Coroner Creek
Page 19
“Who did it, Mac?” Younger asked quietly.
“I don’t know. There’s time to worry about that when you’ve saved what you can.”
Miles grunted, looking at him. “You suppose Dan hasn’t paid for the horses? You suppose our deposit on the wagons hasn’t been paid by Sholtz, and the contract signed? You suppose that feed isn’t bought and the first of it on its way? The harness bought? The crews signed up by Brush, the lumber bought, the deal closed on the blacksmith shop? The—Oh hell!”
Mac put down the letter and looked at Younger.
“Who did it, Mac?”
MacElvey shook his head. “The Sulinam letterhead is right. I’ve seen that. The names are right. The talk is right. The—”
“I’ve lost a fortune,” Younger interrupted quietly. “You know that, Mac? I paid cash for everything, to stretch my money. I mortgaged Rainbow.”
Mac nodded, and he and Younger stared at each other, and again Younger said, “Who did it?”
Mac shrugged, came up to him and said quietly, “Get a grip on yourself, Younger. Every minute we lose before we get telegrams off to Dan and Sholtz and the wagon outfit might be costing us money. Is everybody chasing Danning?”
Younger said absently, “Arch is at the livery.”
“I’m going to send him over to Moorehouse, then. Is that all right?”
Again Younger nodded absently, and Mac left the office. The store was almost empty, for the supper hour was here, and only two clerks remained. Mac went down the steps and ducked under the hitch post and crossed the street to the livery in the rain. Just inside the door, Arch was sitting on a feed bin, talking with the hostler beside him.
Mac went up and said to him, “Got a gun with you, Arch?”
Arch nodded, and Mac put out his hand. “Younger wants it.”
“What’s the matter with his?” Arch asked, reaching for the six-gun holstered at his hip.
“Something happened to the hammer,” Mac said quietly. “I don’t know anything about guns.”
Arch handed him his six-gun, which Mac took awkwardly by the barrel and started back across the street with it. His attention was attracted by someone standing by the outside door of the livery office in the rain, and when he glanced over, he saw it was Kate Hardison, and he halted.
“Have they got him, Mac?” Kate asked slowly.
“No,” Mac said, and then he added in a kindly voice. “Get out of the rain, Kate.”
She turned wordlessly and went back in the direction of the hotel. Mac, out of sight of Arch now, opened his vest and rammed the gun in his belt and buttoned his vest again. By that time he was inside the store; he shook the rain from his coat and went on through to the office.
The closest building to Chris on Briggs’ place as he came on it now was a high corral and he dismissed this instantly. It would have to be the shack, some solid thing that would give him protection in the lowering dusk while he took the precious time to reload.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Ernie had gained only a slight distance. It was too far for effective use of his shotgun, and Ernie, Chris knew, was risking everything on that. Ernie understood and knew, too, the stakes of the race, and he was riding low, urging the last burst of speed from his horse.
Chris already had the shells from his belt in his hand, and now as he rounded the tangle of corrals and headed for the house, he put them in his mouth. Della’s chestnut tripped and stumbled, almost foundered and recovered just past the door of Briggs’ sagging shack. Chris swung a leg over the saddle and, as he reached the far corner of the shack, he leaped clear. He slipped and fell in the mud and came to his knees, and ran for the corner of the shack. He held the six-gun, loading gate open, wedged in the hollow of his right arm, and patiently, slowly, tried to fumble in a cartridge, and then he heard Ernie’s horse at a run. Chris’ tracks in the mud were eloquent; Ernie would know where to look for him, and he was on him even now. A dismal gray taste of death was in Chris now. He rose and ran for the back of the shack, at last slipping in the single cartridge.
He heard Ernie’s horse pound past the corner of the shack, and he saw Ernie leap from the saddle, gun in hand, just as he put the corner between them. Chris stopped then. He had the single load in. Awkwardly, desperately, he tried with his left hand to spin the cylinder, so that the cartridge would be under the hammer, and then he heard Ernie’s pounding step and looked up.
Ernie rounded the corner at a run and hauled up, not eight feet away. He shot once from the hip, even before he halted, and Chris cringed away, waiting for the shot to take him. Nothing happened, except the sting of powder on his cheek. And now the cartridge was in place, and Chris cocked the gun and looked up as Ernie, his face savage and baleful, shot again.
And again came the powder sting and nothing more, and Chris, realizing he was unhit, took two solid steps toward Ernie and lifted his gun. Some wild instinct of survival moved Ernie to raise his gun as a club, and then Chris shot. The slug caught. Ernie in the chest and he sat down abruptly and went flat on his back. He raised one knee and sighed, and his leg straightened out in the mud.
Chris stood there a still moment, shaking, humble with fear, before the slow realization came that the others, whom Ernie had widely outdistanced, were after him too. He stood in his tracks in the rain and loaded his gun, and then ran for Ernie’s horse, which had stopped as soon as Ernie had left the saddle.
He mounted and put the horse at a reluctant trot past the shed, and was again out on the flats. Through the lowering dusk he saw the first of the riders a quarter mile on the other side of Briggs’ dark shack. He rode steadily for a while, and when it was too dark to see any distance, he swung in a wide half circle toward the west. The others had lost him, or had been sobered by the finding of Ernie. Presently he made the full circle, and headed back toward Triumph, knowing that at last it was here. And oddly now, he thought of what lay beyond, and what Kate said to him last night: “You’ll have to get it over with and see, Chris.” He knew now that he wanted to live beyond what would happen next; he wanted to come out of it alive, and a year ago he hadn’t cared.
He came into Triumph from the west, and turned in the alley alongside the Hotel and dismounted in the rear of the livery. It was dark in the runway, and, framed against the lights from Miles’ store across the street, Chris saw the hostler talking with another man. He was almost up to them when they heard him and turned. The tall man came off the grain chest, making a gesture for his gun, and then his hand ceased moving as Chris lifted his gun.
“You Rainbow?” Chris asked.
“Yes,” Arch muttered.
Chris came up to him and saw that his holster was empty, and he said, “He in the store?”
Arch nodded, and Chris waved him toward the street with his gun.
The sound of a horse being ridden hard down the street came to them then, and Chris put an arm out and halted Arch. They watched a rider, coming from the direction of the flats, pull up in front of Miles’ store, dismount hurriedly, and go inside.
He’s bringing the news of Ernie, Chris thought.
The sound of someone upstreet running on the boardwalk came to him. And then he saw the figure cutting across the muddy street from the hotel in the direction of Miles’ store. In that dim light, he made out Kate Hardison, small in a bulky slicker; and as she ran up the stairs and entered the store, his gray spirit lifted. She cares enough to wonder what news he brought. She was watching, he thought; and still he waited.
In a moment the rider came out of the store, hurried down the steps and turned in the direction of Melaven’s saloon, and Chris supposed he was after help. Rainbow, most likely, would have their horses stalled out of the rain here at the livery. It was time to move.
“Go in the store,” he said to Arch and the hostler, and together they walked, across the street, mounted the steps and entered the store. It was deserted, save for a woman customer at the rear. The office door was closed, and Chris halted Arch and the hostle
r midway down the aisle and turned and listened. He picked up the sound of men running for the livery, and a minute later the first horse hit the planks of the runway at a run. In seconds the sound of the riders in the muddy street had died, and now Chris motioned Arch ahead and sent the hostler out.
As they approached the office door, Chris heard the voice of Miles from behind the partition, and it was cold with wrath.
“I’ll hunt him down if it takes my crew a year. I’ll hire another crew to hunt him down after that. Meddle somewhere else! Get out!”
Kate’s voice was barely audible. “He’s worth a hundred of that trash you’ve got hunting him.”
“Get out, Kate.”
“I make you a promise, Younger,” Kate said. “If they get him, I’ll kill you.”
Younger laughed, and now Chris looked at Arch and motioned with his head toward the front door. Meekly, Arch turned and tramped back, and Chris watched him until he was out.
He heard Younger say now, “You like that drifter, don’t you, Kate?” but the time was here for him. He tucked his gun under his right arm, softly turned the doorknob with his left, and when the door was ajar, he took his gun and gently shoved the door open with his foot and stepped in.
Kate and MacElvey were standing, their backs to him, and Younger was facing him. Younger was talking, his tone jeering, and now his voice trailed off and he closed his mouth. His face smoothed slowly, became slowly blank. Kate, seeing it, whirled, and Chris said gently, “Go out, Kate.”
She fled past him, and he did not even look at Mac, only said, watching Miles, “Mac, I’m going to kill him. I don’t think you’ll stop me.”
“Wait,” Mac said.
“No,” Chris said, still looking at Miles. “Before I kill you, Miles, I’m going to tell you why.” He paused, isolating this. “There was a girl on that stage that Tana trapped in Karnes Canyon along with Captain Jordan’s pay chest. They killed her. She was on her way to me, because we were going to be married.”
Miles face showed he was not even going to protest his innocence.
And then Mac’s voice cut in, “Her name was Bess Thornley, Miles, and she was my sister.”
Chris didn’t take his glance from Miles as he heard this. He saw the fleeting amazement and terror come into Miles’ face now, and he glanced swiftly at Mac and saw the gun in his hand, held down at his side.
Mac said, “I faked that letter from Coe, Miles. I’d worked a year to break you, and I did. I want you to know you’re broke before you die.”
He raised his gun slowly, and Younger backed into the safe. Then he wheeled and vaulted for the window. Mac shot then. Younger had one leg on the window sill, and the force of Mac’s first shot drove him into the window, and it broke. Then he sagged to his knees, both hands clutching the window sill, and Mac shot him four times in the back, coldly and carefully.
Chris watched Miles fall to the floor between the desk and the safe, and wedge there grotesquely, knees to chin. Chris discovered his gun was still leveled, and he let it fall to his side, and when Mac, his face fiercely exultant, turned to him, Chris said, “You’re Perry, then, and you have known who I was.”
“Yes. Since I heard your name. I wanted to hurt him all I could before you killed him.”
They both looked at Miles then, and Chris walked over to Mac’s chair and sat down wearily. He leaned his elbows on his knees and rubbed his closed eyes with the rough palm of his hand; he was thinking, I’m rid of you now, Bess. At last I’m rid of you.
Mac said to, him now, “So you got to Tana, too?”
“No. He was dead. I talked to one of the others.” He looked briefly at Miles again, and said, “How did you find him?”
“He had to do something with his money,” Mac said. “I tried a lot of things until I thought of the stockmen’s journals. I went to the back issues and found mention of the sale, of the Finch holdings to him. I changed my name, in case he ever discovered Bess had a brother.”
Chris nodded and rose wearily. This was ended, and he knew suddenly the question neither he nor Kate could answer yesterday was ready to be answered now. He smiled slowly and put his hand on Mac’s arm and pressed it, and went out into the store. A group of customers and clerks just outside the door parted for him, and he was shouldering through them when Mac called, “Chris.” Chris stopped, and Mac said, “I want to be tried for this, but I’d like your permission to see Mrs. Miles before you take me to O’Hea.”
“All right,” Chris said. He went out and stepped down into the rain and cut straight across the deep mud toward the hotel. And then he saw the figure at the corner of the hotel, standing in the slow rain, watching him. It was Kate.
He came up to her then, and she said quietly, “He’s dead, Chris?”
Chris nodded his head in slow affirmation. “He’s dead, and I didn’t kill him, Kate, and it’s over. She’s gone, she’s buried, and I’m done with it. I’m—” He paused, realizing she did not know what he was talking about.
“You don’t have to tell me, Chris.”
“I want to,” Chris said. “I want to tell you more, Kate. I want to—” Again he stopped, reaching for the words, and she looked up at him, her face grave and waiting.
He touched her face gently with his hand and said, “Blessed Kate,” knowing that she could wait for the other words.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Luke Short is the pen name of Frederick Dilley Glidden (1908–1975), the bestselling, award-winning author of over fifty classic western novels and hundreds of short stories. Renowned for their action-packed story lines, multidimensional characters, and vibrant dialogue, Glidden’s novels sold over thirty million copies. Ten of his novels, including Blood on the Moon, Coroner Creek, and Ramrod, were adapted for the screen. Glidden was the winner of a special Western Heritage Trustees Award and the Levi Strauss Golden Saddleman Award from the Western Writers of America.
Born in Kewanee, Illinois, Glidden graduated in 1930 from the University of Missouri where he studied journalism. After working for several newspapers, he became a trapper in Canada and, later, an archaeologist’s assistant in New Mexico. His first story, “Six-Gun Lawyer,” was published in Cowboy Stories magazine in 1935 under the name F. D. Glidden. At the suggestion of his publisher, he used the pseudonym Luke Short, not realizing it was the name of a real gunman and gambler who was a friend of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. In addition to his prolific writing career, Glidden worked for the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. He moved to Aspen, Colorado, in 1946, and became an active member of the Aspen Town Council, where he initiated the zoning laws that helped preserve the town.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1945 by The Curtis Publishing Company
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3979-6
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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