by J. T. Edson
Walking through the darkness, Skerrit studied the livery barn and wondered how he might best scout it. To go around one side and examine the front from a corner struck him as the first answer. Then he remembered the nature of the man with whom he must contend. Wherever Scobie Dale might be, there would be his dogs; the tools of his trade. To make a mistake could prove dangerous, if not fatal, when dealing with such a man.
At the rear of the big main building of the barn, Skerrit tried the door and found it unlocked. He carefully eased it open, ready to draw it shut again at the first sound of a dog’s growl. None came and he stepped into the barn. To assist his customers, the ham’s owner kept a couple of lanterns burning in the barn, allowing anyone who wished to collect a horse to see what they were doing. Apart from a few horses, Skerrit found he had the barn to himself. He crossed to the front window and looked out, the big main doors being closed for the night although not locked. One glance told him that he had called the play right.
Before the building stood a four-wheeled wagon of the Rocker ambulance pattern originally designed for the U.S. Army during the Civil War, and still regarded as the best vehicle of its kind in use. Scobie Dale stood at the wagon, having just completed hitching its team, with the girl at his side talking a blue streak or Skerrit missed his guess. He could also make a reasonably accurate forecast at the nature of the conversation. Even without the stimulus of hatred caused by the hound dog man felling and humiliating him, Skerrit knew the other must die. Such information as Pauline possessed, given out to the public, would ruin Skerrit’s employer. So she and any person to whom she imparted even a portion of her story must die.
Bringing about the death presented something of a problem though, as Skerrit saw in his scrutiny of the situation. While he could see the wagon well enough, the front of the barn being illuminated as well as the interior, obtaining an unrestricted line of fire at the man or girl presented difficulties. Going out of the rear door and around the side did not offer any answer. Scobie Dale’s dogs, half-a-dozen hounds and the Rottweiler, stood or lay around the wagon and would be sure to hear him no matter how quietly he moved. Even a town-dwelling man like Skerrit knew enough to be aware of that fact. Nor would he be any better off if he broke a window or opened the front door. In either case, the sound would alert Scobie Dale and Skerrit had already received one demonstration of the speed with which the hound dog man could act.
Looking around in his search for a way out of the deadlock, Skerrit saw a ladder leading up to the hayloft. That might possibly supply the answer. He walked to the foot of the ladder and began to climb it. As his head drew level with the top, he found that luck appeared to be with him. During the day, hay had been brought up into the loft – drawn by rope and pulley to the scaffold built over the large door set in the wall for that purpose – and the door left open. That offered Skerrit an ideal and safe way of handling his business.
Stepping cautiously, he advanced towards the loft’s door. He slid the Smith & Wesson into his hand, cocking it rather than chance the slight deviation in aim caused by the pressure required to operate the double-action mechanism. On reaching the door, he paused and looked down. Clearly neither Dale nor the girl suspected his presence, for they stood face to face talking. A rifle leaned close to the hound dog man’s hand against the front wheel of the wagon, but that did not worry Skerrit. Long before Scobie Dale realized his danger, or could take up the rifle, he would be dead.
‘First Dale, then the girl,’ thought Skerrit and brought up his revolver.
Four – An Error of Ignorance
After his dogs joined him, Scobie Dale dropped the Remington back into its holster and turned to walk along the street. He grinned sardonically as he wondered why in hell he billed in upon that business in the saloon. It was always the same, let him see a girl or little feller being picked on and he had to intervene. Only on this occasion, he might have been more indiscreet than in most cases. More than one man who entered into such a game wound up lying face down on the range with a bust skull and pockets emptied by the girl he tried to help.
Yet the girl had seemed to be genuinely afraid, or Scobie was no judge. It might have been her first night at such work causing her to have doubts as to the wisdom of taking employment in a saloon; but he felt that something far deeper lay behind her refusal to go with the man.
Well, the incident had ended; unless that hardcase wanted to make something more of it when he recovered. If so he would have to come after Scobie. The news about the bear demanded immediate attention. Desborough lay a good three days’ journey away from Braddock and the sooner he reached it the better. Only rarely did a bear take to eating human beings, but it easily developed a taste for such salty and easily obtained flesh. When that happened, a man had more trouble than plenty and then some. The sooner that bear died, the quicker the folks out Desborough way could sleep easy in their beds.
On reaching the livery barn, he found that its owner had led out his team horses and fastened them to the Rocker wagon. Before hitching the team, he went to the small shack loaned to him as a temporary kennel for his hound pack. Opening the door, he let out two Blueticks, a pair of black and tan colored Plott hounds – the tan striped with brindle lines – and a Treeing Walker, white with tan markings. All the dog hounds, and the Bluetick bitch looked in the peak of condition, healthy, hard muscled, as tireless as buffalo-wolves and without any hint of the tail-drooping fear many dogs of the day showed due to harsh, cruel training and breaking methods. Scobie stood firm in his belief that kindness – not mawkish sentimentality – beat whip, choke collar or other such methods used by most of his kind. Anyone comparing the spirits of his pack with the usual run of hounds could not help agreeing his way paid the best results.
Allowing his hounds to roam about, Scobie led up his big riding horse. He had already removed the saddle and left it inside the wagon while visiting the saloon, so needed only to fasten the horse’s hackamore to its usual place on the tailgate. Thinking back on what happened at the Liberty Bell, Scobie slid the rifle from the saddleboot. Before starting to hitch up the team horses, he rested the 50.95 Colt Lightning Express rifle against the nearside wheel. Happen that jasper from the saloon felt like making more fuss, he might not come alone and, like he pointed out, the Remington held only one bullet.
Strike, the Rottweiler let out a low growl, standing facing the end of the building. Even as Scobie reached towards the butt of his pistol, he saw the small girl step around the corner. Carrying a small bag, hastily packed if the trailing sleeve of a dress proved anything, she stood looking in his direction^
‘Can I come over?’ she asked.
‘Come ahead,’ Scobie offered. ‘Quiet, Strike. Don’t worry about the dogs, ma’am – and don’t try to lay a hand on any of them.’
While the girl’s arrival might be part of a trap, Scobie felt little concern. Happen she had companions, lurking in the darkness, ready to jump him, well the pack ought to find them first. Then let the lurkers do the worrying.
‘What happened down there?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the saloon and setting down her bag.
‘Not much,’ Scobie replied.
‘Was there any trouble?’
‘None that I know about.’
‘But Skerrit – the man who wanted me—’
‘We settled things,’ Scobie answered. ‘You don’t reckon he’s likely to still be wanting you, do you?’
‘I know he will be,’ Pauline stated. ‘So I’ve got to get out of here the worst kind of way.’
‘Just ’cause some jasper wants you out of a saloon full of willing gals?’
‘I’m the one he wants,’ the girl insisted. ‘No matter how willing the rest,’
‘You know your affairs better than I do,’ commented Scobie.
‘That’s for sure,’ Pauline agreed. ‘So I’m asking you to take me with you when you pull out. You are going tonight aren’t you?’
‘As soon as I’ve hitched up the tea
m. When a grizzly takes to man-eating there’s no time to be wasted in running him down.’
‘Will you take me along?’
‘Because you figure that feller’s after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘My pappy wasn’t a smart man, but he once in a while gave me some real good advice,’ said Scobie. ‘He always used to say, “Son, never sit in on a game unless you know just how it’s played”. Which same, there’s a whole lot I don’t know about this game right now.’
‘That feller was Ike Skerrit,’ Pauline explained.
‘So that’s who he was.’
‘He’s a hired gun, one of the best.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Mister, if I’d gone with him, I wouldn’t’ve come back.’
‘His kind only kill when there’s pay in it for them, gal,’ Scobie stated.
‘There’d be pay in it all right. He’s been hired to kill me,’ Pauline answered and paused to hear Scobie’s comments. When none came, she continued, ‘He’s been after me for a month or more. I thought I’d shook him until he showed at Zimmerman’s tonight.’
‘Must want you bad, to keep after you that long.’
‘Bad enough. I saw Jervis Thorpe kill a man.’
Scobie looked long and hard at the girl. Watching his scarred face, Pauline failed to read anything but guessed that was not due to ignorance of Jervis Thorpe’s identity?
‘You mean Jervis Thorpe, the big-time lawyer and politician over to Cheyenne?’ he finally asked.
‘That’s just who I mean,’ the girl agreed, throwing a nervous glance around her. ‘I know what you’re going to say. That he’s a fine, upstanding man, always ready to stand up for the rights of the working folks—’
‘That’s what you hear about him, all right,’ admitted Scobie. ‘I only met him once; come with the Governor on a cougar hunt. Vixen didn’t like him.’
‘Vixen?’
‘My other Bluetick bitch. She’s in the wagon there, just about ready to drop a litter. That lil bitch’s a mighty fine judge of character. You reckon you saw him kill a man?’
‘I know I saw him,’ corrected the girl.
While they talked, Scobie continued to work at harnessing his horses to the wagon. Yet he paid considerable attention to the girl, more than his earlier inclination had been. When Scobie first saw Pauline coming, he expected to hear the usual story that she must leave town in a hurry to avoid the man in the saloon’s unwanted attentions. Only she did not have the money for the stage fare and hoped that Scobie would be gentleman enough to help out with a loan. He could not believe that the girl would spin such a tale merely to trick money out of him. It sounded just fantastic enough to be true – and yet Jervis Thorpe, whatever faults he might have, would hardly be likely to commit a murder in front of a witness.
‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘Did you hear about the robbery at the Cattlemen’s Trust Bank in Cheyenne?’ Pauline inquired.
‘Heard about it. The boss teller was found knifed and the vault opened with his keys. The bank lost thirty thousand dollars in cash money and that much again in securities, they do tell. Are you telling me that Thorpe took it?’
‘I’m only telling you what I saw,’ the girl replied. They stood facing each other level with the wagon box on the side nearest to the livery barn and Pauline tried in vain to read some expression on Scobie’s face. ‘I was working at the Crystal Palace—’
‘Fancy place,’ commented Scobie.
‘You sound as if you know it.’
‘I’ve been to Cheyenne,’ the hound dog man admitted.
‘Well, you can guess that I couldn’t afford to room anywhere in that neighborhood on my pay. Anyways, I lived on the other side of town and used to walk through the backstreets to work each night. That was how I saw the killing. I had to pass the rear of the bank if I went one way. I was going that way on the night. Well, I saw the two fellers standing talking out back of the bank, arguing or so it looked, and stopped. You can imagine what would happen to a saloon-girl who got mixed up in a fuss, no matter how innocent she might be.’
‘I can imagine,’ agreed Scobie.
‘Well,’ the girl continued, ‘I stopped in the shadows. The men talked for a spell and then the teller turned. Thorpe pulled a knife – I don’t know where he carried it, in that fancy walking cane maybe – and shoved it into the teller’s back.’
‘Then took the keys?’
‘Not right then. He looked around, then walked away,’ Pauline answered. ‘He even lit a cigar as he left. That’s how I came to recognize him. You can just bet that I kept quiet. In fact I think I stopped breathing until he’d gone by.’
‘What did you do then?’ Scobie asked.
‘I turned and ran. Mister, I was one scared girl. Only when I reached the Palace, I found that I’d dropped my vanity bag. It must have been the shock of seeing the murder. Anyway, the next thing I knew one of the girls told me Kale Schuster had brought it in and was asking who owned it.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He works for Thorpe. A troubleshooter, bodyguard, call him what you like. One thing I did know. If Schuster had the bag, they must have found it back of the bank and knew I’d seen the killing. So I got out of the Palace, went back to my room, packed and caught a train.’
‘And you figure they’ve been after you ever since?’
‘I know they have. Not Skerrit all the time, but others like him. I’d arrive in a town, take work and before I’d been there many days, there’d be somebody asking after me. About a week ago, another girl agreed to help me. She looked enough like me to make my idea work. We changed clothes and she took a stage east. I came here to work at the Liberty Bell. Only tonight Skerrit arrived.’
‘And you’re certain he’s after you?’ asked Scobie.
‘Would I make up a story like this just to pull the old “ticket home” game on you?’ snorted Pauline.
‘Likely not,’ Scobie admitted. ‘Only it takes some believ—’
While their master and the girl talked, the dogs roamed around the wagon to investigate such interesting smells as might be found. Suddenly Song, the Treeing Walker halted and cocked his head in the air, tilting it on one side. Then the hound went bounding towards the front of the barn, looking up towards the hayloft and making the night ring with a deep, throaty chop baying. Catching the familiar sound, the rest of the pack joined in; the bawl of the Plotts merging with the steady, coarse chop of the Blueticks and all but drowning the ordinary dog barking of the Rottweiler.
Up in the loft Ike Skerrit’s revolver lined at Scobie, then a sudden shock ran through the killer as he realized that the dogs gave warning of his presence. Yet they could not be aware of his presence. Although the floor of the barn had reasonable illumination, the loft lay in darkness. If he had gone around the side of the building, the dogs would have heard him easily; which was why he climbed to the loft, so as to be above them and avoid detection. Only something had gone wrong.
Skerrit had made a miscalculation when forming his plan. It was an error of ignorance, for he failed to appreciate one basic, vital fact. As a town-dweller, he had never come into contact with a pack of working hounds and so knew nothing of the Treeing Walker’s special qualifications.
The thing which set a Treeing Walker apart from the rest of its fox-chasing breed was its interest in arboreal animals. Instead of being content to trail its prey along the ground, the Treeing Walker preferred to hunt creatures which climbed trees when pursued. So such a hound possessed the knack of locating its prey – or detecting danger – well above ground level. On hearing the sounds of Skerrit moving in the loft, Song gave a warning and alerted the rest of the pack; as he had done more than once when a bear or cougar took to the branches of a tree and waited in ambush. Years of working with hounds had taught Scobie to differentiate between the various tones they used when hunting. So he needed only to hear Song’s deep-throated tree chop to know where the danger lay.
> Shooting out his left hand, Scobie thrust the girl aside. In the same move he began to drop to his right knee and his other hand reached for the Colt Lightning rifle. He did not move an instant too soon. Flame lashed from Skerrit’s Smith & Wesson before the killer could halt his finger pressure and alter his aim. The bullet passed through the air so close that it burned a furrow in the nap of Scobie’s hat before burying itself in the body of the wagon.
While not a gunfighter, Scobie knew just what to do in such a situation. Even as he sank down with bent left leg and right knee on the ground, his fingers closed upon the small of the Lightning’s butt and started to raise the rifle. From thrusting the girl aside, his left hand came across to catch the wooden cocking grip of the trombone slide mechanism. Whipping the rifle to his shoulder, Scobie lined it up to where Skerrit showed blacker than the dark outline of the loft’s door and squeezed the trigger. The rifle crashed loud in the night. Automatically Scobie’s left hand flicked the wooden grip back and forwards to eject the empty case and replace it with a loaded round. Skerrit shot backwards under the impact of a solid lead bullet – Scobie did not use the 300-grain hollow Express bullet for which the rifle had been designed, regarding it as a poor killer compared with the solid variety – 50 in caliber and powered by no less than ninety-five grains of best du Pont powder.
‘Under the wagon, gal!’ Scobie ordered as he thrust himself up and followed his hounds towards the barn, not noticing that Pauline had already disappeared underneath it.
A powerful kick from Scobie’s right leg burst inwards the small pedestrian’s door of the main entrance and the pack stormed through the gap. No shots greeted their entrance and Scobie went after them. Going into the barn in a fast rolling dive, Scobie lit down on the floor and twisted into the shadows behind some bales of hay. He landed with the Lightning slanted up at the loft, ready to shoot. Nothing happened. Apart from the Rottweiler and hounds clamoring at the foot of the loft’s ladder, he might have had the place to himself.
Still Scobie did not rise and expose himself to a possible bullet from above. In such conditions patience was more than a mere virtue, it could be the means of remaining alive.
