpectedly into the wall.
Potts swarmed to a new attack, his panting like laughter, left hand groping for Conan’s eyes, his body pressed close, a heaving, cumbrous weight against him. The needle was still Conan’s consuming objective. Head down, elbows thrusting up to fend off the attack on his face, his hands closed on Potts’s wrist, and every muscle in his body strained in a lunging turn to propel the needle into the wall.
A crunch of broken glass, an angry howl hot in his ear, but Conan allowed himself a split second too long in shivering relief. If it had been a gun or knife, he wouldn’t have dropped his guard for an instant, but he was so intent on that needle, he left himself wide open and off balance, and Potts’s reflexes weren’t slowed by pain.
His left hand was free, shaped into a pile-driver plunging toward the solar plexus, crashing home before Conan’s locked-fist sweep could even create a distraction.
He doubled convulsively, recognizing in the paralyzing impact the shock of bone giving way. He didn’t even see the next blow coming.
CHAPTER 26
The first sensation he could identify, other than pain, was the acrid taste of old carpet and blood. He couldn’t yet locate his body spatially, and the sounds were a senseless cacophony, until the savage explosion of the gunshot.
But before that was the crash of the door hitting the wall, angry voices shouting, unidentifiable thuds and tramplings.
Then the shot.
Yet he felt nothing. Nothing different. That neural and systemic shock he would feel.
A new voice joined the clamor; one he recognized. He clutched the bedstead and levered himself to his feet, groaning at the pain in his chest. Iron maiden. That’s what it was called, that medieval instrument of torture. His head and the left side of his face seemed on the verge of exploding with every pulse beat.
In the corner by the window, an incomprehensible tangle of bodies. Jesse. It was her voice he’d recognized. Jesse vainly tugging at Linc McFall’s shoulders, shouting pleas that fell on deaf ears. Linc had Potts against the wall and was methodically beating him into bloody anonymity.
Linc finally understood, had passed a tolerance threshold, and he would kill Potts if someone didn’t stop him.
Conan staggered to Jesse’s aid, but when he reached Linc, he offered no resistance; instead, his head fell back, his knees buckled, and Conan would have fallen with him except for Jesse, but together they managed to get him to the armchair, Linc murmuring, “I’ll kill him…kill him . . And the object of that lethal intent, eyes turning up under the lids, crumpled in an insensible heap on the floor.
“Lordy, Conan, he’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
Conan leaned over Linc, jarred into sudden mental clarity, his own pain if not forgotten at least submerged. The wound was in the left thigh, toward the outside. He tore away the Levis, his hands turning red with the welling blood that soaked the cloth and spread a dark stain on the chair. But there was no pulsation in the flow; the bullet hadn’t hit an artery.
Jesse began administering frontier first aid—a shot of straight whiskey—while Conan went to the door and closed it. The gunshot hadn’t attracted anyone; not yet. He went into the bathroom, pulled every towel off the racks, and returned to Linc, noting in passing that Potts hadn’t moved.
“Jesse, call Dr. Maxwell. But first, talk to whoever’s on the switchboard downstairs. Tell them there’s been an accident, but everything’s under control. I don’t want anyone coming up here to investigate.”
She started for the phone. “What do I tell Doc?”
“Just that it’s an emergency.”
He knelt by Linc and pressed a folded towel to the wound, feeling his body go rigid on a jerking breath.
“Linc, I’m sorry. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“I—I know. You…all right?”
“No, but I’m in better shape than you are. Why did you come back here?”
His white features constricted with pain, or perhaps it was anger and remorse.
“I jest…got to thinkin’. Ever’thing you said. I knew in my heart you was right…about Gil. And George. I—I come back to tell you I wasn’t goin’ after that strongbox. Not unless you’d go with me and take it to Joe Tate. But when I got up here, Gil…he was gonna…”
Conan turned the scarlet-stained towel and pressed it to the wound again, listening to Jesse’s subdued conversation with Maxwell.
“You saved my life, Linc.”He stared at him for a long moment. “I…saved…”
“Yes, so put that in your scales. Jesse?”
She hung up, nodding. “Doc’ll be here in fifteen minutes, and I got ol’ Perry down to the desk quieted down. He had a couple of calls from the third floor. Guess I better call Joe Tate.”
“No—not now,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “I’ll call him later, but first—” A groan came from the crumpled pile that was Gil Potts, and Conan frowned. “Jesse, you take over here.”
She knelt to fold a clean towel, judiciously examining the wound. Potts groaned again and stirred, but when Conan leaned over him, his eyes were still closed, his bleeding, gashed mouth gaping.
Judas, Conan thought bitterly. No. Worse than that. Judas’s betrayal was a destined necessity, and he was capable of remorse. Conan had the means to bring Potts to justice now: his recorded confession, with Jesse as a listening witness taking down every word in shorthand. The play had been successful in catching if not his conscience at least his confession. But Conan found no satisfaction in that success now.
When he designed the trap, he had recognized the price Linc would have to pay to bring Potts to justice, and had considered it unfortunate but unavoidable. It became intolerable while he stanched the blood from a wound inflicted by a bullet that would have lodged in his heart or head if Linc hadn’t taken it. And he was haunted by a wistful melody. But its loneliness, loneliness kills…
He couldn’t hang Gil Potts without hanging Linc; not by the law; not through Joe Tate. It seemed a poor bargain now. Linc had paid, and was still paying, so dearly for his sins.
Conan pulled in a careful breath, dark eyes opaque.
But Potts must hang, one way or another, or he would hang Linc. And enjoy it.
He saw his gun u
nder the dresser and went over to pick it up, sniffing the barrel. It hadn’t been fired. Potts had used another gun on Linc; he had come here doubly armed. Conan put the Mauser in a dresser drawer, then got down on his hands and knees. Under the bed, he found the Italian automatic he’d first seen in Potts’s trailer.
He rose, head pounding, teeth clenched at the serrated pain in his chest, but he refused to think about it except to make allowances for it. Potts was coming around, coughing and mumbling. Conan removed the clip from the automatic, emptied it into the dresser drawer, snapped it back into the grip, then put the gun on the floor under the table where it might have been overlooked in the confusion. But it was within Potts’s reach.
Then he returned to Linc, putting his back to Potts. Linc was resting with his eyes closed, but Jesse had watched Conan’s every move and gave him a long, questioning look, which he chose to ignore, concentrating on taking Linc’s pulse.
“A little weak,” he commented after counting a full minute, also choosing to ignore the sounds of movement behind him, “but fairly steady. How do you feel, Linc?”
He blinked, taking a halting breath.
“Better. I’ll be…all right….”
“Conan!”
There was a hint of accusation in Jesse’s cry of alarm, but he was slow in responding, asking, “Jesse, what’s wrong?” before he turned and saw Potts staggering to his feet, the gun in his hand, his battered face nearly unrecognizable, but his desperate rage obvious as he felt his way backward toward the door.
The words slurred viciously through broken teeth.
“Don’t nobody move or I’ll blow you all to hell!”
“Gil, don’t be a fool,” Conan protested. “I—I’ve already called Tate. He’ll be here in-”
“Jest shut up, damn you! He ain’t here yet. I’m gettin’ outa here, and anybody gets in my way—”
“You don’t stand a chance! He’ll have every road in the county—”
“Don’t bet on my chances, Flagg!” He stumbled and fumbled his way toward the door, every breath rasping painfully. “And don’t try follerin’ me, or gawdamn it, I’ll put a bullet right in your guts and watch you die screamin’!”
“Gil, wait—Gil!”
But he had reached the door. His footsteps pounded along the hall, another door burst open, the thump of his boots clattered away down the stairs, and Conan stood listening to that retreat with an ambiguous mix of doubt and hope.
“Ain’t you goin’ after him?” This perplexed query came from Linc, straining to rise while Jesse held him back.
Conan frowned absently at his watch. “Relax, Linc, or you’ll make the bleeding worse. Jesse, there’s something you’ll have to take care of, and we haven’t much time.” He jerked the mike loose from behind the door and followed the thread of wire into the hall.
Jesse was right behind him. “Conan, I hope to hell you know what you’re doin’.”
He laughed at that, wincing.
“I hope so, too, but I haven’t time to explain it.”
“Well, I guess you figger you owe Linc some. You gonna call Joe Tate?”
“I’ll call him, but first I want you to get this recording equipment out of here. Lock it away somewhere—your office, your car—I don’t care; just so it’s safe.”She bent to finish picking up the wire.
“I’ll lock it in the trunk of my car. It’s parked Jest a block down the alley. You want me to come back here?”
“Yes, you’re our star witness, but we’ll have to decide exactly how much you witnessed before Tate arrives, so don’t tarry along the way.”
“You jest leave this contraption to me. I’ll be back in…well, give me ten minutes.”
Linc was holding a reddened towel against his leg, too preoccupied with pain to comment as Conan poured bourbon into the two glasses and pulled up a chair.
“I think we could both use this. Can you handle the glass?” He paused to be sure, then, “Doc will be here in a few minutes. We have to get a few things lined out.”
Linc brought his glass to his lips with a shaking hand.
“I don’t understand. Gil…you jest let him go.”
“Of course I did. You know damn well he won’t go down for the count on this without taking you with him.”
“I guess I…I deserve goin’ down with him.”
Conan’s hand wasn’t so steady, either, as he took a medicinal swig of whiskey, grimacing at the sting in his lacerated mouth.
“Deserve it? For what? For Chari? Is there any punishment equal to that crime, or any punishment worse than you’ve already suffered? You made some damn fool decisions, but I consider grief a mitigating circumstance, and grief loaded with guilt is a formula for insanity. You made your first sane, cognizant decision today when you decided to go to Tate; when you came back here.”
“But you said there wasn’t but one way to make Gil pay, to give Joe any—any proof against him.”
Conan nodded, frowning into his whiskey.
“Well, maybe I was wrong. About Gil’s paying, I mean. And maybe…” He shrugged, immediately regretting the unthinking movement. “I owe you, Linc. I owe you my life. I can’t ask you to pay the price of that proof. Not now.”
“It—it jest don’t seem right…”
Conan said sharply, “You could end up with a ten to twenty year sentence before Gil got through talking. Spending the best years of your life in prison is one way to expiate your sins, but I doubt you’d come out of it a whole man, and your one real sin you can never expiate. You’ll pay for that every day until you die, but I can’t help you there; no one can.” He looked down into his glass, away from that drawn, ashen face, as he added, “You can’t undo anything, Linc. You can only balance the scales with the rest of your life. How you do it is up to you.”Linc gazed silently at him, his desert-sky eyes remarkably clear; he said nothing, and after a moment Conan assumed an attitude of studied indifference.
“Besides, you might get a little rusty at the guitar in the state pen, and that would be a hell of a waste. You’re not bad, you know. Not bad at all.” Then, with a glance at his watch, “But if you prefer expiating your sins in prison, I need to know now, so I can call my lawyer.”
That aroused him to startled question. “Your—your lawyer? What do you need a lawyer for?”
“Well, I’ve made myself an accessory after the fact.”
Linc laughed weakly and finally nodded.
“I guess I better plan on workin’ off my sins outside of prison, if it means you goin’ in with me. I don’t figger you’d exactly blossom behind bars.”
“No. And I’m not through with Gil Potts yet. All right, our first problem is to get your story straight. The idea is to stay as close to the truth as possible; we’ll just leave out a few details, like your involvement in the feud, the rustling, anything Gil forced you into.”
“What about that money? The money Ted took the blame for? I can’t leave Pa callin’ him a thief.”
“Gil stole it. He admitted it to me. And Jesse, who was…uh, hiding in the closet. You knew nothing about the theft. Maybe you were suspicious of Gil, but you had no proof.”
“Oh. That’s how it works, then.”
The outlines of the edited story had been established by the time Conan heard the warning creak of the elevator, and he hoped that was how it would work, racking his brain to anticipate the questions Joe Tate might ask.
“Linc, one more thing—you said Potts gave you two names in Winnemucca. I want them.”
He frowned questioningly, then shrugged.
“Well, there’s Ben Tatum. He drove the cattle trucks.”
The grinding of the elevator was getting louder.
“I suppose Tatum works at Al Reems’s ranch.”
“Yes, but how’d you know—”
“Never mind. Who else?”
“Pete Butell. He tends bar at the Longhorn in Winnemucca. But I told you, they’re jest stable hands.”
“They can deliver me
ssages. You’ve had more dealings with Tatum. He’d recognize your voice. Would Butell?”
“Well, prob’ly not, but how come you—” He stopped at the sound of a knock on the door, and Conan rose, leaving Linc’s unfinished question unanswered.
Walter Maxwell hesitated when Conan opened the door, looking quizzically from him to Linc.
“Which one of you is the patient?”
“Both, but I’ll get in line. And right now I’m going downstairs to the pay phone; I don’t like talking through a switchboard.”
Maxwell leaned over Linc, frowning as he removed the red-soaked towel.
“I hope you’re calling Joe Tate, Mr. Flagg. This is a bullet wound.”
“I’ll call Tate.” But that would be the second call.
“Well, tell him to send an ambulance.”
CHAPTER 27
Conan opened his eyes into a glare of morning light, wondering where he was and what had awakened him. He moved his head on the pillow cautiously. The left side of his face seemed a pulsing balloon; the pills Laura had given him had worn off.
Laura. Yes, that was it He was back in the guest room at the Black Stallion.
“Mr. FI—uh…Conan? You awake?”
Ted was standing near the bed, repeating his hesitant query. That was what had awakened him.
“Yes, I’m awake. Damn!” This as he tossed back the covers and tried to sit up. From the base of his sternum to his waist, he was corseted in interlaced bands of tape.
“You all right?” Ted asked anxiously.
Conan made a second, more considered attempt to rise.
“I’m all right. Where’s my robe? Oh—thanks.”
Ted, still solicitous, helped him into it.
“Sorry to have to wake you up, but Joe Tate’s here. He wants to talk to you.”
“Does he always call so early in the morning?”
“Well, it’s eight o’clock.” And obviously the middle of the day, in his mind.
Conan looked over at the bottles Laura had left on the bedside table, reached for the one marked Darvon-N, then settled instead on the aspirin, and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. His face didn’t look as bad as he expected it to; at least, not as bad as it felt “Ted, how’s Linc? Have you heard from Doc?”
