Sheriff on the Spot

by Brett Halliday

  He carried it back into the living room and pulled the short rifle from its leather sheath, was examining the loading mechanism carefully when Sally re-entered the room.

  She stopped in the doorway, and her eyes filled with fright when she saw what her husband was doing. She hesitated a moment, then came forward with a forced smile on her lips. “What is it, Pat? I thought you’d be done with night-riding when you turned your sheriff’s badge over to Jeth Purdue.”

  Satisfied that the carbine was in perfect condition, Pat restored it to the leather boot. He said, “I’ve still got my badge.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled it out, let his eyes brood down on it. It seemed to him that it didn’t shine as brightly as it had earlier in the evening, as though the insensate metal itself had somehow become tarnished by what he had done that night.

  Sally’s eyes dilated when she saw the badge. She asked sharply, “Why didn’t you give it to Mr. Purdue as you planned?”

  Pat said, “Jeth Purdue is dead.” He slowly slid the badge back in his pocket.

  “Dead?” Sally reached out to catch hold of his arm. “Tell me, Pat. Something dreadful has happened.”

  “Pretty bad.” He nodded. “Wait’ll you bring the coffee an’ cookies in, Sally. Then I’ll tell you all about it when we’re settled.”

  As she turned to go back into the kitchen, he raised his voice to add, “An’ you might be gettin’ a little chuck together, old lady. A piece of sow-belly an’ some beans. Coffee an’ flour an’ sugar. Enough to last a few days, maybe.”

  She said, “All right, Pat,” and her voice did not falter though she was amazed to find she could speak past the burning lump that was choking her.

  Pat sat down at a small table in front of the fireplace and pulled up the right leg of his pants above the top of his boot. He reached inside and drew out the knife that had murdered Fred Ralston, laid it on the table and unrolled it from its towel wrapping. The firelight glinted evilly on the red stains of a dead man’s blood on the sharp blade. He stared at the knife for a moment, then pushed it back, leaving it in plain sight on top of the towel.

  Sally came hurrying in with a platter of sugar cookies. As she placed them in front of Pat, she gave a horrified exclamation. “Why that’s Sam’s hunting knife. All covered with blood.”

  Pat said, “That’s part of what I’ve got to tell you, Sally.” He picked up a warm sugar cooky and bit into it.

  Sally went slowly back to the kitchen without asking any questions. Pat thoughtfully munched the cooky and licked the crumbs from his fingers, then turned to stare into the firelight while he rolled a cigarette.

  He could hear Sally moving around briskly in the kitchen, getting together the few necessities he would need for a few days’ pack-trip.

  She came in presently and set a partially filled gunny sack down near the front door. She said composedly, “There are all the things you’ll need,” and went back to the kitchen.

  When she returned next time she brought two cups and a big iron coffee pot with her. The pot was steaming, and exuding the invigorating odor of strong coffee. She filled two cups and set the pot on the hearth near the coals to keep warm, then sat down opposite Pat and said, “You’d better tell me all about it.”

  “It all started when a dude got off the evening stage from Denver.” Pat took a sip of hot coffee, then went on with a straightforward and completely truthful account of the events of the evening, omitting none of the facts, offering no excuses for his own conduct, laying the entire affair in front of his wife for her own clear judgment.

  Sally listened to him without comment. She sat very still for a full minute after he finished. Then she said softly, “Poor Sam—and Ezra.”

  “I’ve got to go after them, Sally.”

  “To arrest Sam for killing a man—when you can see it was a put-up job?”

  “Not that so much, Sally. There’s the money they stole from the bank.”

  “Are you sure it was Ezra you saw? It was dark in the bank,” she reminded him. “Mightn’t you be mistaken?”

  “No. It was Ezra. The crazy galoot!” Pat went on angrily. “What’d he do that for? Stealin’ money that me an’ all the rest of the folks in the Valley have trusted in the bank! He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “He was bewildered and frightened, Pat. You know how Ezra is. He was dead-set on getting Sam out of danger. And I suppose their money was in the bank, too. He didn’t want to go off and leave that.”

  “I’ve got to get it back,” Pat told her heavily. “I just the same as helped ’em steal it when I shot over Ezra’s head to warn him so he could get away. An’ then I sent the posse scootin’ off on the wrong road. But I don’t see what else I could do, Sally. I couldn’t let ’em get caught robbin’ the bank. Not with that dead man back there too. I had to help ’em get away—an’ now I’ve got to go get that money back.”

  “Do you think they killed Jeth Purdue also?”

  “I don’t know,” Pat confessed. “I don’t know what I think. They might’ve. You know how that red-headed Ezra is when he gets riled up. What do you make of it, Sally?” he appealed to her. “What do you reckon Ralston had planned with Kitty an’ Purdue when he came to town? That’s what I don’t understand.”

  “At least you know it was some scheme to get Sam and Ezra’s money from them,” she told him with spirit. “Whatever it was, Sam must have seen through it. He and Ralston got in a fight and Sam killed him.”

  “That’s not the way Kitty told it.”

  “Kitty?” Sally laughed scornfully and tossed her bright head. “That woman! Do you think the truth could be in a woman like her?”

  “You don’t know her, Sally.”

  “I know her kind. Singing and dancing in the saloons with men!”

  “I don’t know. I’d like you should meet her. Damn if I didn’t feel sorry for her.”

  “You men are all alike. Just because a woman is pretty and goes around half-dressed.”

  “If it was like you think,” Pat argued, “if they were trying to get Sam’s money an’ he killed Ralston for that—why did Ezra get him out of town so fast, and rob the bank to boot? Why didn’t they just stay an’ tell the truth? No jury would blame Sam for killin’ a man that way.”

  Sally wrinkled her smooth forehead and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Except that you know Ezra isn’t terribly bright. If Sam did pass out like Kitty said—that must be it, Pat. Don’t you see? Ezra wasn’t in there. He doesn’t know what happened. Only what Kitty told him. And she made it look bad for Sam—told Ezra her husband had come in and caught them together and Sam had murdered him in cold blood. Not knowing anything about what the fight was really about, Ezra believed her.”

  “Yeh,” Pat agreed thoughtfully, “that might be it, all right. But, what about Jeth? Shootin’ him that way through the jail window looks mighty bad.”

  “I don’t know but I’ll bet there’s some explanation,” Sally said stoutly. “You’ll find out when you talk with them.”

  “I hope so.” Pat finished his cup of coffee and cleared his throat. “You know—if there ain’t some good explanation like that—I won’t be ridin’ back this way, honey.”

  “You won’t—be riding back home?” she choked out.

  “How can I, honey? I’m not goin’ to bring ’em back if it means a hangin’. You know I can’t do that. Not to Sam and Ezra.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I guess not.”

  “You know not, Sally. I can’t judge my friends. If it means them takin’ the owl-hoot trail—well, I reckon it means the same for me.”

  “But why, Pat? Why couldn’t you come back?”

  “Because I’d never be able to look any man in Powder Valley in the face again,” he told her sternly. “You can see that, Sally. I’m sheriff. If I let a murderer go because he’s my friend, I’m just as guilty as him.”

  “But what about the bank money? You said you’d get it back.”

  “An
d I will. I’ll find a way to send it back if things turn out wrong. I’m sorry, honey.” Pat’s voice wasn’t very steady. “But that’s the way it looks to me.”

  Sally got up and poured more coffee. Her eyes shone softly in the firelight. “Before I ever married you,” she reminded him, “I chose to go with you when it looked like you were turning against the law. Things haven’t changed any since then—except that I guess I love you a lot more.”

  Pat choked over a sip of hot coffee. “You mean—”

  “I mean that I’ll join you wherever you go,” she told him steadily. “You have to do what you think is right. I want you to. But, oh! Isn’t all this dreadful, Pat? And Sam was going to begin his new job tomorrow, wasn’t he? Riding the Pony Express mail route.”

  “Yeh. Sam was lookin’ forward to that like a kid at Christmas time.” Pat turned the coffee cup round and round in his hands and kept his eyes lowered. “There’s one other thing I ain’t told you yet. I got a sort of clue, I reckon you might call it.”

  “A clue? What kind?”

  Pat reached in his jacket pocket and awkwardly drew out the upper length of white lisle stocking. He blushed as he dropped it on the table in front of his wife. “See what you make of it.”

  “Why it’s a stocking. Part of one. It’s beautiful.” Sally’s fingers caressed the soft sheer material. “Where did you get this, Pat?”

  “In Miss Kitty’s room.”

  “Oh! It’s hers. But why is part of it cut off?”

  “That’s what I wondered,” Pat mumbled. “Thought maybe you’d know why a woman’d cut the foot off a pretty stocking like that.”

  Sally’s fingers continued to caress the material. “I never had a nice one like this. If I did have, I certainly wouldn’t cut them up. They cost an awful lot, Pat. I’ve seen them in mail-order catalogs.”

  “The mate to this’n is in her drawer,” Pat told her, his face reddening again. “The bottom drawer of her bureau,” he added hastily as if that was important. “It ain’t hurt a bit.”

  Sally shook her head and looked mystified. “I don’t see what kind of a clue it is.”

  “I don’t either. Not yet.” Pat got up and picked up his rifle. He tried to be casual as he said, “Well, old lady, I guess I better be moseyin’ along. When Dock wakes up in the mornin’ tell him that I’m out huntin’ bank robbers. No need for him to know the truth—yet.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Sally promised in a steady voice. She got up and took her husband’s arm, walked to the door with him. “You taking a pack-horse?”

  “Yeh. Curly’s getting him packed.” Pat stooped and picked up the gunny sack of food Sally had fixed for him to take along. “I’ll let you know—soon’s I can,” he promised.

  Sally stood on tiptoe and put her soft rounded arms about his neck. She smiled into his eyes and pressed her lips against his. “Fix a place for me, Pat, if you don’t come back.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  He said, “I will, honey.” His arm tightened about her briefly, then he turned and strode away down to the corral.

  Sally leaned against the door frame and watched his tall figure disappear in the misty moonlight. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks now. She didn’t care. Once more she had triumphed, sending Pat out into danger with a smile and a kiss—holding back the tears until he could no longer see her.

  10

  The big roan gelding had an eager, springy stride; and he tossed his head and snorted impatiently as Pat held him to a trot along the creek trail leading eastward from the ranch. The bay mare, laden with a pack-saddle, trotted along docilely at the end of a short lead rope. Like Pat, she was a veteran of many long rides and she had long ago learned to conserve her strength at the beginning to have a reserve left at the end.

  At the right of the creek-bed, low foothills rose upward toward the jagged peaks of a mountain range beyond. Knowing the entire country as he knew the palm of his hand, Pat planned to cut sharply south through those foothills on an old abandoned ranch road that swung westward along the base of the higher mountains until it struck the main road south from Powder Valley near a point where the main road began to climb through one of the few passes leading over the mountains.

  He didn’t hope to reach that pass before Sam and Ezra, if it was their objective, but he could learn from a rancher near the foot of the pass whether the fugitives had passed that way, and would then know how to plan the chase.

  If they did strike due south over the high mountain pass, it would be a difficult matter to overhaul them. Pat knew they would be well mounted, and they were two of the best horsemen in Colorado. That’s why Pat had taken time to ride home and pick up a fresh horse and a lead animal. If the ride developed into a long chase, this would give him a terrific advantage over the two fleeing men with only one mount apiece. Tired horses have to be rested and fed, and hard-riding men have to eat. With his camping equipment and his extra mount, Pat was positive he could overtake his friends within a couple of days if they headed down into New Mexico.

  On the other hand, they were likely to realize their handicap in a straightaway ride, and turn off the main road before they reached the pass. In that event, Pat knew pretty well where to look for them, for the trio had ridden all that mountainous country together in years past, and Pat was familiar with every trail known to the other two.

  What they did depended largely on whether they expected Pat to take out after them or not. Without Pat on their trail, he knew they’d feel fairly safe in turning westward off the main road and making their way at a leisurely pace toward another little-known pass far to the west and thence on to the Border. There were isolated range cabins scattered along that route where they could safely hole up for days at a time, and devious back trails where they were unlikely to meet any riders.

  What would Sam and Ezra expect him to do? That was a problem that caused Pat to knit his brows fretfully as he rode on at a brisk pace through the night. He tried to put himself in their place. The way that farewell note had been worded, it didn’t sound as though Ezra thought he would try to follow them.

  But they knew him well enough, Pat reasoned, to realize he’d feel duty-bound to ride on the trail of money stolen from the bank. Again, he realized that they didn’t know Ezra had been recognized as the bank robber. He was certain Ezra did not know it was Pat who fired those warning shots over his head in the bank doorway. So they probably felt safe enough on that score. They knew Pat wouldn’t bring them back for a hanging, no matter what they had done.

  It was all pretty much mixed up, and Pat gave up trying to untangle it after a time. When he reached the foot of the pass, he’d know which course they had chosen. Until that time, any speculation was utterly useless.

  The monotonous thudding of hooves and the even motion of the roan lulled Pat’s thoughts into a sort of drowsy lethargy after a time. He gladly welcomed the surcease from active thought. He’d done too damn much thinking without getting anywhere already: There were too many things he didn’t know about the whole set-up. He wasn’t used to dealing with men like Ralston and Deems. He couldn’t figure them out. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what they had in mind when Fred Ralston came on from Denver. He tried to recall exactly what Ralston had said, thinking he was talking to Jeth Purdue, but his best recollection didn’t make any real sense.

  There’d been some sort of plan to get hold of Sam and Ezra’s money, but that’s all the sense Pat could make out of it. It was quite evident that the plan had miscarried somehow, and Ralston’s death had resulted. He still couldn’t see for the life of him why Jeth Purdue had been killed. Ezra might have committed the act in a sudden fit of rage. There was a ruthless streak in the big one-eyed man that showed up sometimes when he became very angry. His reactions were almost childlike when it came to matters of right and wrong.

  If Ezra honestly felt that Jeth Purdue needed to be killed, he’d be capable of doing the job just as he would calmly put a bullet in the head of a crazed coyote—or
a beloved horse who’d broken his leg and had to be put out of pain.

  It might not be right according to civilized standards, but Pat had always had a lot of difficulty making Sam and Ezra believe in civilized standards. He’d never been able to make them see that it was best to bring a criminal to trial for his acts. In their forthright way, they believed that the best way to dispose of a guilty man was to shoot him at the first opportunity; an efficient method of keeping order, but a little bit old-fashioned even for Powder Valley.

  In this way, Pat’s thoughts went around in ceaseless circles as though they were inside a vacuum while he dozed in the saddle.

  The roan had gotten rid of his coltish ideas after a few miles on the old ranch road, and had settled down to a steady and seemingly tireless lope which put distance behind him at an amazing rate.

  When Pat finally shook himself out of his drowsiness and sat up in the saddle to look around, he was surprised and pleased to see that dawn was already beginning to break over the rough foothill country through which he rode.

  There was a faint red glow in the cloudless eastern sky, and near-by objects were beginning to emerge from the enveloping dark that had come when the moon disappeared behind the high peaks on the western horizon.

  Pat stared around him thoughtfully for a time, trying to place his exact position on the old road. His direction, now, was a little south of west, which meant that he was veering around the base of the southern mountains and was only a few miles from meeting the main southern highway which Sam and Ezra had taken out of Dutch Springs.

  Daylight came on with amazing speed in the high country after the night-blackness reluctantly gave way to dawn. The red blush spread swiftly over the sky, deepening to violent crimson near the horizon and sending out lances of yellow as the sun moved up to the very rim of the world.

  Then there was a blazing ball of fire, and the tall feathery tops of pine trees caught the flame of a new day. His horses tossed their heads approvingly and moved a little faster as the smell of water came to them, and Pat quickly decided to stop for a brief breakfast when they reached the small stream ahead.