Trouble at the Redstone (Leisure Western)

by John D. Nesbitt

  Will let out a long breath, and with his hands trembling from the rush of action, he poked out the four empty casings and replaced them with good cartridges. His mouth was dry, and the pit of his stomach was pounding. He took a few more deep breaths to steady himself.

  He tried to place things in relation to one another. Donovan was no doubt holding out in the ranch house. He would have heard shots, and he would take warning. Will could picture him sitting in an armchair with a rifle across his knees, the grandfatherly smile all gone, replaced by a look of stale displeasure.

  As for Jim Calvert, Will hoped he was rolling across the plain, and none too slow. If he was still lingering in town, or if he had been unable to find the sheriff, things could drag on all day.

  Meanwhile, there was the matter of Blanche and Pearl. Will had no idea where they were or whether Blanche had gotten hold of another firearm.

  Time was wasting, and he needed to start his search. Stepping around the bodies, he went out through the doorway into the bright sunlight. As a practical matter he checked both out houses, then made as little noise as possible as he approached the back door of the bunk house. He could not imagine who could be inside, but even a frightened Brad Way could pose a danger. After a second’s thought, Will gave three sharp raps on the door, then three more. Quick as he could, he ran around to the front door and, gun in hand, burst in.

  The place was empty, deathly still after the last two buildings he had gone into. The bunks, all silent in the dim light, looked like two rows of graves in a cemetery. Ben Forrester’s personal items, including his black hat, still sat on the cot that had become his after his death. Ingram’s and Aden’s now joined that company.

  Will kept his gun in hand as he walked the length of the bunk house and back. Nothing moved, but one thing struck him as curious. Aden’s chaps hung on the wall by his bunk. Maybe he had expected to have a gunfight today and didn’t want anything to hamper his movement. Will shook his head. It didn’t matter much now.

  The sight of Jim Calvert’s bunk brought him back to the moment. Time was still ticking, even if he couldn’t hear it. He went out the back door and into the daylight again.

  At the space between the two buildings, he moved to the front and looked out at the yard. A tiny whirlwind skipped along, raising dust and small particles of dried grass. As soon as it passed, everything was as motionless as before. He turned his head to study each detail again—the barn, the stable, the corrals, the little stone house, the larger one to its right. Then a sound broke the silence.

  He heard the crash of breaking glass, then the high, piercing scream of a woman. It was not Blanche’s scream, he knew that, and the pitch of it sent a flood of alarm through his whole body.

  Something in the scream told him that Donovan had his hands on the girl, and if he did, he was not waiting at the door with a rifle. He might have his white-handled sidearm for closer work, but that was not going to keep Will out of the house.

  He ran full bore past the cookshack, past the open spot on his right where he half expected to see a stranger, up the worn path between the two patches of dry weeds, and up the stone steps of the ranch house. The front door stood ajar, and he paused at the threshold as he drew his gun.

  Commotion sounded from within, like someone dragging or shoving another person up or down a staircase, but because of the position of the door, Will could not place the sound. He pushed the door with his foot, and it swung open without a squeak.

  He stepped inside onto a wood floor that at one time had carried a good finish. Now the surface was worn and scratched, with the route of most wear leading past a front room on the right and down a hallway. He followed the path and came to a dark, unoccupied kitchen and dining room on the left and a stairway on the right leading up and back toward the front of the house.

  He rounded the foot of the staircase and headed up. Keeping to the right or open side, he took the steps two at a time. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but he knew it was pointless to try to be silent. Donovan knew things had broken loose, and no one was going to walk in on him with his back turned.

  The upstairs consisted of four rooms—two vacant ones smothered in dust, one a bedroom that did not show signs of current use, and one a spare room littered with heaps of newspapers and piles of cloth that looked like old drapes. Will thought this last room, lit by a gable window, might have been a sewing room for an earlier occupant of the house.

  The window reminded him of the sound of breaking glass he had heard. Confident that no one was hiding in the upstairs rooms or had broken any windows there, he scuttled down the stairs. He checked the kitchen and dining room again and found them intact. Beyond the staircase, in the far right corner of the house, he located Donovan’s bedroom.

  The shade was pulled down on the only window, so the room had a dim, musty atmosphere. A bed, not very well made up, occupied the center of the room. To the left, next to the window, stood a chest of drawers with a comb, a brush, and a hand mirror sitting together; next to them was a tortoise-shell box that looked as if it might hold cuff links. Along the other wall sat a table and chair, the table covered with portfolios, papers, and envelopes. A jacket was draped across the back of the chair, and a heap of wrinkled clothes lay on the floor. Around to Will’s right, in the corner of the room, stood a wooden wardrobe with the doors hanging open. By now Will could identify the distinct smell that lingered in the close living space of an old man.

  Will backed out of the bedroom and went to the sitting room, which he had passed on the way in. There in the northeast corner, facing the porch, he found the broken window. On the floor beneath it he saw a hat tree that he imagined had been knocked over in a scuffle.

  Blanche must have brought the girl this far, but where Donovan or the two of them had taken her from there was still a guess. Will tried again to place the noise he had heard from the front door, and again he thought of a stairway. He stood motionless and turned his ear toward the floor. This house sat high enough off the ground that it could easily have a basement or cellar. If Donovan was down there, he could hear all the footsteps from above, and if he had his white-handled revolver, he could make sure no one else down there made a peep.

  Will sat in a chair and took off his boots. Carrying them in his left hand, he took soft, low steps to the center of the house. In the hallway, past the kitchen door but just before the bottom of the staircase, he saw something he had scarcely noticed before. A rug about three feet wide and six feet long lay on the floor.

  Now on his hands and knees, he reached for the rug and pulled it toward him. After he had drawn it a couple of feet he thought he saw what he was looking for. Scooting back, he pulled the rug the rest of the way and then crawled forward on it so he could see the trapdoor. On the far end, inlaid in the dark lumber, he saw the square piece of hardware with the circular brass handle.

  With his back to the kitchen wall, he sidestepped in his stocking feet until he reached the other end of the trapdoor. He sat on the floor and pulled on his boots, then stood up to take a couple of steady breaths. With his six-gun in his right hand, he leaned down and put his left hand on the brass ring. He pulled up, and the door, with a cord and pulley and counterweight and support arm, swung up and stayed in place.

  He heard movement right away—footsteps, a muffled voice, and something like a wooden crate hitting the floor. A stairway made of rough lumber led down into the darkness, and he knew he would make a visible target for as long as it took him to go down. He also knew he couldn’t jump, because the steps went past the opening of the hatchway. He took a breath, told himself this was it, and started down.

  He took the steps as fast as he could, and as soon as he passed the edge of the hatchway, he crouched and jumped. Donovan must have been waiting for a full target and then must have taken a hurried shot, for the gun roared after Will had rolled into the darkness.

  Up in a crouch, he could feel that this was a cellar, with a dirt floor. The place had an enc
losed smell, cryptlike, but it was not damp. Nor was it as dark as it first seemed. A window on each side let in some light through opaque glass, and a bit more light came down through the trapdoor opening and spread beyond the stairs.

  Still, he could not make out any human shapes, and the bulky square ones did not have distinct forms. An object next to him felt like a chair with a broken rung, and a lump lying on the floor beyond the staircase looked like a rolled-up rug. As with the room upstairs, he imagined that earlier occupants had used this area and had left a few things behind.

  He was sure there was a lantern down here somewhere, but he was also sure that lighting one would give him the best possible opportunity of getting shot.

  Glancing at the stairs, he tried to place himself in relation to the rest of the cellar. He had rolled to the right. If Donovan had been on the right side as well, he would have been close enough to try a second shot. That suggested to Will that Donovan was on the other side, probably behind some large object.

  Will holstered his gun, moved to his right, and felt around. He laid his hand on a piece of lumber, not very splintery and sitting up on its edge. He gave it a shake, and he heard the rattle of glass. He froze, waiting to hear if anyone else moved, but the other party must have been holding still and listening as well. He reached past the piece of lumber, which he imagined to be the side of a crate, and he laid his hand on the dry, dirt-encrusted surface of an old bottle. It gave him an idea. Taking the bottle by the neck and holding it sideways, he flung it as hard as he could toward the other side of the cellar. He heard it bounce once, twice, and come to a stop. At almost the same moment, he heard a shuffling beyond the stairs and to his left.

  Groping in the crate again, he found another bottle. This time he rose to a crouch, got good extension as he drew his arm back, and threw the bottle with much better force. It crashed on the far wall, and from the exclamation and muffled voice that followed, he had Donovan placed. Now he was going to have to go after him.

  What he wanted was fire—some of Brad Way’s shavings or some of that gasoline that Dunn spoke about. All he had was matches and cigarette papers. He crept back to the broken chair and felt it. The seat was solid wood, nothing that would ignite well at all.

  Then he thought, the other two floors of this house were full of flammable material. All he had to do was get back up the stairs and down again.

  Donovan must have been taken completely by surprise when Will bolted up the stairs, because nothing happened. Once he was out on top, Will left the door open so Donovan would not have a signal of when he was coming down again.

  The stack of papers on the worktable in the bedroom made perfect fuel. Will twisted three to four sheets at a time into sticks until he had half a dozen. From a kerosene lamp he poured about a cup of liquid into a kitchen bowl, and then he dipped each of the sticks into the pool. Now he was ready. He was sure Donovan had been wondering and waiting all this time, but he still hoped for surprise.

  He lit the first torch, and, reaching down between the slope of the stairway and the floor joist, he flung it in close to where he thought Donovan was hiding. Right away he heard movement and voices, and to take advantage of the moment he plunged down the stairs.

  He heard stomping sounds as Donovan put out the fire. Using the turned-over chair as a shield for his flame, Will lit a second torch. Now he could see the center row of support posts and the two old dressers Donovan had been hiding behind. He lit a third torch off the second, tossed one around the far end of the barricade and one around the near end. Shadows and shapes were dancing, and the dangerous smell of open fire was filling the air. Will could hear Donovan cursing as he stomped his feet on the dirt floor to put out the flames.

  Will lit two more torches and tossed them as he had tossed the previous two—one at the left end of the barrier and the other around the right end. He heard scuffling and Pearl’s voice.

  “Let go of me!”

  It sounded as if Donovan was dragging her at the same time he was trying to snuff out the torches, and when he was at the far end by the head of the stairs, Will made a rush and pushed over the two dressers. The first one fell with a clean crash, and the second one clunked and then teetered on an open drawer. Now Donovan had less cover, and his route was blocked to get to the other flames. Light flickered and dark smoke floated as Donovan’s head and upper body became visible. He was wearing a gray jacket and a white shirt, which contrasted with the dark-featured hostage he held with his left arm.

  Will stood back with an unlit torch in one hand and his .45 in the other.

  Donovan was not finished, though. With his arm around Pearl’s neck and his white-handled pistol raised in front of his chin and pointed at her, he said, “Stop there, Dryden, or she gets it.”

  Pearl’s eyes were fixed on Will, shining as the flames danced.

  Will met her gaze, and as he let the unlit twist of paper fall from his hands, he said, “Drop.”

  “What?” said Donovan.

  “I said, drop.”

  “I’m not dropping anything.” He stood hunched and soft-bellied with his legs apart, but he seemed to have some strength left in his choke hold.

  Again Will looked Pearl in the eyes, and she seemed to get the message. Her feet went out from under her, and she dropped straight down. Donovan lost his grasp and his balance, staggering forward so that he was standing over her as he fought not to fall. His gun hand waved until he came up straight, and as he brought the pistol around level toward his enemy, Will shot him high in the chest. He fell backward, dropping the white-handled revolver as his soft midsection reflected the glare of the torches.

  Pearl was coming up onto her feet by the time Will reached her to give her a hand. As she brushed off her apron and dress, she looked past her shoulder at the man on the floor.

  “He was a lot stronger than I thought.”

  “Surprised me, too. But he’s done.”

  Her eyes met his. “Thank you for helping.”

  “You’re welcome. I didn’t have any choice at this point, but even if I had, I would have tried.” He searched the shadows around them. “Blanche didn’t come down here, did she?”

  “No.”

  He wrinkled his nose. The smoke seemed to have thickened a great deal in the last minute or so. “Let’s put out all these flames and get out of here. Go up where we can breathe some fresh air.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blanche was sitting in the doorway of the cookshack, half in and half out of the shade, when Will and Pearl stepped out onto the porch of the ranch house. Will was glad to see her there, as he thought she might have gone back to Vetch’s lair to wait with the rifle. As he and Pearl walked up to the place where she sat, he could see she didn’t have much fight left in her. Her eyes had turned puffy and bloodshot, and her insolent demeanor had faded.

  “Let’s go sit in the bunk house,” he said. “There’s nothing to bother us there.” Pointing with his thumb toward the cookshack, he turned to Pearl and said, “Things aren’t very good in there.”

  As she nodded, she seemed to be absorbing the meaning.

  Once in the bunk house, Blanche sat in the chair at the table and Pearl sat in the other. Will kept a lookout at the door. He was starting to worry about Jim Calvert and whether someone had gotten to him out on the range before he even made it to town. To take the edge off his waiting, Will undertook a conversation with Blanche.

  “You still may not believe me,” he said, “but the sheriff will come here. When he does, you can either hold out and make things hard, or you can tell what you know.”

  “I never did anything.”

  Will could see she still had some sass in her. “That may be for someone else to decide, but knowledge itself makes you an accomplice, and you helped hide and cover up any number of crimes.”

  “You’ll have to prove my part in it.”

  “I won’t. By now the sheriff knows where Bill Parnell is, though.”

  “Al didn’t do that.
”

  “Maybe not, but it’s going to tie in with Ben Forrester. Anything you can tell will help put the blame on the right parties. The girl, for example. Marie.”

  “The old man did that. Choked her in his bedroom.”

  Will began to roll a cigarette. “It won’t hurt you a bit to tell that. Where’d he put her?”

  “Down in the cellar.”

  “Buried her there?”

  “Had it done.”

  Will kept his eyes on the cigarette he was rolling. He thought that if he looked at Pearl he would lose his air of nonchalance, and he didn’t want Blanche to know he cared about the missing girl. “Well, anything you can tell will make it go better on you.”

  “The old man’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah. Only one of us was goin’ to come out of that dungeon alive, once we got to a certain point.”

  “Well, I’ve got the least pity for him.”

  Will lit his cigarette. “I can’t say I disagree.” At that moment he heard the clop-clop of horses, so he turned to the door and looked out. “Here’s Jim Calvert,” he said, “and it looks like he brought a woman with him.”

  Pearl and Blanche remained seated as Will stood in the doorway and watched the buckboard approach from the east. It was pulled by two horses, one a darker brown than the other. Calvert drove the rig into the yard, waved to Will, and pulled over by the bunk house. Mrs. Welles, sitting on the near side and squinting in the sun, smiled and gave a small wave. She had an uncertain look on her face but kept composed, and she looked businesslike in her same blue outfit.

  Will stepped out of the bunk house and walked up to the wagon. “How do you do?” He tipped his hat.

  “Well enough, thank you. I was reluctant to come, but Mr. Calvert prevailed.” Her face showed unease. “I don’t like confrontations, and I hope this one isn’t too unpleasant.”

  “I can’t predict that for you, but Mr. Vetch is beyond the point of giving anybody any trouble.”

  “You mean—”