Play a Lone Hand (7 page)

The beginning of an idea crept into Cass's mind as he watched the puncher. The idea took only seconds to seem really good and then Cass said scornfully to the puncher, “Go ahead and poke his jaw. Every time you touch it, you're likely mashing bones.”

The puncher glanced truculently at him, and Cass continued, “Hasn't anyone here thought of Doc Miller?”

The two Torreon punchers glanced at each other. The services of a doctor for the bruises of a barroom brawl were seldom required in the circles in which they moved. The idea appeared to seem daring, but worth some thought.

Cass prodded, “Well, have you?”

The first puncher looked worriedly down at Traff and said tentatively, “Maybe we ought to.”

This was what Cass was waiting for. He said, “I'll get him,” and turned to elbow his way out through the crowd.

On the street, Cass really hurried now. Dr. Miller's office was around the corner two doors, and up a flight of stairs. When Cass burst into the waiting room, Dr. Miller, seated in a straight chair with his feet propped up on an adjoining one, was in idle conversation with a rancher from the Short Hills. Cass said, “Doc, I've got to talk to you.”

Dr. Miller was a young man, barely thirty, with short cut hair, a long, aggressive face, and a tail, well-fleshed indolent body. He came to his feet lazily and the rancher arose too, saying, “Well, so long, Doc.”

Dr. Miller said to Cass, “Will this do or do you want to see me in the office?”

Cass said, “This'll do,” and waited until the rancher closed the door of the office. Dr. Miller had already assumed his former position and he eyed Cass curiously as Cass crossed the room.

“Do you know Gus Traff?” Cass asked and because he was certain Dr. Miller did, he went on, “Well, your friend Dixon just belted him across the face with a bottle of whiskey. He's sleeping on the Plains Bar floor.”

Dr. Miller said wryly, “The country wouldn't be lucky enough to have him die.” The dislike in his voice seemed heartfelt to Cass, and Cass asked irrelevantly, “Doc, how honest are you?”

Dr. Miller said warily, “Reasonably. Why?”

“Too honest to pretend a patient's got something that he hasn't got?”

“Certainly.”

“How do you fix a broke jaw?” Cass asked, again irrelevantly. He was in a hurry and impatient.

“That's a foolish question. Where's it broke? How could I tell how I'd fix it unless I saw it?”

“Does it hurt to fix it?”

“It hurts to get it; it hurts to fix it; it hurts to have it,” Dr. Miller said. Suddenly an alertness came into his eyes and he straightened up. “I see,” he said slowly and he gave Cass a brief searching glance, then grinned. “Are you sure it isn't broken?”

“No.”

“I think I'll find that it is,” Dr. Miller said. He took his coat off the back of his chair, shrugged into it, got his bag from the office and followed Cass down the stairway.

On the plankwalk, he said, “You'd better stay clear of this, Cass.”

“Can't I even watch?”

“Part of it.” Then he added grimly, “The whole town can watch the rest of it.”

At the Plains Bar the crowd of men around Traff gave way for Dr. Miller. He knelt beside the still unconscious Traff, sought for the pulse in his wrist, found it, then gently probed along the bruises on Traff's jaw.

Cass saw him shake his head in discouragement and a slow delight came to Cass.
Don't overdo it, Doc
, Cass thought.

“Is it broke, Doc?” one of the Torreon punchers asked.

“How do I know, man?” Dr. Miller retorted irritably. He looked up at the puncher who had spoken, “Isn't there some place we can take him where I can get to work?”

The puncher addressed looked at the second Torreon rider who said, “What about the hotel?”

Dr. Miller rose, said decisively, “Good. Lend a hand, you men.”

Remembering the Doctor's admonition to stay out of this, Cass did not volunteer his help, but he trailed the crowd over to the hotel and watched the five volunteers stagger up the steps under Traff's inert hulk and vanish abovestairs.

He bought a cigar and settled down in a lobby chair to wait. The more he reflected on what he and Dr. Miller plotted, the more the idea delighted him. He hoped passionately that Dr. Miller would crucify Traff, for in some manner Traff had come to symbolize everything Cass and the whole country hated in Torreon. Sebree was too smooth, too remote, too bloodless to nourish real hate; while Traff, the open executor of Sebree's dirty schemes, was a tough, cool bully. Cass had occasion to remember just how tough he was.

The galling memory of that day had been with Cass for five years. Even now he could smell the bitter smoke of his burning stand of wheat that Traff and the Torreon crew had set afire. He remembered how he had run from his shed to the house for a gun and how Traff had ridden him down, his horse knocking him, sprawling, against the cabin. He could even remember the color of the horse Traff rode that day. That wasn't remarkable, for while he had lain in the dust of that hot August day, his arms and legs tied with Traff's lariat, he had time to watch it all—the cabin go up in flames, the sod barn pulled down, his barbed wire fence uprooted, his field ablaze and his homestead wrecked. He hoped Doc Miller would make it long and painful.

When the first of the five men who had remained upstairs to assist Doc came down, Cass prudently left the lobby and went back to the livery office. He had been there only a few minutes when Dr. Miller stepped in the doorway, black bag in hand.

“Was it broken?” Cass asked.

Dr. Miller said solemnly, “There's no sure way of telling. Still a doctor can't afford to assume that it isn't, can he?” He winked, but his sober expression remained. “I managed to get a wire loop around the base of seven of his teeth. The wire must be very tight in order to hold the bones in place—if they are broken, that is! It's extremely uncomfortable,” he paused. “The word ‘uncomfortable' is a medical understatement for ‘painful.'”

“Poor man!” Cass said. “Will he have to wear them long?”

“I believe he will,” Dr. Miller said. They looked at each other in what might have been called mutual admiration; then Dr. Miller stepped out.

The five o'clock dimness of the hotel corridor was no help to Fiske in fitting his key into the door. After seconds of fumbling, he found the lock, opened the door, stepped into the room and halted.

Giff Dixon was seated in the armchair across the room, his feet propped up on the window sill. His hat lay on the floor beside him, and the expression with which he looked at Fiske held a certain disappointment.

“Welling with you?” Giff asked.

“No. Come for your money?” Fiske walked across to the table and threw his hat on it, eyeing Dixon quizzically.
How did he get in a locked room?
he wondered, and thought he ought to ask. But there was a kind of quiet balefulness in Dixon's face that checked his question. The young man came to his feet and stared thoughtfully out the window. Either he had not heard Fiske's question or did not intend to answer it.

From under his arm, Fiske took a copy of that day's
Free Press
and threw it on the table. “Seen the paper?”

Dixon half turned to look at him and shook his head.

“The reward notice got in,” Fiske said, a grim satisfaction in his voice. “I never thought it could be done.”

Dixon wheeled and came slowly across to the table. He put both fisted hands on it and looked levelly at Fiske. “What good will it do, even if you get the April seventeenth copy?”

“Why, I thought you understood that. I thought—”

“What good will it do if it's up to Welling to use it?” Giff demanded insistently.

Fiske understood him then; he only shrugged, but he felt a sardonic appreciation of the younger man's question. “That's not for you to decide.”

“Look,” Giff said levelly. “You've been the tough uncle to me long enough. If I won't decide, will Welling?”

“He's the Special Agent.”

“Is he?” Dixon eyed him coldly. “Or is he scared? Or is he waiting for a bribe from Sebree to call off his investigation? You heard him at the hearing. You heard him crawl, and you heard him turn on me. Now you tell me what he is.”

Fiske said wryly, “A man can be a coward and still be reasonably honest.”

Dixon shook his head slowly. “Make it plainer than that.”

“All right.” Fiske thought a moment, reaching for the words to frame his own hard judgment of Welling. “There's more than meets the eye in this, son. Did you know a United States senator is a Torreon stockholder?”

Dixon was listening carefully, and Fiske went on with a fierce distaste in his voice, “Stealing public land is fashionable in the West. There's a lot of land, and the big boys have organized to get their share of it, and more. There are a lot of men who go to church, love their wives and don't cheat at cards who think it's right and proper to cheat the government.” He grimaced. “Welling knows that. He knows if he steps on Sebree's toes, it'll be the senator's head that howls. He doesn't like this job. It's too big, and the people are too important. He'd be happy to find a minor error or two in Deyo's records, write a sharp report about the carelessness of land office clerks and go home.”

“Then why was he bragging about turning up a big swindle as soon as he saw Albers?”

Fiske grinned. “When you were ten, didn't you whistle when you passed a graveyard at night?”

Dixon straightened up, and gave Fiske a long and searching look. “There's been a murder.”

“Welling knows that, and he's preparing to ignore it. That's why he disclaimed responsibility for your talk at the hearing.”

Fiske watched Dixon accept that; it took him ten long seconds, and Fiske saw the flaming resentment rise and then fade away in his dark eyes.

“Who gets Sebree? Do you?”

“I'm a surveyor.”

“Not Welling, then?”

“Probably not.”

“Then who?”

Fiske shrugged, and suddenly he could not hold Dixon's hot glance.

Giff turned then, and walked slowly over to his chair, stooped down and picked up his hat from the carpet. He stood there looking at the hat in his hand, then his glance lifted swiftly to Fiske. “It's a funny thing,” he said musingly, “I never earned more than a trail hand's wages in my life. I'm no surveyor, either. But I'm not scared of Traff. Sebree is like any other crook. Deyo is a soft-bellied counterjumper.” He paused. “And right is right, and wrong is wrong to me. I wonder what's the matter with me?”

Fiske had no ready answer, and before he could think of one, the door swung open and Welling stepped inside the room. When he saw Dixon, he halted abruptly—too abruptly, for he swayed slightly. He had been at the Plains Bar all afternoon, Fiske knew.

Welling said in a bluff, slurred voice, “What are you doing in here?”

Dixon didn't answer him, only watched him quietly.

“I thought I made it plain that you quit working for me several hours ago. What do you want—money?”

Dixon only shook his head slowly, and Fiske could see the cold contempt for Welling in his somber face.

“Then get out!” Welling said roughly.

Dixon didn't move, didn't speak for long seconds. Then he said quietly, “Suppose you move me out.”

Welling came further into the room toward the table, his glance still on Dixon.

“I'll say this again,” he said flatly. “You're fired! You're not working for the Land Office any more. I'll pay for the theft of the saddle. You're through! Now get out!”

Deliberately, Dixon reached in his shirt pocket for his sack of tobacco, and carefully fashioned a cigarette. Welling watched him with a kind of wrathful fascination. Giff licked the edge of his cigarette paper, struck a match with his thumbnail, lighted the cigarette, then looked at Welling.

“I like the job. I think I'll keep it.”

It took a moment for his words to sink into Welling's fuddled brain. Then he said pompously, “I don't intend to argue with a camp swamper. I'll see Sheriff Edwards about this.” He turned and started for the open door, and Dixon fell in behind him.

“I'll go with you.”

Welling paused in his stride as if to speak and then went out, Giff following. Somewhere down the hall, Giff heard a door close, but he paid it no attention. Downstairs, he and Welling crossed the lobby and went out together. They had skirted the stepping block and were almost to the hitch rack in front of Edwards' store when Giff said, “Sure you want to see the sheriff?”

“I said I did.”

“Because if you have to see him, I guess I have to see him too. I think maybe I could straighten him out on Albers' death. I think he might be curious as to why you are suppressing Albers' letter to you.”

Welling hauled up so abruptly that a puncher who was crossing the street behind them almost bumped into him. The puncher had been whistling idly, tossing a silver dollar in the air and catching it. With no letup in his whistling, he glanced at them incuriously and ducked under the tie rail.

Welling looked sharply at Giff and said, “You're bluffing.”

“All right, let's go.”

“Look,” Welling said wrathfully. “I didn't hire you and I don't have to keep you! I asked Edwards for a chainman and a packer! You're unsatisfactory. Now will you quit this foolishness and go away?”

“No.”

“But why?” Welling demanded in exasperation.

“Because you're all primed to run, Welling,” Giff said softly. “You've taken a look at the big dog, and your tail's down. As soon as you can pull the cork, you'll crawl back into your bottle of whiskey.” He shook his head. “Not while I'm here. And I'm here.”

Welling didn't even answer him. He moved onto the plankwalk, and suddenly turned downstreet. He skirted the whistling puncher who apparently had dropped his dollar through a crack in the plankwalk and was on his knees searching for it. Giff walked around the puncher too, without noticing him, and fell in beside Welling. Again they walked silently side by side, ignoring each other.