"Don't squirm," Candy Chuck said politely. "Just rest easy." Then his face tightened and he leaned over and began slapping me. When he stopped, his face was a snarl.
"Where's the babes?" he said.
"What babes?" I asked innocently. "I thought you had 'em."
"Don't give me that," he said. "You hid them someplace.
Now give, or I'm going to see how long it'll take to burn your foot off."
He would, too.
"Don't do it," I say. "I can't stand the smell of burning flesh. Reminds me of a guy I saw get it in the hot seat, once. You should be interested in that. It won't-"
He booted me in the ribs, and it hurt.
I stopped. I had no yen to get kicked around, and there was a chance he hadn't found my .380. No normal frisk would turn it up. Yet he might kick it, and then he would find it. Those ropes weren't bothering me. I had an idea that given a few minutes alone, I could shed them like last year's blonde.
"Listen, sport," I said, and I was addressing Dyer, Skinny, and Dozen, as well as Candy Chuck. Skinny I noticed had a knot on his head where he had hit the deck, and his jaw was swollen. "Why don't you boys play it smart and drag it out of here with the dough you got?"
"Shut up," Marvin said.
His rosy plan didn't look so good now. He was sore, and he was also uneasy. The girls were gone. With the guards and all he probably figured they hadn't left the grounds but without the girls he wouldn't get the money from Houston.
"I'd take it on the lam," I repeated. Then I added, as an afterthought, "This place is filthy with telephones."
He jumped. Then he jerked erect. "Dozen, you and Palo get busy and hunt those babes! Don't stop until you find 'em. You, too, Dyer."
Dyer didn't move. "Look who's giving orders," he said.
"I'm stayin'. This guy on the floor makes sense. I like to listen."
Candy Chuck looked up, and if I had been Dyer, I wouldn't have felt good.
"All right," Candy Chuck said, "stay."
Candy Chuck Marvin was big time. You couldn't dodge that. He had been the brain behind many big jobs, and he had stayed in the clear a long time. Also, he had friends.
Whit Dyer was merely a guy with a gat, a guy who would and could kill. And he was only about half smart. When Candy Chuck softened up, I knew that Dyer didn't have long to live.
Candy Chuck Marvin had been a big operator around Chicago, St. Paul, and New York. He had connections.
Back in the days when I was slinging leather, I'd seen a lot of him. From all I knew, I figured I was the only guy who ever failed to play ball with him and got away alive. He'd ordered me to throw a fight, and I hadn't done it. Then again, I hadn't been easy to find in those days.
Marvin got up and walked over to the fireplace. There was a little kindling there, and he arranged it on the andirons. Then he calmly broke up a chair and added it to the fuel. He lit a crumpled newspaper and stuck it under the wood. Then he picked up the poker and laid it in the fire. When he put the poker there, he looked at me and grinned.
Me, I was sweating. Not because it was hot, but because I was wondering how I'd take it. You may read about people being tortured, but you never know how you'll react to getting your feet burned until it happens.
The fire was really heating things up when suddenly, I heard the door close, the sound of footsteps, and there was Hiesel, the runt lawyer. He looked at me, then at Marvin.
"Who's this, Chuck?" he said.
"A nosy guy named Morgan. He got the girls out an' hid 'em someplace." He grinned. "I'm going to warm his feet until he talks."
Hiesel's smooth, polished face tightened. He looked down at me.
"This is the man they have the call out for, Chuck. A police call out for him. You'd better get rid of him."
My eyes went to Hiesel. Get rid of me? Just like that?
Brother, I said to myself, if I get out of this I'm going to come around and ask you about that!
"And Chuck-Tarrant Houston's gone to work getting those bonds sold. He's working fast, too. He's afraid for the girls."
"He should be," Marvin answered and smiled. "We'll take care of the girls as soon as he shows with the money.
And him, too."
He licked his lips. "That older girl, Eleanor. I'd like to talk with her, in private, before anything is done."
Candy Chuck Marvin looked up. He laughed coarsely.
"Talk? I see what you mean. I'd like a private talk with her myself."
That poker was hot by now. Candy Chuck pulled it out of the fire and Ford Hiesel's face turned slightly pale. He left the room and Candy Chuck laughed, and began untying my shoe.
"I wouldn't do that," I said. "I haven't changed my socks since I started chasing you guys."
"Smart guy, huh?"
Candy Chuck's eyes were gleaming. He started to pull off my shoes when a calm, low voice interrupted.
"I wouldn't do that."
We both looked around. Eleanor Harley, her face a bit drawn, but as beautiful as that first day I'd seen her in the bar, was standing in the doorway. Candy Chuck lunged to his feet.
"Come here!" he demanded. But she turned suddenly and ducked out of sight. He ran after her.
It was my chance, and I took it. Kicking my tied feet around, I got the ropes that bound my ankles across the red-hot poker, then struggled to a sitting position and began working at my hands. The knots weren't a good job, and lying there on the floor, I had managed to get them a bit looser.
That clothesline burned nicely, and I could hear Candy Chuck Marvin banging around in a room nearby when the first rope came apart.
I kicked and squirmed, getting the other ropes loose, then managed to struggle to my feet.
Forcing my wrists as low as I could get them, I backed my hips through the circle of my arms. Then falling on my back, I got my hands in front of me by pulling my knees against my chest and shoving my feet down through my arms. Then I went to work on the knots with my teeth.
Then I heard somebody coming and looked around to see Blubber Puss. He opened his mouth to yell and I dove at him, driving my head for his stomach. He no more than had his mouth open before I hit him head down and with everything I had behind it.
He went back through the door with an oof, hitting the floor hard. Still fighting those ropes, I kept moving. They came loose as I was rounding into the passage to the back of the house, but suddenly I got an idea and my gun, out. I raced for the library again.
Grabbing up a couple of carpets, I stuffed them onto the fire. They caught hold and began to burn. Then I took another carpet and, spilling a pitcher of water they'd had for mixing drinks over it, I put it on the fire. All that smoke would make people very, very curious.
Somewhere out in the back regions of the house, I heard a girl scream. I wheeled around, and saw Whit Dyer looking at me. He had a gun in his hands and you could see the killing lust in his eyes.
My gun was ready, and I've had lots of practice with it.
Dyer jerked his up and I let go from where mine was, just squeezing the shot off. The sound of that .380 and his .45 made a concussion like a charge of dynamite in that closedin room.
I heard his bullet hit the wall behind me and saw a queer look in his face. Then, looking at the spot over his belt buckle, I squeezed off the rest of the magazine. He grabbed his middle like he'd been eating green apples and went over on the carpet, and I went out the door and into the hall.
Somewhere outside, there was a crash and then a sound of shots. I didn't know what it meant, but I was heading toward that scream I'd heard.
Candy Chuck Marvin had caught Eleanor in the kitchen.
She was fighting, but there wasn't much fight left in her. I grabbed Candy Chuck by the scruff of the neck and jerked him back. His gun was lying on the table and I caught it up and heaved it out the window, right through the glass.
Then I tossed my empty gun on the floor under the range. There was a wicked gleam in Candy Chuck's eyes.
&nbs
p; He was panting and staring at me. He was bigger than me by twenty pounds and he'd been raised in a rough school.
He lunged, throwing a wallop that would have ripped my jaw off. But I slipped it and smashed one into his wind that jerked his mouth open. I hooked my left into his wind and he backed off. I followed him, stabbing a left into his mouth. He didn't have blubber lips but they bled.
I hooked a short, sharp left to the eye, and smashed him back against the sink. He grabbed a pitcher and lunged for me, but I went under it and knocked it out of his hand.
Eleanor Harley was standing there, her dress torn, her eyes wide, staring at us. Then the door opened and Mooney stepped in, two cops right behind him, and Tarrant Houston following them.
Mooney took in the scene with one swift look. Then he leaned nonchalantly against the drain board.
"Don't mind me," he said. "Go right ahead."
Candy Chuck Marvin caught me with a right that knocked me into the range. I weaved under a left and hooked both hands short and hard to the body, then I shoved him away and jabbed a left to his face. Again, and then again. Three more times I hit him with the left, keeping his head bobbing like a cork in a millstream and then I pulled the trigger on my Sunday punch. It went right down the groove for home plate and exploded on his chin.
His knees turned to rubber, then melted under him and he went down.
Me, I staggered back against the drain board and stood there, panting like a dowager at a Gregory Peck movie.
Mooney looked Candy Chuck Marvin over with professional interest, then glanced at me approvingly.
"Nice job," he said. "I couldn't do as good with a set of knucks and a razor. Is he who I think he is?"
"Yeah," I said, "Candy Chuck Marvin, and this time you've got enough on him to hang him."
Ford Hiesel shoved into the room. "Got them, did you?" he said. "Good work!"
Then he saw me, and his face turned sick. He started to back away and you could see the rat in him hunting a way out.
"This guy," I said, "advised Candy Chuck to get rid of me, and told him it would be a good idea to get rid of the girls and Houston-to make a clean sweep!"
Eleanor lifted her head. "I heard him say it!" she put in.
"We hid in the closet behind the mirror in the hall."
Ford Hiesel started to protest, but there had been enough talk. I shoved him against the drain board, and when I was between him and the rest of the room, I whipped my right up into his solar plexus. The wind went out of him like a pricked balloon and he began gasping for breath. I turned back to the others, gestured at him.
"Asthma," I said. "Bad, too."
"What about the diamonds?" Mooney asked suddenly.
"Why didn't they fence them?"
Eleanor turned toward the detective.
"They talked about it," she said. "But the only man who would have handled the diamonds here was picked up by the police, and Marvin was hoping he could arrange things, meanwhile, to keep them for himself."
Then I told her about the pin, and she came over to me as Mooney commented, "I know about that. A clerk named Davis, at the jewelry store, got in touch with me when they checked and found out the pin belonged to Eleanor Harley. That and the smoke tipped us off to this place."She was looking up at me with those eyes, almost too beautiful to believe.
"I can't thank you enough for what you've done," she said.
"Sure you can," I said, grinning. "Let's go down to the Casino and talk to a couple of bartenders while we have some drinks. Then, I can tell you all about it."
Ain't I the cad, though?
*
SIX-GUN STAMPEDE
It's no use, Tom," Ginnie Rollins said. "Dad just won't listen. He says you're no good. That you've no sense of responsibility. He says you haven't anything and you never will have."
"Do you think that, Ginnie?" Tom Brandon asked. "Do you?"
"You know I don't, Tom. You shouldn't even ask. But you can't blame Dad. He only wants what is best for me, and every time I mention you, he brings up the fact that you are always racing horses and fighting. He says he'll have no saloon brawler for a son-in-law."
"It isn't only that," Tom said, discouragement heavy in his voice, "it's that herd I lost. Every time I try to get a job, they bring that up. I reckon half of 'em think I was plumb careless an' the other half think I'm a thief." They both sat silent. Despite the cold wind neither felt like moving. It was not often anymore that they had a chance to talk, and this meeting had been an accident-but an accident each of them had been hoping would happen.
Whether they would see each other again was doubtful.
Jim Rollins was a hard-bitten old cattleman with one of the biggest ranches in the country, and he had refused Tom Brandon the right to come on his spread. Not only refused him the premises, but had ordered his hands to enforce it. Though several of them were old friends of Tom's, the foreman was Lon Huffman, with whom Tom had two disastrous fistfights, both of which Huffman had won.
Lon was a good deal the bigger man, and skilled in rough-and-tumble fighting, but each time he had a bad time in beating Brandon, who was tough, willing, and wiry. His dislike for Tom was no secret, and it extended to his particular cronies, Eason and Bensch.
"I'll always think somebody deliberately stampeded that herd on me," Brandon said. "The whole thing was too pat. There it was, the herd close to the border an' well bedded down. All of a sudden, they busted loose an' started to run-right over into Mexico. An' when I started after 'em, there was the Rurales lined up on the border sayin' no. It looked like a rigged deal."
"But who would do such a thing, Tom?" Ginnie protested.
"I know you've said that, but Dad claims it's just an excuse. Who would do anything of the sort? There's no rustling here, and there haven't been any bandits for years."
"Just the same," Tom insisted, "if a man made a deal with old Juan Morales over at Los Molinos, he could get a good price for those cattle. Those Rurales were too much Johnny-on-the-spot."
Finally, they said a hopeless good-bye and Tom Brandon turned his grulla and started for Animas. He was broke, out of a job, and had nothing in sight. The wind was blowing cold from the north, but it seemed to be falling off a little.
If the weather got warmer it would help some. It began to look like he would be camping out all winter, he reflected grimly, or riding the chuck line.
Animas was a quiet town. There had been but one killing all year, and that because of a misguided attempt by a half-breed to draw a gun on Lon Huffman. What had started the altercation was not known aside from what Huffman himself had said and Eason had verified. The half-breed, a man with a reputation as a hard character in Sonora, had come into town hunting Huffman. He had found him, there had been angry words, and Huffman had killed the breed. "Just a trouble hunter," Huffman said gruffly. "Came into town aimin' to kill somebody, an' picked me."
There were four general stores in Animas and but three saloons.
The only gambling done was a few games of draw or stud between friends or casual acquaintances.
Tom Brandon swung down from his grulla and led the horse into the stable. Old Man Hubbell looked up at him.
"Sorry to bother you, Tom, but you better have some money soon. The boss is gettin' riled."
"Sure, Hub. An' thanks." He turned and walked toward the Animas Saloon, reflecting grimly that if he had any friends left, they would be there. It was remarkable how a man's friends fell away when he was out of a job and broke. Luckily, he had always been considerate to old Hub, which was more than most of the riders were. Hub remembered, and his brother, Neil Hubbell, who owned the Animas, was also friendly.
It was warm inside and the potbellied stove was glowing with heat. Neil nodded from a table as he came in, and indicated a bottle that stood on the bar. "Help yourself, Tom. I'm about to take some money away from Jim."
Jim Rollins glanced up briefly, his hard old eyes showing his disapproval, but he said nothing. Lon Huffman, who was sitt
ing by the stove, tipped back in his chair and grinned maliciously. "You goin' to be that good to me if I become a pauper, Neil?"
The room was suddenly dead still and Tom Brandon jerked his hand away from the bottle as if stung. He turned slowly, his face white. Why he said it, he would never know, but somehow the words just came of their own free will. "I'd rather be an honest pauper," he said, "than a rich thief."
Lon Huffman's face turned dark and his chair legs slammed down. "I reckon," he said, getting to his feet, "I'm goin' to have to beat some more sense into that thick skull o' your'n."
"That's good because I'm not wearin' a gun, Lon,"
Brandon said coolly, "so you've no excuse to murder me."
Rollins turned sharply. "Brandon, that's uncalled for!" he declared angrily. "You got no cause to call Lon a murderer because some breed hunted him for trouble!"
Tom Brandon was raging inside. He had nothing on which to base his accusation but suspicion, and that, he admitted to himself, might stem from his own dislike of Huffman, but he spoke again regardless. "Nobody knows he came huntin' for trouble. Lon says so. Eason says so.
But when didn't Eason say what Lon wanted him to?"
Lon Huffman's mouth was an ugly line. He was a big, hard man but he moved fast. Also, this talk was not doing him any good. The sooner it was stopped, the better. "You said enough," he said. "You done called me a liar! You called Eason a liar." He grabbed at Tom, and Brandon stepped back and hit him.
The punch caught Lon on the chin but lacked force, as Tom was stepping back. Huffman ducked his head a little and struck swiftly. The first punch caught Tom on the jaw and smashed his head back. The second hit him on the temple and he started to fall. Huffman lunged close, trying with his knee, but Tom grabbed both hands around the underside of the knee and jerked up. Lon Huffman lost balance and fell hard. Tom stepped back, wiping blood from his lips. He was still stunned by those first blows.
Huffman got up, then rushed. Tom struck out wickedly and the two fought savagely while the men in the room sat silent, watching.
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