Bullets in the Sun
Page 16
Chapter Twenty-One
The first to burst in the door of Porky Snyder’s room was the hotel clerk. He stopped short, aghast, his mouth gaping and his eyes bulging. He looked at the man in the bed foolishly and pointed a shaking finger at the prone figure on the floor with the broken chair scattered grotesquely about.
“What . . . what . . . ?”
“Shut up an’ drag it out of here,” Porky instructed crisply. “Get it out! He’s dead, don’t worry about that.” He smiled faintly. “An’ send for Dan Farlin quick as you can get him,” he added sharply.
“But . . . you shot him?” the man gasped out.
“No. I bit him,” Porky replied sarcastically. “Get that thing out of here, do you hear?” He half started up in bed in a rage as others crowded into the room, but fell back with a groan. His wound was hurting him badly. He had wrenched it in bending over to get the envelope and message that had fluttered to the floor when Big Tom had leaned forward to his death.
The spectators stared, wide-eyed, stupefied, at the figure on the floor and were awed into silence by the pale, withered man in the bed who still held the big, black gun in his hand against the white counterpane.
Then the clerk ran out the door; there was a scurrying of feet; men running down the stairs, confusion everywhere, and within a minute the news was being cried out by many voices in the street below.
“Porky Snyder has killed Big Tom Lester!”
The shriveled gunman, groaning with the pain in his side, fainted.
When he opened his eyes, Dan Farlin and Ed Lawson were just entering the room. Lawson merely glanced at the body on the floor, but Farlin made a swift examination to be sure that Lester was dead.
“Right through the heart,” he muttered as he rose.
“I always had a hunch,” Lawson ruminated thoughtfully, “that this would happen someday. Shot him from bed, too.” He continued to stare at the killer with an anomalous expression in his cruel eyes as if he were trying to read Porky’s thoughts.
“How’d it happen?” Farlin asked briskly to cover up his own confusion and perplexity. He was taken back at the suddenness and completeness of it all. He was one who realized that death is always final.
“He came up here in a huff,” Porky explained quietly. “Sore because Miss Gladys brought me a present an’ started bawlin’ me out. His words had hair on ’em an’ I shaved ’em clean. He made a motion for his gun. He oughta known better, that’s all.”
“Gladys here!” said Farlin, passing a hand over his eyes. “What was the present?”
Porky pointed to the jar of jelly on the stand.
Lawson laughed suddenly, harshly, uproariously.
“Went to the devil over a glass of jam,” he managed to get out.
Farlin looked incredulous. For once he didn’t know what to do or say. It was all so weird and grotesque, and seemingly unnecessary, that it bordered on the ludicrous. But there was no getting away from the fact that Big Tom Lester lay at his feet dead.
“You better go over an’ take charge of the place,” Porky advised. “You’re the one to do it. An’ that’s why I sent for you.”
At this point the doctor came into the room.
“Come on, Dan,” said Lawson. “Porky’s got that much sense anyway.”
Porky wasn’t interested in what the doctor had to say, or conscious, apparently, of the excitement that went on about him as they carried out Lester’s body. The wound in his side was causing him great pain. He hesitated to tell the doctor about it because he didn’t want to be uncovered for an examination. He wanted first to read the contents of the message Gladys Farlin had entrusted to him to be sent to its destination and then destroy it. After what had happened, he knew Sheriff Mills would come to Sunrise as fast as possible. And Bond had instructed him to forward any message to him to the sheriff through the night man at the livery.
When he was finally left temporarily alone, he managed to read the lines Gladys had penciled and found the communication was merely concerned with the fact that Lawson had returned to town and that her father was acting queerly.
“No need to send that for the sheriff will be here quick enough,” muttered Porky. “An’ if he knows where Bond is, why Bond will know as soon as he does. Chances are they’ll both be here by daybreak.”
He tore up the envelope, which was inscribed merely to Bond, since the latter had told him and no one else where to send it, and then tore up the message. How to dispose of them was the next problem and that was easily solved. Porky had tobacco, papers, and matches. He lighted a match and ignited the paper, watched it burn on the ashtray on the stand at the head of his bed. Then he blew the ashes from the tray and lay back, groaning in pain, but content. He felt no remorse whatsoever for having done for Lester. Lawson had said he had always had a hunch this thing would come to pass someday, and Porky now was cognizant of the fact that he had always had the same hunch. He had done Lester’s dirty work and had been treated like a rat in return. It was his own fault, perhaps, but was it all his fault? He thought not and dismissed the matter from his mind. But why had Porky gone in with Bond? For money? He decided to the contrary. Because he hated Lawson for refusing to take him into his band of outlaws? No, again. Dan Farlin had always treated him squarely and he always had admired the splendid man of chance. He had always secretly admired Gladys. Her songs had brought the only bits of joy that had brightened his life. He had thrown in with Bond because he hadn’t wanted Dan Farlin to go all wrong. Satisfied with this he dropped off into troubled sleep.
* * * * *
The Red Arrow was in an uproar. Gaming devices and tables were deserted and the throng was crowding the bar and gathering in excited groups, talking, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, wondering what was to happen next, stunned by the sudden passing of the big boss and speculating as to the outcome. After all, to most of these men, and hundreds of others, the Red Arrow was Sunrise. The bartenders were attending to their duties with six-shooters on either side of the cash boxes. The safe was locked—Farlin had seen to that. For the time being the notorious resort was without a head. But not for long.
Dan Farlin came in, cool, his face a bit more stern than usual. He was followed by Ed Lawson, who looked alertly about with a scowl. The outlaw took his place at the lower end of the bar, but Farlin went around behind it to a central position and held up a hand. The crowd was instantly silenced, straining its ears and eyes.
“Boys, Big Tom is dead,” Farlin announced in a clear voice that carried distinctly to every ear. “Porky Snyder shot him a short while ago up at the hotel. You all know Porky was hurt and in bed with the doc looking after him. Tonight he was delirious when Big Tom went up to see him. Porky never was without his gun, you know that. He had it in bed with him. We don’t know how it happened, but all we can make out is that Porky shot and killed Big Tom without knowing what he was doing. Maybe he didn’t know it was Big Tom he was shooting. But it’s done, and . . .” He paused, looking grimly at the sea of faces before him. “Business will go on as usual, for the present. I’m taking charge of the place.”
He nodded convincingly to the crowd, looked sharply at the bartenders who nodded back.
“That’s all,” Farlin concluded. “But don’t start anything!”
One long look at the gambler’s stern features, another at the fearsome frown of Lawson, standing ready to back up the speaker, and the crowd knew the Red Arrow had a new boss.
A short cheer went up as Farlin and Lawson disappeared into the little office that had been Lester’s. Then the scores of voices buzzed again, the bartenders grew active, the wheels whirred, dice rattled, dealers called for players at the poker tables, the piano sounded, and a sweet voice floated out over the throng. Gladys Farlin back!
The cheering this time was lusty and long.
When Gladys returned to her dressing room, she met her father, his face a veritable thundercloud.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded hoarsely.
Dan Farlin struggled with his voice. “I’ll calm the crowd,” he declared huskily. “And if I’m not enough, Ed Lawson and others are here to help me. This is a bad time for you to be out there singing, sweetie. Please, please”—he was genuinely pleading—“go back home. Your being here bothers me and if I was to lose my nerve . . .” He let her draw her own inference.
Gladys’s cheeks paled. “Is it as bad as that, Daddy?” she suddenly asked in a whisper.
“It’s liable to be as bad as that . . . and maybe worse,” was the grim answer. “I’ve got to keep things even here. I’ve started and I’m going through. You didn’t know it, but I was practically a . . . a silent partner in this place. Now, will you go?”
“If you promise me there’s no danger . . .” She stopped, helpless.
“There’s no danger,” said Dan Farlin in a strong voice.
“Then I’ll go,” she said, kissing him impulsively and turning away.
Farlin went back to the private office.
Lawson was sitting at Lester’s desk when he entered. He looked at Lawson twice because he didn’t like the expression in the outlaw’s eyes. He saw, too, that Lawson had been rummaging in the drawers of Lester’s desk. He didn’t like this, either, and rolled a cigarette to regain his composure. He knew what was in the outlaw’s mind as well as if the latter had shouted it to him when he entered.
“She goin’ home?” asked Lawson, exhaling cigar smoke.
“Gladys, you mean?” Farlin’s brows tilted at the other’s easy familiarity. “Yes, she’s leaving. This is no time for her here.”
Lawson leaned forward. “But it’s a great time for us, Dan,” he said in a significant tone with a side glance at the safe.
“I know what you mean”—Farlin nodded—“but it isn’t in the picture. It would be like suicide.”
“Yeah?” sneered the outlaw. “You goin’ to leave this place untapped? Why, it’s just the same as if it fell into our lap. Lester left plenty in that safe, an’ there’s money at the bar an’ on the tables.”
“Sure,” Farlin agreed. “But there isn’t as much as you think. Lester’s been afraid right along that you’d raid this place and he has his planted. What’s here is working capital. I’ve seen him have to go out for more, and more than once. Where he’s got it, I don’t know. You can have it if you can find it, but you can lay your last white marker that he didn’t have what he’s got outside the banks hidden where anybody is going to find it easily.”
“There’s enough around here to bother with,” said Lawson confidently.
Farlin turned on him angrily. “Are you a fool?” he demanded. “You’ve got to blow that safe to get what’s in it and you’ve got to work the rest in person. The marks and wagging tongues would be left. And what we’d get here wouldn’t be a two-cent stamp to what the haul will be in the Point.”
Lawson’s eyes had narrowed.
“You needn’t get so huffy about it. I hate to pass it up, that’s all. Somebody’s goin’ to get it, that’s a cinch.” He was growing angry.
Farlin sat down close to him. “Let ’em get it,” he said. “But they won’t get it while I’m here and you’re not going to be here, for it’s your play to beat it. Don’t you know that Mills will be here as quick as he hears about this? Don’t you suppose the word’s on the way to him right now? Say, you don’t know the smug busybodies that live here the year around like I do. The sheriff will be here pronto. If the place were gutted, he’d blame you first off. What’s to stop me from telling him that you beat it because you were afraid he’d think you had something to do with the business? Don’t you think I know him and know how to talk to him? You don’t want any hand in this in any way, shape, or manner.”
Lawson was considering this thoughtfully.
“May be something in what you’ve got to say,” he conceded.
“And I’m not through talking,” said Farlin. “This is the biggest kind of a break of luck for us, but not in the way you think. Listen. This’ll bring Mills here, probably with a couple of his bright-eyed deputies. All right. He’ll be out of Rocky Point, won’t he? There’ll be no sheriff at the Point. And while he’s out of the Point, we’ll take the bank down there. Why, man, it’s made to order.”
Lawson’s eyes took on a gleam.
“By thunder, you’re right!” he ejaculated. “You’ve got the brains, Dan. That’s why I let you in on the play at the Point. Lester’s killin’ was the first stroke of luck, an’ now, with you here to protect the play an’ steer Mills off the track, well . . . it’s the second stroke of luck. We’re goin’ to team up well.” He thought a minute. “How you goin’ to dodge out of here to get to the Point an’ when?” he asked with a trace of suspicion in his voice.
You leave that to me,” was Farlin’s answer. “When can you have your outfit over at Crazy?”
“Tomorrow night, of course,” replied Lawson quickly.
“All right, I’ll be in Rocky Point by ten o’clock tomorrow night,” said Farlin. “I know the lay of the land and every step to make . . . just when and how to make it. I’ll do the work here and you can do the work over there. But don’t try to cross me, Ed. I’m in this thing and I’m going through with it. But if you try to cross me . . . even if you kill me . . . I’ve provided for that, Ed, and don’t kid yourself into thinking I haven’t.”
“Cut out the crossin’ talk.” Lawson scowled. He didn’t like what Farlin had said. The man was clever. Maybe he was too clever. He wasn’t particularly afraid of the man’s snaky draw and sure shooting. But he had to confess that he was afraid of his brain. “What’s my next move, then?” he asked in a surly tone.
“Go get your men and get over there,” Farlin snapped out. “And don’t let anybody know you’re leaving town.”
“Jake with me,” said the outlaw, rising. “We’ll take a snort at the bar an’ I’ll call out that I’ll be back later.”
Neither of them would have been as much at ease if they had known that Red Cole and Jim Bond were meeting that very minute at the edge of town.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was purely by chance that Lawson’s chief lieutenant, Red Cole, and Jim Bond met just at the edge of the trees outside the limit of the town, behind the livery. They came upon each other suddenly, so suddenly, in fact, that each whipped out his gun. Bond had come from the east, and Cole had come from the west. There was a curve here and each was trying to get to the livery without being seen in the street. As they rounded the curve, they nearly clashed. But they recognized each other quickly in the moonlight.
“’Lo, Cole,” drawled Bond, bringing his horse to a standstill. “You’re in a day or two early, aren’t you?”
“Reckon I came in for the same reason you did,” Cole retorted. “I didn’t think Porky had it in him.”
“Neither did I,” Bond answered quickly. He didn’t know what the other was talking about, but from the nature of Cole’s remark he instantly surmised that Porky Snyder had done something, and, by the other’s tone, that something had been keen work. “How bad is it?” he asked, taking the chance that his query might bring information.
“Lester’s dead,” said Cole bluntly. “So the man I got the news from said, an’ you know Porky was a tolerably fair shot. Never thought he’d have spunk enough to do it, although Big Tom’s had it comin’ to him for a long time. I half expected it.”
“So did I,” said Bond, his mind working fast. “How’d it happen?”
“Dunno,” Cole confessed. “Goin’ to make any difference with your game?” He tried to put the question offhandedly.
“Might help it,” said Bond mysteriously. “But we better not stay here talking. Somebody might hear or see us. Slide along in and I’ll follow. I’ll see you later.”
“Good idea,” Cole agreed. “So long.” He rode into the trees.
Bond didn’t go to the barn. Instead, he tied his horse in the trees at the edge of town near where the trail led east from the main street. He hadn’t received Gladys Farlin’s letter, or message, of course, but he knew one thing—what had evidently happened would most certainly speed the plans of Farlin and Lawson, unless . . . There was the rub. If Lester really were dead, Farlin might take over the resort. And this was one thing Bond didn’t want him to do. He didn’t want him to do anything that might interfere with Bond’s desire to win Gladys. He decided that, if Lester were dead, Farlin certainly wouldn’t be home. Would Gladys be home? Would it be safe to try to see her? He thought a long time and decided it was worth the chance.
* * * * *
When Red Cole reached the livery, he lost no time in learning what he could about the shooting of Lester by Porky Snyder. As he listened to the excited barn man, he began to turn on his toes with a show of nervousness. His eyes narrowed and his teeth closed over his upper lip.
“Sounds fishy to me,” he commented. “Something’s behind it.”
“That’s what everybody else thinks,” said the barn man.
“Shut up!” exclaimed Cole as he passed the man some money. “An’ don’t tell anybody you was talkin’ to me. Lawson’s still in town, eh?”
“Sure,” was the answer. “But his hoss is ready.”
Cole stopped short on his way to the front entrance. Lester dead and Lawson leaving so soon? Cole’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ready to beat it, eh?” he said sharply.
“Looks that way,” was the noncommittal answer.
“Get out of sight,” Cole ordered quickly. Then he himself stepped out of the light of the lantern hanging over the wide door. He was cursing softly.
Ed Lawson was walking briskly toward the barn from the hotel. He was carrying a saddlebag and Cole couldn’t remember if the chief had taken a saddlebag to town from the camp a few miles out or not. In any event, it didn’t look too good, considering the conclusion Cole had reached.