The End of the Trail

by Brett Halliday

  Pat said, “Root beer’ll be fine for him.”

  “And my private bottle,” Happy Jack roared at the nearest bartender. “What brings you to Fairplay, Pat? You and your two handsome partners?”

  “Just passin’ through. They’ve been in here, huh?”

  “They’re still here.” Happy Jack chuckled happily and nodded toward a curtained archway leading into the rear where the sound of dance music was stridently loud. “Old Ezra’s still quite the lady’s man like he used to be. He’s giving the girls a treat with his dancing.”

  “What about Sam Sloan?” asked Pat grimly.

  “Sam’s sort of lady-shy tonight. He was bucking a chuck-a-luck layout in the other room last I saw of him. Here’s to you, Pat.” Happy Jack filled two glasses from a bottle the bartender had set in front of him and pushed a mug of foaming root beer in front of Dock.

  “I hear you’re after that five thousand reward for the Runyon gang,” he went on in a rumbling undertone which could be clearly heard the full length of the bar.

  Pat saw a lot of faces turned toward him along the bar, and a silence fell over the drinking men as they waited to hear his reply.

  He shook his head and said flatly, “You hear wrong, Happy Jack.”

  “That so? I heard tell you rode into town with a pack outfit and you’re heading up into the mountains tomorrow.”

  “That’s right. Didn’t you know Sam Sloan’s working for the Pony Express now?”

  “Seems like I did hear that. On the Laramie route, huh?”

  “He was on the Laramie end. Right now the company’s sent him out to explore a new route over the Divide to take the place of the stage road that went out thirty years ago. Sam an’ me are ridin’ along to keep him company.”

  “Sure now. You’ll be following the old road up through Snowslide Canyon. Isn’t your fault if that’s the same trail the Runyon gang takes after a holdup.” Happy Jack nodded significantly and lifted his glass. “Here’s luck to you if you should just happen by accident to run onto their hideout.”

  Pat lifted his glass and drank. He saw that it was hopeless to attempt to convince anyone that they weren’t in Fairplay for the express purpose of trailing down the holdup gang. He said, “Thanks for the drink. We’ll take a look-in on Ezra an’ Sam. Finished your root beer, Dock?”

  He nodded and slid down from his perch on the bar. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Happy Jack. It was about the best root beer I ever drank,” and went with his father down the long room toward the curtained archway.

  The dance-hall was just beyond the curtains, and the gambling room was on the right. The dance-hall had a polished oak floor and was dimly lit by two glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There were chairs and tables ranged all around the dance floor where men could order drinks or food, and a raised platform in the center of the floor for the musicians.

  There was a pianist, two fiddle players, and a man with a guitar. They were playing their own version of a waltz, and a dozen or more couples were dancing.

  The girls all wore very short, spangled skirts, and their shoulders and arms were bare. Their lips were rouged and they danced expertly, keeping as far from their partners’ heavy boots as they could.

  Pat and Dock stood in the doorway and looked on for a few minutes. Dock saw Ezra first and giggled and pointed him out to Pat. Ezra was lumbering around earnestly with a wisp of a girl who had the reddest hair Pat had ever seen. Ezra was sweating and his scarred face shone happily as he danced about with the girl. He didn’t see Pat and Dock in the doorway, and after a moment Pat drew the boy with him through the doorway on the right into the gambling room.

  There were no women in here and there was very little sound, for gambling was a serious business for high stakes in Fairplay. There were a dozen or more round tables covered with green baize still unoccupied so early in the evening; but already three poker games were in progress, a faro layout was drawing a lot of attention, and there was a thick cluster of players about the chuck-a-luck game.

  The bird-cage in which the three dice rattled about was an ornate affair of gleaming brass bars in the shape of an hour-glass, mounted on a metal axle supported by two gold-plated uprights and turned by a crank in the hand of the house-banker.

  The layout on the long table was equally elaborate. The wooden table was covered with white leather marked off in squares and rectangles covering all the various betting combinations with the odds neatly displayed in black India ink on the leather. Both sides of the table were lined with players leaning forward to place their bets while the bird-cage turned slowly and the dice rattled about, dribbling from one section through the small center opening into the other while the houseman pleaded with them in a monotonous sing-song:

  “Get your bets down, gentlemen, while the dice go round and round. Place your bets while I turn the cage. The more you bet the more you win, gentlemen. You can’t win by waiting for the dice to stop. When they stop, the betting stops, gentlemen. Get your bets down …”

  Pat saw Sam Sloan’s black head near the far end of the table. He pushed himself up beside the swarthy little man and grinned down at the pile of chips in front of him. He said, “Looks like yo’re doin’ all right for yoreself, pardner.”

  Sam glanced up happily. His black eyes gleamed with feverish intensity. He was a born gambler, though he generally lost when he risked his money in any game.

  “This here’s thuh game fer me,” he announced thickly. “Yuh jesht put down yore money an’ wait till thuh dice shtop rollin’ an’ pick up what thuh man pays yuh.” He blinked owlishly up at Pat. He was quite drunk and completely happy.

  “That’s right,” said a snarling voice from across the table. “Keep on the way you’re goin’ an’ maybe you’ll win enough so’s you won’t hanker after that five thousand reward money.”

  Pat looked across at the man who had spoken. He was a stranger to Pat. A bull-necked man, wearing a city suit and a black derby. The derby was tilted back on his head and he chewed pugnaciously on the butt of a soggy black cigar. He had only a couple of chips in front of him and it was evident that he had been losing heavily while watching Sam rake in his winnings.

  Pat said thinly, “Are you speakin’ to my pardner, Mister?”

  “I’m talking to that sawed-off runt beside you that’s winnin’ all our money,” the man growled. “I hear tell he’s one of them Powder Valley gun-slingers that’re up here to collect some blood money.”

  Dock was pressed close against Pat’s side, looking on and listening with shining eyes. Pat dropped his hand to the boy’s shoulder without taking his gaze off the bull-necked man. His fingers tightened hurtingly on Dock’s shoulder, and he pushed the boy back to clear his holster and free his gun-hand.

  In a coldly remote tone, Pat said, “You lie, Mister.”

  Men moved aside hastily from both of them. The houseman stopped turning the cage and pleaded, “Please, gentlemen. Take your trouble outside.”

  The derbied man folded his arms across his chest and sneered, “Pretty tough, huh? You can see I ain’t got a gun on me.”

  Pat said, “That gives you no call to spread lies about me an’ my pardners.”

  “I’m only repeatin’ what I heard.”

  “Stop repeatin’ it,” Pat advised him flatly. “Or get a gun to back up yore talk.”

  The houseman sang out, “And the dice say fifteen, gentlemen. Fifteen wins. Odd, it is. Watch your bets, gentlemen, until they’re paid or collected.”

  The man across the table had lost again. With a snarl of anger he gathered up his few remaining chips, turned and stalked away. Sam swayed against Pat, hiccoughed and said, “She how danged eashy it is, Pat? You put yore money down an’ they pay yuh off.”

  Pat nodded and said shortly, “Don’t drink any more, Sam.” He turned and saw Dock standing five feet behind him, his eyes big with boyish excitement. He said, “Let’s get out of here, Dock,” and started for the door.

  A short man wearing
heavy miner’s boots clumped after him. He caught Pat’s arm and said in an undertone, “You’re Pat Stevens from Powder Valley, ain’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did me good to see you call Bull Miller’s bluff like that, but watch out for him, Mister. He’s partial to a Bowie knife … in a man’s back.”

  Pat thanked him for the warning and went on out. Dock trotted along beside him and when they reached the boardwalk said exuberantly, “Gee, Dad. You sure made him back down, didn’t you?”

  “You didn’t duck under a table,” Pat reminded him sternly. They entered the hotel and went up the stairs. Pat got out their room-key and unlocked the door. He struck a match and went across the room to light the kerosene lamp. After he replaced the globe and turned the wick up, he turned back to see Dock still standing in the doorway, knitting his brow over a sheet of paper in his hands.

  “This here was lying right inside the room, Dad. Like as if it’d been pushed under the door. It says …” His voice faltered queerly.

  Pat crossed the room in two long strides and took the sheet of paper from his hands. Scrawled on it with the blunt tip of a soft-lead bullet was the warning:

  “Git back tuh Powder Vally while yuh kin. Espeshuly thuh kid.”

  It was unsigned.

  Pat glanced up sharply at the unshaded window fronting on Fairplay’s main street. He went across to the lamp swiftly and blew it out. He turned back to Dock and said gruffly, “Don’t light that lamp again. You don’t need it to get in bed. Lock the door on the inside as soon as I go out, and don’t unlock it for anybody but me. No matter who they say they are. You’ve got your twenty-two target pistol, haven’t you?”

  “You bet, Dad.” Dock’s voice was bursting with excitement. “You wanta borry it?”

  “I want you to put it under your pillow,” Pat told him evenly. “If anybody tries to get in before I come back, shoot through the door. It’s thin enough for even a twenty-two to go through an’ the noise’ll bring someone up here.”

  “I’ll sure do it. Will you be gone long?”

  “Long enough to round up Sam an’ Ezra and get ’em back here safe.” Pat paused on his way to the door with his hand on Dock’s shoulder. “You’re not afraid to stay here alone, Son?”

  “With my pistol? Gosh no!”

  Pat tightened his fingers on the boy’s shoulder and then he went out. He took the key from the outside and put it in the lock so Dock could turn it, said gruffly, “Lock it right now,” and went down the hall.

  10

  Happy Jack was still in his place at the front of the bar when Pat Stevens strolled into the saloon a few minutes later. The proprietor smiled genially and made room for Pat beside him, remarking, “Got the boy tucked away safe in bed, I bet, and now you’re out for some fun. What’ll it be: Wine, women or dice?”

  Pat said, “I’ll stick to whisky, an’ I’m a married man, an’ I quit buckin’ house games twenty years ago.”

  Happy Jack laughed heartily and nodded to the bartender. As the man reached under the counter for a special bottle, Pat said hastily, “I’ll buy you one this time.”

  “Nothing doing,” said Happy Jack genially. “Liquor out of this bottle isn’t for sale, an’ I wouldn’t let any friend of mine drink what we sell over the bar.” He lifted the bottle of bonded whisky and poured two drinks with a flourish.

  Pat leaned forward with both elbows on the mahogany and carefully twirled the glass in front of him. In a low tone, he asked, “Know a feller named Bull Miller?”

  “I know every man in Fairplay.”

  “Know anything good about Miller?”

  “I don’t, and that’s a fact.” Happy Jack emptied his glass and smacked his thick lips. “Good hard-rock man, they say, but can’t hold down a job. Right now he’s running the storage depot for a freighting outfit into Denver but they say he’s boosting the new railroad hoping to get the job of station agent.”

  “Workin’ for the freight outfit?” Pat mused. “Must know a lot about gold shipments.”

  “I reckon. But he’s not going to hold that job long neither. Pulling for the railroad like he is that’ll put his own boss out of business. He’s no good,” Happy Jack went on in a rumbling undertone. “Do most anything for a crooked dollar, I guess.”

  “I hear he favors a Bowie knife … from behind,” Pat murmured.

  Happy Jack looked at him curiously. “Have you had a run-in with him?”

  Pat drank his whisky. He said, “I figure maybe I will have,” nodded casually to his host and strolled back toward the dance-hall.

  He stood in the doorway for a time, watching the dancing couples but he didn’t see Ezra on the floor. He began studying the tables ranged around the walls, and presently saw two red heads very close together at a corner table. He circled the outer perimeter of the floor to their table and said, “Howdy, Ezra.”

  The big, red-headed man looked up with a broad grin on his scarred face. He was seated opposite the tiny girl whose hair matched his own for crimson brilliance.

  “Howdy, Pat. Wantcha tuh meet thuh purtiest gal west of thuh Mississippi. Miss Lily Lytell.”

  The girl laughed huskily and looked up at Pat with sparkling eyes. “Your friend’s been telling me all about you, Mr. Stevens. He claims you’re the Pat Stevens from Powder Valley.” She had a thin white face with a lot of garish red on her lips. Her eyes were enormous and shadowed. She wasn’t more than twenty, and she looked as though she hadn’t eaten a square meal for a long time. A string of freckles across the bridge of her nose gave her a look of impudent childishness.

  Pat nodded and took a chair between the two with his back to the dance floor. He frowned at the glasses in front of the pair, and asked, “What are you drinkin’?”

  “They call this here drink a Rocky Mountain Side-Winder,” Ezra said proudly. “Smooth as spring water with a kick like thuh hind-end of a jackass.”

  “That’s what they call mine too,” Lily said pertly, “but it’s only cold tea with some red coloring in it.”

  Ezra looked across at her in one-eyed amazement. “Cold tea? Cost me two silver dollars every time yuh get uh fresh glass.”

  “Sure. I get one of those dollars every time you buy me a glass. How do you think a girl makes a living in a dump like this?”

  “My gosh! What d’yuh think of that, Pat?”

  “I think it’s cheap enough to get a girl like Lily to dance with you. Why don’t you buy her another one an’ get me a whisky while yo’re about it?”

  “I’ll do ’er,” Ezra said. “But she don’t hafta drink them less’n she likes ’em. I’d jest as lief give you thuh whole two dollars, Lily.”

  She shook her head. “I’d get in trouble that way. We’re not allowed to take any money from the men we dance with.”

  Ezra leaned back and beckoned to a waiter, and Lily bent close to Pat to tell him laughingly, “I like your friend a lot. Are any of the stories he’s been telling me the truth?”

  “Probably not,” Pat warned her. He studied her face with frank admiration. “You’re a funny kid to be workin’ in a place like this. From the East?”

  “Chicago,” she told him calmly. “It’s not so bad here. These western men are easy to handle. None of them ever get too fresh.”

  “How’d you come to get here from Chicago?”

  “It’s a long story.” She shrugged her thin bare shoulders. “I was broke when I got here last week and needed a stake before I could go on. This is the only way for a girl to earn one in Fairplay.”

  “Go on; where from here?” Pat demanded. “Fairplay’s the end of the line, seems like to me.”

  She lifted her chin. “It was the end of the line for me. I found that out after I got here. I came to visit my two uncles but they’re not … here any more.”

  The waiter brought their three drinks. Ezra paid him and looked across at the others in close conversation. “Don’t be stealin’ my gal, Pat, er I’ll tell Sally shore as shootin’.”


  Pat said, “I think Sally would take to Lily.”

  “You’re married aren’t you?” Lily asked him.

  “But I’m not,” Ezra rumbled. “I’m free as thuh mountain flowers an’ ripe fer pickin’.”

  Lily smiled across the table at him. She seemed completely unmindful of his one blind eye and horribly scarred face. She said sweetly, “I don’t see how on earth you’ve remained single so long, Mr. Ezra.”

  Ezra’s single eye glowed warmly. He took a long drink from his glass and said, “We’re wastin’ some good music.”

  Lily sighed. She looked around at the crowded dance floor and then got up and held out her arms to him. Ezra lumbered to his feet with a smirk at Pat and took hold of her with his big hands as carefully as though she were a fragile doll.

  With his back to the dance floor, Pat got out the makings and rolled a cigarette. He was lighting it when Sheriff Hartly came up to drop into the chair Ezra had vacated. “I hear you had a little run-in with Bull Miller already.”

  Pat nodded gloomily. “He was sore about losin’ at chuck-a-luck.”

  “Might have been more than that,” the sheriff warned him.

  “Think he’s one of the Runyon outfit?”

  “Hardly one of them. But he’s a man who can be hired for almost any deviltry. If someone’s after you, Miller would be a good man for the job.”

  The sheriff leaned back and glanced at the dance floor, now crowded with couples. He gave a little start and frowned at Pat. “Your red-headed pardner has picked himself a funny one to dance with.”

  “Lily?” Pat nodded with a grin. “If they ever get close enough to rub them two heads together, look out for a fire.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Don’t you know who she is?”

  “Lily Lytell, she said. From Chicago.”

  “She’s a niece of the Runyon brothers.”

  “The outlaws?” Pat looked at him in surprise.

  Sheriff Hartly nodded soberly. “She turned up here a couple of weeks ago and acted surprised to find out they’ve hit the owl-hoot trail. Claimed she didn’t know when she left Chicago that they’d gone bad. Thought they were still honest miners and she’d come out plannin’ to live with ’em.”