‘Resistin’ arrest. Ten-twenty dollar fine.’
‘What were you arrestin’ him for?’
The deputy-sheriff looked confused.
‘I—er—wa-al ... I told him to move along, git outa town and he give me some sass. One thing led to another an’ I had to arrest him.’
‘Sounds pretty weak to me.’
‘Yeah,’ said Student, ‘it does at that. I can’t git a witness to swear to that.’
‘You won’t need witnesses. The Kid’ll plead guilty.’
The lawman’s face brightened.
‘That’ll help some,’ he said.
Spur walked out onto the street. Walking into the heat was like walking into a brick wall. No wonder men did violent things in a place like this. He paced the street thinking over the little he knew. It didn’t amount to much. He wondered if anybody would be fool enough to bite at his bait of knowing who the murderer was. He doubted it.
Somewhere there was the man Furbee had hit. He was mighty badly hurt or he was dead. It shouldn’t be too easy to hide out a dead man or a badly wounded man. Mort Gaines had said that the gunman had ridden out of town to the east. A man as badly hit as that went the shortest way home because he was afraid of dying. He needed help.
But could he be sure that the man had left town? Mightn’t the smartest ploy be to stay right here in town.
He’d soon find out.
He went to the livery. The old man there hobbled out and Spur told him he had come for his horse. Just going a short ride. The old man could go back to his snooze. The old man did just that.
Spur walked into the barn and there he found a very ugly Negro asleep in the hay. He stood looking down at the man and said: ‘I thought you couldn’t keep out of it, you old bastard.’
Cusie Ben grinned.
‘When did you ever make out on your lonesome?’ he demanded softly.
Spur smiled.
‘The Kid’s arrested,’ he said. ‘He’ll be let out this mornin’. You see where he goes an’ what he does. Maybe he won’t be able to let me know. Find a nice dozin’ place in town where you can see it all. Be a nice peaceful stupid ole nigger now. Don’t get proddy.’
Ben said: ‘I natcherly an innocent no-account darky.’
‘Like hell you are,’ Spur said, went to the stall where the mare stood and brought her out. He saddled and, bridled her and led her out into the yard. He stepped into the saddle, walked her to the street and turned left to go east. He could feel the eyes watching him.
He rode out into a land blasted by the sun, the little grass that there was burned off, the brush parched; the mountains sprawled titanically, pale in their distance, the giant sierra shouldering the heavens. The nearer hills slumbered darkly in the heat. The man Spur sought could be up there in the wilderness by now, alive or dead.
He rode a mile or so along the hard rutted road; the land broke slightly before him and there before him were a few sun-washed trees, below the general level of the land so that he had not seen them previously. Here was a little water, poorly seeking its way through the thirsty land. He heard the bleat of goats. To his right, off the trail was a jackal. There were chickens pecking in the dust; a pen for the goats, a smell of goats hung in the air.
At the sound of the hoofs a woman came to the door, not old, not young, more than half Indian; two or three small children clung to her wide dusty skirts, one of them naked. He greeted her in Spanish and she flashed him a smile, showing strong white teeth. Her man was with the goats, over yonder to the south. He asked her if she had seen the wounded man riding away from town. No, she had seen nothing. He couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth. He would have to ask her man. It wasn’t far to the spot where he grazed the goats. Spur thanked her and rode around the house, going through the trees, alongside the water, south.
He found the man by the sound of his music and found him under a tree playing the flute. He got to his feet at Spur’s approach, smiling and greeting him politely. When Spur put his question, he looked a little afraid. It didn’t pay his people to know of the affairs of the gringos. But he admitted it—yes, he had seen the man in the darkness. That is, he had seen a man go by all bent forward in his saddle as if he were hurt, but he had seen nothing of him but a dark shape. Spur thanked him and turned back for the road. So far so good, he had established that the man had left town and headed for the hills. But the man’s trail was lost in the sign already on the road. Spur turned back for town.
As he entered the place, he could feel the eyes watching him again. Student stood outside the sheriff’s office. He lifted a hand in greeting as Spur rode past. Cusie Ben was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk outside the Last Chance. Spur went down the street and turned into the livery. The old man showed himself, but Spur waved him back to sleep again. Inside the barn, Spur unsaddled and put the mare in her stall, gave her a rub down. Cusie Ben came in.
The Kid was free. He’d booked in at the hotel and he was now in the Last Chance drinking. Spur told him the little he knew. Now he wanted to know if anybody contacted the Kid and who it was. Maybe nobody would. Maybe he was wrong and the killings were solely the work of one man. Ben sniffed and shuffled his way back onto the street.
Spur stood thinking. He reckoned he wouldn’t see any action till dark. Killers of the kind he was dealing with worked in the dark. On the street, he asked the way to Mart Walker’s place and went there. He closely examined the interior and came to roughly the same conclusions that Will Furbee had. There had been a woman there and there had been a fight. Most likely Walker had been killed here and taken out of town. He strolled through Mex town, met the priest and talked with him. These local priests knew their people inside and out. This one was intelligent. Spur went to his house with him and drank a little cool wine. He came away with his feel of the town more sensitive.
He ate lunch at Nick the Greek’s. The customers were Anglos to a man and none of them knew anything about the killings or, if they did, they weren’t telling. Nick himself, fat and sweating, who must have been a mine of information on the town and its inhabitants, swore vehemently that he knew nothing. But his eyes were uneasy and Spur promised himself that he would have the man talking before he was through.
He walked out onto the street after the excellent meal and paced to the Lucky Strike. Here he talked with a plainly alarmed Mort Gaines and the just as frightened girls. From the Irish girl, Molly O’Keefe, he learned what Furbee had learned, that the dead girl, Lily Minden, had been a secret friend of Mart Walker. He couldn’t find out why the friendship had been secret. The only conclusion he could come to so far was that they had been secretive people.
As he walked back to the sheriff’s office he realized that he now had a pretty good picture of the town, but really he was no further forward with the solving of the mystery. And he had to solve it pretty quick or there might be another killing. He had the feeling that he might be the next on the list. He smiled grimly to himself at the thought. It was not the first time he had been in such a situation and he hoped fervently that it would not be the last. Maybe he was a damned fool to try short cuts. His reaction could slow for the wrong second and he could be dead. A man could not be fully alert every minute of the day.
He stopped, turned and looked back idly along the street. This was an example of such a lapse. He had been in the Lucky Strike and only now it had come to him that the Kid was no longer in the saloon. He should have realized that right off. The sidewalk where Cusie Ben had been sitting was deserted. The Kid was gone and Ben had followed him.
A German in a white apron outside the General Mercantile was watching him with curiosity. A dog scratched its fleas in the dust in the center of the street. A man lounged near the bank watching him from the shade under his hat brim. A curtain moved in an upstairs window. The town wasn’t missing a trick. The murderer himself might be watching him. He walked onto the sheriff’s office and found Mike Student inside doing some paperwork.
‘I ain’t doin�
� nothin’ to help, Mr. Spur.’ he said. ‘I feel kinda useless.’
‘Call me Sam,’ said Spur. ‘The time’ll come when you’ll have more action than you can handle.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Student.
‘How did the trial go?’
‘Twenty dollar fine. The Kid’s been drinkin’ at the saloon. Been there all day. I been watchin’.’
‘Is he still there?’
‘Sure.’
So the Kid hadn’t left by the front entrance.
‘Stick around this evenin’,’ Spur said. ‘Maybe I’ll have a customer for you.’
‘Sure. You expectin’ somethin’ to happen?’
‘Hope so.’
Spur left and went back to the hotel. It was an hour for dusk. It wouldn’t be long before somebody tried for him if they were going to at all. There was only one problem, would anybody risk killing a United States Marshal? The answer—only if there was enough at stake.
Thoughtful, Spur passed through the hotel lobby, saw Manuela, slapped her bottom and climbed the stairs. He washed up and changed his shirt. Clean linen was one of the things he enjoyed. Being unwashed had been an integral part of being an outlaw. Being clean was like a shot in the arm. Spruce, he went down to dinner. Manuela waited, Silena Dueby presided. She was chilly. Spur wondered about her. A girl like that must have a man, that was one of the laws of nature. Find the man. She was important. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he had a nose for these things and he trusted that nose.
The same crowd came in for dinner as he had seen before. They greeted him and came over one by one as they entered to his table to ask him how he was progressing. He talked cheerfully as if he had no doubt of the outcome of his investigations. Keeping a good public face was all a part of the business. Kerby Blaxall stayed the longest and Spur found him an engaging man. He seemed intelligent, well-read and urbane. Almost too civilized to be hacking out a career in a place like this. During the day, Spur had learned a good deal about the man. He ran the stage line and owned the Lost Chance saloon. A solid citizen, universally popular. He had put up the money to pay for the funerals of the dead girl and of Mart Walker. He was now raising subscriptions for a reward for the catching of the killer.
Spur’s questions during the day had partly to answer the question if Blaxall had ever tried to buy out Clance Damyon. He seemed the obvious man to want to run the passenger and freighting business in and out of town. But Spur had not heard a whisper to that effect.
Spur finished his dinner, sat for a while watching the others, assessing them, listening to Charles Beddoes’ booming voice. Then he strolled out and headed for the livery. It was full dark now. A few lamps burned on the street, a few stars twinkled overhead. It was a little cooler than it had been during the day, but it was still hot. He promised himself a cold beer later. Maybe he would have it at the Last Chance which as yet he had not entered.
A light burned outside the barn. He walked into the darkness of the building and called softly—‘Ben.’
Straw rustled.
‘Here.’
Ben was beside him in the darkness.
‘You learned anythin’?’
‘Not much. The Kid went into the Last Chance. He got talkin’ to a man. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous. You know. Next time I look, they both done gone. Musta gone out the rear. I cut around the back, but didn’t see no sign of ’em. I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’
‘What was this man Mike?’
‘Didn’t git to see much of him. Just his back. Big feller. Maybe all fat. Long fair hair. Brown coat. Gun on left side. That all I see.’
‘That’s somethin’. Go back to sleep now.’
Ben straightway went and settled back in the straw. Spur walked out of the livery and headed at an angle to the right across the street to the Last Chance.
The place was comparatively quiet. There were no more than a dozen men present. There was a hum of talk which stopped immediately Spur entered. He walked to the bar and ordered a beer. The barman was a tall thin man with a wart on the side of his nose. He looked like he had a grudge against life. Spur reckoned that was bad business on the part of Kerby Blaxall. A barman’s face should welcome a man like the rising sun.
Spur said to him as he paid: ‘You know the boy the deputy sheriff arrested yesterday?’ The man nodded morosely. ‘He was in here drinkin’ this afternoon?’
‘Drinkin’?’ said the man almost in despair. ‘I never saw a kid drink like it. Never saw a man drink like it for that matter.’
‘You see him talkin’ to a man?’
The man’s eyes blinked, once, hard.
‘No, sir. I never saw him talk to nobody. A solitary drinker, that’s what he was. Mighty unsociable. Drank till he couldn’t stand. I took him out back so he could sleep it off.’
‘Is he there now?’
‘Ought to be.’
‘Can we look?’
‘I reckon.’
The man led the way through an open doorway to the right of the bar, along a short passage and into a dim room. In it was a table, four chairs and a bureau. The place smelled of liquor. There was no sign of the Kid.
The barkeeper looked amazed.
‘I left him here,’ he said. ‘He didn’t come through the bar.’
‘Maybe he went out the rear,’ Spur suggested.
The man led the way down the corridor to the rear of the building and opened a door leading to a loading platform. Beyond was a vacant lot littered with the trash of such a town. Beyond were a few buildings on the next incomplete street. Spur thanked the man politely for his help and tramped along the alley that ran along the side of the saloon.
He paused in the darkness just before he reached the street, conscious that a sudden stillness seemed to have fallen on the town. True, he could hear the familiar sounds—the tinkling ill-tuned piano, the voice raised raucously in song. A horse moved restlessly at a hitching rail.
Spur thought: I have a dark alley at my hack. I’m silhouetted against the light of the street.
He could have passed an armed man back there without seeing him.
A man passed the mouth of the alleyway, going almost silently. A Chinese, maybe the ubiquitous laundryman; the familiar target of malignant jokes on the part of the Anglos.
Spur wondered where Ben was.
To his left and a little in front of him was a water barrel. Across the road was the bank with an alleyway alongside it. Spur’s sixth sense warned him—this was it. Exactly the right spot and the right conditions. Mike Student was most likely sitting in his office playing patience with dog-eared cards and praying for action. He’d most likely be too late for it.
If action was to come now, the main question was who was in the alleyway opposite? If Spur stepped around the corner into the street would he be safer or in greater danger?
Of course, his instincts could be playing hell with him. This could just be the case of nerves of a man who used a gun and could expect it every now and then.
A faint sound behind him. Short, metallic. It was repeated.
Behind him a double-barreled shotgun had been cocked.
He didn’t wait for anything more. There couldn’t be more danger out front there than there was behind him.
He flung himself down and forward.
He landed on his shoulders and the back of his head rapped against the barrel as he landed on his back. His gun was cocked in his hand.
He heard two sounds—one close at hand and one at an angle across the street.
The one near at hand was a shotgun going off.
The marksman wasn’t too close. Already the load was scattering. Shot peppered the building to his right, hit the barrel behind him and stung him in several places. Most of the charge crossed the street.
The other sound from across the street was from a rifle. Two men at least were after him. They were flattering him with plenty of attention. But they didn’t know Ben was around here someplace. Correction. H
e hoped Ben was around here someplace.
He placed the gun flash ahead of him and fired two shots quickly.
The second barrel boomed like thunder.
Spur was now in the act of rolling violently across the alley. Dust in his eyes and up his nose. Again a few of the pellets reached him and stung like hell. He hit the far wall, thumb- cocked and fired. He knew that he was now out of the line of fire of the man on the street.
Feet started to pound away down the alley.
Spur fired one shot high and yelled: ‘Hold it.’ He had one shot left If he used that on a man he couldn’t see most likely he would waste it.
A rifle slammed on the far side of the street.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. A body fell heavily.
Hastily, Spur was punching out the empties and reloading.
‘Sam?’
That was Ben.
‘Here.’
‘You all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘There’s another with a rifle on my side of the street fifty paces down.’
Spur called: ‘Keep him pinned down there.’
He finished loading his gun and ran down the alley. Twenty paces and he nearly fell over the body lying there. He ran on, climbed on the loading platform to the rear of the saloon, charged across it and barged through the door. When he reached the bar, everybody there was keeping low.
He stopped in the doorway and said to the man behind the bar: ‘Get these lights out and fast.’
The man reached out and turned the one on the bar low.
‘I can’t reach the high one,’ he said.
Spur raised his gun and shot it out. There was a tinkle of glass and a man swore, either in anger or fright. The man on the street now knew that danger could be coming from the saloon. Maybe he tried to make a break for it for Ben’s gun opened up.
Spur ran across the darkened saloon, hit the swing door with a shoulder, went through and turned sharp right. A rifle slammed from across the street and a window collapsed. Spur was running hard. The rifle tried for him again. Lead thudded into planking. Spur flung himself flat, rolled off the edge of the boardwalk and hugged dust. He wished he had a rifle with him. A belt-gun wasn’t the tool for this kind of work.
The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 5
