Nightfall at Little Aces

by Ralph Cotton

  BLIND MAN’S BLUFF

  Instead of firing the gun, Graft gave the old dog a swift, vicious kick in its brittle ribs, sending it rolling across the boardwalk and onto the dirt street. Clay, hearing the kick and the dog’s sharp yelp of pain, swung the walking stick without hesitation and broke it in half across the gunman’s nose. Graft staggered backward and crumbled to his knees.

  Clay dropped onto his hands and knees and searched frantically and clumsily for the edge of the boardwalk, calling out to Little Dog.

  Belton stood and gave Clay a shove with his boot, sending the man sprawling into the dirt, where his hands found the small dog whining pitifully, gasping for breath.

  “He’s broken my nose! Shoot him!” Graft shouted. His own gun had flown from his hand and skidded along the boardwalk.

  “You want him shot? Here, you shoot him,” said Belton. He bent over to pick up Graft’s gun, but a boot seemed to come out of nowhere and clamp down on it.

  “Take your hand away from the gun,” Burrack said.

  NIGHTFALL AT LITTLE ACES

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2008

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1168-7

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Mary Lynn…of course.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 2

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part 3

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Prologue

  Emma Vertrees stood in her backyard spreading a damp white bedsheet along the clothesline. She stopped what she was doing when she saw four armed riders move their horses at an easy gait along the alley toward the livery barn. Three of the four men did not seem to even see her as they passed by single file, no more than thirty feet away. But the last man turned his eyes to her and touched the brim of his hat. Emma stood rigid, giving no response.

  There was nothing unusual about armed men riding into town. In fact, an unarmed man in Little Aces, New Mexico, would have been more of a rarity. But being the wife of a town sheriff for more than seven years had conditioned Emma to watch closely the comings and goings of armed men, especially those riding in off the southwestern badlands.

  She had learned to intuitively read a man’s purpose by the manner in which he rode into town along the dirt street. It was a skill her husband, Dillard, had learned as a lawman; and while it was not something one person could teach another, having been made aware of it, Emma had learned it from him. She had gotten good at it too, she reminded herself, watching the four men stop their horses halfway up the dusty alley beside the livery barn.

  These men rode into town with a purposefulness about them, yet she sensed no immediate danger. They were cowboys, she determined; and while cowboys could turn as dangerous and unpredictable as the wild broncs and range animals they lived among, they were for the most part not bad men.

  But with cowboys you can expect most anything, she recalled Dillard telling her. She pictured him having said so while she’d touched a wet cloth to his most recently bruised, or sliced, or punctured flesh—battle scars acquired on the streets of Little Aces. Enough of that…, she told herself, feeling bitterness slip into her thoughts.

  She let the picture of her husband pass from her mind and watched the four dust-streaked young men saunter toward the battered wooden table where blind Curtis Clay sat, his sightless eyes aimed straight ahead.

  “I keep hearing how fast you are with your big Remington, blind man,” said one of the four, a cowboy named Hank Lindley. As he spoke he lifted his Colt quietly from his holster. “I figure it’s time I rode in and found out for myself.”

  Clay’s ears piqued at the faintest sound of the gunmetal sliding up across holster leather. His were the only ears to detect the sound. Others might have heard it had they been listening for it, but blind Curtis Clay never missed such sounds. Nor did he take such sounds for granted. His ears distinguished in sound what his eyes could not see in the engulfing darkness that lay before them. He sat perfectly still behind the wooden table in front of his shack in the alley alongside the livery stables.

  “My, my,” came Clay’s only response. His large black hands lay atop the table, the big Remington lying between them on an oilcloth, like some demon at rest. A silence passed as he smelled whiskey, beer, cigar smoke, horse, and sagebrush on the four young cowboys standing before him. Clay finally asked, “What kind of gun do you have pinted at me?”

  Hank gave his friends a half smile, not even wondering how the blind man might know that the Colt was directed at his broad chest. “It’s a Colt pinted at you,” Hank said a bit mockingly. But he tipped the barrel upward. “Does that make any difference?”

  Clay seemed to consider the question for a second, then said, “Naw-sir, I expect it don’t.”

  “I ought to warn you, I’m fast,” said Hank, the half smile still on his face. “I’ve been p
racticing ever since I heard about you.”

  “I thank you most kindly for telling me,” said Curtis Clay. “But I take on all comers.”

  “What I’m saying is, I’m danged fast.” As Hank spoke he looked at a tall hickory walking stick leaning against the table beside the blind man.

  “Are you more than fifty cents fast?” Curtis asked respectfully.

  “Oh, yes,” Hank said confidently, “I’m more than fifty cents fast. I might be five dollars fast. Are you sure you want to try me?”

  With no expression on his broad face, Curtis said flatly, “You’re the one come looking.”

  Three of the four cowboys exchanged grins and nodded. “He got you there, Hank,” Dennis Barnes said. “I expect you’ll have to put up or shut up.”

  “Yeah,” said Rupert Knowles, “I don’t mind telling you, I’m betting a dollar on the ni—I mean, Mr. Clay here,” he corrected himself. “So get your money up and let’s get on with it.”

  “Not so danged fast,” said Hank, giving Rupert a stern look. “Before I put up any money, I ought to get some kind of idea to see what I’m up against.”

  The fourth cowboy, a serious-looking young man named Omar Wills, stood to the side, eyeing his companions and blind Curtis Clay with equal contempt. “What a waste of time,” he grumbled to himself, hearing Hank Lindley begin to have second thoughts. “I’ll be at Little Aces.” He turned back to where he’d tied his horse alongside the others. “You can let me know who wins.”

  “Stick around a minute, Omar,” Dennis Barnes called out. “This will be a hoot.”

  “I’ve got better things to do,” Wills growled under his breath, snatching his horse’s reins and flipping himself up into the saddle.

  “Oh yeah? Like what?” Barnes countered.

  Wills didn’t bother answering. Instead, he jammed his spurs to his horse’s sides and sent the animal bolting away in a hard run.

  Standing at her clothesline, Emma Vertrees fanned the dust that had billowed behind the running horse and drifted across her small backyard. As the young man had sped past her yard, he’d once again looked in her direction and touched his hat brim; once again she had ignored his gesture. Now she watched him rein his horse down to a halt at the end of the alley, where he turned the animal and sat gazing back toward her.

  He nudged the horse forward at a walk back toward her yard. She looked away from him quickly, still hoping that ignoring him would send him on his way. But she was wrong. As she stooped slightly and picked up a damp pillowcase from her metal laundry tub, she watched through the corner of her eye as the horse drew nearer, sidling up to the weathered picket fence at the edge of her yard.

  She wondered if it would be a good idea to simply walk away from her task and watch from inside her kitchen window until the young man left. Yes, she told herself, that would be the proper thing to do.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said as she straightened and turned toward the back door. “That was most inconsiderate of me.”

  She stopped. An apology…? She hadn’t been expecting that. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t an apology. She tried to make herself walk on to the door, yet something in his voice compelled her to turn back toward him. As she did so she idly held a hand to the collar of her gingham dress. Her only response was a curt but tolerant nod, one that forgave yet dismissed him. That would be enough, she told herself. This was no rowdy drunken range hand. This one showed at least some signs of proper upbringing.

  But as she once again started to turn away from him toward the door, he threw a leg over his saddle and slid down over her picket fence into her yard. Before she could object, he had twirled his horse’s reins on the fence and come walking toward her. He took off his battered Stetson and held it respectfully at his chest.

  “I hope my kicking up dust hasn’t spoiled your whole wash,” he said, coming closer and stopping seven feet from her. “I should have been paying more attention. I don’t know where my mind was.”

  “That’s—that’s all right,” Emma replied awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

  “No, ma’am, it’s not all right,” said Wills. As he spoke he looked down at the damp clothes wrung tightly and piled in the washtub. “A woman has enough to do without some dumb ole boy like me making more work for her.” He gave her a wary smile—a nice smile, she thought. But his smile only brought her attention to his face, his eyes. Something in his eyes caught her and held her.

  “It’s no trouble, really,” she said, realizing he was beginning to make too much of the matter. “We haven’t had any rain…. It’s got the ground so parched….” Was she staring? Yes, of course she was. She knew it, yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away. If she looked away now, it would be even more obvious.

  “Where are my manners today?” the young man chastised himself. “I’m Omar Wills…one of Major Gentry’s cattle hands.” He took a step closer, as if somehow she’d given him permission. “And you, ma’am?” he asked politely. “That is, if I might be so forward?”

  His question was forward indeed, she told herself. But for reasons she did not understand she answered him without hesitation, “I’m Mrs. Vertrees…wife of Sheriff Dillard Vertrees.”

  “Oh…” Her words caught Wills by surprise. He hadn’t been in the high grasslands surrounding Little Aces for long, but he’d been here long enough to know that the sheriff in Little Aces was Vince Gale, not Dillard Vertrees. Yet he recalled something about the name Vertrees. What was it? “Well then, Mrs. Vertrees,” he said, realizing he would have to think about it later. Right now he needed to say something. “I’m honored to have made your acquaintance, even under these circumstances.”

  Her acquaintance…? They had not been properly introduced. How dare he? Remaining composed, she said a bit sharply, “I must ask you to leave now, Mr. Wills.” Before finishing her words she stooped to pick up the metal tub of damp clothes under the pretense of having to rerinse everything. “As you can see I have much work to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand,” said Wills; but instead of turning away, he stepped in between her and the metal tub and picked it up before she could reach the handles. “First, allow me to take this for you,” he said. He stood up holding the tub, his Stetson still in hand.

  “No,” said Emma, sounding more firm on the matter, “I will not allow it.”

  “Please, Mrs. Vertrees, it’s the least I can do,” said Wills, his voice respectful, innocent, a young man speaking to an older woman.

  Emma relented, looking toward the wooden washing machine standing on three legs beside the water trough nearer to the house. “That is courteous of you, Mr. Wills.” She gestured toward the water trough as she stepped toward it. “If you will, please, set it down right there.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wills replied. He set the tub beside the trough.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…,” Emma said curtly, walking toward the rear door.

  “Allow me, ma’am,” Wills said. Anticipating her move, he hurried ahead of her to the door and opened it for her.

  Emma warily walked inside. She did not like the way she’d permitted him to put himself so close to her, to her home, her place of safety. Yet she had done so almost before realizing it.

  As soon as she stepped through the door, she turned around quickly, expecting to have to stop him from inviting himself inside. “Look, Mr. Wills—” Her words stopped short as she saw him closing the door behind her.

  Hearing her speak his name, Wills pulled the door open slightly. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Nothing…Thank you, Mr. Wills,” Emma said, relieved, and at the same time feeling foolish. She noted that he had already placed his Stetson atop his head in preparation to leave. With a twinge of guilt, she said in reply to his earlier remark, “Likewise, it’s good to make your acquaintance.”

  He smiled hopefully. “Yes, ma’am. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  Wait, no! Her words weren’
t meant to offer him encouragement. She wanted to explain that to him, but it was too late. The door closed quietly in her face. What have you done? she asked herself. She’d seen this type before. He’d be back, this one….

  Stepping away from the door, she ventured a guarded look out the kitchen window. “Omar Wills,” she said cautiously, under her breath, as if to record his name in her memory. At the rear of the yard, she saw him hop up onto the picket fence, over it, and into his saddle. He was a handsome young man, she thought, but he had that lost and hungry look she had seen too many times in the past. Yes, he’d be back; she was certain. Was that what she wanted? she asked herself. Of course not….

  Beside the livery barn, Dennis Barnes gigged Rupert Knowles and gestured toward Wills riding away from Emma Vertrees’ yard. “Look who’s leaving the dead sheriff’s house, Rupert,” he said with a chuckle. “What do you suppose Omar is up to with her?”

  Rupert glanced at Wills for only a second, then shifted his attention back to the wooden table where Hank Lindley sat facing Curtis Clay. “I don’t know Omar from a broken boot heel—I don’t care what he’s up to,” said Rupert, irritated by Barnes’ interruption. “I’ve got money bet here.”

  On the table in front of Lindley, his Colt lay disassembled on a one-foot-square oilcloth, the same as the cloth lying in front of Curtis Clay. The blind man’s Remington pistol had been laid in pieces between his resting hands. At each man’s elbow sat his wagering money. On Clay’s five-dollar bill a bullet stood holding it down. Lindley’s money consisted of three dollar bills held down by a handful of loose quarters.