Fight for Powder Valley!

by Brett Halliday

  “Don’t play innocent. We know all about you … all about that fight you had with him this morning.”

  “But I’ve been up in my room … asleep.”

  The big man laughed. “Anybody to swear to that?”

  Pat’s wits were beginning to work again. Something had happened to Biloff and he was suspected. He said, “The clerk knows when I went up to bed. And the bell-boy just woke me.”

  The men looked at each other and laughed as they reached the sidewalk.

  “That’s an old dodge,” Malloy chuckled. “Looks like you were tryin’ to fix yourself an alibi. You got no proof you were in your room all that time. We got a nice patrol wagon waitin’ to take you for a ride.”

  11

  As Sam and Ezra rode away from Pat after he announced his intention of going to Denver alone, the big, one-eyed man growled at Sam:

  “Wa’n’t no need fer you to stick yore elbow plumb through my ribs back yonder to make me shut up. I don’t see no reason why Pat should have all the fun of a city trip by hisself.”

  “You know how stubborn Pat is. No use arguin’ with him oncet he’s got his mind sot.”

  “Still an’ all, it ain’t right,” Ezra complained. “Three of us together, now, we might get somewhere’s with Biloff. You an’ me know some argyments a gent like him might understand. I still think we oughtta made Pat take us along.” Ezra heaved a deep, reminiscent sigh. “We ain’t seen the city lights fer quite a spell. When you menshuned that red-headed gal on Larimer Street, I got rememberin’ …”

  “I knowed that was a mistake as soon as I said it,” Sam cut in sharply. “Get this through yore thick haid right now … we’re stayin’ away from Larimer Street when we hit Denver. This ain’t no time for thinkin’ about gals … red-haided or bald ones.”

  Ezra’s big mouth sagged open in the starlight. He sputtered, “When we hit Denver? But you tol’ Pat …”

  “Like I say … it ain’t no good arguin’ with Pat. Let him think he’s got us buffaloed an’ we’re stayin’ here meek an’ quiet like a couple of bob-tailed lambs. Then he won’t be watchin’ when we trail him to Denver an’ keep him out of trouble.”

  “By golly, Sam, that’ll be a good one on him,” Ezra chortled. “But how’ll we do it? We cain’t make that ride before he’s got there an’ gone by train. An’ he’ll shore spot us if we try to get on at Hopewell Junction with him.”

  “I got that all figgered out. Happens Jeff Conroy is shippin’ some yearlin’s to Denver tomorrow. Jeff’ll dead-head us in the caboose like a couple of hands if we ask him to. We’ll be on the same train but Pat’ll never know it.”

  Ezra laughed thunderously and slapped his thigh. “That’s the ticket! Like when Pat was headin’ after them black-masks up Dusty Canyon. Pat was mighty glad we trailed him that time, you betcha.”

  “Well ride over to Jeff Conroy’s ’fore daylight an’ go in to the Junction with him. All we gotta do is keep outta sight till Pat gets aboard.”

  It was a good plan, and it worked just as Sam had predicted. Conroy was glad to have their company on the trip, and he willingly took them along instead of two of his own men. From their seat on the top rail of the loading pens, they watched Pat swing aboard to his seat in the coach, and when the train pulled out of Hopewell Junction they were in the caboose at the end.

  But a miscalculation occurred in Pueblo. When Pat’s coach was switched onto the main-line passenger train to Denver, they were left behind with their cattle cars to wait for a freight that pulled out later. For that reason, they didn’t reach Denver until almost noon of the second day.

  They hopped off the caboose as the train entered the yards, and hurried toward the business section of the city filled with a deep foreboding that they had arrived too late to help Pat in his interview with Judson Biloff.

  People turned to stare at the pair as they thumped up the sidewalk in their high-heeled boots. Both wore regular range attire and their appearance hadn’t been helped any by the long trip in the freight caboose. There was a sprouting of fiery red whiskers on Ezra’s scarred face, and his one eye gleamed malevolently at passers-by from a socket that was red-rimmed with sleeplessness. His huge frame dwarfed the wiry figure of Sam Sloan, who had to take two steps to Ezra’s one to keep up.

  Sam’s dark countenance was drawn in tight lines beneath the floppy brim of his Stetson. Stained with soot and cinders, his black eyes darting about suspiciously at the strange faces and sights of the city, his appearance was so much like that of a stage desperado that many of the city dwellers stepped aside to give him plenty of room as he went past. Both men had worn their guns in open holsters, though that, in itself, would not have occasioned comment in the city where half the population carried guns either openly or in concealed holsters.

  Sam had gotten the address of Judson Biloff’s office before leaving Dutch Springs. He inquired the way to the Exchange Building from a newsboy near the railroad yards, and they headed up Seventeenth Street after getting directions.

  “Not that it’ll do any good, most-like,” Sam admitted irritably to Ezra. “Pat’s been in town all mornin’ an’ he’ll shore have seen Biloff by now. Best we can do is find out what happened.”

  “An’ mebby wring Biloff’s neck if he didn’t make a deal with Pat,” Ezra suggested hopefully. “That’s what we come fer, ain’t it?”

  “It sure ain’t,” Sam warned him. “Don’t you start nothin’, Ezra. We come to help Pat. Won’t help him none if you get throwed in the hoosegow.”

  “These here Denver police are mostly little fellers,” Ezra argued. “I reckon you an’ me could handle five or six of ’em.”

  “Yeh, an’ they got five or six hunderd ready fer a riot call,” Sam snapped. “You let me do the talkin’, Ezra. We got to first find out where Pat’s at an’ whether he’s done any good. Don’t you start nothin’, no matter what happens.”

  They reached the entrance to the Exchange Building just as the noon-hour exodus of office workers began.

  With men and girls streaming out of the door, they stood back abashed, waiting for the stream to thin so they could get through to go in.

  While they stood there, a two-seated carriage drew up at the curb opposite the entrance. A Negro coachman in a plum-colored uniform drove a team of matched bays. The equipage glittered with fresh paint and shining brass, evidently awaiting the emergence of some wealthy man from the office building.

  Suddenly, Sam started violently and whispered to Ezra, “Ain’t that him comin’ through the door? All dressed up fit to kill … but that’s Jud Biloff … the same that pertended to be a hawse-raiser when he bought our sections in Powder Valley.”

  Ezra’s one eye glowed with hatred as it rested on the tall impeccably dressed figure of the land company president. He muttered, “Yep. That’s him, Sam. Lord A’mighty! look at his face. Looks like he’d done tangled with a black b’ar.”

  Pat’s fists had left purple bruises on Biloff’s face, a split lip that was mended with a small piece of court plaster.

  Sam stepped forward and intercepted the tall man as he strode toward the curb. He caught his arm and said, “You’re Jud Biloff, ain’t you?”

  Judson Biloff’s lips twitched as he looked down and recognized another of the Powder Valley ranchers whom he had cheated in the land deal. This man, he realized at a glance, was really a dangerous character. Different from the Stevens fellow who had visited him that morning. The gun on Sam’s hip was worn as though he knew how to use it, and there was something altogether terrifying in the dark dirty face that stared up at him.

  “I am,” he admitted testily. “What has that to do with you?”

  “Mebby you don’t remember me. Name’s Sam Sloan … from Powder Valley.”

  “Ah, yes.” Biloff remembered Sam at once. He lived alone with a one-eyed partner, and they both had a wide reputation for reckless lawlessness. They were particular friends of Pat Stevens, he believed, and a tremor of angry fear ran over his long, t
hin body.

  “I remember you,” Biloff went on. “Yes, indeed. Ha-ha. Pleasant meeting you here like this, but I have an engagement …” He turned as though to go on.

  Sam’s fingers caught his arm. “I’m wonderin’ if you’ve talked to Pat Stevens yet?”

  Biloff’s black eyes flashed angrily. “I talked to him. Yes.”

  Sam drawled, “I reckoned mebbe you had. Looks like you an’ Pat had a argyment an’ you come out second best,” with a shrewd look at Biloff’s face.

  “The man came to my office and threatened me … had the audacity to use physical violence in an attempt to enforce an outrageous demand,” Biloff explained angrily.

  Sam nodded and let go of his arm. “An’ you yelled fer help from the po-lice, I reckon?”

  “I certainly stood upon my rights as a citizen … though I did refuse to swear out a warrant and have him jailed.”

  “An’ Pat went on home?”

  “I presume so.” Biloff’s thin lips curled away from his teeth. “He didn’t return to my office after being thrown out.”

  “An’ you ain’t gonna do nothin’ about the farmers an’ the dam?” Sam guessed in an ominously placid tone. “Even after Pat put it to you straight that it’s downright stealin’ to take money fer them farms that’ll never be irrigated.”

  “Watch your words,” Biloff warned him. “I am a man of long patience, but it is practically exhausted. You men can’t come to the city and threaten me with guns. I have only to raise my voice for the police to have you jailed.”

  “I reckon yo’re right at that.” Sam stepped back and nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir, looks like you hold all five aces right in yore hand. Pat was a fool to think you’d listen to reason. Yo’re a thief, an’ proud of it. An’ after word gets back to the Valley, you’ll be a murderer to boot.”

  Biloff sneered at him and said, “I’ve warned you for the last time not to interfere with me.” He turned and stalked to the curb, stepped into the rear seat of the waiting carriage and the Negro coachman drove the spirited team away with a flourish.

  Sam turned to Ezra shaking his head, his face dour with anger. “Pat’s been to see him an’ done gone home,” he reported. “Had a fight an’ Pat put them bruises on his face, but that’s all the good his trip did.”

  “Biloff ain’t gonna do nothin’, huh? Whyn’t you let me git my hands around his scrawny neck, Sam? Damn him, I’d have …”

  “No.” Sam shook his head sourly. “There’s more ways of killin’ a cat than by chokin’ it to death on sour cream,” he stated. “We let Pat have his crack at Biloff like he wanted. Now … we’ll see how my idee works.”

  “You got an idee?” Ezra queried happily.

  “You bet I have … an’ it’s a hum-dinger. I figger if we can get Biloff out of Denver an’ down to Powder Valley where there ain’t no po-lice, we might could reason with him a little.”

  “Yeh, but I reckon he knows better’n to get out of the city,” Ezra said doubtfully.

  “That’s where my plan comes in. Doggone it, Pat Stevens ain’t the only one that can do brainwork.” Sam caught Ezra’s arm and urged him along the street. “Le’s find us a saloon where they sell whisky cheap an’ I’ll tell yuh how we’re gonna persuade Biloff to go back with us.”

  Sam Sloan and Ezra sat together with their heads close at a rear table in a Broadway saloon while the waiter refilled their whisky glasses a great many times. Sam talked persuasively and Ezra’s booming laughter evidenced complete approval of his partner’s words.

  They were both sober enough to walk without staggering when they left the saloon a couple of hours later. Sam stopped at a little store on Broadway and bought a box of shoe blacking. The proprietor stared at his unpolished boots curiously, but asked no questions.

  At the corner of Broadway and Fifteenth Street, they stopped a prosperous-looking gentleman and asked if he could direct them to the home of Mr. Judson Biloff. The man had heard of Mr. Biloff, but did not know where he lived. However, he kindly offered to help the men who were obvious strangers to the city; and he, in turn, called a blue-coated policeman and repeated their question.

  The policeman knew exactly where Mr. Biloff lived. He gave them a Capitol Hill address, on Logan Street three blocks south of the gold-domed capitol building. They thanked the policeman and the kindly gentleman, and walked up past the capitol building and south on Logan Street.

  The address was an imposing white brick residence with two stories and many cupolas. There was a broad stretch of lawn and a private stable in the rear. They sauntered around to the stable and found the Negro coachman polishing the brass lamps of the carriage Biloff had ridden away in at noon.

  The coachman told them his name was Jake. He had a wide-mouthed smile for the two cow-men who engaged him in such pleasant conversation. He admitted he liked working for Biloff because his employer was such a “gentleman.” The team of bays stood in their stalls munching hay with only their bridles removed. Jake told them he had to go back to the office for Mr. Biloff at “Fo’ o’clock on de dot,” and he flourished a big gold watch to show them it lacked only half an hour of the appointed time.

  Sam said, “Awright, Jake,” and drew his gun.

  The Negro backed away, rolling the whites of his eyes in terror when Sam rammed the muzzle into his stomach.

  Sam said, “You ain’t goin’ to get hurt if you get back into the stable an’ keep yore mouth shut,” and Ezra stepped forward to enforce the order by clamping a huge hand over the coachman’s mouth.

  They pushed him inside the stable swiftly and made him strip off his plum-colored coachman’s livery.

  Ezra held a gun on him while Sam divested himself of jeans and shirt and got into the Negro’s clothes. They were a little too large, and Ezra had difficulty controlling his laughter when the peaked cap slid down over Sam’s eyes, but they decided the fit was good enough.

  They let Jake get into Sam’s discarded shirt and jeans, and then tied him firmly to a post, gagging him with a red bandanna. Sam had to discard his gun-belt, but slid his .45 inside the waistband of the uniform. The tight jacket came down low enough to hide the butt from view.

  While Ezra hitched the team to the fancy carriage, Sam opened the box of shoe-blacking and daubed it liberally on his face and hands.

  When he came out of the stable and crawled up on the front seat to take the lines, Ezra doubled over with laughter.

  “By Gawd, Sam, I swear I’d hire you for my coachman was I big city rich man. I allus wondered didn’t you have darky blood in you, but now I know. No man could look that much like a Negro without bein’ at least part.”

  Sam smiled grimly from beneath the peaked brim of his uniform cap. “I feel like a dressed-up jaybird,” he muttered. “Damn you, Ezra, if you don’t quit laughin’ I’ll crawl down from here an’ bust you one.”

  Ezra gritted his teeth and stopped laughing. “You’d best be gettin’ along. Yore boss’ll be waitin’.”

  Sam said, “You know where to meet me … on the road south of town toward Littleton. More’n likely I’ll come a-hellin’,” he ended grimly.

  “I’ll be along there watchin’ fer you,” Ezra assured him. He started laughing again as Sam cracked the whip over the bays and they arched their necks and pranced away. Doggone old Sam, he certainly was one for thinkin’ up idees. This was as good as any dodge Pat had ever worked when the goin’ was tough and brainwork had to take the place of force.

  Sam had to wait five minutes at the curb outside the Exchange Building before Biloff came out. He was accompanied by a short fat man who carried a leather brief case and wore an ingratiating smile along with his checked suit.

  Sam had a bad moment when Schultz came to the curb with the president. He thought he planned to get in the back seat with Biloff, and Sam hadn’t planned on that.

  But they stopped at the curb for a moment and talked earnestly, then Biloff got in and Schultz started to turn away.

  He stopped, staring at Sam
, who had his head ducked down and turned away.

  “What happened to Jake?” Schultz asked. “I didn’t know you had a new coachman.”

  Biloff started to say, “I haven’t,” but he took a closer look at the masquerading rancher and let out a loud squawk. “See here! What’s this …”

  Then Schultz, on the sidewalk, beheld an amazing sight. The Negro coachman drew a long-barreled .45 from his waistband and turned a black, glowering face toward the man in the rear seat. He heard the black lips snarl, “Sit tight an’ you won’t get killed,” to Biloff in a menacing voice that didn’t have a trace of Negro accent; then the team was sent away sharply and the carriage careened up Seventeenth Street.

  Schultz dropped his brief case and ran, shouting at the top of his voice, “Help! Police, murder! Help, police!”

  12

  Pat tried to protest but the two policemen hustled him into a waiting patrol wagon at the curb. It pulled away with the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones and the loud clanging of a bell.

  Pat was wedged between his two captors in the back seat with his wrists handcuffed together in front of him. He stared straight ahead so he wouldn’t have to meet the curious and accusing eyes of people on the streets who turned to look as the police patrol clattered past.

  He kept his mouth grimly shut during the ride to the police station. He knew there wasn’t any use protesting his innocence to Malloy and his companion. The two officers had orders to arrest him, and they were merely doing their duty.

  He realized that fate had caught him in a neat trap, though he did not yet know how strong a case of circumstantial evidence there was against him. He couldn’t prove he had stayed in his hotel room all afternoon. No one was likely to believe he had gone upstairs and fallen asleep. It was an unlikely thing for an out-of-town visitor to do. Without knowing anything about what had actually happened to Biloff, the words “kidnaped” and “murdered” kept ringing with ugly emphasis through Pat’s mind.

  He knew he had to keep calm, though the impulse toward panic was strong within him. He felt utterly helpless and alone in the city, and he recalled all the stories he had heard of the brutal methods used by the police to extract confessions from prisoners whom they suspected of major crimes.