The End of the Trail (10 page)

Pat had finished his supper. He shoved back the empty plate and pulled a wedge of pie toward him. He took a swallow of coffee and asked, “Have you got any idea who's in cahoots with 'em here?”

“Nary a one.”

“What do you know about Five-Fingers Martin?” Pat asked harshly.

The sheriff looked surprised. “He runs the livery stable an' minds his own business.”

“Did you know he was a jail-bird?”

“I sure didn't.”

Pat nodded. “We ran into him down in Texas. Must of been all of fifteen years ago. He was robbin' stages then. Sam an' Ezra an' me cleaned up his gang. He got his arm shot off in the round-up and went to jail. We didn't know he was out until we saw him here today.”

“D'yuh think … he's mixed up with the Runyon brothers?”

Pat shrugged. “The livery stable would be a handy place to get hold of information about gold shipments and such. I wouldn't accuse him,” he went on slowly. “He acted glad enough to see us this afternoon. Doesn't carry any grudge for what happened in Texas near as I could tell. I'm not going to worry about anything
he
might do.”

“I'm afraid it won't be only just him … if he is the one that's in with the gang. We've got a bunch of tough
hombres
in Fairplay, Pat. A lot of them that carry grudges against the big mineowners and sort of sympathize with the Runyon gang's holdups. You see, the gang is smart. They never raid the little mines owned by local prospectors like they used to be. They always hit the big fellers. There's a lot of people in town that wouldn't like to see Art and Cleve Runyon caught.”

Pat's eyes glowed hotly. “You think feelin' might get 'roused up against us by someone like Five-Fingers Martin goin' around sayin' we've come here to trail the Runyons down?”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Hartly confessed. “I'd feel easier if you-all would pull out tonight.”

Pat shook his head. “We're sleeping in the hotel tonight.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down with a thump. “An' that's where you're going right now,” he told Dock.

“Aw Dad! An' miss all the fun mebby?”

“Maybe,” Pat said grimly. He got up and told Hartly, “Thanks. I'll park my boy upstairs in the hotel room and then try to round up Ezra and Sam and keep 'em sober. Come on, Dock.” He stalked out of the restaurant.

Fairplay was beginning to come alive. The boardwalk outside the restaurant was crowded with bearded miners and spurred ranch-hands, intermingled with a sprinkling of men in regular working clothes from the smelting plants about the city. There was ceaseless movement back and forth from one saloon to another, boisterous shouted greetings as men recognized old friends they hadn't seen for months.

Dock pressed close to his father, his eyes alight with excitement as he viewed the busy street. “Can't I stay out a
little
while?” he pleaded. “I won't be in the way. Honest I won't. Just long enough for one tiny peek into Happy Jack's or some place like that.”

They were at the front door of the hotel. Pat hesitated, looking down into Dock's shining face. It was still quite early. The crowds were sober and well-behaved. He said, “I'll let you come into Happy Jack's with me for a little if you'll promise to stay right with me an' then go up to bed without an argument when I say so.”

“Sure. I promise, Dad.” Dock tugged at his hand gleefully and Pat let himself be pulled past the hotel entrance to the swinging doors leading in to Happy Jack's Emporium of Pleasure.

They entered a long narrow room with a mahogany bar running the full length of it. The entire wall behind the bar was an unbroken mirror from floor to low ceiling. Four bartenders were busily at work supplying the needs of the fifty or more men lining the mahogany, and Happy Jack himself lounged at the head of the bar to greet newcomers and call a cheery good-night to departing customers.

Happy Jack was a tremendous man. He stood well over six feet in height and had a round torso the size of a water barrel. He had silvery hair and a pair of magnificent mustaches dyed dead black and curled upward at the ends, with a span of at least eight inches. All of his front teeth were solid gold and they shone resplendently when he laughed, which was practically all the time. He wore a white silk shirt and embroidered vest, with a huge diamond stickpin in his flowered cravat, and diamonds flashed on all four fingers of both hands.

When Pat Stevens pushed open the swinging doors and entered, the proprietor let out a resonant bellow of welcome, “Pat Stevens! by all that's holy. The law-man of Powder Valley, big as life and twice as handsome. Come in, man. I've the best in the house waiting for you.”

He lumbered forward like a huge friendly bear, showing all his gold teeth in a wide smile and engulfing Pat's hand with a glitter of diamond rings.

“Who's the young fellow?” he roared, putting his other hand on top of Dock's head. “I'd say he was yours, Pat, except I doubt you could spawn a son that handsome.”

“You'd have to see his mother to understand how that come about,” Pat admitted with a grin. “Shake hands with Happy Jack, Dock.”

Dock put his hand out and said in a small voice, “I'm pleased to meetcha, Mr. Happy Jack.”

Their host chuckled thunderously and stooped to lift Dock to his shoulder. He strode to the bar and set him on it, asking Pat over his shoulder, “Is the youngster weaned off root beer yet?”

Pat said, “Root beer'll be fine for him.”

“And my private bottle,” Happy Jack roared at the nearest bartender. “What brings you to Fairplay, Pat? You and your two handsome partners?”

“Just passin' through. They've been in here, huh?”

“They're still here.” Happy Jack chuckled happily and nodded toward a curtained archway leading into the rear where the sound of dance music was stridently loud. “Old Ezra's still quite the lady's man like he used to be. He's giving the girls a treat with his dancing.”

“What about Sam Sloan?” asked Pat grimly.

“Sam's sort of lady-shy tonight. He was bucking a chuck-a-luck layout in the other room last I saw of him. Here's to you, Pat.” Happy Jack filled two glasses from a bottle the bartender had set in front of him and pushed a mug of foaming root beer in front of Dock.

“I hear you're after that five thousand reward for the Runyon gang,” he went on in a rumbling undertone which could be clearly heard the full length of the bar.

Pat saw a lot of faces turned toward him along the bar, and a silence fell over the drinking men as they waited to hear his reply.

He shook his head and said flatly, “You hear wrong, Happy Jack.”

“That so? I heard tell you rode into town with a pack outfit and you're heading up into the mountains tomorrow.”

“That's right. Didn't you know Sam Sloan's working for the Pony Express now?”

“Seems like I did hear that. On the Laramie route, huh?”

“He was on the Laramie end. Right now the company's sent him out to explore a new route over the Divide to take the place of the stage road that went out thirty years ago. Sam an' me are ridin' along to keep him company.”

“Sure now. You'll be following the old road up through Snowslide Canyon. Isn't your fault if that's the same trail the Runyon gang takes after a holdup.” Happy Jack nodded significantly and lifted his glass. “Here's luck to you if you should just happen by accident to run onto their hideout.”

Pat lifted his glass and drank. He saw that it was hopeless to attempt to convince anyone that they weren't in Fairplay for the express purpose of trailing down the holdup gang. He said, “Thanks for the drink. We'll take a look-in on Ezra an' Sam. Finished your root beer, Dock?”

He nodded and slid down from his perch on the bar. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Happy Jack. It was about the best root beer I ever drank,” and went with his father down the long room toward the curtained archway.

The dance-hall was just beyond the curtains, and the gambling room was on the right. The dance-hall had a polished oak floor and was dimly lit by two glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There were chairs and tables ranged all around the dance floor where men could order drinks or food, and a raised platform in the center of the floor for the musicians.

There was a pianist, two fiddle players, and a man with a guitar. They were playing their own version of a waltz, and a dozen or more couples were dancing.

The girls all wore very short, spangled skirts, and their shoulders and arms were bare. Their lips were rouged and they danced expertly, keeping as far from their partners' heavy boots as they could.

Pat and Dock stood in the doorway and looked on for a few minutes. Dock saw Ezra first and giggled and pointed him out to Pat. Ezra was lumbering around earnestly with a wisp of a girl who had the reddest hair Pat had ever seen. Ezra was sweating and his scarred face shone happily as he danced about with the girl. He didn't see Pat and Dock in the doorway, and after a moment Pat drew the boy with him through the doorway on the right into the gambling room.

There were no women in here and there was very little sound, for gambling was a serious business for high stakes in Fairplay. There were a dozen or more round tables covered with green baize still unoccupied so early in the evening; but already three poker games were in progress, a faro layout was drawing a lot of attention, and there was a thick cluster of players about the chuck-a-luck game.

The bird-cage in which the three dice rattled about was an ornate affair of gleaming brass bars in the shape of an hour-glass, mounted on a metal axle supported by two gold-plated uprights and turned by a crank in the hand of the house-banker.

The layout on the long table was equally elaborate. The wooden table was covered with white leather marked off in squares and rectangles covering all the various betting combinations with the odds neatly displayed in black India ink on the leather. Both sides of the table were lined with players leaning forward to place their bets while the bird-cage turned slowly and the dice rattled about, dribbling from one section through the small center opening into the other while the houseman pleaded with them in a monotonous sing-song:

“Get your bets down, gentlemen, while the dice go round and round. Place your bets while I turn the cage. The more you bet the more you win, gentlemen. You can't win by waiting for the dice to stop. When they stop, the betting stops, gentlemen. Get your bets down …”

Pat saw Sam Sloan's black head near the far end of the table. He pushed himself up beside the swarthy little man and grinned down at the pile of chips in front of him. He said, “Looks like yo're doin' all right for yoreself, pardner.”

Sam glanced up happily. His black eyes gleamed with feverish intensity. He was a born gambler, though he generally lost when he risked his money in any game.

“This here's thuh game fer me,” he announced thickly. “Yuh jesht put down yore money an' wait till thuh dice shtop rollin' an' pick up what thuh man pays yuh.” He blinked owlishly up at Pat. He was quite drunk and completely happy.

“That's right,” said a snarling voice from across the table. “Keep on the way you're goin' an' maybe you'll win enough so's you won't hanker after that five thousand reward money.”

Pat looked across at the man who had spoken. He was a stranger to Pat. A bull-necked man, wearing a city suit and a black derby. The derby was tilted back on his head and he chewed pugnaciously on the butt of a soggy black cigar. He had only a couple of chips in front of him and it was evident that he had been losing heavily while watching Sam rake in his winnings.

Pat said thinly, “Are you speakin' to my pardner, Mister?”

“I'm talking to that sawed-off runt beside you that's winnin' all our money,” the man growled. “I hear tell he's one of them Powder Valley gun-slingers that're up here to collect some blood money.”

Dock was pressed close against Pat's side, looking on and listening with shining eyes. Pat dropped his hand to the boy's shoulder without taking his gaze off the bull-necked man. His fingers tightened hurtingly on Dock's shoulder, and he pushed the boy back to clear his holster and free his gun-hand.

In a coldly remote tone, Pat said, “You lie, Mister.”

Men moved aside hastily from both of them. The houseman stopped turning the cage and pleaded, “Please, gentlemen. Take your trouble outside.”

The derbied man folded his arms across his chest and sneered, “Pretty tough, huh? You can see I ain't got a gun on me.”

Pat said, “That gives you no call to spread lies about me an' my pardners.”

“I'm only repeatin' what I heard.”

“Stop repeatin' it,” Pat advised him flatly. “Or get a gun to back up yore talk.”

The houseman sang out, “And the dice say fifteen, gentlemen. Fifteen wins. Odd, it is. Watch your bets, gentlemen, until they're paid or collected.”

The man across the table had lost again. With a snarl of anger he gathered up his few remaining chips, turned and stalked away. Sam swayed against Pat, hiccoughed and said, “She how danged eashy it is, Pat? You put yore money down an' they pay yuh off.”

Pat nodded and said shortly, “Don't drink any more, Sam.” He turned and saw Dock standing five feet behind him, his eyes big with boyish excitement. He said, “Let's get out of here, Dock,” and started for the door.

A short man wearing heavy miner's boots clumped after him. He caught Pat's arm and said in an undertone, “You're Pat Stevens from Powder Valley, ain't you?”

“That's right.”

“Did me good to see you call Bull Miller's bluff like that, but watch out for him, Mister. He's partial to a Bowie knife … in a man's back.”

Pat thanked him for the warning and went on out. Dock trotted along beside him and when they reached the boardwalk said exuberantly, “Gee, Dad. You sure made him back down, didn't you?”