Hardcase (8 page)

Carol sat in her father's cell, listening to the life of the town. Bruce McFee was still stunned by the news. He had refused to eat or even talk, and now Carol was worried. A week of jail would kill him, she knew, crush his spirit, take all the fight out of him and whip him for good. But what was even worse, her father was gentle with her. Instead of raving and storming around in his anger, he was quiet and subdued. Ever since childhood she had been sure of one thing: her father's anger with her worked in inverse proportion to the gravity of her crime. Let her dirty her dress, and her father roared and threatened until finally they both laughed. But let her lie to him, even a small lie, and he was quiet, like he was now.

She sat beside him on the cot in his cell, and she could hear Senator Maitland's patient voice arguing with Sheriff Beal in the office up front. The Yellow Jacket jail was a spacious six-cell affair, brand new and built of stone. In the narrow sheriff's office was a door to the right of the desk. This opened onto a dark corridor, off which opened Ernie See's tiny sleeping quarters. The door at the other end of the corridor opened on to the cell block, and both these corridor doors were ajar now, so that Maitland's voice, continually harried by Tate Wallace's and Sheriff Beal's, came dimly to them.

Carol looked at her father to see if he was listening, and he was not. He had his elbows on his knees and was staring at the floor. Carol wanted to humble herself, to beg his forgiveness, to do anything that would change that look of misery on his face.

“Dad,” she said suddenly, “why can't I be arrested? You didn't write the letter, didn't even know I'd written it! I can make them believe it!”

“Don't talk nonsense,” McFee said wearily. “They'll believe what they want to believe.”

Then Carol said humbly, “Dad, I didn't know it would do this.”

“Of course you didn't,” McFee said in a patient voice. “You just didn't think.”

“But—I was desperate,” Carol said bitterly. “I would have asked anybody for help!”

McFee turned his head to look at her, pain in his eyes. “But why, Carol, why did you choose Dave Coyle to ask for help? That's what I can't understand.”

“He”—Carol paused—“he isn't as bad as you think.”

McFee laughed bitterly. “My dear, every sheriff in every county in this territory knows Dave Coyle. So does the U.S. commissioner. So does the Governor. Are you putting your judgment of men up against theirs? Carol, you're a pretty girl. Even the dogs like pretty girls. Coyle was nice to you because you were pretty. But cross him, and he'd cut your throat. He clenched his fists and looked at the floor. “That's why I helped with that reward for him. I don't want a dog like that even speaking to you!”

“But he was trying to help you, Dad!”

“Hah!” McFee said shortly. His neck was getting red. “This is the way he helped me. I'm accused of hiring him, when I never saw him and would shoot him on sight if I did.” He shook his head. “No, that little killer saw a chance to make some ransom money. He didn't want to help you and he didn't want to help me. He wanted to help himself.”

Carol didn't speak for a moment. Maybe her father was right. But there was something else. She said quietly, “Has anyone told you what he said to Wallace in the baggage car?”

“Yes,” McFee said indifferently.

“Dad, how much land does the Three Rivers outfit own?”

“Oh, fifty thousand acres or so. I don't know,” McFee said impatiently.

“And how many cattle?”

“Ten thousand or so. Their range is overstocked. Why?”

“Dave Coyle knew Wallace. It couldn't have been more than three years ago that Dave met Tate Wallace, or Wallace Tate, in Dodge City.” She looked at her father. “Isn't it strange that a crooked tinhorn gambler who couldn't even pay his debts three years ago is running an outfit like the Three Rivers?”

“Maybe he doesn't own it.”

“Who does? Has he ever said?”

McFee shook his head and looked at Carol, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “It's nobody's business but his.”

“It might be ours.”

McFee looked at his daughter. There was an urgency in her deep brown eyes that McFee didn't miss, but he was puzzled. “How?”

“Three years ago Wallace was a tinhorn, gambling under a fake name. Today, and for two years, he's been the manager of a big cattle company.”

“What's that got to do with us?”

“He's not a cowman! He didn't earn his job! He was put here to fight and steal from us. Who put him here?”

“Why, any damn money-hungry crook could have!”

“But it was a money-hungry crook who knew your hand was hurt and that your signature was changed! It was a money-hungry crook who knew Sam could be bribed! It was a money-hungry crook who knew all about us, Dad!”

McFee said bluntly; “Nonsense! I—”

He was interrupted by the entrance of Sheriff Beal and Senator Maitland. Maitland looked tired as he stood aside and let Beal open the cell door.

“They've sent for Warburton, Bruce,” Maitland said, and he added to Carol, “You'll have to go now, Carol.”

Carol kissed her father good night and went out with Maitland. On the way back to the hotel she said, “Senator, what chance has Dad to get out of this?”

Maitland shook his head. “They can keep him locked up a long time on suspicion of complicity in murder, Carol,” Maitland said. “It's bad.”

“And I'm to blame,” Carol said bitterly.

“The young do foolish things,” Maitland said quietly, smiling gently. “Your foolish thing just happened to take a serious turn, my dear.”

Carol didn't say anything, only nodded glumly.

“You must promise you won't get in touch with Dave Coyle again,” Maitland said gravely. “Once more, and they'll probably try to hang your father.”

“I've learned my lesson,” Carol said bitterly.

At the hotel she and Maitland parted at the head of the stairs, and Carol went into the sitting room of their suite. The lamp wasn't lighted, and she started through the room in the dark. But halfway to the door she knew she wasn't sleepy and that she couldn't sleep for hours.

She went across to the table, fumbled with a match, struck it, and lighted the lamp.

Then she turned and hauled up short, a stifled cry escaping her.

“Dave Coyle!” she breathed.

“Pull down the shades,” Dave said curtly. He stood there, a dark beard stubble on his face that softened the sharp planes of it. He looked hungry and mad and tired, and he was all of them.

“I will not,” Carol said hotly. “Get out of here!”

“Where's Wallace?”

“Get out of here, I said!”

“I heard you. Where's Wallace?”

“If you don't get out of here I'll scream!”

“Go ahead.”

The muscles in Carol's neck grew taut, and she opened her mouth to scream. Dave lunged for her and clapped a hand over her face, stifling the scream. Carol fought and kicked, but Dave held her tightly. When she ceased struggling he said, “I'll let you loose if you shut up. Will you?”

Carol was mad. She shook her head in negation.

Dave said, “I can wait as long as you can.”

He pulled her over to a chair, sat down, pulled her down in his lap, and held her there. They sat that way for a full minute, Carol tugging at his hand and not succeeding in pulling it from her mouth.

Presently Dave said, “Changed your mind?”

This time Carol nodded, and Dave freed her. She came to her feet, her face crimson, her eyes blazing. “You—you—”

“Pull down the shades,” Dave said coldly.

Carol stamped her foot in anger. She would have screamed, but she had given her word she wouldn't. She glared at Dave for a long moment, and he only stared back at her, his gray eyes steady, a sneer on his face. She began to understand now why people hated him. So did she—almost. But if she was to get rid of him, she might as well do what he said. She went to the big front windows and yanked down the shades, then turned defiantly on Dave.

“Where's Wallace?” he asked.

Carol said passionately, “Haven't you done enough harm already, without doing more?”

Dave regarded her coldly. “The trial has been postponed, hasn't it? What more do you want?”

“I want my father out or jail!” Carol cried.

Dave said blankly, “Jail?”

“They've arrested him!” Carol said hotly. “They found the envelope to my letter that you left in your room! That's all the proof they needed that Dad had thrown in with you and was in on the kidnaping!”

Dave rubbed his hand slowly along his jaw, frowning. “What charge?”

“Complicity in murder! They think you killed Sholto for him.” She paused. “Did you?”

Dave's eyes turned hard. “Sure. I ate one of his drumsticks.”

Carol flushed, but her gaze was steady. “Now you see what you've done? If you'd gone away when I told you to and left us alone this wouldn't have happened!”

Dave walked over to her and faced her and said coldly, “Sit down.”.

Carol was afraid of him then, afraid of the look in his eyes. She backed up, and a chair caught her under the knees, and she plopped into it.

Dave stood above her, his eyes musing. “Shut up and talk sense. Are they going to set bail?”

“I don't know,” Carol said, her voice still indignant. “Senator Maitland says if they do they'll wait a long while to do it. I told you, they think Dad paid you to kidnap and kill Sholto.”

“I heard you too,” Dave said dryly. He kept looking at her, but his mind wasn't on her. He was thinking of Sholto out there with Will Usher and of what Wallace would do, now that McFee was in jail. He thought he knew. He said, “They won't set any bail. And your dad won't get out.”

“How do you know?” Carol said. It seemed the truth now that he had said it.

“I know.”

He stood stock-still, staring over Carol's head. Then he took a deep breath and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Carol said swiftly.

“To jail.”

“To rescue Dad? But you can't! They'll—”

“No. I'm goin' to jail,” Dave said slowly.

For a long moment Carol only stared at him, and then she said weakly, “Oh, you mean give yourself up?”

Dave nodded.

“But they'll hang you!”

“What do you care?”

“I—I don't,” Carol said and added weakly, “but it seems so stupid. What will it get you?”

“I'm goin' to talk to your dad,” Dave said dryly. “It's the only place he'll listen to me, I reckon, and that's only because he can't help it. When I've made him see he's walked into a frame-up that will let him rot in jail, then I'll take him with me.”

Carol's lips formed the words, “Take him with you?” and then she said, “Take him with you where? You'll be in jail.”

“No. I'll be out.”

“But—how will you do that?”

A look of annoyance crossed Dave's face. He said sharply, “Lady, I don't know. I never know what I'm goin' to do until I have to, and then I do it. I've never stayed in a jail yet.”

“But—but I don't understand. Do you mean you'll break jail?”

“That's an idea. Yes. I'll break jail,” Dave said dryly.

He started for the door again. Carol closed her mouth, which had been opened in surprise, and said, “You can't go out there! They'll kill you.”

Dave turned and regarded her with a fast-vanishing patience. “For about fifteen years, lady, I been wipin' my own nose. I still can.”

He opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, and paused at the head of the stairs. Then a wry smile crossed his face, vanished, and he tramped down the stairs.

Old Bitterman at the desk looked up from his newspaper, saw a man's back as he went toward the lobby door, and settled again to his reading.

Dave hit the boardwalk, swung under the tie rail, crossed the road, and pulled up in front of the sheriff's office. The door was closed, the shade of the only window pulled down. He regarded the place a moment, letting a pair of punchers walk past him. Then he crossed the boardwalk and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked.

A voice called through the door, “We're busy. Come back later.”

Dave grinned at that. With a posse just come from hunting him, with seven thousand dollars' reward on his head, he had to break into the sheriff's office to get himself arrested.

He went out to the edge of the boardwalk and searched the road. He saw a rock in the road, swung under the tie rail, picked it up, and threw it through the window of the sheriff's office. The glass jangled to the boardwalk, and there was an uproar inside the office.

The door swung open and Ernie See, with Sheriff Beal just behind him, stepped out.

“Who did that?” Ernie asked.

Dave stood just beyond the tie rail, his hands on his hips, legs spread a little. “I did,” he said. “I'm Dave Coyle.”

Ernie peered through the half-darkness and then said to Beal, “A drunk.”

“Listen, son,” Beal said patiently, “come back and pay for this tomorrow. Now get along home.”

Ernie turned, swearing disgustedly, and went back into the office, while Sheriff Beal still regarded Dave. Dave walked toward him, swung under the tie rail, and came up to him. He reached out, cuffed Sheriff Beal twice in the face with the flat of his hand, yanked his hat down over his eyes, then put his foot in Beal's soft belly and shoved. Beal went over backward through the office door and sprawled on his back. Dave walked in, stepped over him, and said to Ernie See, who was staring in amazement at the sheriff, “What do you have to do around here to get arrested—scalp the sheriff on the church steps?”

Ernie lunged for him then, wrapping both arms around his body and bawling, “Get his gun, Harve! Get his gun!”