by Abel Short
The marshal began to shake his head. But Buck Lennore said heavily, "We got a salaried John Law and his deputies here to keep the peace. Ain't rodding the Law his job?"
"Sure is," the smiling Scar agreed amiably. "And he's got his dewclaws full right here in town. He can't be everywhere at once. He can't be riding the whole Spit range night and day, from end to end, Lennore. Dinby's a good man—but he's only one man. He's just human. That's why we figured to get up this organization."
Dinby nodded some more. Anybody who meant to give him any help was to be encouraged. "There's nothing illegal about it that I can see."
"Two thousand dollars is a heap of dinero," somebody in the group said.
"Well, I don't know—" Lennore started.
Everybody sensed it at once without quite knowing what it was at first. The hammering on the new building down the road had ceased sharply. There was only the creak of the heavily laden freighters wagons along the road, a boy's clear whistle as he moseyed along the wooden sidewalk. Then a man in Levis dodged around the wagon piled with bull hides in front, heading for the batwing doors and screaming as he came.
He picked out Dinby in the dimness inside and leveled a trembling arm at him. "You—y-you've got to do something, Marshal! Joe—Joe Kellen— he's dead…" The man came closer and they saw he was one of the carpenters from the new building. He brandished the hammer he still carried. "Joe Kellen was working on the job with us. He didn't show up this morning. So I finally went over to his boarding house. He's—he's dead—shot through the head! And his own gun was still under the pillow—unfired!"
Dinby slammed down his empty glass and hitched up his shell belt. "I'll go right over there now, by grab! We'll trail down the dirty rat who—"
"Joe's money—the money he brought all the way from Indiana to buy a store with here—it's gone too," the carpenter added. "Almost six thousand dollars! You gotter do something, Marshal!"
Dinby was already striding doorward, heavy feet clumping. Silver Linn edged up to the carpenter. "Ain't you got any kind of a clue—any idee who might've done it?" he asked mildly. The carpenter shook his head.
Buck Lennore followed the others out, shaking his head. "Thought the marshal was supposed to keep the Law in the town here anyways…"
CHAPTER 5
Largo, shadowlike gun guard of the Ventare brothers, rose silently and stepped out the side door as the bunch behind the marshal went around the corner. A figure eased away from the other side of a post back from the table at which the gunman had been sitting, flipping a blue chip across one of the green baize-topped gambling tables as he went. It was Pony Grimes, the one-time Big Joe Gannon. Silver Linn had only needed to point out Largo to him only once and warn him to always be prepared to cover the man.
Shandy Smith came the rest of the way down he stairs, adjusting the ruffles of his fresh shirt. "I do declare," he said, "I wonder who could've shot up that poor carpenter fella."
"I wonder," echoed Silver as he swabbed a tray.
"This town's getting ornier all the time," Shandy said.
"It's the lowdown element creeping in," Silver said.
"Trouble and killings. Killings and trouble—all the time," muttered Shandy, facing the bar mirror. "Danged if I can ever learn to tie a bow tie."
Lucky Robinson, the little faro dealer, came up to the bar. "Gent in the back, Silver, playing solitaire. Says he wants a bottle of redeye—best brand in the house. Shake a leg," he added as he stepped out front to risk his dough-hued complexion in the sunshine.
Silver stared after him and his eyes went cold and dead for a moment. Then he got a bottle and glass and went around the corner to the rear of the L-shaped place. It was early in the day for customers back there. This one sat hunched over a Canfield layout in a loose-fitting black coat, pancake of a stained buff hat hiding his face. He had a greasy bandanna looped over his right hand.
"Bottle of the best whiskey," Silver said. "You—" And then he was looking into the cold bore of a .45.
The man had whisked the bandanna off his hand to reveal the drawn and cocked gun. He lifted his head, looking up with bitter malevolence bright in his eyes. Silver couldn't place him.
"Keep your hands on the tray," the customer ordered softly. "I'm a friend of the late Joe Kellen. He didn't die right off, and he knew who killed him, Linn!"
Silver Linn, though trapped and trembling inside, summoned a sad smile. "That's good, very good. I'll go out and see if I can catch the marshal and you can tell him—"
"You go out of here—feet first—on a shutter bound for Boot Hill," said the other. He hunched forward, pushing the gun closer to Silver. He had stopped at Kellen's room just before the boss carpenter got there. Kellen hadn't been quite dead, and he got out a few words.
"Sure, sure," Silver said. "But I was never near him!"
"That's right. You didn't have the nerve to do your own dirty work. You—"
"Why, mister, you're locoed. I—" Silver looked saintly.
"Interrupt me again—and I'll stop you with a bullet, Linn. Joe didn't know the name of the dirty damn dog who put out his light, but he knew he came from here—was one of the hired hands here. And he was some orey-eyed when he come to fix Joe. He talked, Silver…"
Silver Linn licked his lips and the bottle rattled on the shaking tray.
"Yes," went on the other. "Poor Joe said he'd tell Shandy Smith. And the gunman laughed in his face and said Silver Linn was the boss behind the scenes here. He said Joe could talk to him in Hell. And then—then he shot him… At your orders, Linn!"
Silver Linn tried to shake his head negatively. But his neck didn't seem to be working very well. He eked out words. "I—I didn't give th-those orders—I—didn't—" Then he suddenly was smug as he saw the tall shadow of the man edging to the turn of the L from in front.
"A dying man shouldn't lie," the other said as he rose. "Not right on the lip of his grave, least-wise."
"You'll never get out of here alive, mister!"
"I reckon I won't… But Joe Kellen was my friend…" His eyes bulged and his other hand squeezed up the solitaire deck so they were doubled.
"Any last message to a friend, Linn?"
"Where do you want your body sent, mister?" Silver came back, smiling.
The other's thumb trembled on the eared-back gun hammer. He hesitated the fraction of a second, let go the hammer at the same instant a blast came. Big Joe Gannon had stepped around the corner and triggered. There was a screech from the stranger and his own bullet thudded into the ceiling. He stumbled backward, gun rattling at his feet, clutching the forearm ripped by Big Joe's shot. Blood spattered into the twisted palm of his hand.
Silver Linn never touched the holster slung on his left. His right hand seemed to slap against the side of his trousers. Then there was muzzle froth and Joe Kellen's friend was drilled dead center. And Silver was blowing the smoke away from a Colt's nose. It was quick, like snuffing out a match. Silver jumped by him and shoved open the door into Shandy Smith's private office.
"Quick!… Help me get him in here, Pony," Silver cried.
They got him in the little room and Silver dumped the body in front of the stubby safe. He threw open Shandy's rolltop desk, jerked open a drawer, and strewed some papers on the floor. "He was in here—trying to rob the safe! Sabe?"
Big Joe was wearing a puzzled frown as he Slowly holstered his weapon, one of a dull black-handled pair Silver had given him. He didn't understand. All he knew was that Silver was the man who had saved his brother and got a doctor for him when he was on the verge of death. And somebody had been going to gun Silver. So he had stepped in. But this—
Silver sensed his wonder. Silver's gun had disappeared as if by magic. He whispered, "Certain folks in this town are out to frame me, Pony. They want to get me on some charge. Sabe? They must've paid this poor fool to come here. If he gets me—all right. If he gets killed—then they might have something to pin on me. Sabe now?"
Big Joe nodded hesitant
ly. Silver grabbed him by the arm and swung him outside. "Remember, he was trying to break open the safe! He— Shut your mouth, Shandy!" The proprietor of the Stirrup, struggling into his tail coat, had come running around the corner. He took one look and his jaw unhooked for a scream. Silver slapped him over the mouth as Dinby and the others came busting in the front. The marshal wanted to know where the shooting was.
"Some stranger tried to rob the boss' safe," Silver Linn said calmly as he walked forward. He said he served the stranger the bottle, went away, then wondered if he had given him a glass and came back to see. Saw the jasper in Shandy's office. "I saw he had pulled some papers outa the drawer and figured he'd got the combination to the safe. He almost got me at that." He proceeded to mop his sad face, hand shaking.
Dinby stepped away from the dead man whose face was already waxing up. "You got him, Linn?"
Silver shook his head and thumbed at Big Joe. "Pony was the one. Snap shot him twice."
"He's that fella Carroll who sloped in a coupla weeks back. Real quiet gent, too," one of the men said. "He said something about a silver claim he had staked; I didn't think he needed dinero."
"He's the same rannyhan I saw at that bank hold-up over at Leadville last winter," Doc Hilder said. "Hmmm. He stopped some lead then and I patched him up, then he repays me by hogtieing me and cutting off with my old mare. Outlawry don't pay, does it, gents? I'll never collect no fee from him, either. 'S too bad."
Scar Ventare laughed and turned back to the bar. Dinby nodded, stuck out his lower lip at the Doc. "Too bad you didn't recognize him afore and I could uh jailed him. Probably a reward for him… Well, if you say you knew him and what he was…"
They all moved back to the bar. Buck Lennore bought a slug and downed it with a single backward jerk of his head. "Seems like there ain't a hell of a lot of Law even in town here. Phil last week, Joe Kellen this morning, now this fella… All dead." He turned to the Ventare brothers. "Reckon I better throw in and join your organization. Don't know as I can get up more'n a chunk of the five hundred right off but I need protection!"
The brothers nodded. Scar clapped Lennore on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that. Just step down to the bank, Buck. I'll be right along and we'll fix up a little loan for you. Always glad to help out a rancher friend, Buck." His sharp, quick laugh came as folks began to drop in for a look-see at the shot-up safe robber. The word had gone around quickly.
Silver Linn's face went frozen in a blank expression when he heard Lennore agree to throw in with the Ventares. Silver swivelled his eyes to the bobbing-about Shandy and gave him a sign.
"Gents, a little libation on the house," Shandy called out, voice quavering at first. "Death is upsetting—even when it's an enemy. Fill 'em high, bartender!" He dumped his down hurriedly when it came, then eased away to meet Silver back in the office. The dead man had been toted away and the one-eyed swamper was busy mopping away the bloodstains.
Shandy sent him away and sagged down on his desk, spinning the gold nugget on his fat watch chain nervously. He shot a glance to Big Joe hovering just outside the ajar door. "You're playin 'em too fast and loose, S-Silver! You know that dead un wasn't trying to bust open the safe and—"
Silver sneered over a quill toothpick in his lips. "Can anybody prove he wasn't?"
"It was something to do with the Kellen killing, Silver! And I, think you had a hand in—"
"Shut down! You old fat-bellied she-cow, something bigger's come up. You git outside the front door and see Buck Lennore when he comes out. Tell him not to put up no five hundred and go in with the Ventares."
"What?"
"Yeah. Tell him you'll have some slick hands with a gun out there tonight to protect him in case of another raid. You'll back him, say. Then—"
"But, gosh almighty, Silver—that—that's like bucking the Ventares! They'll think—"
"You damned lunkhead! 'Course I am! Them Ventares are fixing to take over the whole Spit and then'll come Maddox itself. They get the other ranchers to kick into the pool and then the Ventares hire the gunmen—and then they own 'em. Scar and his brother'll have an army. That's why we got to back the small ranchers against 'em. If them little fellas borrow more money from the Ventares' bank to join up—Scar and his brother'll have a roughlock on 'em, they'll be so in debt. Then the little uns'll have to string along with anything they say. You see it now?"
"But them Riders of the Red Mask," Shandy half asked, pendulous chins quivering.
"Hell, they ain't!" Silver spat in disgust at the other's blindness. "They were some of that gun-passer spread the Ventares already got. They had to wear masks, of course. Now you git out there and tip off Buck!"
"All-l right… But who am I sending out there?"
Silver smoothed his gleaming hair gently and half bowed, tapping his own chest. "Me. And I'll take some of the house boys, of course."
Shandy headed for the door obediently. "Ain't you afraid, Silver? Them Ventares got a heap of hombres on their payroll."
"They won't be expecting us there… And besides, I got an extra pair of guns—out there!" He thumbed toward Big Joe's back beyond the door. "He's a hunk o' Hell on legs with his shooting irons, ain't he?"
CHAPTER 6
Shortly before they left for the Triangle-C late that afternoon, one of the barroom hangers-on rushed in with the news. The Norbolo stage had just rolled in. And from it had descended an Amazon of a buxom blonde resplendent in a wine velvet suit with sky-blue plumes in her hat, shrilling greetings to old friends. "The Countess is back! The Countess is back!" the hanger-on bawled to the crowd bellied at the bar.
From the stairway, Silver caught Shandy Smith's eye. Shandy caught at his loose mouth: Silver's eyes went cold in his sad face. The Countess had been a partner in the Elite House, the hotel and dance hall down the road. Some months ago she had left for 'Frisco to see her dying sister. Nobody had expected the Countess to return. And when her partner, old toothless Driscoll, had needed some funds, Silver and Shandy had bought an interest in the place. Nominally, of course, it had been Shandy alone. Silver had come to town after the Countess had left. Many were the stories about this dominant woman and her ability to wrap men around her ring-spangled fingers. Silver sensed there might be some difficulty with her back. He had to see her soon.
A little later, the bunch started, drifting out of the Golden Stirrup singly and picking up their ponies at the horse shed out back. They rendezvoused out in the rough hill country to the north of the town. In the purplish light with the shadows running out from the bases of the hills like dark puddles, Silver Linn pinched out his tailor-made cigarette. Opening a saddle bag he produced some white hoods. They were pillow cases, somewhat grimy, with slits cut in them for eyes.
"The boss, Shandy," he said, "has told us what we gotta do. You got his orders? All right. And it'll be a danged sight better if them Riders of the Red Mask don't know who we are. So whatever happens, don't call anybody else by his name. When we get close to Lennore's place, put these hoods on." He passed them out to the five, including Big Joe. They rode on through the gathering darkness, Silver at the head.
Nick, one of the house guards, mentioned as how he was quitting in a few more days. "A jasper's pushing his luck too hard in this business," he allowed, biting off some chewing tobacco. "Some day—sooner or later—that luck's plumb bound to run out. I worked hard all my life, done two stretches in the Big House. I got a tidy piece of dinero saved up and I'm dang tired of getting drunk any more. I—"
They had just crossed a yellowish stream when Silver threw up his hand. He signalled and they swung their ponies along the water's edge and into a grove of red willows. The creak of an ungreased axle came down the breeze. And after a while a hunched breed appeared on a buckboard, a piece of tarpaulin thrown over something in the rear.
"Table beef," one of the men said.
They waited a few minutes after the breed had passed through the stream, then rode out from cover and went on their way.
; "There, that's what I mean," Nick said. "I've had a bellyful of always being ready to dodge and hide out from somebody."
"Don't tell me you're a-beginning to believe in the Law, Nick," one of the others gibed him.
"Hell, no! What's law anyways? It's getting caught, 's all. It's what brands you 'badman' and won't never give you a chance to go straight—once you've made a little slip. A man makes his own Law. Me, I allus pay my debts and give a hombre credit for being all right till he does something to me. But, anyways, I'm getting out. Friend over Nevada way dropped me a line 'bout a nice little horse ranch I can pick up cheap. I'll get that and pick myself up a decent woman—don't care if she's plain so long's she can cook—and settle down and—"
"Lay off the chin music, Nick," Silver called back.
"Nick's locoed to go talking like that," Stub said over on Big Joe's right. Stub was a ludicrous little man with batlike ears and a twinkle in his eyes. He had a knack of knowing a split second before another gent was going for his holster. "Nick's a fool. He shouldn't have told Shandy nothing either; he just should uh pulled stakes. In this kinda business a boss is always wondering how long a hand can keep his lip buttoned up if he goes off." He shot Big Joe, known to him as Pony, a quick look and spurred ahead a bit.
Through the evening they moved northward up through the Spit. Over to the east Big Joe could see the scowling jagged bluffs that stood like a barrier on that side of the Spit. They veered off at an angle as they passed through a broad, low pass and dropped down into the lush cow country. To the west, beyond sight in the night, was the badlands, wild broken country interspersed with sand strips and lava outcroppings. It was worthless brush-choked country, bounding the Spit on that side. The Spit itself broadened out like a great tongue from the pass to stretch northward where it finally narrowed between the barren country and the encroaching cliffs.
Big Joe stared down at the red dirt trail as they loped along, almost unaware of the country. Inside his head things were twisting and moiling. Maybe that's what made his head hurt as it did sometimes. He was trying to straighten things out. He felt like a maverick, an unbranded lost thing wandering through life. Again and again he had repeated those things Silver had told him about his past. And still nothing clicked, no familiar chord was struck. The facts might have been about somebody else, somebody whom he had never met. True, Silver had said he sometimes lost his memory. But he was tortured by the worry of when things would come back to him.