Death Rides the Night (17 page)

“Which would be a good reason for Eustis Harlow wantin' her dead,” muttered Pat.

“I thought about that too.” Sam shook his head worriedly. “But it don't work out with Jake Munort an' the Pages. Harlow didn't have any reason for wantin' them dead. Might've thought that about the Pages if he'd held out the money Ethan had borried, but he spikes that by comin' right out an' sayin' he's holding it for the kids. An' with Jake's ranch willed to Ezra like it was, it didn't do Harlow no good for Jake to die neither.”

“But maybe Harlow didn't know about Jake's will,” Pat pointed out. “I don't reckon many people did.”

“Mebby not, but that still don't give him no reason for wantin' the Pages dead. Look here,” Sam exclaimed. “Yo're figgerin' the same way I am 'bout them murders. You
know
Ezra didn't do 'em, don't you?”

“I'd like it better if I hadn't seen him shoot at me,” Pat muttered.

“That's right.” Sam was taken aback. “'Twouldn't do Harlow no good to kill you. Anyhow, how could anybody mistake anybody else for Ezra? God knows, there ain't another soul in the world that ugly, I reckon.”

“That's one reason,” Pat argued, “why it would be easier to fix up a disguise to look like him. Because he
is
so danged ugly. It'd be harder to fix up to look like a common hombre like me. But I haven't got red whiskers an' a scarred face an' one eye. See what I mean?”

“I reckon mebby I do,” Sam muttered thoughtfully. “You mean another feller wouldn't have to look too much like him to make everybody think 'twas Ezra right away. Red whiskers an' a twisted up face …” He stopped suddenly. “But who would do it? An' who got Ezra out of jail? An' where was he all last night?”

“Those're things I'd like to ask Ezra,” Pat said grimly. He threw away his cigarette and got up. “Let's drag him outta Kitty's room an' see can we wake him up yet.”

Sam went in with him. There was a light in the kitchen and they stopped in the living room and looked through the open door to see Doc Trimble standing there draining the last drop out of the pint whisky bottle Pat had dropped on the floor when he ran in to rescue Kitty from Ezra.

Doc looked at them unabashed and said mournfully, “Somebody spilled most of it on the floor here. A mighty careless way to treat whisky. Must have lots more around, eh?” His gaze roved avidly around the kitchen.

Pat laughed and told him, “Nope. Sam never has but one bottle here at a time.”

“You hadn't ought to be soakin' yoreself with whisky nohow,” Sam reproved him. “Why ain't you in there takin' care of Kitty?”

“Because Kitty is in there taking care of herself.” Doc Trimble hiccoughed gently. “I gave her something to keep her quiet for a couple of hours. You might use some of this hot water to scrub up the blood off the bedroom floor,” he went on with a wave of his arm toward the steaming containers on the stove. “And I'll be obliged if you'll remove the corpse from under the bed. I didn't like to mention it while those other men were here, but the presence of corpses in a delivery room is really distasteful to me.”

Both men started guiltily. Pat swallowed hard and asked in a hushed voice, “Did you say a corpse, Doc?”

“I didn't examine him closely,” the doctor admitted. “I assumed he was dead when he didn't object after I inadvertently kicked him a few times.”

Both men hurried into the bedroom. Kitty was lying on her side sleeping peacefully under the influence of the potion the doctor had administered.

Sam knelt beside the bed and felt of Ezra anxiously, then breathed a great sigh of relief and muttered, “He's still warm, Pat. Le's roll him out.”

They tugged at him and rolled him out from under the bed, and then Sam got him by the heels and dragged him across the floor into the living room.

Doc Trimble stood in the kitchen door and observed them with professional interest. “So it is Ezra,” he murmured. “I guessed as much when Kitty asked me not to betray his presence under her bed. A fine lady, that,” he added to Sam, “but most inconsiderate in being too impatient to wait the two weeks I had planned for her.”

He came and knelt by Ezra's side and made a deft examination of the unconscious man while Sam and Pat drew back and watched him.

“He has a good solid head,” said Trimble approvingly. “He'll be all right in a couple of hours.” He got up and fastidiously dusted off his hands.

“Can't we wake him up before that, Doc?” asked Pat anxiously.

“I don't know how. You might hit him again in the same place.” Trimble shrugged. “Safer to let him sleep it off.” He strolled in to see how his patient was resting.

Pat and Sam studied the big man dubiously. “Two hours yet 'fore he wakes up,” Sam groaned. “Seems like we never will find out …”

He stopped speaking and turned to look at Pat as they heard a rider coming up outside. By common consent, they quickly went to the door and stepped out into the cool of the evening.

The rider was Pinky Wright, owner of a small horse ranch west of the express station and a few miles south of Dutch Springs. He was leading two horses and he looked dusty and tired.

“Evenin',” he greeted Pat and Sam. “I was ridin' by and thought I'd say howdy. Didn't know I'd find you here, Pat.” He looked curiously at Pat's wounded arm but didn't mention it.

“Squat an' roll a cigarette,” Sam said hospitably. “Doc Trimble's inside with Kitty is why I won't ask you to stay an' eat supper.”

“Is Kitty sick?”

“Sam's sicker'n she is,” Pat chuckled. “It's always harder on the papas than on the mamas.”

“Oh.” Pinky nodded knowingly. He rolled a cigarette and then said casually, “I've been out riding the range all day huntin' a pair of cussed strays.” He jerked his head toward the led horses. “Didn't know anything about none of the trouble in the Valley till a few minutes ago when I met up with one of the VX hands riding home from town. He told me a plumb mouthful.”

“About Ezra?” Sam asked angrily.

“Yeh. Jake Munort an' the Pages an' all. They claim you turned Ezra outta jail last night an' let him go off on a killing spree,” he told Pat.

Pat didn't say anything. He knew Pinky Wright well, and they had always been friends. He didn't want to smash up that friendship now if he could avoid it.

“He told me about Jake Munort willin' his ranch to Ezra, and about his boss bein' so generous and offerin' to pay over two thousand dollars to the Page children that Ethan had borrowed but hadn't never got from him,” Pinky went on deliberately, “an' it sort of s'prised me.

“You see I talked to Ethan Page last night right after the meetin', and he was plumb boilin' mad about how everybody that owed Harlow money voted the way he wanted an' put Tripo in for sheriff. And Ethan swore and be damned that he'd changed his mind and wasn't goin' to borrow that money from Harlow after all. An' the funny thing is, I heard him tell Harlow so. Harlow didn't know I was listening and I didn't mean to, but I heard Ethan say he wasn't never goin to sign that mortgage Harlow had drawed up, and that Harlow might just as well tear it up.”

Pinky Wright stopped to draw in a deep breath after this long speech, and for a moment the silence was unbroken.

Then Pat leaned forward and asked sharply, “You heard Ethan Page tell Harlow he wasn't
going
to sign the mortgage?”

“That's right. An' Ethan rode off for home right afterward, so I sorta wonder how the mortgage got signed.”

“Did you say anything about that to Harlow's hand just now?” Pat asked in a hushed tone of excitement.

“I sure did. I told him a lot of folks was going to wonder the same thing when I told 'em what I'd heard Ethan tell Harlow last night.” Pinky stood up and yawned. “Didn't know you'd be here, Pat, but I reckoned Sam would like to know, what with all this crazy talk going around about Ezra shootin' those people. Looks to me more like Harlow had it done,” Pinky went on sharply, “on account of he wanted to get hold of Ethan's ranch and Ethan had decided not to borrow from him after all.”

“Yo're practically accusin' Harlow of forging Ethan's signature to that mortgage after Ethan was dead,” Pat mused.

“Why yes. I reckon that's about the way it stacks up. I never did trust that Harlow feller.” Pinky started toward his horse.

“Wait a minute,” Pat called. “Does that VX hand know you've been horse-huntin' all day and haven't told this to anyone else?”

“I reckon he does. I remember telling him I was too dog-tired to ride into town tonight, but I'd sure spread the story around the Valley tomorrow.” Pinky gathered up his reins and mounted.

“D'yuh know what that means?” Sam demanded excitedly as Pinky rode away. “It means Harlow will
hafta
kill Pinky tonight before he has a chance to tell anybody about the forgery.”

“Thats just what it means.” Pat lunged to his feet. “Hook up two fast hawses to yore buckboard an' help me load Ezra in. I'm puttin' him back in jail so there won't be any question where
he
is tonight while somebody is gettin' at Pinky.”

15

Pat went back into the house while Sam raced to the corral to throw harness on a team of his fastest horses and hook them to the buckboard. Doc Trimble was sitting in the living room, patiently rocking to and fro while he puffed on a gurgling pipe.

“I got to take Ezra in to jail in Dutch Springs,” Pat told the doctor, “an' I reckon I'll need Sam in there a little later to help out. Will you be needin' either of us here? Sally'll be along right quick, I reckon,” he added hastily. “Can you and her make out all right alone?”

Trimble took the pipe out of his mouth and chuckled, “God bless you, Pat Stevens, if you can arrange some way to get Sam out from underfoot tonight. I've never lost a father in this business, but I never know when I'm going to.”

“You'll have to help me with it,” Pat warned him. “Sam won't take my word for it that he ain't needed. I'll tell him how bad I need him in town, an' then when Sally gets here maybe you can run him off.”

“Leave it to me,” the old doctor said grimly. “I'll get rid of him if I have to chase him off with his own gun. So you're taking Ezra in to jail, Pat?” Trimble mused with a troubled glance at the unconscious figure on the floor.

“That's right. He'll be safest there.” Pat paused, frowning over his uneasy thoughts. “You know Ezra purty good, Doc. What do you think 'bout these things they're tellin' on him? You ever see any signs that he might turn off crazy like that?”

“Turn into a homicidal maniac?” scoffed Doc Trimble. “Not Ezra. He hasn't the sort of brain that turns crazy, Pat. I mean that for a scientific fact,” he went on earnestly. “He's easy-going and quiet and not too bright. He just isn't the type to go around murdering women and children.”

Pat drew in a long breath of relief. “That's the way me an' Sam figure it too, but I'm shore glad to hear you back us up.”

Sam Sloan came bustling in the door just then. “Got the buckboard hooked up,” he announced. “Can you he'p me load him in, Pat?”

The doctor got up and said good-naturedly, “I've got two good arms. You take the heavy part in front and I'll take his feet, Sam. You rest that shoulder of yours, Pat.”

Pat went past them and held the door open while they staggered out under the dead weight of Ezra's two hundred and fifty pounds. They loaded him into the back of the buck-board with some difficulty, and then Trimble trotted back into the house.

“You reckon you can han'le things in town?” Sam asked anxiously as Pat gathered up the lines. “Folks are mighty bent on stringin' Ezra up without no trial.”

“Won't be many of 'em around town by the time I get there,” Pat explained. “I'll get him in the jail all right, but there's liable to be bad trouble later when the posses start driftin' in an' word gets around where he is. That's when I'll need you and yore guns,” he went on sharply. “I'll be ridin' out to Pinky Wright's place. Soon as Sally gets here to help the doctor, you'd better ride in an' be ready to take over.”

“I dunno 'bout that,” muttered Sam. “Seems like I oughtta stay close by Kitty. I don't reckon Doc Trimble would like it for me to ride off an' leave him.”

“You
can't do nothin' for Kitty. Lots better if you've got something to keep yore mind off things.” Pat climbed up into the front seat of the buckboard. “I'm goin' to be trusting you to be in town to see nothing happens to Ezra while I'm out at Pinky's.” He shook the lines and whooped at the half-wild team before Sam could offer any objections. The buckboard lurched away and Pat guided them into the Dutch Springs road with one hand, then settled back and gave them their heads.

It was quite dark and lights were beginning to show in Dutch Springs half an hour later when the buckboard neared the town. The broncs were tired after their mad gallop, and Pat easily slowed them to a sedate trot, swinging them off the main road and making a circle to come up unobserved at the back of Mr. Winters' general store.

He jumped out and looped the lines under a front hub, then knotted them to a spoke so any forward movement would tighten the lines and automatically draw the team back, and then he hurried in through the back door to the dark storeroom in the rear of the store.

A gleam of light showed in from the front of the store, and Pat threaded his way forward between rows of packing cases to a point where he could peer out and see Mr. Winters behind the meat counter waiting on a late customer.

Mrs. Willis was buying some salt pork and insisting that the storekeeper cut off a piece from the lean end. Mr. Winters was grumbling about it while he explained that his other customers took the fat along with the lean, but Mrs. Willis was adamant. Her Henry woudn't eat fat pork, she told him acidly, and he ought to know it as well as she by this time.