Star Toter (15 page)

"Dishwater," he repeated disgustedly. "No wunner Steele's rich, sellin' dishwater. Darn cheatin' trick. Wants to find y'r brother Ray now—raisin' ructions all over, lookin' for him. I coulda told him how I saw you bring Reta to that house of Mis' Landers this morning—might have, if he'd asked me!"

Mule was talking to himself now, staring unseeingly into space. Locke listened, his faculties alert, shocked at what Mule was saying.

"He c'n keep right on huntin' till I'm good an' ready to tell him. He won't find 'em—you're too smart for him. Too smart for anybody 'cept Big Mule. Steele, he wants Ray—an' Reta. C'n have her, too, for all I care.
I
like Ginny Landers. Reckon I'll look after her when I show him the place. Ain't no other man't' compare with Big Mule, anyway."

His mumbling sank to an unintelligible monotone; then his voice rose clearly.

"Yeah, Steele wants to find Ray an' Reta. I'll tell him —when I've finished thish whiskey—dishwater! Take me till about supper time. Let him stew till then. They can't get away. I'll show him, then—and he better pay me real good thish time! I don' like killin' my friends—not 'less I get good pay!"

He swung to search for an unopened bottle, and Locke rode on, unnoticed. The whiskey had done a lot for him. His arms throbbed painfully, but he could think again and ride straight in the saddle.

The first thing that he must do was to get to Fletcher Bannon. He had to consult with him as well as have his wounds treated. After that he would send him to look after Ray.

So much might be managed, with some skill and a sprinkling of luck. Beyond that he was uncertain. Showdown would likely come before sundown, according to what Big Mule had said. He knew enough of the man to realize that he was a strange contradiction. His ability to to a job when he set out to, his mulish obstinacy in the face of all obstacles, had helped earn him his name. Drunk or not, Mule would report to Steele about the time he had indicated.

And then what? Locke had solved more than one ugly situation with a pair of six-guns. But of what use were guns when he had a bullet hole through each arm? He no longer had even the guns, but more could be obtained. Yet to what purpose?

The answer was like a dog chasing its own tail. A crisis loomed, and every answer added up to futility. He needed his guns, and the ability to use them.

A sudden light came into Locke's eyes as his brain gnawed at the problem. He rode, so abstracted that he was no longer conscious of the painful throbbing, the sharper sting as an arm was moved. Of all the notions he'd ever grabbed, this was the craziest—

Maybe crazy like a fox.

Excitement was as heady a stimulant as the whiskey had been, helping to keep him going as the effect of the liquor wore off. Highpoint was comparatively quiet, for at that hour most of the men were working in the mines, and cowboys from surrounding ranches were off with the roundup. Locke circled, choosing a seldom used approach to the cabin which had been home to Fletcher Bannon for many years, thankful that Bannon liked to be remote.

He hoped desperately that he would find Bannon at home. To seek him through the town would mean disaster. Luck was with him, for Bannon was home, carefully washing a few dishes. He turned, staring in amazement as Locke came through the door, stumbling now that he was on his feet again. Then Bannon sprang to pull out a chair and assist him into it.

"Great day in the afternoon!" Bannon exclaimed. "What's happened to you, man?"

"Steele put a bullet through each of my arms," Locke explained. "He aimed to make sure that I wouldn't face him with my guns. What's been happening in town?"

Bannon was already stirring at the fire, making sure there would be hot water in the kettle which sang at the back of the stove. His lips tightened.

"What is happening amounts to a reign of terror," he growled. "Steele is on a hunt for Ray. He's turned the country upside down without finding him, and it's plain that he'll kill Ray on sight if he does. Here, let me attend to those arms."

Carefully he began cutting away the coat and blood-soaked shirt, pausing momentarily to survey the oddly contrived bandages.

"Who fixed these?" he demanded.

"I did."

"You—" Bannon pursed his lips; then his fingers resumed their work. "The devil you say!"

"Fortunately, his bullets missed the bones," Locke explained, still tense with the bigness of the idea which had come to him. "Listen, Fletcher. I met Big Mule, back a couple of miles. He had enough whiskey bottles to get an army drunk, but the effect on him at that stage was just to make him feel good and loosen his tongue. He even felt sorry enough for me to give me a drink—which was all that kept me going."

"One score for the devil," Bannon commented grimly.

"He's not all bad," Locke said gravely, as Bannon started to cleanse the wounds, working with the gentle touch of a woman. "He told me two things. The first was that he killed Grant Cable yesterday, in such a way as to make it look like an accident."

"Cable, eh?" The doctor nodded without surprise. "They brought his body into town about an hour ago. The report was that his horse had fallen on him."

"Big Mule bragged that he killed him. He intends to finish his whiskey, which he figures will take until about supper time. After that, he plans to tell Steele what he wants to know: where to find Ray."

"How does he know?"

"It seems that he saw me carry Ray into Ginny Landers' house early this morning."

"Ginny's house?" He whistled. "So that's where he is!"

"That's it. And Reta Cable is there with them. You know what that means, Fletcher?"

Again the doctor's nod was grim.

"It means the devil to pay—
if
Mule's allowed to see Steele," he agreed. "I'll put your arms in traction splints for a few days to keep them from being moved. It will be uncomfortable, but the best and quickest method to heal them. As soon as I get them fixed, I'll ride out and deal with the Mule."

"And how do you propose to do that? He's bad enough sober, but twice as bad when he's drunk."

"With all that's at stake, I suppose I'll have to shoot him."

"And hang for shooting him in the back? That would be your only chance. No, Fletcher. Neither one nor the other."

Something in his tone, more than the words, caused the doctor to regard him attentively.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "And why not? He's got to be stopped—and tell me any other way."

"There is no other way," Locke admitted. "But if you gave him a break, he'd kill you. He's never too drunk to outshoot most men."

Bannon shook his head stubbornly. "I can do a good job of trying," he growled.

"Not good enough, I tell you. And we need you alive."

"Then suggest something better," Bannon protested. "Good Lord, Orin, can't you see what will happen if Steele finds out what he wants to know—not alone to Ray, but to those girls as well? He's been making a desperate search, to no avail, until he's a mad dog let loose. Also, he's wanted Reta for a long while."

"I know," Locke agreed. "We'll forget Big Mule and concentrate on Steele when the time comes. As soon as you get me fixed up, can you disguise yourself for a trip to Ginny's, then look after Ray? He needs your care badly. If you disguise yourself as a prospector or something, and go to the shop as a customer—"

"That I can manage, and nobody will guess that it's the town bum," Bannon granted. "But what good will it do to doctor him, if he's to die tonight?"

"You keep him alive, and I'll attend to the rest," Locke promised. "And never mind the splints, Fletcher. Just bandage my arms so that they won't start to bleed again. But leave them as free as possible, not bulky or clumsy."

The doctor stared at him. "You sound as though you aimed to use your guns again!" he said, half in derision.

Locke's reply startled him.

"I do," he agreed.

Bannon blinked, glancing toward a half-empty flask on a shelf.

"I haven't touched a drop for two days," he said accusingly. "Now what did you say?"

"I figure to do it with your help," Locke explained. "Or rather your guns, since they took mine. Listen, Fletcher. As you see, there are no bones broken; nothing worse than a couple of holes, one in each arm. I can use them a little, though it hurts like the devil. But fundamentally, there's nothing else wrong."

"Nothing wrong at all," Bannon conceded dryly, "except a bullet hole through each. And you tell
me
I'm too slow to match lead with a killer!"

"You are, and so would I be, now. It would hurt so that I couldn't even lift a gun. But if you hypnotize me, Fletcher,
so that I won't feel any pain—
then I can use my guns today!"

Bannon stared at him in silence, clearly startled by the suggestion. Yet Locke knew that the thought was not new to Bannon. He believed in the use of hypnosis in medical practice and had used it in the past, even though it had drawn down bitter criticism upon his head.

"As I understand it, if you hypnotize me, I'll not feel any pain," Locke went on." I can eat a meal and get a few hours of sleep while you look after Ray and keep watch. By the time Steele starts after him, I should be in pretty good shape. And if I'm not bothered by pain, I'll stop him! It's the only way."

An expression of approval spread slowly over the doctor's face.

"I'm so sober that at first I didn't trust my ears," he said. "But I believe you've hit it. The notion is radical, but it will work. Whether your arms will have sufficient speed left in them, with a hole in each, even though you feel no pain—that I can't say. It's a risk. But if you can deal with Steele, then the girls and I can tell what we know and get a hearing. After that, with Steele out of the way, there'll be nothing to worry about. But Steele is something else again. Even at your best, do you know what you'd be up against? Steele is one of the best gunmen who ever came to the high country."

"Name a better way to handle it," Locke challenged.

"I can't," Bannon conceded. "This is a long change, but it seems to be the only one. One merit is that it will catch Steele off guard. All right, now. Don't try to resist me. I'll do my part."

The pain, of course, was there. That was an absolute fact, like the existence of sound where there were no ears to hear. But the flesh no longer felt the pain. Being ignorant of its existence, it acted as if there were no pain.

That was a layman's explanation, rather than a scientific one, but it suited Locke. It was startling, little short of a miracle, Bannon reflected, even though he understood well enough. In a matter of minutes Locke had become a new man. He saw the bandages on his arm, but gave them no further thought. In Orin's present state, Bannon knew that he had forgotten what they stood for, just as he had forgotten his wounds.

Ordinarily this was not what Bannon could have approved as a doctor. The treatment pleased him, but not the activity which would follow it. Locke would use his arms as though there were nothing wrong with them. That might not be particularly harmful, but neither could it be called an aid to healing. It was a drastic remedy for a desperate situation.

Locke was sleeping when Bannon left him. During his student days in France, Bannon had done some acting on the side. He walked the street so adroitly disguised that passers-by stared, wondering who he might be, not suspecting that it was the beer-guzzling medico. He moved with a curious exhilaration, having no fears for Locke. He had locked the door to his house, and no one, if he thought to look there, could break in without arousing Locke. A pair of six-shooters was handy to his reach.

Locke was still sleeping when the doctor returned, carrying a small package which he ostensibly had purchased at the dress shop. The afternoon passed in lazy somnolence; the sun was warm overhead. Nothing disturbed the peace. Whatever hunting Steele was doing must be outside of town.

It was supper time, an hour short of sunset on the long summer evening, when the doctor awakened Locke.

"They're coming," Bannon informed him quietly; "Steele and Big Mule and half a dozen others of their crew. Looks as if they're headin' toward the dress shop!"

Locke glanced alertly from the window. With a fresh clean shirt over his bandaged arms, nothing showed. He was still under the influence of hypnosis, as Bannon had planned, and as he slipped the guns into their holsters, he seemed to have forgotten that there had ever been anything wrong with his arms. The sleep, together with a meal, had made a new man of him. Steele, the doctor reflected grimly, was in for a surprise.

"Ray's considerably better this afternoon," Bannon added. "He's over the hump, I think."

The posse were on foot, moving purposefully but not hurrying. Having kept careful watch, Bannon had made sure that they still had some distance to go. Locke could take another route and arrive at Ginny's ahead of them.

"I'll be along to back you up," Bannon added, and gave his patient a few final instruction, though there seemed little need for that.

Locke moved swiftly and arrived at the shop. He circled to the rear, toward the kitchen door, rightly judging that it would also be Steele's destination. As he reached the door, the others came in sight, less than a hundred feet away.

Big Mule had consumed his liquor as scheduled, and he showed few outward effects from it. To him it was what he called it: dishwasher. Only because it had loosened his tongue and made him a creature of contradictory and unpredictable moods could one be sure that he had been drinking.

He walked beside Steele, both of them silent, Big Mule because he had suddenly lost his volubility, Steele because he was tense and eager. During the day he had made certain that the town was completely under his domination. Men knew what he hunted, and what would happen to Ray Locke if he were found. But news of Grant Cable's death had spread, along with the report of the shooting and discrediting of Orin Locke. This one final gesture would wipe out all effective opposition; men might hate him, but they would fear him more.