‘You try an’ git out,’ Gaylor said, ‘you git killed.’
‘I shall want a lawyer,’ Spur said.
The sheriff smiled.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘you’ll git a lawyer. In good time. The nearest’s in Crewsville an’ I don’t have a man to spare to go git him, not right now.’
‘You can only hold me so long without me seein’ a lawyer,’ Spur said.
Gaylor came close and breathed in Spur’s face. There was whiskey on his breath.
‘Don’t you start a-tellin’ me what I can do an’ what I can’t do,’ he said. ‘You ain’t the law no more, Spur. You’re the killer you was on the owl-hoot.’
‘You’re not bigger than the law, Sheriff,’ Spur said. ‘An’ don’t you forget it.’
A strong finger prodded Spur in the chest.
‘I ain’t forgettin’ one single little thing,’ Gaylor said. ‘All right boys. Jim, you take first guard. Stace, you relieve Jim in two hours.’
They trooped out. The heavy door shut. Spur heard the rattle of lock and chain, the sound of a key turning. They had taken the lamp with them.
He crossed the room, feeling for the wall with his hands. When he found it, he sat down with his back to it. He felt the back of his head gingerly with his fingertips and found that the base of his skull was covered with a hard cake of dried blood. His mouth was dry and tasted like death. He could have drunk a well dry. Feeling in the pocket of his coat he found his tobacco, tore a piece loose with his fingers and thrust it into his mouth. The saliva came, but just the same he dreamed of crystal-clear water and cold beer.
He heard the men move away with their horses. The sound of their feet and the murmur of their voices died softly away into the night. The guard, near the door, cleared his throat.
In the dark, Spur started to go through his pockets. They had taken his belt gun and his sheath-knife. He never wore spurs when riding the mare. He needed something sharp. He found his small clasp knife in the right coat pocket. This was something of a triumph and he cheered up a little. He cut a slot in the base of the wall right next to the ground in a dark corner and thrust the knife into it. Then he gathered powdered dust in his hands, spat on it to moisten it, then plastered the small slit in the wall.
What he needed now, he reckoned, more than anything, was sleep. He lay on one side so he would not have to rest on the sore spot on his head, laid his head on his crooked arms and fell asleep.
It was dawn when he woke. He felt a little better but not much. He wanted the head-wound dressed, but he knew that was expecting too much. He propped himself against the wall and built himself a smoke. He would have to be careful with tobacco for the little he had on him might have to last him a long time. His main supply was in his saddlebags on the mare. He worried a little about Jenny and hoped she was being taken care of. He heard the guard pacing outside.
He tried reaching the bars of the nearest window and failed by several inches. He cursed softly. Softly he kicked a toe hold in the adobe. The material was ancient and it was not too hard to do. He put his right toe in the tiny step, heaved upward and reached for the bars. He missed and fell to the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he lay there for a while, panting.
He tried a second and third time and failed. On the fourth try, he made it, got both hands on a pair of bars and heaved himself up so that he could see out of the small window. He could see the backs of a half-dozen houses, a mess of accumulated trash and then down the slope to the rear of the Mexican dwellings. Here a few goats wandered searching for food, a middle-aged woman made tortillas over a smoking fire and several naked children played in the dust. Beyond them he could see the trail he had taken last night.
His arms tired quickly and he let himself drop to the ground.
When he had rested for a short while, he went to the other window at the other end of the building. He repeated the same procedure and took a look to the west. He was looking at the wealthier end of town. Here was the rear of a saloon with a loading platform, almost opposite to the saloon in which he had gone the day before to ask about Rube. Farther on he could see a slatternly Anglo girl feeding chickens. A dog sat on its haunches scratching itself in the dust.
Spur lowered himself. Nothing in either view offered itself as a suggestion of how he could get out of here. All he had going for him was his own cunning and the knife hidden in the wall. His thirst was becoming almost unbearable by now. It overcame his need for food. He went back and sat with his back to the wall. He waited a couple of hours and the heat in the place increased. His tongue felt like dried fur in his mouth. He stood up, walked to the door and kicked it several times.
‘You out there.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I want water.’
‘I reckon.’
‘You plannin’ to kill me with thirst or hang me?’ Spur demanded.
‘It ain’t no never mind.’
Spur went back and sat against the wall again. He tried to sleep to pass the time. He was dozing when the door opened. Two men came in. The sudden rush of light hurt Spur’s eyes. Pain knifed through his head. The door closed. One of the men stayed near the door, the other walked to the far end of the calaboose. He held a rifle in his hands. The man near the door was Gaylor the sheriff.
Gaylor said: ‘I’ve come for your confession Spur.’
Spur said: ‘You don’t get a damn thing till you water an’ feed me.’
Gaylor shouted: ‘Git on your feet when you talk to me.’
Spur looked at him.
The sheriff took three paces forward and kicked Spur in the side.
Spur said: ‘You sure have a way with you. Gaylor.’
Gaylor kicked him again. Or he meant to, but Spur caught hold of his foot and stood up. Gaylor hit the ground hard on his back. Spur dropped on to his belly with both knees. As the wind went out of the sheriff it sounded like the wind in the willows. The man at the other end of the calaboose jacked a round into his rifle, got excited and yelled: ‘Back up or I fire.’
Spur backed up. The other man had the stronger argument.
Slowly, very slowly, Gaylor pulled and heaved himself on to his hands and knees, wheezing like a breathless elephant.
The man with the rifle said: ‘You all right, Wayne?’
In agony, Gaylor grated: ‘A’course I ain’t all right. Keep him covered.’ Slowly, he rose to his feet and stood holding his belly. He looked at Spur with something less than love and whispered: ‘You bastard, you sneakin’ bastard. I’ll pay you for this.’
Spur said: ‘I paid all night for somethin’ I didn’t do. It’ll be a nice change to pay for somethin’ I did.’
‘You’ll pay,’ Gaylor said, ‘an’ you’ll talk.’
You’ll sweat out every mark you put on me at the trial,’ Spur told him.
‘Don’t you git gay with me, mister,’ Gaylor said. ‘An’ don’t be too damn sure you’ll be alive for any trial.’
‘Not much for me to gain by talkin’ then, is there?’ Spur said.
‘Git the boys in here,’ Gaylor said to the other man.
The man went to the door, opened it and called to those outside. Two more men entered. They were armed with revolvers which they wore at their right hips. One was tall and lanky, the other was shorter but looked stronger. They looked at Gaylor holding his belly and the lank one said, not without humor: ‘What happened to you, Wayne? You kinda look like you have a pain.’
Gaylor snarled something inarticulate.
From his wrist hanging by a loop was a finely decorated quirt of Mexican workmanship. He took this from his wrist and reversed it. The butt of it looked like it was solid silver. Spur knew what was coming.
‘Your last chance,’ Gaylor said. ‘Talk or trouble.’
‘I’m a lawman,’ Spur said. ‘This could make bad trouble for you. Don’t be as stupid as you look.’
Gaylor said: ‘You ain’t a lawman no more, Spur. You reverted to type. Once a killer, always a killer. Y
our kind don’t change.’
‘Neither does yours, Gaylor,’ Spur said, ‘I reckon you was born a jumped up cow-turd.’
The sheriff leaped forward with a cry of rage, lashing out with the heavy butt of the quirt. Spur rode sideways from it and the blow missed. Gaylor swore, stood a moment to gather himself and tried again. Spur ducked and it missed.
Breathing hard, Gaylor shouted: ‘Hold the bastard while I mark him.’
Two men came and held him. He didn’t fight them. One of the men said: ‘Best not mark him, Wayne. It might not look good.’
‘Shut your fool mouth,’ Gaylor yelled.
The lank man came forward and said: ‘I didn’t come here to see no thin’ like this. You want to question him, you go ahead, Gaylor. You want him beaten you’d best have it done when I ain’t around.’
Gaylor drew in a deep breath and glared at the lank man.
‘You keep outa this, Doolittle,’ he said.
‘You asked me into it,’ the lank man told him. ‘Now go ahead and ask your questions.’
Spur looked at the man Doolittle with interest. It was just possible he had found some kind of an ally here. At least a man who was halfway decent.
One of the men holding Spur said: ‘What good will questions do? We caught him red-handed. He done it and we know he done it.’
‘You know no thin’ of the kind,’ Spur said. ‘You think this kind of thing would hold up in a court of law? I was knocked unconscious at the scene of the crime. You ain’t even proved it was my bullet killed Rube. Why should I kill him? He was a friend of mine.’
‘You killed him for his gold,’ Gaylor accused.
‘Gold? I didn’t see any gold. Did you? You find the gold on me?’
‘Why else did you kill him?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘An old grudge.’
‘He was my friend. He sent for me.’
‘Prove it.’
‘He sent a letter to me by a messenger.’
‘Who?’
‘Pepe Rodriguez.’
‘There ain’t nobody of that name around here.’
‘If Rube found gold, where is it?’ Spur insisted.
Gaylor argued: ‘There must of been gold. Why else did Rube build a cabin? A man don’t settle in one spot an’ dig if there ain’t no trace.’
‘Rube didn’t build that cabin and you know it,’ Spur said. ‘You only have to take one look at that cabin and you can see it’s five-ten years old. Another thing – did you find gold in his diggin’s?’
‘No,’ said Doolittle, ‘we didn’t.’
‘So?’ said Spur.
Gaylor looked agitated.
‘I didn’t say for sure you killed him for the gold,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re goin’ to talk. You’re goin’ to tell me why you killed him.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You say that again and I’ll smash your face.’
Spur laughed.
‘You didn’t get voted sheriff with your winnin’ ways, did you, Gaylor?’
The Sheriff looked fit to be tied.
‘I suggest,’ Doolittle said, ‘you feed your prisoner and start making some inquiries. Him being a territorial officer, you should inform the United States Marshal. This’ll raise hell in the capital.’
Gaylor sobered a little.
‘You git the hell outa here, Doolittle,’ he said, ‘an’ leave the sheriffing to me.’
The lank man smiled and looked at Gaylor’s feet.
‘Your boots hurtin’ you some, Gaylor?’ he asked.
‘Why the hell should they?’ the sheriff demanded.
‘You’re growin’ a mite too big for ’em, is all,’ Doolittle said and walked out of the calaboose.
The sheriff looked at his retreating back and said: ‘I never did like that feller too much. Stace, go see the blacksmith an’ rustle up some irons for this boy.’ He grinned at Spur. ‘Irons’ll quieten you down a mite, Spur, I shouldn’t wonder.’
A man asked: ‘Do we feed him, Wayne?’
‘When you git around to it,’ the sheriff said and walked out. The two men holding Spur threw him away. He hit the wall and fell to the floor. The fellow with the rifle laughed. They all went out and somebody turned the key in the lock.
Spur sat up with his back to the wall and felt like hell. He started thinking about water and food. After a while, he decided that most likely they wouldn’t feed him that day. He had best get out of here before he died of thirst or starvation. He retrieved his little knife from its hiding place and started to work on the adobe in the darkest corner of the building. He did so gently because he didn’t want to make a noise and alarm the guard and he didn’t want to break the precious blade. One other reason made him work with enormous care and that was because he had the feeling that there was a rope in this town that fitted his neck. And Wayne Gaylor was the man to use it.
Chapter Three
At noon there came the sound of approaching footsteps. Spur moved quickly. He slipped the little knife away in its slot in the wall and went as quickly and silently as he could to the far end of the building. He was sitting with his back against the west wall when two men entered, one carrying a bowl with a spoon in it. He laid it down in the middle of the floor and backed up. He looked as if he expected Spur to fly at his throat. They both backed to the door and stood staring at Spur.
‘I could use a pitcher of water, too,’ Spur said.
The man who had brought the bowl in said: ‘I could do with a thousand dollars gold.’ Both men tittered. They went out and the key turned in the lock.
Spur went over to the bowl and inspected its contents. It was half-full of greasy water. Two objects floated in it. Spur scooped one of them up in the spoon and sniffed. It smelled vaguely like goat’s meat. He put it in his mouth and chewed. He’d tasted worse on the trail. This would at least put a little strength in him and keep him alive. He drank some of the liquid. It tasted much as it smelled. It was a good deal better than nothing and it was liquid for his dried out body. When he had finished off the liquid, he chewed on the second piece of meat. He chewed very slowly because he wanted to make the most of it.
After a short while, the two men entered again and took the bowl and spoon away. They were taking no chances. Spur went back to his digging. Nobody came near him again that day. By midnight he had made a hole big enough to crawl through. He didn’t dig clean through the wall. He left the last inch or so for the time it came to escape. A single push would put that out of his way. Thirst started to get to him again. He sat down and rested. Total getaway now rested on where they had put his horse. He didn’t intend to shake off the dust of this town without his beloved mare. Maybe he was crazy, but that was the way it was. Besides, there was no getting anywhere in this country without a horse and Jenny could outrun anything on four legs.
He waited for the next guard change.
It came thirty minutes later. He heard the footsteps of the new guard, the mumbled voices of the two men as they met, the scratch of a lucifer and then the retreating footsteps of the man going off duty. He gave the new man an hour to settle down. Spur also wanted the town quiet.
He debated how he should play this. Should he somehow get the guard to come inside and then settle his hash for him. If he could do that, he would gain a gun. But if he failed he could give the whole game away. He was in a pretty weak state and he might not pull it off. Better to trust his luck with the hole in the wall and pray the guard didn’t hear him make his final breakthrough.
He crept to the door and listened.
At once, he heard heavy breathing and knew that the guard was resting against the door and he was asleep. That was too much luck to disregard.
Spur went back to his hole and started on the last of the work. Within minutes, he thrust forward with one hand and felt the thin wafer of wall give way. He could see the moonlight and feel the cool movement of night air against his face. He paused for a moment to listen, heard nothing and started hau
ling himself through the hole. It was a tight fit and he went slowly so as to make no noise. When he was out, he rose to his feet his small knife clasped in his hand, his only weapon. He was tempted to creep up on the guard and make a try at getting his gun from him. However, he decided that he was too weak to pull that kind of a stunt. His best bet was to find the mare and ride out of there as fast as he knew how. The sooner he had distance between that sheriff and himself, the better he would like it.
He edged carefully away from the adobe, going north and a short way from the rear of the buildings. At a distance of about one hundred yards, he came to a dry ditch and walked west along it. He remembered seeing the livery as he entered the town from the west yesterday. Sure enough, before he had gone very far he heard the trumpet of a horse and, going towards the buildings, he saw before him the high wall of an adobe corral.
He approached it and listened. From the other side came the sound of horses stirring. He didn’t waste any time. He followed the wall around until he came to the gate. This was a massive affair, the two parts of it hanging on rawhide hinges. It was as high as the wall, so he gained nothing. This gate was near the livery buildings, a smallish cabin and a roomier barn. He knew there might be men inside either or both, so he walked back the way he had come, jumped for the top of the wall and was just able to catch it with his hands. With some difficulty in his weak state, he managed to haul himself up so that he lay flat along the top of the wall. The horses heard him and moved uneasily to the far side of the corral. The moon was bright, but he couldn’t see if the mare was among them.
He gave the low whistle he used to summon her. Nothing happened. Maybe his luck was out and she wasn’t here. He tried again and again nothing happened. Some thieving sonovabitch had taken a fancy to Jenny and taken her for his own. He’d catch up with him later. Right now any old horse would have to do. If the mare wasn’t here, he needed a rope. He’d never known a corral of this kind in which there wasn’t a rope lying around somewhere.
He dropped down inside the corral. He walked carefully along the inside of the wall. In the south wall he found a door. He reckoned this led into the barn. He tried the latch. To his relief, the door opened. And it opened without too much noise.
Blood at Sunset (A Sam Spur Western Page 2