by Short, Luke;
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Hardcase
Luke Short
I
Yellow Jacket’s post office was a rack of pigeonholes in the front corner of Badey’s Emporium. Around eleven o’clock each morning after the mail stage from Sabinal got in the loafers lounged on the dry-goods counter while old man Badey sorted out the mail.
This morning the procedure was no different than usual. In the drift of idle talk and low laughter from beyond the rack of pigeonholes old Badey squinted through his bifocals at the topmost letter of a stack he held in his left hand, and with his right hand he deliberately placed it in its correct box. Fred Curtis, the clerk, was taking care of the trade beyond the post office.
Nobody saw old Badey when it happened. He had just read the address of a letter and had his hand halfway to the general-delivery cubbyhole when his hand paused. And then as the name he had read sank into his consciousness he dropped the letter like he would have dropped a hot iron. Gingerly he picked it up again and read: “Mr. Dave Coyle, General Delivery, Yellow Jacket, New Mexico Territory. Hold till Sept. 1, and return.”
Old Badey’s panic was immediate and complete. The first thing he did was natural enough. He poked his head out of the wicket and surveyed the loafers in the store. He knew them all, men, and women, and children, and still he was uneasy. The second thing he did was explainable; he looked at the feed-mill calendar on the wall behind him, and it said August 31. The third thing he did was pure instinct. He called up to the clerk, “Finish sortin’ this mail, Fred,” and left the store, taking the letter with him.
Across the wide and dusty street, wedged in between two wooden-awninged buildings, was the sheriff’s office, and old Badey made for it. He tramped into the small office to find Sheriff Harvey Beal, his feet cocked up on the roll-top desk, in conversation with his deputy, Ernie See.
Old Badey put the letter on the desk and said hoarsely, “Take a look, Harve.”
Beal was a bland-faced, heavy-set man whose wide and innocent blue eyes were trusting and affable. He was also a slow-moving man, but now, because he read the excitement in old Badey’s face, he moved with alacrity. He picked up the letter, read the address, and came out of his chair like he’d been kicked out.
“Where’d you get this?” he demanded swiftly.
Old Badey, besides being testy, was scared, too, and he said truculently, “It’s got a stamp on it, ain’t it? I didn’t print it. It come in the mail.”
Ernie See reached over and took the letter from the sheriff’s hand. Ernie was a slow reader, but it didn’t take him long to read this name, because it was familiar enough to him. He dropped the letter and said, “Wow!” and looked blankly at the sheriff, his young face surprised.
Beal said, “Did you look at the crowd in the store?” Without waiting for an answer he went to the door and looked swiftly up and down the tie rails on both sides of the street, then closed the door.
Badey said, “I knowed everyone in the store.”
“Ernie,” Beal said swiftly, “you go camp on Badey’s counter till I get this fixed up.”
“Not me,” Ernie said slowly. “Hunh-unh. I got a three-day vacation comin’, Harve. I’m takin’ it—startin’ now.”
Beal eyed him with deceptive mildness. “You’re a deputy of this county.”
“That’s right. A live one,” Ernie said. “I aim to stay alive too.”
Beal stepped over to the desk and pulled out a lower drawer and rummaged in it. He was a somewhat ridiculous figure to a stranger, a fat and rotund and polite man in outsize pants, half boots that were run over at the heels, and a buttonless black vest over a too-small calico shirt. But a careful man might consider this: Beal’s hands were soft and uncalloused, which argued he had done no manual work in a long time. Which argued he had been sheriff for a long time. Which argued, since Yellow Jacket was a cattle county with a reasonably high homicide rate, that he and his office managed to take care of any trouble that came up. And since he seemed anything but a scrapper, a careful man might consider the deputy. He would have been right, too, for Ernie See was the sheriff’s office.
Beal found what he was looking for and laid it on his desk and looked at his deputy. “Read it,” he said.
“I read it,” Ernie said stubbornly. “Hell, I know it by heart. Seven thousand dollars, alive or dead, for Dave Coyle.”
Beal wheeled to face old Badey. “You read it.”
“I got one in the post office,” Badey said sourly.
“Well, divide it by three and see what each of us’ll make,” Beal said.
Old Badey looked carefully at him and said, “Harve, I’m goin’ to be sick tomorrow, sick in bed. I’m already sick now.”
Beal looked from Badey to Ernie and back to Badey. “One of you on vacation and one of you sick,” he murmured scornfully. “Where’s all the men in this town?”
“I know where they will be when you tell ’em,” Ernie said. “They’ll be out of town.”
“He ain’t so tough,” Beal countered.
“If I was you I’d whisper that,” Ernie said dryly.
“He’s little. He’s a runt,” Beal said.
“A stick of dynamite’s only eight inches high,” Badey said. “He’s over five feet, and the same stuff.”
“But he’s a kid—just a tough kid,” Beal insisted. “You afraid of a kid?”
Ernie said dryly, “Don’t look at me. I didn’t print that reward notice. It’s the U.S. commissioner that’s afraid of him. Me, I just don’t aim to bust up a three-day fishin’ trip to meet him.”
Beal said grimly, “All right, Ernie. But make your trip longer than three days. Make it three months. Make it three years. Why not? Because you don’t have to get back to work.”
“I’ll get back to work,” Ernie retorted. “I’ve got a date here for September second.”
“Not here.”
“No, I’ll call at your house.”
Beal looked blank. “Why?”
“That’s where a funeral usually starts, ain’t it?” Ernie said. He waved his hand at Sheriff Beal, grinned, and stepped out onto the walk. Badey started after him, and Beal said, “Wait a minute, Badey. I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t,” Badey said. “I sleep in a single bed, and that’s where I’m goin’.”
Sheriff Beal settled down into his chair and watched Badey leave. He didn’t feel exactly cheerful himself, and he looked around to see if the door was closed. There was a kind of hot and greedy urgency within him, but he knew this would take a little thinking out. As long as the letter, the bait, was in his possession, Dave Coyle couldn’t get it. He put the letter in his pocket, just to make sure, and then considered.
Was it a fake? He didn’t know, but it seemed as if Dave Coyle had told somebody he’d drop in at Yellow Jacket before September 1 to get his mail. That was the way Dave Coyle did things—like the time he’d gone into the Governor’s mansion the night of the inaugural ball and picked the blossom from a century plant of the Governor’s wife to wear in his buttonhole during the dance. He’d do anything that took gall, preferred to do it that way, and somehow this letter business seemed typical.
Beal pictured seven thousand dollars in gold. That was a lot of money. For ten dollars apiece he could get twenty men to watch Badey’s store day and night, and when Dave Coyle called for his letter it would be like shooting a clay pigeon.
Sheriff Beal thought of something then. He remembered the return notation on the envelope. He pulled it out and looked at the back of it, where the return address was given.
“Return to Box 73, Wagon Mound.”
Sheriff Beal grinned
faintly then. The return was wrong. It should have read, “Return the box to Wagon Mound,” the box, of course, meaning the coffin. He went out, then, to start gathering recruits.
Just after dark that night a man rode up to the outskirts of Yellow Jacket and dismounted in the deep shade of a cottonwood tree that overhung the south road. He stretched with the smooth clean movements of a cat, then set about a job that came easily to him. He knotted the reins, looped them over the horse’s neck, slipped the bit, lifted the stirrups and tied them together with a piece of string over the pommel, and let out the cinch an inch or so.
Afterward he walked away, for this wasn’t his own horse he’d been riding. He didn’t like to own a horse, hadn’t owned one for years, and didn’t intend to. It was a borrowed horse, which he had taken in the last town. When he got ready to leave here he would borrow a fresh one.
He scuffed along silently in the dust of the road, a slight and shadowy figure, and long before he reached the section of town where the stores lighted the street he paused and studied it.
To a man less concerned than himself with the appearance of things the scene looked typical enough. There was usually one store in any town that stayed open at night and whose lamps laid bright squares of light far out into the street. But it went beyond that here. There were, he noticed, lights on only one side of the street. And why weren’t there horses at the tie rail in front of the store? And why weren’t people moving in the street; why were they all loafing, sitting around? It all shaped up into the old familiar face of trouble, but he wanted to be sure. He vanished in an alley.
Some minutes later he again looked upon the street, this time from a position in the narrow weed-and-bottle-cluttered space between two buildings. He had already tried three similar spaces farther up the alley and had found men with rifles across their knees squatting in each of them. He already knew what to expect; all he wanted now was to make sure this brightly lighted store was also the post office. Through Badey’s window he could see the mail racks, and he turned and went back to the dark alley.
A man was walking up the alley, coming toward him. The man stopped. He stopped too.
“I’m gettin’ sick of this,” Dave Coyle said in the utter darkness. “Why don’t he come?”
“You and me both,” the other said. “What are you usin’?”
“A shotgun. I loaded her with washers.”
The man laughed. “That ought to take care of him.”
“I reckon,” Dave said. ‘So long.” And he walked down the alley, the man forgotten. There was a letter for him over there in the post office, sure enough. But instead of minding their business and letting him call for it, this bounty-hunting crew wanted trouble. He didn’t want trouble, though; he only wanted the letter. He was tramping down the alley when he caught a whiff of something that hauled him up in his tracks. It was the smell of warm ashes, of coal gas, and the faint lingering scent of burned hoofs. He followed the smell and came up to a large door that he knew was the rear of a blacksmith shop.
He found the door unlocked, went inside, pulled the door to after him, and struck a match.
The flare lighted a face that had graced a triple printing of reward dodgers. It was burned that same deep brown that had blurred the picture on the dodger and had made him look almost black. In shape it was a tough face, tight-knit, flaring a little at the jaw hinge, and then sweeping in a clean line to a pointed chin that was faintly cleft. The nose, thin and high, had a faint white scar across the bridge, but it was the mouth that people noticed. Maybe that was because, on the reward dodger, it had been grinning crookedly, insolently, so that half the sheriffs who had gazed upon it had felt uncomfortably mad and had sworn under their breaths. It was that kind of mouth, shaped into a sneer, the upper lip lifted in one corner, the whole tilt of it derisive. The eyes were a perfect foil—wide-spaced, gray without a trace of blue—whose habitual innocence confounded people and was intended to.
No reward dodger had ever carried a full-length picture, and for want of a better word, he had been described therein as “small.” It was true only if a man didn’t associate the word “puny” with the description. Right now a sun-faded blue shirt, worn levis, and scuffed half boots covered his lean smoothly muscled body, and nobody would have called it stocky. It had that long-legged, lazy grace that carried a hint of explosive possibilities. The gun, rammed carelessly into a wide and heavy shell belt, looked outsize against his small hand. A battered and curl-brimmed Stetson rode carelessly back-tilted on a shock of untidy blue-black hair.
Before the match flare died he had seen what he wanted. He went over to the forge, which was still warm, and tugged at the bellows rope. The small cup of glowing coals in the forge spread out now under the bellows wind, and when it was a cherry red he reached for the coal shovel. He scattered a thin layer of fine fuel on the coals, blacking them out. And then, swiftly, he shucked up two dozen shells from his shell belt and laid them on the black coal. Afterward he softly opened the double front doors, then retreated through the rear door into the alley.
It took him three minutes to walk down to the end of the alley, cross the street in the dark, and find the opposite alley that he was sure would lead past the loading platform of Badey’s store. He did not approach close, for he was certain men would be back there too. He only hunkered down against a woodshed and began rolling a cigarette.
When he heard the initial spatter of gunfire his smoke was licked and pasted in one corner of his mouth. He listened. A man lunged into the light from the rear of Badey’s store and stopped. He called, “Hear that? They got him!”
That was all that was needed. Six men materialized out of the darkness and pounded down the alley—bound for the blacksmith shop, where the forge’s heat had finally exploded the cartridges.
Dave rose and walked slowly toward the store. He could hear men yelling out front and running on the boardwalk, and there were other shots now, the result of nerves gone edgy in the dark.
Dave mounted the steps, paused to light his cigarette, and then went into the store. It was brightly lighted and, of course, deserted. Seven thousand dollars, he reflected wryly, was too big a sum to keep a clerk on the job tonight. He walked the length of the store, hauled up at the mail rack, found the general-delivery cubbyhole, and sorted the mail there.
When he found his letter he pocketed it, put the mail back, and went out the rear door again. This time he headed up the alley, and when it emptied into the side street he turned left toward the main street. The corner building was the hotel. The clerk, like most of the other men in town, had deserted his post to run downstreet toward the gunfire that was still racketing.
Dave walked in, chose a room key from the board behind the desk, and went upstairs. His room, number eight, was a corner one, and he locked the door behind him.
After lighting the lamp, yawning, pulling the shades, and removing his hat he sat down by the lamp and opened the letter.
It began: “Dear Mr. Usher.”
Dave stopped right there and stared at it. Then he leafed over the page and read the signature. It was signed “Carol McFee.” That part was all right. He turned back to the beginning, the greeting still puzzling him, and began to read.
DEAR MR. USHER:
I am in receipt of your letter asking me to put you in touch with Dave Coyle. Do you think me stupid, or are you insane? Every child in this territory knows that each of you has sworn to kill the other. Do you think I would betray Dave, simply because you have a deal you think he’d like to talk over with you?
I am writing Dave tonight, warning him against you—it that’s necessary, which it is not. Rather, I should warn you that he’ll kill you on sight. I honestly believe that Governor Johns would pardon him if he killed you, so if I were in your shoes I would take warning.
Believe me, with all the ill will in the world, I am not sincerely yours and never will be.
CAROL MCFEE
Dave stared at the note. He knew what had happen
ed. Carol had written him and Will Usher on the same night and had put the letters in the wrong envelopes.
He thought of something then. Suppose Carol had mentioned his presence in Yellow Jacket in her other letter?
As soon as he thought of it Dave lunged for the lamp, wiping out the flame with his hand. The envelope, which had been in his lap, fluttered to the floor and planed under the chair.
And in that very instant there was a knock on the door.
Dave waited a moment and said softly, “Who is it?”
There was a throaty chuckle from the other side of the door.
“Who’d you think it would be, Davey? It’s me—Will Usher.”
II
Dave said through the door, “I don’t want trouble. Light a shuck.”
“Listen a minute, Dave,” Will said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Drag it.”
“Wait a minute.” Usher’s voice was urgent. “I haven’t got a gun and this isn’t a trap. Open the door.”
Dave said softly, “I’ll walk that door down and cut off your ears, Will. Here I come.”
He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it with his right hand. His gun was in his left. There was nobody there. He stepped out into the hall and looked down it, and it was empty.
He stepped back into the room again, locked the door, and lighted the lamp, a frown on his face. Carol, in her letter to him which Will Usher had received, mentioned Yellow Jacket, and Will was here. Beyond that, Will had the letter that Carol had written him, and he wanted it. He wanted the letter and he didn’t know whether he could trust himself to take it from Will Usher without getting in a fight, but he decided he could if he held his temper.
He started across the room toward the door and was almost there when a knock came on the door again. He reached swiftly for the key, twisted it, flung the door open, and reached out and grabbed for Will Usher’s coat lapels to yank him inside.
His hand was swifter than his recognition, for he already was grasping the silk collar of a basque before he could stop himself. And then his his hand fell away, and he was confronting a girl who was almost as surprised as he was.
