Pat’s gaze remained concentrated on the speeding mail rider, and every sense was alert. It wasn’t taking long for Sam to dash across that dangerous half mile of broken country. If something didn’t happen soon—
The crouching figure of Sam Sloan disappeared into another arroyo almost half a mile away. As he went out of sight Pat heard the sound he’d waited for and dreaded, yet hoped he’d hear. The sharp spang of a rifle.
Pat didn’t breathe until horse and rider showed again on the other side. Sam was slewed sideways in the saddle and his six-gun was barking back at a point to his left and rear.
Two other horses surged out of the dry wash a little west from the road. The twilight was thick enough to show orange flame lancing from their guns leveled at the Express rider.
One of the pursuing riders rode into the steady sights of Pat’s rifle. He pressed the trigger gently and the rider went headlong into the dust.
The other was checking his plunging horse, turning to see from whence this new danger had come.
Pat had time for careful aim, and even in the murky half-light of dusk his bullet went where it was aimed.
The second rider faltered in the saddle, slumped forward and fought to regain his balance, then fell heavily to the ground. His horse trotted on away from him, and the man half arose as though to follow, and then dropped to the ground again.
The drumming of galloping hooves grew fainter. Sam Sloan was a barely discernible moving speck in the gathering dusk. True to the traditions of the Pony Express, he had not slackened speed one instant. No matter how curious he might be, he carried the mail northward and nothing must be allowed to slow it up.
Pat got to his feet and trotted down the slope to his mare. He vaulted into the saddle and sent her back to the road, then northward.
She snorted nervously and shied away when they came to a figure crumpled in the dust of the road, the first of the dry-gulchers to cross Pat’s rifle sights.
He steadied the mare and dismounted. Made a quick examination and found the man was quite dead. He rolled him over and nodded somberly when he recognized the dark, sneering features of a man known in Dutch Springs only as Mex Joe, a half-breed with a surly disposition and ready gun-hand who lived mostly by hunting and trapping and was suspected of many minor crimes.
Pat left Mex Joe lying in the road where he had fallen. He caught the reins of his mare and led her forward until he came on the second of the dry-gulchers.
Ben Larkin was nursing a shattered right shoulder and cursing loudly when Pat reached him. He was a burly black-mustached man who owned a small poverty-ridden spread a little east of Dutch Springs. He greeted the sheriff with a snarl of hatred when Pat said soberly, “What you doin’ sittin’ here in the road, Ben?”
“Yo’re smart, huh?” roared the wounded man. “Layin’ back there an’ shootin’ a man from behind. By Gawd, if I c’ud git holt of a gun I’d let you have it right now.”
“You’ve done plenty of shootin’ for one night,” Pat told him. “Why don’t you stand up?”
“Twisted my laig when I fell,” Larkin muttered. “Cain’t put my weight on it. You got me wrong,” he whined. “I didn’t mean no harm. Wuz jest funnin’ when Mex Joe an’ me thought we’d skeer Sammy with the mail.”
“Who put you up to it?” Pat demanded shortly.
“Nobody. Honest to Gawd, Pat—”
Pat said, “Shut up. Only reason I didn’t kill you was to leave you so you could talk. An’ you’re goin’ to talk, Ben Larkin. Don’t make no mistake about that.” He turned and strode away to his mare, mounted and spurred her after Larkin’s roan saddle horse.
He overtook the frightened animal a quarter of a mile down the road, dropped a noose over his head and led him back to Ben Larkin.
When Larkin began to whine for pity again, Pat slapped him savagely and told him to save his strength for a long time in jail. He hoisted the wounded man up into the roan’s saddle, used a lariat and some half hitches to secure him so he wouldn’t fall off, and set out at a gallop for Dutch Springs with the roan on a lead rope behind him.
16
It was dark when Pat rode into Dutch Springs by a back street. He circled behind the bank and stopped in front of Doc Montgomery’s house.
The doctor was eating supper when Pat knocked on the door. He was a paunchy, fat-cheeked man, and he invited the sheriff in to have supper with him when he saw who was at the door.
“Thanks, Doc.” Pat shook his head. “Sorry to disturb you,” he went an apologetically, “but I got a hunk of shot-up meat I wish you’d look at before I lock it up in jail.”
Doctor Montgomery said, “I heard you were out after the bank robbers. Wait till I put on a coat.” Pat waited while the doctor put on a coat and got a lantern. “Caught them, did you?” asked the doctor as he came out the door.
“Not exactly,” Pat confessed. “Sort of, though.”
The doctor gave him a benignly incurious glance. “Funny thing about that bank robbery. When they counted the money this morning there was exactly seven thousand four hundred and eighty-three dollars missing. All the rest of it right there.” He cleared his throat and added apologetically, “Some folks are trying to make something out of the fact that your friends, Sam Sloan and Ezra, had exactly seven thousand four hundred and eighty-five dollars on deposit.”
Pat said disgustedly, “Ezra never was much good at countin’ money. I’m s’prised he came that close.”
He stopped beside the horse carrying the wounded man. “Here it is, Doc.”
“Ben Larkin?” Doctor Montgomery muttered without undue surprise, holding the lantern up to survey the would-be dry-gulcher. “I knew you needed money for whisky, Ben, but I didn’t know you’d hold up a bank to get it.”
Larkin responded with an oath, and Pat explained, “He didn’t do nothing that brave. It’s more Ben’s style to hide out by the side of a road an’ shoot a man ridin’ by. I’ve been tellin’ Ben,” he went on casually as the doctor stood on tiptoe to look at Larkin’s wound, “that it’s a mighty bad business interferin’ with the United States mail. I reckon I’ll have to turn him over to the U. S. Marshal, won’t I?”
“I understand that’s the law,” Doc Montgomery told him absently. “This shoulder isn’t too bad, Pat. Why don’t you lock him up and let me finish supper? I’ll come over to the jail and dress it.”
“All right. Got to keep him alive for the Government so’s they can string him up for botherin’ with the mail.”
“By all means,” the doctor concurred heartily. “As a matter of fact, Pat, you and I would both be liable to arrest if we let him die through our negligence before the Government gets hold of him. That is, if he’s been stealing mail.”
“He tried to,” Pat growled. “Same thing, I reckon. Took a pot-shot at the Pony Express tonight.”
“I keep tellin’ you I wasn’t tryin’ to steal the mail,” Ben Larkin burst out. He wasn’t very bright, and had listened to their comment with growing apprehension.
“You can tell that to the U. S. Marshal,” Pat said curtly. “Thanks, Doc, for lookin’ him over.” He led his mare and Larkin’s roan toward the jail.
The jail door was standing open. Pat struck a match and stepped inside, saw that Jeth Purdue’s body had been taken away and only a smear of blood remained on the dirt floor.
He went out and untied Larkin, let him slide off to the ground, then dragged him inside the cell.
“I’m leavin’ you here to think it over,” he announced. “If you want to get out of bein’ turned over to the U. S. Marshal an’ maybe gettin’ strung up for tryin’ to steal the mail, you’d better tell the truth about why you tried to dry-gulch Sam Sloan. That’ll be a jail sentence, but it ain’t a hangin’ offense.”
He went out and padlocked the door, strode away to leave Ben Larkin alone inside the cell with his thoughts.
There were twice as many saddle horses and vehicles on Main Street as Pat could recall ever seeing on a Saturday nig
ht. Pat stopped and stared down the street in astonishment when he turned into the block from the jail. He wondered what the hell had drawn all these people into town on a week-night. His face cleared suddenly and he nodded to himself. Of course. It was the inauguration of the Pony Express route through Dutch Springs that had been the magnet.
He remembered, now, that there had been plans for a public celebration of sorts. A picnic in the afternoon, with a torchlight parade and speechmaking to follow later in the evening. He’d plumb forgot about all that in the worry that had followed last night’s trouble.
Right now, between the picnic and the speechmaking, a certain amount of drinking was going on. All the saloons were crowded, with horses thickest in front of the Gold Eagle and the Jewel Hotel.
Pat sauntered up to the Gold Eagle and pushed the swinging doors open. He stopped just inside the door and grinned widely when he saw John Boyd teetering back and forth as he tried to stand erect on a table in the rear. John was a near neighbor of Pat’s, a steady-going industrious rancher except on occasions like this when he was likely to get too much.
Right now, John Boyd was pretty drunk, and he was hell-bent on making a speech to the crowded saloon.
He was saying, “Lishen now. I wanna hear three cheers for Sham Sloan. Three loud ones. Hesh the boy that carried the mail. Lesh give him three cheers.”
He lifted his arm and waved it, and men laughed and responded with shouts and cheers.
Then Pat saw Sam Sloan. He had Harold Morgan drawn to one side and was arguing fiercely with the deputy Pat had left in charge of the sheriff’s office. His dark face was tight with anger and he was talking loudly to Morgan who kept smiling and trying to back away from him.
John Boyd fell off the table as the cheering died down, and laughing men caught him and helped him to the bar. Pat began threading his way through the hilarious throng, unnoticed as he went toward Sam and Harold Morgan.
But other men were beginning to notice the scene, and were crowding in on the two to hear what the argument was about.
When he got a little closer, Pat heard Sam saying savagely, “You got to do it, Morgan. I’m tellin’ you. It cain’t wait till Pat gets here.”
“Go on and have another drink,” Morgan insisted good-naturedly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Why, you’re the hero of Dutch Springs tonight, Sam. I can’t arrest you.”
“You got to.” There was almost a sob in Sam’s voice. “I tell you I got to be arrested ’fore Pat gets here.”
“I’m already here,” Pat announced loudly.
Men looked around in surprise and moved aside to make way for him to reach Sam and Morgan. There were knowing grins on the faces of most of the men, who thought Sam was drunk and didn’t know what he was saying.
Sam’s jaw dropped when he saw Pat. He shook his head mournfully and said, “I wisht you’d stayed away, Pat. When you wasn’t here when I hit town with the mail I thought maybe you’d got some sense in yore haid an’ decided to stay out of town.”
“Whew!” Harold Morgan breathed a sigh of relief and mopped sweat from his face. “I’m sure glad to see you, Pat. I reckon I’m undeputized, huh?”
“Not yet.” Pat stepped past Sam and asked Morgan in a low voice, “What’s the matter with him?”
“Says I got to arrest him.” Morgan lowered his voice too. “I’ve been having the dangedest time trying to keep him shut up. You told me I wasn’t to let on to anybody about how he was tied up with the Jewel Hotel killing. But damn it, he’s wanting to tell everybody.”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut till I fixed things.” Pat swung on Sam angrily.
“That’s why I ain’t gonna keep it shut,” Sam defied him. “I’ve made my ride with the mail. That’s all I wanted. Now I’m gonna tell the truth.”
Men were edging close to listen again. Pat glanced around at them, and then demanded swiftly of Sam, “What you goin’ to tell the truth about? That you had to fight off a couple of dry-gulchers on your way in with the mail?”
Sam scowled with amazement. “How’d you know about that?”
“What’d you think happened to ’em?” Pat asked sarcastically.
“Danged if I knew. That’s why I didn’t tell nobody. Thought mebby I’d gone to sleep an’ dreamed it. Fust there was two of ’em shootin’ at me—then they weren’t there.”
Pat said, “I happened to see it an’ I picked ’em off with my rifle.” He turned to the gaping crowd with a laugh. “Sam wanted to be locked up because he thought he’d done gone crazy an’ was seein’ things. Couple of coyotes tried to hold up the mail while he was bringin’ it in, an’ he never slowed up to see what happened to ’em.” Pat turned back to Sam with another laugh. “An’ I bet you haven’t been up to the Jewel to let Kitty make over you for that ride,” he bantered. He put his arm about the smaller man’s shoulders and drew him toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “You come along too, Morgan. You’re still deputized.”
Sam weakly tried to argue, but Pat pushed him along, got him outside the crowded saloon. As soon as the swinging doors closed behind the three, Pat said angrily, “You doggone near spoiled everything in there. Why can’t you keep your big mouth shut?”
Sam said, “I ain’t gonna let you do it, Pat.”
“You’re comin’ up to the Jewel with me.” Pat took him by the arm and pulled him along. Over Sam’s head, he asked Morgan, “Has any of that stuff leaked out around town?”
“Nary a bit.” Morgan shook his head. “Don’t many people know a dude from Denver was killed last night. Those that do, think he killed himself. Far as I know, neither Kitty nor Deems have peeped a word about Sam. I reckon they’d be just as glad to keep it quiet.”
“That’s what I thought,” Pat said grimly. “Nothin’ new on Jeth, huh?”
“Not a dang thing, Pat. We missed our chance when we didn’t keep those footprints outside the window from being messed up. People tramped all over them before I remembered how city detectives sometimes measure people’s feet and find a pair that fit the prints.”
“We should of thought of that last night,” Pat agreed. “But I don’t reckon it matters too much.” He steered Sam in through the doorway leading into the lobby of the Jewel Hotel. The door into the adjoining saloon was open, and a lot of noise was coming from the overcrowded room.
He let go of Sam’s arm and said earnestly, “Promise me one thing. Keep your mouth shut while I do some talkin’. If I can’t get things fixed so everybody’ll be happy, you can go ahead an’ confess the murder of Fred Ralston all over town. But I’m still sheriff an’ I’m runnin’ this show. Don’t you worry about me,” he went on hastily when Sam opened his mouth to protest. “Harold Morgan knows all about everything. I’m not tryin’ to do anything crooked. He’ll be settin’ in on it an’ we’ll let him be the judge of what’s right. Is that fair enough?”
“I reckon so.” Sam had to acquiesce because of Morgan’s high reputation for probity. “But I’d rather—”
“You ain’t got your ruthers this time,” Pat snapped. “Just keep your mouth plumb shut.”
He turned to the clerk who had been listening with open mouth and goggle eyes. “Where’re Miss Kitty an’ Joe Deems?”
“In the saloon, I reckon. Most everybody in town’s in there.”
Pat strode inside the crowded saloon and looked around. He saw Joe Deems’ saturnine face behind the bar, and beckoned to him. Joe came out, taking off a white apron. “I’m mighty busy passing out drinks,” he grumbled. “Can’t it wait?”
“This can’t. It’s waited too long. Where can we find Kitty?” “Back end of the room.”
Pat said, “Bring her into the lobby,” and strode away before the hotel proprietor could argue with him further.
Sam Sloan was slumped back against the counter when Pat reappeared in the doorway. He regarded Pat glumly, and stiffened when he saw Joe Deems come through the doorway with Kitty on his arm.
Kitty lowered her head
and avoided Sam’s dark gaze. She had on more rouge than last night and her eyes held a defiant gleam when she looked at Pat.
He said, “I reckon you both know Sam. We’re goin’ upstairs.”
Kitty started to speak, then went on past Pat silently but with heightened color. Sam drew back to let her pass, and nodded evenly to Deems. He muttered, “Hello, Joe,” and tugged his Stetson lower on his forehead.
“What are we going upstairs for?” Deems demanded of Pat. “I don’t see that anything can be gained—”
“I think we’ll settle this whole thing pretty fast. We’ll all go up to number fifteen.”
Pat waited for Joe and Kitty to precede them, then nodded to Morgan and Sam, and they went up together.
Deems and Kitty stopped outside the door of number 15. When the others came up to them, Deems explained, “Kitty moved out of this room last night. Except for that everything is just like it was when Ralston was murdered.”
Pat said, “I reckoned she wouldn’t want to keep on sleepin’ in here. Not many women would.” He stepped inside and struck a match, lit the lamp on the bureau.
“All of you come in,” he invited the group waiting nervously on the threshold. “We ain’t got any body, but there’s some blood to show right where he was lying.”
Kitty entered hesitantly. She held her head high and walked straight across the room like a sleepwalker. Sam followed her in. His dark face was grim and dejected, and he began angrily, “Damn it, Pat. Ain’t none of this gonna do no good.”
Pat said, “I think it will.” He sounded very cheery as his gaze searched the ceiling and the front wall of the room.
When Deems and Morgan were inside, Pat explained to them, “There’s two or three things I ain’t got quite straight on this. Those chairs are still right where they were.” He indicated the chairs on each side of the low table that had held the tray and whisky bottle the preceding night.
“That where you an’ Kitty were sittin’ when the man walked in on you?” he asked Sam.
Sheriff on the Spot Page 13
