by Ray Hogan
He shrugged. “That’s up to your pa, too. Was his letter they were after. Far as I’m concerned I’ll look after myself.”
There was still no sign of the others when Shawn and Holly reached the outskirts of Las Vegas and turned into the main street. As they rode down the wide, dusty channel between buildings, Holly pointed out the bank to him.
“You’ll find Mr. Cameron there. I’m going on to his house—spend the night with them.” She hesitated and added impulsively, “Later, if you feel like it you could ride out to the Cameron place. It’s at the far end of the town.”
Shawn was unwilling to commit himself. The three men would show up, he was certain. They would arrive too late to stop delivery of the envelope, but that didn’t mean he’d seen the last of them. They’d warned him earlier to move on; now they would have to silence him before he could report the attempted ambush to Sam Underwood. With him out of the way—and since Holly had not actually seen any of them—they could deny knowledge of the incident.
“I aim to check into the hotel, take things easy.”
“Go to the Exchange,” she said, pointing to a building a few doors on down from the bank. “It’s the best.”
“Want to give myself a good scrubbing, then see the sights.”
Holly nodded, understanding probably more than he gave her credit for. “If you do take the notion, you’ll be welcome at the Cameron’s,” she said, and rode on.
He swung into the hitch rack fronting the bank, halted and dismounted. Entering the low-ceilinged, shadow-filled building, he paused just inside the doorway and glanced around. To his left alone teller dozed in his cage; to the right an elderly man sat at a desk behind a waist-high counter.
“You Ira Cameron?” he asked, moving up to the latter.
The man with the shock of snow-white hair got to his feet, a practiced smile on his lips. “I am. What can I do for you?”
Shawn dug into his shirt, produced the letter and passed it over. “Take this,” he said, relief in his tone. “Rode in with it from Sam Underwood.”
Cameron deftly slid an opener under the envelope’s flap, glanced at its contents and tossed it onto his desk.
“Thank you,” he said. “Something wrong with Sam?”
“No, just wanted to get that letter to you in a hurry. Sent me with it.”
The banker shrugged. “Was no need for all the rush, Mr. … ”
“Starbuck.”
“Mr. Starbuck. Sam could have brought it in the next time he came to town. You a new hand at his place? Can’t recall seeing you before.”
Shawn puzzled, ignored the question, pointed instead to the letter. “You mean there’s nothing important in that?”
“Only some mortgage forms, trust deeds and such. Ordinary bank business, that’s all.”
Anger whipped through Starbuck. Nothing important! Sam Underwood had led him to believe the envelope was vital—something he should be ready and willing to protect with his life, if necessary. His temper mounted higher. What the hell was going on? Why would the rancher lie about it? Moreover, why would Guy Rutter want the letter? What good would mortgage papers be to him and his friends? None of it made any sense.
Turning back to Cameron, he said, “If there’s any answer or something you want taken back to Underwood, I’ll be at the Exchange Hotel. Figure to spend the night.”
“I’ll remember that,” Cameron said, moving back to his desk. “Obliged to you again.”
Burning, Starbuck returned to the street. Stopping close to the wall of the building, he swept the dusty roadway with his glance. There was no sign of the three men. Then mounting, he rode to the stable at the rear of the hotel. Instructing the hostler as to the chestnut’s care, he slung his saddlebags across his shoulder, doubled back to the front of the two-storied building and entered the lobby.
At the desk he registered, asked for and received a room facing the street, made his way to it. He stepped immediately to the window, swept back the frayed curtains. He had a fairly complete view of the road. Satisfied, he moved back, threw off his clothing and washed himself down from the china bowl and pitcher. He’d planned on a soak in a tin tub at the barber’s but that was out now. He was too worked up over Underwood’s deceit and Guy Rutter’s attempt to ambush him. He had some accounting due from both; Underwood’s he’d get when he returned to the ranch—Rutter when he showed up in town.
He took time to shave, and then drawing on the same clothes he was wearing when he rode in, went back to the street. For a time he lounged in the cool shade of the Exchange’s gallery, idly watching the coming and going along the walks. Las Vegas seemed a fairly busy town. There was hope, he’d heard someone say—Underwood, he thought—of a railroad soon.
Such would make the settlement the largest and most important city in the Territory, the rancher had said. No doubt it would be true—at least temporarily. What men like Underwood forgot and what he, personally, had noted in his wanderings, was that railroads never called a halt, had a habit of pushing their iron rails farther and farther, extending their reach to other towns, bringing to them greater size, importance and—usually—fleeting glory.
Weary of watching, waiting, Shawn moved off the hotel’s porch and headed across the street for the ornate swinging doors of the Gold Dollar Saloon, easily the largest and apparently the most popular establishment of its kind in the settlement.
The last of the sun’s rays were spraying a golden fan into the sky beyond the mountains to the west, tinting the windows of the shops and spreading a faint haze over the gradually cooling town. Here and there lamps had been lighted and a few storekeepers were locking their doors for the night.
A church bell was measuring off the hour—seven o’clock—in slow, mournful peals, and in the street adjacent to the saloon, a dusty mongrel was barking frantically at a buckskin-clad, bearded man entering on a starved-looking mule.
It was good to be in a town again, hear the sounds of people, smell the odors that reminded him of home, feel the presence of others bustling about at the business of everyday living. It had been some time since he’d found himself in anything larger than a ranch.
He’d make the best of it—Rutter and Underwood be damned. A few drinks to cut the dust and ease the tension that yet gripped him; then a good meal at one of the restaurants. Afterwards he’d go back to the Gold Dollar and while away the evening hours. He wasn’t forgetting about playing a few hands of cards, either; with the kind of money Underwood was paying him, he could afford to splurge a little.
He tried to put aside the thought of confronting Rutter and the others. They hadn’t put in an appearance so it would seem they were not anxious to meet him. Good enough, he’d find and settle with them later ... Right now live a little.
There was no need to worry about Holly. She would be with the Camerons, in good hands—not that her welfare was any concern of his, but he did feel sort of responsible for her after what had happened. He could figure the night was his. He could relax, enjoy himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to dig into the puzzle of why Underwood would send him on a useless errand that had almost gotten him killed, and why Guy Rutter had wanted so badly a letter of no value.
He reached the front of the Gold Dollar, halted, threw his glance back along the street for a final look. A half-dozen soldiers from Fort Union were coming into view at the north end of town. A small boy with an apron that reached down to his shoe tops was sweeping the porch at Hayman’s General Store. A dozen or so persons sauntered along the sidewalks in the soft velvet twilight, soaking in the pleasant breeze drifting in from the high peaks of the Sangre de Cristos.
Satisfied and at ease, Shawn came back around, took a step toward the batwings. He halted abruptly as a man pushed hurriedly through, met him face to face.
Pete Brock. . . .
Fourteen
Starbuck’s resolution to put his problems behind him vanished in a flare of anger. His hand dropped to the low-slung pistol on his hip.
&nb
sp; “Don’t move,” he said harshly.
Brock’s swollen, discolored features stiffened and a wild, apprehensive light came into his eyes. “Now hold on—wait a minute ... I—”
“Where’re Rutter and Mysak?”
“Vida’s room—inside—”
“Take me there—easy and quiet like.”
Brock hesitated, cast a look to the right and then to his left in desperate hope of assistance. No one was watching. Starbuck’s fingers tightened about the butt of his pistol and his free hand clenched into a fist.
“Now,” he said softly.
Brock swallowed noisily, bobbed his head, and, turning, moved back into the saloon with Shawn crowding him. The smoke-hazed room was well filled with patrons, rocking with noise. In a far corner, barely audible above the lift and fall of the racket, a piano was being played.
Careful, alert, Starbuck followed Brock through the crowd. Several men turned, gave them brief attention during their passage, and then resumed whatever they were doing. Brock reached the foot of a stairway and slowed.
“This better not be a trick,” Starbuck warned in a tight voice. “Not if you want to live.”
“It ain’t no trick!” Pete protested. “You said take you to Rutter. That’s what I’m doing.”
They mounted the steps to the second floor and entered a hall. Brock led the way down its shadowy length to a door at the extreme end, halted.
“In here. ...”
Shawn nodded coldly. Drawing his pistol, he said: “Open it—step inside.”
Brock hesitated uncertainly. Starbuck’s balled fist came up. Instantly the outlaw reached for the knob. He gave it a twist, flung back the thin panel.
“Look out!” he shouted, and tried to duck to one side.
Starbuck’s right slammed into the center of his shoulders, sent him plunging forward. Rufe Mysak, almost directly in line with the door, sprang to his feet. Brock, off balance and under the force of Shawn’s blow, crashed into the larger man. Both went sprawling to the floor.
In that same fragment of time Starbuck veered left and swung his gun like a club at Guy Rutter who had been sitting around a small table with the gaudily dressed Vida and Mysak. The blow caught Rutter on the side of the head as he clawed for his revolver, knocked him staggering into the wall as the woman yelled and leaped back.
Flushed with anger, breathing hard, Shawn kicked the door closed with a heel. Arms folded across his heaving chest, weapon hanging loosely in his hand, he surveyed the disorder.
The woman, a thick-waisted blonde with heavily rouged cheeks and vacant, colorless eyes, was drawn up against the back wall watching him with a fearful fascination.
Rutter, holding a hand to one side of his head, sagged against the adjacent partition, a burning hatred glowing in his stare. In the narrow space between the bed and the opposing wall, Brock and Mysak were untangling themselves, struggling to their feet
“What the hell’s this all about?” Guy Rutter demanded.
“Don’t give me that!” Starbuck snarled. “Little matter of an ambush—one that didn’t work. I figure we ought to finish it—now.”
A slyness filled the redhead’s eyes. Keeping his hands well away from the pistol at his side, he drew himself erect, moved back to the chair he had so hastily vacated, and casually sat down.
“You ain’t getting me to go for my gun,” he said calmly. “Neither’ll Pete or Rufe. You shoot, you’ll be killing us in cold blood—and they hang a man in this town for that.”
“Maybe. Odds are three to one, and you’re all wearing guns. That might change a jury’s thinking a bit.” Shawn paused, swung his weapon slowly back and forth so as to cover all the men generally. “You want to stay alive, lift your pistols slowly with your left hand and drop them on the bed – all of you.”
Mysak swore vividly into the hot silence, did as ordered, and turned angrily to Brock.
“What the hell’d you bring him here for?” he shouted.
Brock rid himself of his weapon. “You think I done it a purpose?” he shot back. “Nailed me going out the front of the saloon—”
“You damned fool,” Rutter snapped in a low, controlled voice. “I told you to keep out of sight.”
“I was,” Brock insisted. “Only going over to that store for a sack of Bull—”
“Sit down,” Starbuck cut in. “On the floor—lean up against the wall,” he added to Brock and Rufe Mysak.
Grumbling, the two men settled themselves on the scarred boards. Rutter slumped in his chair, one arm draped across the table. The woman—Vida—did not move. Shawn looked at her.
“You, too.”
He righted the chair Mysak had occupied, shoved it up to the table with a foot. Vida pulled away from the wall, took her place next to Rutter.
Starbuck swept them all with his smoldering glance. “Now we get back to that ambush. What was it all about?”
Mysak and Brock only stared. Rutter’s lips drew into a scornful smile. Temper flared through Starbuck. He came away from the door against which he leaned, pistol ready in his left hand, right knotted into a big knuckled fist cocked and ready to strike. Guy Rutter jerked back, threw up both arms in fear.
“We wanted that letter you was carrying for Sam Underwood!” he cried.
“That’s a goddam lie!” Starbuck replied. “Wasn’t anything in that envelope but some mortgage papers.”
Rutter’s brows lifted as a look of incredulity crossed his face. He cast a sidelong glance at Pete and Rufe.
“That so?”
Shawn nodded. “It is. What did you think was in it?”
Again the redhead looked at his friends. “Well, uh—money. A lot of money.”
Starbuck swore in disgust. “A holdup,” he muttered. “Robbing a man who figured you were his friends.”
Mysak laughed, slapped his knee. “I guess we just ain’t no-account!”
“Lower than that. You could have killed Underwood’s daughter, or got her hurt.”
Rutter’s manner was now indifferent. “Been too bad. Truth is, we weren’t expecting her to be with you.”
“But she was—and that didn’t hold you back any. Figure I owe you for that, as well as for myself.”
Rutter shrugged. “Up to you, but you ain’t getting us into no fight. What I’m thinking is you’d be smart to forget the whole thing. Tell Underwood, if you’re of a mind, let him do what he likes—but you forget it. Nobody got hurt and you done the job you was hired to do. Ought to be satisfied.”
“Not so sure that’s all there is to it,” Shawn said, thinking of Underwood. “What gave you the idea there was money in the envelope?”
“Sam did. Him telling you how important it was that it get delivered to the bank—and him sending it by you, his fancy gunslinger. Only natural we figure it was cash money. You say there was nothing in it but papers, mortgages and stuff like that?”
“That’s all.”
Guy Rutter smiled. “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he murmured. “Old Sam sure fooled us.”
Fooled me, too, Starbuck thought bitterly, almost into getting myself shot up ... The rancher had better have some good reasons for what he had done.
“Reckon you can see now it was all a big mistake,” Rutter said in an amiable tone. “Real sorry it happened. If you’re willing, we’ll just forget the whole thing.”
“Seems I remember you ordering me to move on—”
“Forget that, too. Was a bit riled when I said it. I’m for letting that be bygones, too, if it’s all right with you.”
“Not a chance!” Starbuck rapped. “I’m getting some satisfaction, one way or another. You’re all too gutless to stand up to me, so the next best thing is the law.”
“The law—” Brock echoed, straightening.
“Sheriff’s right here in Las Vegas. I’m filing charges against you for attempted holdup. Maybe I can even stretch it to attempted murder.”
Rutter only smiled. “Best you talk that over with Sam Underwood first.
How’d it look for him? A big man, head of the bank, getting all set to be the next governor—all cozy with somebody like us. Folks might start wondering just what kind of company he keeps was they to hear how his friends tried to rob him.”
Pete Brock settled back. Mysak bobbed his bullet-shaped head. “That’s a fact. Sure wouldn’t help him none.”
Shawn had a sudden impulse to give way to temper, start in on the three men, work them over good. But he knew it would accomplish nothing other than to salve the angry frustration that rankled him.
“Now, you talk to Sam about it,” Rutter said in a self-assured manner. “Tell him what you’re figuring to do. If he’s agreeable to your going to the sheriff, you go ahead. We’ll be right here. We ain’t planning on going nowhere.”
Starbuck, choking back the rage that was boiling through him, circled Rutter and the woman, gathered up the weapons lying on the bed. Holding them in a pocket shaped by his right arm, he backed to the door, opened it and stepped into the hall. Dropping the pistols to the floor, he booted them into a far corner.
“Don’t step out here until you’re damned sure I’ve gone,” he said in a taut voice. “All I need is a little nudge to start shooting. Already got plenty of reason.”
Reaching for the knob, he drew the panel closed and wheeled back into the corridor.
Fifteen
Fuming, upset by his inability to satisfy the sense of outrage that claimed him; puzzled more than ever now by Sam Underwood’s actions, Starbuck moved down the stairs, shouldered his way through the resounding clamor in the saloon and stepped out into the clean, cool night.
Nothing jibed. There was no sense of guilt in the three men for what they had attempted to do—and being the sort they were, he could understand that; it was the absolute lack of alarm, of fear they exhibited when he threatened to bring the law into the matter.
It was as if they were under some mysterious, powerful protection that would not permit the law or anyone else to punish them regardless of their crimes. They were willing to leave everything up to Sam Underwood even though they blandly admitted they had intended to rob him of money they thought he was sending to the bank.
