by Short, Luke;
At the edge of the boardwalk, Tip paused and scanned the street. The sheriff’s office, across the street and a few doors up, was lighted, and several men loafed about the door. That would be Bolling, he supposed, and his riders.
When the boardwalk was clear, Tip slipped out and wheeled into the covered stairway. He climbed it cautiously, two steps at a time, his gun in his hand.
The door at the top was solid, and he put his ear to it. There was a lamp lighted inside, but the room was silent. Turning the knob, he stepped into the room, and closed the door with a noise. He was standing in an empty waiting-room. Hearing footsteps, he turned to a door in the side wall. It opened to reveal Dr. Pendexter in shirt sleeves, a book in his hand. He looked at Tip a long time, as if trying to remember him.
“Oh, yes, I bandaged your leg,” Dr. Pendexter said calmly.
“Know me, Doc?”
“Of course.” He frowned at the gun. “If you think I’m interested in getting twenty-five hundred dollars, I’m not,” Doc said dryly. “I am, I should say, but I’m not interested in getting it that way. Come in.” He stepped aside. Tip went into his office, looking carefully around him as Doc closed the door behind him. His face was alert, strained, and Doc put it down to a natural caution.
“Leg troubling you?”
“No,” Tip said. He swung his gaze full on Dr. Pendexter, and said, “It’s not for me, Doc. I’m after information.”
“Ah,” Doc said, and Tip’s glance sharpened.
“You’ve guessed,” he said. “Has he been here?”
“Who?”
“Cam Shields.”
Doc didn’t say anything. Tip’s glance traveled the room, settled on the wastebasket which held soiled bandages still red with blood. He looked briefly at Doc and then went to the door. Opening it, he saw a faint trace of blood on the waiting-room floor. In the office, it had already been cleaned up. He shut the door and lowered his gun under Doc’s untroubled gaze. Then he sat on the arm of a chair and pulled out his pipe. He didn’t pack it, only rubbed it thoughtfully, bringing out the gloss of the grain.
“Well?” Doc said sharply.
“I’m just tryin’ to think of an argument,” Tip said carefully, and looked from the pipe to Doc. “I’m tryin’ to think of a good reason why you should protect a killer like Cam Shields.”
Doc laughed shortly. “Aren’t you goin’ to take your gun and threaten me?”
“Why should I?” Tip said. “That never settled anything. You’ll tell me if you want to, and you won’t if you don’t want to. I reckon there’s nothin’ I can do that will make you.”
“You have more sense than some people who have been here lately.”
“How lately?” Tip asked softly.
“Ten minutes ago, maybe.”
“How bad was he hit?”
“Bad enough so he can’t travel far.”
Tip regarded Doc with a level stare. “As far as some woodshed close?”
“Damn it!” Doc said. “A doctor has some secrets. I can’t tell you.”
“And I can’t hunt him unless you do,” Tip countered. “Did you know he killed a man today, shot him in the back as the man was cutting logs? Do you know he killed Ben Bolling? Do you know he’ll kill you when he finds out I came here?”
“Don’t scare me,” Doc said derisively.
“I’m not scaring you. I don’t think I could. I’m only tellin’ you the truth. For a couple of years now Hagen Shields has managed to keep that murderin’ son of his under control. Cam was scared of Hagen. He isn’t scared of anyone now. There’s no way to stop him. He’ll murder for fun, like he did this mornin’.”
Dr. Pendexter said surprisingly, “I think you’re right. When he backed out of that door, I thought he’d shoot me before he closed it. But still, a doctor’s life depends on how he keeps secrets like that, Woodring.”
“You won’t tell me?”
Doc looked at him a long time, then went over to his desk and sat down. He made a church steeple of his fingers and looked over his glasses at Tip. “A wound above the hip,” he began, “can be a very queer thing, Woodring. I’ve seen some strange cases of hemorrhage in such instances. I’ve seen a man stagger into a doctor’s office with a wound there and he wasn’t bleeding at all. But the minute the wound was cleaned, even if it wasn’t fatal, it started bleeding again. That’s when it’s dangerous. You’d think a doctor would have sense enough to let well enough alone, but his training is all in the other direction. For instance—”
Tip stood up, smiling thinly. “Thanks, Doc. I’m sorry you can’t tell me what I want to know.”
“I’m sorry I can’t, too,” Dr. Pendexter said. He was smiling, too.
Tip picked up the trail of blood outside Doc’s door—as Doc had just told him to do without putting it into those very words—and followed it downstairs. On the sill by the bottom step a few drops had been smeared by the heel of a boot. Reading some meaning into these signs, Tip knew that Cam Shields had stood here peering out into the street, just as he was doing now.
The next smear, Tip saw, was out on the boardwalk. There were two of them, and their general direction was toward the Inquirer office across the street. Tip stared at them a moment, hardly believing. Had Cam Shields crossed the street in view of anyone who cared to look at him, knowing he would be shot on sight? A sick man did strange things, though, and Cam was sick.
Tip looked across the street, judged where Cam would come onto the boardwalk, and then faded back in between the buildings. He went up the alley to the edge of town, strolled across the road in the darkness, took the other alley, and went back into the town. He passed the jail without encountering anyone in the alley. Beside the Inquirer building there was ample space in which to walk. He had a hard time squeezing past the open stairway that ran up the side of the building, but he made it.
Looking up and down the street, he saw nobody was coming, so he strolled out to the edge of the boardwalk. There was no mark on the boards; the dust of the street had clung to Cam’s boots and smothered any sign. Down on his hands and knees, Tip searched the boards for any sign of the blood, but there was none. He was kneeling that way when he looked up, hearing the door of the Inquirer office open. Tip dodged back to the corner of the building, climbing the first step of the stairway and flattening himself against the wall.
Jim, the pressman, strolled by, stopped, walked out to the edge of the boardwalk, lighted a cigar, looked up and down the street, and then went on.
Tip was just ready to step down when his glance fell to the step.
There was the blood spot in the shape of a heel on the lower step!
For one second Tip stared at it, and then it came to him. Lynn’s room, of course! These steps led up there, and Cam Shields, sick and hurt, had fled there because it was the only place he knew in town where he could hide. It didn’t matter about Anna Bolling being there, for he could threaten her; and he didn’t know about Ball. Doc had watched him go, too.
Tip took the steps softly, two at a time, his gun in his hand now. Achieving the top step and the platform, he listened. There was neither light nor sound in there. Gently he tried the doorknob. The catch gave way a little, and Tip’s pulse hammered. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed, and then the door stopped moving. It was bolted from the inside, not locked from the outside. That was all he needed.
CHAPTER 13
Tip raised his foot and kicked savagely, wheeling his body to one side.
The door crashed open, and on the heel of it came a shot. Tip lunged into the room, sprawling on his face, shooting in the direction of the gun flame. An answering shot hammered out in that close room, and then Tip heard the pounding of heavy boots.
“Anna!” Tip called, coming to his feet.
“He’s there, Tip!” Anna’s voice came from the corner of the room.
Tip lunged into the dark corridor to the kitchen, and then he heard Cam Shields yelling at the top of his voice, “Here’s Tip Woodring! Here’s
Woodring! Help! Help! Woodring!”
It came from the door beside him. Tip lunged against the door and it was locked. He kicked at it, and Cam shot from the other side of the door. Tip kicked again and again, and the door flew open with a crash. He could make out Cam’s figure half out the window. Tip swung up his gun, but before he could fire, a shot came from low in the corner of the room. Cam screamed. Tip saw him grab his chest with the hand that had been holding the window. Then Tip opened up. He sent three shots at Cam, driving him out the window. Cam screamed again, and Tip heard a muffled thud as his body struck the ground below.
“Tip,” Ball whispered.
Tip went over to the bed, fumbling for a match. He struck it just as Anna came running in. Ball, his mustaches unbrushed and jet-black against his wan face, was lying in bed grinning. A gun was in his hand, and his other arm was in a sling.
“It took an almighty long time to sight that gun left-handed,” Ball said hoarsely.
“Tip, they’re coming!” Anna cried.
Tip wheeled and ran for the stair door. There was a blocky figure standing in it, and Tip shot blindly. He saw the man stagger, and Tip ran for him, hearing the pounding of the feet on the stairway outside. These were Bolling’s gunnies, ready and primed for him. He caught the man before he fell and then heaved him down the stairway. He caromed into a man coming up, and they both went down, taking two others with them. Out on the street, somebody was shooting, and Tip dodged inside, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He went to the front windows and lifted up the curtain. The street was already alive with men running toward the stairway. He heard one man yell, “Surround the building!” and recognized Jeff Bolling’s voice.
He wheeled to Anna. “Don’t let them get Ball!” he said. “Load his gun!”
“Where are you going, Tip?”
“Out of here,” Tip said.
He ran back through the kitchen and looked out the window. Below, in the alley, he could see a half-dozen men. That way was out, even if he could jump. He went into Lynn’s room. The roof of the adjoining building was swarming with men, now. He raced across to Ball’s room. Two men were on the roof of the building on that side. Slowly, he let the curtain fall again.
“They out there?” Ball asked.
Tip nodded.
“Give up, son,” Ball said. “If they take you alive, you may be able to break that jail.”
“Nobody’s takin’ me anywhere,” Tip said thickly. “I got in this jam and I’ll get out of it.” He went back to the front room and lifted the curtains again. The crowd in the street had thinned out now, scattering around the building.
Tip opened the door and peered out. Three men were waiting down there, guarding the stairs, while on the next roof, two more men were bellied down, pouring a fire into the window of Lynn’s room.
Tip went back in the room, told Anna to stand out of the way, then picked up a rocking chair and hurled it through the window. He ran out the door then, and started down the stairs. The guard out in the open had turned to look at the chair that crashed into the street, and Tip was halfway down the stairs before he looked up at the stairs. Tip shot then, and saw the man go down. But the other guard poked his head and arm around the corner and started shooting.
Suddenly, from in between two buildings across the street, a strange six-gun took up the chorus. The guard who had been shooting staggered out into the open, tripped, and fell.
From across the street Buck’s voice yelled, “Watch out, Tip! Get over here if you can!”
Tip hit the bottom step, jumped the boardwalk, and rolled under the tie rail, came to his feet and ran. A dozen guns from the roofs of both buildings opened up then. Buck came out from between the buildings, both guns blazing at the men on the roof. Tip ran, and with a haste that would not let him dodge. Slugs from the guns on the roofs in back of him kicked up dust in front of him and to the side of him. He lunged under the tie rail, tripped on the sidewalk, and got up again, making for the black wedge between the two buildings.
And then he saw Buck half turn and go down on the boardwalk.
Tip lunged for him, grabbed his collar, and yanked him into the darkness.
One there, Tip stopped, and Buck said, “The horses are back there, Tip. Go on!”
“You hit?”
“No. Go on.”
Tip said grimly, “You’re hit.” He leaned down, picked up Buck’s heavy body, and slung it over his shoulder, grunting under the strain. Already men were running across the street. He could hear their slugs drumming into the building fronts as he staggered back to the alley. Tip slung Buck across the horse in front of the saddle, then swung up behind him and roweled his horse. “Put a hand in that stirrup, Buck, and brace yourself.”
He streaked down the alley and across the street for the other alley mouth, just as the first man rounding the corner saw him and shot wide. They passed behind the feed stable, took the corner out into the main street, and Tip looked behind. The first riders, two blocks back, were just getting their horses.
Tip knew that a chase as unequal as this would result in only one thing, and that was capture. From here to the canyon mouth it was a straight speed race, and with Buck across his saddle he couldn’t hope to win.
“Buck,” he said. There was no answer. Tip’s belly went cold with fear. At the graveyard he dismounted and lifted Buck off. The pain of the moving roused Buck.
“I got to get them off our trail, Buck,” Tip said. “Where you shot?”
“The leg.”
“Is it bleedin’ bad? Tell the truth!”
“Not very.”
Without another word Tip carried him into the graveyard, laid him behind a gravestone, then raced for his horse. His pursuers were past the feed stable now, just leaving the town. Tip swung into the saddle and roweled his horse. His tough little gray stretched out at a long lope, and Tip held him there. Bolling’s men and the townsmen with them were shooting blindly in the night. Tip knew that he would have to lead them only slightly till the mouth of the canyon was achieved, and then ride back on the rim as fast as he could, before they wondered at the fleetness of his pony and looked for Buck along the wayside brush.
When he reached the park, he cut straight across it, barely out of gunshot of the posse. But once he was in the timber, he turned left sharply and urged his horse to its utmost. They skirted the park and came to the rim of the canyon after a long climb in the dark, and then Tip picked his slow way along the lip of the rim back toward the town. It was slow going, for the big boulders here and the rough terrain made for treacherous footing for the horse. Below him, on his left, the rim fell away abruptly to the canyon floor and the road. It seemed hours before he reached the spot where the graveyard should be. He had to guess, for the canyon below was pitch-black.
He stopped, ground-haltered his horse, and then peered down into the canyon. How deep was it? He tried to remember, and had only a vision of its steep sides. He took his lariat and uncoiled it, then found a jut of rock which was substantial enough to hold him and put the loop around it. Then he swung over the rim, and lowered himself, stretching out to touch the ground. But when he came to the end of the rope, his feet were still not touching. He hung there a second, remembering that a lariat is only thirty feet long, and that the cliff looked much higher than that. Then, cold sweat beading his forehead, he dropped. It was a ten-foot drop, and he landed on the moss and thick black dirt of the canyon floor and rolled over.
Coming to his knees and then his feet, he had a feeling of weariness and despair. How was he going to get out of here now? He moved forward and found that he was on the edge of the graveyard.
When he found Buck and shook him, Buck didn’t answer. Tip risked a match, and saw that Buck was breathing and that he had bled much. Tip took off his neckerchief and tied it tightly around Buck’s leg to stanch the flow of the blood, then looked about him. Bolling’s men would soon think of the canyon itself and start beating their way back. They would catch them here h
elpless, unless Buck could walk. And Buck couldn’t, and Tip wasn’t going to leave him. He looked off toward the lights of the town, and came to a sudden decision. He picked Buck up, slung him over his shoulder, and started the slow walk to town, listening for the approach of horses.
It took an eternity to reach the edge of town. He did so without being noticed, and then drifted into the shadows at the side of the feed stable. He eased Buck to the ground, paused to drag in great gagging gusts of breath, then went in back of the feed stable. As on his second night here, the hostler was seated in the archway under the lantern, his chair tilted back against the wall.
Tip moved forward toward the doorway, walking quietly. There were several stalled horses feeding now, and their noise covered his. But when he came to the corner of the office, he was still twenty feet from the hostler. He debated pulling his gun and tying up the man, but then the hostler could help Bolling’s crew find him. If he wasn’t seen, the hostler would never know the identity of his assailant.
Tip pulled back into the shadows. His foot struck a loose horseshoe and scraped it on the boards. Tip gingerly removed his boot from it, paused, then stooped down and picked it up.
He moved to the office corner again, then took the shoe and pitched it through the archway, beyond the hostler. It clanged on a stone in the street, and the hostler jumped. He stared out into the dark street, then came off his chair and walked out of the doorway and stood looking out into the night.
When he decided to go back to his chair, he got only his head turned when Tip’s gun barrel rapped him across the skull. After dragging him back out of sight, Tip swiftly saddled the strongest horse in the stable and led it out into the alley.
He brought Buck round, slung him into the saddle, held him there while he climbed up behind him, and then started north up the alley. He didn’t pause at any of the streets, and nobody stopped him. In ten minutes they were out of the town, headed north up the canyon. When, a few minutes later, they climbed out of the canyon, Tip swung west into the timber.
