by J. T. Edson
Even though much of it was assumed and in no way blinded him to the risk he was taking, there was an understandable reason for the small Texan’s angry behavior.
After his partner had dissuaded the sheriff from arresting him and they had taken their departure, Alvin had requested that he was brought another meal. Having set the overturned table upright while the conversation was taking place, the Mexican waiter had obeyed with an alacrity which was a marked contrast to his previous reluctance. The eagerness with which he had responded prevented Softly, who had belatedly thought of how the geologist could be rendered temporarily incapable of visiting Brixton’s Canyon without the need to resort to physical violence, from adding what was known in some circles as a Mickey Finn to the highly spiced food. [68] Although the small Texan had been unaware that such measures were being contemplated, he had eaten without his previous fear of the chili con came receiving noxious additives. After the waiter’s reaction to his treatment of the three hard-cases Alvin Fog was convinced that the waiter would have warned him if this had been done.
Having eaten without suffering any ill effects, or further interruption, Alvin had returned to his room. He had found the thread attached to the door unbroken, so felt sure his property had not been searched. Going in, he had kept watch from the window which overlooked the main street. Seeing Branch driving out of the town, followed a short while later by the dilapidated black Dodge Brothers’ Four coupe which he had noticed parked in the alley alongside the jailhouse when he had arrived, he had concluded that Major Tragg had once more guessed accurately about the opposition’s reactions. He hoped Mark Scrapton would be able to do as instructed.
Although he did not anticipate that there would be any further attempts to attack him in the hotel, Alvin had decided it would be advisable for him to remain in his room for the rest of the afternoon. As a precaution in case he was wrong in his assumption, he had taken off his Norfolk jacket and opened the special suitcase. Removing the shoulder holster and one of the Colt Government Model automatic pistols from their place of concealment, he had donned the former. Slipping a fully loaded magazine into the butt of the weapon, he had cocked the action and, applying the manual safety without the need for conscious thought, placed it in the rig’s retention springs. Putting on the jacket, to prevent anybody who should happen to pay a visit discovering he was now armed, he had laid on the bed and, knowing he could be in for a strenuous night, he had managed to take a nap.
On waking, a glance at his wristwatch informed the small Texan he had slept for almost three hours. Feeling peckish rather than hungry, but considering he should make sure of having a good meal before commencing the night’s activities, he had decided it could be safer to eat somewhere other than the hotel. So, replacing the thread as he left, he descended to the lobby. The desk clerk was nowhere in sight and a glance informed him that the barroom was almost deserted, not that he had any intention of going in. He felt sure that his former assailants would not be there, but he was disinclined to leave himself open to further measures intended to keep him from carrying out the work which it was believed had brought him to Grouperville.
On walking out of the hotel, Alvin discovered that Softly had adopted less aggressive tactics to circumvent him. Not only were the right front and rear tires of the Duesenberg deflated, they and the spare wheel on the offside running board had been torn so badly by some sharp instrument that there was no hope of repairing the damage. Nor, on visiting the town’s only service station, had he been able to obtain replacements. Showing signs of nervousness which had reminded him of the desk clerk and waiter before lunch, the proprietor had claimed there was nothing available suitable for use on his vehicle.
Alvin had intended to travel in the Duesenberg to the vicinity of the canyon, but he knew it was no use protesting over what he suspected was a lie. However, before going in search of an alternative means of transport, he felt he should behave as might be expected of Hollingshead after having discovered the damage to the vehicle. Even before noticing the sheriff fingering the sap, he had not expected to be dealing with an honest peace officer. Having found Softly in the bar had led him to assume that Healey and his assailants were listening from the manager’s office while he was speaking with the desk clerk and the former’s prompt arrival had confirmed the supposition. So he had known that paying such a visit to the sheriff’s office could prove dangerous, but wanted to find out whether Branch’s warnings about his important and influential connections had been heeded. He had also hoped to discover if the deputy had returned and, should this have happened, what information had been delivered.
Studying the indignant face of his visitor, Healey elected to forgo the opportunity with which he was being presented. He told himself that he was acting as Softly would want by remaining passive, but he knew there was another motive guiding him; a strong instinct for self-preservation. Although the omission was excusable under the circumstances, he had not noticed that the geologist was now armed. It would have taken far keener eyes than his to have detected the carefully designed holster carrying the Colt Government Model automatic pistol. His decision was caused by remembering how the small young man confronting him had defeated three hardcases he would have been reluctant to tackle. So, being alone in the building, he did not relish the prospect of attempting to attack such a competent antagonist.
‘What’d you be wanting to know for—Mister Hollingshead?’ the sheriff inquired, as his unwanted caller showed signs of impatience over his delay in answering.
‘The tires of my Duesenberg have been ripped wide open,’ Alvin replied, deducing from the use of his assumed name and the honorific that his identity was not doubted and watching for any indication of how his news was being received.
‘They have, huh?’ Healey ejaculated, contriving to sound surprised in spite of realizing what the assistant bartender had been talking about in Softly’s living quarters. ‘Did you see them doing it?’
‘No,’ Alvin admitted.
‘Then how’d you know it was them?’ Healey challenged.
‘I can’t think of anybody else who might have a reason,’ the small Texan countered. ‘Not who’s here in town, anyway. Do folks often have their cars’ tires cut around here?’
‘Hell, no!’ the sheriff answered emphatically. ‘Nothing like that’s ever happened afore. Only I can’t see’s how it could’ve been them boys’s did it. They pulled out as soon’s the doctor had took a look at the one you hurt so bad—not that I’m blaming you for doing it, way things was, mind.’
‘That’s white of you,’ Alvin asserted, deciding that Branch’s warnings had been taken to heart and feeling sure the deputy had not returned, or if he had it was without bringing news of Company “Z”s’ presence in the neighborhood. ‘But couldn’t one of them have done it before they went?’
‘I don’t reckon so,’ Healey replied, then decided to improvise a reason. ‘I went around to make sure they left.’
‘Maybe one of them sneaked back?’
‘I dunno about that.’
‘Why not go and ask them?’
‘Their place’s a good ten miles off and I’ve no way of getting there just now. This here’s a poor county and we’ve only got one car ’n’ my deputy’s using it.’
‘How soon will you get it back?’
‘Not afore sundown, at the soonest,’ Healey guessed. ‘Was you figuring on going someplace in your car today?’
‘It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to,’ Alvin declared in a bitter tone, giving no indication of noticing the satisfaction that the sheriff was clearly experiencing over his predicament. ‘The tires are ruined and I can’t get them replaced until the feller at the service station has some more brought in from San Antonio, or maybe Austin.’ He paused, then went on as if the thought had just occurred to him, ‘Where’s the livery barn, Sheriff?’
‘Livery barn?’ Healey repeated, losing the smug expression as he considered the implications of the question.
‘That’s what I want,’ Alvin confirmed, concluding that the possibility of him hiring a horse had not occurred to the local peace officer and hoping Softly had been equally lacking in perception as he remembered the behavior of the service station’s owner. ‘I suppose there is one in this godforsaken town?’
‘Sure there is,’ Healey admitted. ‘You ain’t figuring on going after them boys looking for evens, are you?’
‘No!’ Alvin stated definitely. ‘But I want to do some hunting while I’m here and figure I’ll have better results riding than on foot.’
‘That’s for sure, there’s not many wild critters close in,’ the sheriff conceded, trying to sound as if he accepted the explanation. ‘The barn’s on South Greek, out back of town. Only I don’t know whether there’ll be any hosses for hire. Do you want me to come and show you the way?’
‘There’s no call for that,’ the small Texan replied. ‘By the way, is Sergeant Branch still around?’
‘He pulled out a while back, headed for San Antone,’ the sheriff answered. ‘Was you wanting him?’
‘I thought I’d buy him a meal for helping out the way he did,’ Alvin explained. ‘And you too, of course.’
‘Like I said, he’s left,’ Healey said hurriedly, showing more alarm than pleasure at the invitation. ‘And I’m right busy just now!’
‘I’ll have to let you take a rain-check on it in that case,’ [69] Alvin drawled, receiving a warning from the other’s reaction that his suspicions with regards to the food at the hotel might be justified. ‘Well, as I’ve nothing else to do, I think I’ll go and see if I can get a horse before I eat. Maybe you’ll be able to join me then.’
‘I don’t reckon I’ll be through that quick,’ Healey replied, his lack of enthusiasm even more noticeable.
‘We’ll make it tomorrow some time then,’ Alvin promised, with assumed cheerfulness. ‘Sorry I bust in on you like I did, Sheriff, but I was riled about my tires. I still think it could have been one of those three who did it, but I reckon I can count on you to see justice is done.’
Leaving the jailhouse, the small Texan did not do as he had claimed straight away. Instead, although he crossed the street and entered an alley which would allow him to reach his destination, he only went halfway along it. Turning when satisfied that he could not be seen from the sheriff’s office, he walked back and peered cautiously around the corner of the building on the right. He was not kept waiting for long before Healey emerged from the jailhouse and, as he expected, hurried along the opposite sidewalk in the direction of Soskice’s Hotel.
‘I surely do admire a loyal son-of-a-bitch, even when he’s as crooked as a sidewinder’s trail,’ Alvin mused, after having watched the sheriff disappear into the lobby and he was resuming his interrupted journey. ‘Only, given a smidgen of good Texas luck, you’ll be too late to stop me getting something to ride.’
‘Gee, mister, I’m real sorry,’ the hostler said, acting in an almost identical fashion to the proprietor of the service station, when the small Texan made the request which had brought him to the livery barn. ‘All our riding hosses are out grazing on the range and won’t none of them be back afore tomorrow.’
‘What time are you expecting them to be brought in?’ Alvin inquired, deducing that— unlike the sheriff—Softly had anticipated and countered his attempt to procure an alternative means of reaching the canyon.
‘B-by noon, I reckon,’ the hostler replied dubiously, having received no instructions with regards to how he should answer such a query.
‘That’ll be all right with me,’ Alvin drawled, hiding his disappointment at the unforeseen eventuality although he knew it could prevent him from carrying out his next part in the assignment. ‘Will you save me one that’s gun-steady, I’ll be using him for hunting.’
‘I-I don’t know if we’ve got one!’ the hostler answered.
‘I’ll come and take a look, anyways,’ Alvin stated.
Making no attempt to press the matter further, the small Texan strolled from the barn. He glanced around, without seeing anybody, as he set off towards the small grove of cottonwood trees which separated the establishment from the main street. Before he had taken his third step, he heard something from the left and slightly to his rear.
It was similar to the clicking made when a revolver was being cocked!
Instantly, Alvin swung in the appropriate direction. While doing so, he commenced what he hoped would be a sufficiently rapid protective action to keep him from being shot. At the same time, he was thankful that he had taken certain precautionary measures since leaving the sheriff’s office.
During the interview with Healey, Alvin had kept his jacket buttoned to lessen the chance of his armament being noticed and perhaps used as an excuse for hostile action. However, he had had nothing more reliable than the, sheriff’s word that his would-be assailants were no longer in the town and he knew, that if they had remained, they might be seeking revenge. He was equally alert to the possibility that, after Softly had been informed of his intentions, a violent attempt might be made to prevent him from reaching the livery barn. With such contingencies in mind, he had unfastened the jacket as he was entering the alley opposite the jailhouse and had left it that way. So there was nothing to impede the passage of his right hand as it sped across to draw the Colt.
Even as the small Texan completed his rapid turn, with the automatic’s barrel pointing in the required direction and his thumb depressing the manual safety catch, he wondered why no shot had been fired at him. Then he discovered that there was no need for concern and a threat to his existence was not intended.
‘You done that real slick, Mr. … Hollingshead … is it?’ remarked the elderly man who had answered to the name of Tombstone, in the barroom. Stepping from behind the end of the building as he was speaking, he dropped the twig which he had bent so it crackled and conveyed the impression of a revolver being cocked. ‘Fact being, like when you-all was picking up the toes [70] of those three knobheads at the hotel, way you done it put me in mind of somebody I used to know.’
‘Who might that be?’ Alvin inquired, knowing knobhead was a derogatory term for a mule, or a stupid and uncouth person, as he was applying the safety catch and returning the pistol to its holster.
‘Colonel Dusty Fog, no less,’ Tombstone answered. ‘You-all wouldn’t be kin of his now would you?’
‘What makes you think I am?’ Alvin challenged.
‘You feature him a whole heap,’ the elderly man replied.
‘Go on,’ Alvin scoffed, he hoped convincingly. ‘I’ve always heard tell that Colonel Fog was real big—’
‘Which same’s way out, happen that’s what you-all heard,’ Tombstone declared, looking amiably skeptical. ‘He was about your height and build, with blondish hair same as your’n when he was younger. Should I need to tell you, that is.’
‘Are you saying I’m lying?’ the small Texan growled, simulating indignation and making a mental note to avoid having his hair dyed blond in the future unless it was unavoidable.
‘Nope,’ Tombstone corrected calmly, still exuding friendliness. ‘Just playing your cards close to the vest. Which I don’t blame you-all none for doing, happen I’m guessing right about you.’
‘And what are you guessing?’ Alvin wanted to know, although he had a suspicion that he could supply the answer.
‘That you’re not what, or who, some folks reckon you are,’ the elderly man obliged. ‘Only, was I asked and happen I’m right, I’d say we’d best go somewheres a mite more private like afore we get to talking turkey.’
‘Have we anything to talk about?’ Alvin questioned, despite a growing conviction that the other was to be trusted.
‘I reckon we’ve plenty, should I be calling the play right,’ Tombstone stated, with no suggestion of resenting the interrogation. ‘Because, should I be, I’m the feller’s wrote the letter that got you-all—and Jubal Branch, likely—sent here.’
‘That being the case, we’d best
talk turkey,’ Alvin affirmed. ‘And I’ll go along with you that we’d better do it somewhere we won’t attract attention. How about going into the barn?’
‘No,’ Tombstone refused. ‘Bernie Hislop, the owner, can be trusted, but I’d sooner not get him into high water. Happen you can come ’round to the back door of the post office in half an hour, we’ll be safe enough there.’
‘I’ll be th—’ Alvin commenced.
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Hollingshead,’ Tombstone interrupted, raising his voice and pointing to the north-east. ‘Happen you’re looking for some good hunting, you should try out on the Forked Box range.’ Then he swung his gaze beyond the small Texan and raised his right hand in greeting. ‘Howdy, Marty. I was just telling Mr. Hollingshead here there’s nothing to hunt in the Badlands.’
All through the conversation, Alvin had noticed that the elderly man was keeping the cottonwood grove under observation. He had not looked that way since swinging around, or heard anything, but realized that somebody was coming and suspected it was not a person who might be considered friendly. Turning, he gazed at a medium-sized, thickset man clad in a collarless white shirt, Levi’s pants and heavy, low-heeled boots.
‘Was you reckoning on going out to the Badlands?’ the newcomer demanded, rather than asked, his bearing arrogant.
‘I hadn’t made up my mind,’ Alvin replied, ‘not knowing the country hereabouts.’