by Lauran Paine
“Now what.”
“I’m splitting off when we find Gorman. I’m heading back for the high country.”
The sun was sending up its pink feelers when they saw the little town huddled against a red-stone hill less than three miles ahead. Sharp new light on wooden fronts and low adobe houses stood out, mingling with shadows. “He’d better be here,” Tom said, touching cracked lips with his tongue.
“If he ain’t, he rented a horse and went on alone,” said Tex. “That stationmaster at Mirage said they lay over here until the southbound morning stage comes in.”
They were riding down the empty, dust-layered roadway when Tom pointed. “There’s the coach.”
“Yep. He’ll be asleep at the station probably.”
As they dismounted in the still and fragrant coolness, Tom looked across his saddle leather. “Tex? You didn’t mean that back there, did you?”
Tex kept his head averted, hitched up his shell belt, and patted his horse. “Damned critter’s tucked up like a gutted snowbird,” he said, ignoring the question. “Well, let’s roust him out.”
XV
Tex thought the look on Elihu Gorman’s face, when they found him bedded down at the adobe stage station and Tom shook him awake, was almost worth the grueling twenty-hour ride, and, if his stomach hadn’t been flap-empty and hung up on his backbone, he might even have smiled. As it was, he simply reached down, grasped Gorman’s shoulder, and jerked him upright off the cot, and, when Gorman fumbled under his coat, Tex slapped his wrist hard and the little under-and-over .41 Derringer fell to the earthen floor with scarcely a sound.
Three other sleeping men in the room did not stir. Tex propelled the banker out into the soft dawn light and let go of him when he heard Tom cock his pistol. Gorman’s head jerked at the little snippet of mechanical sound; his eyes widened and grew very round; they fixed a watery stare on Tom Barker as Tex moved aside. “No,” he croaked. “Wait a minute, Barker . . . I’ll return it.”
“Where is it?”
The banker worked frantic fingers at his clothing, reached under his shirt, and drew out the money belt and let it fall. Tex retrieved the belt, hefted it, and made a silent whistle with his lips. “Didn’t know paper money had so much weight.”
Tom eased off the hammer and holstered his gun. “You’re a vengeful cuss, aren’t you?” he said to Gorman. “Why weren’t you satisfied just to take the money?”
Before the banker could respond, Tex cut in with: “Yeah. I got a notion if you’d just taken the money, Tom would’ve let you go. He don’t like Beatty anyway. But feller, when you stuck his name on that note, you invited us to run you down.” Tex wagged his head. “That wasn’t very smart, Gorman.”
“Take half the money and let me go,” the banker offered. Then, seeing the mirthless smile on Tex Earle’s face, he said: “Take it all. Just let me go.”
“You’re going, all right,” Tom said dryly. “But south, not north.”
Gorman shuffled his feet. His sleepy, puffy face turned tense and his eyes moved wetly.
Tom shook his head gently. “Don’t try it, Gorman. You wouldn’t get fifty feet.”
A rumpled-looking man came to the doorway of one of the adobe huts, scratched an ample belly with both hands, made a circuit of the inside of his mouth with his tongue, and spat, squinted long at the rising sun, then, hearing voices, turned and stared, mouth dropping open and bleary eyes widening. He jumped back out of sight and reappeared a moment later with a cocked riot gun in both hands.
“Here!” he called out boomingly. “What’n hell’s going on over there?”
Tom eyed the shotgun and the stubbly face above it. “Nothing that concerns you,” he retorted. “We’re just taking a bank robber back to Beatty.”
Acting quickly Elihu called out: “That’s a lie! These two just took my money belt.”
Tex, still holding the belt, looked from it to the man with the shotgun. “Hey,” he protested, “point that damned thing some other direction, mister. They got a habit of going off.”
The shotgun made a tight, short arc. It’s holder snarled: “Drop them guns you two, and make no mistake, this thing’ll cut you in two at that distance.” As Tom and Tex were moving to comply, the stage company hostler raised his voice: “Sam! Oh, Sam! Come out here!”
A second man appeared in the doorway. He was holding a griddle-cake turner in one hand and he was scowling darkly, as though early morning interruptions upset him. “What is it?”
“Looks like there’s robbery goin’ on here, Sam.”
The man called Sam looked, and lowered his hand with the turner in it. His scowl deepened. “What the hell you fellers doin’?” he demanded gruffly.
“They’re robbing me,” Elihu Gorman repeated. “They came in with drawn guns, got me out of bed, and brought me out here ’n’ took my money belt. Dammit, you can see what they’ve done, can’t you?”
“I can see,” Sam said, walking forward, still holding his griddle-cake turner. “Gimme that belt,” he ordered Tex. The belt sailed through the air. Sam caught it with his free hand, opened one of the pockets, and peered in. His eyes popped wide open. He dropped the turner and opened several other compartments of the belt. Each time his eyes reflected astonishment. He was still holding the belt when Tom said: “There’s forty thousand dollars in that belt, mister. Every dollar of it was stolen from the Beatty bank by this man here. He was the town banker until night before last.”
“Y’mean he cleaned out his own bank?”
“That’s right.”
“That is a lie!” stormed Elihu Gorman. “These men got me out of . . .”
“Shut up,” Sam snarled, looking from Tom to Tex and back to Gorman. “Joe, come up here.” The man with the shotgun came warily forward. “Gimme that thing,” Sam said, taking the shotgun. “Here, squat down there and count this money.”
For a moment Gorman’s frown reflected perplexity, then his face cleared and he opened his mouth to speak. The man called Sam waved the riot gun. “I said shut up, mister. I meant it. Every time someone interrupts, Joe’s goin’ to have to start all over again. He can’t cipher so good.”
“You count it then,” Tom said.
Sam’s disgruntled look deepened. “An’ you keep quiet, too, mister. Besides, I can’t cipher at all, an’ that’s worse’n what little Joe knows about it.”
They stood there in the freshening daylight, watching the paunchy man squatting in the dust of the empty roadway counting money with knitted brows and moving lips. Somewhere behind the stage station someone was dragging chain harness with a musical sound. Someone else was forking hay, too, Tom knew, because several horses whinnied in unison and blew their noses. Finally the paunchy man folded the money back into the belt, stood up, and gazed at them all. “Heap of money in here, Sam,” he said with awe in his voice.
“Well, dammit, how much money?”
“Forty thousand dollars.”
Sam lowered the shotgun. “Mister,” he said to Gorman, “where’d you get that money?”
Gorman had his answer ready. “I just sold a ranch,” he said in a strong and convincing voice. “I’m going north to locate in Utah.”
Sam’s gaze studied Gorman through a silent moment, then his attention shifted to Tom. “You say he stole it?”
“I do. He was the banker at Beatty until night before last. He stole the money and . . .”
“Are you the law in Beatty, mister?”
“No, the law’s Sheriff Tim Pollard.”
Sam nodded. “That’s right. I know Pollard. How come he ain’t with you?”
“He’s out with another posse.”
Sam took the money belt from Joe, handed over the shotgun, and turned his back on them, walking toward the stage station. “Fetch ’em along,” he growled at Joe. “Breakfast time.”
They entered the station and met the startled look of three freshly washed male passengers who were just sitting down at the plank table. Sam was busy at a wood stove in one corner of th
e room. Those vertical lines between his eyes had not disappeared; he was deep in thought. Elihu Gorman protested loudly at being forced to eat at the same table with the outlaws who had just tried to steal his money. Sam, stacking griddle cakes on a thick crockery platter, started for the table. “Mister,” he said dourly, “even outlaws got to eat. Why don’t you just shut up and fill your gut?” Gorman subsided.
The three strangers at the table ate furtively, from time to time eyeing Joe, who remained by the door, his shotgun covering them all. They were nearly through breakfast when he sang out: “Northbound’s comin’. You fellers got ten minutes ’fore fresh horses are hitched to the southbound.”
One of the bystanders at the table raised his head. “I’m goin’ north, not south, dammit.”
Sam, seating himself at the table, looked up. “Be half hour before the northbound’s ready to pull out. Driver’s got to eat an’ horses got to be changed. Southbound’s already hitched up.” He looked at his plate. “Half hour ain’t long, pardner. Have a smoke and relax.”
They all heard the southbound stage rocket up amid a rattle of loose tugs and shod hoofs, and brake to a long halt. Sam continued to eat imperturbably but Joe fidgeted at the door. Voices rose and the scent of dust rode the still air. A burly, whiskered man burst past the door, saw Joe, and stopped stockstill, mouth open but wordless. He was a leathery-visaged man of indeterminate years with bright blue eyes. “What the hell,” he breathed finally. “Joe! What you doin’?”
“Been an attempted robbery here,” Sam said dryly without looking up from his plate. “The dude here says these two with their hats on robbed him.”
The driver circled the table so as not to get between the shotgun and the table, and said: “I’ll be damned. Ain’t it kind o’ early in the day for that kind of stuff?”
“Your griddle cakes are in the oven,” Sam said, chewing thoughtfully. “Coffee’s in the pot.”
The driver removed his hat, shoved gloves into it, and put the hat upon the table. He looked at the seated men a moment, then headed for the stove. Sam said: “No passengers, George?”
From the oven the driver mumbled a negative answer before heading for the table with a plate in his hands. “Joe,” he said, looking backward, “be a mite careful with that thing, will you?”
From the doorway Joe smiled.
Tom stood up. Tex cast a swift glance at Joe, and, seeing no movement, also arose. Farther down the table the stationmaster sighed, pushed back his plate, drained off the last of his coffee, and pushed himself upright. “You ready to roll?” he asked Elihu Gorman.
“But I’m going north,” the banker protested.
“You’re goin’ south,” Sam said firmly. “Hell, ridin’ stages this time of day is right pleasant, mister. You shouldn’t mind a little delay.”
“I just came from the south. I’m Utah bound, I told . . .”
“Mister,” Sam cut in, “there’s just one way to find out who is a liar here, and that’s to send the herd of you back to Beatty. Folks down there’ll know who’s a thief and who ain’t. Now get up an’ let’s be movin’. Can’t hold the stage up. Hard enough keepin’ to schedules as it is.”
Gorman marshaled arguments but they fell on stony ground. The stationmaster took the shotgun and drove Tom, Tex, and Gorman out to the waiting coach. There, he put the shotgun aside, sucked his teeth a moment, and said: “Mister, you said you was a rancher?”
“That’s right. I sold out down south and I’m going . . .”
“Yeah, I recollect all that.” Sam regarded Elihu with an unblinking stare. “Joe, go fetch them guns over there in the road.” When the guns were brought forward, Sam took them both, hefted them, and frowned. “You boys ready to go back?” he asked Tom and Tex.
Tom nodded. “We are. Give the guns to the driver. He can hand them over to Sheriff Pollard at Beatty.”
Sam shook his head. “Naw. Why bother the driver with ’em?” He held both guns out, butts forward. When Tom hesitated, he shoved the gun into his hand. “Go ahead, mister, take it.”
Tex accepted his gun and holstered it, but Tom stared straight into the stationmaster’s eyes. “Are you thinking there might be a reward on us?” he asked. “And maybe we might be worth more dead than alive?”
Sam’s expression looked pained. “There’s the shotgun, against that wheel yonder. I couldn’t reach it before you threw down on me, pardner.”
Tom still made no move to take the gun. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded.
The stationmaster bent forward from the waist, dropped the pistol into Tom’s holster, then reached for one of Elihu Gorman’s hands and held it out palm upward. “You ever seen a rancher with hands as soft and pink as these?” He dropped the hand and shoved the money belt into Tex’s hand. “Ever see a rancher’s face as white as his?” he asked. Tom slowly smiled and turned toward the coach. “Maybe you can’t cipher,” he told the stationmaster, “but you can sure read people.”
XVI
Elihu Gorman rode in a sulky slouch until Beatty appeared far ahead on the downgrade, then he drew up on the seat, his face turning pale, and, although Tom, who was closely watching him, thought he was going to speak, he said nothing.
The sun was riding high overhead, lemon-yellow and blindingly bright. Beatty was drowsing; horses at hitch rails stood hip-shot, eyes drooping and lower lips hanging slackly. Except for a number of idle men sitting in the shade along the plank walks there was no movement as the stage drew down to a halt and Tom stepped out. Gorman was next to get down, and Tex came last. Across the road in front of the hotel a man called sharply to someone. At the livery barn Mike Grogan recognized Tom, and stared, rooted to the ground. Another man who recognized all three stage passengers scuttled into the bank.
Tom took Gorman’s arm and started south toward the sheriff’s office. Tex, walking behind them, was triumphantly smiling.
Deputy Havestraw was in but Tim Pollard was still out with a posse. Havestraw was embarrassed and uncertain until Judge Montgomery burst in with a following of curious townsmen. “Lock that man up!” the judge thundered, jutting his face toward Elihu. “He robbed the bank.”
Havestraw moved, finally, putting Elihu in a cell and padlocking him there. Tex leaned against the wall making a cigarette and feeling good, even smiling into Montgomery’s white, angry face.
Tom considered the judge’s expression without speaking, then turned his back on him, crossed to an iron stove where a coffee pot sat, and filled a tin cup. He drank with his back to the room.
Judge Montgomery was uncomfortable. He had something to say but Tom’s back made it hard to speak. Eventually he turned on his heel and left the office.
There was a buzz of voices in the room. When Tom had emptied the cup, he faced around. Jack Havestraw had the money belt and was counting the bills on Tim Pollard’s desk; he did it reverently, and, when he finished, he looked up into the still faces clustered around the desk. “Forty thousand dollars,” he breathed softly. “Exactly what was stolen.”
Tom caught Tex’s eye and started for the door. Tex followed him out into the shimmering heat and across the road to the Royal Antler Saloon. Roy the bartender’s impassivity slipped; his mouth dropped open.
“You fellers back?” he asked pointlessly.
“Sour mash,” Tom said. “Two of ’em.”
“Sheriff’s lookin’ for you,” Roy confided, squinting around the nearly empty room.
Tex beamed a big smile. “Yeah, we just come from his jailhouse.”
“Old Montgomery’s bayin’ at the moon for your hides, too.”
Tom drank and nodded for a refill. “Hot out,” he said. Roy filled both glasses the second time, leaned on the bar, and studied the two sun-darkened faces. “What the hell’s goin’ on around here, anyway?” he asked plaintively.
“We just brought the bank robber back,” Tex said. “Elihu Gorman. He’s locked up at Pollard’s jail.”
“No.” Roy was dumbfounded. “Elihu Gorma
n?”
Tom twisted from the waist and gazed around the room. There were a dozen men lounging at the tables. Four of them were engaged in a desultory poker game. Hurrying boot steps thudded along the plank walk beyond the doors and a man entered. He stopped, squinting into the shaded room, then headed for the bar with a broad grin. It was Gerald Finnerty. “Hey!” he said, putting both hands on the counter and leaning toward Tom. “I just heard. You two been pretty busy.”
Tom nodded to Roy for a third drink. Finnerty reached for the glass as he spoke. “Montgomery was just tellin’ me.” The drink went down; Finnerty blew out a breath and his eyes watered slightly. “He was pleased as punch, didn’t even haggle over the hay price like he used to do.”
Tom gradually drew up against the bar. “The hay price?”
“Sure, for that twenty tons I had the boys bring in for him.”
Tex choked on his third drink and dabbed at his eyes. Roy solicitously got him a glass of water. “Trail dust’ll do that to a feller,” Roy murmured. “Drink this here water.”
“Finnerty, did you sell the judge twenty tons of hay?”
The rancher’s smile dwindled; the light died slowly in his eyes. “Sure. You sent word it’d be all right, Tom.”
“I did? Who told you that?”
“Miss Antoinette.”
Everyone’s attention was briefly diverted by a cry of joy from the doorway to the card room. It was Miss Eloise who had just caught sight of Tex and was rushing toward him, arms outflung.
Tom took Finnerty’s arm and guided him farther along the bar. “Miss Antoinette told you I’d said it was all right to sell her paw twenty tons of hay?” he asked.
“She sure did, Tom. The afternoon everyone was out lookin’ for you ’n’ Tex.”
Tom let go of the cowman’s arm. He called for Roy to bring two more drinks, downed his in one gulp, and headed for the door. Behind him, Tex was seeking unsuccessfully to break out of the iron embrace of Miss Eloise.
The bank was nearly empty when Tom entered it. A smiling clerk informed him that the judge had gone home for his midday meal and would not return probably until late in the afternoon. As Tom listened, he detected the sound of slow-riding horsemen coming into Beatty from the north. He went outside and watched as Sheriff Pollard and five dust-encrusted horsemen plodded through the hot sunlight. When Tim saw Tom standing in front of the bank, he drew up, staring. Finally he dismounted, flung his reins to one of the posse men, and walked stiffly forward into the shade of the overhang. His mustache was limply drooping and his shoulders sagged. “Hotter’n the hubs of hell,” he said tiredly. “Well, what’re you doin’ back here?”
