by Ralph Cotton
“Yes,” said the ranger, “and that’s not the worst of it.”
“It never is,” Clay commented, shaking his head as he walked up to the horse. His outstretched hand located it, yet his other senses had sought it out. “Whooie,” he said, running a scrutinizing hand along the emaciated horse’s side. “I’m going to have to feed and water him a little at a time, else it’ll kill him.” He took his hand from the horse’s side but held it close. “Who does this black horse belong to, anyway?”
His observation stunned Sam, and caused him to look closer at Clay’s clouded eyes. “How do you know he’s black?”
“This time of day, this kind of weather, only a dark horse gets this hot in the sun.”
“I see,” Sam said, curiously skeptical. “But you didn’t say he’s dark, you said black.”
Clay grinned. “The darker the horse, the hotter he gets. I can tell it by the palm of my hand.” His grin broadened. “But you can’t, can you, mister?”
“No, I can’t,” Sam replied. “It stands to reason that a dark horse left in the sun might feel warmer.”
“But you don’t know if you believe I can tell a dark horse from a black horse, now, do you?” Clay grinned.
“No offense,” Sam said, “but it is a little hard to believe.”
Clay tapped himself on the forehead. “You think maybe I can tell it’s dark and just play the odds on it being black?”
“Maybe,” Sam replied, wondering where this was going.
Clay stepped closer and ran a hand along the Appaloosa’s side. “Suppose I told you I could tell you what color this horse was, for a dollar? Would you bet with me?”
“No,” Sam said. “I would say either you’re not blind, or else you’ve got some kind of trick up your sleeve.”
Clay chuckled. “I’m Curtis Clay, mister. I see I can’t interest you in anything.”
“I don’t gamble much,” said the ranger. “I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack.”
“Are you sure enough?” Clay said, impressed without appearing impressed. “I have heard of you, Ranger.” He stepped back from the Appaloosa. “Tell me now, what was those two shots in the air about a while ago?”
Again, his words surprised Sam. But this time Sam wouldn’t comment on it. “Sheriff Gale broke up a fight with a couple of warning shots.”
“I see,” said Clay. He drifted back to the black gelding, ran his hand down its reins, and unhitched them as he spoke. “Being a lawman, you’re right handy with a gun, I know.”
Sam didn’t answer; his silence spoke for him.
“No, I don’t mean fast using one,” said Clay. “I’d never ask a man something like that. I mean handy, putting one together that’s laid out in pieces before you.”
Sam looked at the shiny clean revolver in Clay’s waist and said, “Not as handy as you are, I’m going to guess.”
Clay shook his head and laughed. “You don’t give a man a chance, Ranger.”
Sam smiled. “I bet you don’t either, Mr. Clay.” Without pause, he asked as he looked toward Beck’s dun standing in a stall, “How’s the dun with the stone bruise doing?”
“He’s going to be all right,” Clay said. “Do you know the owner?”
“We’ve met,” said Sam, never one to release much information. He took a gold coin from his pocket and held it out. “Here’s some money for taking care of the horse. The sheriff’s office will pay anything else it costs. Obliged, Mr. Clay,” he added.
Hearing the ranger turn with the Appaloosa to leave, Clay said, “It’s chestnut-colored, Ranger.”
Sam stopped. “What?” he asked.
“That horse of yours. He’s a chestnut with dark stockings,” said Clay. “That’s what I say he is.”
“Then you’re wrong, Mr. Clay,” said Sam, before turning and leaving. “He’s an Appaloosa.”
“Ah, see?” Clay pointed out. “I was wrong. You would have won, had you bet with me.”
“I get the feeling you wouldn’t have been wrong if I had bet with you,” Sam replied.
Clay laughed again and shook his head. “You sure don’t give a man a chance, Ranger.”
“Good evening to you, Mr. Clay,” Sam said respectfully, touching the brim of his sombrero in spite of Clay’s blindness.
“And to you, Ranger,” Clay replied.
Outside the livery barn, Sam stepped up into his saddle and nudged the big Appaloosa toward a trail leading out of town.
PART 2
Chapter 10
Memphis Beck had taken caution and stayed well outside town until after dark. Knowing the three detectives were there and that the rest of the posse wouldn’t be far behind, he slipped into the town along the same shadowy alleyway behind Emma’s cottage. In the cover of the same white oak where he’d stood earlier, he stepped down from the roan and looked all around Emma’s yard in the darkness, noting that the sheriff’s horse and the pack mule were gone.
Inside the kitchen in the dim light of an oil lamp, Emma had finished washing herself in a pan of tepid water. She had dried herself, pulled on her nightshirt, and put on her robe when she heard a faint tapping at the back door.
“Emma, it’s me, Memphis,” she heard Beck whisper outside the door.
“Memphis, this is a bad time for me,” she whispered in reply, even as she opened the door a crack and looked into his face in the darkness.
“I know,” Memphis Beck said quietly, forcing the door open enough to slip inside, “it’s not the best of time for me either.” Judging from her reluctance to allow him inside, Beck asked as his eyes searched out along the hallway through the darkened house, “You are alone, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m alone now, but I won’t be for long,” Emma said. “Sheriff Gale will be here before long.”
“Yes, I know,” said Beck. “I saw him here earlier, and decided to wait until his horse was gone before coming to the door.” He looked in her eyes. “Why did you lie to me, Emma?”
“Lie to you?” It took her a moment to catch up to what she’d said earlier.
“I asked you if Sheriff Gale was the man you were seeing. You told me no,” Beck said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh.” Emma stalled, then said, “I know I shouldn’t have lied to you about the sheriff…I don’t know why I did. But Vince and I have talked things over, and I’ve decided not to stop seeing him after all.”
“I see,” Beck said, not hiding the disappointment in his face. “Then, I suppose that’s all there is to say about it.”
She cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, Memphis,” she said, meaning it. “I’ve gotten too comfortable living inside the law those years with Dillard. I don’t think I can step back outside it.” She meant that too. She didn’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t played up to Gale and gotten him on her side. She could have been sitting in jail tonight. Now that Gale was on her side, she wasn’t about to do anything that might turn him against her. She knew that the deeper Gale involved himself in covering up the killing, the less likely he would ever be to turn her in.
Seeing a look of regret that she was unable to mask, Memphis tipped her chin up gently and looked deep into her eyes. “Emma, are you telling me everything now?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I’m—I’m being honest with you, Memphis,” she said with a sigh. “For both our sakes, it’s better that we leave things as they are.”
“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me,” Beck persisted, his eyes searching hers. “Is he good to you…I mean, you’re not afraid of him, are you? Because if you are—”
“No, Memphis, please,” Emma said, stopping him. “I’m with him of my own choosing.” Thinking of Omar sprawled on his back in the kitchen chair with his brains blown out, she added, “Believe me, I wouldn’t take any abuse.”
“Yes, I know you were never that kind of woman,” said Beck, relenting. He still thought there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he decided he couldn’t pursue the matter an
y further. “If you ever need me…if you ever need anything at all…”
She smiled. “We’ve had this conversation before, Memphis, remember?” she said, a hand on his chest.
“Yes,” he said in a lighter tone, “I remember having it the last time you left and took up with a lawman.” He smiled at her. “What is it about outlaws and lawmen that keeps you coming back for more?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “Crazy, I guess.”
He took a half step back from her. “I mean it, Emma, if you—”
“Stop it,” she whispered, afraid that at any second she might break down and tell him everything. She knew he would insist on protecting her if he knew. But she also knew how risky that would be for both of them. She was right, she’d been too long inside the law and didn’t want to step outside and have the law hounding her.
“The truth is, Memphis, you’ve got to get out of Little Aces,” she said. “Vince told me there are three detectives in Little Aces, scouts for some big posse on its way here.”
He was glad to hear her tip him off even though he already knew about the detectives. “Obliged that you’re concerned enough to tell me, Emma,” he said. He stepped back to the door, not wanting to leave her, but knowing he had to. “I hate leaving the dun behind, but I’ve got to cover some ground.”
She followed him onto the back porch and watched him slip out across the dark backyard. Ignoring the gate, Beck leaped easily over the picket fence and disappeared into the deeper darkness. She touched the sleeve of her robe to her eyes and wondered briefly if she would ever see him again. Then she turned and walked back inside.
In the silent dark, Curtis Clay waited a full five minutes before standing up from behind a row of cactus and brush along the side of Emma’s yard. He had stepped out of his shack and walked along the fence line at the first sound of the roan’s quiet hooves in the alleyway. He’d followed Little Dog into the brush no sooner than he’d heard the soft footsteps and the slight creak of wood as Beck stepped over the picket fence. With his pistol in his waist he’d waited in the dark, listening to the door open and close, then open and close again moments later.
“The woman’s all right, Little Dog,” he whispered, his ears searching the darkness surrounding him. “Walk me to the saloon.” He fingered the money in his pocket that he’d won from the cowboy a few days earlier. “It’s time I get me a long drink of whiskey, find out what’s been going on around here.”
Inside the Little Aces Saloon, Curly Bryant, the bartender, filled two frothy mugs of beer and set them in front of the detectives, along with a fresh bottle of rye whiskey. Drinkers on either side had left plenty of space between themselves and the detectives. Roundhead’s pistol-grip shotgun lay on the bar top beside his forearm. The bartender stood expectantly, awaiting one of the two to pay for the new round of drinks. They’d had been drinking heavily for the past hour. The more they’d drunk, the more prickly and quarrelsome they’d become.
“Tell me something, Mr. Bartender…,” Bobby Vane said in a slurred voice, hooking his fingers into the handle on the beer mug. He stopped and made the bartender wait while he took a long drink of beer. Then, wiping a streak of foam from his upper lip before finishing his words, he asked, “How does a man with a head slicker than a damn billiard ball get a name like Curly?”
“My father started calling me Curly when I was small,” Bryant said somberly. Without missing a beat, he said, “That will be six bits.”
The two stared blurry-eyed at him. They’d also gotten tighter and more belligerent each time the bartender asked them to pay. “Damn, did the price just go up?” Vane asked sharply.
“No, it’s the same as it has been,” said Curly Bryant. “There’s the prices.” He pointed at a sign on the wall behind the bar.
The two stared at the sign. “I see it, damn it,” Vane said. He reached into his pocket, came up with some coins, and slapped them down hard on the bar. “Get your dice and cup up here, we’ll roll you for the drinks, double or nothing.”
Curly considered it for a second. “All right, one time, double or nothing.” He reached under the bar and pulled up a leather dice cup with six dice in it. But as he set the dice cup on the bar, he looked up and saw Little Dog walk in beneath the batwing doors, followed by Curtis Clay tapping the floor with his walking stick. “One minute,” Byrant said to the two detectives, “let me get the man his bottle.”
“I’m not waiting,” Vane demanded, “I’m hot right now. I don’t want my luck to cool.”
“I won’t be long,” Bryant assured him. He stepped to the side and picked up a bottle of cheaper whiskey that he kept beneath the bar.
The two detectives watched as Clay tapped his way to the bar and stopped when his walking stick rang softly against the brass rail. Little Dog veered to the side and sat down close to his feet. “I’ve got your bottle ready and waiting, Curtis,” said Byrant, standing the bottle on the bar top in front of Clay.
“Obliged, Mr. Bryant.” Curtis felt around until he located the bottle and closed a hand around it, then propped his elbows on the bar. “Say, I heard all sorts of commotion from the street today,” he said, laying his money on the bar top. He referred to the fight the ranger had mentioned to him.
“Yes, but it was all settled quickly, with no harm done,” said Bryant, keeping his conversation short on the matter since it had involved the detectives, who stood staring at Clay. Anger showed in their glaring whiskey-lit eyes. “You come back now, Curtis,” Bryant added quickly, sliding the money off the bar top.
“Yes, sir, I will,” Clay said. He could tell by the tightness in the bartender’s voice that there was good reason not to talk about the incident right now. He nodded and started to drop the bottle into his coat pocket. But beside him, Bobby Vane caught his wrist and said with a cold stare, “What’s your big hurry, blind man? We’re a real sociable bunch here, ain’t we, Roundhead?”
“To a fault,” said Roundhead, looking Clay up and down.
“Sit that bottle right down here and let’s have us a friendly drink together,” said Vane.
“Sorry, fellows, Curtis never drinks his whiskey at the bar,” said Bryant.
“Oh? Now, pray tell, why is that?” Roundhead asked indignantly.
“Because he’s colored, I bet,” said Vane, reaching over, picking up Clay’s bottle, and pulling the cork from it. He shook his head. “My, my, it saddens the heart to think how little we’ve learned since the great civil conflict.” His voice sounded insincere. He dropped the cork onto the bar top and swirled the bottle.
“His color has nothing to do with it,” Bryant added quickly. “Curtis always takes his whiskey home with him. Don’t you, Curtis?” He looked at Clay, who stood listening intently, his hand on the bar top, his fingers seeming to probe for his missing bottle.
“I do at that,” said Curtis, realizing he was being taken by the detectives.
“Not tonight, my sightless friend,” said Vane with a dark chuckle.
Gesturing at the whiskey bottle in Vane’s hand, Bryant grimaced and shook his head, trying to signal the drunken detective against drinking it. But Vane didn’t catch the signal. He raised the bottle, took a long sip, and tried handing it to Roundhead.
“Damn, that whiskey tastes like it’s made its way through a horse or two before it got here,” Vane commented, wiping a hand across his lips.
Roundhead had caught the bartender’s signal and he nudged Vane’s hand away from him. “None for me, I’ve still got some here,” he said.
“What? You’re turning down the man’s whiskey?” said Vane as if shocked by his behavior. “If I was him I’d take offense.” He looked at Clay and asked, “Did you hear that, blind man? He won’t drink your whiskey!” He laughed and added, “But I will.”
Curly Bryant looked back and forth with a concerned expression, like a man feeling a trap close slowly around him.
“Can I kindly have my whiskey back, sir?” Cl
ay said, humbly yet firmly. He reached out in the direction of Vane’s voice for the bottle as he spoke.
But Vane swept his hand away. “Easy now, don’t go forgetting your manners, blind man. “If it was my bottle, I would share it with you. Wouldn’t I, Roundhead?”
Roundhead didn’t answer. Instead he said in a sobering voice, “Why don’t you give him his bottle back? We’ve got to get out of here anyway. We’ve been here too long as it is.”
“One more drink,” said Vane. “I don’t want to be unsociable to our blind friend here.” He raised the bottle as if in a toast.
“Let me pour you one on the house,” Bryant cut in. “Give Curtis his bottle so he can get on home.”
As Vane looked at the bartender, Curtis’ searching hand found the bottle and jerked it from Vane’s hand, sloshing whiskey from the bottle. His free hand searched the bar top through spilled whiskey and found the cork. He quickly corked the bottle and put it in his pocket, this time keeping his hand over it. Vane cut the blind man an angry glance, but only for a second before being distracted by Bryant pouring a shot glass full to the brim in front of him. “There you are, Detective…drink up, on the house, like I said!” Bryant called out in a jovial tone. “Curtis, you go on now.”
“Wait,” Vane said to Clay as he raised the shot glass halfway to his lips. “What’s a blind man doing carrying a big shiny gun like that?” He nodded at the Remington shoved down in Clay’s waist. “You’re not one of them cold-blooded gunslingers I keep hearing about, are you, blind man?”
“I’m faster than anybody at—”
“Curtis here has a trick he pulls on folks,” Bryant cut in, trying to keep down any trouble.
“A blind Negro, fast with a gun?” Vane gave a look of disbelief.
“No, no,” said Bryant before Clay could speak for himself. “Curtis is fast at assembling that Remington of his.”
“I take on all comers,” Curtis said, going into his pitch.
“Only, not tonight, right, Curtis?” Bryant stared hard at Clay as if the blind man could see him.
