Play a Lone Hand

by Short, Luke;

  “I have, but have you?” As Giff heaved the saddle off the corral top, he glanced again at Bentham. There was a puzzlement in the man’s face. Giff asked, tramping toward his horse, “Are you ready to leave here?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You have to, and the sooner the better.” He slacked the saddle to the ground and put the saddle blanket on his horse.

  Bentham’s voice was directed at his back, “I don’t get it.”

  Giff heaved the saddle up on his horse’s back, then pulled the horse around so that he could look across the saddle at Bentham. “I’ll get this Archer,” Giff said quietly. “When I do, Sebree will know who pointed him out to me.” He saw Bentham considering this with a wry carefulness.

  Giff gathered up his reins, stepped into the saddle, and pulled his horse toward the gate. Bentham, stepping aside, said, “It’s time anyway—past time.” He looked up as Giff passed him and said in a low voice, “Don’t thank me. Just get Sebree.”

  And then Giff passed him, heading for the canyon road.

  5

  It was Sheriff Edwards’ custom to open the store each morning, wait the few minutes until the first clerk arrived and then walk the two blocks to the county courthouse and assign his deputies their day’s work. This morning, however, he unlocked the door and, instead of spending a pleasant interval watching the town come to work, he tramped down the main aisle toward the back stairs.

  His conversation with Welling last evening had brought him a sleepless night and sober hours of self-searching; sometime during the small hours of the morning, he had come to the conclusion he was acting upon now. It was plain to him that Sebree was in deep trouble, and that the April seventeenth issue of the Free Press lying in the store’s basement files would turn that trouble into catastrophe.

  But it was trouble with the federal government, not the county, Edwards reasoned. County officers were not bound to aid the federal government unless ordered—and nobody had ordered him. On the other hand, Sebree had been generous to him. Besides being the store’s best customer, Sebree was the real power in the county. He had ordered Edwards’ election; and then had asked few favors, all of them reasonable, in return. Because that left Edwards his self-respect, he felt in some obscure way that he was honor bound to help Sebree. The least he could do in return then was to destroy the evidence which would convict Sebree of a federal offense. He would leave judgment of the ethics of Sebree’s crimes to others who knew the facts, he told himself.

  He struck several matches on his way down the dark passage to the newspaper files, and when finally, his hand shaking nervously, he contrived to light the lamp, he paused a moment and reminded himself that there was no special hurry. Yet there was, he knew. If Arthur Miles saw him coming up from the basement at this hour of the morning, he might suspect his errand; and Edwards did not want to share his secret with anyone.

  Kneeling before the stack of Free Presses, he thumbed through them until he came to the April twenty-fourth issue. Below it was the April tenth issue and for a baffled moment Edwards read and reread the dates. When if finally came to him after further search that the April seventeenth issue was missing, he rose slowly, fighting down the panic rising within him.

  Only Arthur Miles could have taken it, he knew, for Arthur was the only employee who knew the filing system existed. The longer he pondered this the more certain he was that it could only have been Arthur. His reason for taking it would be innocent enough. The whole town, as well as Edwards, knew that gambling was Arthur’s weakness; Henty’s monte table had cost him the store and it devoured a good half of his monthly earnings. He wanted that copy of the Free Press for the real pleasure he would have in gambling away the fifty dollars Welling would pay for it.

  Edwards slowly moved over to the lamp and blew it out. It would not be difficult to retrieve the newspaper from Arthur. No man was fool enough to lose his job over fifty dollars, and Edwards intended to use that threat.

  Making his way to the stairs, Edwards hastened up them. A glance at the first floor assured him that all the clerks were on hand. He climbed the balcony steps’ and halted at the head of them. Arthur had not arrived yet. Edwards glanced at his watch, saw that it was some minutes after seven-thirty and crossed to his desk. He opened the safe, brought out his business papers and got down to work. But it was impossible for him to concentrate on anything until Arthur arrived.

  By eight o’clock he had given up trying to work and watched the doorway for Arthur’s entrance. By eight-thirty he was certain something was wrong; either Arthur was ill or, what was more likely, he was afraid to come to work for fear Edwards had discovered his theft.

  Edwards rose then, put on his hat and went down stairs. On his way out, he paused long enough to ask of one of the clerks if Arthur had come to work that morning. Nobody, the clerk said, had seen him.

  On the plankwalk, a thought came to Edwards that appalled him. What if Arthur had already taken the newspaper to Welling? Could he be with him now, this very moment? It would explain Arthur’s absence from the store. He must find out.

  Almost at a run, Edwards crossed the street and entered the hotel lobby. Pausing at the dining room door, he glanced in and saw Welling eating a solitary breakfast at one of the window tables. Edwards breathed a shaky sigh of relief, removed his hat and crossed the room, nodding occasionally to the diners he recognized.

  Welling, at his approach, said affably, “Good morning, Sheriff. Have a cup of coffee with me?”

  Edwards declined with thanks and asked, “Has your copy of the Free Press turned up?”

  A kind of embarrassed uneasiness touched Welling and he shook his head in negation. “It’s hardly had time.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Edwards said. He excused himself abruptly and left the room. He was safe so far, but he must find Arthur promptly. He would hunt the town, beginning at Arthur’s house.

  Miles’s home, a block past the ugly yellow brick courthouse, was set in a large uncared-for lot, bordered by tall cottonwoods; and it had once been one of the town’s substantial homes. Now its paint was peeling and the plantings around the house were running wild. The gate in the picket fence had been left open for so long onto the cinder sidewalk that a path was worn in the weeds around it. Edwards mounted the rickety steps, knocked on the door and received no answer. Maybe he’s ill, he thought suddenly; it he were, he could not be expected to answer the door, so Edwards knocked again and stepped inside.

  He had his mouth open to call when his voice died in his throat. The dusty close room was in a monumental disorder, with books, papers, clothes and dishes littering its chairs and its worn floor. Obviously the room had been ransacked.

  A kind of dread touched Edwards as he beheld it. In the far wall a door opened into a room beyond and Edwards crossed the room to it, and on the sill halted abruptly.

  On the faded bedroom carpet lay Arthur’s body, the stain of blood long since shed darkening the carpet beneath him.

  The ransacked house and the lifeless body before him told Edwards all he needed to know. The newspaper would be gone and Arthur had probably died defending it.

  From whom? Edwards already had the answer to that question. The government allowed no employee to murder in its name, so it couldn’t have been Welling. That leaves Sebree, Edwards thought calmly. The corollary of that thought was like a cold hand of fear that touched Edwards’ shoulder. It’s up to me to arrest him.

  Edwards hesitated only a moment while he made his bitter choice. Then he set about righting the disordered room, in a hurry to begin covering up.

  Corazon’s early risers were the teamsters who had horses to curry and harness before their day’s work could begin. This morning Giff had breakfast among them at the Family Cafe, and afterward, when he stepped out into Grant Street, it was deserted save for a pair of romping dogs, whose capers stirred up thin streams of soft dust.

  He turned at the land office corner, his half boots ringing hollowly on the deserte
d plankwalk. Three blocks beyond he saw Cass at his town-farming. This was the hour, he knew, that Cass preferred to be alone with his garden; and when Giff reached the half-block plot, he hunkered down on his heels against the trunk of a bordering cottonwood and had his after breakfast cigarette.

  Cass saw him, but continued hoeing his corn for another few minutes. Then, finishing the row, he shouldered his hoe and tramped over to where Giff was sitting. There was a kind of tranquillity in Cass’s round face that Giff envied; and neither man spoke immediately.

  Cass sat down beside him and had his look at his crop, which, in its strange setting amongst the tall trees and houses of the town, was nevertheless a balanced farm in miniature.

  Presently, Giff said, “Cass, a new man will come to town in three or four days. He’ll put up at the Territory House. His name will be Jim Archer.” Now he looked at Cass. “Suppose you could let me know when he comes in?”

  “Where’ll you be?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t know. But you can always find me.”

  “Who is he?” Cass asked. “Land Office?”

  Giff smiled faintly at the thought, but only shook his head. “Just a man I want to see when he gets here.”

  “Sure,” Cass said, and his curiosity ended there. He plucked a stem of grass and chewed thoughtfully on it for a silent interval. Then he said, “Your boss spilled over at the mouth again, didn’t he?”

  Giff nodded. “So that’s around town by now?”

  “Is it true that the paper you advertised for will put Sebree, Deyo and Kearie in jail?”

  Giff said it was.

  Cass thought about that a moment. “You’ll never get it now, you know. Sebree will have a man watching in the hotel lobby. A man would be signing his death warrant to ask for Welling.”

  “I know,” Giff said glumly.

  Cass removed the straw from his mouth and looked at it, speculatively, “How did you ever get that reward notice in the Free Press to begin with?”

  “Mary Kincheon.”

  Cass looked sidelong at him, “Think you could do it again?”

  Giff didn’t know. Mary had never mentioned any trouble between Kearie and herself over the placing of the notice; and thinking of it now, he considered it strange that she hadn’t. Had Kearie, once the harm was done, accepted it philosophically as an employee’s mistake and never mentioned the matter to her? Giff did not, however, know what Cass was driving at and he said, “Suppose I could?”

  “Well, if a man had a copy of that paper you wanted, he could write and tell you so, and you could come and get it. Sebree would never know he’d written.”

  Giff considered this a brief moment, liking it. If the invitation to write Welling were published, it would cancel the implicit threat to anyone helping him, he knew. He said, “It might work, Cass. We’ll try it.”

  They talked then about other things as the town came to life around them. A barefoot boy drove a cow, her heavy udders swinging, past them to the morning milking. An occasional merchant or clerk, enjoying the cool of this morning hour and the sight of Cass’s planting, passed them, giving Cass good morning.

  Presently Giff rose and Cass hauled himself to his feet and together they walked back to the livery. Giff parted with him there and headed for the Free Press office.

  He found himself liking the prospect of seeing Mary again; and he wondered, in view of what had passed between them yesterday, if she would be the same. The front office of the Free Press was empty, and from the rear came the same soft chunking of metal upon metal that he had heard on his first visit. Walking back, he halted by the type stand.

  Mary, seated on the stool, had heard him enter and was waiting to identify her visitor. He saw the small start of pleasure in her eyes as she recognized him.

  “What’ll it be, flowers or horses?” she asked, putting down the stick of type in her hand.

  Giff remembered their parting yesterday and he touched his hat and gave her a spare smile. “Can we put that off?”

  “So, it’s business again.”

  Giff didn’t answer. He looked around the shop and said, “I thought Kearie promised you a new printer.”

  “He’s on order. But you know printers—they are a little brighter than your boss, but they are just as thirsty. I ought to know; my father was one.” She wiped her ink-stained hands on the front of her heavy apron and then came around the stand and walked to her desk saying, “This new one is probably drinking up his pay in a Vegas saloon. He’ll be along.”

  This was the first clue Giff had to her past and as he followed her across the office, he asked curiously, “Did your father run a newspaper?”

  Mary sat down, and she grimaced wryly, “Yes, he ran them and from them. From Indiana to California and back here. I learned to set type because I had to if we were to eat. Sometimes we didn’t”

  “He owned the Free Press?”

  Mary nodded. “Years ago. He took it over for five months’ back pay. And it was his big chance.” She shrugged. “He missed it.”

  “Booze?” Giff asked.

  Mary nodded. “It was that finally, but not to begin with. When he first took it over, it meant a great deal to him. He’d been printing other men’s opinions for so long that he almost forgot he had any himself. When he first took over, he remembered those opinions and spoke up—for a while.”

  “What changed his mind?”

  Mary looked searchingly at him. “Grady Sebree.”

  Giff’s interest quickened. Perhaps she would tell him now the real reason for hating Sebree. He said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  “Oh, it’s not what you think,” she said quietly. “Grady never threatened him or even told him he didn’t like what Dad printed. He shut him up another way.”

  Giff watched her in puzzlement.

  “Dad started out by sticking up for the homesteader, and the little rancher. Sebree never whined when Dad hit him in print. As a matter-of-fact, he would come in and talk it over. He flattered Dad by asking his advice.”

  “On what things?”

  Mary shrugged. “Oh, nothing important. Did Dad think it was time to ship, or should Torreon wait? Who did Dad think would make a good Sheriff? Did Dad like the government policy toward the Indians? It was just anything—but Dad was flattered.”

  She paused and Giff waited, and presently Mary went on, her voice bitter. “Pretty soon, Dad got to talking like Sebree. He copied his opinions after Sebree. He forgot the ordinary man, and started beating a drum for the big cattle interests. He wasn’t his own man any more. Sebree’s flattery and friendship had corrupted him. He borrowed money from Sebree, who was glad to lend it to him. No bribes were ever paid and no threats were made, but he wound up a fawning tool of Sebree’s.” She looked at him. “Do you see how that could happen to a weak man?”

  Giff nodded.

  “He began to drink in earnest, once he realized he’d been neutralized and put on Sebree’s shelf. It killed him, finally. I sold the paper to Kearie to pay off the money Dad had borrowed.”

  “And then stayed on to work for him?”

  Mary shrugged. “It was the easiest thing to do.” She gave a short laugh. “The easiest thing to do,” she repeated. “I guess I am my father’s daughter!” She looked up at him almost soberly as if this talk were not pleasant, “Is this instead of horses or flowers?”

  Giff put a leg up on the desk, looked down at her and nodded. “It’s a subject I like better.”

  Mary looked pleased. “Then trade with me,” she said. “All I know about you is that Dr. Miller pried a pound of buckshot out of your front.”

  Giff scowled, although he was not aware of it, and a look of uneasiness came into his dark face. “Well, I can’t ever remember not being around cattle. I grew up North-South, from Texas to Montana. It doesn’t matter where, because they were all alike.”

  Mary said, “I’ll bet you were in school more than I was.”

  “I learned the alphabet from directions
on a baking powder can,” Giff challenged.

  “There are worse teachers,” Mary said. “For one, a sheriff’s summons.”

  They both smiled at this and were both silent a moment, as if this sharing of their hard childhood years opened a new and friendly intimacy between them.

  Mary asked suddenly, “Where do you go when this is finished?”

  “I haven’t thought,” Giff answered slowly, almost reluctantly.

  “Don’t you want something of your own, something besides a horse?”

  Giff nodded, “I have for a long time, but you don’t start a herd on trail driver’s wages. You can get awfully hungry just watching calves grow up.” He realized then that his voice had dropped to a sour roughness; he could see the dislike of it in Mary’s eyes and he knew this moment of confession was ended. He was just as glad; he had never meant to get into it anyway.

  Sliding off the desk, he reached in his shirt pocket for his sack of tobacco, wondering how to frame his request for another advertisement. He took a long time to fashion his cigarette and before it was finished the door opened and Earl Kearie stepped in. When Giff turned and saw him standing there, his black suit smeared with the chalk dust of a thousand billiard games, his bony, sallow face holding an iron-hard dislike, he knew he had waited too long. She wouldn’t have taken it anyway, he told himself. but the thought of Kearie’s ill-timed entrance rankled.

  From beside the door, Kearie demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  “Always the businessman,” Mary cut in sardonically to Kearie. “Give him a chance to tell me.”

  “I saw him come in ten minutes ago. He hasn’t any business with you,” Kearie said flatly. “If this is social, you can save it till later. If it isn’t, then the answer is no more reward notices printed. Tell him to get out.”