Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  "All right, Rudy." Westerman had not smiled at the spectacle. "Come to your senses, Colonel," he said. "If you did succeed in killing me with that stick, you'd be a ruined man. You need me even worse than I need you. Now get that money into the bank and let me know if you need more to cover. . . " He stopped speaking abruptly, and turned to the nearest open window, through which came the sound of gunfire, close at hand.

  19

  AFTER HER FATHER'S angry departure, Claire Paradine had remained standing in the front hall for a time, shamed and frightened by what the interview had revealed, not only about her parent, but about herself as well, and her family as a whole. Why, she thought, we're none of us any good. We lie and cheat and rob and kill; we're hypocrites living respectably on broken promises and stolen money! She heard her mother's voice upstairs, querulous and demanding. Automatically she started for the stairs; then she turned instead, snatched up a shawl and flung it over her head in the Spanish manner, and fled from the house.

  It was hot and bright and windy outside. She walked quickly toward Main Street while the decision formed in her mind. At the corner she had to pause and turn her back to a sudden gust that filled the air with fine sand and threatened to lift her skirts to indecorous heights. When it had subsided, she started to walk rapidly toward the hotel, beyond which was the small building that housed the marshal's office and jail.

  Her resolve was strong for the first few steps, but presently it faltered, as it began to seem unfair of her to do what she had in mind without at least letting her father know so that he could take some action to protect himself. After all, if he was actually in trouble at the bank" it was at least partly on her account, as he had said—although he had doubtless also been motivated by the desire to have nothing interfere with her profitable marriage to Paul Westerman; also, he was childishly fond of flamboyant gestures, particularly those involving impressive sums of money....

  Claire found that she had come to a halt; then she was hurrying back along the street toward the bank. The building was still cool from the night when she entered it. Francis was nowhere to be seen, which was a relief; she had no desire to explain her errand to her brother. John Fergus, at his window, informed her that her father, also, had not yet come in; and it occurred to her that, having missed breakfast at home, he might have stopped on the way for something to eat.

  The delay was annoying, as was young Fergus's eagerness to be of service. She went into the rear office to sit down and wait in peace. It was from there that she heard the harsh, accented voice order the people outside to put up their hands. She was standing up, looking about her for a means of escaping from the room to run for help—the lone window was barred—when the door was thrown open by a masked man with a gun, 'Who dragged her by the arm out onto the bank floor where, feeling as if caught in a kind of nightmare, she found herself lined up against a wall with the tellers and half a dozen customers, while the robbers systematically went about their business.

  There were four of them inside the building, she saw; all masked. The leader, who held two guns on the prisoners, was a plump man of medium height, dressed in a colorful uniform liberally adorned with gold lace. Claire regarded him with fearful interest: this, then, was the notorious General. It was a little difficult to take him seriously in that gaudy costume; these Mexican bandits and generals—the terms were often interchangeable—always looked a little as if they were acting a part on a stage. At least this was the impression Claire had gained from what she had read and heard; and the comicopera appearance of the man by the door did nothing to refute the idea. The guns in his hands, however, were steady and sobering, dispelling any notion that he was not in deadly earnest.

  Beside him stood a somewhat taller man, wearing a large black hat, a close-fitting embroidered black jacket, and tight black trousers. The fancy costume, as well' as the black mask, gave this one, too, and air of unreality except for the rifle under his arm. The other two bandits were more shabbily and conventionally dressed.

  A shot in the street made the two by the door glance at each other quickly. The General murmured a soft phrase, and the other, clearly the second in command, stepped forward.

  "Hurry it up there, amigos!" he snapped. "Must we spend all the day in this place?"

  "The vault is locked, Senor." The speaker, Claire noted, was the outlaw who had so unceremoniously dragged her out of her father's office; a thin, dark individual with a shambling gait and a thick, slurred voice.

  The black-clad one said, "Well, unlock it, fool!"

  "But, Senor, I do not have the key."

  Outside, the single shot had been followed by sporadic firing, mostly, it seemed, by men stationed outside the bank. They were not entirely unopposed, however; at the front of the room a window shattered with a tinkling sound as a bullet from across the street carried away part of the frame.

  The General spoke again, in an undertone, and his lieutenant said harshly, "Must we then always have to work with drunkards and imbeciles? Come here and stand guard." He waited for the other to take his place beside the General; then he walked slowly toward the prisoners. Abruptly he halted and swung the rifle-barrel to cover freckled young John Fergus. "You," he said, "open the vault."

  Fergus instinctively started forward to obey, but checked himself, and squared his shoulders in an obstinate manner. "Open it yourself!"

  "I will count to five," said the black-clad lieutenant. "Then I will shoot you and see if your associates, beside you, is equally stubborn. If you both die without speaking, there is always dynamite. I start the count now: one, two, three. " The rifle, already cocked, steadied for the shot.

  "Johnny!" Claire Paradine heard herself cry. "For Heaven's sake, open it, Johnny!"

  Fergus sighed. "Very well, Miss Paradine," he said. "If you say so." His face was pale beneath the freckles. He turned and moved away, followed closely by the bandit lieutenant.

  Claire leaned against the wall, shaken. Instinct told her that death had been very close—and the firing outside was growing in intensity. It would be utterly stupid, she reflected, to be killed by a bullet from the gun of someone she had known all her life, but it was a decided possibility, the reckless way they seemed to be shooting at the windows without any regard for those unfortunate enough to be caught inside. The robbery seemed to have gone on forever, and she found herself swaying where she stood. A ricocheting bullet from outside came moaning across the room and struck the wall directly above her, showering her with dust and causing her to bite cruelly into her lip to keep from screaming.

  At last the fourth man—a stocky individual of medium height—came running from the vault to speak to someone at the door; two more men came inside to help with the bags Into which the money had been loaded; and they began to leave. The second-in-command came back into sight still holding his gun on young Fergus, whom he waved back into line among the prisoners. The General, still holding his guns ready, stepped aside to let the laden men pass, and collided with the man beside him.

  The impact threw the General off balance. He stumbled, and one leg seemed to give way under the strain; he caught himself with an odd,. skipping little jump, and pivoted to cover the prisoners, none of whom had had time to move. It was a meaningless incident, over too quickly for anyone to have taken advantage of it, even if the lieutenant had not been standing by with a cocked rifle. The man who had been the involuntary cause of it murmured an apology; the General jerked his head toward the street, and the man went out. The black-clad lieutenant moved over to join the General, and the two of them waited until the last man from the vault had gone outside. Then the General spoke to the lieutenant, still in that soft undertone that was inaudible across the room.

  The man beside him shifted the rifle under his left arm. He looked at the prisoners, and said, "The next time we pay you a visit, amigos, do not annoy us with stubborn delays." His freed right hand rose, caught weapon hidden at the nape of his. neck, and snapped down smartly. A pinwheel of light seemed to span t
he room; and John Fergus clutched at his chest and crumpled to the floor in a terrible, inert manner. Claire saw him die and was horrified and grieved—after all, the boy had been in love with her—but she could spare him only a glance, and not even that for his murderer. Her attention remained fixed on the gaudily costumed figure in the doorway.

  She had been staring incredulously ever since that curious little stumble and recovery, remembering someone whose leg had been smashed by a bullet five years before. Now she saw the masked General look directly at her; and even as she told herself that this was insane, she knew that the hair beneath the gold-trimmed uniform cap would be fair, and the eyes in the shadow of the visor, blue—as blue as her own. She knew also that the man by the door had seen the recognition on her face. She saw the guns he held lift and come steady, and she knew a moment of utter terror. No, oh, no! she cried silently, I won't tell; I'll never tell, I promise. . . .

  The General laughed—the sound muffled by his mask— and turned away. Claire watched until the doorway was empty; then, to the sound of running horses and redoubled firing outside, she fainted.

  20

  NAN MONTOYA had fallen into the habit of sleeping until noon to make up for the late hours at Miss Bessie's. The sound of men's voices in the outer room, and Jesusa's angry outcry, awakened her from a kind of morning half-slumber. She slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe to cover her night-dress, and snatched up Montoya's little gum There seemed to be a struggle immediately outside her room, and Jesusa wag shouting to her in Spanish to flee by the back door—although she did not understand the individual words, the meaning was clear.

  Nan looked down at her gun in her hand, determined how to cock the weapon, did so, and, brushing the blanket aside, stepped through the doorway. Jesusa was engaged in an uneven struggle with three men who were trying warily to deprive her of her knife. There were more men by the front door. Marshal Black was standing a little apart, with the look of a man performing a necessary but distasteful duty.

  Nan aimed her gun at him.

  "Tell them to stop, Marshal, Tell them to let her go!"

  Black stiffened at the threat of the small weapon. "Put that gun down, ma'am. I represent the law—"

  His pompous tones, and the sound of a blow followed by a cry of pain from Jesusa, snapped Nan's temper off short. She had been about to speak; instead, she slanted the revolver slightly downwards, sighting along the barrel, and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening under the low roof. The bullet struck closer to the marshal than she had intended; dirt from the floor sprayed over his boots.

  The shot was followed by complete silence, which she broke by recocking her weapon, using both hands.

  "Now take your law and get out of here, Mr. Black," she said quietly. "And tell the man who's sneaking through my bedroom that if he takes another step I'll pull this trigger again; and this time I'm not aiming at the floor." The sound of movement behind her did not stop; and she gripped the gun more tightly. "I mean that!"

  "All right, Mallory," the marshal said reluctantly to the man in the bedroom. "And you men, let that woman go." He looked at Nan. "Miss Montoya—"

  "Mrs. Montoya!"

  "Mrs. Montoya, you're obstructing justice. We're looking for Boyd Cohoon—"

  She made her voice even. "Well, go look for him somewhere else. He isn't here."

  "Could you tell us—"

  "I'll tell nothing to a bunch of ruffians who burst into my house without knocking. If you want any information from me, send this mob outside. . . " The word, used without thought, startled her as she realized that this was a mob; a lynch mob. Their set faces held a look of cruel anticipation that she recognized without ever having seen it before. Black was saying, "You don't understand, ma'am. It's a matter of—"

  "I don't care what it's a matter of!" she snapped, forcing herself to maintain the role she had assumed. "Either mend your manners or get your information elsewhere."

  Somebody said in a surly voice, "We need no lessons in manners from the likes of—"

  Black saw the danger signals in her face, and cut in quickly: "Tell us just this, ma'am. Did you see Cohoon last night?"

  "Yes."

  "And do you know where he was headed when he left you?"

  She had gained herself time enough, now, to know how to answer this question. "Yes."

  "And will you tell me—"

  "I'll tell you nothing more until you get this herd of buffalo out of my house!"

  The soberly clad young man with the badge studied her for a moment; she could see the formed judgment in his eyes. To William Black there would be only two kinds of women—good women, to be humbly worshipped from afar, and the kind of women who worked on Creek Lane. She had met the attitude often enough that she should have become hardened to it, but it never failed to anger her. She spoke to him, therefore, as if to an undisciplined boy.

  "Try coming in again, Marshal. This time, try knocking."

  He hesitated; then he bowed. "Very well, ma'am." The fact that he could so swallow his pride was a disturbing measure of the man and his purpose. Nan watched him turn and speak to the other men; there was a short battle of wills, and they filed sullenly through the door. Black followed them outside.

  Nan found herself trembling, but there was no time for this. She spoke reassuringly to Jesusa; then hurried into the bedroom. It was empty but the door leading outside stood open. She went to her trunk, threw the lid up, and found the box of cartridges she had inherited with the gun she was holding. It took her a moment to work out the proper method of opening the weapon so that she could reload the fired chamber. Men made a big mystery of things like this, she reflected, and there was undoubtedly more to handling a gun than loading and cocking it, and making it discharge in the general direction desired; but on the whole it seemed like a fairly simple mechanism that, for all practical purposes, any fool could master. . . She kept her mind on the business at hand, shutting out all thought of Boyd Cohoon. Panicky guesses would not help him.

  Knuckles rapped on the front door. She dropped the fully loaded gun into the pocket of her robe, and went to let the marshal in. He was alone: but in the moment before the door closed behind him, she saw that the others had not gone far. There seemed to be more of them than there had been. Black turned to face her. "Ma'am, the men are pretty short of patience—"

  "I know," she said. "They'd like to beat the information out of me, wouldn't they? Maybe even hang me. Mobs aren't particular who they get, I understand."

  "Mrs. Montoya, this is a regularly organized posse, and the men out there have all been legally deputized—"

  "All right," she said. "Tell me, what's Cohoon done that's so terrible?"

  "It's no joke, Mrs. Montoya. The General held up the bank half an hour ago; and a man was murdered in cold blood. You must have heard the shooting."

  "If I let a little shooting bother me in this town," Nan said, "I'd never get any sleep. So now you've decided to pin this Mexican bandit's crimes on Boyd Cohoon, Marshal? Despite the fact that the General's been operating pretty steadily for several years, all of which time Cohoon's been in prison? I understand there's bad blood between you. It must be nice to wear a badge and be able to point the law at anybody you don't happen to like."

  Black flushed. "My personal feelings aren't involved," he said stiffly. "Nor are we trying to pin anything on Cohoon that doesn't belong there. The General will answer for his own crimes in due time. But Cohoon, acting as his lieutenant, killed a man this morning, murdered him deliberately and without provocation, On a word from his chief. Witnesses have identified the knife as well as the man who threw it—"

  "The knife!" Nan said quickly. "Is that your evidence, Cohoon's knife?" She laughed. "Marshal, if your gun was used to kill a man, would it necessarily follow that you Were guilty of murder? Cohoon was lured into the alley next to the Double Eagle last night by someone using my name. He lost his knife and gun in the fight—you don't have to take my word for it. Just ask Miss
Bessie or anybody who was there and saw him come in; ask at Flagler's, somebody there went out with a lantern while the fight was going on. Cohoon threw his knife to smash the lantern; that's how it was lost. I went out afterwards to look. His gun and hat were still there, but the knife was gone."

  Black had listened to her with silent patience; now he shook his head, almost sadly. "Whether he lost it or not last night doesn't matter, ma'am; he had it today at the bank. The knife is just corroborative evidence, anyway. I tell you, Mrs. Montoya, he was recognized and identified in spite of his fancy costume; there's no possible doubt—"

  "I don't believe it," Nan said curtly. "You mean he helped rob a bank full of people, and killed a man, without even taking the precaution of wearing a mask?"

  "Oh, he was masked, but a witness recognized him anyway—"

  "What witness?"

  "Mrs. Montoya, we're wasting time! If you know where Boyd Cohoon can be found, it's your duty to tell me."

  Nan looked at him for a moment; the man was clearly at the end of his patience. He would tell her nothing more. She sighed, as if accepting defeat.

  "Well, I suppose you're right, although I'm sure your witness was mistaken. Boyd wouldn't .... She hesitated, feigning reluctance, and continued presently: "He told me ... he told me he was riding over into the Candaleria Mountains by way of Yellow Ford, wherever that is. He wanted to investigate a mine owned by Mr. Westerman, I don't know why. He didn't say. That's all I know." She glanced at the marshal quickly. "You'll see that he gets a fair trial, won't "Yes," Black said, "of course, Ma'am. Thank you for the information."

  She opened the door for him; when he had gone, she closed it and leaned against it, suddenly dizzy and trembling. She tried to think clearly, but all that came to her was the memory of her own voice saying, There will be no messenger from me. Pride, and also concern for his safety, had led her to arrange matters so that Cohoon would believe no one she might send to him; he would only sense another trap, even in a genuine warning. It followed that she would have to go herself. She closed and locked the door.