Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  “Just listen to this,” Ted said in a thick voice. “We wondered why Cole was at Letty’s last night. Well, Letty told me. Cole accused her of putting us onto Jim Rough and knowing about the brake lever being sawed. He accused her of plotting to kill him and ruining Western!”

  With the contrariness of a woman Celia felt her heart lift in joy. Then Cole hadn’t been courting Letty! And he had been afraid to confess for fear they would take it just the way Ted was taking it now. To cover the joy in her face Celia knelt by Letty and took her in her arms.

  “My dear, my dear, don’t cry. We’re your friends. Cole made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “B-but he believed it!” Letty sobbed. “Maybe he still does, when I could have betrayed him to them last night!”

  “He doesn’t!” Celia said. “I’m sure he doesn’t. He didn’t tell us.”

  “Th-that’s why I came over to see you,” Letty stammered. “I didn’t want you to think that of me.”

  “I’d break his neck if he ever said that!” Ted said vehemently. He watched Letty, his eyes filled with pity.

  Celia hushed Letty and stopped her crying. And soon, reassured, Letty left for the office downstairs. Her act had been partly desperation and partly the desire to forestall being named as a traitor. For Letty had been scared last night—scared half out of her wits. She had taken Craig Armin’s cold cursing without flinching after Cole and the others left. But she was afraid of him, afraid of his threats. This was his advice, this bold stroke of denial, and much as Letty loathed herself she feared him more. For she knew Craig Armin, with Keen Billings’ knowledge, was building her up for a more crucial test, a more brutal betrayal. And there was nothing she could do except go along with them now. She was in it up to her neck.

  When Celia left Letty at the door she came back into Ted’s room.

  “Think of it,” Ted said bitterly. “Suspecting that innocent girl. Why, damn him, I’ll have it out with him over this!”

  Celia said sharply, “Ted!”

  He looked up at her, startled by the tone of her voice.

  “You won’t say a word to Cole about this! Do you hear me! Not a word!”

  “But he can’t do that!” Ted said vehemently. “It’s—it’s not fair!”

  Celia said swiftly, “All right, it’s not. Cole made a mistake. But he’s helped us. He’s stuck with us! He’s done the best he can! If he suspected Letty it was to protect you, Ted. And me.” There was that hard edge of determination in her voice that Ted seldom heard and then only when her mind was made up. “Grant a man his mistakes, Ted. We’ve all made worse ones than that, and you know it!”

  Ted’s face was torn between the dregs of anger and a new indecision.

  And then Celia played her trump card, played it quietly. “If you bring that up, Ted, I’ll take the next stage to San Francisco and home.”

  It was the least thing she could do for Cole, to spare him this. For she knew that he would leave them if Ted confronted him with this. And Celia didn’t even want to think of that. She wouldn’t.

  Ted grinned suddenly. “Why, Seely, I guess you mean it. No, I won’t say anything if you say so. But I don’t like it.”

  Cole didn’t go back to the rooms for his noon meal. That morning at the bank he had borrowed up to the hilt on the face of what was left of the China Boy contract, and the sum had been less than he hoped for. He wanted to spare Ted that news until tonight, after he had made the deal for the new wagons. For, with luck, he might strike a deal that would compensate for the other bad news.

  He ate alone, in a small restaurant on the main street. And he sat alone at the counter, a tall, booted man wearing worn corduroys, scuffed half boots, checked gingham shirt open at the collar—and no gun. For this was the task he had set himself—to stay out of trouble. And real trouble was always backed with guns.

  He ate slowly, halfheartedly, pausing to stare at his food now and then, so that the waitress wondered at him. The thing that was gnawing at the back of his mind and had been all morning was the same question that troubled him last night. Who set the Monarch fire? He had it reasoned out that he could stay out of trouble if he had to; he could even take it when the Monarch retaliated for the fire. But what he could neither predict nor fight when it happened was another incident like last night. What if somebody spooked a span of Monarch’s mules up on one of the high mountain roads and the teams and the wagon and driver went over? Sheriff Linton would pick him up five minutes after the news was broken, and no alibi could save him. He was at the mercy of the man who set the Monarch fire. The thought of it made him jumpy. Each time somebody came in the café, slamming the door behind him, Cole would jump and wait for Sheriff Linton’s hand on his shoulder.

  Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he paid his check and went out onto the street. A week of this waiting would kill a man, and for one desperate moment he listened to the small voice that told him to clear out while he could. He fought it down, but he couldn’t fight down the conviction that he was bucking something that would lick him in the end. He was in a hole! He could only fight blindly.

  The Acme Freighting wagon yard was at the far end of the main street. Once upon a time, and not so long since, Acme had been Monarch’s opposition. That was before Ted Wallace came to Piute with his single wagon and his ambition. And now Acme was a monument to Craig Armin’s rapacity. Cole remembered Craig Armin at their first meeting boasting of destroying Acme, and he smiled thinly at the memory. At present Acme was a small affair, with no contracts, few wagons and many debts. They kept going by hauling odd loads for the swarm of prospectors up in the Sierra Negras who were grateful to make a week’s wages from an occasional load of ore.

  The arch into the Acme yard was weathered and faded, and there was a look of dilapidation about the whole affair. Cole swung into the yard, saw a group of men by an empty wagon fronting the sagging stables, and he cut across to them.

  At sight of him the teamsters parted—to reveal Keen Billings in violent conversation with a man in a black suit.

  Cole heard Keen say, “Money is money, dammit. There’s your proposition!”

  “Not any price to you, coyotes,” the man in the suit said grimly. “Now get the hell out of here, Billings!”

  The man’s eyes shifted to his teamsters, and then he saw Cole, who was in the circle of grinning teamsters. Evidently the man recognized Cole, for he smiled and nodded and then said to Billings, “I’ve got some business to talk over, Billings, as soon as you drag it.”

  Billings, scenting something, wheeled, and he saw Cole. For a second he just stared balefully at him, his heavy-jowled face petulant and still flushed by his blustering.

  “So,” he observed, leaning back against the wagon, “you boys have ganged up already, I see.” He turned his head toward the man he had been talking to. “I’ll make a flat proposition. I’ll give you fifty bucks each more than the top price that Western offers for your wagons!”

  “I’ll burn ’em first,” the man said promptly.

  Cole murmured, “Your little game of freeze-out won’t work, eh, Keen?”

  While Keen Billings cursed him the teamsters laughed. Cole smiled, too, and Billings’ face was ugly with anger. He lounged away from the wagon and said, “Don’t start any trouble, Armin. I’m warnin’ you.”

  Cole’s smile died. He said, “I don’t want any trouble with you, Billings. Get out.”

  Billings suddenly laughed. “I don’t reckon I will,” he said. “I’d like to rawhide you into a fight, Armin, and watch you land in jail for breakin’ your peace bond. What does it take to make you fight?”

  “Nothin’ you got on the books,” Cole answered, grinning.

  Billings tentatively cursed him. Cole shook his head. “It’ll take more than that, Keen. I saw my mother’s marriage license.”

  The teamsters guffawed at that, and Billings started in again to curse. When he was finished Cole was still grinning.

  Billings glared at the laughin
g teamsters then and swung around to Cole. He sized him up, decided to take a chance and then said, “But Celia Wallace ain’t got one yet, has she?”

  The teamsters’ laughter died off and they looked at Cole. His smile was gone. “Be plain,” he drawled. “Celia Wallace isn’t married.”

  “But she damn well ought to—”

  Cole hit him then. He knocked him sprawling in the dust against the wagon wheel, and the smack of his knuckle-studded fist on Keen’s jaw could be heard all over the lot. The blow was unthinking, automatic, instantaneous. And Cole knew, behind his anger, that this was a mistake—the worst mistake he could make. But it was done now.

  Keen scrambled off his back, grabbing for the gun in his holster. A teamster put his hand on Keen’s wrist, pinned it to the ground, grabbed his gun and threw it over the wagon.

  Keen came to his feet and backed up, fear in his small pig eyes. Cole came slowly toward him, and Keen backed into the wagon. He was terrified now, for his baiting had succeeded with a vengeance. He was hemmed in on all sides by the teamsters. And then his eyes fell on the soft oiled blacksnake whip that a teamster had left on the step of the freight wagon.

  He grabbed it and in one down-sweeping gesture uncoiled it at his feet. The teamsters scattered like a covey of quail, and only Cole remained.

  Billings’ fright was gone now, and he laughed deep in his bull chest.

  “You want to know what I said?” he asked Cole. “I said Celia Wallace needs a marriage license, mister. She come over to Craig Armin this mornin’ tryin’ to beg us off on account of you. And if that don’t mean she’s—”

  Cole lunged for him. Billings brought the whip around and down in a whistle that ended in a crack like a rifleshot. Cole put up his elbow to shield his face, but the lash curled around his head and cut into his cheek. And still he ran. The lash missed him on the second blow, but the weight of the whip came down across his shoulder like a club. And then Keen Billings was cornered against the wagon, with no room to swing his whip. He brought the whip-stock down like an ax across Cole’s back just a moment before Cole’s head rammed into his midriff and they went sprawling in the dust.

  Terror gave Billings an added strength. He grappled with Cole and they rolled over and over, slugging futilely. Billings tried to bring his knee up in Cole’s groin, but Cole twisted and put his hand under Billings’ jaw and shoved. Billings’ head went back and he gagged and then his hold broke, and Cole rolled free. Keen made a dive for the whip. Cole lunged for him, swinging a low hook that caught Keen on the cheek and deflected his course. When he got to his feet Cole was standing on the whip.

  Cole came in then, and again Billings was crowded against the wagon. Cole pinned him with one hand and slugged with the other, beating his soft face back until his head banged against the wagon side. Billings slugged blindly and kicked and cried out, but Cole fought with the cold fury of murder. When Billings, licked already, started to topple over Cole stood him erect again and slugged three savage blows into his face before Billings sat down.

  “Nuff!” Billings shouted.

  “Oh, no, it’s not.” Cole panted. He picked up the whip, flipped it out and then lashed out with it. The lash snapped and a great fresh welt bloomed across Billings’ face.

  Billings yelled, put his hands up and lunged unsteadily to his feet.

  “Run for the gate, Keen,” Cole said in a thick voice.

  Billings started. Cole lashed out again, and Billings’ shirt suddenly came off his back. He stumbled and fell, sobbing in his throat, fought to his feet and ran again. Cole’s next blow tripped him, taking away part of Billings’ trouser leg and rolling him in the dust. He scrambled to his feet again, running drunkenly for the gate. And the crack! crack! crack! of Cole’s whip—seven times in all—laid a great bloody cross on his back and livid stripes across his belly before he reached the gate.

  Cole let him have one more vicious lash. It curled out and wrapped around Billings’ thick chest, and he cried out and fell on his face in the dust. This time he did not get up. He lay there, sobbing in the dust, his fingers clawing at the ground.

  Cole leaned over him, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.

  “Celia Wallace isn’t married, Keen. Tell me that.”

  “No. A fine girl—a fine girl—a—” His voice dribbled off into silence, and he collapsed.

  Cole stood over him, panting, his fists wet and dark with blood.

  Then he looked up at the teamsters around him, his eyes slowly fading back into sanity.

  “Well, I reckon that does it,” he said calmly, dropping the whip. “I might’s well go to jail.”

  The man in the black suit commanded crisply, “Swing those gates shut, boys, and come here.”

  The gates were swung shut on Keen Billings, still lying in the dust. The man in the black suit came over to Cole and put out his hand.

  “I’d swap fifteen years of my life for the privilege of watchin’ that, Armin. I’m proud to shake your hand.”

  Cole shook his hand, and then the man said, “Listen careful, boys. Gather close.” When the teamsters had crowded up he explained: “Cole Armin is on peace bond. When this fight gets nosed about Linton will pick him up, jail him, and he’ll lose his bond. Are we goin’ to let him do it?”

  “No!” the teamsters shouted.

  The man turned to Cole. “You get the hell home,” he said. He peeled off his coat and threw it in the dust. “Mark, tear my shirt. Joe, go smear that whip handle with blood again and give it to me. The rest of you boys back up my story. When I wouldn’t sell Billings the wagons he went for me. I give him the whuppin’ of his life. And nine witnesses to prove it! Are you backin’ me, boys?”

  They were and they made it plain. Then the man—whose name Cole did not even know—turned to him and said, “Them wagons is yours for your own price, Armin. Now git out of here and keep your mouth shut and let the boys make a hero out of me! At last I’m even with those Monarch sons, and I’m makin’ it stick.”

  Cole washed his hands at the horse trough behind the Acme, thanked them and went back to town through the alleys. Already there was a commotion out on the street which announced the crowd had spotted Keen in the Acme archway.

  He had been saved this time—saved by the generosity of ten strangers, all leagued with him in their hatred of Monarch. But that was luck. It wouldn’t be that way again. Through his fog of weariness he was trying to remember what Keen had said about Celia. Besides the other. “She come over to Craig this mornin’ trying to beg us off you.” Celia couldn’t have done that.

  Wearily he climbed the steps to the house. Halfway up the stairs Celia came out the door in her street clothes and hat. Seeing him, she stopped and then exclaimed, “Cole, what’s happened to your face?”

  Cole steadied himself on the railing. “Celia, did you see Craig Armin this mornin’?”

  “Why—yes. Who told you?”

  “Did you try to beg him off? Did you ask him to leave me alone?”

  Celia’s eyes flashed. “I did not, Cole Armin! I told him we were foolish to fight, that we ought to divide the field. When he refused I told him he was signing his own death warrant!” She looked magnificent, standing there, her face flushed and a little bit of concern behind the outrage in her eyes.

  Cole said, “Thanks, Celia. That’s all I want to know.”

  The sound of horses galloping pulled Cole’s glance around toward the alley.

  He saw Juck ride in the compound gate, and behind him was Girard, the China Boy super. They slipped from the saddle at the same time and tramped across the yard. Juck saw Cole first, and he stopped, and Girard looked up.

  “Cole, it looks like we’re done for,” Girard said. “They knocked my watchman in the head last night, loaded a skip with black powder and caved in the last three galleries of the China Boy. There won’t be any ore to haul out.”

  15

  Sheriff Ed Linton had long ago sent Keen Billings on to his hotel in a spring wa
gon and was endlessly questioning Mort Cornwall, the Acme owner, when one of his deputies rode up and asked to speak with him. Linton drew off to one side of the wagon yard, conversed with his deputy a moment, then came back to Cornwall. Cornwall was surrounded by his grim teamsters; his shirt was torn; his hands were bloody, and the whip he had used was still lying in the dust before him.

  “I’ve got to go, Cornwall, but I’ll come back to you,” Linton said.

  “Come ahead,” Cornwall said stubbornly. “If you aim to arrest me git it over with. But I’d like to see you make it stick.”

  “That’s pretty rough treatment on a trespasser,” Linton said sternly. “Too rough entirely.”

  “But it wasn’t no ordinary trespasser,” Cornwall countered promptly. “The Monarch run my business to the wall, Sheriff. They killed my father-in-law. And now they got the gall to come down here and try to bully me into sellin’ them wagons so Western won’t get ’em.” He laughed shortly. “A horsewhip-ain’t half rough enough if you ask me.”

  “You nearly killed a man.”

  “A damn pity I did such a sloppy job,” Cornwall said.

  Sheriff Linton turned on his heel, exasperation plain in his face, mounted his horse and joined his deputy.

  Outside the yard, riding toward the center of town, Linton said to his harried-looking deputy, “Where’s Girard now?”

  “I dunno. Likely rousin’ the town.”

  “You say there were four men killed in the explosion?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he’s sure it happened that way?”

  “That’s right. One of the miners workin’ night shift got took sick. He was waitin’ for the cage when this powder-loaded skip come by him at the gate. He gave a yell down a winze into the gallery below, and all them men down there run for the winze into the higher gallery. Four of ’em was workin’ a stope, though, and they got buried. That gallery and the two below it where the day shift was workin’ was plumb caved in.”

  Sheriff Linton’s face was pale. They were in the town’s afternoon traffic now, and he gave his horse its head and let it pick its way through the snarl of traffic on the main street.