With four of his men sharing his table, Sharkey sipped at a glass of whisky and brooded over his brother’s capture. What an irony of fate that their leader, the man who had so strictly enforced his order to cover their faces, had himself grown careless. Pulled his kerchief down to light a cigarette! Gil grinned inwardly. After the trial, when they had him back at the hideout, they would remind him of that. They would accuse him of getting old. Curt would lose his temper and threaten to lick every one of them.
It would be fine, taking to the trail again, with Curt in command. After tomorrow, Curt would be free ... one way or another.
“How’re we gonna pull it off?” queried one of his men, arousing him from his reverie.
“What?” frowned Gil.
“How’re we gonna git him outa there, if they say he’s guilty?”
“Quit worryin’,” growled the younger Sharkey. “Just leave it to me.”
“Sure, Gil ... but there’s a hell of a lot o’ them vigilantes around.”
“We’ll do it the easy way, vigilantes or no vigilantes. The minute they say he’s guilty, we draw. Every man covers a lawman. Me, I’ll go right up to the bench an hold my gun at that fool judge’s head. You think any o’ them lawmen are gonna start anything then?”
The man shrugged and Gil Sharkey returned to his contemplation of the crowd. On the eve of the trial, Nash City was thronged with curious inhabitants, intent on being early in the rush for seats at tomorrow’s drama. The courthouse would be packed, but that wouldn’t stop the Sharkeys. Anyway, with Galloway in charge of Curt’s defense, and the star witness drowned in Yellow River, there appeared little danger of Curt being convicted.
A fifth member of the gang left the crowd at the bar and moved toward the corner. Gil Sharkey saw him coming, saw the expression on his face, and frowned.
“Here comes Reno,” he grunted to his companions. “An’ I don’t like the look on his face.”
“Hell, Gil,” grinned the man nearest him, “you know Reno. He frets ’bout everything.”
“I got a hunch,” insisted Sharkey, “that Reno’s heard somethin’ bad.”
The man called Reno sidled up to their table, threw a quick glance around, then leaned toward Gil.
“I think we got trouble,” he muttered.
“Such as what, Reno?”
“Over at the bar there’s an old desert rat ... prospector. He’s shootin’ off his mouth about what he found today, down at Adobe Flats.”
“The flats?” frowned Gil Sharkey.
Adobe Flats was a lonely area, many miles downriver from the gorge. There, the river widened and the current lost impetus. It was a desolate stretch of land, the gathering place of buzzards that hovered in wait for the carcasses of dead forest creatures, swept there by the tumbling waters of the river. Sharkey stared up at his informant and felt a chill stirring within him.
“Just what did he find?” he hissed.
Reno swallowed nervously.
“He claims an ore wagon was swept downstream by the current,” he muttered.
“Yeah?” Sharkev rubbed at his jaw. “What about it?”
“Sure,” growled another man. “What about it, Reno? It couldn’t be the same rig. An ore wagon packs a lotta weight … an’ that one went down with a six-horse team ...”
“You saw how strong that river was runnin’,” insisted Reno. “Plenty o’ heavy stuff has been washed down to the flats before today. Remember that time the timber wagon went over the gorge. That thing was heavier than an ore wagon ... an’ it finished up at Adobe Flats!”
“Maybe it’s the same wagon then,” nodded Sharkey. “What do we care? Did the old feller find any bodies?”
“No,” grunted Reno. “But what he did find, I don’t like. I think we’ve been tricked, Gil.”
“Spit it out, Reno,” growled Sharkey. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well ... uh ... this old desert rat says there’s a couple hunks o’ wood lashed to the driver’s seat ... tied down …”
“Get him over here!” hissed Sharkey. “I want to hear it from him! You’re shakin’ outa your boots!”
Reno gulped, then turned and wended his way back to the bar. Sharkey’s companions eyed him uneasily and remained silent. Gil Sharkey’s face was not a pleasant sight. In a moment, Reno returned, leading by the arm a grizzled, bearded old prospector who exuded a pungent odor of stale whisky. Gil greeted him with a distracted nod.
“This here’s Lafe Ankrum,” announced Reno. “Lafe, these gents are special detectives.”
“Proud to meet up with you,” grinned the desert rat “Never did meet no city lawmen before. You fellers here on ’counta the trial, huh?”
“That’s right, Mr. Ankrum,” frowned Gil. “My friend tells me you made some kinda find, down by the flats today. We’d be real interested to hear about it. Here, have a drink.”
They made room for the old man. He was eager to tell all he knew, and ever ready for a free drink. All Sharkey and his men had to do was sit and listen ... and what they heard caused Gil Sharkey to turn pale with rage.
“No wonder to me that the rig got washed downriver,” the oldster babbled out. “It weren’t fulla Ore. No siree. It was holler. Don’t ask me why. I just cain’t figure why anybody’d lay planks along the top o’ a ore wagon an’ lash tree trunks to the seat.”
“About them tree trunks,” prodded Sharkey.
“That’s the funniest thing of all, mister! Them hunks o’ wood was lashed tight to the seat ... and they had shirts on ’em! When I first seen ’em, I declare I thought they was two dead galoots, still settin’ up on the seat. Strangest durn thing I ever did see. I just cain’t figure it … ”
“No!” thought Gil Sharkey. “But I can! Nobody needs to draw me a picture. They fooled us! All we killed was one rider. What went down with that wagon was nothin’! Dummies! The rest of ’em must’ve been miles away. Maybe they’re right here in town!”
He looked up and nodded at Reno. Taking his cue, Reno took the old man’s arm and urged him away from the table.
“My friend’s real obliged, Lafe,” he cajoled. “Now let’s you an’ me have another drink at the bar, huh?”
He had no difficulty in drawing Lafe Ankrum away from the table. When they had gone, Gil got to his feet.
“Stick around here,” he told his men. “I gotta pay somebody a visit.”
He pushed his way through the milling throng of drinkers and left the saloon. Outside, he walked along the sidewalk to the sheriff’s office, his sharp eyes taking in the stern-faced men who gathered there. The office was ablaze with lights. He had expected that. Curt would be under heavy guard. Armed vigilantes sitting outside his cell, watching his every move. Let them! He wasn’t licked yet.
He paused at the office door and took a brief look inside. The sheriff’s desk had become a card table for four cigar-smoking men in town clothes. He didn’t speak to them. They were Pinkerton men, he felt sure. He stepped away from the door and waited on the verandah, puffing at a cigarette. Presently, a man in range garb, with a deputy’s badge on his vest, came out of the office and moved past Sharkey. The outlaw glanced at him and asked, casually, “Sheriff inside?”
“Nope.” The deputy shook his head. “He’s home.”
The deputy moved on, scarcely sparing Sharkey a glance. He was headed for the saloon for an urgent appointment with a bartender. Sharkey left the verandah, crossed the street, and strode toward the south end of town, the residential sector of the county seat. He knew, very well, just where Sheriff Mel Hubbard’s home was situated.
His mouth was set in a cruel line and his thoughts were bitter. His thoughts would have become even more bitter had he known that, at this very moment, the star witness and her bodyguard were concealed in the cottonwood forest, a bare mile from the edge of town.
He went around to the rear of the house, looked about him to ensure that his movements were unobserved, then walked to the back door. It was unlocked. He opened it, entered
, and shut it behind him. He was in the kitchen. To his right, a hallway led to the sheriff’s study. He moved toward it, noting the light that shone from under the door. Yes, he thought. They’d be in conference now, calculating how much they could extract from Curt in fees. He went to the study door and pushed it open.
The two men looked up at him, momentarily taken off guard by his sudden appearance.
“Still makin’ with the talk?” sneered Sharkey. “Curt’s still stewin’ in your lousy jail, Hubbard ... an what’re you an Galloway doin’ about it? I’ve been chasin’ after that blasted she-devil ... but what’ve you two been doin’? You been settin around on your butts, figurin’ out how much o’ Curt’s loot you can git outa him!”
Seven – The Conspirators
Of the two men who sat listening to Gil Sharkey’s tirade, Travis Galloway was the first to regain his composure. The crooked attorney was a slim, graying man in his early fifties, a gifted orator with a pleasant manner and few scruples. The capture of Curt Sharkey was an event upon which he was determined to capitalize, right from the start. He had spent a lot of time in the outlaw leader’s cell, planning a nefarious strategy and ensuring that Sharkey’s gratitude, at his subsequent acquittal, would be expressed in terms of cold hard cash.
Galloway had taken pains to follow Curt’s career. He knew the extent of the huge hauls made on Sharkey raids. The boss-outlaw was sitting on a veritable goldmine, and Galloway meant to get his share. He smiled at Gil Sharkey now, nodded cordially, and motioned him to a chair.
“You’re entitled to let off steam, Gil,” he said, evenly. “It’s no joke, having your brother locked in a cell ... but don’t you fret, son. Mel and I won’t let him down. You can count on us.”
“Why sure, Gil,” gasped Sheriff Mel Hubbard. “We gave Curt our promise, didn’t we?”
The gaunt, shifty-eyed Hubbard was a worried man. He had been in office just eighteen months. This was his first attempt at filling his pockets under cover of his star. From the beginning of his term, he had shown all the signs of being a bungling, ineffectual lawman. When a deputy had arrested Curt Sharkey for drunkenness, Hubbard had ordered him locked in a cell and had thought no more about it ... until another deputy began insisting that the prisoner was none other than the notorious outlaw-leader. It wasn’t long after that that the attorney appeared on the scene and confided that, with both of them using their influence, there was big money to be made from Sharkey’s incarceration.
“You got nothin’ to fret about Gil,” he muttered, staring at the ashen-faced outlaw. “Curt’s sure to get acquitted ...”
“Hubbard,” snarled Sharkey, slumping into a chair. “Why don’t you shut up? You make me sick to my stomach!”
“Now, Gil,” admonished Galloway. “No need for us to be unpleasant about this …”
“To hell with him,” grunted the outlaw. “I hate all lawmen, ’specially the hungry ones!”
Galloway rose to his feet and moved to a sideboard. As he poured a drink for the newcomer, be threw Hubbard a warning glance, cautioning him to silence.
“You’re upset, Gil,” he smiled, passing the filled glass across to the fuming killer. “You should be grateful that old Mel is hungry for a dollar. It puts him on Curt’s side. If things get difficult, Curt will have a useful ally, right here in the law office. That’s good strategy, Gil.”
Sharkey took a pull at his drink and scowled. Hubbard blinked across at him, mournfully, and said, “You took a risk comin’ here like this. After all, I’m sheriff o’ this town. If somebody saw y—”
“It wouldn’t matter a damn,” snapped Sharkey. “Nobody knows who I am. You’re nervous, Hubbard ... an’ I don’t trust galoots that git nervous!”
“I’m not nervous,” protested the sheriff. “I’m just bein’ careful, that’s all.”
Galloway lit a cigar, puffed at it for a while, and studied Sharkey’s tense expression.
“Why did you come here, Gil?” he asked, gently. “Something wrong?”
“Damn right somethin’s wrong!” raged Sharkey. “That blamed female ain’t dead after all!”
Very slowly, Galloway laid down his cigar, his keen gaze fixed on the outlaw’s face. Hubbard made a gulping sound, got to his feet, and began fixing himself a drink. He was trembling.
“Are you sure about that?” queried Galloway. “If the rig went over the gorge ... good grief, man! ... who could escape from a thing like that? If the fall didn’t kill them, they d be drowned for sure ...”
“The rig went in all right,” growled Sharkey. “But she wasn’t in it! When we blasted Pike’s Bridge, all we killed was one o’ her guards an’ a bunch o’ their horses. They had dummies tied to the rig ... dummies with shirts on ...!”
The sheriff muttered a startled oath and downed his drink at a gulp. Galloway didn’t speak at once. He just sat there, frowning thoughtfully.
“Hell!” gasped Hubbard. “If she shows up at the trial an’ identifies Curt ...”
“He’ll be convicted,” finished Galloway, still frowning.
“An’ if that happens,” promised Sharkey, “me an’ the boys are gonna move in an take Curt outa there. Anybody gits in our way gits killed ... an’ you two smart hombres can whistle for your money!”
“But listen, Gil ...!” wailed Hubbard.
“Quiet down, Mel,” warned the attorney. “We have to keep our heads.” He looked at Sharkey and added, “There’s still a chance, Gil.”
“What kind of chance?” demanded the outlaw.
“She can still be stopped. She can still die.” Galloway’s voice was firm. He was stating a plain fact.
“Wait a minute!” panted the sheriff. “If she’s right here in Nash, you can’t pull anythin’! Those Pinkerton men ... six of ’em ... they’re plenty sharp, those fellers. An’ all the vigilantes ...”
“The vigilantes,” pronounced the crooked lawyer, “are a collection of righteous citizens with guns in their lily-white hands. Gil probably has all Curt’s men in town right now. That true, Gil?”
“Bet your life it is,” nodded Sharkey. “They’re all with me, tricked out in town clothes so’s they’ll look like Pinkerton men.”
“Capital!” beamed Galloway. “I compliment you on your foresight, Gil. You’ve given me a solution to our problem!”
“Yeah?” frowned Sharkey.
“Our troubles are over, if you’ll just play your hand the way I tell you to.”
“What’s on your mind, Travis?” blinked the sheriff.
“What could be more logical,” grinned Galloway, “than a house-to-house search of the whole town? If the girl is here, Gil and his boys are sure to find her. With a dozen of them on the job, they can’t fail... if she’s here, that is.”
“But how?” gasped Hubbard. “There’ll be trouble …”
“There’ll be no trouble,” Galloway corrected him. “The gang are all wearing town clothes and they’ll all use the same approach. They’re Pinkerton men, special agents detailed to search every inch of Nash City for ... and this is the inspired part ... members of the Sharkey gang, suspected of being in town to make a try at freeing their leader. Get it?”
For the first time, Gil Sharkey smiled.
“Well, well, well,” he grinned, staring admiringly at the lawyer. “You really have got a brain, Galloway. That’s the smartest notion you’ve had yet!”
“But what happens if they don’t find her?” Hubbard wanted to know.
“If they don’t find her,” frowned Galloway, “it can only mean one thing. They’ve got her hidden, somewhere outside town, waiting to make a last-minute run to the courthouse.” He paused for a moment, his brow creased in thought, then nodded emphatically and went on. “It’ll be up to you and your men then, Gil. Have them waiting, all around the courthouse …”
“But there’ll be people everywhere!” fretted the sheriff.
“No there won’t!” snapped Galloway. “Main Street will be cleared ... from two o clock onward!”
“How are we gonna do that?”
“You can handle it easily, Mel. You re sheriff. Go see the mayor and all the aldermen. Tell them you’ve got information that there may be a demonstration of some kind, tomorrow. You want to avoid any troublemaking ... get the idea? Anybody that wants to be at the trial has to be in court by two o’clock. Those that don’t get in have to stay off the streets. You’d better get started on it right away, Mel.”
The sheriff nodded nervously.
“Yeah, Travis,” he muttered. “I reckon I could arrange it.”
“Of course you can,” chuckled the lawyer. “Mayor Peabody likes nothing better than a chance to show his two-bit authority. That’ll be right in his line ... issuing a decree that all citizens must leave Main Street clear, from two o’clock onward. It will make him feel important. He’ll be eternally grateful to you!”
“Let’s drink,” grinned Gil Sharkey.
“By all means,” agreed Galloway.
Hubbard shuffled over to the sideboard and poured three more shots, then passed them around.
“A toast,” beamed Travis Galloway. “To the unfortunate but timely demise of Miss Lucille Furness, schoolteacher and late of Coyote Creek ... and the swift acquittal of Curtis Sharkey, for want of satisfactory identification!”
~*~
In the gloom of the tiny clearing, Larry Valentine carefully stubbed out his cigarette, rolled over on his side and looked at Lucille Furness. The schoolteacher huddled in Stretch’s blanket was sitting with her back against a cottonwood. The detectives sat near Valentine, smoking and conversing in undertones. Stretch lay by their horses, ready to calm them, should any Sharkey men approach the woods.
“Too bad about the cold,” Valentine muttered to the girl. “We don’t dare light a fire here.”
Lucille controlled her chattering teeth long enough to say, “It’s quite all right. I understand.”
Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1) Page 8