The Guns of Hanging Lake

by Short, Luke;

  Out in Dickey’s office, Gore picked up the bottle of whiskey from where he had set it on the floor, moved over to Dickey’s swivel chair, and sat down. After a drink he slowly added up what Dickey had revealed.

  Before Dickey became drunker than he was sick, he had identified the voice of Benjy’s uncle as Caskie’s. It was a voice a man would never forget once he had heard it—high-pitched, yet gravel-rough. So Jim Fears’ speculation that he himself had derided was true. Caskie was not buried in the tunnel; he had cut out afoot from the tunnel at Hanging Lake. When Dickey had got so drunk he couldn’t identify who was talking to him, he still accepted the existence of Caskie, which was all the proof Gore needed that Caskie was alive.

  The “big house” meant Braden’s lodge at Bar B. Everybody in the country called it that; even Braden himself had. It was empty now and Dickey knew it, because he had told Dickey the help had left. Dickey, Caskie, and Traf Kinnard and Sophie Barrick all knew that Gore was lying when he said Caskie killed Braden, only they couldn’t prove it. They would reason that if he was lying, he was covering up for Braden’s killer, and that he would be in touch with him at the Bar B.

  The field glasses Dickey had mentioned would be used by Caskie to recognize Jim Fears as Braden’s killer. It was a clever idea. It might have worked if Dickey had stayed healthy, sober, and silent.

  Gore stood up, smiling faintly at his thoughts. This wouldn’t be at all tough to handle, he decided.

  22

  In the Barrick library that same evening the post-mortem on Dickey’s betrayal of Caskie was about finished. After Traf and Maud and Sophie had listened to Schell and Caskie and questioned them, it was agreed that Tom Gore had caught Dickey’s slip and that he now knew that Benjy’s Uncle Asa was really Caskie. So Caskie was in as much danger as he had ever been. What further disclosures Dickey had made after Gore took him back to his office they could only guess at; for Dickey, sick and drunk, might even have disclosed Traf’s plan to plant Caskie in the big house with glasses, to identify Braden’s killer among Gore’s crew.

  Traf was the first to stand up, and he said, “We’ll wait a few days until Dickey comes round and we learn what he told Gore. If he told Gore nothing, we’ll make a try at the big house. Caskie can hide out at my place. Three or four nights without sleep, and Gore’s crew will stop watching.” To Benjy he said, “If Dickey’s as sick as you say he is, Benjy, you better look in on him. We have to keep him alive to arrest a man for murder.”

  Sophie said, with not so much as a look at her mother, “Bring him out here, Traf, and put him in the spare bedroom. I can watch him days and we can bring in a cot so Benjy can watch him nights.”

  Traf looked at Mrs. Barrick. “That all right with you, Maud?”

  “If you think it’s necessary,” Maud Barrick said stiffly.

  “I think it is, mother. So why don’t we hitch up the wagon and go get him right now?”

  On the evening of the fourth day after they had brought Dickey to Bucksaw, Benjy Schell rode into Traf’s K Cross with the news. That morning Dickey’s fever had broken and he was able to talk. Of his conversation with Gore, Dickey had no memory at all, not even the memory of seeing him. He didn’t remember what Gore had said to him, or what he had said to Gore.

  Benjy stayed just long enough to down a drink and hear Traf’s decision, which was to be relayed to Sophie, that he and Caskie would make their try at the big house that night.

  It was well after two o’clock in the morning when Traf and Caskie left the road just short of the big house and tied their horses in a screening oak thicket. Returning to the road, they walked along it until the big house of Bar B, completely dark, loomed before them. Traf made for the rear of the big three-storied building, trying to remember the layout of the building. He knew from past visits that somewhere in the second-story hallway was a door that opened on the stairs leading to the attic.

  The kitchen was farthest from the bunkhouse, so Traf made his way through the newly planted trees toward the back door. He hoped Dickey was right about there being no dog on the place. Mounting the steps of the back porch, with Caskie at his heels, he moved toward the door that led into the house. It was he remembered, a half-glass door.

  Halting before it, he took off his jacket. The breaking glass was sure to make some sound, but the jacket held against it would reduce the noise.

  He handed Caskie the binoculars and started to raise the jacket when suddenly it occurred to him that he should try the door knob first. He felt for the knob, it turned, and with startled surprise he felt the door swing free.

  For moments he stood motionless, wondering what this meant. Were they expected and the way had been made easy for them? But then, why should the house be locked when there were men in the bunkhouse to guard it?

  He moved into the dark kitchen, put his jacket on again and then felt along the wall until he came to the dining-room door. There was a big table here, flanked by several chairs, he remembered.

  “Get hold of my jacket,” he said to Caskie.

  When he felt the tug on the tail of his jacket, he opened the door and went into the dining room. There was no light, but he felt his way around the chairs and hauled up in the equally dark living room. The stairs were to the right, as he recalled, and now he moved slowly, feeling for the chairs and skirting them.

  The stairs were easy, but when he reached the upstairs hall, he halted again. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ve got to look around.”

  He went down the hall, found a door, opened it, and took a step through the doorway. His boot toe banged hollowly on a board. Raising his foot, he found the first step, and the second. Then backing out, he went back to Caskie, who again took hold of the tail of his jacket.

  He was on the fifth step when he halted so abruptly that Caskie bumped into him, forcing him to take the next step. What had stopped him was the unmistakable smell of tobacco smoke merged with the musty smell of the attic. Either someone was there, or someone had been there recently. He turned his head to ask if Caskie had smelled it and saw over his shoulder that now there was a dim light in the corridor below them.

  Traf knew then that they had walked into an ambush. He wheeled and said quickly to Caskie, “Get your back against the wall and come down.”

  Traf drew his gun and moved down the steps to halt in the doorway. Poking his head around the corner, he saw a lighted lantern on the corridor carpet at the head of the main stairs. He lifted his gun and shot at the lantern, breaking the glass and wiping out the flame. Then he ducked through the doorway just as a shot came from the attic. He could hear the bullet whomp in the corridor wall.

  Now he reached around the corner and felt for Caskie, who was flat against the stairwell’s wall. As he pulled Caskie around the corner, two more shots came from the attic. He could feel Caskie flinch, and then the old man was beside him.

  “They’ll be waiting for us on the stairs,” Traf said. “Hold onto me.”

  When Caskie grabbed his jacket, Traf moved in the darkness in the direction of the stairs. As he passed them, he saw that the lamps were lighted below. Quickly, he went past the stairwell and down the corridor. There were, he remembered, back stairs at the end of the hall. Looking back past Caskie now, he saw a light coming through the door to the attic stairs.

  Shifting his gun to his left hand, he put his right hand out and felt the wall, and then in long strides moved swiftly down the long corridor. It was then that a dim light showed from behind them, giving just enough light for him to see the end of the corridor and the closed door in the wall.

  These back stairs would be watched, too, he knew. But he and Caskie would have the advantage of coming out of darkness. Yanking open the door to the back stairs, he looked down their length, saw that the door to the kitchen was open and showed a rectangle of the kitchen lighted by lantern light.

  There was a handrail along the wall here, and Traf shifted his gun and started down the uncarpeted steps. He went with reckless speed, relyi
ng on the handrail, and between him and Caskie they raised a clatter on the steps that couldn’t help but be heard.

  When they reached the bottom step, Traf glanced back up the stairs and saw an oblong of light that was growing in intensity.

  Turning his head back toward the lighted kitchen, he could see the rectangle of light, but could not see the lantern.

  Taking off his hat, he knelt and thrust its brim just past the door frame. A shot boomed out in the kitchen, and Traf stepped into the room with his gun cocked. A man Traf had never seen before was posted by the dining-room door and his gun was lifted for cocking, but Traf’s gun was already rising, and he shot. His bullet drove into the man with such force that he squeezed the trigger of his gun in reflex action and sent a bullet into the ceiling before he pitched on his side. His gun clattered across the floor out of his reach. They could hear shots from the second floor booming down the back stairway. Someone in the living room was calling.

  Traf, Caskie close behind him, was moving toward the kitchen door. He said to Caskie, “Take a look at that face. He the man?”

  “No.”

  Traf opened the door, let Caskie pass him, then shot out the lantern on the floor by the fallen man. They were in blessed darkness now as they left the porch and moved out into the night, away from the house. When Traf thought it safe to stop, he hauled up and looked back. There were lights in the windows of both the first and second floors.

  “Well, we can thank Dickey for that,” Traf said grimly.

  “I can thank him for something else too,” Caskie said. “I took a bullet through the hand.”

  “Bad?”

  “Well, I won’t be blowin’ my nose with it for a while.”

  “Hold it out.”

  On the walk away from the house, Caskie had taken off his neckerchief and was holding it in his fist to staunch the flow of blood. Now, by feel, Traf folded the bandana into a crude, tight bandage, and then knotted the ends of the cloth. Caskie flinched as the knot was tightened, but he made no sound. The truth was, Caskie’s hand was smashed.

  When Traf let go of his hand, Caskie said, “How’d you know they was up there?”

  “Smelled tobacco smoke,” Traf said. He could not keep the discouragement out of his voice or out of his thoughts. Gore not only knew Caskie was alive, but he would be hunting him. Their most immediate need now, Traf knew, was to find their horses and get some attention for Caskie’s hand. That meant they would have to head for Kean’s Ferry and the doctor there.

  Once they had found their horses and mounted, Traf told Caskie of his plans.

  “But won’t Gore think of the doctor at Kean’s Ferry? I must’ve left some blood on that hall carpet,” Caskie said.

  “We’ll worry about that later,” Traf said.

  It was full daylight by the time they came in sight of Kean’s Ferry. Smoke from the breakfast fires cast a blue haze over the small settlement. In the daylight Traf could judge the seriousness of Caskie’s wound by his appearance. His face was ashen, and Traf knew that he must be in considerable pain.

  They dismounted at the hotel, where Traf took off his jacket and held it out to Caskie. “Cover your hand, old-timer. I’ll sign for us both.”

  Inside the hotel, the night clerk was sweeping out the lobby. While Caskie sat on the sofa, his hand covered by the jacket, Traf signed the register. Then they went to their big room. Afterward, he bought a bottle of whiskey at the just opened saloon and brought it back to Caskie.

  Back again in the street, Traf saw that the town was stirring. He mounted and, leading Caskie’s horse, headed for the doctor’s house where he had delivered Dickey days ago. It was only a block off the main street.

  The door of the small adobe and log house was opened by young Doctor Prince himself, a small man in his early thirties. He was coatless, and he held an open book in one hand. Beyond him Traf could see the kitchen table and the breakfast he had interrupted.

  “You were with that deputy, weren’t you?” Doctor Prince said.

  “That’s right. I’ve got another man for you to look at.”

  The doctor saw the horses and said, “Bring ’im in.”

  “No, Doc. We’re at the hotel, room eight. I’ll leave you his horse.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Traf told him as best he could, and finished by saying, “I don’t want to be seen with you, Doc, so I’ll go along.”

  “The law want him?”

  “No, they’re not even looking for him.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” the doctor said.

  Returning to the hotel, Traf ordered two breakfasts and told the waitress to bring them to room eight … and he wanted some hot water right now. The girl brought a bottle of hot water to him from the kitchen, and he thanked her.

  Back in their room, Traf found Caskie seated in an armchair, the uncorked bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. The whiskey had brought color back into his face, but it hadn’t dulled the pain, Traf knew.

  He was on his way to the washbasin when a knock came at the door. It was Doctor Prince, a coat thrown over his collarless shirt. Traf introduced Caskie only as Asa. The young doctor opened his bag, drew out a pair of scissors, and carefully cut the bloody bandana away from Caskie’s hand. He asked for water, but Traf had anticipated him and had the washbasin and water ready.

  The palm and fingers of the hand had been mangled by the shot, and now Doctor Prince got to work. After washing away all the blood he could, he began stitching and splinting and bandaging. By the time he had finished, Caskie’s bandaged hand was a big as a man’s head, and Caskie’s eyes glittered with pain and with the whiskey the doctor had ordered him to drink.

  When another knock came on the door again, Traf answered it and took the big metal breakfast tray from the waitress. He was careful to block her view of the room.

  Doctor Prince accepted a cup of coffee and sat on the bed watching Caskie poke at the food listlessly with his left hand. Traf wolfed his breakfast down in silence, and after pouring himself a glassful of coffee in a water tumbler he sat down in a straight chair by the dresser, and said, “What’s the word, Doc?”

  “I’d like to have him at my place where I can watch him.”

  Traf shook his head. “That’s the first place they’d look.”

  “Who?”

  “The men that shot at him, and they’d shoot at him again.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t travel, and he ought to be looked after. Where does that leave us?”

  “Why not right here? By tonight I can have a nurse for him. You could drop by a couple of times a day and have a look at him.”

  “Who would I be fooling? This is a pretty small town.”

  “If anybody asks, tell them you got an old man with a stroke in here. If you move him you’ll kill him.”

  Caskie said dryly, “The way I feel now that just might be true.”

  Doctor Prince finished his coffee, moved over to put the cup on the breakfast tray, and then turned to Traf. “I don’t know what this is all about and you don’t want to tell me, but I’ll play along with it anyway.” To Caskie he said, “I’m leavin’ some laudanum. Take a spoonful of it and see if it puts you to sleep. I’ll be by late in the afternoon.”

  Traf showed the doctor out, then closed the door and moved over to the straight chair, swung it around so it faced Caskie, and then sat down.

  “What nurse?” Caskie asked.

  “Sophie.”

  “How will you get her here?”

  “Night freight.”

  “She couldn’t do any more than you could.”

  “I won’t be here, old-timer,” Traf said quietly. At Caskie’s look of surprise, Traf leaned over, elbows on knees and said, “You’re fair game for another try at a bushwhack. That means you have to hide, and you can’t travel. I can’t take you to them and have you point out the man, as we tried to do last night, so I’m going to bring the man to you.”

  “How will you find him, and ho
w will you know it’s him … and how will you bring him here?”

  “It’s certain he’s connected with Gore. When I find out what Gore’s up to, he’ll be on hand.”

  Caskie said in a weary tone of voice, “Ain’t likely a single man could pull that off, Traf.”

  “I’ll have Benjy.”

  “How do you get him?”

  “When I leave you, I’ll telegraph him. The message will go like this: HAVE JOB FOR HANGING LAKE NURSE. WILL YOU ESCORT HER HERE ON NIGHT FREIGHT TONIGHT. That ought to drive Len Stapp crazy.”

  Traf was waiting at the switch yards north of the depot when the night freight coasted to a stop. A brakeman, lantern in hand, handed Sophie down, and Benjy followed. As they walked with Traf through the yards toward the bridge and the hotel across the river, he told of the ambush at the big house, and of what followed.

  Sophie was already registered as Essie Barrett and Caskie as Andy Barrett, and she was his niece come to nurse him through his stroke. Her room was across from Caskie’s. If Gore showed up hunting Caskie she was to stay completely out of it, and in her room. Caskie had a gun and could defend himself. Doctor Prince would call twice a day as long as Traf and Benjy were gone, Traf said.

  “How long will that be?”

  “Maybe a couple of days, maybe a week. Just take care of the old coot.”

  “While you do what?”

  “Ride.”

  They were at the hotel now, where the two horses with blanket rolls were tied at the near tie-rail. Traf put Sophie’s valise in the entry-way. Then in the natural way of two years ago, Traf took Sophie in his arms and kissed her. Benjy watched this, hating Traf, and Traf thought, Be damned to you, Benjy. She was and is mine.

  The two men watched her go inside, then turned to their horses.

  As they headed south for Bar B range in the darkness that was just beginning to turn to gray, Traf explained his plan of action. Since Gore had fired the original crew and brought in his own, it could only mean that a big rustling operation was under way. There were ranches on both sides of the Cheat and to the east of it, and any big movement of cattle would be noticed and reported. Bar B’s range, however, extended to the Gabriels, and there no big movement of cattle would be observed. It was where the cattle went from the Gabriels that it was important to learn. Foothill country, while the roughest to travel, would be the easiest to keep out of sight in, and the rustled cattle would have to travel through it.