Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  Four people knew about Jim Rough being hired—himself, Linton, Letty Burns and Craig Armin. When he said Craig Armin’s name to himself he cursed him. His pay check would come tomorrow—half pay this time, less than his best teamster earned. The memory of Craig Armin’s face was enough to make Billings mad. But it wouldn’t be long now. Just a short wait, and then Craig Armin would have the dirty end of the stick. And how he would squirm!

  Billings put this from his mind and returned to considering the four people who knew about Jim Rough. He knew that he didn’t saw the brake lever, so he was out. Linton, working through someone else, might have done it. But why would Linton risk getting Cole Armin mad enough to kill him, Billings, when Linton needed him for this future job? No, Linton was out too. Now Letty. She could have done it through somebody else too. But why would she do it, and how did she stand to profit by it? She didn’t, so he could count her out.

  That left Craig Armin, damn him! He wouldn’t do it, because he always left those dirty, stinking jobs for Billings to do. He was too fine mannered, too delicate, too damn superior for a job like that! So he was out too. And Billings was right back where he started then. He didn’t know.

  He heaved himself to his feet, now that it was really dark, and he found that he was pretty drunk—too drunk. Pouring out a basin of water, he washed his face in it and then soaked his head. When he had dried himself he found it had helped. But he was still too drunk. He’d have to take extra care tonight.

  He put on a shirt, vest, hat and his gun belt and slipped out of the room. From the top of the stairs he could see that few people were in the lobby. He hurried down the stairs, turned and walked down the corridor past the dining room and out the rear entrance that led onto an alley.

  Out there in the night somewhere Cole Armin was hunting him, and that meant he couldn’t show himself. He had a pretty accurate knowledge of Piute and, using that and his instinct, he kept to the alleys and within half an hour was at the rear of the sheriff’s office. He had met none who knew him.

  There was a rain barrel under the downspout back of the jail, and Billings walked up to it and stuck his hand inside. There was the sawed-off shotgun, just where Linton had said it would be. He pulled it out, broke it and pocketed the shell. Then he took the gun apart, stuck the barrel inside one trouser leg, the stock inside the other, tightened his belt to hold them, pulled the points of his vest over his belt and walked down the alley.

  He paused at the rear entrance of the Cosmopolitan House, fixing it in his mind. Opening the door cautiously, he peered inside. There was a big storage room immediately inside the door, and beyond that a closed door that led into a corridor that ran straight through into the lobby. He wasn’t concerned with that corridor, however, for there were service stairs opening off this storeroom that led to the floor above. A lamp in a wall bracket was turned down low in the storeroom, and Billings slipped inside the door. He walked softly to the service stairs, opened the door, saw nothing but a dark well and closed the door after him.

  He was a third of the way up the stairs when the door at the top opened and a maid, sheets under her arm, stepped down the stairs, closing the door behind her. Billings froze against the wall, held his breath, sucked in his chest and waited. The maid passed him, the cloth of her dress sleeve touching him, and went downstairs. She opened the door, then looked back up the stairs, curiosity on her face. She had smelled a distinct odor of whisky. But the lamp in the storeroom threw no light up the stairs, and Keen remained immobile.

  When she shut the door he let out his breath.

  “I’m lucky tonight,” he thought.

  He went up the stairs and stepped out into the carpeted corridor. He was safe here he knew. He walked toward the front of the building and climbed the stairs to the next story. Craig Armin’s suite was in the rear corner, a big living room on the end, then the study and then the bedroom behind them along the side of the building. Craig Armin would probably be in the living room.

  Keen walked to the end of the corridor and looked out the open window. Just below him was a lighted window, the window of Craig Armin’s study. Below it was a wide ledge of limestone which formed the sill of all the windows on the first story. But Billings wasn’t counting on that. There was a heavy coil of knotted rope by this window, the fire escape for the third floor. That was all he’d need.

  He took the rope and threw it out into the night. It snaked down, uncoiling, and touched the ground. He heard footsteps coming down the corridor. Calmly he leaned out the window, as if watching the night, until the sound of footsteps turned into a room and the door closed.

  Then he brought the shotgun out, put it together, loaded it, swung a leg over the sill, then both legs, and silently lowered himself to the ledge below. Coming to a rest, he squatted down, holding the rope. He peered through the curtains, hoping that the room was empty.

  But what he saw brought a smile to his face. Craig Armin sat at his study desk, and in a chair before him was Celia Wallace. The window, was closed, so that he could not hear what they were saying. But through the gauzy curtains he could see them very plainly. Craig Armin was embarrassed; he was pulling his ear as he listened to Celia Wallace. Suddenly Celia Wallace stood up, talking. Craig Armin came to his feet, said something very slowly, then rapped the desk with his hand.

  Celia Wallace turned, walked a few steps toward the door, then paused and spoke again.

  Billings, holding onto the rope with a hand to brace himself, raised the shotgun to his shoulder and sighted it. He drew a bead on Craig Armin, and the impulse to pull the trigger then was almost overpowering. But he lifted the sights and waited. Craig Armin bowed and sat down. Billings, to make sure he followed Linton’s orders only to scare him, raised the sights a little higher and pulled the trigger.

  There was a smashing roar, and the gun kicked back, knocking him off balance. But the rope was there, and he held onto it, looking inside. There was a ragged hole in the curtains. On the paneling behind and the ceiling above Craig Armin was a wide circle of scarred wood. But Craig Armin was what he was looking at.

  There was a tiny smear of blood welling on Craig Armin’s cheek. Slowly, his terrified gaze on the window, Craig Armin raised a hand to his cheek. And then he dived under his desk.

  Billings was satisfied. He dropped his gun, lowered himself down the rope, walked into the alley and down it, whistling slightly off key as he disappeared in the darkness.

  When the crash of that shot pounded through the room Celia had her hand on the doorknob. She cried out involuntarily with fright, then wheeled in time to see Craig Armin, his face like a death mask, put a hand to his face, then dive under the desk.

  The door was opened in her face then by the Chinese servant. He took one look at the empty desk and Craig Armin’s hand showing beneath it, and then he ran into the foyer, threw open the door and screamed.

  After that men—all kinds of men—poured into Craig Armin’s study, racing past her.

  Slowly Craig Armin came up from behind the desk and pointed to the window.

  “Some—somebody tried to kill me,” he announced in a faint voice. A man poked his head through the paneless window, saw the rope and yelled, “He’s got away! Down the fire escape!”

  There was pandemonium then. Celia never realized how helpless men like these, not used to blood or emergencies, were. Craig Armin’s face was bleeding a little but no more than from a razor cut during his morning shave. Yet men were bawling for a doctor, shouting at each other, giving contradictory orders and making a general mess of things when two deputies from Sheriff Linton’s office entered.

  The men parted at their entrance, and Craig Armin announced dramatically, “I was shot at!”

  And then his glance fell on Celia by the door. He raised his hand and pointed. “Arrest that woman!”

  There was utter silence for a moment, and then one of the deputies, looking from Celia to Craig Armin, said, “She shoot you, Mr. Armin?”

  “No. But
I know who did. And she was sent here as a decoy!”

  The deputy looked politely doubtful. He said, “You say you know who shot you?”

  “I do. Cole Armin.”

  The deputy shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mr. Armin. Cole Armin is in jail.”

  Craig Armin’s face sagged, but Celia didn’t see that. She said to the deputy in a choked, faint voice, “Then—he got Billings?”

  “No ma’am,” the deputy said. “He made the mistake of thinkin’ he could lick two deputies and the sheriff.”

  “Thank God,” Celia whispered. “Thank God.”

  17

  Sheriff Linton was an early caller at Craig Armin’s suite next morning. He was in an immaculate black suit; his linen was white and starched; he was freshly barbered and, all in all, looked elegant. He was shown into the big living room of Craig Armin’s suite, where Armin was just finishing breakfast.

  “Good morning, Armin. You sent for me?”

  “Sit down,” Craig Armin said curtly. He didn’t bother to offer Linton a cup of coffee but waved his breakfast away. As soon as the servant was gone Armin took out a cigar, lighted it, and rose. There was a fresh neat bandage on his cheek, where one of the buckshot had nicked him.

  “Linton,” he began, “I understand you’ve got my nephew in jail.”

  “That’s right,” Linton said easily.

  “On what grounds?”

  “For breaking peace bond. He tried to beat up on me and my deputies.”

  Armin, standing at the window that overlooked the street, now turned to regard Linton. “Will you keep him there?”

  Linton shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Armin.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s his crime? He’ll be haled before the judge this morning, fined twenty-five dollars and freed—and, of course, forfeit his peace bond.”

  Craig Armin puffed nervously at his cigar. “You’re sure you arrested him last night before that shot was fired at me?”

  “Positive.” A faint trace of a smile was playing around the corners of Linton’s mouth, but Craig Armin’s back was turned. “I was standing over him in the cell when I heard the shot and sent my deputies.”

  Armin grunted. Then he said quietly, “I want him kept in jail, Linton. His men shot at me, you know.”

  Linton smiled then, a secret, wise smile. “But he didn’t,” Linton pointed out. “I can’t do it, Mr. Armin. I’d like to oblige, but I can’t.”

  “For, say, a thousand dollars?” Craig Armin murmured and turned to look at him.

  Linton shook his head. “If I held him past noon some jackleg lawyer would be in court with a writ. I’d be on the pan for fair.”

  “I see,” Armin said. He looked out the window, musing. “There isn’t any other charge against him you could bring up?”

  Linton pretended to think, although he was quite certain what he would say.

  “None,” he said presently. “No matter what I suspect him of I have to get proof. Personally I think he set the fire at your place, but there was that girl to alibi him. I couldn’t arrest him, so I did the next best thing: I put him on peace bond. No, I can’t hold him for anything else.”

  “He destroyed a buckboard of mine,” Armin insisted. “Can’t he be held for that?”

  Linton smiled pleasantly. “Between us, Mr. Armin, Billings asked for that beating. He didn’t obey the flag signal.”

  “Yes, yes,” Armin said hurriedly.

  Linton settled back in his chair. He was enjoying this. Slowly, thread by thread, he was weaving his web around Craig Armin. He could almost see Armin’s decision slowly crystallize. He could follow Armin’s every thought. Right now Craig Armin was sounding him out to see if there wasn’t some possibility of keeping Cole Armin in jail, figuring this move, for once and all, would break Cole Armin and Western. Failing that, Linton was sure enough of what would follow. Craig Armin was scared to death, and when a man like that is scared he does reckless things.

  Craig said gloomily, “Well, if you can’t you can’t.”

  “I’d like to oblige,” Linton said smoothly, “but it can’t be done.” He paused, wanting what he was going to say next to sink in. “I know your position, Armin. You’re fighting a bunch of lawless bully boys. Personally I think if you give them enough rope they’ll hang themselves. I’ve got my eye on them. At the first chance I get I’m going to jail them.” He shrugged. “Of course you’re not in a pleasant position,” he said slyly. “They may get you before I get them.”

  Craig Armin’s face drained of color. “Exactly,” he said.

  “But that’s a chance we have to take on the frontier. A lawman is helpless. Every man is innocent until proven guilty. It’s only after the crime is done that I can act. Before, even though I can see it coming, I can do nothing. The law doesn’t back me up.” He rose, watching Armin’s tortured face. He couldn’t resist the last turn of the screw. “I’d certainly be careful from now on, Armin. Keep a man with you all the time.”

  Armin shakily wiped the sweat from his forehead with a fine linen handkerchief.

  “I will,” he said. “That reminds me. Have you seen Keen Billings this morning?”

  “I’ll run into him, I suspect,” Linton said. “I’ll send him up.”

  “Thanks,” Armin murmured. He got a hold on himself and managed a smile. “Well—I can raise that ante to five thousand,” he said abruptly.

  Linton shook his head and smiled. “I’d like to, Mr. Armin, but it can’t be done. No sir, it can’t be done.”

  They shook hands, and Linton noticed that Craig Armin’s palm was wet. That shot last night had put the fear of God into him. Linton chuckled with anticipation as he went downstairs and out onto the street.

  He could free Cole Armin now. No, on the other hand, he’d better give Keen time enough to get to Craig Armin before he did that. Cole Armin would still be on the prod, more so than ever, he supposed.

  At the Piute he waved a cheery good morning to the clerk and went upstairs. Keen Billings, still in his new room, opened the door.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Linton closed the door behind him and then laughed out loud. Billings grinned and said, “Come on. What did he say?”

  “He’s so scared he can’t talk,” Linton said. “I warned him to be careful and hire a bodyguard, and he almost fainted.”

  “The hell he did,” Billings said and laughed.

  “He offered me five thousand dollars to keep Cole Armin in jail, just like I knew he would.”

  “Then he is scared,” Billings said dryly. “If he puts out that much money he’s scared.”

  “He wants you,” Linton said.

  “Already, huh? Then you must have did a good job, Ed.”

  “You’ll see,” Linton said. “Now get along. I’ll give you time to get to the hotel before I turn Cole Armin loose.”

  Billings’ smile suddenly faded. “Yeah. Cole Armin.” He hitched up his pants and said, “Well, I only got to worry about that ranahan a few hours more.”

  “That’s right,” Linton said. “When you see Armin you know how to play it. We’ve talked that over. Afterward, after dark, you can tell me how it’s goin’ to come off.”

  “Yeah,” Billings said. His mouth curled in a cruel smile. “Now I can watch that coyote squirm. But tonight, after it’s over, is what I been waitin’ to see. I been thinkin’ about it all the time, dreamin’ about it, waitin’ for it.” He looked at Linton. “You let me handle him tonight after it’s over, Ed. I’ve earned that, by God.”

  “Sure, sure,” Linton said. “Now get along.”

  Billings picked up his Stetson and put it on. Linton said, as he was walking toward the door, “Don’t forget to get his check, Keen. That’s important. That’s evidence that will help cinch the deal.”

  “I know, I know, sure,” Billings said. “Gimme fifteen minutes.”

  Billings went down the stairs and headed for the Cosmopolitan House, whistli
ng tunefully. It was a perfect Piute day, with the air still, the sun already hot, the smell of dust and manure and hot boards in the air. Passing the saloons, there was the cool, sweet smell of beer and freshly wet sawdust. Life was pretty good. And what made it good was that Craig Armin, damn his soul, was about to be put on a skewer and barbecued.

  Craig Armin’s attitude, when Keen was shown into the living room of his suite, was haughty and cold. That was a good sign, Keen reflected, as he sat down; it meant he wasn’t sure of himself.

  “You’ve been making yourself pretty scarce lately,” Armin observed, letting himself down into the most comfortable chair.

  “Damn right I have,” Keen said bluntly. “I don’t hone for a bellyful of lead from Cole Armin.”

  Craig Armin smiled faintly. “And I don’t either, Keen. You heard about last night?”

  Keen nodded. “That was pretty close, chief.”

  “I didn’t like it,” Armin said wryly. “The more I think of it the less I like it.”

  “They’re startin’ to play rough all right,” Billings conceded grimly. “What the hell use is a freightin’ business if you’re scared to show your face to run it?”

  “Keen, I’m going to put an end to this,” Craig Armin said quietly.

  “You are?” Keen said blankly. “How?”

  “I should say ‘we’ are,” Armin said. “You and I—both of us. We’re both afraid of that outfit, if we tell the truth, aren’t we?”

  “I sure as hell am,” Keen said with utter sincerity.

  “Then let’s wipe them out.”

  He and Armin looked at each other for a long moment. Then Keen said, “You mean, let’s ‘me’ wipe them out, don’t you, boss?”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “Sure. Only no thanks.”

  “Losin’ your guts, Keen?”

  “I’ve already lost em,” Keen grunted placidly.

  “You’re gettin’ pretty coy all of a sudden, Keen,” Armin said.

  “You would be too.”

  “But I think you’ll take this job,” Armin said slowly.