Hardcase (18 page)

Before he had pulled into the yard proper an unshaven hardcase strolled out from the shade of the barn, where he left two of his companions.

“What do you want?” the puncher asked. Will looked at him and decided he was dirty and offensive and needed taking down.

“I know one thing I
don't
want,” Will said equably, “and that's any of your lip, my man.”

He ignored the man's surliness and looked at the buildings with contempt mounting in his eyes. “Wallace around?”

“Not to you, he ain't.”

“Tell him I'm the gent that tried to make him pay for Sholto,” Will said. “I want to talk to him.”

The calm brassiness of Will Usher impressed the puncher. He growled something and set off across the yard to the house. Will followed him and dismounted at the porch. He sat down on its edge and wiped the sweat from his hatband, then looked the place over. No, it wasn't much, he decided. If he owned the place and the money that was behind it he'd turn this over to rats and mice and build down near the junction of the three rivers, off the bench.

Will contemplated it for a long time and finally grew impatient. What had happened to that puncher sent to get Wallace? Will reached in his coat for a cigarette making, and his elbow bumped something. He glanced around and saw a pair of boots and, looking higher, saw a man standing there watching him. It was Wallace, all right, he knew, but he didn't know how he'd got there.

Will very calmly looked away, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it.

Wallace said quietly, “So you're the ranahan that wanted fifty thousand from me, are you?”

“That's right,” Will said, looking off across the flats.

“How'd you like to get kicked as far as the drift fence you passed a couple miles back?”

Will said calmly, “I wouldn't like it. You won't do it, either.”

“Oh, won't I?” Wallace taunted. He stepped off the porch, heading for the crew by the barn.

Will said softly, “Think a minute, mister. You'll see how you can use me.”

Wallace's step lagged and then paused. He turned around slowly, and now his face was curious, alert. Slowly he walked back to confront Will.

“What did you say?”

“I say you can use me. Remember, I'm the lad that helped Dave Coyle kidnap Sholto in the first place.”

“That'll mean you'll get kicked three miles,” Wallace said.

“You're still dumb,” Will said pleasantly. “I know Dave.” He looked up at Wallace and said, “You want him, don't you?”

“Dave Coyle? Hell, he don't worry me.”

“He's goin' to.”

They watched each other carefully a few seconds, and then Wallace came over and sat down beside him. Wallace looked obliquely at him, studying him a moment, then said, “How's Dave Coyle goin' to worry me?”

“He's helpin' McFee, I heard him say he was and I saw him do it.”

Wallace laughed. “Nobody can help McFee now.”

“Except Coyle.”

“How?”

“They were both in jail once, weren't they? They both broke out, didn't they? And Sholto, your witness, is dead.”

“Sure he is,” Wallace agreed. “I don't need him any more, though. McFee killed him.”

“Not McFee.”

Wallace looked at him sharply. “Who says he didn't?”

“I do. I didn't see it, but they told me about it in Yellow Jacket.”

“Did they tell you either McFee or Coyle or both together didn't do it?”

“They told me they did do it. I say they didn't. And I know.”

Wallace smiled thinly, carefully. “Go on.”

“McFee didn't kill him, because Sholto was McFee's only alibi—the alibi he needed to go free. Coyle didn't do it because he was Sholto's friend. Sholto let him escape from me.”

“Then who did kill Sholto?” Wallace asked.

Will grinned. It was a flashing smile, wise and disarming. “You think I'm going to accuse you of it? Far from it, my friend. You had an alibi. So did your men. I took the trouble to learn that.”

“Then who did?”

“The man backing this outfit here.”

Wallace kept the faint smile on his face. His eyes gave away nothing, not even his temper. Will didn't even bother to look at him, and for some reason that annoyed Wallace more than the accusation.

“Now that's somethin' to chew on,” Wallace said dryly. “It's news to me, but how did you figure it out?”

“It's pretty simple,” Will said calmly. He picked up a handful of dust and sifted it through his fingers, watching it idly. He spoke casually. “Start with Miss Carol McFee. She sent me a letter written to Dave Coyle but mailed it in an envelope addressed to me. She verified something that I'd suspected for a long time. That deed you have from McFee is phony, of course.”

“The court ain't said so.”

“Exactly. You were out to sink McFee, ruin him, grab his land and his property. The whole swindle depended on Sholto, your witness. But Sholto is kidnaped, believed murdered, and McFee is arrested for that murder. That takes care of McFee nicer than any lawsuit. First, it makes it seem that he's killed your witness to protect himself. Second, it hangs him and ends the lawsuit. If his daughter brings it up again there's always the memory of her father killing your witness. No jury in the world would find for her, in that case. Am I right so far?”

“It sounds convincin',” Wallace admitted dryly.

“Good. To go on. You have McFee in jail. Presto, he's out! And presto again, he's back with the witness and is in the clear. Almost! For on the doorstep of the sheriff's office Sholto is killed. McFee and Coyle are guilty. And there's your lawsuit won again, hands down.”

“I did get lucky, didn't I?” Wallace murmured, watching Will.

“Certainly. Especially since you didn't kill him.”

“That's right, I didn't. So where are you?”

“So I'm just where it begins to get interesting,” Will murmured. He looked at Wallace now. “You're the man who stands to win a hundred thousand dollars by the hanging of McFee for the killin' of Sholto. You didn't kill him, and your men didn't, but somebody did it for you.” He spread his hands. “So I'm forced to believe that you aren't alone in this business.”

Wallace laughed softly. “Who's in with me, if that's so?”

Will shrugged. “I don't know. I don't care. All I'm interested in is helping you to keep what you've gained. I'll do it for—say twenty-five thousand.”

“Do what?”

“Get rid of Dave Coyle for you,” Will said mildly.

Wallace studied his handsome face. He could see the strength in the man and the cunning. But the gall of him made him mad.

“Hell, I can shoot,” Wallace said irritably.

“So can he.” Casually first. “But where is he?”

Wallace said wryly, “I dunno. He may be in my barn out there, for all I know.”

“Exactly. You can't find him, and you can't kill him if you do.”

“But why should I want to?” Wallace asked sharply. “He can't hurt me.”

“He can get McFee out of jail. He has once already. And he can again.”

“That makes McFee all the more guilty.”

“It also earns you a slug in the back,” Will said gently, promptly.

Wallace didn't say anything for a long moment, and then he said, “So you think Coyle will break McFee out and McFee will kill me?”

“He'll either kill you, or he'll turn up proof of your swindle.”

Wallace glanced abruptly at Will, who was smiling faintly, triumphantly.

Will got up then, pulled his gloves tight, and said, “Well, since you're not interested, I'll move on.”

“Wait a minute,” Wallace said slowly. “Come back here.”

Will came back and faced him.

“Just to play safe, suppose I make the deal. You get Coyle out of the way. Can you do it?”

“Don't pay me unless I do,” Will said promptly. “I'm a businessman, and I believe in cash on delivery.”

“Understand,” Wallace said flatly, “I haven't admitted anything you say is right. I'm just willin' to put up the money for you to kill an outlaw.”

“Naturally, naturally,” Will said smoothly, and he grinned his disarming smile. “I think you've needed me for a long time, Wallace.

XVII

It was afternoon when Ernie, with five of his posse, returned to the Bib M. The chase after Dave Coyle had been a fruitless one. Just after they had left the valley, riding hell for leather after Coyle, they had flushed a rider and chased him until two hours past dawn, finally cornering him in a series of wind-eroded clay dunes southwest of Wagon Mound. The stuff had bogged down his horse, and Ernie's crew had surrounded him, and the man had surrendered. He turned out to be some chuckline rider who had built up a stake in a poker game in Yellow Jacket earlier in the evening. He'd run, he said, because he thought he was being held up.

Ernie had been too disgusted to swear. Coyle, of course, was free as a bird, miles away. But Ernie kept remembering those wet clothes and the misery of them. Wouldn't Dave want to shuck them and get warm? And what was easier than circling back to the Bib M, getting a change, and going to bed? It was something that Coyle would pull, confident that he wouldn't be suspected. This thought kept nagging Ernie until he named off five men to ride back with him to the Bib M and sent the others home.

Approaching the Bib M from the north, keeping the barns and outbuildings between them and the house, he searched the outbuildings and especially the barn loft. Afterward he scattered his men through the stand of cottonwoods and half-heartedly approached the house. He was a little sorry for Carol McFee, and he felt sheepish about bothering her. But duty was duty.

He yanked the bellpull and waited, a stubborn-faced, tired-looking man at the fag end of his patience.

The door was opened by Lily Sholto. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, and her face was so sad that Ernie felt a pity for her without knowing why he did.

“Mornin',” he said, grinning a little. “I'm back again. Is Miss McFee home?”

“She's gone to town to be with her father.”

Ernie frowned. “And she's left you here all alone?”

“No, she's bringing the body back here, and then I'll go back to town with her, because we'll be moving out.”

Ernie looked at her blankly, alarm in his eyes. “Body? Is McFee dead?”

“The body of Jim Sholto.”

“Oh,” Ernie said. He was about to add, “I see,” but he didn't see at all. He said, “Miss McFee is buryin' him here?”

“Yes.”

“Did she—was she—is she just doin' it—” He said awkwardly and bluntly, finally, “Why is she bringin' the body here to bury it?”

Lily said softly, “Because she's so kind, I think. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No, no,” Ernie said hastily. Then he said stubbornly, “Look, did she know Sholto? I mean, why don't his kin bury him?”

“I'm his kin,” Lily said quietly. “I'm his wife. Didn't you know?”

Ernie looked as if he had been hit. There was anger and pity and shame in his face as he took off his hat.

“I'm—I'm plumb sorry, Mrs. Sholto. No, I didn't know.”

Lily didn't say anything, only waited courteously for Ernie to go. Ernie understood that she didn't want him around, that she wanted to be alone. But there was something else he could do. He said, “Where are you buryin' him, ma'am?”

“Out at the edge of the cottonwoods to the south, there on that rise.”

“Good day, ma'am,” Ernie said then.

He rounded up his men, and when they saw him his eyes had turned bleak and his jaw was set. He said, “There ought to be shovels out in the shed. We're goin' to dig a grave.”

They worked at it for two hours, and Ernie never gave up his shovel. A lot of things were simmering in his mind while he worked in the hot sun. Before today Sholto had just been a man who had the bad luck to be killed. Today it was different. He had been this girl's husband, and he'd been bushwhacked. Ernie wasn't a man of many words or many thoughts, but that afternon he pledged to himself that he'd see Sholto's murder avenged or turn in his badge and move out of the country.

They finished in late afternoon and set out for Yellow Jacket. The lot of them were tired and hungry, and Ernie the most tired of all. It was late in the evening when they arrived in town. Only the saloons were lighted, and Ernie dropped his crew off at King's Keno Parlor for a nightcap and went on to the sheriff's office. The place was dark, and after putting up his horse downstreet at the feed corral Ernie let himself in with the key and went back to the cell block.

McFee's guards were playing poker, and McFee was asleep. Ernie tramped back to his room off the corridor and let himself in. There was the smell of tobacco smoke in the room, and he supposed these guards had been in bed. He struck a match, lighted the lamp, then turned around to throw his hat on the cot.

Dave Coyle was sitting there, watching him.

For two long seconds, his hand extended with the hat in it, Ernie stared at Dave Coyle. He was so weary that it took that long to be sure that he wasn't lightheaded and just seeing things.

Then Dave spoke, and he was sure he wasn't.

“I haven't got a gun. I want to talk to you.”

Ernie looked down at his waist. Sure enough, he didn't have a gun in sight, but he could be sitting on one. Some inner caution told Ernie that he'd better keep his mouth shut and not yell and play this cagey. His hat fell to the floor, and he licked his lips. He was afraid and ashamed of being so, so he said dryly, “We've been wantin' to talk to you too. Hadn't you heard?”

“You and Beal? Well, I don't want Beal. I want to talk to you. Alone. Private. Like we are now. Don't call anyone or you'll be sorry.”