by Matt Rand
“How come? Don’t you do the business?”
“Oh, we do all right! A helluva lot better’n anybody else does in this one-horse town, but it ain’t enough, I guess, for some people. Feller buys the place expectin’ to do big things with it, an’ when he doesn’t, he kinda sours on it, an’ the first reasonable offer he gets for it, he takes it an’ clears out an’ goes somewhere else. It goes on like that.”
A couple of men sauntered in just then, nodded to the bartender and strode across the shadowy floor to Doc’s table. They didn’t say anything, and he didn’t even look up at them. They seated themselves opposite each other with Doc between them. Doc stacked the cards and put them in the middle of the table, still not saying a word. The bartender looked troubled, the youth noticed when he glanced at him, but he held his tongue and asked no questions.
“Those two fellers have been buckin’ Doc every day for nearly a week now,” the bartender related in a low tone, “and they haven’t beaten ’im once. They can’t have such a helluva lot o’ dough left by now so if they don’t win today an’ drag it out, I got a feeling there’ll be trouble.”
“Who are they?”
“The one on Doc’s right is Bill Cox. The other feller’s his partner, Lee Fowler. They own the Tri-Star outfit. It ain’t one o’ the big spreads, but they must do all right with it because they both manage to make a living off it. Cox ain’t a bad sort. Leastways, I’ve never heard anybody say anything against him. Lee’s just the opposite.”
“Ornery, huh?”
The bartender nodded. “An’ how!” he said. “Guess you c’n tell that by just lookin’ at him. Looks mad, don’t he? He’s supposed to have a helluva temper, an’ I’ve heard tell that when he gets mad, the best thing to do is to get out’ve his way an’ stay out’ve it till he gets over his mad. I never had any trouble with him because I know how to handle him. I pass the time o’ day with him when he stops by an’ has a drink, but I give him plenty o’ room otherwise.”
The youth straightened up and stood cross-legged for a minute with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Then he relaxed again and leaned against the bar and uncrossed his legs. He watched the three men with interest. Cox, he judged, was about thirty, perhaps thirty-two, about average in height and build, and rather good-looking. Fowler was quite a bit older, probably in his middle forties, sullen, coarse-looking and heavily built. He wondered how two men, so completely different from each other, could become partners.
The three men played on quietly, in a grim, business-like fashion. After each hand Doc jotted down something on a small pad he kept at his elbow. Once Cox looked annoyed. He threw down his cards in disgust and started to get up as though he had had enough, too much. His partner, however, put out a restraining hand and said something to him. Cox permitted himself to be talked into continuing the game. They played on and on, and Doc won each time.
“Comin’ to the end,” the bartender said.
The youth looked at him. “How d’you know?” he asked.
“Oh, I know the signs,” the bartender replied with a thin and somewhat nervous smile. “Didn’t you see Cox move his holster so that the butt of his gun is right smack where his right hand is, resting on his right knee? An’ notice, he’s holdin’ his cards with one hand, his left. He’s gettin’ ready for something. If he starts to get up again, just hit the floor an’ stay put there. Lead’s liable to fly thick an’ fast around here, an’ there’s no point in stoppin’ any of it when you don’t hafta. Get it?”
The youth nodded to the bartender, lifted his glass and drank.
Fowler was dealing this time. Cox picked up his cards, looked at them and put them down slowly. He picked them up again, using both hands this time, took a second and longer look at them, put them down as before and sat back in his chair. Since there was never any change in Doc’s expression or manner, it was impossible to gauge the kind of hand he had been dealt. Fowler looked at his cards, studied them briefly and put them down. When he raised his gaze to Cox, the latter smiled and shook his head.
“Uh-huh,” the bartender interpreted. “Cox got himself a good hand. He’s standin’ pat.”
Fowler dealt a single card to Doc and took two for himself. He studied his hand, finally scowled and tossed it into the discards. He sat stiff-backed in his chair with his thick arms folded over his chest. Doc looked up at Cox and said something to him. When Cox answered, Doc laid down his cards, spreading them out, face up, on the table. Cox bent forward and looked at them. When he sat back again, his mouth was tightened into a hard, grim line.
“How d’you like that?” the bartender breathed. “Doc beat him, even with his pat hand!”
Suddenly, Cox flung his cards in Doc’s face and jerked backward in his chair. There was a deafening roar of gunfire, lightning-like shots, all of them fired so quickly that they seemed to blend into one thunderous blast.
The echo of the explosions seemed to carom off the walls and hung for a brief moment in the air. Lee Fowler’s head was bent. He toppled sideways out of his chair and crashed heavily on the floor. His chair tipped over and fell on him.
Cox was on his feet now, spread-legged, with his gun in his hand. He backed away from the table. He stopped and suddenly sagged. For an instant, he tottered and fell against the next table and pulled it down with him. Dust billowed upward from the floor.
Doc, gripping a short, stubby, black gun in his right hand, got up slowly and peered down at Lee Fowler who lay hunched over on his side. Doc moved away to where Cox had fallen. He shoved the overturned table away and looked down. He was frowning when he came erect again. He thrust his gun into his holster inside his coat, turned around and looked in the direction of the bar.
Doc beckoned and the bartender came out from behind the bar. “Y’know something?” he said to the youth. “We both forgot to hit the floor.” With that he grinned sheepishly, shook his head and trudged across the saloon floor to Doc’s side.
The young man sauntered after the bartender and stopped about a dozen feet from where Doc’s victims had fallen. There was a harsh, scraping sound as chairs were pushed back, and the four elderly men who had been playing cards in the opposite corner got up timorously and stood behind the youth. He glanced at them for an instant, then he looked down at Cox. There was a widening pool of blood under Cox, and some of it had begun to run off, into and along the cracks between the floor boards. Blood had begun to seep out from under Fowler’s body, too, but there was only a single, thin stream running along the floor.
“Jake,” the youth heard Doc say, and he looked up. “You’d better go fetch the sheriff.”
“Yeah, sure, Doc,” the bartender responded. “They—they both dead?”
Doc nodded grimly. “Yes,” he said a little heavily. “But you can tell the sheriff that I didn’t kill either one of them.”
Jake looked at him blankly. “Huh?” he said. “You didn’t?” His eyes widened as Doc’s words finally came through to him.
“No.”
“Then how—then how’d they—?”
“Never mind that for now, Jake,” Doc said, gesturing. “Call the sheriff.”
Jake looked puzzled, but he whipped off his apron and slung it away. Without another word he wheeled and ran out. The apron had flipped open, soared for a brief instant and had fallen between two tables and dropped on the floor limply and draped itself over a cuspidor.
The four old-timers plodded forward and peered down at Cox. Then they moved past Doc mutely and looked down at the hunched-over Fowler. They gave Doc a curious, searching look, but he disregarded it.
Doc had caught sight of the youth and now he came over to him. Doc’s eyes were hard and bright, and there was a tiny twitching around his mouth. “You were watching the game,” he said directly. “Did you see what happened? Did you see the shooting?”
“I thought I did,” the youth acknowledged, “but it all happened so fast that now I don’t know for sure what I saw.”
“How many shots d
id you hear?”
“Three, I think. But they were fired together so it might have been four. But I wouldn’t swear to it either way because I could be wrong.”
Doc looked disappointed, but before he could say anything more, quick, firm footsteps were heard headed for the saloon door. As they turned toward the door, Jake came panting in, followed by two burly men who were wearing silver stars. One man had his pinned to his suspenders; the other’s was pinned through the flap of his shirt pocket. Half a dozen wide-eyed and excited looking men came into the saloon, too, almost at the heels of the lawmen. Deputy Ab Wight, the younger of the two officers, stopped abruptly, and someone crowded into him from behind and trampled him. Wight wheeled around and pushed the man away, glowering fiercely at him and at the others. At that the onlookers shuffled to an awkward halt. Wight turned away from them then strode after his companion and followed him past the bar.
Both men glanced at Doc quickly. Both gave the tall youth a more appraising look. They went directly to where Cox lay and bent over him. After a minute they straightened up, went to Fowler’s side and bent over him. They made a cursory examination of the body and came sauntering back to where Doc was standing.
The older man, Sheriff Al Spencer, was even huskier than his companion. He stood on slightly spread legs, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and raised his keen blue eyes to Doc. “Awright,” he said curtly. “I’m listening. What happened, Doc?”
Wight seemed to be more interested in the youth and continued to eye him critically as Doc spoke.
“Well, briefly, Sheriff,” Doc related quietly. “Cox jumped up and went for his gun. I beat him to the draw, and I shot him in the right arm. He fired twice, but not at me. At Fowler.”
The sheriff had thick eyebrows. They arched, reflecting his surprise. “At Fowler, huh?” he said. He rubbed his bristly chin with a heavy hand. “Go on.”
“Fowler fired just once,” Doc continued “At Cox. Then it seemed to me there was a lull, probably not more than a couple of seconds long, and Fowler fell out of his chair. Cox got up and backed away from the table, but suddenly he doubled over and fell against the next table and pulled it down with him. That’s about all there was to it.”
“Any reason why Cox should’ve shot at Fowler and not at you, Doc? After all, he was losin’ all his money to you, Jake tells me.”
“Beats me, Sheriff,” Doc answered quietly.
The sheriff grunted. “Lemme see if I got it right,” he said. “You plugged Cox in the arm. Cox fired twice, an’ both times he shot at Fowler who fired back at him only once. That the way it was? The way it happened?”
“Exactly the way it happened.”
The sheriff gave Doc a hard look, turned on his heel and strode off, Doc’s eyes following him without flickering. He bent over Fowler a second time. After about a minute he straightened up. There was a gun in his hand. He examined it and shoved it down into his belt. Then he marched over to where Cox lay and knelt down beside him. When he got up again, he had a second gun in his hand. As he had done with Fowler’s gun, he examined this one, too, and finally pushed it down into his belt. The sheriff came sauntering back and halted squarely in front of Doc, looked at him and rocked on his heels. “Doc,” he said shortly. “You said Fowler fired just once. Right?”
“That’s right, Sheriff Spencer,” Doc replied, nodding.
“And you fired once?”
“Right.”
“An’ Cox fired twice?”
Doc nodded wordlessly. The sheriff’s eyes shifted away from Doc and fixed themselves on the youth who had been standing by quietly. He took note of the gun butt that stuck out of the latter’s waistband. His eyes came up again. “Awright, young feller,” he said briskly. “You’re new around here. Let’s hear what you’ve gotta say. First off, what’s your name?”
“Moore. Dave Moore.”
“Uh-huh. What d’you know about this?”
“Y’mean about the shooting?” the youth asked. “I don’t know anything about it. I was standing at the bar when it happened.”
The sheriff, seeking confirmation, shot a quick look in Jake’s direction, and when the bartender nodded, the lawman grunted and turned again to Moore. “Did you see what happened?” he asked.
“Yes, but like I told Doc a minute ago, it all happened so fast, I’m not at all sure about it.”
“Lemme see your gun,” the sheriff commanded, and he held out his hand for it.
Moore jerked out his gun and handed it over. The sheriff took it, examined it and raised his eyes. His lip was curled. “What are you doin’, playin’ Billy the Kid? Who cut all those notches in it?”
“They were there when I got it.”
The sheriff grunted and handed it back. “Lemme see your gun, Doc,” he said.
The gambler drew his gun from the holster inside his coat, palmed it and handed it, butt first, to the sheriff who looked it over carefully and returned it.
“There’s something cockeyed around here,” he announced.
Doc looked surprised.
“Cockeyed?” he echoed. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s cockeyed,” the sheriff retorted, “because it don’t make sense. That’s what I mean. The way you told it to me, Doc, it added up to four shots. You an’ Fowler fired one shot apiece, an’ Cox fired twice; that makes four shots in all. Leastways, it does accordin’ to the way I learned to add. Doc, you’re sure, are you, you didn’t hear more than four shots?”
“I’m quite sure I didn’t.”
The sheriff shrugged his thick shoulder. “Well, whether you heard any more or not, there was a fifth shot,” he said dryly.
“You’re positive about that?”
“Yep,” the sheriff said with finality.
“Then the fifth shot must have been fired at the same time that the others were fired,” Doc said. “Bunched together so that it sounded like four to me, whereas there were really five.”
“You fired once, and your bullet got Cox in the fleshy part of his arm,” Spencer related. “I know that wound came from your gun because that Spanish-make snub nose you use makes a small round hole when it hits. A Colt really does things to a man when he gets blasted. Drills him good, wide open, too. Cox was hit three times, twice besides gettin’ it from you in the arm.”
Doc was looking at the sheriff with wide eyes.
“One slug caught Cox in the belly,” the lawman continued. “The way I figger it, that one came from Fowler’s gun. That checks because it made a good-sized hole in Cox, an’ Fowler’s gun is a Colt. The slug that killed Cox drilled him right smack in the heart, and I think he musta had it in him when he got up on his feet and began to back away. That was the fifth shot fired, the one you didn’t hear. The one that did the damage.”
“You mean, Sheriff, that a bullet in a man’s heart doesn’t necessarily mean death the very moment it hits?”
“I saw a feller with a bullet in his heart walk more’n fifty feet once before he fell on his face.”
“You don’t say! But getting back to that fifth shot, Sheriff, did that one come from a Colt, too?”
The sheriff nodded.
“Then I’m in the clear,” Doc said and he seemed relieved.
“Far’s I know, right now you are. Your shot didn’t kill Cox. Matt—”
The four elderly card players trooped across the floor, and the sheriff turned to them. “Any o’ you fellers see what happened?” he asked, and his eyes shuttled from one to the other.
There was a general shaking of heads.
“Awright,” the sheriff said, briskly again. “The four o’ you get outta here till we’ve had a chance to look around. We’ll let you know when you can come back in. Matt—”
Pollard looked at Spencer.
“Never mind, Matt,” the big lawman told him. “One o’ you other fellers get hold o’ Joe Peters, an’ tell him he’s got two customers waitin’ for him here. An’ tell Joe to come an’ get them in a hurry. This place stinks
enough without havin’ a couple o’ dead men layin’ around to add to the stink. Awright, you fellers. G’wan now.”
Pollard and his companions went out, and the other men who had followed the lawmen into the saloon, tramped out, too.
“Doc,” the sheriff said, turning to him again. “Sit down somewhere’s an’ stay put. I’ll want to talk to you again. You, young feller,” he said addressing Moore. “What’d you say your name is?”
“Moore,” the youth answered.
“Oh, yeah! Awright, Moore, go find yourself a place to squat, an’ stay put there till I want you. Only don’t sit near Doc. Understand?”
Moore walked back to the bar, drained his glass and walked off toward the rear.
“Jake—”
The bartender looked up quickly. “Yeah, Sheriff?”
“Jake, lock the doors,” the sheriff commanded. “I don’t want anybody bustin’ in here while we’re havin’ ourselves a good look around.”
“Aw, Sheriff, have a heart,” the bartender pleaded. “If we don’t get any air in here, the stink’ll kill us.”
The sheriff frowned. “If we don’t figger out who it was that plugged Bill Cox,” he retorted, “there’ll be an even worse stink than the one you’ve got here now. Go on. Lock the doors like I said. There’s a killer loose around here, an’ I’m gonna find out who he is!”
CHAPTER TWO
A wobbly-based lamp with a slanted shade furnished the light for the sheriff’s office. It stood on the far edge of the desk in the middle of the room, and it cast off a yellowish light that took in only the immediate area of the desk, the armchair behind it and the straight-backed chair in front of it. It left most of the office in shadows and the corners in darkness. Dave Moore, who was lounging in the straight-backed chair, was slumped down in it on his spine, with his long legs thrust out in front of him and crossed. He uncrossed them after a while, sighed wearily and shook his head. He glanced resentfully at the deputy who was sitting astride another straight-backed chair near the front door, holding his gun on him. The door opened, and Dave lifted his gaze as the sheriff came bustling in. “Took me a heap longer’n I figgered it would,” the latter announced a little breathlessly.