by Short, Luke;
“And I don’t reckon I will.”
They stared at each other levelly, and there was hatred in both their eyes. Finally Craig Armin smiled. “You didn’t take that seriously the other night—what I said about cutting your pay?”
“How else could I take it?”
“I was angry,” Armin said with a gesture of dismissal. “Forget it, Keen. You and I have gone through enough together that we can quarrel without hard feelings, haven’t we?”
“Have we?” Keen said sulkily.
“Look here. I’ll pay you. It’s something you’ll have to do anyway, sooner or later, if you want to live. Why not take pay for it?”
Billings pretended to consider this, his heavy face set in a scowl. If Craig Armin had been a little more observant he would have seen that Keen Billings’ eyes were not quite so puzzled as he wanted them to appear.
“That’s a fact,” Billings said.
“A thousand dollars then?”
“No,” Keen said quickly. “I’m riskin’ my neck, chief—and I mean riskin’.”
“Two thousand.”
“Not for twice that.”
“All right,” Craig Armin said grimly. “I’ll make it five—and I’ll also give you the closest thing to an airtight alibi you can find.”
Keen knew he didn’t need any alibi, but the five thousand was satisfactory, so he pretended interest. Why fight over a little money when he would get half Craig Armin’s in the end? He leaned forward.
“That sounds good.”
“You’ll take it?”
“If I like the alibi.”
Craig Armin hitched forward in his chair. “Tonight,” he began, “this girl of ours—Letty Burns—is going to Cole Armin with an offer of truce from Monarch. She’ll tell Cole Armin and Ted Wallace that you met her on the street and made the proposition. You were afraid to make it to Armin yourself because you knew he would kill you. You want to talk to Armin and Wallace—alone, with none of these women around, in Ted Wallace’s rooms. Cole Armin might not want to accept. He’s a hothead. But Ted Wallace will make him.” He paused. “Do you follow me so far?”
“Sure. She takes the word that I’m comin for a parley and to clear Celia Wallace out.”
“That’s it. Now do you have five of your bully boys you can trust?”
“More than that,” Billings said.
“Good. Put them around that compound behind the Western office. Tell them to shoot Cole Armin on sight if he tries to get out of the house. I don’t think he’ll try, but we can’t take a chance. He’ll be up there waiting for you, with the women out of harm’s way. You walk up the stairs, knock on the door and when it opens let him have it. If he’s waiting in the doorway for you with a gun give the boys the signal to cut down on him. Ted Wallace is in bed. He’ll be easy to take care of.”
He leaned back. “Afterward you can tell Linton and have your five witnesses to back it up that he started shooting at you when you came in the compound. The men you had brought with you for protection killed Cole Armin in self-defense. The same applies to Ted Wallace. You have me to testify that I sent you to make a truce, and you have Letty Burns to testify that she told Cole Armin that.” He spread his hands in a graceful gesture. “What’s safer, more airtight than that?”
Billings considered a minute and said, “Nothin’, I reckon.”
“It suits you?”
Billings nodded. “All except the money.”
“What about that?”
“I want it now,” Billings said.
Craig Armin leaned back and smiled. “No, Keen. Afterward.”
“Now,” Billings said.
Craig Armin was a shrewd judge of men, and he saw how stubborn Keen Billings looked. On the other hand, he didn’t want Billings jumping town once he had the money.
“Not now,” he said quietly and firmly. “Tonight, before you start, you’ll have the check—all of it.” His voice dropped a little. “And just in case you have any ideas about shoving the blame for this on me if you gum it up, Keen, that check will be made out to ‘cash,’ not to Keen Billings.” He smiled slightly. “I make dozens of checks out that way—so I have no idea who cashes them, you see.”
“I see,” Keen said, smiling crookedly. “Money’s money, just so’s I git it.”
“Then come up here after dark.”
“All right, boss. You can count on me.”
He went out, and Craig Armin smiled behind his back. Now that he had made the decision he was glad of it. He felt better.
And when Keen Billings got out into the corridor he leaned against the wall and laughed.
18
Cole was freed at noon. He paid his twenty-five-dollar fine for assaulting a peace officer and received the news that his peace bond was forfeit with a stolid and expressionless face. When Linton led him over from the courthouse back to the sheriff’s office and gave him his gun he was troubled by Cole’s silence. There was no protest, no sneers, no jibes and no threats—only a complete and indifferent silence.
Linton said, handing him his gun belt, “Don’t get me wrong, Armin. We’ve got nothin’ against you in this town so long’s you keep in line. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this. It cost you quite some money; you should have learned something.”
Cole said nothing. He accepted the gun, strapped it on and went out into the street. Linton, his face troubled, followed him for a block. At last, when he saw him turn into the alley behind Western Freight, he concluded that nothing would happen immediately. But he still had his doubts. Armin’s eyes were pretty ugly this morning, and he looked as if somebody had lit his fuse.
He was never further from being right. Last night in the dark hours when Cole regained consciousness and realized what had happened he had spent the bitterest moments of his life. This had been the final ignominy. He had one blue chip to spend—the losing of his peace bond in a way that would count, by killing Keen Billings. Instead he had spent it in a barroom scuffle with a deputy sheriff and had been rapped across the skull for his pains.
He didn’t falter as he went up the stairs to the rooms. He had reached the final depths of shame last night; all this wouldn’t be as bad as confronting his own conscience.
Celia was in the kitchen when he came in. From the bedroom door he could hear Ted’s regular breathing, and he guessed he was asleep.
He walked into the kitchen, and Celia turned from the sink. “Hello, Cole,” she said quietly.
“Hello, Seely,” Cole said, and she looked sharply at him when he said it. He wasn’t even aware he had called her that; he had been calling her Seely to himself for a long time now. He sank into a kitchen chair and tilted it against the wall. His long legs sprawled out in front of him. He was unshaven, and there was a fresh cut across his right cheek which overlaid the livid welt of the blacksnake whip.
Celia dried her hands and came over and sat down at the table where she could watch him. “I tried to make them let me see you last night, Cole. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t this morning either.”
Cole turned his head slowly and smiled at her. “You’ve been pretty good to me, Celia,” he said in a low, bitter voice. “I’m thankful.”
Celia laughed shakily. “Cole, that sounds so formal. Almost as if you were saying good-by or something.”
“I reckon I meant it to.”
Celia hesitated just a moment, and then she said, “You’re going then?”
Cole only nodded. His smoky gray eyes were veiled and bitter, and they seemed to pierce Celia’s brain and read her very thoughts.
She said, “There’s no stopping you. I can see that.”
“I come back to explain,” Cole said miserably. “I don’t want you to think I’m runnin’ away, Celia.”
Here was a ray of hope, and it blossomed suddenly in Celia’s mind. His pride was his vulnerable point. If she accused him of running away maybe he wouldn’t go. Desperately she grasped at it and wondered how she could make it sound convincing. She made her f
irst try then.
“It’s pretty hard to think anything else, Cole.”
Cole looked distressed, and Celia was ashamed of herself, but her face didn’t show it.
“No,” Cole said slowly. “It ain’t that, Celia. I thought it all out last night, layin’ there in jail.” He looked at his boots now, his smoky eyes musing. His legs were sprawled out in front of him; his hands were in his pockets, and his voice was even, contained. “I never belonged with you and Ted anyway, Seely. I’m a cowman.” He smiled crookedly at his boots. “Lord love me, but I’d like to see a cow critter again. I’m sick of lookin’ at mules, Seely.”
“You’re leaving just because you want to see cows again?” Celia taunted.
But Cole was going to have his say. “No, I don’t reckon that’s it. It’s hard to say, Seely.” He was still talking to his boots. “A man has got so much in him—so much luck to run out, so many fights to win, so much money to earn, so much liquor to drink and so many friends to make. Usually he’s an old man before he works it all out.” He shook his head. “But not me. I run my luck out here, Seely. I won every fight except the one with myself. Last night showed it. I let a little runt of a dude sheriff and a couple of his hard-case deputies rawhide me into losing my temper again. The slug I was goin’ to spend on Keen Billings never got spent. I wasn’t man enough to keep my temper.”
“You’re pitying yourself,” Celia goaded.
Cole looked up at her, his eyes blazing, and then the anger died. He looked back at his boots. “No, you wouldn’t understand that. I don’t pity myself; I just know what’s wrong with me. I’ll tell you what it is, too, Seely. I’ve shot my wad, and it wasn’t enough. From now on there’s just one thing left for me in this man’s town.”
“What?”
“Hangin’.”
He looked up at Celia to see if she understood that. If she did her face didn’t show it. Her mouth twisted up into something close to a sneer.
“Are you afraid, Cole?”
Cole looked at her. In one blinding moment he knew why she was jeering at him. She didn’t want him to go! In one wild second he knew that she loved him. He wanted to get up and take her in his arms and tell her what had been in his mind and his heart all these days—and then he relaxed. No, he couldn’t do that. Last night, before he even suspected that she loved him, he had made up his mind to do what was best. This didn’t change it; it only made it the more bitter. Last night he had known beyond any doubt that he could never help Ted or Celia Wallace again. His last chance to help them by killing Keen Billings had been muffed, and it had cost them five thousand dollars they could not afford. His business was to get out of here. He had tried and failed, and if they were to survive he must walk out. Craig Armin would make some sort of a deal with them so that everything wouldn’t be lost. It was he, Cole, that Craig Armin hated, not Ted Wallace.
And then he thought of what Celia had just said. Was he afraid? Maybe it would be easier to leave if he could make her think he was. So he said mildly, “Yes, Seely. That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you. I’m afraid.”
“I don’t believe it!” Celia said sharply, instantly.
Cole didn’t smile. He must make this stick if it was the last thing he ever did. It was the least thing he could do for her. He must play the coward, the man who has lost his nerve, and play it convincingly.
He said, “I knew you wouldn’t, Seely. You’ve kind of built me up into a hero, haven’t you?” And he looked at her.
Celia was taken aback. It was the truth, but she wasn’t going to admit it under these circumstances.
Cole went on, “I got your money for you from Craig Armin. I licked Billings up there on the road. I pulled through with the China Boy wagon.” He said bitterly, his voice suddenly harsh, “Can’t you understand I did that out of fear, from just bein’ plain yellow? When a rat is cornered he’ll fight. Juck was goin’ to beat me up. I fought, and I got in a lucky swipe that knocked him out. And because Craig Armin knew why I was fightin’ he offered to give me the money. And that fight with Billings. I dropped a lighted cigarette on my pony’s neck. He reared and pitched me off into Billings. That gunnie shot at me. I crawled against Billings for protection and I bumped his nose, so he couldn’t see me. I held to him, to keep from bein’ killed, and the gunnie was afraid to shoot. I just bluffed it out.”
Celia’s mouth was sagging open, and Cole went on relentlessly.
“There’s your hero, Celia. Take that brake lever on the wagon breakin’. What would you do with twenty tons of ore behind you and a five-hundred-foot drop on one side of you and a straight-up cliff on the other? You’d run, because you couldn’t jump. That’s what I done. And I got away with it.” He sneered. “There’s your hero, Seely. How do you like him?”
Celia came slowly to her feet. There was hurt in her eyes that made Cole’s heart ache. “I don’t like him,” she whispered.
“You still want me to stay?” Cole asked.
“No. No, I—I think you better go.”
Celia put her face in her hands and turned her back to Cole. He rose, said, “I’ll take the night stage out, Celia. I’ll be back to talk with Ted tonight. Then I’ll slip out of town tonight quiet-like.”
Celia didn’t even answer him.
It was ten minutes after Cole was gone, and Celia was sitting at the kitchen table, crying quietly, when she heard the knock at the front door. Quickly she dried her eyes and answered the door. It was Juck and Bill Gurney. Both of them had their hats in their hands, and Juck said, “Cole around, Miss Celia?”
“No. You’ll probably find him at the express office, Juck.”
Juck frowned and said immediately, “He ain’t leavin’?”
“I’m afraid he is, Juck,” Celia said in a dead voice. She went back into the house then and left Juck and Bill Gurney standing there.
Slowly Juck tramped down the stairs. At the foot of them he sat down on the bottom step. Bill Gurney, about half his size, sat down beside him, and both of them stared at the fence.
“He hadn’t ought to of thought of that,” Juck said, “What’s Western goin’ to do without him?”
“Fold up,” Bill Gurney said gloomily.
“What’s he doin’ it for?” Juck protested.
Bill spat. “What would you do if you was him? That damn sheriff has hog-tied him and strapped him. He’s just smart. He’s pullin’ out before they carry him out.”
“But she don’t want him to go!” Juck said plaintively. “She’s been cryin’!”
Bill Gurney shrugged. “Maybe he don’t like her,” he suggested. “He can be a right tough hombre in some ways.”
“The hell he don’t!” Juck said softly. He was quiet a long moment, shifting a wad of tobacco around in his cheek. This was the same thing as quitting, Juck concluded, and that didn’t sound like Cole Armin, whatever Bill Gurney said. If Cole was the quitting kind he would have quit long since. No, there was something behind it all. Maybe Cole was just discouraged. A man got like that sometimes. When nothing went right and everybody ganged up on him a man had moments of wanting to quit. Every man did, and Cole wasn’t any different than other men. The thing to do was to keep him here until he got over it and was all right again. It was all that simple to Juck, for he was a simple man.
He let loose with a stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We ought to keep him here, Bill.”
“How you figure to? Hit him over the head and lock him up somewhere?”
“I ain’t hittin’ him over the head,” Juck answered grimly. “I’d git my jaw broke and you’d git your head unscrewed. No sir, that’s out.”
“Have him arrested then. That’s the next best thing, I reckon.”
“He ain’t done anything to be arrested for. What could …” Juck’s voice died, and he stared at the ground. All of a sudden he snapped his fingers loudly. “Well, I’m damned!” he said softly to himself. He stood up. “Come along with me, Bill. I got a i
dee.”
The two of them tramped out of the compound and down the alley to the main street and along it to the sheriff’s office.
When Juck, bending his head to get under the lintel, stepped into the sheriff’s office there was only a deputy there.
“Where’s Linton?” Juck asked.
“I dunno,” the deputy said idly.
“Make a guess,” Juck said.
The deputy looked irritated. “What do you want of him?”
“I got some questions to ast him. A lot of questions.”
“Ask me,” the deputy said.
Bill Gurney, who had the average teamster’s contempt for the law, snorted. “I’ll ask you,” he said. “What’s two and two? Tomorrow, when you got it figgered out, lemme know. Come on, Juck.”
“Wait a minute,” Juck said. “Mebbe he’ll do. How much law you know, mister?”
“More ’n both you jugheads put together,” the deputy said angrily, glaring at Bill Gurney, who glared right back.
“All right,” Juck said, “Me ’n Bill was havin’ an argument. Bill aims to hold up a stage.”
Bill Gurney jerked his head around to look up at Juck. Juck eyed him placidly, and Bill understood that Juck was up to something.
“That’s right,” Bill said.
The deputy sat up in his chair, glancing from one to the other, alarm stirring in his eyes. “Well, thanks for tellin’ me,” he said sarcastically. “Want the loan of a gun?”
“I can’t tell yet,” Bill countered calmly. “Wait’ll Juck’s through.”
Juck went on. “When Bill holds up this stage s’pose there’s two people on it—a old man and a old lady. All right, s’pose Bill spends the money he robs from ’em and loses his job. He’s got to have another. So he gets a job workin’ for the old lady. She knows he’s the fella that held her up, but on account of Bill’s sweet temper and winnin’ ways she don’t say nothin’ to the sheriff. But the old man knows him too. He goes to the sheriff and tells him. Then Bill is arrested. But the old lady, she won’t testify agin’ him. She wants to leave town so’s she won’t have to.” Juck paused. “That’s what I want to know—can you hold the old lady and lock her up until Bill’s trial?”