Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  Linton, lounging in the door, said, “This is against the law, of course, but we’ll overlook that.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said without looking at him. He opened the closet door. Billings was gone but not for good. His clothes lay in a heap in the middle of the floor.

  “Well, there’s other places,” Cole murmured. “A rum head like Billings won’t stay out of a saloon long.”

  Linton shrugged. He followed Cole downstairs and out on the street and paused at his elbow when Cole stopped to consider where next to look. Piute was too big to search house by house, but it wasn’t too big to search bar by bar. Besides, the word would get around. All he would have to do would be to start it, and someone would flush Billings.

  The first bar was a small one, but he inquired of the bartender for Keen Billings. When told he wasn’t there Cole said, “Tell him Cole Armin is lookin’ for him, will you, if you see him?”

  The bartender smiled knowingly, looked at the sheriff with a puzzled expression and said, “Sure.”

  By the time Cole, with Linton trailing him, was three saloons further up the street the word was ahead of him. When he approached the barkeep in this bar and opened his mouth to speak the bartender said, “Sure. I’ll tell him,” and then laughed along with the crowd at the bar.

  Sheriff Linton was annoyed, but he tried to pass it off as a joke. The next bar Cole went in was the Desert Dust. The freighters were just off the day shift, and they were drinking up. At Cole’s entrance he received an ovation. More than one teamster from the Monarch joined in too. Juck was standing back among them, and he grinned at sight of Cole. The teamsters gathered around Cole and Sheriff Linton, and Cole asked, “Anybody seen Billings?”

  There was general laughter at that. Then one teamster said, “Who’s the dude with you, Cole?”

  Sheriff Linton wheeled and said, “Who said that?”

  “I did,” a teamster behind him said.

  Before Linton could get turned around another voice said, “You’re a liar. I did.”

  Linton’s face was angry. He said, “I won’t take any lip from you men! Understand that, for once an’ all!”

  They were big men, and Sheriff Linton was of medium size and dapper. Minus the badge, which he scorned to wear, his brag was ridiculous, and these men knew it. It gave one irreverent teamster an idea.

  “Who are you, runt?” he asked.

  Sheriff Linton glared at him. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, my man, just in case you really don’t know. I’m the sheriff.”

  “Where’s your star?” another man asked.

  “He’s braggin’,” a third said.

  “Make him prove it,” a fourth said.

  Linton looked from one to the other, unable to pin any of them down. And then, just as he was getting ready to speak, somebody reached over his shoulder, grabbed his hat and pulled it down over his eyes.

  Two other huskies picked him up by the collar of his coat and the seat of his pants, took a run and threw him through the batwing doors. There was a second of silence, then a crash as a tie rail split and a solid thud on the ground.

  When Sheriff Linton, his face livid with rage, burst through the doors a moment later, his pocket gun in his fist, every man in the room was innocently lined up at the bar, eying the door.

  “Stand back there!” he snarled. “Line up and give me your guns!”

  One teamster turned ostentatiously to his neighbor and said, “I heard a hell of a good joke today.”

  “What was it?” his neighbor asked.

  And as one man the teamsters took their drinks, turned their backs to Sheriff Linton and listened to the joke. Linton yelled at them and bawled at them. He even let loose with a shot into the floor that nobody paid any attention to. And finally, not daring to arrest the whole saloon and not wishing to risk further assault to his dignity, he backed out the door and vanished.

  One teamster spat and said, “He ain’t even half a man without he’s got a couple of deputies on each arm.”

  Cole looked over at Juck, and Juck avoided his glance. This was Juck’s work, he knew, and he only shook his head.

  A teamster asked seriously, “Anything we can do, Cole?”

  “Nothin’,” Cole said. “Thanks, boys.”

  He went out the door, and immediately Sheriff Linton fell in beside him. Cole stopped and murmured, “Ain’t you had enough, Linton?”

  “Armin, tomorrow I’m goin’ to close up that saloon and fine the owner! Now get along!”

  “I believe you’d do it,” Cole said contemptuously.

  “I will. Are you still goin’ through with this?”

  Cole wheeled and started up street, not bothering to answer. He was beginning to worry now about Billings showing up. If it were left to Billings, he knew, he would run. But Billings and Monarch aimed to live in this town and be part of it. And to save his face, his reputation for toughness, and to prove that he was a better man than any Western could put forward, Billings would have to show, sooner or later. He might choose to do it from ambush or turn it into a surprise, but it would have to be done if he were to stay in Piute. Cole was counting on that.

  Four more saloons, and Cole knew that the word had been out long since. A crowd tagged at his heels now, the morbidly curious, the people who loved to see gun fights and bloodshed. Cole hated it, but in a way it would help. Sooner or later Billings would walk out of a saloon, and the crowd would scatter and they would shoot it out.

  It was at Womack’s Keno Parlor, a big saloon that was the hangout of the better-paid working men like Keen Billings, that Cole saw two deputies from Linton’s office at the bar, facing the room, their elbows resting on the bar edge. They were two huskies, long-jawed and big, with the brutal faces and cynical eyes of men who are peace officers but little concerned with justice. They looked at Sheriff Linton, their boss, ready to take their cue from him. And Sheriff Linton looked mussed and dusty and wholly angry. That was enough.

  “You still on the prod?” the first deputy sneered, eying Cole. “You want to watch out, mister. Somebody’ll pull a gun on you and you’ll faint.”

  “It won’t be you, pardner,” Cole said mildly and spoke to the bartender. “Billings been in?”

  “Ain’t seen him,” the bartender said sourly.

  “Tell him I’m lookin’ for him,” Cole said, mouthing the familiar and hopeful formula.

  The first deputy, meanwhile, had looked over at Linton, and Linton, his anger still at the boiling point, nodded. He’d have to make his chance now, for they were coming to the last of the saloons. He signed the deputy to go ahead.

  The deputy, when Cole was finished, said, “Maybe I better take that gun away from you, Armin. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “And maybe you better not,” Cole said, glancing over at the sheriff. He knew he was going to break his bond, but he wanted it to count—with Billings.

  Sheriff Linton shrugged. “I don’t care much one way or the other.”

  The deputy snapped his fingers. “Hand it over.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cole said slowly. “Have I said what I wanted of Billings?”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “But I haven’t. So you boys whistle. I haven’t broke any peace bond, fella. And any man has got a right to carry a gun in this town.” He tilted his head toward Linton. “Ask him.”

  “He said he didn’t care, brother,” the deputy said, color flushing up into his full neck. “I do. Hand it over.”

  “But I care, too,” Cole drawled. “And as long as the sheriff don’t, why I reckon I’ll keep it.”

  The deputy reached out and cuffed Cole across the mouth with the back of his hand, and there was a smile on his cynical face. He had it wiped off immediately, for Cole cuffed him back and hard enough to break the skin of his lip.

  The deputy stood for a full second, blank astonishment on his face. And then he swung heavily at Cole’s face. Cole ducked, caught him off balance and put both hands in his midriff
and shoved him back into the arms of his fellow deputy.

  “Go careful, Big Wind,” Cole said mildly. “If I bust this peace bond I aim to make it count with a gun.”

  The deputy, now on his feet, looked at Linton, whose hand was in his pocket. Linton wasn’t looking at him but was watching Cole for the first move.

  And the deputy, who was in the habit of shooting first and talking later, grabbed for his gun. Cole’s hand streaked for his. Sheriff Linton whipped his gun out of his pocket and rapped Cole across the skull. And the second deputy knocked the first deputy’s arm up, so that his shot crashed into the bar mirror.

  Cole melted to the floor, his gun clattering from his unconscious hand.

  “Well, he broke his bond all right,” Linton said grimly, standing over him. “I knew he would.”

  And because this was the hangout of the deputies and Keen Billings nobody demurred.

  The first deputy, spitting blood from a cut lip, picked Cole up by his feet, the other by his head. Linton cleared the way as they carried him out of the saloon, dragging him in the dust as they ducked under the hitch racks on either side of the street, and into the sheriff’s office.

  Linton opened the door at the rear of the office that let into the cell block. A drunk was sleeping off a jag in the first cell. Linton unlocked the cell door with the big key ring, and his deputies threw Cole on the cot. They were standing there, looking at him, as the blast of a shotgun lifted over the racket of the town.

  Linton turned his head. “That was a greener!”

  His two deputies ran for the door and left him alone with Cole. Linton stood there a long time, looking down at Cole. Then, his face twisted with hatred, Linton slashed him across the face with the keys, leaving a cut in his cheek.

  Afterward, feeling better, he closed the door and went out.

  Letty was standing by the compound gate in the alley, wondering whether to risk it or not, when she saw Celia open the door and slip out. Celia came down the steps, walked out of the compound and went down the alley, her stride purposeful.

  Letty waited until she was out of sight, then she walked slowly into the compound, as if undecided about something. When she passed into the glow of the lantern hanging on the gate an observer could have seen indecision in her face—and doubt. This was her chance. Cole Armin was on the prowl, and Celia had gone out. It would never be easier. She remembered Ted’s face, how fiercely he defended her to Celia, and the memory made a warm glow inside her. She was a fool for treasuring this, she knew, and she was only hurting herself. But Ted had been kind to her and so had Celia. Yet there was the memory of Pete, and thinking of him was like twisting the knife in her wound.

  She gazed up at the lighted window, and then suddenly she seemed to make up her mind. She looked behind her, saw the alley and compound were deserted, and then she climbed the steps, knocked gently on the door and walked in.

  Ted had heard the door open, and he put his gun back under the covers when Letty stepped into the room. A smile broke on his gloomy face.

  “Letty!”

  “I had to come,” Letty said quickly. “I wondered if there was anything I could do.”

  “Sit down,” Ted said. He watched her hungrily as she took the chair beside his bed.

  “The word is all over town about our losing the contract. Will—does it make any difference to Western, Ted?”

  Ted laughed bitterly. “All the difference in the world. With it we could have pulled through. Without it—well, I don’t know.”

  “Are we finished then? Is Western done for?” Letty tried to ask it casually, but she couldn’t. She was hoping against hope that he would say yes so that she could take back the word to Keen Billings and Craig Armin and be done with this.

  Ted looked at her and said, “Who said so?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “I’m not licked,” Ted said quietly. “I’m just back where I started. I’ve got a new wagon yard and more wagons. Not enough wagons, but they’ll have to do. And we start all over again.”

  Ted fell quiet, staring at the dark window, and Letty watched him for a moment. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Ted smiled wryly. “I was thinking about when I came in here with one wagon, six mules and a lot of ambition.”

  A shadow of pain crossed Letty’s face. She was thinking of another man who had come into Piute the same way—her brother Pete. She said dully, “I knew a man who did that too. Only he didn’t have your luck.”

  Ted looked at her. “Who was that?”

  “My brother Pete.”

  “What happened to him?” Ted said.

  Letty looked at him, looked him straight in the eye. “He died,” she said. “Someone slipped a kingbolt on his wagon, and his wagon went wild. He broke both legs and died of gangrene.”

  Ted put out his hand and touched hers. “I’m sorry, Letty. I didn’t know.”

  Letty’s body was taut as he touched her. Was he acting? He was, of course, for he had slipped Pete’s kingbolt. He had killed Pete. She had to keep telling herself this because it straightened her back and somehow made this a little less awful. But deep within her she knew that it was destroying part of her. She was weak and disgusting, not even a good hater. Even the memory of Pete and how he died couldn’t keep her from going soft when she saw Ted Wallace. Grimly, then, she remembered what she had come for.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said dully. “Only it taught me a lesson, Ted.”

  “What?”

  “This freighting business is the most hateful business in the world! It breaks men and kills them and forgets them and doesn’t care, just so the ore gets out! Just so a company can abide by a contract!”

  “Why, Letty,” Ted said, surprised at her vehemence, “I didn’t know you felt that way about it.”

  “I do,” Letty said. “That—well, that’s half why I came up here tonight.”

  “To tell me that?”

  “To ask why you and Mr. Armin don’t quit, don’t get out of it, while you still have a little money left.”

  There it was, and Letty watched him. She had made her plea on two grounds, and her sincerity as Ted watched her couldn’t be doubted. She hoped Western would quit so that she could break with Billings before something terrible happened. Her other reason was more obscure, and she would scarcely admit it to herself. But dark intuition warned her that something would happen to Ted if he didn’t and that she would be the cause of it too.

  Ted’s face was puzzled as he studied hers. Then he said, “I don’t work that way, Letty. Cole doesn’t either.”

  “What have you to look forward to?” Letty asked quickly.

  “Why—we started from the bottom once. I did. I can do it again. We’ve got a lot to look forward to. Beating Monarch, for one thing.”

  “But you can’t, Ted! Don’t you see that?”

  “Why can’t we?”

  Letty made a hopeless gesture. “They have money! They have gunmen! They have the sheriff! How can you fight those three?”

  “I dunno,” Ted said slowly. “But we will.”

  “And be alive in the end to tell the tale? No, you won’t, Ted. I know it!”

  Ted smiled and said gently, “Are you scared, Letty?”

  “Not for myself. For you.”

  Ted put a hand on hers. Letty knew, by the look in his face and his eyes, that he was going to say something that she couldn’t let him say. She drew her hands away quickly and said, “I’m thinking of Celia, Ted. What would she do?”

  “If what?”

  “If you get—if the same thing happens to you that happened to my brother.” Letty’s eyes were dark and afraid and bitter. “Ted, I don’t know how else to say it. You’ll laugh at me and call me a woman. But I know I’m right.” She paused. “Something terrible is going to happen to us, Ted—all of us in Western.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can’t explain it. Call it intuition if you will.”

  “It
sounds like a warning,” Ted said laughing.

  “Then call it that!” Letty said vehemently. “Then take my warning!”

  Ted stared at her, puzzled. “Letty, do you know something?”

  Letty’s face drained of color. She stood up and said, “No! No! How could I? All I know is that I have an uneasy feeling about us, Ted. It’s something I can’t fight. And if I could I would make you send for Craig Armin tonight and have a talk with him. He’d buy you out and be glad to. And then you’d be rid of this—this monster of a freighting business!”

  Ted looked down at his hands and then slowly shook his head.

  “No. It’s gone too far now, Letty. Someday—I don’t know how or when—Craig Armin is comin’ to me with a proposition to sell Monarch. I’ll stick until he does.”

  Letty sighed. “I knew you’d say that. I was sure of it.”

  “What else could I say?”

  Letty didn’t know. She stood there, looking down at Ted, and he was looking at her when the sound of gunshot, heavy and distinct over the racket of the town, came to them.

  “Who would be shootin’ a shotgun at this hour of night?” Ted wondered audibly.

  Keen Billings, after Cole and Sheriff Linton had finished prowling in his room and gone, sat down weakly on the bed and waited for his heart to stop hammering. He didn’t even like to be that close to Cole Armin. He was sore and hurt all over from the beating he had received this afternoon, and the whisky wasn’t helping him much now. But he kept on drinking until it was dark, lying on the bed, a water glass of whisky in his big hand, his legs spread wide on the bed. His mind was a confused tangle of thoughts and memories, but the one that recurred most often and nagged at him was the one he hated most. Who blew up the China Boy? He wished desperately that he could answer that and regain a certain peace of mind.

  Patiently then, because he had the time, he thought about this. And shrewdly he chose the sawing of the brake lever as the key to it.