Raw Land (14 page)

Still Mary Norman said nothing.

“I sent a letter off last night to Hortense, and another up the line to Seven Troughs. They'll watch for you. This jerk-line stage that dumps you over in Sevier is no good either, because I've tipped the Sevier marshal off.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mary Norman asked.

“Stay put. Keep your eyes open for Broome. Stay clear of me and keep your mouth shut and wait till I'm out. If you get any news of Broome, send me a message by someone you can trust. That's all.”

Mary Norman watched him get up and walk over to the door. She said then, “What if you never get Murray?”

“You keep tryin' to help us for a year, and the judge'll likely let you off.”

“And the rest of my life I try to live down being a squealer, is that it?”

Charlie nodded. “That's what you get for pickin' up with crooks like Broome. They buy you clothes and jewels and show you a good time—but, sister, they're poison. You're findin' it out.”

Charlie went out. He didn't go near the sheriff's office on his way down to the livery stable. There, he hired a horse and rode north out of town. He'd never have a better opportunity than now to do what he'd been wanting to do for weeks.

He rode into Will's place around noon and hailed the house. Nobody answered. Will's foreman, who Charlie had heard was the only one of the crew to escape arrest, was not around. Charlie dismounted and went up to the door, which was open. The room looked as if someone had just walked out of it, but when Charlie looked about for proof of this he couldn't find any. It was just an impression, that was all. He went through the rooms, calling out for anybody, and there was no answer. He had to be satisfied with this, so he turned to the bunkhouse wing. Swiftly, expertly, he searched all the war bags, at least glanced at the contents of every letter he could find. To Will's stuff he paid special attention, but found nothing. Will's worldly goods were less than his Mexican cook's, his letters nonexistent. This puzzled Charlie. Surely somewhere among Will's possessions must be something to indicate he had worked for Murray Broome, knew where he was, or had heard from him. If this wasn't so, then Charlie's hunch, on which he'd staked his reputation with the Commissioner, was wrong—and he knew it wasn't. But there was nothing in this whole house to indicate that Will Danning had ever heard of Murray Broome.

Twice Charlie went to the bunkhouse door and looked over the place. He still had the uneasy feeling that there was somebody here—somebody watching him. When he was finished with his job, however, and nobody had disturbed him, he rolled a cigarette and stood in the doorway of the big room, his ruddy face set in a scowl, his sharp eyes musing. He had found exactly nothing, and yet, contrariwise, he was more firmly convinced than ever that Will was in touch with Murray Broome. It was intuition, a hunch, call it whatever you would, it was still there. And he determined to go through with his original plan.

He rode back to Yellow Jacket, arriving after dark, ate his supper, and then strolled over to the sheriff's office.

Phipps greeted him cordially, and they talked for a while, mostly about Will Danning. Charlie listened and didn't talk, and from what he gathered Phipps was ready to rush through Will's arraignment and trial. In that stubborn way some courageous men have, Phipps had blinded himself to any doubts. Will Danning was guilty of Hale's murder and would hang.

Afterward Charlie asked if he might talk with the prisoner, and he was let into the cellblock. It consisted of four cells. Pinky and Ollie were in the far cell, Pablo next to them. There was an empty cell between him and Will, who was next to the office. An overhead kerosene lamp in the corridor supplied the light.

Will rose on his elbow when Charlie Sommers came in, and he said, “Hello,” not very enthusiastically. Charlie was an expert at reading on an imprisoned man's face just how much confinement galled him. What he saw on Will's face pleased him; Will was not resigned. Charlie pulled a stool across the corridor, parked it by Will's cell, and sat down.

“Luck seems to be runnin' against you, Will,” Charlie observed.

Will sat up and stretched, his face drawn with boredom. “You don't call a frame-up luck, do you?”

“I call it a crime,” Charlie said briefly.

Will glanced at him and grunted. “You can't call it, though, Charlie. This here is Phipps's party.”

“What can I do for you?” Charlie asked.

Will shrugged and didn't look at him. “Nothin'. Hell, I could hire a crew of lawyers and it still wouldn't change the jury I'll draw.”

“Break out,” Charlie said.

Will looked at him and said, “Hah,” humorlessly and looked away.

Charlie said, “Will.”

Will's glance shuttled to him. In Charlie's hands, thrust halfway between the bars, was his gun. Will saw it and then raised his glance to Charlie, questioning. Then he said wryly, “Ain't you rode me enough, Charlie? Now you want me to take a busted gun, so Phipps'll have a chance to cut down on me.”

“Look at the gun, then,” Charlie said.

Will took it. He saw the hammer wasn't filed. He looked at the cartridges, supposing the powder had been pulled. Charlie knew what he was thinking. He said, “Pull out a slug and look for yourself.”

Will did. It was good black powder in the shells. He hefted the gun, glanced sharply at Charlie, and handed it back. “No, thanks, not from a lawman.”

“You figure there's a catch, don't you?” Charlie asked softly. He knew the others were watching this scene, but if they were as loyal to Will as his crew at the Double Bar O had been, Phipps would never find out.

“What do you think?” Will said derisively. His smoky eyes were angry, like a man's who has been goaded beyond toleration.

“I don't think so,” Charlie said. “I'll tell you why. I watched you for quite a spell when you were workin' for Broome, Will. I saw you come up from a kid horse wrangler to roddin' that outfit. I watched you grade up that Double Bar O beef, I talked to your neighbors, I kept my eyes open. I've never heard a man say anything against you yet—except that you're stubborn.”

Will listened in silence. Charlie nodded toward the outer office. “I just come from talkin' with Phipps. He thinks you had Chap killed. And he aims to hang you.”

“I know that,” Will growled.

Charlie smiled faintly. “You and me was on opposite sides of the fence durin' that Broome business, Will. We still are, I reckon. Only I don't think you'd kill a man. I don't think you're a crook.”

“Try tellin' Phipps that.”

“No, I'm goin' to play it another way,” Charlie said slowly. “I'm goin' to risk a job I like and a badge I got a lot of respect for.”

“How?”

Charlie held out the gun. “Take it. Shove it in Phipps's face and walk out of here.”

For a long moment Will stared at him, and then he said softly, “What's the catch, Charlie? You want somethin', and I know what it is, too.”

Charlie nodded. “I want somethin', and you think you know what it is, do you? You figure I'll give you the gun if you'll tell me where Murray Broome is?”

“That's it.”

Charlie shook his head. “I ain't even goin' to ask you where he is, Will, I think you know, but I'm not goin' to ask you, because you wouldn't tell me.”

“No.”

“Here's all I ask,” Charlie said quietly, looking Will straight in the eye. “Take that gun and get out of here. You'll be on the dodge with a reward on your head. I don't know where you'll go, and I don't give a damn. You'll meet Murray Broome. You and him are friends, and I know it, Will. I know how much he used to depend on you.” He paused now, driving his point home. “Here's what I ask—when you find out that Murray Broome is the cheap, flashy crook I know him to be, I want you to come to me and help me bring him to justice.”

Anger stirred in Will's eyes, but before he could answer Charlie held up his hand. “There's no promise you got to make, Will. Understand, I said
if
and
when
you find out Broome's just plumb narrow-gauge, you come help me.”

“And if I don't find this out about him?”

“You will,” Charlie said bluntly. “You ain't a crook, Will. You're decent and honest. Murray Broome ain't. Some day he'll prove it to you. If he don't—” Charlie spread his hands and shrugged—“I just made a bum guess, that's all. You'll be free, and I'll lose my job and likely go to jail. I'm riskin' it.”

“You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you, Charlie?” Will drawled slowly, still puzzled. “You're pretty sure of Murray, too.”

Charlie nodded. Will was mute, impressed by Charlie's quiet conviction. For a moment, he wondered if Charlie was right about Milt, and then he knew he wasn't. Charlie Sommers thought that any man who kills another is automatically a killer, never seeing through to the motive or the justification. Will didn't pretend to understand all the politics behind Murray Broome's killing of Senator Mason, but he felt deep within him that it was justified. A queer thought fled through his mind then; he remembered Chap Hale saying this same thing about Murray Broome.

But Milt was straight. You can't know a man's innermost thoughts for five years and not know that about him. He had to cling to that, remember it. As for Charlie's proposition, it was fair, straightforward, and Will knew he must accept it. The reason had become plain to him during these hours in jail; he couldn't let Becky help him break out. Phipps was a man who wouldn't spare a woman, and if the break was successful and Becky was implicated, Phipps wouldn't spare her. Last night, faced with hopeless odds and persuaded by Becky, he had thought it might work. Now he knew he couldn't accept her help. And he could accept Charlie's.

Charlie's voice roused him, saying, “Better take the gun, Will.”

“What about you?” Will said softly. “Hell, they'll get you, Charlie. And there's nobody folks hate like a renegade lawman. They'll nail up your hide, sure.”

Charlie nodded, smiling a little. “It'll be pretty rough. But once they find out you're innocent and that you turn up Murray Broome, I'll be all right.”

“But I won't turn up Murray!” Will said swiftly. “Forget that. You can't count on that, Charlie.”

“I am countin' on it.”

“And you're willin' to risk roostin' in jail for twenty years on it?”

“Hell, I'd risk hangin'.”

“You're a sucker. Give me the gun,” Will said meagerly.

“You promise that when you find Broome's a crook, you'll help me get him?”

“If I find he's a crook, I'll come to you and help you get him,” Will promised.

Charlie handed him the gun and rose. “I don't have to tell you that Phipps is an honest lawman. Don't hurt him.” He shook hands with Will and went out, a ruddy-faced, stocky man who saw nothing strange in what he had just done. At the door he paused to button his coat so that his empty holster would not show to the men in the office.

When he was gone, Will hid the gun under the blanket on his cot. The others watched him, speechless with surprise. Then Ollie Gargan growled, “Will, you're goin' to walk into a trap. That-there marshal will have a dozen men with rifles planted across the street.”

“You boys want to try it with me?” Will countered.

Ollie considered, and then said, “I reckon.”

“How about you, Pinky?”

“I'll take a chance.”

“Pablo?”

“Me, too.”

Will sat back to consider. Unless he played this cagey, none of them would get out. You couldn't stick a gun in Phipps's face and tell him to open up. What if he didn't have the keys with him? But he carried them, Will remembered. What if he refused, knowing you wouldn't shoot? You'd have to get him in the cell, and that meant waiting till meal time. And that meant making an escape in daylight, which would be more dangerous.

No, he'd have to try it at night—tonight.

Every night at ten or so either Phipps or one of his deputies would come in and blow out the lamp. This was the time to act. The other three were looking at him, and Will said, “Let me play this my way. Just watch.”

He smoked two cigarettes in quick succession and then waited impatiently. The others were lying on their cots, watching him.

Presently, one of the deputies, a big young puncher, came in to blow out the lamp.

“Roll in, you bums,” he said cheerfully.

Will was sitting on his cot. He yawned and said idly, “Phipps still here?”

“Yeah, but he won't talk to you,” the deputy said.

Will stood up and took out his gun and stepped to the bars. The deputy reached up for the lamp and Will said quietly, “Leave that alone.”

The deputy glanced at him, then his gaze traveled down to the gun. His mouth sagged open, and slowly he raised his eyes to Will's face.

“One yelp out of you and I'll blow out your short ribs,” Will drawled tonelessly. “You got it?”

The deputy nodded in speechless assent.

Will saw he didn't have a gun. He said, “Come over here by the door. Make it quick!”

The deputy did as he was bidden. Will knew he was too scared to bluff it out and too dumb to gauge a prisoner's desperation, as Phipps would do.

Will rammed the gun in his midriff and said swiftly, “Does Phipps carry the cell keys with him?”

The man shook his head in negation, and for a moment Will knew despair. He thought quickly, wracking his brain for some way to get Phipps in here with the keys. He didn't dare let the deputy go. Then he said, “Listen careful, now. Tiptoe over to that corridor door and open it, soft. Then come back here, stand in front of that Mexican's cell, and yell for Phipps to bring the keys. Wait a second.”