by Lauran Paine
“I don’t know how.”
“What d’you mean . . . you don’t know?”
The banker’s face darkened; his voice got sharp. “What difference does it make how he got the money, dammit. There it is. His loan is paid off. We can’t make the deal with Houston. And . . . we’re committed to pay off that thirty percent money we borrowed for three months, which we figured to buy the Finnerty place from the bank with after it’d foreclosed.”
“I want to know where he got that money,” Beach said, his face gone white beneath lowered brows. “Maybe he stole it, robbed a stage or something.”
Gorman’s irritation increased. There was perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. “You fool, Moses,” he snapped. “The money’s not important right now. What if he did steal it? We’ve still got to honor the note.”
Beach made an agitated gesture toward the frosted glass partition. “You want the whole world to know?” he demanded. “Lower your voice.”
Gorman subsided, threw himself back into his chair, and remained silent.
“How do we get out of this, now?” the storekeeper asked.
“We don’t.”
“There’s got to be a way, Elihu.”
“Sure, we pay off like we agreed to do . . . in three months at thirty percent interest.”
“No!”
“Yes! We’ve been building up the value of the Finnerty place to Evan Houston for a year now. We even justified our own borrowing by making that loan on the false appraisal.”
“Damn it, I know all that.”
“Sure you do. You also know Houston is ready to buy, too, and that the bank was set to foreclose this month, and on the strength of that . . . and my position here . . . you and I borrowed forty thousand to redeem the place from the bank. Now, Moses, you take your copy of that loan paper to Phoenix and ask any lawyer down there how you get out of repaying . . . and he’ll tell you that you don’t get out of it, that you repay.”
Beach wiped his face with a sleeve and continued to stare at Gorman. “There’s got to be a way, Elihu,” he said huskily.
“I don’t know what it is. While I was waiting for you, I did some thinking.”
“Go on.”
“Suppose Houston goes to Finnerty now?”
“Well, what if he does?”
“Finnerty’ll sell to him.”
Beach’s eyes widened with comprehension. “After we’ve built Houston up on the value and Finnerty’ll get the profit . . . ?”
“That’s right.”
After a moment of agonized silence Moses Beach got to his feet and crossed to the door. “I got to get back,” he husked. “I’ll see you tonight, Elihu. We got to think of something . . . something . . .”
Gorman also arose. “When you gamble big,” he intoned, “you win big or you lose big. All right. I’ll be here at the bank after closing time.”
Moses Beach stopped on the plank walk in front of the bank, gulping big lungfuls of insufficient oxygen. It was difficult to breathe. When people passed, some nodding, some speaking, he ignored them. Riders and buggies and battered ranch wagons ground through the roadway’s dust; he scarcely saw them. Opposite him in the shade of the Royal Antler’s overhang, two talking men caught and retained his attention. One of them was broadly smiling. Moses recognized him instantly as cowman Gerald Finnerty. The other man, hawk-like in profile, dark and thoughtful-looking, was Tom Barker. Very gradually suspicion began to form in Moses Beach’s mind.
Barker and Finnerty passed from sight through the saloon doorway. They were going to have a drink together, going to celebrate. Beach’s eyes turned glassy; a haziness obscured things. He put out a hand, grasped an upright, and steadied himself. How? How had Barker found out? Why did he give Finnerty the money? What was he doing? What was he up to?
When the dizziness momentarily lessened, Moses crossed the road. Gorman had said it didn’t matter where the money had come from; the important thing was that Finnerty had redeemed his note. Moses grimaced. The important thing wasn’t Finnerty or his note at all; it was the $40,000 repayable within ninety days at thirty percent interest.
As the day wore on, Beach’s trouble getting enough oxygen increased and he went home at 3:30 in the afternoon. At 6:00, while Elihu Gorman was consulting his watch impatiently, Dr. Albigence Spence was informing Moses Beach’s wife that her husband had suffered a severe stroke and would be bedridden for weeks, and might even be permanently paralyzed.
At 6:30 Dr. Spence left the Beach residence, went to the Royal Antler for his nightcap, met Judge Montgomery there on his way home from the courthouse, and told him what had happened. The judge was aghast; so was the lanky blue-eyed cowboy lounging beside him at the bar.
“But he’s not an old man,” the judge said, looking down upon the medical man’s less majestic height. “He’s no older than you or me, Al.”
Dr. Spence drank off his sour mash and nodded for another. “Since when’s age got anything to do with a stroke?” he asked absently, watching the bartender’s hands.
“Well, I don’t know, but . . .”
“You’re pale as a ghost, Judge. Have a refill on me.”
The judge had his second drink; color returned to his face; his voice firmed up. “What caused it?” he asked.
Dr. Spence turned irritable. “How the hell would I know? All I know is that he had it.”
“Will he recover all right?”
“Who knows? He’ll never be the same again, I can tell you that. My guess is that there’s damage to his brain. How much damage, or to what extent he’ll recover from it, I have no idea. Only time can answer that.”
The doctor was turning away. Judge Montgomery put out a hand. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. They don’t talk, Judge. Cerebral hemorrhages don’t ordinarily occur or continue to occur during consciousness. He’s unconscious. In fact, he may not even know anything’s happened to him for several days.”
The doctor started forward again, then stopped as a tall, erect man, looking disgruntled and testy, came up, nodded, and motioned for a drink.
“’Evening, Judge. ’Evening, Doctor.”
Spence bobbed his head. “Just came from Moses’s place, Elihu. He’s had a stroke.”
The tall man stiffened; his hand, extended for the shot glass, grew still on the bar top. “A stroke?”
“Yes.” Spence looked from Judge Montgomery to the banker. His voice sounded dry now. “You’d better drink that. I don’t want any more patients tonight.”
Elihu Gorman drank and set the glass down. “Is he dead?”
“No, he’s alive. But he’s not out of the woods by a damned sight.”
“I need another drink,” Gorman said, and abruptly turned his back on the room, bending forward over the bar.
Dr. Spence frowned, nodded to the judge, and left. The lanky cowboy beside Montgomery had both elbows on the bar. He was nursing an amber glass of ale in both hands and looking steadily into the backbar mirror. Visible to him against the north wall, lounging there with a bottle, a glass, and a bowl of chili was Tom Barker. From time to time the dark man would gaze at the banker and at the judge, then he would sip his whiskey. The lighting was poor except in the center of the room and Barker’s face was obscure. The Texan drank his ale a little at a time. He was wondering how much revenge Tom wanted from this little town.
VI
Moses Beach regained consciousness the day following his stroke, but Albigence Spence’s prognosis had been correct; there was brain damage. There was also a partial paralysis that prevented Beach from using his hands, arms, or vocal cords. He lay like a vegetable in his bed, alive and physically functioning, but in all other respects quite dead. Dr. Spence called often; it was an interesting case. He had no great feeling for Beach, he had known him too long for that, but it was an interesting case. One rarely found real medical challenges on the frontier. What particularly intrigued Spence was the extent of brain damage, and when, if Beach recovered, he wou
ld be normal again. Spence rather doubted it. Another thing that interested him was the odd attitude of Elihu Gorman since Beach’s stroke. Gorman was drinking more lately and he was so preoccupied most of the time that he scarcely recognized lifelong acquaintances.
Dr. Spence knew, as did everyone else around Beatty, that Beach and Gorman were allies in any number of financial ventures, that they held whip hands over most of the cowmen and some of the merchants. He could easily surmise, then, that Beach’s stroke affected in some way their financial partnership and Gorman was worried over it. The extent of Gorman’s anxiety was plain in his actions. Dr. Spence found this amusing because he held Elihu Gorman in as scornful a light as he did Moses Beach. In fact, it cheered him, which was a vast improvement because his normal disposition was cynical and generally brusque.
Two other men were affected by Beach’s illness. Tom Barker met Tex Earle at the creek overlooking Beatty on a blistering Friday afternoon. They smoked and talked and sat cross-legged in the shade, Indian-like, through intervals of long silence, each busy with his thoughts. Tex whittled a twig with long, smooth sweeps of his Barlow knife and puffed desultorily upon a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You know who owns half the livery barn, don’t you?” he said.
Barker shook his head. “No. Who?”
“The judge.”
“And . . . ?”
“And the barn gets its hay and grain from Finnerty. Has for years.”
Tom’s dark face hosted a faint smile. “Fine. The price of hay and grain just went up.”
Tex continued to whittle. “They’ll get it somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
Tex regarded his stick through squinted eyes. “You’ll run out of money, Tom. You can’t buy every cowman in the valley.”
“No, but I can option all their hay and grain.”
“Huh?”
“Pay ’em a little money to tie up their crops for, say, sixty days. If I don’t pay the rest, they keep my money. If I do pay ’em the rest . . . the grain and hay are mine.”
“Oh, that’s what’s called an option, eh?”
“Yeah.”
Tex lowered his head; shavings fell in long pale curls under his knife. “But it’s still a losing proposition. You’re still going to lose your money.”
Tom made a cigarette and lit it before he replied. “Maybe,” he conceded. “And maybe not. Finnerty’s making up a drive of fat two-year-olds for the San Carlos Agency. He’s going to pay me off as soon as he gets back. Fifteen percent interest on my money.” Tom exhaled and fixed his gaze upon the town below them. “That fifteen percent’ll amount to nine months’ wages as a rider, Tex.” He paused. “I’m beginning to understand how men make money without working for it.”
Earle threw the twig away, snapped his knife closed, and pocketed it. “Yeah,” he said dryly, getting to his feet. “But they earn it, Tom. Take that storekeeper lying in bed down there and turning purple in the face trying to tell folks things.”
Barker’s head twisted. “What do you mean?”
“That cantankerous old sawbones. He gets a couple drinks behind his belt and shoots off his mouth like an old squaw. He was telling the sheriff last night that Beach’s rational now, and acts like he’s about to bust trying to talk.”
Barker considered this. It required no vast deductive power to guess what Beach was upset about. Someway, perhaps through Finnerty although the cowman had been sworn to secrecy, Beach knew who had put up the redemption money. He was apparently trying to tell who it was, which meant that Gorman didn’t yet know. If Beach did know and Gorman didn’t know, then . . .
Tom got quickly to his feet. Tex covertly eyed him, saw the sharpness of his expression, the hooded knife-edged glitter of his eyes, and let a noiseless sigh pass his lips. He was moving toward his horse when he said: “All you want to know is where else Montgomery’ll get the hay?”
“For now, yes.”
“See you Monday, then,” Tex said, gathering his reins and vaulting into the saddle. “Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“You going to the dance?”
“What dance?”
“Volunteer firemen’s dance at the Methodist Church Sunday evening.”
Barker started to speak and stopped. He was balancing something in his mind. He shrugged finally and said: “I might at that, Tex. You supposed to fetch a girl along?”
“If you want to, but it ain’t the law hereabouts. Me, I’m taking Miss Eloise from the Royal Antler.”
“I might see you there.”
Tex laughed and the boyishness returned to his face. In a light voice he said: “If you’re there, you’ll see me all right.” Then he rode away.
Tom did not mount immediately, and, when he did, he made the same circuitous ride he ordinarily did after one of their meetings, and loped into Beatty from the south with afternoon shadows running along before him.
At the hotel Sheriff Tim Pollard pushed himself up out of a chair when Tom entered and stopped him on the stairs with a mild greeting.
“’Evening, Mister Barker.”
“Sheriff.”
“If you’re not too busy, I’d like to have a little talk with you.”
“All right,” Tom replied. “Talk.”
Sheriff Pollard considered this. From the corner of his eye he saw the desk clerk straining to hear. “Might be better in private,” he mumbled.
Tom led the way to his upstairs room, kicked a chair forward for Pollard, and crossed to the window, turned and stood with his back to the dying light, legs spread wide and impatience shading his face. “Talk,” he said again.
Pollard did not start right away. He studied the powerful shoulders, thick legs, and finally bent his serene gaze upon the handsome, forceful face. “I guess you can take care of yourself, all right,” he speculated. “Leastways you got the look of a man who can.”
Tom stood in silence, waiting.
“Charley Ingersoll’s brother is comin’ for you.”
“Is that a fact?” Tom said coldly.
Pollard’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “It’s a fact,” he repeated quietly. “Y’know, Barker, you’re sure not goin’ out of your way to make friends in Beatty.”
Tom rocked forward on his toes. “There’s a Methodist minister in town, isn’t there?”
Pollard nodded, looking a little puzzled.
“Then let him do the preaching, Sheriff.”
Pollard flushed and stood up. The deceptive drowsiness was gone now and his voice was hard. “We don’t like troublemakers here, Barker.”
“But you got no law against a man protecting himself.”
“An ordinary man . . . no. A gunfighter . . . yes. We got laws here.”
“Sundown laws, Sheriff?”
“That’s right. A gunfighter’ll get till sundown to leave town.”
“I’m not a gunfighter, though.”
Sheriff Pollard went to the door, opened it, and stood half in, half out, of the room. “I’m checkin’ on that right now, Barker. If I can prove that you are, you’ll leave Beatty. We don’t want any more killings here.”
Pollard was moving to close the door when Tom’s voice stopped him. “One thing you forgot, Sheriff. A man isn’t as easy to push around as a kid.”
Pollard closed the door and went along the hall and down the stairs with a deep frown. Back in the room Barker remained stiff and straight. His jaws cut hard lines against his cheeks. He turned slowly and gazed down into the roadway. Puddling shadows were thickening there; there was the acrid scent of dust in the air. Across the road lamplight showed from the bank. Slowly bunched muscles slackened and Tom moved toward the door.
* * * * *
Elihu Gorman was standing beside his desk with one hand braced against the cubicle’s flimsy wall, shoving his full weight against it, feeling a heedless kind of fury and frustration. He did not at once hear the knocking, nor did he immedia
tely heed it after he heard it. The knocking grew more insistent. Gorman dropped the arm, pulled himself up, and went out through the empty building and flung back the panel. There were caustic words on his tongue and pointless anger in his eyes, but the big, powerfully-built dark man standing there, evil-looking in the orange light, held him silent.
“My name is Barker,” the big man said. “I’d like a few words with you.”
“The bank is closed!”
Barker’s stare hardened; Gorman braced into it.
“I won’t take much of your time and you may find it profitable to listen.”
Elihu stepped begrudgingly aside. Tom entered and watched the banker lock the door, straighten up, and march to his office.
From behind his desk Gorman nodded curtly, indicating a chair. Barker did not sit down. He said: “I’ve got forty thousand dollars I want to put out at small interest on long-term loans.”
Gorman’s stiffness slowly departed. He sank down behind the desk. The sharpness left his voice; it became deep and pleasant. “How long, Mister Barker?”
“A year, two years.”
“You want this money to work for you . . . is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well,” Elihu said, and smiled. “Three percent interest?”
“I had three percent in mind, yes.”
“Would you consider putting it all out in one loan at three percent on, say, a two-year basis?”
“I had in mind several small loans.”
“Oh, well, of course it’s your money, but I can tell you frankly . . . in confidence . . . that I have a place for forty thousand on a two-year plan, and I honestly believe I can get you four percent. It’s gilt-edged, Mister Barker.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “Four percent sounds good,” he said.
“It’s as good as gold, Mister Barker.”
“Well secured?”
“The bank itself will guarantee it.”
Tom’s expression of concentration deepened. After a moment he said: “I’ll sleep on it.”
Elihu arose, held the door for Tom, and escorted him to the roadway entrance. “I’ll set it up for you,” he said, thrusting his hand out. “All the data will be assembled by eleven o’clock.”
