Gambling Man

by Clifton Adams

  The thought hung, suspended in his mind. How would it feel to cut yourself away from the only world you knew? Nathan had done it. Somerson was going to do it, and Milan Fay. How did they get along, those men?

  Then he thought angrily that all he needed was some sleep. He'd be damned if he'd get sentimental about a town that had done its best to break him.

  His spurs rang softly as he walked down the hot hallway; the boards squeaked under the thud of his boot heels. His door was partly open. He shoved it open the rest of the way and saw the tall, lean-faced man lying across his bunk.

  “What are you doing here?” he said to Milan Fay.

  Obviously Fay had been asleep, but he came awake instantly, flipping over the edge of the bed with the quickness of a cat. In the white starlight, Jeff could see the revolver pointed at his middle. Fay had been sleeping with it in his hand. He recognized Jeff and said, “That's a dangerous thing to do, comin' on a man sudden that way!”

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Can you think of a better place to wait?” Fay said calmly, dropping his Colt's into its holster. “I don't think people know me in this town, but there's no sense takin' chances.” He kept his voice quiet, for the sound of snoring drifted through the thin walls like the drone of bees.

  “How long have you been a friend of Somerson's?” Jeff asked curiously.

  The man laughed softly. “Didn't he tell you?” Then he sat on the edge of the bed, flipped makings from his shirt pocket and skillfully built a brown-paper cigarette, Mexican style. He looked at Jeff and shrugged, as though he had been by himself for a long time and wanted to talk to someone.

  “I've known Somerson off and on for a good spell,” he said easily. “He's a lousy gambler and too fast to get his bile up, but he's as good as the next to team with. I warned him he'd get in trouble usin' a holdout in a town like this.”

  “You were here when he shot Costain?” Jeff asked, surprised.

  Fay laughed silently. “Sure, but not in Surratt's place. That holdout contraption he had up his sleeve; I told him he'd never get away with it.”

  It was a brilliant night, white with the light from moon and stars. Jeff could see the touch of dry amusement on the man's face. Somerson's getting caught at cheating and Costain's getting shot was all a kind of bitter joke to him. Fay held a match to his cigarette and said, “What did you and Somerson decide on, kid?”

  “Why did you and Somerson come to Plainsville?” Jeff asked, as though he hadn't heard the question.

  “What did Somerson tell you?”

  “That my pa was in trouble and had to have money to square himself with the Mexican authorities.”

  Fay looked faintly surprised. “It's the truth,” he nodded. “You can check it with the Border rangers, if you want to. I'm kind of surprised that Somerson told you, though. He's against the truth, as a matter of principle.”

  “How much do you know about Somerson's plans?”

  “First,” Fay said softly, “you tell me what kind of a deal you two struck up. Are you throwin' with us?”

  Jeff turned to the single dirty window and stared again at the town. “I don't know,” he said at last. “I'll have to think about it.”

  Fay smoked his cigarette in silence. Then he got up. “Sure,” he said, starting for the door, and this time there was no amusement in his voice. It was flat and deadly. “You think about it, kid. In the meantime Nate may be dyin'.”

  The door opened and closed, and Fay's big rowels made silver music in the dark hallway. Jeff stood rigidly at the window. Suddenly he turned, his fists clenched. He knew that Fay and Somerson had him. They could make him do anything they pleased. He had no choice.

  The next morning he awoke to find the huge, bulldog figure of Elec Blasingame standing in the doorway. Jeff sat up in his underwear, reaching for his pants. “I'm going to have to see Frank Ludlow about puttin' a lock on my door.”

  “You took a trip yesterday,” the marshal said bluntly. “Where?”

  The aggressiveness in the marshal's tone set fire to Jeff's anger. “I figure that's none of your business, Elec,” he said shortly.

  “And you had a caller last night, too. Who was it?”

  Jeff blinked in surprise, but soon recovered. “I figure that's none of your business, either.”

  “You listen to me,” Blasingame said, and obviously he was angry. He came into the room and slammed the door. “I don't talk just to hear my head rattle; I want answers. Was it your pa you went to see last night when I let you out of jail? Is Nate hidin' out in this part of Texas?”

  This time Jeff was truly surprised. He forgot his anger for a moment and gazed at the marshal with blank curiosity. “What makes you ask that? You know Nathan's in Mexico.”

  “Is he?” Elec flashed a yellow paper in Jeff's face. “This is a telegram from the marshal at Fort Smith. They say Nate's up to his neck in Mexican trouble, and may try to get back across the Border. He's wanted for killin' in New Mexico, and I'll get him, son. If he comes back to Plainsville, I'll get him.”

  Something inside Jeff's chest went hard. So Somerson and Fay had been telling the truth. It was no surprise, for men like them were as brazen with truth as with lies. But coming from Elec Blasingame it sounded more real and deadly.

  Jeff pulled on his pants, then buttoned his shirt to keep his hands busy. Not looking at the marshal, he said, “I didn't see Nathan last night, if that's what you're wondering.”

  “Then who?”

  Jeff clamped his jaws and buckled on his gun. “Where'd you get that claybank that you rode last night?”

  Didn't he ever sleep? Jeff wondered. Did he see everything that happened in this town?

  “How long have you known Milan Fay?” Elec went on doggedly.

  Jeff felt a hard band tighten around his heart. He glanced quickly at Elec, then began pulling on his boots. “I never heard of Milan Fay.”

  “He's the man who was in your room last night when you got back from your ride,” the marshal said dryly. “He's the man who owns the claybank. Now what do you know about him?”

  Jeff kept his grim silence.

  “Is he a friend of your pa's? He looks the type. He's been south, too, from the look of his spurs.” Elec strode angrily to the bed and made Jeff look at him. “If Fay and Nate have teamed up, I'll find out about it.”

  “That's your job,” Jeff said bitterly. “If you want to make a fool of yourself, I won't try to stop you.”

  “Then what have you got to do with Milan Fay, if he's not tied, up with Nate? The man's a hardcase, maybe a killer. I knew it the minute I saw him get off the train.”

  Blasingame frowned, his small eyes brilliant with concentration. “By hell, Fay got off with that gambler that shot Phil Costain! I hadn't thought of that!” Thoughtfully, Elec rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “The gambler, and Fay, and the son of Nate Blaine,” he chanted quietly, almost to himself. “Now that may be something to think about.”

  Jeff laughed, but the sound rang false and unconvincing.

  The marshal looked at him for a long moment. “We'll see,” he said, turning abruptly and tramping out of the room.

  For a long while Jeff sat unmoving, his mind racing. He knew that he'd go through with the robbery, for Nathan's sake. But he didn't like the way Elec was tying things together.

  Walk gently, he told himself. He was a long way from shore and the ice was thin. He could almost hear it cracking....

  Outside, the sun was already blasting away at the prairie, and the airless room became uninhabitable. For a moment, before leaving, Jeff Blaine regarded this room of his, this home that he had made for himself. The sagging bunk with its straw mattress, the scaling bureau, the crockery pitcher and bowl and the oil lamp. Once, not long ago, he had owned two sections of land and had had money in his pocket. Now he had nothing. Not even enough to pay the rent on this room at the end of the week.

  Then he remembered that it wouldn't matter about the rent. T
he first of the month was only three days off—and then he'd put Plainsville behind him, for good.

  Strangely, the thought did not please him. He had clung to this place because it was the only one he had. He told himself that he'd be better off for leaving the town, but agreement did not come easily. At last he pulled his hat on and strode angrily out of the room.

  He had only one possession which he could trade for money. He pawned his Colt's with Sam Baxter for twelve dollars and came out of the store feeling strangely naked and ashamed. He told himself that it was a temporary thing, that he could pick up enough money at seven-up or twenty-one to reclaim the gun.

  In the eating house, he took a booth in the back. As he was cutting into his eggs and side meat, Jeff saw Milan Fay's tall figure in the doorway. The man raked the house with his dark eyes, spotted Jeff quickly, and headed toward the booth.

  Jeff looked up angrily. “Are you crazy, coming in here like this?”

  Fay folded his lanky frame into the booth. “What's the matter, kid? You look jumpy.”

  “I've got a right to look jumpy,” Jeff said tightly. “Elec Blasingame paid me a visit this morning. He's beginning to tie us together—me, you, and Somerson.”

  Fay's eyes narrowed. “How does he figure that?”

  “He saw you get off the train with Somerson. And he knows I borrowed your claybank.”

  Unexpectedly, the tall man laughed. “He's just throwin' out some wild guesses. I'll get out of town and stay clear, if that'll make you feel easier. But I've got to take word back to Somerson about the bank job. What do you say, Blaine?”

  “I'm ready. I've got no choice.”

  Milan Fay allowed himself a small smile. “Somerson will be glad to hear it. So will your pa. Did Somerson tell you exactly what he wanted you to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that settles it, I guess.” Fay worked himself out of the booth. “We'll be seein' you, kid.”

  Jeff sat for a moment after Fay had disappeared on the street, his appetite gone. He wondered how a person went about the business of forgetting. How many days and nights would the vision of Amy Wintworth cling to his mind before he finally caught on to this business of forgetting her?

  Far to the south that night a gaunt, big-boned man rode by starlight, hugging the high ground. He traveled as the cavalry travels in forced march, now riding, now leading, now resting. His big head thrown back with a savage pride, he kept his face to the north. He avoided the valleys and the lowlands scrupulously, keeping always to the ridges and crests of the prairie, his dark eyes intense and watchful.

  He did not build fires. Once every twelve hours he would pause for a while to chew on tasteless jerked beef. He would feed his animal a few handfuls of corn that he carried in a sack behind the saddle, and he would unsaddle and unbit and let the horse graze in the scant grass of the hills. His own comfort and well-being seemed not to concern him, but with the horse he was attentive and gentle.

  They had come a long way together, the man and the animal; they had as far yet to travel, and the time was short. The man knew his own weariness by the ache of his bones, by the cotton in his mouth and by the sourness of his stomach. He could scratch at the crust of filth which covered him as a second skin and feel the crawling of ticks from the brush and lice from the desert.

  He did not wash, for water was rare in the hills and must be saved for the animal. The saddle sores on the animal's back must be attended to, lice must be brushed from flanks and chest and legs, and hoofs must be cared for and kept clean.

  The man had no time for himself. He must move always to the north and the horse must carry him. With mounting impatience, he paced the rocky ground while the animal grazed, he grabbed snatches of sleep at odd moments, and he kept his Colt's and Winchester clean. Soon he would be off again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WIRT SEWELL AWOKE TO heavy, monotonous pounding. He lay in groggy drowsiness, listening. Beulah stirred restlessly beside him.

  “It's the door,” Beulah said peevishly. “Wirt, what time is it?”

  “I don't know. Too dark to see my watch.”

  “Well, get up and light the lamp, and see who's pounding on our door this time of night.”

  Wirt climbed out of bed. “All right!” he said thickly, and the monotonous pounding continued while he fumbled for a match and got the lamp wick burning evenly. In his long cotton nightshirt he made his way stiffly into the parlor and opened the door.

  He didn't recognize the face at first. It was stiff and ugly with a filth-matted beard, the thin lips cracked and gray with dust. But the eyes were the same.

  “Wirt,” Beulah called from the bedroom, “who it is?” Wirt's dread was like a nightmare come to life. He felt himself shrink inside until his heart was a small, cold knot. In the back of his mind he could still hear Elec Blasingame saying: some day Nate Blaine will come back to Plainsville. When he does, I wouldn't want to be in your place, or your wife's.

  “You look surprised, Wirt,” Nathan said coldly, pushing his way into the room.

  Clutching the lighted lamp in both hands, Wirt began backing away, his eyes wide.

  “Wirt!” Beulah called impatiently. “Tell me who it is!” Nathan hooked the front door with a spur and slammed it. Without raising his voice he said, “It's your brother-in-law, Beulah—the one you saw kill Jed Harper.”

  To Wirt, the voice was as cold and deadly as the .45 on Nathan's thigh. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat and were cracked and warped when they finally came out. “Nate, for God's sake, what are you going to do!”

  “Why, nothing, Wirt. Not just yet, anyway.” Now Wirt realized that Nathan's voice was flat and emotionless, and that all the hate was in his eyes. Although he had made no show of violence, Wirt knew that violence was in the room, ready to explode.

  When Beulah appeared in the doorway, clutching a white wrapper that covered her frail body from her chin to the floor, Nathan merely inclined his head in a hint of a nod. “Hello, Beulah. How have you been sleeping these past five years?”

  Beulah Sewell's face was whiter than the wrapper. The old aggressive thrust of her small chin was missing now, and her eyes were strangely vacant.

  Nathan laughed suddenly, harshly. “I guess you haven't been sleeping so well, at that. I never would have thought you'd be bothered by your conscience, Beulah.”

  He came deeper into the room and dropped slowly into a parlor chair. He sighed softly, stretching his long legs in front of him. Wirt felt that he could almost see eddies of fatigue swirling around Nathan's lean, tough figure, like heat eddies rising over a desert. Until now Beulah had not made a sound, but now she moved slowly into the room, her eyes as blank as a sleepwalker's.

  “Why did you come back?” she asked softly.

  “Didn't you think I would?” His voice was toneless.

  Wirt shot his wife a quick glance of warning, but she didn't see it. Nathan sat like a dead man, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Only his eyes were alive as he stared at Beulah.

  “I came back to see my boy,” he said at last.

  “Haven't you done enough to him?” Beulah asked flatly, ignoring her husband's look of panic. “Aren't you satisfied?”

  Hard lines of anger appeared for the first time at the corners of Nathan's mouth. “Haven't I done enough to him! How about you, Beulah? What have you done to him?” With an unexpected burst of energy, he shoved himself out of the chair. “Haven't I done enough to him!” he demanded again, angrily.

  As suddenly as the outburst was born, it died. He dropped back to the chair and said wearily, “Heat some wash water for me, Beulah. And I could do with some coffee, too, and some grub.”

  Beulah acted as though she hadn't heard. Her husband said quickly, “Do as he says, Beulah!”

  Reluctantly, she turned for the kitchen.

  After a moment Nathan turned to Wirt. “Where's the boy?”

  “He's still here, Nate. Here in Plainsville.”

&
nbsp; “I know that; where's he staying?”

  “In a room over Frank Ludlow's store, I think.”

  “Go rout him out and tell him his pa's come home.”

  “Now, Nate?” Wirt said uneasily. “This time of night?”

  “Right now! And don't let Elec Blasingame see you, either. Or anybody else.”

  Wirt swallowed. “I'll be careful, Nate.”

  “You'd better! And if you've got any ideas about turnin' me in to the law, you better think about it a long time. Remember, I'll be waitin' here with Beulah, and I haven't got much cause to like her.”