Hardcase (11 page)

“But you got it now,” Sheriff Beal's voice said.

“Damn right I have!” McFee bellowed. “I took it away from him and laid it across his head.”

“Pull your gun, Ernie. Let's take a look at Coyle,” Beal said.

There was the sound of the door unlocking, and then they stood over Dave. Beal rolled him over roughly and looked at him. He shuttered up his eyelid, and Dave lay limp as a rag.

“Where'd you hit him?” Beal asked McFee.

“The head, I told you! I hope to hell it killed him!”

“So do I,” Ernie said. He knelt by Dave and felt his skull and said, “Well, he ain't got a cracked head.”

McFee was making a good job of it; Dave could hear him still panting.

“He will have the next time,” McFee said.

Beal said angrily, “There ain't goin' to be no next time, McFee. Personally, I wouldn't care if you knocked his head into the next room, but he's goin' to stand trial. And we're goin' to separate you two.”

McFee didn't say anything. Ernie said with bitter relish, “I got just the place for Coyle, Harve. Let's give him the ‘icebox.'”

“He's liable to get sick,” Beal said. “It's cold there in that cell in front of the window.”

“Maybe it'll take some of the salt out of him,” Ernie said. Dave heard him tramp down the cell block and unlock the door to the end cell, the “icebox.” He came back and Beal said dubiously, “I dunno. It's cold there.”

“Hell, Sholto's cold too—if he bothered to bury him!”

“All right,” Beal said grimly. “Take his arms. I'll take his feet.”

Dave was picked up. He opened his eyes a little to see how Beal was holding his legs. Beal faced him and grabbed his feet at the ankles and lifted. Ernie held him under the arms, so that his hands almost dragged the floor. Beal was too busy to watch him as he maneuvered out through the cell door and into the corridor. This wasn't so good, Dave reflected swiftly. Ernie was the strongest, the fastest thinker, and he had hold of his arms. But he would have to go through with it anyway.

They stumbled down the corridor with him, and then Beal backed around into the open door of the cell. Dave did two things at once then. His arms, which were hanging down to the floor, suddenly went stiff as he grabbed Ernie's boots. And with his feet he kicked savagely at Sheriff Beal's belly.

Ernie, with his legs pinioned, was driven off balance by the kick, and he fell backward, taking Dave with him. And Beal, kicked in the belly, also fell backward.

Ernie let go one hand to break his fall, and Dave twisted. He landed on top of Ernie, squirmed over, and with one vicious bat with his hand drove Ernie's head into the stone floor. Ernie slacked, unconscious, under him, and still lying on him, Dave grabbed his gun and rolled over beside him and looked up at Beal.

Beal was gagging for breath, sitting up, but he had stubbornly gone for his gun. Dave swiveled his up and said, “Want a shoot-out, Beal?”

Beal was a courageous man. But right now, coming half erect, he was sick and gagging for breath. It took some swift thinking to do what he did then. He dropped his gun as if it were hot and fell to his knees, his arms around his belly. Dave vaulted into the cell and shoved him over on his back. Beal was making queer sucking sounds, like a fish that is out of water, his mouth working spasmodically. Dave ripped off Beal's belt, laid it out on the floor, then rolled Sheriff Beal over on it, face down. He yanked the belt up tight, pinning Sheriff Beal's arms to his sides.

Leaving him, Dave stepped out into the hall and dragged Ernie in beside Beal. Ernie was limp as a sack, so that it was hard to get his shirt off him. Dave succeeded, however, and then put on Ernie's shirt, shedding his own torn and bloody one. Then he trussed up Ernie the same way he had trussed Beal.

When he was finished Beal had quit gagging. He was looking at Dave through sick eyes as if he would like to murder him. Dave ripped his old shirt in half, balled it up in his right hand, straddled Beal, and leveled his gun at him.

“I'm goin' to ask you just this once,” Dave said. “Are you goin' to open your mouth and let me gag you, or am I goin' to have to clout you over the head?”

Beal opened his mouth, and Dave rammed the shirt into it.

Afterward he did the same with Ernie, then he stepped out, shut the door, locked it, and took the keys.

He went down the corridor to McFee's cell, unlocked it, and McFee stepped out.

“Quit shakin',” Dave said coldly.

“Goddlemighty!” McFee whispered. “I wouldn't of done that for a thousand dollars.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Dave sneered. He handed him Sheriff Beal's gun and shell belt. “Put these on. We're goin' out now. I want you to stand in the door of the sheriff's office and take a look at the horses in sight. Pick a fast one. I'll do the same. Get on your horse and walk him, don't run him, out of town. Look like you belonged there, understand? Don't get panicked.”

McFee licked his lips. “All right,” he said. “But give me time. This is comin' pretty fast.”

Dave rammed Ernie's gun in his waistband and led the way out into the office. Beal had been in the midst of writing a letter when he was interrupted by the fight. The paper, a broken line of writing across it, was lying beside an open ink bottle and the pen.

Dave walked into the open door and stood there, McFee beside him. “How about that black?” Dave asked, looking downstreet.

“Good,” McFee said shakily.

“Take him. I'll take that chestnut down the tie rail a ways.” He looked scornfully at McFee. “Quit shakin'.”

“I can't help it,” McFee said softly. “Hell, I'm scared.”

Dave dropped McFee off at the black horse and went by him. They passed a couple of punchers, and Dave said, “Howdy,” and received a pleasant reply.

Dave sneered and set off downstreet, McFee behind on. The chestnut didn't look so good at close range. He passed him up and took a bay next to him. He mounted, pulled aside for a buckboard and team that was just swinging into the tie rail, and then put his horse into the street to wait for McFee.

McFee came up. He was glancing from side to side, and his mouth was grim. He was sweating, Dave could see.

Dave waited until McFee was even with him, and then they walked their horses down the street. People looked at them and glanced away, incurious. One or two people looked for quite a long moment, then went about their business, thinking they were mistaken. They rode peacefully out of town.

X

For its headquarters the Three Rivers Cattle Company had taken over an old homesteader's stone house on one of the long benches that jutted out from the foothills of the Corazon's west slope. A log wing had been added to the three stone rooms, a porch flanking the whole of the south side, and a bunkhouse had been built. It squatted there on the flats amid a tangle of pole corrals and outbuildings, unlovely, bleak, and treeless. On the east side of the log wing there was a small rectangle of flower garden which was filled with blooms, a chicken-wire fence around it. That, however, was the only touch of color or neatness in the whole place. Bottles, tobacco tins, cans, and pieces of worn-out gear littered the yard around the house and bunkhouse. It was as slovenly as an unmade bed.

Wallace, because he had got in late the night before, had slept through the early-morning hours, and now his crew, numbering fifteen men, were loafing around the horse corral, awaiting orders. Marty Cord, who usually gave out the morning's work, had not returned yet. There was no
segundo
, for Wallace trusted no man other than Cord. And to disturb Wallace for any reason whatsoever was to invite being fired, the men had long since learned.

Long after nine o'clock Wallace came to the door of the main house in his sock feet, his pale hair rumpled, sleep still heavy in his eyes. He saw the men clotted in the shade of the barn and corral, and he cursed softly. Cord hadn't come home last night either. He went back into the house, got his boots and hat, and started out across the yard. His face was ugly with temper this morning. It was yesterday that Dave Coyle and McFee had walked out of the county jail, leaving Sheriff Beal and Ernie See tied and gagged in a locked cell. He had had them both in the palm of his hand, as neatly framed as two men could be, and then that blundering Beal had let them slip through his hands. Yesterday Wallace had wanted to kill Beal. He still wanted to today. There was only one cause for cheer in the whole picture, and that was that Beal and Ernie and the whole town and county believed McFee and Coyle were guilty of Sholto's murder. McFee had damned himself by this escape. Now all that remained to do was take care of Sholto. And where the hell was Cord?

At the corral Wallace cursed his men out for loafing and sent them about their business away from the ranch. They were a hardcase crew, used to cursing and needing it. Afterward he came back to the log wing, his face sullen and ugly, and went into the kitchen.

Two women, one an elderly, placid-looking woman, the other young and pretty, were busy in the kitchen. Wallace threw his hat on the table in the center of the room, sank into a chair, and said, “Gimme some breakfast.”

The older woman watched him speak, then began bustling about. The breakfast, or that part of it that would keep, was in the oven. She set about frying eggs, while Wallace swilled a cup of hot coffee. The younger woman was kneading bread, and she paid him no attention.

Wallace watched her a moment, his pale eyes speculative, and then he said, “They're tellin' in Yellow Jacket that Coyle killed your husband,” he drawled.

The girl whirled to face him, dismay and fear in her face. She looked at Wallace, and then her expression changed. She was a pretty woman with warm dark brown hair and eyes almost the same shade. Relaxed, her face might have been serene and placid, but not now. There was a tension there, and it had been there for a long time, so that her expression was worried and almost sullen.

She said levelly, “You lie.”

Wallace grinned crookedly. “I'm only tellin' you what they say.”

“Let them say it. Dave Coyle never killed a helpless man.”

“But Dave Coyle ain't got him,” Wallace said, watching her.

She seemed puzzled, and he went on, “Dave was in jail in Yellow Jacket. He broke loose yesterday. He claims not to know anything about Sholto at all. Don't that prove to you that he killed him?”

“No.”

“Then where is he?”

“He—he escaped,” the woman said.

“Then why ain't he come back here to you?”

“He'll be back,” the girl said stanchly.

“Me, I think he's dead,” Wallace said. Sholto's wife didn't; he could see that. And now there was no fun in ragging her, so he ate his breakfast in surly silence.

He was almost finished when Sholto's wife said, “There's a strange rider just come in.”

“Alone?” Wallace asked quickly.

“Yes.”

Wallace left his breakfast, grabbed his hat, and went out. Lily Sholto watched him through the window, her face twisted with hatred. Then she felt a hand on her arm and turned to face the older woman. Mrs. Babson looked at the girl and shook her head, and Lily sighed, then smiled. Mrs. Babson couldn't talk, for she was mute. And she couldn't hear, for she was deaf. She was just another precaution that Wallace had taken, so that nothing that went on here would be repeated outside.

Wallace, glancing around as he walked toward the corral and the strange rider, saw one of the crew shoeing a horse at the blacksmith shop. He whistled, then beckoned the rider, and went on his way, feeling more comfortable. He was a little edgy with strangers now that Marty Cord was gone.

But it turned out that the man wasn't a stranger. He was the same man who had demanded the ransom for Sholto in Yellow Jacket. Then where was Marty? Wallace felt a cold suspicion, mingled with anger, as he approached him.

Don't worry none,” the rider said without preliminary. “Your rider that followed me is safe enough, for all of me. I shook him.”

“What rider?” Wallace asked coldly.

The rider shrugged. He glanced at the man walking over to them and said, “You couldn't be spooky, could you?”

“About what?”

“Dave Coyle, I reckon.”

“Listen,” Wallace said meagerly. “Light a shuck out of here. I ain't goin' to buy Sholto back from you, so that's over.”

The man grinned. “Buy him back?” he echoed, and then he laughed shortly. “Mebbe not. But do you know what you're goin' to do?” He paused, letting Wallace savor the question, and then he said, “You're goin' to pay us fifty thousand dollars
not
to bring him back.”

Wallace just stared at him, scowling. “Say that again.”

“I said you're goin' to pay us fifty thousand dollars to keep Sholto hid. Is it worth it?”

“You're loco,” Wallace said angrily.

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sholto's murder is hung on McFee and Coyle, and they've escaped. That means a price on their heads, and sooner or later someone will gun 'em.” He grinned. “You'd look damn silly, now that you've got McFee outlawed and a murder hung on him, if Sholto was to show up. Of course, with Sholto, you could likely win your court fight. But with him murdered, you already got it won. McFee will hang or get killed. Now do you savvy?”

“I savvy,” Wallace said slowly. The Three Rivers rider was standing just a little behind him, listening.

“If I don't aim to pay you off to keep Sholto hid, what will you do?”

“Turn him over to Sheriff Beal. Beal will send the word out that McFee ain't wanted. Then you'll have to go on with your court fight.”

Wallace regarded him with a queer smile playing on the corner of his thin lips. “And if I pay you, what do you do?”

“Whatever you say. We'll keep Sholto hid, if you say the word. We'll turn him over to you to keep hid, if you want.”