“Honey,” Hurley had said, “saying I’ll make good might sound like big talk. But I see a fresh start, the way I got my first break—skinning mules.”
Though the well-shaped blonde was tall, she had to look up to meet his eyes. She forgot the bank disaster. Then, as he caught her in his arms, she said more than she had intended. “Don’t go yet—”
The catch in her voice, the misting of her eyes, and the ardor of her lips told him this was his moment, and that he had won an advantage over Lucky Ballard.
This had been in Silver Bend, a month ago. Raising a grubstake had been harder than Hurley had realized. Meanwhile, Lucky Ballard would be on the job, smoothly sorry for a girl who had left her home and lived in a boarding house.
No one had known until after the bank failure that Ballard had gotten out. There had been nothing wrong with the bank; but one night when the vault was packed with cash and securities it had been blown open. Even so, it might have survived, had not the depositors stampeded.
He had all this in mind, and it drew his attention inward as he stepped into the lobby of the Jefferson House.
Drawn into himself, Hurley was not prepared to meet the couple leaving the dining room.
The girl had not put on her gloves. A diamond gleamed from her left hand. She was flushed and gay. Looking past the pair, Hurley saw the champagne bottle in the cooler beside the table they had just left.
The girl was Emily Crawford. From the grey tailored suit, Hurley judged she was traveling. The man was Lucky Ballard.
“Well, Ben!”
Ignoring the man, Hurley snatched the hand Emily had tried to draw from sight. His glance flickered toward the ring, then back to her face. “Not your honeymoon, anyway!” He thrust her aside. Caught off balance, she came near plopping into a chair, but missed. She landed in a tangle on the floor.
Hurley, swinging toward Ballard, had gone for his gun. Ballard clawed for his hip pocket. Hurley, only now aware that he had unintentionally floored a woman was gripped by the urge to pick her up. The conflict within him cost him his advantage.
Ballard’s gun was the first to come into sight.
And then Saul Epstein, who had followed Hurley, made a darting lunge, catching Hurley just above the knees, knocking him down and pitching him against Ballard before his gun could rise into action.
A shot smashed into the pigeonholes behind the desk. The other raked the floor.
The marshal and his deputy ran out of the bar off the lobby. “That mule skinner again! Sam, help me haul this jigger to the hoosegow.”
Epstein said, “Listen, officer, nobody was hurt. You can’t put him in the calaboose.”
“The hell I can’t!”
“Well, I’ll go his bail. He’s got freight to haul.”
“That’s up to the judge,” the marshal spat, “If he gets off, he’d best haul freight out of this man’s town!”
Epstein waved as Hurley overtook him at the outskirts of Poplar Junction. Whip cracking, Hurley’s voice boomed as he cursed the jugheads and the eighteen-foot wagon rolled on.
The second day out, Epstein got his chance to whittle down Hurley’s lead. There were arroyos, which a freighter could not cross. There were dry-lake beds—a hard crust of salt and soda, with a foundation of muck—into which a wagon would sink to the brake blocks. Epstein played the shortcuts as he made for the Amargosa Desert.
Lips cracked, eyes reddened by alkali dust, Epstein tramped along. Then the air became oppressive, the sky bronze-colored. An unnatural dusk darkened the desert. An icy wind whined across the flats. Raindrops, the size of grapes, plopped down, foretelling the rage of Nature that was poised in the skies overhead.
Epstein first was tempted by the gully ahead. The undercut bank offered shelter. Instead, he got under his cart. The rain came down, drenching, blinding, choking.
The dry wash became ankle-deep in water. Some moments later, a six-foot wall of water came down the channel. It was as though a dam had burst.
Abruptly, the downpour stopped. The sun came out, blazing. Already, the mill race was subsiding as Epstein’s garments steamed in the sun.
Soon he crossed over on dry bottom. Toward sunset, Epstein came to the wagon and the dry camp.
HURLEY said, “Wiley fell off. Wheel crushed him, but he may live.”
“The buzzards say he won’t. Let me look.”
The peddler knelt beside Wiley, and shook his head. “There is nothing left to fix.”
The man died within the hour. After they had buried him under a cairn of rocks, Epstein asked, “He was drinking?”
Hurley cursed bitterly. “I busted the bottle and told him I’d bust his head, but he had another one.”
“You need a helper with the mules.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Then hitch my wagon on behind, and I will take the job.”
“It’s a deal, Saul!”
The following day they paralleled the mountains. That evening, while getting camp gear from the wagon, Epstein found a case of whiskey cached among the canned goods.
“Maybe,” said Epstein, in announcing his discovery, “Wiley was going to do some private trading in Panamint.”
“Where the devil’d he get the price of a whole case? Old man Hoskins might trust him for a tin dipper of red eye from the barrel, but never for a case. There’s something salty in this deal! Some one aimed to cold-deck me.”
Epstein followed the hint and found a sales slip from the general store. It was a duplicate receipted by J. Wiley. But the goods had been sold to Lee Ballard.
A hail from the darkness startled the two. A man, weaving and lurching, stumbled into the circle of light. His clothes were bedraggled and torn. Bloodshot eyes stared from a taut face. He carried a satchel which he would not relinquish, even when Epstein caught him by the elbow to help him make the final step beside the fire. “Water!” he croaked.
“Here is coffee. Wait, I will get some grub.”
“Not now. There are others. All in. I chased your firelight. They’re all played out. You’ve got to help us.”
Epstein said, “What happened, where do you come from, on foot?”
“The stage from Poplar Junction was caught in a draw. We’ve been walking ever since. Lot of the road was washed out. Got lost, and then saw this fire. Take us to Poplar Junction, or to the nearest town in the other direction. I’ll pay you well.”
“Who the hell are you, hiring an outfit so free and easy?” asked Hurley, who had been studying the man.
“Jubal Garlock.”
“You could be the Governor of Nevada, for all I care. We’re bound for Panamint. Ride with us, or walk to wherever you please.”
Garlock got up, stiffly and painfully. “I’ll go tell the others there’s grub and water, anyway.”
He had scarcely gone beyond the circle of light when a woman exclaimed, “Oooh! That coffee smells good!”
And the first of the group to take shape at the fringe of the firelight was Emily Crawford. She had slashed her tailored skirt to knee length. A piece of the garment had been used to make an outlandish sunbonnet. Other pieces were bound to her feet.
Hurley recognized her before she recognized him, since the fire dazzled her eyes. He took a step to meet Emily. She recoiled, and the face of the man following her changed. Hurley had command of the situation.
“Lucky Ballard!” he said, with an ironic bow. “But I’m kind of lucky myself, seeing you and Emily so soon after some one butted in on our talk.”
Ballard stopped short. His hands made jerky motions, as though he could not decide whether to raise them or reach for a gun.
And then Epstein came over from the wagon. “Meals at all hours,” he pattered, amiably. “Anything you want, ask for it—it gives bacon and biscuits and canned peaches.”
Smiling,
Hurley said, “Set down folks. I was only mocking you a bit. Saul, give them coffee, it’s better’n water, for folks plumb fagged out and all a-thirst!”
Epstein obeyed. Hurley came after him with a bottle. “Take a dollop in your coffee, Lucky. You, too, Garlock.” He regarded the label and displayed it to his guests. “Best in the West, Lucky. Got a whole case of it, barring a couple bottles. Wiley drunk ’afore he fell under the wheels and killed himself. Yes, Sir, old man Hoskins does carry good case whiskey.”
Ballard managed to keep his face immobile. Garlock, who had not spoken since his return reached out with his pannikin’. And as he drank, he kept a caressing hand on the satchel.
Hurley was breaking out blankets when Ballard said, “Ben, personal differences can wait on a better time. Carry us to the road and the nearest town. I’ll see you don’t lose out.”
“I’m going to Panamint. Ride with me, or walk your way.”
“Oh, Ben!” Emily cried. “You can’t do that! It’ll be a couple of days before they miss the stage. They’re likely to find just enough wreckage to make it seem none of us lived through it.”
“I said, you can ride to Panamint.”
“My God!” Ballard exclaimed, indignantly. “You can’t make a woman face that.”
“When Saul came up, just as Wiley died, account of some one giving him a case of whiskey,” Hurley said, remorselessly, “I knew I’d get a sign that meant, shove on. Now with you two moving in on me, I know it’s all the more a sign. It’s Big Medicine—it’s desert judgment—and I can’t back down.” He dug the charge slip out of his pocket. “The whiskey was on you, Lucky. Now—see what I mean?”
“But—but—Emily—!”
Emily interposed. “Ben, Lucky was heading South, to look at his property. I was going to visit relatives in Yuma. I am sorry you jumped at conclusions, but I can understand. And you needn’t carry on with what happened in the hotel. We all understand. Let’s just forget it.”
* * * *
In the morning, Hurley acted as though there had been no dispute the previous night. “All aboard!” he shouted, as he climbed to the driver’s seat. Epstein, after helping Emily, took his station toward the rear of the load. The cargo, well stowed, shifted hardly at all, but Emily, perched precariously and muffled in a blanket, lost her balance. In trying to check herself, she landed in Epstein’s arms. Then, as though at a signal, Ballard pounced forward, while Garlock turned toward the back.
“Take it easy, Saul,” Garlock said from behind his short barreled revolver. “Let Emily take that gun you got stuffed under your shirt.”
Epstein pretended to be a good deal more scared than he was. “I don’t want trouble,” he stuttered. “Watch out—it’s loaded.”
Up front, Ballard had a pistol against Hurley’s back. “Pull up, Ben! You’re covered.”
Hurley obeyed. “What’s all this monkey work?”
“You’re going to take us to town,” Ballard answered. “I’ll take your gun first.”
Disarmed, Hurley faced about, hands shoulder high. “Can any of you skin mules?” he asked, leaning forward, chin outthrust, brows beetling. His hands seemed about to reach out and slap down. Epstein broke out in a sweat lest Hurley try the fatal trick of making a swipe at Ballard’s weapon.
“Can you skin mules?” Hurley repeated.
“Yes,” Ballard answered, “even though I didn’t get my start that way.”
“She’s all yours, then.” Hurley clambered down. “I’m whipped.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ballard demanded, warily.
Then Epstein spoke up. “I’m going with him. I got to get my cart loose. Do you have to keep my pistol?”
Epstein unlashed the vehicle. He picked up gun and cartridges Garlock dropped. “All right, Ben,” he said, cheerfully. “Panamint or bust. We’re on our way!”
Hurley wheeled about. “There’s not a drop of water in tank or barrel. While you pounded your ears last night, I gave every jughead all he could drink. You can backtrack and follow my wheel tracks, but nary a drop of water for three days. The nearest water is toward the mountains yonder. A spring hidden so’s you could die of thirst within a hundred yards of it and never know it was there. Pull down on me, and you’re shooting yourself out of your last chance of a drink till you find it in hell. Let’s go, Saul!”
Epstein bent to the push-bar of his cart. Stretching his legs in a long, swinging stride.
Hurley set the pace.
A pistol whacked.
Hurley swung along as though he had heard neither report nor the zip of the wild bullet, but Epstein, looking back, saw that Garlock was grappling to disarm Ballard.
When this was done, Garlock raised his voice. “You win, Hurley! He lost his head for a second. Come back, and take over.”
Hurley turned, grinning. “Bring me all the hand guns.” And once they were back at the wagon, he said, “Saul, they didn’t even look to see if I was a-bluffing. Show ’em!”
The tank and barrel were dry.
By the time Hurley reached the promised spring, his passengers had learned a few things about thirst.
Toward the end of the day’s drive up the ravine, they came to another spring, small but sweet. On the cliffs were marked figures that looked like a schoolboy’s attempt at drawing men and animals. Epstein studied these and turned and eyed Hurley. Since they stood well apart from the others, he risked a single word: “Indians.”
Hurley nodded. Both scanned the cliffs and the bare suggestion of trail which snaked along toward the rim-rock.
Hurley announced, without any mention of Indian sign, “We’re shoving on as long as we can see. Drink up, and we’ll make for the open. We have no time to lose.” Ballard was becoming more and more uneasy, which was odd, since he had not noticed the drawings on the cliff. He had been too busy squinting at the upper slopes of the mountains. Epstein baited him by getting his binoculars and saying, “Here, have a good look.”
Ballard snatched at the glasses. He muttered something about the kinds of ore indicated by the bands of green which streaked the slopes.
* * * *
Well out on the mesa. Hurley pulled up to make camp. He said, “Just to be sociable, everybody gets his shooting iron. Whoever craves to drive back is welcome. Saul and I can hoof it from here to Panamint. We’ve answered the question whether wagons can get through with freight. Saul—get out some of that whiskey Lucky sent with us—we’ll have a drink to good fellowship.”
Before dusk closed in, Epstein picked a spot, somewhat apart from camp, close enough for him to be handy, yet not in the middle of things. Issuing guns and whiskey had been a taunt and he feared Hurley was pushing his luck too far.
After supper, Hurley and Epstein decided to stand watch, each taking a four hour trick.
“Saul, which’ll you have?”
“I’ll take the second. What do I watch out for—passengers or Indians? You’ve been rubbing it in on Ballard. If you are looking for a showdown, you will win a gun fight but lose the girl.”
“Mmm…you’re right. What do you make of Garlock?”
Epstein shrugged. “What does Emily say about him?”
“He is some kind of engineer, studying irrigation and reclaiming land for sodbusters.”
“I’m moving my cart over by those rocks, so I can watch the camp and the mules, too,” Epstein said sagely. “The way things are, I’ll need four eyes to see in all directions at once.”
* * * *
When voices awakened Epstein, the moon was spreading its glow across the mesa. He saw Emily, blanket about her shoulders, going with Hurley toward a small outcropping.
Emily was saying, “Ben, do quit trying to get my mind off the track! What more is there to what you were going to say?”
Hurley drew a deep breath. “Maybe Lucky told you the truth when he
said he was strictly on the level, staking Wiley to a case of whiskey to sell in Panamint. Maybe he didn’t aim to undermine me the way it looks he did. But look at it all—everything!
“I once heard a fellow say every man, woman, and child has an angel tagging along, watching him. Well, it’s been as if some critter with wings big enough to cast a shadow over half of creation has been riding herd on the whole pack and passel of us.”
“All of us?”
“Sure! Look back at all the freak things. Saul running into me in town, and being able to give me a lift when lacking Wiley. And you three, wandering around half loco from thirst, finding my camp which wouldn’t’ve been there at that time, excepting Lucky had staked Wiley to whiskey. That’s how it came to me, that night, to give the mules every drop of water.”
“Condemning us to this trip!”
“No! But I’m facing judgment with the rest of you. Couldn’t I’ve shot it out with him ’afore now?”
“You couldn’t force a fight with a man you’ve taken into your camp. Can’t you understand—this ring is not an engagement ring. He didn’t give it to me, it’s family jewelry. And where else’d I keep a ring but on my finger? I know you think Lucky was just too lucky, selling out of that bank when he did—but you’d’ve done the same, if you’d had a sudden opening in a good land investment. But you suspect him as though he’d made the bank crash!”
“Honey, that’s why I stick to the one thing that does show up clear—this here is a desert judgment to answer things. If I knew he’d been fixing and planning to sink me, I’d have shot it out.”
Emily, despite herself, was impressed, yet she said, “You’ve not accounted for Jubal Garlock. Your dark angel, your desert angel must’ve had some reason for putting him into this!”
He shrugged off the hollow-hearted mockery, knowing why she offered it. “Betwixt here and Panamint, that’ll be answered.”
She bounced to her feet. Then Ballard broke in on the two. Epstein knew he had to do something quickly. He moved, cat-quick, and silently.
E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Page 46
