Hardcase (2 page)

“I'm gettin' sick of this,” Dave Coyle said in the utter darkness. “Why don't he come?”

“You and me both,” the other said. “What are you usin'?”

“A shotgun. I loaded her with washers.”

The man laughed. “That ought to take care of him.”

“I reckon,” Dave said. ‘So long.” And he walked down the alley, the man forgotten. There was a letter for him over there in the post office, sure enough. But instead of minding their business and letting him call for it, this bounty-hunting crew wanted trouble. He didn't want trouble, though; he only wanted the letter. He was tramping down the alley when he caught a whiff of something that hauled him up in his tracks. It was the smell of warm ashes, of coal gas, and the faint lingering scent of burned hoofs. He followed the smell and came up to a large door that he knew was the rear of a blacksmith shop.

He found the door unlocked, went inside, pulled the door to after him, and struck a match.

The flare lighted a face that had graced a triple printing of reward dodgers. It was burned that same deep brown that had blurred the picture on the dodger and had made him look almost black. In shape it was a tough face, tight-knit, flaring a little at the jaw hinge, and then sweeping in a clean line to a pointed chin that was faintly cleft. The nose, thin and high, had a faint white scar across the bridge, but it was the mouth that people noticed. Maybe that was because, on the reward dodger, it had been grinning crookedly, insolently, so that half the sheriffs who had gazed upon it had felt uncomfortably mad and had sworn under their breaths. It was that kind of mouth, shaped into a sneer, the upper lip lifted in one corner, the whole tilt of it derisive. The eyes were a perfect foil—wide-spaced, gray without a trace of blue—whose habitual innocence confounded people and was intended to.

No reward dodger had ever carried a full-length picture, and for want of a better word, he had been described therein as “small.” It was true only if a man didn't associate the word “puny” with the description. Right now a sun-faded blue shirt, worn levis, and scuffed half boots covered his lean smoothly muscled body, and nobody would have called it stocky. It had that long-legged, lazy grace that carried a hint of explosive possibilities. The gun, rammed carelessly into a wide and heavy shell belt, looked outsize against his small hand. A battered and curl-brimmed Stetson rode carelessly back-tilted on a shock of untidy blue-black hair.

Before the match flare died he had seen what he wanted. He went over to the forge, which was still warm, and tugged at the bellows rope. The small cup of glowing coals in the forge spread out now under the bellows wind, and when it was a cherry red he reached for the coal shovel. He scattered a thin layer of fine fuel on the coals, blacking them out. And then, swiftly, he shucked up two dozen shells from his shell belt and laid them on the black coal. Afterward he softly opened the double front doors, then retreated through the rear door into the alley.

It took him three minutes to walk down to the end of the alley, cross the street in the dark, and find the opposite alley that he was sure would lead past the loading platform of Badey's store. He did not approach close, for he was certain men would be back there too. He only hunkered down against a woodshed and began rolling a cigarette.

When he heard the initial spatter of gunfire his smoke was licked and pasted in one corner of his mouth. He listened. A man lunged into the light from the rear of Badey's store and stopped. He called, “Hear that? They got him!”

That was all that was needed. Six men materialized out of the darkness and pounded down the alley—bound for the blacksmith shop, where the forge's heat had finally exploded the cartridges.

Dave rose and walked slowly toward the store. He could hear men yelling out front and running on the boardwalk, and there were other shots now, the result of nerves gone edgy in the dark.

Dave mounted the steps, paused to light his cigarette, and then went into the store. It was brightly lighted and, of course, deserted. Seven thousand dollars, he reflected wryly, was too big a sum to keep a clerk on the job tonight. He walked the length of the store, hauled up at the mail rack, found the general-delivery cubbyhole, and sorted the mail there.

When he found his letter he pocketed it, put the mail back, and went out the rear door again. This time he headed up the alley, and when it emptied into the side street he turned left toward the main street. The corner building was the hotel. The clerk, like most of the other men in town, had deserted his post to run downstreet toward the gunfire that was still racketing.

Dave walked in, chose a room key from the board behind the desk, and went upstairs. His room, number eight, was a corner one, and he locked the door behind him.

After lighting the lamp, yawning, pulling the shades, and removing his hat he sat down by the lamp and opened the letter.

It began: “Dear Mr. Usher.”

Dave stopped right there and stared at it. Then he leafed over the page and read the signature. It was signed “Carol McFee.” That part was all right. He turned back to the beginning, the greeting still puzzling him, and began to read.

D
EAR
M
R
. U
SHER
:

I am in receipt of your letter asking me to put you in touch with Dave Coyle. Do you think me stupid, or are you insane? Every child in this territory knows that each of you has sworn to kill the other. Do you think I would betray Dave, simply because you have a deal you think he'd like to talk over with you?

I am writing Dave tonight, warning him against you—it that's necessary, which it is not. Rather, I should warn you that he'll kill you on sight. I honestly believe that Governor Johns would pardon him if he killed you, so if I were in your shoes I would take warning.

Believe me, with all the ill will in the world, I am not sincerely yours and never will be.

C
AROL
M
C
F
EE

Dave stared at the note. He knew what had happened. Carol had written him and Will Usher on the same night and had put the letters in the wrong envelopes.

He thought of something then. Suppose Carol had mentioned his presence in Yellow Jacket in her other letter?

As soon as he thought of it Dave lunged for the lamp, wiping out the flame with his hand. The envelope, which had been in his lap, fluttered to the floor and planed under the chair.

And in that very instant there was a knock on the door.

Dave waited a moment and said softly, “Who is it?”

There was a throaty chuckle from the other side of the door.

“Who'd you think it would be, Davey? It's me—Will Usher.”

II

Dave said through the door, “I don't want trouble. Light a shuck.”

“Listen a minute, Dave,” Will said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Drag it.”

“Wait a minute.” Usher's voice was urgent. “I haven't got a gun and this isn't a trap. Open the door.”

Dave said softly, “I'll walk that door down and cut off your ears, Will. Here I come.”

He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it with his right hand. His gun was in his left. There was nobody there. He stepped out into the hall and looked down it, and it was empty.

He stepped back into the room again, locked the door, and lighted the lamp, a frown on his face. Carol, in her letter to him which Will Usher had received, mentioned Yellow Jacket, and Will was here. Beyond that, Will had the letter that Carol had written him, and he wanted it. He wanted the letter and he didn't know whether he could trust himself to take it from Will Usher without getting in a fight, but he decided he could if he held his temper.

He started across the room toward the door and was almost there when a knock came on the door again. He reached swiftly for the key, twisted it, flung the door open, and reached out and grabbed for Will Usher's coat lapels to yank him inside.

His hand was swifter than his recognition, for he already was grasping the silk collar of a basque before he could stop himself. And then his his hand fell away, and he was confronting a girl who was almost as surprised as he was.

“Why—howdy, Carol,” he stammered.

“Hello, Dave,” Carol said softly, swiftly. “I'm coming in and close the door after me!”

She brushed past him, and Dave shut the door behind her, then turned and leaned his back against it. He saw a girl who was smaller than he was and whose thick hair was pale as his was dark. Her face, with its almost uptilted nose and its friendly mouth and deep violet-colored eyes, was too impudent to be beautiful and had too much character in it to be called pretty. Right now it was frightened, too, and Dave smiled faintly.

“You've grown up,” he said.

Carol stamped her foot. “How can you joke now, Dave? Don't you know they're hunting you all over town?”

“Sure.”

“You can't stay here. I'll—”

“Why not?”

“But they'll find you!”

“Not till I want them to,” Dave said calmly. “Not till I've talked to you.”

Carol sank down on the bed and put the flat of her palms to her temples. She shivered a little, and Dave looked at her curiously, his face impassive. He liked the blue color of the dress she was wearing, and he thought she looked nice, and he knew it wasn't because she was the first white woman he'd seen for a long time.

He said, gently for him, “What's the matter?”

Carol looked up. “I'm just thinking what an awful fool I am. First, I sent Will Usher the wrong letter, and he found out you were here. Second, I addressed your letter in your own name, so the whole town is hunting you. And now—well, Dad is with me. He's bound to find out you're here and he'll head a posse for three weeks just to hunt you down.”

Dave said, “You're flustered, I reckon. You was flustered when you sent me word in Mexico. You still are. Why?”

“Dave,” Carol said, “will you please go? Now? Will you please get out of town?”

“No.”

“I—I sent word to you in Mexico because I needed help. You see, I didn't forget that stage trip we had together when I came home from school. I couldn't very well forget it, could I, when it was in all the newspapers in the territory that you saved me from that gang of Will Usher's kidnapers?”

“You shouldn't have told 'em who I was.”

“But I thought Dad would plead with Governor Johns for your pardon! I—I didn't know they'd chase you clear out of the territory into Mexico.”

“Neither did I,” Dave said carelessly.

“Then when this—this trouble came up I sent for you because—well, I guess I thought you could help.”

“What trouble?”

“Oh, it doesn't matter now!” Carol cried. “You can't help! All you can do is get out while you can!”

“What trouble?” Dave insisted.

“Dad's trouble. Haven't you heard that we're losing all our range on a forged deed?”

Dave scowled. “Who forged it?”

“Tate Wallace. He owns the Three Rivers Cattle Company.”

The interest in Dave's eyes quickened. “Tate Wallace or Wallace Tate?”

“Tate Wallace. Why?”

“What's he look like?”

“He's a Texan. Tall, slim, over thirty, light hair and eyes, and a lazy way—”

“I know him,” Dave said thinly. “How'd he do it?”

“He and his men just rode in and burned our line camps and drove our riders off and shoved the stock back. All we have now is the house. We fought, but there were too many of them. When the sheriff visited them they showed him the deed of sale from Dad. Now Dad's taking it to court, but it won't do any good.”

“Why won't it?” Dave asked softly.

“They've got the fake witness to the deed—a liar named Sholto—under heavy guard. They're bringing him through here tomorrow on the way to Sabinal, where they'll take him by train to Santa Fe for the suit. We're on our way now too.”

“What did you want me for?” Dave asked.

Carol blushed, but she looked him straight in the eye. “You won't like this, Dave. But you told me you were a gunman. Everybody said you were. I wanted you to come up and—and drive the Three Rivers outfit off our range.”

“That's all right,” Dave said tonelessly. “I would have too.”

“But it's too late now! The message took so long to reach you, and in between the deed came to light and Dad filed suit.” She paused. “Now do you see? You can't help!”

Dave lounged erect from the door and walked into the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. His face was alert, still, curious.

“You think you tolled me into a trap and you're sorry,” he said quietly. “Forget it. They can't take me and they can't hold me and they can't kill me, so quit worryin'. I want some questions answered.”

“But—”

“Will you answer them, or do I have to go down the hall and ask your dad at the point of a gun?”

Carol stared at him, and she knew he meant it and she said quickly, “I'll answer them! Only please hurry!”

Dave grinned faintly, arrogantly, and said, “One. They must claim they paid your dad something for the land. Did they?”

“They've got a forged receipt to prove it. And they did.”

Dave scowled. “I don't get it.”

“Last month our foreman quit, walked out. After he'd gone we found he'd deposited eight thousand dollars in the bank in Dad's name. We didn't know why. When we found that the Three Rivers outfit had shown Sheriff Beal a receipt signed by Dad for ten thousand dollars we knew where the money came from. The Three Rivers outfit had bribed Sam—our, foreman—to deposit the money in Dad's name and leave, disappear. They claim, naturally, that they paid the money over to Dad and Dad gave it to Sam to deposit. They also claim Sam kept two thousand dollars of the ten thousand and jumped the country.”