“I appeal to you, Larry,” frowned Briskin. “How much does it take to teach a man the error of his ways? Think of what I went through. I saw my whole rotten plan falling to pieces before my eyes—and others suffering on my account. Thanks to me, you and Stretch became a couple of targets. I’m a worthless tinhorn, Larry, but I do have a conscience. Damn it all, do you suppose I’m proud of what I’ve done?’ He bowed his head and humbly confided: “I never knew the meaning of shame before. Now, it’s like a sickness inside of me. When I think of Fran—poor, loyal, trusting Fran. She could be arrested, charged with aiding a blackmailer ...”
“Nothin’ bad,” asserted Larry, “is gonna happen to Fran Downey. That’s one thing you can count on.”
“I’ll take my medicine,” offered Briskin. “Give me your word you’ll cover for Fran—and I’ll gladly repeat every word of my story ...”
“To the sheriff?” challenged Larry.
“Yes,” nodded Briskin. “To Jennings. I’ll be jail-bait—but at least my conscience will be clear.”
“Runt,” grunted Stretch, “you think he’s shootin’ straight?”
“I think,” said Larry, “he wouldn’t have the gizzard to lie in our faces. Not anymore.”
“So now what?” demanded Stretch. His jaw jutted aggressively. “We’ve been shot at, damn near buried under a couple tons of rock, damn near knifed, damn near burned to a crisp.”
“You’re gettin’ mixed up,” Larry absently remarked. “You damn near got knifed. I damn near got burned.”
“Makes no never mind,” shrugged Stretch. “What happens to one of us happens to both of us.”
“Yeah, sure,” nodded Larry.
“Seems like we got a little unfinished business,” opined Stretch, “with Bourne and his sidewinders.”
“Take me to the sheriff,” offered Briskin. “I’m ready to take what’s coming to me. I’ll confess everything, put it on paper and sign it.”
“And end up in jail,” Larry pointed out. “How about that?”
“It’s exactly what I deserve, wouldn’t you say?” frowned Briskin. “At least I’ll be alive.”
“And Fran?” prodded Larry.
“I think she’d wait for me,” said Briskin.
“That,” opined Larry, “just ain’t good enough.”
“What’re you gettin’ at?” asked Stretch.
“Briskin’s been beggin’ for trouble,” drawled Larry, “but Fran hasn’t. She’s been plumb foolish, but I reckon she’s suffered enough already. Look at it her way, big feller. First she hears Briskin got himself killed, and goes near loco from grief. Then she finds out he’s alive, and she breaks every rule in the book by shelterin’ him—in her pappy’s hotel.”
“Uh—yeah.” Stretch nodded pensively. “Even Fran’s ma and pa could be in trouble.”
“I seem to have caused nothing but trouble,” fretted Briskin, “for everybody else, as much as for myself.”
Stretch fidgeted impatiently, as he enquired, “What about them lousy killers? We’re wasting time, runt.”
“Let’s go find Jennings,” Briskin wearily suggested.
“Hell, no,” growled Larry.
“But ...” Briskin eyed him perplexedly. “You have to tell Jennings.”
“Sure,” grinned Larry, “but not right away. Later will be soon enough.”
Larry looked at the clock on the dresser. It showed ten after one in the morning. Twenty minutes from now, the Palace would be obeying Jennings’ curfew law. He couldn’t think of a better time for the showdown.
“About the Palace,” he told Stretch. “I’ve been there. Here’s the set-up. Rear door opens into a kitchen. Inside the kitchen, there’s a doorway leadin’ into the barroom. And that kitchen has a rear window as well.”
“They ain’t built a window-lock,” offered Stretch, “that I couldn’t bust with my Bowie—and real quiet.”
“All right,” said Larry. “You get goin’. Head for the alley in back of Bourne’s place. When you hear ’em closin’ up, get ready to sneak in. I’ll go in the front way, about curfew-time.”
“What about him?” demanded Stretch, nodding to Briskin.
“When we parlay with the law,” drawled Larry, “leave all the talkin’ to me. That’s what about him.”
“You aim to lie him outa this fix?” frowned Stretch.
“Not for his sake,” said Larry. “For Miss Fran.”
“All right,” nodded Stretch. “I’ll go along with that.” He adjusted his Stetson, gave his gunbelt a hitch and opened the door.
As he loafed away along the corridor, Larry stood up, crooked a finger at Briskin, and said, “Let’s go.”
He ushered Briskin out into the corridor, after checking to ensure that the way was clear. They moved along to the door of Fran’s room. From within, they could hear Downey’s urgent voice, and Fran’s. Larry knocked softly. The door was opened by a frowning Liza Downey. She began talking agitatedly, but Larry warned her to silence and moved into the room, taking Briskin with him.
He closed the door, traded stares with Downey. The hotelkeeper stood by the window, red-faced, angry-eyed. Fran was seated on the bed, staring wistfully at the shamefaced man for whom she would have sacrificed her self-respect, her good name, her whole future.
“Larry,” growled Downey, “we’ve just bullied the whole lousy story out of our daughter. Consarn this fool girl! When Boyd Jennings finds out what she’s done ...”
“She acted foolish, Marv,” sighed Liza, “but you quit cussin’ her. What she did was for love of a man, and she’s a full-grown woman, after all. I ain’t approvin’ of it, any more than you, but we have to try and understand her. She needs our help.”
“As for this—this ...” Downey advanced on Briskin with fists clenched.
Briskin stood his ground, and said, “Hit me, Mr. Downey.” Downey stopped dead, blinking at him. “And, when I’m down, use your boots. It’s as much as I deserve.”
“Oh, Gil ...” sighed Fran.
“Marv,” said Larry, “I got a hunch you’re looking at your future son-in-law. He’s had the innards scared out of him. He swears he’s learned his lesson—and I believe him.”
“Hell, Larry ...” began Downey.
“He was fixin’ to quit town before sunup—go find himself an honest job some place,” Larry pointed out. “Now, he’s willin’ to give Jennings a confession, tell the whole truth, even though he knows he’d have to go to jail.”
“And fair enough,” opined Downey.
“No.” Larry shook his head emphatically. “Think of your daughter. She’s got a stake in this deal. If I let Briskin confess to Jennings, there’ll be nothin’ but grief and strife for all of you. To me, that just don’t make sense.”
“Well,” frowned Downey, “you got any better ideas?”
“Plenty,” grinned Larry. “In a little while, this room is gonna be full to the four walls. Jennings’ll be here—likely Ace Kerry and Miley Fennister, too. There’ll be a heap of talk. Jennings’ll want a lot of answers.” He patted his chest. “I aim to give him those answers. Me. Nobody else. Savvy? Leave all the talkin’ to me and maybe Briskin can stay out of jail—and Fran won’t find herself in trouble with the law.”
“Not another word out of you, Marv Downey,” ordered Liza.
She nodded to Larry. “We’ll wait for you here. We’ll do exactly what you want.”
Chapter Ten
Texans Pay Off
Larry rolled and lit a cigarette. Through the smoke haze, he eyed Briskin steadily. To Downey, he said, “If Briskin tries to run out ...”
“I’ll dent his head with a chair, so help me,” vowed Downey.
“Sure,” nodded Larry. “But, somehow, I think he’ll stay put.”
“You have my word on it, Larry,” said Briskin.
As Larry turned to open the door, Downey asked, “What’re you fixin’ to do?”
“That,” said Larry, “depends on Bourne and his sidekicks. If they want
to come quiet, it’s okay by me. We’ll deliver ’em to Jennings and that’ll be that.” He slanted his gaze to Fran. “Did she tell you?”
“I told them everything,” murmured Fran. “Gil begged me to keep it a secret, but I couldn’t be silent any longer. I wanted so much to make mother and dad understand—”
“It’s a helluva thing—what Bourne did,” muttered Downey.
“Bourne will get what’s comin’ to him,” Larry grimly promised, “one way or another.”
“But why should you stick your neck out?” wondered Downey. “It’s up to the sheriff to settle Bourne’s hash.”
“The sheriff can have Bourne and his pards,” said Larry, “after I’m through with ’em.”
“Remember, Larry,” cautioned Briskin, “it was Ross who knifed Sam Fennister and tried to do the same to your sidekick. You’ll have to go carefully. Whatever happens, don’t turn your back on Ross.”
“Whatever happens,” countered Larry, “I don’t aim to turn my back on any of ’em.”
With that, he opened the door and slipped out into the corridor. Ambling along the stairs, he unholstered his Colt and checked its loading. Stretch would be in position by now, he guessed.
As he emerged from the hotel and strode to the intersection, he pondered the irony of it all. It seemed a million years since he had traded shots with the homicidal Grieves brothers. Only a few days in actual fact, but a great deal had happened in the interim. You help a man in trouble. You play the Good Samaritan, never realizing that this will be the start of something dangerous. And then, like it or not, you’re involved in the inexplicable, up to your Texas ears in mystery and intrigue.
Approaching the Palace, he saw the last customers trudging out into Main Street. Bourne’s establishment was emptying and, at any moment, the front doors would be secured. He quickened his step and arrived at the batwings just as Quint Onslow was about to secure the door. His left shoulder pressed against it, forcing it back. Onslow grinned affably, opened the door wide and said:
“Sorry, Valentine. Curfew-time. We have to close up now.”
Larry moved inside, positioned himself a few feet to the left of the entrance.
“Go ahead,” he nodded. “Close up. I’m not here to drink your liquor or play the tables.”
Somehow, Onslow managed to maintain his pose of good humor. He secured the street door, glanced over his shoulder, and Larry followed the glance. Curwood was behind the bar, transferring glasses from the counter to the shelves behind, but keeping Larry under close observation. Bourne and Ross were seated at a corner table. Bourne was frowning curiously.
“Howdy, Valentine,” he drawled. “Curfew or no curfew, you’re good for a drink on the house.”
“Don’t bother,” drawled Larry. “This ain’t exactly a sociable visit.”
“You’ve been in trouble again,” muttered Bourne. “I was mighty sorry to hear about it. Trapped in a burning shack, I hear. That’s a rough deal. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Larry resisted the temptation to steal a glance to the doorway connecting barroom to kitchen. He didn’t need to anyway, because he knew Stretch was there. It was something he could stake his life on.
He didn’t glance to the connecting doorway, but he did spare a glance for Onslow, who still lurked by the main entrance.
“You,” he frowned. “Move around in front of me. Squat any place you like—except in back of me.”
“Hell, Valentine,” protested Onslow. “What do you care where I stand?”
“Move,” said Larry.
Onslow shrugged, dawdled across to a chair and seated himself. The chair was adjacent to a table fronting the bar. From where he stood, Larry could now keep all four of them under observation without turning his head.
“What makes you so all-fired angry, Valentine?” demanded Bourne.
“I guess he don’t appreciate gettin’ near burned alive,” mumbled Curwood. “You can’t hardly blame him for that.”
Larry grinned wryly.
“Keep it up,” he coldly invited Curwood. “Keep pretendin’ you’re a sure-enough, honest barkeep, and not a lousy, thievin’ son of a bitch.”
Curwood turned beetroot-red, clutched the edge of the counter and said, “What the hell …”
“This Texan,” opined Ross, “has a loose mouth.”
“It seems to me,” said Bourne, “Valentine owes us an explanation.”
“Damned if I don’t,” agreed Larry. He dropped his cigarette, ground it under his boot-heel without taking his eyes off them, and repeated, “Damned if I don’t.”
It was cat-and-mouse now. He was determined to play them along, slowly adding to their apprehensions, gradually whittling their nerves to shreds.
“You called my barkeep a thief,” Bourne reminded him. “I don’t hold with such wild accusations.”
“Curwood’s a thief,” said Larry, coldly. “So are Onslow and Ross. And you, Bourne. You’re the boss-thief. You likely dreamed up the whole lousy deal. Six of you, it took. You sent the Grieves boys to shut Briskin’s mouth. When you heard they were dead—and Briskin, too—I’ll bet you jumped for joy. It meant a four-way division of the loot. More for each of you.”
“Damn it all, Valentine ...” blustered Bourne.
“Bad shock for you, wasn’t it,” jeered Larry, “when Briskin sent you that little note? I’ll say this for him, Bourne. He wasn’t lyin’ when he said I didn’t know the score. I didn’t—until I found him—and made him tell me.”
“You can’t believe a man like Briskin,” scowled Bourne. “He’s a liar!”
“So take your chances in court,” suggested Larry. “Let Briskin repeat his lies before a judge and jury. You can afford a lawyer, Bourne. What d’you say?” He tucked his right thumb in his cartridge belt, inclined his head towards the entrance. “I’m here to take you in—one way or another. You can come on your own two feet or you can be carried—dead. Either way, I don’t care a damn.”
“Karl ...” began Ross.
“Gettin’ jumpy?” taunted Larry. “You ought to be, mister. Nobody saw you throw that knife at my partner when he was laid up at the Horton house. But, at the shack, it was different. You thought you’d gunned the old Mex, didn’t you? Well, the old Mex was Briskin, and your bullet never touched him. It was you and Onslow that toted me into the shack. Briskin saw you both.”
Huskily, Onslow said, “Briskin shot off at the mouth, Karl, only one thing we can do now. We have to start running!”
“You’re right,” breathed Bourne.
“Try it,” offered Larry, “and you’re grave-bait.”
“Valentine,” breathed Onslow, “we could talk a deal.”
“You can’t talk deals with Valentine,” muttered Bourne. “It’s him or us, Quint. We’re all in this together.”
“I didn’t knife Fennister!” mumbled Onslow.
“Shut up!” snarled Ross.
“The law would call us accessories,” growled Bourne. “What do we gain by surrendering to this interfering saddle-bum? Exactly nothing. There’ll be no deals.” He stared hard at Larry, bared his teeth in a grin of defiance. “Valentine has to go.”
And that statement was the signal that spurred the conspirators to fast action. Larry’s Colt was the first to clear leather. Onslow’s was second. In one flashing blur of movement, Larry drew, triggered at Onslow and pitched to the floor. He was rolling while Bourne and Ross were shoving their table over on its side, and while Onslow was slumping from his chair, his gun still clutched in his fist, his face ashen, his right shoulder showing blood.
Curwood ducked under the bar. Ross cut loose in frantic haste, shooting wildly at the fast-moving Larry, who had reached another table and was upending it. Bullets kicked splinters off the floor, inches from his rolling body, but he was still unscathed. Bourne fired, and his slug dug chips off the edge of the table. Curwood rose into view again, his arms full of cocked shotgun.
“Now, Valentine ...” he snarled.
From the connecting doorway, Stretch loomed into view. His challenge was called softly, but compellingly. “Drop the cannon, big man.”
Curwood cursed, twisted to swing the barrels of the shotgun towards the taller Texan. As he did so both of Stretch’s Colts roared. The barkeep reeled drunkenly, crashed against the laden shelves. His shotgun discharged before it fell from his weakening grasp, and buckshot spattered the ceiling. He went down and stayed down.
Stretch dropped to one knee, squinted along the barrel of his right-hand Colt. Onslow had lifted his gun-arm and was trying to draw a bead on the table behind which Larry crouched. Simultaneously with the roar of Stretch’s weapon, Onslow s was torn from his grasp. He groaned, gaped at his numbed paw and flopped on his face.
Larry doffed his Stetson, edged one eye and his gun-hand above the level of the table. A split-second later, Bourne’s face and gun rose into view, and Stretch yelled an unnecessary warning. Larry fired. Bourne plummeted backwards crazily, his face a mask of red.
Panic seized Ross. From floor-level, he swung his right arm towards Stretch, who promptly threw himself flat. For the second time, he escaped death at Ross’ hand by mere inches. The knife actually fanned his shoulders and back as it sped on to embed itself in the doorjamb.
“That’s all!” Larry called to the knife-thrower. “I counted your shots, Ross! If you were totin’ spare shells, you wouldn’t have thrown that knife!”
Ross rose up and made a dash for a front window. It was closed, but he was obviously desperate enough to hurl himself clear through it.
“He’s mine!” yelled Larry, as he straightened up and holstered his sixgun.
“So go get him, runt,” offered Stretch. “Arguin’ wearies me.”
Larry barged across the barroom to intercept the fleeing killer. Then, when Ross was still a few feet from the window, he whirled, and something flashed in his right hand. His eyes dilated, as he hurled himself at Larry, slashing, jabbing. Larry sidestepped, ducked under the gleaming blade, made a grab for Ross’ wrist and held on tight. Ross cursed him luridly, kicked at his shins, struggled wildly to jerk his arm free. He heaved against Larry, thrust a leg behind Larry’s, shoving him off-balance. They crashed to the floor with Ross uppermost but, while falling, Larry had twisted the gambler’s right wrist.
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