Night Riders

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Night Riders Page 6

by Abel Short


  "They'll get Hobart's Running-H—through their bank," he said, calming suddenly. He walked over to the edge of the gallery and gazed down the road to the main crossing. The Ventares' Sagebrush National Bank stood there. It was a single-story building with steps extending across the whole front and a row of pretentious white pillars at the top of them. There was a fan window with colored glass in the false front.

  "That's their hole card, the bank. Their big ace. Something might happen to that bank though."

  "You mean—it might get robbed?" said Shandy Smith, his head poked out a front window of the gallery.

  "That's old-fashioned stuff!" Silver shot. "Go fetch me a drink, lunkhead… A run on that bank could do a lot of damage," he added to Doc quietly. "No bank can stand a run, they tell me."

  "How do you aim to fix that?"

  "It'll take a little stall-walking to figure… Go in and get me one of them fancy ruffled shirts of Shandy's. I aim to go calling on the Countess tonight…"

  Scar and his brother Duke had a drink in the Stirrup. They listened to the gossip about Hobart being raided by the red-masked riders and had a few words with Marshal Dinby. A man came in from the trail and said how he learned from Buck Lennore that he had been hit again, too, but had driven them off.

  "Reckon we were right to form a pool of gun-slingers to take after that outfit," Scar said. They went out and around to the Buckskin Bar in a sidestreet.

  The taciturn Largo drifted in on their heels and moved his gaunt face in a nod. That meant he had checked on the man he had spotted last night. The one whose pillow-case hood had torn on a twig in the battle around the cut. Largo said afterward he'd glimpsed red hair inside that hood. And that the man wearing it had silver spurs minus rowels. He had been pretty certain who it was.

  In the Golden Stirrup he had corroborated himself. He had seen the newcomer known as Pony Grimes with his red hair and the same spurs. Scar and Duke downed a drink in the Buckskin.

  "We can burn him down—that Pony fella," Duke said.

  Scar frowned at a piece of fringe ripped off one of his gauntlets. "You don't cut off a limb to kill a tree, brother. You cut the trunk, the main part. That Pony jasper lives at the Stirrups and is always around there. So he's Shandy Smith's man."

  Duke squeezed his eyebrows close up to his hair line in surprise. "That bag-bellied duded-up slobber-tongued fourflusher the ranny who's bucking us, Scar?"

  "All snakes don't have rattles, Duke."

  "I can punch him a ticket to Boot Hill, by grab!"

  "And bring a hornet's nest of gunslingers swarming on us? Sure we got our own parcel of gunslicks, but let's be smart. That big Texican we just hired—Rivers—folks don't know he's with us. We'll send him up against Shandy Smith in a face-to-face gun duel in the road." He dropped his voice to explain how they would do it.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Cimarron Gal was the name of the dance hall in the Elite Hotel. There was an entrance from the street with a big flaming crimson sign above it, and another entrance from the ornately-furnished hotel lobby. Fancy-looking in his ruffled shirt and fresh-brushed frock coat, Silver Linn stood among the rich leather furniture with its neat antimacassars and the big blue and golden globe lamps around. All he could think was that a shooting would raise particular hell in there. The dance hall girls lived in the hotel.

  "Sure done up in style—and right handy," he mentioned to himself. Then he saw Pony's black flat-topped sombrero pass the low-cut doors as the latter entered from the street. Silver entered from the hotel lobby.

  The barmen in the dance hall wore white jackets and had their hair slicked down. They said "How-de-do" when a customer stepped up. Waiters with long white aprons served the patrons at the tables. It was afternoon but the place was already in full swing. At the back end there was a wax-skinned piano player and a handful of Mex musicians strumming away. On the stage lit by coal-oil lamps with shields set along the front edge, a yellow-haired pony ballet pranced and kicked away. Every one of the six was a looker, too, Silver had to admit. They all had flashy opera-length lace hose with scarlet roses embroidered on them.

  The joint had class all right.

  Silver ordered a bottle of the best whiskey brought to his table. He didn't have to look behind him. He knew; Big Joe, quirly spiking from his lips, lounged against a post and watched the dancers. A couple of the hostesses came over and Silver invited them to sit down. And he started complaining right off. Gents had told him the Cimarron Gal was the hottest place west of the Mississippi, a real bang-up establishment with plenty of pepper.

  "Can't see nothing extry special here," he snorted. "Seen better shows in the two-bit shakedowns along the Rio. That redheaded skirt over there—she looks old enough to remember Bat Masterson's grandpaw!"

  He claimed the ballad singer in the red dress was an insult to a man's eardrums. "Never heard such danged caterwauling. It sounds worse than a boogered-down doggie in a mudhole!"

  "Nobody made you come in here at gun point, mister," one of the hostesses reminded him.

  Silver's answer was to dash the contents of his drink on the floor and send the glass itself shattering after it. "That stuff tastes like gully wash mixed up with skunk sweat, by Gawd!"

  A woman put her head out from one of the curtained booths along the wall. A waiter came over and Silver flung a bill on the table as he rose. "Reckon I took the wrong turning on the trail," Silver ranted. "I was told this was a first-class joint!"

  A houseman in a plain black suit bulging on the chest from a shoulder hideout came along. "Like to step this way, mister. We hate to let a customer leave unsatisfied." He led the way down to one of the curtained booths, opened it.

  "If you'll tell me what you want, perhaps I can help you, Mr. Linn," the Countess said. She toyed with a diamond brooch at her bosom, reclining against the upholstered back of the booth.

  "There's nothing I need now—nothing else," Silver said. He swept off his hat and slid in across the table from her. He asked if he could order drinks, taking in the jewelry she wore. The sky-blue evening gown, slit provocatively up one side, set off her creamy skin beautifully. She had an hour-glass figure. And the hair blonde as corn silk piled atop her head gave her a certain regal look. There was a smile in her blue eyes. But they weren't missing a thing about Silver either; he knew that and respected her for it.

  She told the waiter what she wanted in her throaty voice. It was somewhat harsh. "And not the customer liquor this time, John."

  Silver offered one of his tailor-made cigarettes. She took it and snapped a match to it expertly. Words followed the cone of exhaled smoke from her full-lipped mouth. "You didn't come here for the music, Mr. Linn. You aren't the breed who has time for the wasting."

  Silver's smile was buttery. "Well, I work for Shandy Smith up at the Stirrup. While you was away, he bought in on this place. So I—"

  "He sent you to see how things are going, eh?"

  "You might put it that way, Countess."

  "And you might stop lying, Linn." She put down her drink with a quick backward jerk of her head, in a single gulp. Her ring-spangled hands went flat on the table. "Last time I saw you, I'd have bet a night's take against dobie dollars you didn't take orders from pot-bellied saloon keepers."

  Silver touched his wavy, always-combed silver hair carefully. "And where might that have been?"

  "Could have been Sage City. You weren't riding under the handle of Linn then. I can't remember what your name was… I ran the Lucky Strike dance hall there."

  Silver shook his head. "Can't remember ever hitting Sage City."

  "Poor memories are assets—for men in certain businesses, Linn. I don't recall your hair as being silver then, either. But—it was you. I never forget the way a man moves… And sometime I'll remember your name—the one you were using then. I always do."

  Silver's eyes followed a curlycue of cigarette smoke. He liked a pretty face, anyway. They were his weakness. But the Countess had more than that; she could de
al like a man, meet him on his own ground. Silver whistled a soft snatch of song. He purred:

  "The Lucky Strike dance hall, eh… Yes, yes… Seems like I heard there was a bad shooting there one night. Prospector got killed… Hmmm… Few days later a friend drifted in and told how the dead man had been toting more'n twenty thousand in his money belt. And that money belt hadn't been on him when they carried him out of your dance hall on a stretcher. No."

  The Countess' eyes flickered like sunlight off a well-oiled gun barrel. "Then what happened, Silver Linn?"

  Silver shrugged. "Nothing… nothing… The Law wanted to ask the dance hall proprietress a few questions. But she'd left town without warning— and you never came back, Countess. Now the Law up Sage way might appreciate knowing where you're keeping yourself."

  Her small teeth showed through scorn-curved lips. "And the Law would be very interested in the man who brought them that information, Linn. You'd like some John Law digging around in your past maybe, eh?"

  Silver looked like a man who's laid down a full house of aces and kings to run into four of a kind. He shrugged, rising. Outside the piano was banging away as some orey-eyed waddy pounded around the dance floor to accompanying whoops and yippees. Silver's right hand dropped down on his trouser seam. His back was to the closed curtains.

  The Countess tongued her ripe lips daintily. "I think it was when I was in Sage City that a friend gave me a lovely little derringer. One of those pearl-handled ones, you know. A .41 derringer, Linn. It's got the muzzle velocity to back up a bull. I've had it under the table for the last five minutes… You were going to say something, Linn?"

  Silver's laugh rattled through the music. Desire was hot in his bloodshot eyes as he dropped down beside her. She was a woman after his own style and beautiful in the bargain. He poured fresh drinks.

  "Countess, smart jaspers don't waste time bucking each other. You and me can do business. It's to our own advantage to work with each other— not against. You guessed right about Shandy Smith. I ain't—exactly his hired hand." He poured another drink and talked on. He told her more than he meant to, the arm around her naked shoulders tightening. "We throw in together, Gorgeous, and nobody can whip us!"

  She smiled with hard eyes. "I'm not here just to cash in on the boom the railroad means, Silver. And neither are you, I reckon."

  A Chinese houseboy inserted his head through the curtains. There was a man to see the Countess about the installation of the new roulette wheel.

  The Countess said she was too busy to see anybody.

  Silver drew her against his shoulder, the blood drumming in his temples. She was smart all right. She knew that thing he did. "The Ventares know too," he said. "They're out to grab off the whole Spit, Countess."

  She met his eyes brazenly. "You and I together ought to be able to whittle the Ventares down, Silver."

  "You and me, Countess."

  It was as he was kissing her the second time that uproar started outside the curtains. The Countess rose and flung them apart. Two hairpins off the trail were at a table with a couple of the dance hall girls. His companion and the girls were trying to quiet the yellow-haired one; he was twisting up from his chair with a half-drawn hogleg.

  "Marie," the Countess called. One of the girls detached herself and came over. She was willowy-slim with a certain pride in the tilt of her elfin face. She had hair black as night that fell to her ivory shoulders. There was a lift in her blue eyes with the lashes like soot, the hallmark of Irish blood. She reminded Silver of a high-spirited filly.

  The Countess asked her what was the matter. "The yellow-haired one claims the tall man down by the post is a badge-packer, Countess." The girl nodded toward Big Joe. "The yellow-haired one says his name is Gannon and that he put his partner in State's prison. He's drunk and he wants to shoot him without warning."

  Big Joe's eyes had followed Marie over to the Countess' booth. The Countess met his stare, appraising him frankly from hat crown to spurs. "Right good-looking gun-passers you hire, Silver. What kind of a double-cross is this?"

  Silver's lips skinned back across his teeth. He knew what Doc had said. One clue from his past, some sign, might be enough to restore Pony's memory; and his own name, Gannon, could easily be enough. Silver tasted terror. "You should know damn well, Countess, I'd sooner have a sidewinder sharing my bedroll than a law coyote."

  "How about the sidewinder's feelings?" The Countess winked and started for the table with the yellow-haired man. "Shooting raises Cain with the furniture in a place."

  Silver went into action quickly. A signal brought Big Joe over. Silver nodded toward a door in the rear. "Get over to the Stirrup and tell Doc Hilder to meet me in the canyon the other side of Snake River. Tell him to bring three of the housemen—to meet a John Law. They'll understand."

  Big Joe's eyes slivered. "I come with 'em?"

  Silver shook his head. "This John Law'd recognize you; rattle your hooks, Pony." And Joe left to obey unquestionably.

  Silver went over to the table where trouble was building. "Let me handle this, Countess… Pard, you say that tall redhead was a badge-packer?" he said confidentially to the yellow-headed waddy.

  The latter nodded, tearing away to jump up. "Yep! But the miserable snake's gone now! He—"

  Silver dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I know where he hangs his hat, amigo. … And I also know some gents who'd pay good dinero for your information, pay even before they gave that law snake a hempen necktie. Come along with me."

  Yellow Head's friend eased a hand to his holster top. But the wise-smiling Silver led the way out, exposing his own back. They followed. Silver borrowed a pony and they pushed their way through the throng out of Maddox, headed for the canyon at a hand lope. The yellow-haired one who knew Big Joe's true identity never came back to Maddox…

  CHAPTER 10

  It was staged well. Nightfall had come, but the main road was bathed in the glow of the clear moon. It was like a soft sunless daylight. The Golden Stirrup was going full tilt when Rivers stalked in and breasted his way to the bar. He was a Texican with a ragged black beard and a tall spidery body. He had the cold, cruel eyes of a tree cat. The act looked great when he jostled Scar Ventare at the bar and they began to spit words at each other.

  Shandy Smith bumbled over to intercede, never guessing he was playing their game to the hilt. "Come, gentlemen! This is a drinking emporium, a place of pleasure and merriment. No arguments here, please! Go outside if you must—"

  Rivers turned slowly and split his face in a grin. "Well, if it ain't my old friend, Smith! Howdy, Shandy! No see hell of a long time." He gave him a clap on the back that almost doubled Shandy.

  "Hello," Shandy sputtered, trying to remember where he had met this man. "Right nice to see you. Uh—shake! Uh—" Shandy was worried anyway. Silver wasn't there, and three of the house gun guards were with Silver.

  The tall Texican's eyes grew smoky and he spat over one side of his ragged beard. "Mebbe you ain't so all-fired pleased to see me, huh? Too good for your old friends like Mitch, huh?" There was a steely twang in his voice.

  Shandy pumped his hand though he couldn't place the man. Amicability was the best bet, he figured. "Have a drink on me, Mitch. Have two, by grab! Shandy Smith's always glad to see an old pard!"

  Rivers grabbed up a bottle off the bar and gurgled deep. When Shandy tried to turn away, he seized him by the coat lapel, almost jerking him off his feet. "Your old pard! That's right, ain't it! Your pard! Been three—no, three and a half years, you gol-danged ol' ring-tailed rannyhan." Everybody there knew Shandy had come to town just a little over three years ago.

  Shandy said weakly, "That long, Mitch?"

  "Sure. That was back in Wirango down in the Panhandle," the Texican crowed on. That was a point too; folks in Maddox had heard Shandy say he had come from the Pandhandle. "Don't tell me you don't recollect Wirango, ol' pard?" The Texican darted his beard down into Shandy's face.

  "Why—uh—sure, sure. Have
'nother drink, Mitch!"

  "Thanks, pard. Say, pard, 'member that Mex Gertie in the dance hall there? Danged if she weren't haywire over you, you old devil!"

  "Why, yes. Ha-ha."

  "You had a way with the skirts, Shandy."

  "Aw, g'wan, Mitch." He failed to notice Duke Ventare edging closer to him.

  "Sure. Then there was that little black-haired filly—Sal. You remember her, Shandy! She went haywire over you, too. You were right crazy over her yourself, Shandy. 'Member?"

  Shandy laughed weakly, away out of his depth. He couldn't place this man and knew nothing he was talking about. He nodded.

  The Texican's eyes stabbed into him. "You remember, hey? But you forgot her fast when you got tired of her, Shandy Smith! Took her out of Wirango when her husband was away. Stole her just like a two-bit horse-thief! And when you got tired of her—of Sal—you up and quit her. Left her broke, to die. Yeah, Shandy, she killed herself, that Sal!" Rivers clamped a hand on a holster top.

  Shandy was shaking now. "I—I don't know what you're talking about, mister! I don't know—"

  "Stop lying!" the Texican shot at him. "You remembered everything up to this! These gents all heard you, by Hell!"

  "That's right," Scar Ventare said grimly. And Largo, his gunman, echoed him with a nod.

  "You see, you dirty snake, I know all about Sal because she was my wife. You stole her away when I was away—and left her to die when you tired of her… I've been tracking you down a long time, Shandy Smith! And I'm here to kill you!"

  The click of a poker chip was harsh and flat as a pistol shot in the stillness of the Golden Stirrup. Shandy had put his neck smack dab in the noose. Nobody would believe his protests now. And what he was accused of was a serious crime in that part of the country, the Southwest. A decent woman was a well-nigh sacred thing; there was nothing worse than stealing a man's wife.

  Shandy's mouth worked but no sound came. His terrorized eyes twisted around. But Silver wasn't there; and neither was Stub. Nick was dead. He sighted the man known as Pony over by the stairs. But Pony, Big Joe Gannon, was Silver's man and never had taken any orders from Shandy.

 

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