by Noel Loomis
“You’ve already thanked me more than enough,” Quist interrupted. “Let’s forget it—”
“I can’t forget it—”
“Then,”—Quist was beginning to feel embarrassed at the profuse gratitude of young Thornton—“I’ll give you something else to think about. I’ve got a roll of drawings up in my room. When I get through with ’em, you can have ’em—”
“Yeah? Who did them?”
“Diego Cubero. I—”
“T’hell you say.” Gene sounded delighted. “Are they good—no, I don’t have to ask that. I know they are. That man’s stuff is wonderful. One of these days I’m aiming to ride down to Ventoso and see if I can’t give Cubero a helping hand—”
“What’s this about Ventoso?” a new voice asked. Quist and Gene turned from the bar to see Fred Arbuckle behind them. “’Bout time you put in an appearance, Greg.” Arbuckle laughed. “You just seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. Don’t tell me you’ve been down to Ventoso.”
“Actually, I went to San Eneas,” Quist said. “Hid a lead from my company.” He smiled wryly. “You know, that damn strawberry jam that’s missing. Anyway, to get back to Ventoso, Gene knows an artist down there, that he says is darn good. So I stopped in to see his place. He runs a cantina. I don’t know anything about art, but this Cubero hombre made a good sketch of me.”
“Don’t know anything about art, myself,” Arbuckle said, “but hearing you mention Ventoso reminds me of something. There was a lot of smuggled dope came through there a year or so back. The Federal authorities busted things up though. They had some rangers working with them too.”
“Did you work on the job?” Quist asked.
Arbuckle shook his head. “No, the rangers were from Company C. I just happened to hear about it. Your lead in San Eneas turn up anything, Greg?”
“Nothing I’d talk about now,” Quist said. He glanced meaningfully at Gene, who was lifting his glass. Arbuckle gave an imperceptible nod to show he understood. Quist had another beer. Arbuckle ordered a whisky. The three stood talking idly a few moments, then Gene stated he had business elsewhere and left.
Arbuckle laughed when the swinging doors closed behind Gene. “I’ll bet I could tell you what his business is too. Yesterday and today I’ve seen him going in and out of Ellen Bristol’s place. I’d say he’s hit hard. I’d also say he’d raise hell with her business if he hangs around her shop too much. But she’s a damn nice looking girl and I can’t say I blame him. Wish I knew him better. He might invite me out to the Rocking-T where I could see his sister.”
“Hell’s-bells!” Quist said, “Why don’t you just go visiting?”
Arbuckle laughed shyly. “I don’t know, Greg. Somehow, where women are concerned—especially a woman like Mrs. Porter—well I just go tongue-tied. And then, marriage to a ranger isn’t the best sort of life for a woman. She never knows when her husband may get shot to death. It’s like your own job for instance. You’re always running risks.”
“Just the same,” Quist said, eyeing the foam on his glass speculatively, “sometimes I think it would be good to have a regular home to settle down in.”
“I guess you’re right. For that matter I’ve been thinking lately I ought to get back to Bandera. There doesn’t seem any threat of the trouble now that Lish feared. As for other things. I don’t know’s there’s anything left to clean up that you and Lish can’t handle.” He downed the remainder of his whisky. “Lish and I were sort of concerned when we didn’t see you yesterday. I got to thinking about your little fuss with Deray mid thought maybe he’d been up to some helling. Haven’t seen him in town, but I sure aimed to question him plenty—oh, yes, there’s some jasper named Duval Sloan looking for you too.”
“So I heard. Did you hear what he wanted?”
Arbuckle shook his head. “He asked at the sheriff’s office if Lish knew where you could be found. I happened to be there at the time. Somehow, I didn’t like the guy’s looks. Acted like he had some grudge on his mind. Had a gun stuck in his pants’ waistband, too, though he didn’t look like a hombre that was accustomed to handling a gun. Sometimes, though, that type is the most dangerous. I intended to keep an eye on him, but he seems to have slipped out of sight.”
Quist said, “He works for the railroad. Stationmaster Nugent had an idea he might have returned to his job in San Julio. Probably didn’t amount to anything. I don’t know him personally, anyway, so if he had a grudge against someone, it couldn’t have been me.”
The two men talked a while longer, then left the saloon and parted, taking different directions along Main Street.
CHAPTER 18
A NARROW SQUEAK
The remainder of the day and that evening passed without incident. Quist remembering that Doc Ingram had told him the local bank was owned by Wyatt Thornton’s brother, decided to look up the banker and see if he could throw any light on Porter’s activities. He found Yarnell Thornton at his home on Lamar Street and was cordially invited in. The banker’s wife placed cigars and a bottle of whisky and glasses on a table and left the two men to their discussion.
But there was little Yarnell Thornton could tell Quist about Porter. “I felt the girl was making a mistake when she married him so suddenly,” the banker said. “I knew it for certain when Porter came to me with his ideas for expanding the bank. If I’d listened to him and taken him in with me, I’d likely have found myself outside looking in before long. Oh, I’ll admit he had ideas, all right, but they weren’t based on sound banking theories. Too much gambling to them—and as we came to know Porter better, we learned he was a mighty poor gambler. As fast as he got any money, it disappeared over the card tables or some other way. I happen to know the hands at the L-Bar-D came to look on Porter as a steady source of poker income.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised from what I’ve heard,” Quist nodded.
“Well, Kate, heard about him trying to work into my bank and she put a stop to it. Told him he’d mooched enough on her own people without trying to make money off of me. By that time, Kate knew the scoundrel. He hadn’t been able to fool her for a long time. She’s done a good job with the Rocking-T, but just the same I wish she wasn’t so hard and defiant when anyone criticizes her. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she’s a willful arrogant woman, if she is of my own blood, and unless she finds some man who’ll show her what’s what, I’m afraid she’ll be an unhappy woman all her life.”
“About the way I’d sized her up,” Quist said. “She’s too beautiful a woman to go through life that way.”
“You’re right. Kate is beautiful. Maybe running the ranch the way she has tends to make her hard. It was a good thing for Wyatt, my brother, that she did take hold though. I think if he hadn’t been an invalid, he might have taken things into his own hands and killed Porter himself. I’ve seen him just that mad at times.”
“He seems able to ride on occasion,” Quist pointed out.
The banker nodded. “Yes, but it takes it out of him. Not good for him at all. But he won’t admit to feeling pain. A mighty stubborn man, Wyatt is. Probably that’s where Kate gets her headstrong ways.”
No, there was little Yarnell Thornton could tell Quist that he didn’t already know. After a time he thanked the banker for a pleasant visit and took his departure. Later he dropped into the Amber Cup, thinking to find Arbuckle or Lish Corliss there, but neither man was in sight. He had a couple of drinks, and then decided to seek an early bed at the hotel and try to catch up on some of the scanty sleep he’d had on the trip to Ventoso.
It wasn’t more than ten-thirty when he stepped out on Main, but few lights shone along the street. Here and there a pony or a wagon stood at the hitchrack before saloons. Diagonally across the street, lights shone from the Warbonnet Saloon and considerable loud talking, profanity and clinking of glasses floated above the swinging doors. Judging from the number of broncs waiting patiently at the tierail, Quist guessed there were a number of L-Bar-D men drinking there. The Warbonne
t seemed to be the regular Lombardy crew hangout.
As he reached San Antonio Street, Quist decided to walk down to the depot and see if there were any further messages from Jay Fletcher. There wasn’t a light shining along San Antonio, and as he turned on Railroad Street it seemed even darker, with the moon not yet above the horizon. The lights from the station shone dimly through the gloom ahead. He was about half the distance to the station when it happened.
Behind him, there came the detonation of a six-shooter, and almost at once two more explosions, spaced evenly close together. Even before the noise of the shots reached his ear, Quist had caught the whine of a slug through the air, close by. At the same moment he heard a cry of agony, then someone yelled, “Greg! Look out!”
Quist whirled, .44 already in hand, and moved toward the back of the nearest building, flattening his form against the wall, gun held at ready. He peered through the thick darkness and could see a moving form just this side of San Antonio Street. Then the voice again—Arbuckle’s tones: “It’s all right, Greg. I got the back-shooting son!”
Gun still in hand, Quist made his way back. There was a man sprawled face-down on the earth, and kneeling close by was Fred Arbuckle.
“Didn’t ping you did he, Greg?” Arbuckle asked anxiously.
“The slug came close enough to hear it,” Quist replied “Who—?”
“It was a damn’ narrow squeak,” Arbuckle said. “I thought I—”
Excited yells sounded on Main Street. The rear door of the Warbonnet Saloon, dark until now, flew open and several men appeared.
In the light from the open door Quist sized up the still form on the earth and the six-shooter on the ground just beyond the out-stretched fingers of one extended arm, as though the gun had fallen from the man’s grasp as he went down. The crowd gathered closer, partially cutting off the light. Quist put away his own gun, scratched a match and then picked up the six-shooter on the earth, which he stuck into the waistband of his trousers. The match flicked out after a moment.
Somebody said in sneering tones, “The railroad dick must have shot the poor buzzard in the back.” Quist recognized Lombardy’s voice, but before he could reply, Arbuckle said sharply. “That’s enough out of you. Lombardy. I was the one that shot this hombre. He was trailing Quist. Tried to shoot him.”
Lombardy slunk to the rear of the crowd, and Arbuckle continued, “This is that hombre I was telling you about, Greg—Duval Sloan. The feller who was looking for you. Happens I was headed for the Amber Cup, thinking I might find you there. I was a half a block off when I saw you just leaving. I was just about to give you a hail, when I see this scut sneak out of the shadow and start to follow you. I was curious to see what he was up to, so I trailed him in turn.”
“I’m damned if I know why he’d want to take a crack at me,” Quist said. “I never saw him before.” He frowned thoughtfully.
“That’s whatever,” Arbuckle continued. “I followed you both down San ’Tonio Street, and saw you make the turn into Railroad. It was too dark to see good, so I closed in quiet. I was almost too late, but I caught the glint of this hombre’s gun as he leveled it. I couldn’t stop his shot, but I reckon my two shots reached him in time to spoil his aim.”
“I’m much obliged, Fred,” Quist nodded, and again knelt at the side of the man. The man moved slightly and muttered something. Quist said, “He’s still alive! Somebody go get Doc Ingram. Hurry up!”
A man in the crowd volunteered to go, and Arbuckle said sharply, “Jump to it, then.” He added as the man left, “Though I doubt Doc can do much good. My slugs got this hombre plumb in the back, under the left shoulder.”
“If Doc can bring him around,” Quist said, “I may learn why the man wanted to gun me.”
Somebody yelled something from the station platform, but no one bothered to answer. Quist ordered the crowd back so the wounded man could get some air. A man came hurrying from the rear of the Warbonnet, carrying a lighted lantern and a flask of whisky. Quist turned Sloan over, and held some whisky to his mouth. Red froth bubbled from the pallid lips. All the color had fled from the fellow’s face; his partially closed eyes held a glassy look that Quist didn’t like.
Doc Ingram’s voice was heard as he pushed through, the crowd. Quist said, “Lord, Doc, you got here fast. We just sent a man—”
“He won’t find me home then,” Ingram said brusquely. “I was over on the next street when I heard the shots. Figured I might be needed. What have we got here?”
He knelt in the light of the lantern and examined the unconscious man. Quist and the others stood watching. Arbuckle plugged out two empty shells and replaced them with fresh cartridges from his gun-belt. Ingram said finally, “Hell, I’m not much use here. This man is almost gone now. If he lived another hour I’d be surprised and he may go any minute. Who shot him?”
Ingram was given brief details. Quist said irritably, “Well, are you just going to wait here while the man dies in the middle of the road?”
“What can I do?” Ingram asked.
“Bring him around. I want to talk to him, learn why he was gunning for me.”
“He won’t last long enough,” Ingram said, then as Quist started to protest, Ingram reached in his bag and took out a hypodermic. After a minute he spoke to a man in the crowd. “Get a wagon from the livery. Tell ’em to throw plenty horse blankets in. We’ll take this man to my place. I may help him hang on to live a spell longer, but there’s damn little chance of him regaining consciousness.”
The hours passed slowly at Doc Ingram’s place; one room fitted up as his “hospital room,” held the unconscious Duval Sloan’s unconscious form stretched on a cot. Lish Corliss had arrived as the man was being lifted to the wagon, and had accompanied Ingram, Quist and Arbuckle to the doctor’s house. The four men sat around a table, smoking. Ingram had produced a bottle of Old Crow and a pitcher of water and glasses. About once an hour, the doctor would enter the “hospital” and examine Sloan.
It was about four in the morning, when he emerged from the hospital, shaking his head. “I’m going to bed,” he stated. “My housekeeper is upstairs. I’ll wake her and have her sit here. You men might as well get along to your blankets.”
“You figure he won’t regain consciousness, Doc?” Quist asked.
Ingram said irritably, “His pulse gets slower every time I examine him. It’s thin, thready. Hell, he hasn’t enough vitality left to regain consciousness with. Nope, Sloan is a gone duck.”
The sheriff, Quist and Arbuckle left the house, heading toward Main Street. Arbuckle said moodily, “I sure hate to kill a man that way. Figured I’d aimed lower, but in that gloom—”
“As I see it,” Lish put in, “you saved Quist from getting shot—could be you saved his life.”
“It was almost unconscious on my part,” Arbuckle said earnestly. “I saw Sloan lift his gun toward Quist. The next instant I’d yanked my own Colt’s and fired twice. At least, I think I spoiled Sloan’s aim. Just the same, I hate to kill a man—”
“He’s not dead yet,” Quist pointed out.
“Might as well be,” Arbuckle said. “You heard what Doc said.” They reached Lamar Street and Arbuckle added, “I turn here for my boarding house. See you mañana, hombres.”
Quist and Corliss said good-night and continued on toward Main Street. Corliss said, “Fred seems to take that shooting sort of hard.”
“Yeah,” Quist said absent-mindedly, deep in other thoughts. They reached Main, and Corliss headed for the cot in his office. Quist continued on toward his hotel and wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Here, he again examined the six-shooter he’d picked from the earth near Sloan’s outstretched fingers. It was an old gun, in poor shape. There were two empty shells in the cylinder, one of which was corroded in place and had likely been used only to rest the hammer on. Then Quist noted something he’d not seen previously. Stamped in the bottom of the walnut butt, were tiny letters that read L-Bar-D. The gun apparently had once belong to Judd
Lombardy.
CHAPTER 19
CLEAN-UP
Quist had been asleep only a couple of hours, when a knock on his door awakened him. He sprang from the bed, fully clothed and opened his door, scrutinizing his visitor in the light of early morning. It was Jay Fletcher. “What the devil you doing here?” Quist asked. He seemed a trifle disappointed.
“What sort of welcome is that, Greg?” Fletcher asked. He looked weary but there was a certain light of elation in his eyes.
“I was half hoping to hear from Doc Ingram that a certain man had regained consciousness—” Quist broke off, trying to make amends for his greeting. “It’s good to see you, Jay, of course, but I don’t understand—”
“There was too much to put in a wire, Greg. I caught the train that gets here at 6:18. I’ll be heading back to El Paso on the 7:12, so I’ve just got a minute…”
Quist had been splashing cold water on his face while Fletcher talked. He combed his hair, rolled up the shades at the windows to allow the early morning sun to enter, then sat down on the bed across from Fletcher’s chair. Fletcher said: “Greg, you’ve really done a fine job this time. I was a bit dubious at first, but when your wire said to have the ‘consignor and consignee’ arrested on narcotic smuggling charges, I at once got in touch with the Federal authorities at Washington. Since then the wires have been burning up between Washington, Chicago, San Francisco and my office. Our investigators have helped too. It’s fine publicity for the T.N. & A.S., great thing for the road. The public will realize we furnish a real public service—”
“Don’t go into a speech, Jay,” Quist interrupted. “Remember, you have to get your train back in about half an hour.”