Night Riders

by Abel Short

  "Must have hit a rock," Doc said, "when he went down. There's no cut so it wasn't a bullet. But there's an indentation in the bone; no telling how he'll come out of it—or when."

  Silver rubbed his sleek white hair carefully, then he barked at the gun-passer to have a bottle of redeye sent up. As if he were taking orders from the boss of the place, the houseman went out and called down the stairs for a bottle. When it came, Silver Linn was seated at the table in the room. He poured a drink for himself and Doc; they both dumped them down. Silver poured himself another one; Doc stretched a shrunken hand for the bottle.

  Lashing out, Silver beat down his hand so savagely Doc cried out in pain.

  "One's enough for you," Silver said heavily. "You get a few in your belly and you're just a mouthy lowdown bum! That's why you're where you are today—redeye! I told you, you rat, if I caught you loading up I'd beat your brains out!"

  "All right, all right," said Doc Hilder meekly, tonguing his lips.

  Silver sat and waited and drank steadily. The liquor seemed to have no effect on him; a couple of times he drew out the photograph of Snake Hallin and eyed it. Shandy Smith, apparent owner of the Golden Stirrup came in.

  "Anybody know this Pony gent," Silver thumbed at the body of Big Joe Gannon, "is here?" Shandy shook his head, explaining that the boys had slipped him in the back way as Silver had ordered. "All right," Silver said. "Tell them two if they open their heads I'll blow their brains out. And don't you say a word to nobody, either."

  "No sir, boss," Shandy Smith said. "What're you aiming to do with him?"

  Silver Linn stared through him. Shandy fidgeted around nervously then mentioned that Marshal Dinby had come back to town and was downstairs asking questions about the shooting fracas. He wanted to talk to everybody who had been out there in the sandhills.

  "Can't be bothered listening to that pot-bellied old fool, now," Silver snapped.

  Shandy went out. A few minutes later he returned, knocking apologetically before entering. Handley Hotchkiss, editor of the cowtown's weekly paper, The Bugle, was downstairs and wanted to know what Silver wished said about the gun battle in the paper.

  "Tell him I'll see him later and—" Silver started. Then he was out of his chair in a flash and peering at the figure on the cot. Doc Hilder was already there, shot an arm backward to get a wet cloth from the table. He brushed against the stooped Silver's hair. The latter swore in a hiss through his teeth, grabbed at his hair, then seized the Doc's wrist and started to twist. He remembered the patient, who had stirred and was trying to sit up, and released Doc. Doc went to work as Big Joe's eyelids fluttered open.

  "Where—wh-where am I?" the special officer muttered, lifting his head. His eyes had a glassy vacant look.

  Silver bent closer. "You was in a gunfight. Don't you remember, Pony?"

  "Pony?" Big Joe said the name vaguely, frowning. Doc worked a stiff drink of whiskey down the wounded man's throat. Big Joe coughed and wiped his mouth and sat up, propping himself on an arm. His other hand felt of his empty holsters. "I—I c-can't seem to remember anything! I'm—" He stopped, blinking as he tried to concentrate.

  Silver spoke to him but he didn't seem to hear he was so engrossed in his own attempt at thinking. Doc waved Silver away to the other side of the room, pulling up a chair as he felt the wounded man's pulse. He signed to Silver that Big Joe was all right and was going to pull through. And Doc Hilder began to talk to Big Joe, softly, seeking to lead him on, asking him about himself. Big Joe shook his head baffledly time and again.

  Finally Doc got up and came over to whisper to Silver Linn. "That head injury did something to him. He seems to have lost all his memory, hasn't the faintest idea of even who he is."

  Silver sucked in his breath as the idea began to form in his mind. "Doesn't know who he is, eh… Maybe, after a little while, when he gets stronger, he may remember, eh?"

  Doc shrugged. "Never can tell in case of head injury like that. He's healthy; he's all right; things might come back to him. Then, on the other hand, he might never recover his memory, at least not for years."

  "Something might happen—some incident that could bring things back to him, or another injury might sweep the clouds from his mind. It was a very moot question when I was a regular practitioner in the medical profession and—"

  Silver sneered. "We'll wait till morning. I've got an idea maybe…"

  "What you did to Ord, that special state officer, who came in here?" Doc asked, shuddering despite himself.

  Silver pulled back a hand as if to strike the little elderly man. Then he smiled slyly, shook his head, and went out. He went downstairs and Shandy Smith stalked up to him. He bawled out Silver loudly, asking him where he had been and how he expected to earn his keep around the place. The story in the range town was that Shandy had taken pity on the silver-haired Linn, an old trail pard of former days, and taken him in to support him.

  "Those gents over at the poker table in the corner've been hollering for drinks and cigars. And wipe up that table next to it, you lowdown work-dodger!" Shandy barked.

  "Sure, sure, Mr. Shandy," Silver said obsequiously and proceeded to go to work.

  Closing time came and the last orey-eyed gent was helped out. When the door had been locked and barred, Silver Linn got himself another bottle of whiskey and sat down at a table. Shandy came over, looking worried.

  "I'm sorta nervous, Silver. You said that hombre upstairs was a John Law. If he's traced here—"

  "He won't be," Silver said, lighting up a tailor-made cigarette. "Nobody knows he's here but us."

  "Yes, yes." Shandy nodded. "I know. But when he finds out—"

  Silver cut him short. "Finds out what? A man only knows what he has been—and if he don't remember that, he only knows what somebody tells him he is."

  "I don't know, Silver. It's a dangerous game we're playing and having a lawman on our hands is like being caught with blood on 'em—"

  Silver sneered. "Shandy, when I was a younker we had a trick of putting some pebbles in a tin can, slipping up behind somebody, and rattling 'em suddenlike; it sounded like a sidewinder warming up to hit. Shandy, your tongue reminds me of that trick; always rattling and not meaning nothing."

  Shandy Smith grunted something and hauled his pot belly out of the chair and clumped upstairs to bed. Silver settled down for a long wait. Doc had told him the wounded man, Pony—as they knew him, had dozed off. Silver meant to wait until he woke again, refreshed, with a chance for his mind to clear. If it hadn't—

  Silver's fisted hand twisted on the table top with relish. Nobody knew how much he hated the John Laws; and to have one in his power like this, to use him as he meant to provided his mind didn't come out of the daze… This hombre upstairs would be something to use, too. Out on the sand dunes, Silver had taken in the picture and realized that the hombre had ridden into a gun trap and smoked his way through, killing the other two. He was a fighter and a crack gunslinger. That was plain.

  For that matter, those special state officers always were. He thought of Ord, the one who had come in before. Ord had recognized him that night when he stumbled and something slipped; he knew that now. He had taken care of Ord, of course, but apparently Ord had got word back before he died. The arrival of this man upstairs with the picture on him proved that. Silver took out the photograph again and stared at the bald head, then touched his own silver hair. It reassured him.

  There was a commotion down the road; Silver went over and inched a shutter open. They were closing up the dance hall down a way on the other side of the street. Three figures stood in the rec tangle of yellow light on the wooden sidewalk outside the doorway. Two, the pint-sized pair, he recognized right away as the Ventare brothers, owners of the Pothook Brand. They both laughed together in that high-pitched, sharp way they had, One of the Ventares was arguing with the thin man. The latter cursed and drew back a fist.

  The second brother shifted over half a step, shucked a gun from his holster and slapped it do
wn over the third man's head from the rear. The latter crumpled on the sidewalk, his sombrero rolling into the ragweed of the gutter. The two brothers climbed into the saddle and came riding down the road, headed for their ranch.

  Silver Linn slid a gun from the tied-down holster on his thigh and shoved the nose through the aperture of the shutter. He cocked the trigger as the two Ventares drew opposite. He couldn't fail to get one, at least. Then he lowered his gun silently, reluctantly; it wasn't time for that yet, and it was too dangerous. The Ventares passed. A few moments later, leading a pony quickly, hand on a holster, that angular gunman of theirs came out of the shadows, covering their rear.

  Silver was glad he hadn't cut loose. But the showdown would come some day. The Ventares, owners of the local bank as well as the biggest cow outfit in the valley, wanted to take over Maddox and rule it, which was exactly the idea Silver Linn had.

  He went back to the table and went on with his steady drinking. Dawn had gray fingers at the cracks in the shutters when Doc Hilder crept down the stairs. He said the prisoner, Pony, was awake.

  "And he don't know who he is, Silver. He's got no idea, knows nothing of his past."

  Silver Linn rose. "And he never will," he said grimly.

  CHAPTER 3

  They went upstairs. Big Joe Gannon was sitting on the edge of the cot, bootless feet on the floor. Yawning as he straddled a chair, the house gunman watched him with a Colt on the seat before him. Silver Linn walked in with a big, friendly smile, though his eyes glittered behind it.

  "Howdy, Pony! Feeling better? You sure went haywire for fair this time, pard. You was locoed all right." He had his story carefully prepared. "Well, we got you out of it again, Pony. Yep!"

  Big Joe peered at him past the wan glow of the lamp. "Pony?" he said.

  As he seated himself, Silver chuckled affably. "Don't know your name again, huh, Pony?" He held his breath as he awaited the reply.

  Big Joe pawed fumblingly at his head, gray eyes clouded beneath his frown. "I—I'm—why—uh—" His weak smile was pitiful but it was a delight to Silver Linn. "Something—something to do with the Law, I—I think," Big Joe groped.

  Linn rubbed his long nose. "Haha!" he cackled. "I'll say you had something to do with the Law, Pony! I hear and tell you did, pard. Sweet jumping jiminy! Why you danged nigh choked that deputy sheriff to death before we pulled you off him, Pony! Yes, sir."

  Doc Hilder's eyes popped and then he made his face a kindly but blank mask. Big Joe Gannon sat staring at a button on Silver Linn's gray frock coat as his mind struggled to put things together, to pierce the fog clouding it.

  "I knew a fella called Pony—Pony Grimes once," he muttered as he fought.

  Linn laughed raucously. "Pony, you sure do forget every last danged thing when you get a skinful of redeye and then go haywire! Sure you know a gent called Pony—Pony Grimes. Hellfire, man, you are Pony Grimes! Only you ain't going around yelling it for a couple days; there might be a lawman drifting through on the lookout for you."

  Big Joe half lurched to his feet. "What did I do? Tell me! What did I do?"

  Silver Linn sat down and shined his nails thoughtfully on his coat lapel before answering. "Pony, you and me're friends. And me, Silver Linn, I always stand by my friends. I've always taken care of you, haven't I, Pony?"

  Big Joe blinked; he couldn't get used to that name somehow. "Why—I guess—uh, yes, Silver. Sure. But what did I do?"

  Linn leaned over and patted Joe's big shoulder paternally. "Now don't bust a gut, Pony. Old Silver happened along in time to git you outa the tight. But you got to be a dang sight more careful about drinking hard when there's any lawmen abouts, Pony. Of course, I understand why you hate any John Law's innards. But—"

  "I hate John Laws?" Something inside Big Joe stirred in denial of that. "Why I—I don't know but…" His voice drifted off as he grabbed vainly for the clue in the back of his mind.

  "Nobody can blame you, Pony. Nobody can blame you. We all know how that Washita sheriff killed your dad in cold blood and then found out he'd shot the wrong man, an innocent man, too. I suppose getting that letter from your brother, Stan, got you all worked up." Silver Linn was a fox.

  "Letter from… from Stan… my brother?"

  Linn jumped up, cursing a blue streak. He stomped about, raging hoarsely and calling Big Joe all kinds of a useless lunkhead. "Hellfire, Pony, how many times do I have to tell you your life story again! Why you damn addle-brained—" Then he broke off, softening, patting Big Joe's arm. "Forgive me, Pony. I forget how sometimes you plumb lose your memory ever since that posse gave you a gun-whipping when they were looking for Stan's hideout. You just go sorta weak-minded at times."

  "Weak-minded," Big Joe Gannon muttered as he plucked at the lower lip of his now loose mouth. His eyes twisted away with embarrassment. "Did— did they find Stan's hideout?"

  Silver sat down across from Joe, putting a hand on Joe's knee. "It was this way, Pony. Your brother, Stan, killed that sheriff to avenge your dad. They hunted him and finally tracked him down and put him in jail to be hung in the morning. Well, I bribed the guard with a chunk of dinero and we got Stan out of there and across the Border. Of course, I did get shot up some and they found out who I was so I'll never be able to go back to that ranch I had up Red Snake River way. But we saved Stan's hide, anyways."

  Big Joe's face worked, mirroring mixed emotions, as he tried to fit the things into his mind, seeking some fact he recognized. It was like trying a lot of keys in a lock. None of them worked for him. He finally looked grateful in a vague way. "Silver, my head's buzzing so things still aren't very clear, but I want to thank you a heap and—"

  Silver snorted and looked embarrassed. "Now, Pony, you don't have to go thanking me all over again. Back in Washita Flats you swore you'd be my shadow and protect me for life so—"

  "I did?"

  Silver Linn shrugged. "All right, Pony. If you want to back down on it now—why, we'll all forget about it."

  Poor Joe Gannon was on his feet, raking his red hair nervously. He was undergoing mental torture. "No—n-no," he husked. "You—you saved my brother. All right." He found himself staring at the gap in the left front side of Linn's lower jaw where a tooth was missing. "I owe you my life in return—any time you need it."

  Silver Linn smiled, pulling at his long nose. "Sometimes, Pony, it seems like I'm always taking care of you. Like last night at Judd's Corners."

  Big Joe had been plucking at his black-and-white checkered shirt and staring at it as if it held some significance. His eyes twisted up, haunted once more. "What did I do? Tell me!"

  "Well, Pony, you got yourself right orey-eyed. And then you saw that deputy sheriff passing outside, so you almost knocked down the side of the place to git at him. You did, Pony, you did. You got him and half choked him to death. He hit you a lick or two with his gun but it didn't do no good. Then me and Doc come along and pried you off'n him and got the hell outa there fast, Pony. 'Course you got good cause to hate the John Laws…"

  "Yeah," Big Joe said, frowning, as if knowing he should.

  "The worst thing about the sheriff killing your dad—aside from the fact he was plumb innocent—was that your dad wasn't packing a hogleg at the time. Yet that sheriff smoked him down in his tracks like he was—a cur dog. I know, Pony, that you can never forget that! Never!"

  Big Joe Gannon was like a man hypnotized. "No —never," he said docilely. He felt like a rat because he couldn't remember what his father looked like. He took to staring at the pattern of his shirt again, tracing the design carefully with a finger.

  Doc Hilder gave Silver a sign and stepped out of the room. When Silver followed, Big Joe paid no heed. The door closed. "Well?"

  Doc nodded. "He's lost his memory all right, a pronounced case of amnesia. He—"

  Silver lifted his hand angrily. "Don't go using them fancy words on me, you ol' coot!"

  Doc sighed. "All right, all right. Anyway, he's convinced he is what you've been telling him he i
s. He's trying like blazes to make himself remember those things."

  "I'm too smart for any galoot of a John Law," Silver preened himself. "Any danger of his memory coming back suddenlike and him recalling who he used to be actually?"

  "That can always happen, of course. But the one thing that might restore his memory is something out of his past, like some trinket—or even that picture he was carrying—"

  "I tore that up," Silver Linn said quickly. That was a lie. For some reason the prison photograph fascinated him; he had it in a case inside his coat now.

  Doc added, "And I noticed him staring at that checkered shirt he's wearing, and feeling it. The shirt is vaguely familiar to him even in his condition so—"

  "I'll get him a new rig, and other guns, too. We'll tell him it's so the John Laws from the Corners won't recognize him if they drift in." He turned rearward toward Shandy Smith's room, sad face for once a-glow with a devilish delight.

  "The only danger is him coming across something out of his past," Doc Hilder warned again.

  Shandy Smith wasn't in his room. Linn came back down the hall, cursing; he hated to be kept waiting by any underling in his hire. Then he heard the faint creaking of the back stairs. In the next instant, he was flattened in the shadow against the wall. His right hand on his far side was down rigid against his body with the blue-black Colt barrel spearing from his hand.

  It looked like an optical illusion because his single holster in view was on his left hip and it was still filled with a horn gun butt jutting. But it was only pot-bellied Shandy himself who came wheezing into view. "Silver! Silver!" he called in a furtive whisper. "Sil—"

  Silver Linn went down the hall toward him. There was a quick move of his right hand and the gun in it was gone from sight. He saw that Shandy was as pale as if he'd seen a ghost. He was furtive, too, looking over his shoulder fearfully.

  "Silver, Silver," he croaked, terror half strangling him. "That Dildaw is back. He's right downstairs now and—"