Death Rides the Night (18 page)

Pat stayed back out of sight and waited impatiently until the transaction was completed. The moment Mrs. Willis walked out the door, he leaned forward and said, “Pssst,” loudly.

Mr. Winters jumped a foot in the air. He dropped the side of salt pork onto the sawdust-covered floor and whirled about indignantly. The anger faded from his face and was replaced by worry when he recognized Pat staring out at him. He hurried around the counter, exclaiming, “You shouldn't be here, Pat. Not till they find Ezra. The whole Valley is blaming you for what happened last night.”

“Lock up the front door,” Pat Stevens told him tersely. “Quick. Before any more customers come in. Don't stand there lookin' at me,” he went on impatiently. “I'm in bad trouble an' I need help.”

After a long, searching glance at Pat's troubled face and his wounded condition, Mr. Winters nodded and trotted to the front door. He barred it on the inside and blew out the lamp up front, then came loping back and took down the lamp above the meat counter.

“We'll go into the back where nobody can see a light from the front.” He followed Pat back and pulled a door shut so the light wouldn't shine out. “Now then,” he said severely, “what kind of doings is this, Pat? Who shot you up like that? Where's Ezra? We've got to get hold of him before he kills anyone else.”

“Ezra hasn't killed anybody,” Pat snapped out. “He ain't going to kill anybody if you'll help me. You got a gun around here?”

“Lots of them in the showcase out front. And I've got a double-barreled shotgun … but what do you mean about Ezra, Pat? Everybody knows …”

“Everybody's crazy,” Pat growled. “I've got Ezra out back in Sam's buckboard. He's unconscious an' Doc Trimble says he won't come to for a couple of hours. There's no time for explanations,” he went on swiftly. “You've got to trust me an' help me. All I want is to get Ezra locked up safe in jail with someone to guard him there so he can't get away again and there won't be any lynchin' party … not till I get back. Is that too much to ask?”

“Why, no. I guess not,” said Winters uneasily. “But if you've got him, Pat …”

“We're wasting time,” Pat interrupted. “Think you can round up two or three men that still trust Pat Stevens enough to stand guard with you over Ezra while I go after the real killer?”

“Yes. I'll go into the Gold Eagle and see who's there.” Pat's crisp tone of authority reassured the storekeeper.

“Don't let on what you want to the others in the Gold Eagle,” Pat warned him. “The fewer that knows Ezra is in jail the better. I don't want any riots an' shootin' while I'm gone.”

“I'll go out the back way. You stay right here until I come back.” The storekeeper hurried out and Pat moved back and sat down with a sigh of weariness on a wooden box.

He hadn't realized how tired he was. And hungry too. He hadn't eaten a bite since supper the night before. It seemed days or weeks ago. It was difficult to realize it was only a little more than twenty-four hours before when he and Ezra were sitting at the supper table at the Lazy Mare.

He got up and searched about until he found an open cracker barrel. He got out a huge handful of dry crackers and began munching them, and then found a keg of apple cider resting on two wooden saw-horses with a wooden faucet for drawing off jugs of cider.

He couldn't find any cup or glass, but there was an empty jug on the floor and he ran that half-full and carried it back to the cracker barrel. He washed down the dry crackers with sips of cider and wished Winters would hurry back. He was afraid there wasn't much time. He had to get out to Pinky Wright's ranch before there was another fatality. He didn't think Pinky knew the full extent of the danger he was in. Pinky was a sort of happy-go-lucky fellow without an ounce of fear in his make-up, but fearlessness wouldn't stop a cowardly bullet coming out of the night without warning.

Pat jumped to his feet and hurried to the back door when he heard voices outside.

Mr. Winters was there with John Boyd and Vernon Pike. Vernon ran a little freighting business that hauled supplies into Dutch Springs from the railroad line at Hopewell Junction, and he was a stolid dependable sort of man.

John Boyd said, “Howdy, Pat. What's this here stuff Winters has been tellin' us about Ezra?”

“He's right here in Sam's buckboard. I want to drive him around to the jail and put him in without anyone knowin' about it. An' I want you three to see he don't get out.”

“Wait until I get my shotgun,” Winters interjected. He hurried inside.

“What's it all about?” Boyd persisted. “If what they say about Ezra is true, why do we waste time lockin' him up?”

“It's not true an' I'm going to prove it,” snapped Pat. “If I can't prove him innocent you boys'll have him right there in jail. Is that fair enough?”

“Sounds all right,” Boyd agreed doubtfully. “But we're liable to have trouble when it gets spread around that he's there. The boys are mighty riled up about all the killin's last night.”

“That'll be up to you,” Pat told them. “I hope I won't be gone too long. And Sam'll be in soon to help you out.”

Mr. Winters came out with his sawed-off shotgun and Pat led the way to the buckboard. “You and Vernon walk on ahead to the corner an' see if it's clear,” he told John Boyd. “Winters an' I'll follow along slow.”

The tall rancher and the manager of the freighting business went on toward the end of the alley. Pat untied the lines from the wheel and Winters gave him a hand up into the seat. Then the storekeeper climbed up beside him and rested his murderous weapon across his knees. Pat chuckled at the expression on Winters' face as he clucked to the team.

“I shore never thought I'd see you mixed up in anything illegal.”

“It's catching,” Winters told him solemnly. “Last night I did my best to help Ezra break out of jail but you'd already beaten us to it. Now I find myself trying to sneak him back behind bars.” He sighed loudly and complained, “And I'll be dogged if I know what any of it's about. Everything's topsy-turvy. Last night John and I were hating your guts, and tonight we're taking orders from you. I sure hope you know what you're doing this time.”

“So do I.” Pat pulled up the team at the end of the alley. In the moonlight he could see Boyd and Vernon Pike sauntering across toward the jail in front of them. No one else was in sight on this back street.

Pat let the team out at a cautious walk, following the advance guard slowly. He didn't have any idea where Tripo or any of his deputies were. He could only hope they weren't headquartered in the sheriff's office behind the jail. If they were, there would surely be some shooting before Ezra was put back safely behind bars. And if it became known too soon that Ezra was locked up, that would spoil his hopes too. He was pinning everything on the assumption that Eustis Harlow thought Ezra was still at large and would be accused of any other crimes that were committed that night—for Pat was beginning to sense the outlines of a horrible plan that was behind everything that had happened since the preceding evening, a diabolically monstrous plot that offered the only plausible explanation for
all
the seemingly unrelated incidents of the night.

Yet, though Pat felt he knew the answer, he had to have proof. His theory was too fantastic to hope anyone would listen to him without indubitable proof. Right now the whole Valley was aroused to the madness of blood-lust against Ezra, and it was going to take a lot of proving to turn their anger away from the big one-eyed man.

If he could get Ezra safely in jail with only these three trusted friends aware of the maneuver, Pat felt he had a good chance to catch the real villain red-handed when he tried to murder Pinky Wright. For, if Pat's theory was correct, Pinky would
have
to die—and quickly—before he could go around spreading his assertion that Ethan Page had never actually signed the mortgage Harlow held on his ranch.

That was a break Pat hadn't bargained for. Until the moment of Pinky's chance stop-off at Sam's, Pat hadn't really seen any way out of the tangle though he had already dimly sensed the truth. But it hadn't made much sense until he realized that Ethan Page's signature must be forged on the mortgage. Then the entire plot became damnably clear. He began to see that one man had a motive for all four seemingly unrelated murders, when in the beginning it had appeared that Harlow had profited by only one of them.

Pat wasn't sure, yet, just how much Pinky understood about the whole set-up. He didn't know whether Pinky realized he was deliberately asking to be murdered when he sent the VX hand riding to Harlow with his story about knowing that Ethan Page had changed his mind about borrowing money from Harlow, but he thought Pinky did suspect what the probable consequences would be. Now, it was up to him to get out to Pinky Wright's ranch before the inevitable could happen.

Pat slapped the team of broncs into a trot as they rounded a turn and he saw the jail and the sheriff's office lying dark and deserted behind the courthouse. Vernon Pike and Boyd had already reached the jail when Pat drove up.

“It's all right,” Boyd told him gruffly. “Not a soul anywhere around. The jail door's standin' open just like you left it after you took Ezra out last night.”

It required too much effort and would have taken too long for Pat to try to explain to them that it wasn't he who had released Ezra. There would be plenty of time for such explanations later.

He said, “Drag him out of the back an' stick him inside. An' all three of you swear you'll stay on guard an' see he doesn't get away again if he comes to. Maybe you'd better tie him up while he's unconscious, just in case, since you haven't got any key.”

“Didn't you keep the key after you unlocked the door last night?” Vernon Pike asked in astonishment while he and Boyd rolled the heavy body of Ezra out of the buckboard.

“It got lost,” Pat said. “I'm trustin' you to stay here an' keep watch,” he added in a low tone to Winters.

‘Where are you goin, Pat? What're you in such a hurry for? You'd better tell me …”

“There's no time for talkin now.” Pat glanced over his shoulder and saw that Boyd and Pike were dragging Ezra inside the dark jail. He braced his feet against the dashboard and shouted at the team. Rested from their hard run in from the express station the team bolted away from the jail and Pat headed them southward from town, toward Pinky Wright's place.

16

After leaving Pat and Sam at the Pony Express way station, Pinky Wright jogged along toward home leading the two stray horses behind him. Dusk was deepening into velvety darkness, and Pinky was very tired. He was too tired to do much thinking about Harlow and Ezra and all that mixup. Pinky Wright was a forthright sort of person without an ounce of guile in his wiry body. He had felt a surge of righteous anger when the VX rider told him about Harlow bringing in a mortgage signed by Ethan Page when he knew Ethan had refused to sign the mortgage; and he immediately jumped to the conclusion that Harlow had seized the opportunity to forge Ethan's signature after his death.

The realization that he was the only person in the Valley who knew about this gave Pinky a feeling of importance. If Ezra hadn't been definitely recognized as the murderer of all those people, Pinky might have suspected Harlow. As it was, he didn't actually suspect the wealthy Texan of murder. He had just said that to Sam and Pat to make them feel a little better about their partner. Pinky just thought Harlow was smart enough to turn Ethan Page's death to his own advantage when he heard about it.

And Pinky had an idea he'd have a visit from Harlow before the night was over. That was why he had beer careful to tell the VX rider that he hadn't yet told his story to anyone, and was too tired to bother telling it to anyone tonight. With that knowledge, Pinky figured Harlow would
have
to come to him tonight if he was guilty of torging the signature.

He'd probably try to buy him off, Pinky thought happily. He envisioned Eustis Harlow down on his knees begging him to keep quiet about the whole thing. That would be pleasant. He hated Harlow's guts and would enjoy nothing more than telling him to go to hell.

Pinky wasn't worried about what Harlow might do after he refused. He had vast contempt for Harlow, and didn't think the rancher was the sort to resort to physical violence. He was the kind of man, Pinky thought, who got his way through trickery and the law courts. Besides, Pinky carried a gun and knew how to use it. He certainly wasn't afraid of Harlow.

But a tiny voice of inward caution had urged Pinky to share his knowledge with somone else before Harlow had a chance to get to him. That's why he went out of his way to ride by the express station and casually tell his story to Sam. If anything did happen to him, Harlow still wouldn't get the Page ranch because now Sam and Pat knew about the forged mortgage too.

All in all, Pinky was quite pleased with himself as he neared his home place. No matter what happened, Harlow's guns were spiked. And Pinky sure was looking forward to the interview with the rich rancher who thought he could use the power of his money to run the whole Valley. It was going to be fun telling him oft.

Pinky whistled softly between his teeth as he rode up to the corral. The dark bulk of his bachelor house loomed up out of the moonlight a few hundred feet away. He swung out of the saddle and loosened the girth, pulled saddle and sweaty blanket off and dropped the saddle on the ground on its side so the saddle-skirts wouldn't get mashed out of shape.

He led his mount and the two strays to the corral gate, swung it open and pulled the bridle off his horse, then led the other two up and slipped the nooses from their necks. They trotted eagerly past him into the corral and nosed the empty feed box, then tossed their heads and neighed hopefully.