The Bold Frontier (17 page)

They headed out early next morning. Before the sun had crawled up the sky to high noon, the raiders struck.

They came pounding down a rise, a dozen of them, dust rolling in gritty clouds behind them, their guns making strangely small flat popping noises in the vast land. Croydon, handling the first wagon, reined the mules, and seized the rifle on the seat beside him. He flung it to his shoulder and fired, jacking it a moment later for another, equally ineffective shot. Croydon had never been a marksman.

The raiders pulled half way between a low hill and the wagons. They all wore stained bandannas across their faces. Croydon leaped down and started forward in a crouch. All along the line of wagons, the skinners were doing the same thing. Dune Limerty bawled orders. Croydon’s stomach tightened as he flattened himself in the dirt, pumping a shot. If another wagon blew, they’d fall far, far behind. Perhaps they’d never catch up at all.

But fortunately the raiding party was a weak one. Croydon had nearly thirty men, and they were stretched out along the wagon line so that their fire could cut into the owlhoots from many points. Croydon let go a shot and saw one of the raiders spin out of his saddle and collide with the rider next to him. The attackers stayed less than two minutes. One of them, a man in a loud purple shirt, raised his arm and yelled something Croydon couldn’t hear. They turned and spurred back up the rise. Limerty came racing toward Croydon.

“Shall we go after them, Jeff?”

Croydon shook his head. “But let’s take a look at that dead one.”

He and Limerty went over and knelt beside the fallen owlhoot. They pulled down his soiled bandanna. Croydon didn’t recognize him, and neither did Limerty. But the breed was familiar enough. He had the vulturish look of a professional killer, even in death.

Croydon, stood up slowly. “Dune,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “this is getting pretty tight. These men couldn’t have come from anybody but Tom Hunter.”

“Hell, I recognized Flinch, in the purple shirt,” Limerty exclaimed.

“Then if it’s killing he wants, it’s killing he’ll get. Tell every one of the men to stay ready. Hunter’s getting scared.”

The men were nervous and obviously displeased about having to fight as a part of their job. Most of them had no personal acquaintance with Croydon, no loyalty other than the fact that he paid them. And none of them had a particular inclination to get a bellyful of lead in his behalf.

The next two days brought a number of serious foulups. Men reacted slowly to orders, surly glints in their eyes. One of the skinners scared his mules so badly that they snapped the traces and ran off. Another time, a man let a barrel tip out of his wagon out of pure carelessness. Croydon watched the crude bubble thickly into the earth. He spoke sharply to the man, who faced him with dull enraged eyes. Croydon saw that it would not take much to provoke a fight, so he let him off with a tongue lashing. It was a bad situation, and Croydon knew it couldn’t last much longer. He was fighting uphill, and slipping down two inches for every one he gained. Each day reduced the efficiency of the outfit. The breaking point came on the tenth day.

They arrived in Sooner at noon, with full wagons, and proceeded to unload on the waiting boxcars. The tally showed they were thirty-six barrels behind Hunter.

Reluctantly Croydon gave the men the afternoon off. If he didn’t, they would quit, and he would lose out then and there.

He was in the office in the middle of the afternoon when Tom Hunter stormed in, followed by portly Sheriff Hink Peters. Hink knew Croydon, and the freighter liked the law’s representative in Sooner. But Peters was scowling. Croydon knew Peters wasn’t linked up with Hunter, so this was something bad.

“Afternoon, Hink,” he said, affably ignoring Hunter. “Have a seat.”

“No time to sit down, Jeff. Miz Bryant’s man Matheson just turned up in an alley with his skull bashed in. The tally sheet is gone. Plumb disappeared.”

“Why would anyone grab the tally?” Croydon asked.

“Maybe you can answer that one, Croydon,” Hunter said.

“Now wait a minute …”

“Hold off, Jeff.” Peters put up one hand, palm outward. “I got to check up on everything. Somebody might want to alter them tallies so’s to swing the contract. It’s no secret you’re fighting for Miz Bryant’s business.”

“Hunter here is fighting just as hard.”

But he saw his own position. In the minds of the citizens of Sooner, he was the johnny-come-lately. He, and not Hunter, would be the obvious and likely one to make such a back-to-the-wall play.

“Just where were you about an hour ago, Jeff?” Peters asked.

“I was sitting right here. I’ve got a mortgage on the outfit, sheriff, and I was just sitting here stewing about how I could pay it off.”

Hunter laughed. “Sheriff, there’s one more motive for you. Croydon’s whipped, and he’ll pull any kind of stupid trick to save himself.”

“Just try to slap me in jail on the strength of that, Hunter. It can’t be done.”

“I know it can’t,” Peters parried. He headed for the door, sad disappointment in his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to do some checking anyways, Jeff. I’ll get in touch with you.” Hunter followed him out and slammed the door loudly.

Croydon stared silently after the two departing men. Any fool could see it was Hunter’s trick. Any fool, that is, who didn’t have the town’s perspective. Everybody would automatically swing over, comparatively speaking, to Tom Hunter’s point of view because he had seniority in the matter of reputation. Hunter was tightening the noose around Croydon’s neck. And there was not a great deal he could do about it.

The freight yard lay deserted. A hot wind stirred powdery dust. The sun slanting in prickled Croydon’s back and he couldn’t concentrate. The gun on his hip weighed against his flesh. His palms tingled. He wanted to kill Tom Hunter. But that would only nail the coffin shut completely.

Dune Limerty returned around five, in high spirits, heavily fortified with alcohol. Croydon explained the situation over dinner, and the older man’s eyes darkened.

“Lord,” Limerty said sourly, “they was even dumb enough to do it in an alley. Nothin’ smart about that Hunter. I’m beginning to think he must be going off his head.”

“He’s in the position all of Sooner thinks I’m in,” Croydon said. “But I can’t prove that Hunter’s the kind of man who’d pull such a stunt, while I sit by under my halo, ready to go down in honest but pure defeat.” Deep cynicism edged his words.

“Look out, my friend.” Limerty’s voice became a hoarse whisper. “Peters just came in, along with Hunter and that Flinch.”

Croydon turned toward the three men. Flinch, bringing up the rear, was a short toad-like man with sunken eyes and sagging cheeks. A witless smile hung on his pendulous lips.

Peters put his arm on Croydon’s shoulder. “Jeff, I got some bad news for you.” Croydon’s eyes flashed to Hunter. The big man’s hard gaze was self-satisfied. “Rip Flinch here went nosing around your office a few minutes ago and found these.” Peters extended a sheaf of papers. The tally, smudged with ink and grime.

Croydon rocketed to his feet. “Did you happen to ask Hunter whether he had Flinch plant those things in my office? My God, sheriff, don’t be a fool …”

Peters shook his head. “I know there’s always that possibility. Thing is, I’ve got to lock you up until I can do some more investigating. Right now you’re guilty. Later on …” It was hellishly clear. In the delay, Hunter would be assured of the Bryant contract. Whether they ever really found him guilty or not didn’t matter.

Croydon didn’t wait. He rammed a fist into the sheriff’s gut, then shoved Flinch out of the way. Flinch grunted and a bright flash of metal crossed Croydon’s line of vision. He tried to dodge out of the way, but Hunter’s pistol barrel slammed into his temple. Then Hunter struck him again. He went down and out with frightening suddenness. Next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, staring up at a clay ceiling. He rolled his aching head to the right. Cell bars. Beyond them a deputy lounged, playing solitaire in the glow of a lamp.

Croydon’s mind whirled. He was beaten for sure. But something within him wouldn’t let him stay beaten. This thing had been business, but now it had taken on a new aspect. Personal between him and Tom Hunter. Elizabeth Bryant’s face danced in his mind. Then he forgot about her as the jail door opened. Dune Limerty made his way past the deputy to the cell. Croydon got up to meet him.

“What’s wrong?” Croydon asked.

“Hell, Jeff …” He scratched his beard. “It looks like we’re through for sure. You know our skinners got pretty stirred up over working so hard these past few days. After Hink Peters locked you up here, well …” The oldster shook his grizzled head, unwilling to go on.

“Let’s have it, Dune,” Croydon said softly.

Limerty’s gaze settled on the floor. “Hunter moved fast. He sent Flinch around with a promise of triple the bonus we paid. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen. Most of ’em said they wanted on the winning side.”

“They quit?”

“That’s about it, Jeff. We’ve got three men left, and God knows why they stayed. We’ve got all them wagons, and nobody to drive them. It wouldn’t do us no good even if you was to get out of jail. I hate to say it, but it looks like we’re licked in this game.”

Croydon stared through the bars, gripping them, white-knuckled.

Croydon languished in jail on the eleventh and twelfth days. In his mind he saw Tom Hunter, slowed down in his pace now, yet still hauling enough crude into Sooner to give him an unbeatable margin, and the contract.

Almost from the moment that Croydon had heard Limerty’s announcement of their defeat, he had made up his mind as to the course he had to follow. Escape, that was the only way. And since he could no longer win the contest on the basis of barrels delivered, he had to do it another way. Expose Hunter, thereby putting him out of the running and leaving Elizabeth’s only choice his own outfit, which he could rebuild quickly on the strength of her contract.

But for two maddening days no opportunity for escape presented itself. The only escape route was the cell door. That was opened three times a day when the two deputies brought him a tray of food. One deputy held a six-gun on Croydon while the other ducked and set the tray inside. They always made Croydon retreat to the far wall and stand. Hink Peters was a thoughtful, methodical man who allowed no carelessness.

When noon of the thirteenth day arrived, Croydon decided he had to make a desperate try. So far as he knew, Peters had unearthed no evidence either to clear him or to point conclusively to his guilt. He
had
to get out … do something to fight the sense of defeat rising within him.

Instead of waiting until the deputies decided to come into the cell, he placed himself in position beforehand. He stood on the cell bunk, which was fastened to the rear wall. He leaned his elbows on the sill and stared out the small barred window into the dusty alley. He was standing that way when the jail door opened and the second deputy arrived with the food, brought from the Sooner House.

The key rattled in the lock, and Croydon turned around, desperately trying to conceal his breathlessness. The first deputy pushed the door open, and Croydon noted that he still held his gun level. The other man put down his tray.

“Well,” Croydon said, “guess I’ll eat long as you brought it. The view isn’t the prettiest I’ve seen.” He waved over his shoulder to the window. The second deputy allowed himself a grin. Croydon shifted his weight as if to step down off the bunk. His height gave him a slight advantage as he leaped.

The deputies let out hoarse yells as he bowled into them, knocking them backwards through the cell door. The three men fell in a heap of thrashing limbs, but Croydon kept his head, seizing both their guns and leaping to his feet, each fist full of a heavy weapon.

“All right, boys. Get inside the cell.”

They obeyed him without hesitation. He relocked the door and tossed the keys in the corner, far away from them. Thrusting one gun into his belt and holding the other at ready, he slipped out the side door into an alley that opened to the main street.

He slid along in the shadows of the wall, thinking rapidly. He knew where Sheriff Peters lived. That was his destination. The house lay on a quiet back street, shaded by big trees. He walked up the lawn and in through the front door without knocking.

He went into the parlor. Mrs. Peters, a ruddy buxom woman with graying hair, saw him first. Then she saw the gun. “Why, Jeff, what are you …”

Peters, seated with his back to Croydon, spluttered loudly. He leaped to his feet, his hand dropping toward his holster.

“Easy, Hink,” Croydon said. “I don’t want trouble.”

“What in hell is this?” Peters thundered. “I’ll throw the book at you for breaking out of jail.”

“I’ve got to have a chance to prove I didn’t take those tallies. You open to a bargain?”

“I sure as blazes am not,” Peters shot back.

Croydon had to smile. “Here it is anyway. You know where this Rip Flinch lives?” Peters nodded. “Well, let’s stroll over there. If you walk in on him, holding your gun, and ask him point-blank whether or not he stole the tallies and planted them in my office, I think you’ll have what you really want to know.”

“Got this Flinch all figgered, eh?” Peters said. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. His wife had long since relaxed. She knew Croydon well enough to know that no harm would come to her husband. “I think if you act like you already know he did it, say you got some evidence—he’ll spook. He’s that kind.”

Croydon softened his tone. “But if he doesn’t scare, then I’m willing to hand over my gun to you and go back to jail peaceably.”

He watched the lawman for reactions. “Hink, I’m betting everything I’ve got on the hunch that you can scare him into admitting the truth.”

Peters hesitated only a moment longer. Then he extended his hand. “All right, Jeff. Hand over your iron right now, and I’ll go along with the game. I never did like that Flinch’s looks much.”

Croydon handed his gun over, followed it with the one at his belt. Peters led him out through the kitchen, picked up his hat, and the two men moved across the back lawn. From the door Mrs. Peters wished Jeff good luck.