Death Rides the Night (20 page)

Sam shook his head and started toward the corrals at a shambling trot. It didn't seem like, dagnab it, that a man had any rights a-tall when a baby was gettin' born. He just didn't count no more. The way women acted you'd think fathers weren't even necessary.

Couldn't blame Sally, though. He guessed she
was
worried about Pat. Though Sam couldn't for the life of him see why. Pat could take care of himself. With one arm shot off, Pat was still a match for Harlow and Tripo an' all the rest.

But Sam didn't waste any time getting his fastest horse saddled. Some of Sally's urgency had been communicated to him. She had come at once to help Kitty even though she was worried to death about her husband, so Sam reckoned he couldn't do any less.

He flung himself into the saddle and let the horse out. He didn't slow as he went past the lighted station where Sally and the doctor were watching over Kitty. He headed north and put all his riding skill into the job of covering the miles to Dutch Springs in the shortest possible time.

Men were milling about the streets and the hitch-rail in front of the Gold Eagle was lined with horses when Sam thundered into town. He pulled up and leaped from the saddle and trotted into the packed saloon. He saw the tall figure of Tripo at the bar with Pat's silver badge gleaming on his vest, and the new sheriff was haranguing the other men in the saloon when Sam strode in:

“… ain't no tellin' who he'll kill tuhnight, fellers, an' that's a fac',” Tripo was proclaiming. “I'd say there ain't no man, woman or child in the Valley safe in their beds till that varmint's safe strung up. When he escaped that posse out south this afternoon, I got a notion he headed down towards Pinky Wright's hawse ranch, an' that's where I'm gonna hunt fer him next. Who's ridin' with me?”

A shout went up from men who were willing to accept Tripo's leadership. By that time Sam had threaded his way among them until he stood directly in front of Tripo.

“I reckon that talk yo're makin' is headed at Ezra?” he asked angrily.

Tripo glanced down at the wiry little Pony Express rider as though irritated by this interruption. “I reckon it is, little feller. Anythin' you got tuh say about it?”

“Only that yo're lyin' when you say Ezra done any of them things.”

There was instant silence in the saloon. Men began to sidle back to get away from the two in front of the bar. Tripo's arms were folded across his chest contemptuously while Sam waited for him to take up the challenge of his words.

There was a commotion in the doorway just then. A young puncher plunged into the saloon shouting, “Hey you fellers! Know what? Ezry's in the jail right now. Ezry's locked up in the jail right here in Dutch Springs!”

“Whatsat?” Tripo whirled on him, disregarding Sam Sloan for the moment. “What cussed foolishness is that? We all know Pat Stevens turned him loose last night.”

“Shore, but Pat brung him back too,” the young waddy announced triumphantly. “Not more'n a hour ago. An' Mr. Winters an' John Boyd an' Vernon Pike are guardin' him on account of they ain't got no key to keep him locked up with.”

“You hear that, fellers?” Tripo bellowed. “That one-eyed, low-down murderer is right here where we kin get our hands on him. What're we waitin' for? Le's string him up pronto.”

A roar of approval answered him. There was a surge toward the door.

Sam Sloan darted aside and leaped atop a card table standing against the wall. His guns were drawn and his lips snarled back from his teeth as he crouched above the others, dominating the room. He sent two bullets through the swinging doors above the heads of those struggling to get out, and then lowered the twin muzzles of his six-guns and ordered coldly:

“Don't nobody move. I'll drill daylight through the fust one that reaches fer a gun or takes a step towards the door.”

No one moved. No one reached for a gun. Most of those confronted by his guns scarcely breathed. They all knew Sam Sloan. They knew he wasn't bluffing and that the slightest movement might bring death spewing from his guns.

He straightened slowly and swung one of his guns in a short arc to carelessly cover Tripo, the rangy Texan.

“I dunno what this here's all about,” Sam admitted calmly. “I know Pat Stevens brung Ezra in to jail while this here smart sheriff an' a dozen posses was lookin' for him, an' I'm gonna see he stays there till Pat decides what he's gonna do.”

Without warning Sam fired his right-hand gun off at an angle from where he was seemingly looking. One of Tripo's VX riders fell back with a groan and grabbed at his shattered wrist while his half-drawn gun clattered to the floor.

“Don't no more of you try that,” Sam advised them dispassionately. “I aim tuh keep this here meetin' orderly an' genteel until Pat gets back.”

Every man inside the saloon tensed and looked toward the door as the sound of a wildly galloping team came up the street from the south. It stopped outside and bootheels pounded hard on the boardwalk.

Pinky Wright flung the swinging doors open and took in the situation at a glance.

“It's all right, Sam,” he called loudly. “We've got Ezra right outside here an' Pat says who's got a rope for a necktie party?”

“Pat
says that?” gasped Sam. He slowly lowered his guns while a look of utter dismay spread over his dark face.

“Come out an' see for yoreselves,” Pinky invited. “All of you that wanta have a hand in stringin' up the worst murderer that was ever caught red-handed in the Valley.”

There was a concerted rush for the door. Sam Sloan silently holstered his guns and climbed down from the table to follow the others.

Word had passed up and down the street and already a crowd had gathered around the buckboard outside and grim-faced men were dragging Pat's unconscious prisoner from the back of it.

Pat stood up on the front seat watching the scene with his hand on the butt of his holstered .45 and a look of hopeful expectancy on his face.

He watched the tall figure of Tripo pushing forward through the others, and a shadow crossed his strong countenance as his eyes rested on the glittering badge that was rightfully his.

The sheriff pushed into the crowd surrounding the prisoner and glanced down briefly at the unconscious body. Then he leaped to the back of the buckboard and pulled his guns, shouting, “All you VX men! This is it. Fill yore hands an' …”

Pat Stevens shot him through the left temple. He pitched head-foremost to the ground and lay there with the bright silver badge glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

Some of the men who had hold of the inert prisoner drew back with a shocked announcement, “This here ain't Ezra. This feller's face comes right off. Red whiskers an' all. It's a rubber mask, by golly.
It's Eustis Harlow fixed up to look like Ezra.”

“Take him out an' hang him,” grated Pat. “I ain't rightfully sheriff an' this here's one time when I'm glad I ain't. There won't nobody interfere with you while you string him up.”

None of the disconcerted mob really understood this amazing transformation of the murderer into the solid body of Eustis Harlow, but they were all so happy about it that they didn't stop to ask any questions. While they hustled him off to the nearest cottonwood tree, Pat stepped down from the buckboard and leaned over Tripo.

He unpinned the badge and straightened up with it in the palm of his hand, looking at it thoughtfully.

Sam came forward from the boardwalk and suggested, “Pin it back on where it belongs, Pat. I reckon Powder Valley will be plenty glad to get you back for sheriff without no election.”

Pat hesitated. He glanced down the street where the mob of angry ranchers were dragging Harlow off to hang him, and he shook his head. “Not right yet, I reckon.” He smiled briefly and thrust the badge in his pocket. “Maybe I'll put it on again after it's too late for the law to step in an' stop the only lynchin' I ever saw that I plumb approved of. Come on, let's you an' me ride to the jail an' see if Ezra has come back to consciousness yet. An' then you got a date to meet yore new son.”

18

Sam was on the front seat of the buckboard getting the best speed he could out of the team on the way back to the shack where his new baby had been born. The horses were tired after the drive in and the round-trip out to Pinky Wright's ranch, but Sam kept them at a fast trot that carried the buckboard along swiftly.

Pat Stevens was in the back with Ezra who was still unconscious when they dragged him out of the unlocked jail and loaded him back into the buckboard. They had decided to bring him along that way because it would get him to the doctor quicker than if he waited in town for Doc Trimble to come in, and they were both beginning to be a little worried by his long coma.

They were nearing the express station and Sam was whipping the tired horses along when he heard Pat's voice speak soothingly from the back, “Take it easy, Ezra. Yo're all right now, Just rest yore head back an' don't try to sit up.”

“Comin' round, is he?” Sam turned to ask gladly.

He heard a loud grunt from Ezra in response. “Where am I? What thuh hell …”

“Yo're in the buckboard with me an' Sam,” Pat told him. “Lie still for a little. How much do you remember?”

“Plenty,” Ezra growled. “You turned on me an' locked me up an' then thuh masked man got me loose. I thought 'twas you at fust, then I seen 'twas Harlow.”

“Harlow got you outta jail last night?” Pat demanded.

“Shore. I thought 'twas funny at fust, then I found out why. They took me out somewheres an' tied me up with two of the VX riders guardin' me, an' then d'yuh know what Harlow done? My God, Pat, what all did he do while he was fixed up to look like me with that rubber face that fitted over his'n? I heard 'em talkin'. He figgered on killin' people and makin' everyone think 'twas me. Thass why he got me loose from jail an' hid me out. We gotta stop him, Pat.”

“Take it easy,” Pat calmed him. “He's took care of all right. Everybody knows it wasn't you by now. You got loose from them, huh?”

“Yeh. Long 'bout noon I worked the ropes loose. They jumped me with knives an' tried tuh pistol-whup me. Seemed like Harlow had give orders I weren't to be kilt till he got back an' give thuh word.”

“He wanted to keep you alive until he was through all his murderin',” said Pat grimly, “so's folks'd think you done it all. Then he'd killed you an' brought you in and got credit for it. It was a smart idee but you ruined it when you got away.”

“There was a hell of a fight,” Ezra admitted. “I got a hawse but he went lame on me near the Trowbridge place an' I stopped tuh get another. Then thuh posse got wind of where I wuz an' chased me. I knowed they'd string me up 'fore I ever had a chance tuh talk, an' I tried tuh make it to Sam's place. Danged hawse stumbled in a prairie dawg hole an' I had tuh make it on foot. Seems like I got there awright, but I don't remember much after that. I recollect crawlin' through a winder somewheres …” he ended vaguely.

“That's when I hit you on the head and knocked you out,” Pat explained to the confused man. “Kitty's havin' a baby and you scared her plumb out of her wits when you came in the window. You've been out cold ever since … an' Harlow tried one more killin' with your face on, but he got caught at it.”

“How in hell did he ever fix that face to look like Ezra?” Sam demanded from the front seat. “Gave me thuh creeps there in front of the Gold Eagle when I seen him.”

“It wasn't so hard,” Pat asserted. “One of them theatrical places in Denver, I reckon. An' it didn't really look so much like Ezra when you got a good look in the light. He did all his dirty work in the mask at night, and nobody got more'n one look at him. Like I said at first, Ezra's cussed ugliness made it a lot easier. Red whiskers an' one eye blocked off was all that was really needed.”

“But why'd he kill Jake Munort?” Sam insisted. “That didn't do him no good. Not after Jake had already willed his ranch to Ezra.”

“Whassat?” Ezra muttered.

“That's right,” Pat told him. “You own Jake's six sections now on top of the Spangler ranch. Why, I reckon Harlow didn't know about that will Jake had made,” he told Sam. “Nobody knew about it till after Jake was dead. He knew Jake didn't have any kin, an' he thought Jake's ranch would go on the open market after he was dead. That's why he killed Jake. Same reason he had for killin' the others. Ethan Page had refused to borrow from him an' he had a mortgage that wasn't signed. He forged Ethan's signature soon as he was dead. And Mrs. Kincaid wouldn't borrow neither, but George was honin' to, an' he knew he'd get the Kincaid place with George's mother out of the way.”

The lights of the way station shone out cheerily through the night just ahead. Sam whooped the team into a final burst of speed, and leaped from the seat as they stopped in front of the door. He hit the ground running and flung the door open to burst inside.

Pat and Ezra got out of the buckboard more slowly. Pat's shoulder was stiff and his head was beginning to ache again; and Ezra was stiff and lame all over from the knockings-around he had taken that day. They leaned on each other and limped toward the door and were met by a beaming Sam Sloan with a tiny blanket-wrapped figure cuddled in his arms.

“Looky here,” he exclaimed proudly. “Jes'
look
at the little tyke, fellers. Purty as a pitcher, by golly. Sammy Ezra Sloan! How d'yuh like that, Ezra? You can be God-pappy.”

Pat saw Sally's anxious face behind Sam, and he pushed past the exuberant father to throw one arm about her shoulders and draw her close.

Sally shuddered and pressed close to him without a word. She didn't ask any questions. They were all together again and she knew the horrible nightmare of fear and false accusations was ended. Pat still had one good arm to hold her with, and Sally didn't ask for more than that.