The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Sheriff Spencer moved past Dave to his desk, pulled back his chair and seated himself in it. It creaked a little dismally under the weight of his bulky body. He rested his thick arms on the desk, and his fingers drummed on it briefly. Then he asked: “How’ve you boys been gettin’ along? Awright?” There was no response to Spencer’s question. Since he did not press for an answer, it was apparent that he did not really expect one. He took off his hat and scaled it away. It soared across the room, struck and caromed off the far side wall. It dropped limply, missing the chair that stood against the wall, and flopped to the floor.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Ain’t doin’ so good lately,” he said. “Seems like I’ve kinda lost the knack. I used to be able to make it drop right smack down into that chair pretty nearly every time I tried it, but not lately I haven’t. Now I’m lucky if I can do it even once in a while. I must be doin’ something wrong. Givin’ it too much spin, I guess.”

  There was a grunt from Dave. He wasn’t even remotely interested. He had been sitting on the hard, straight chair for five long, wearying hours, and now he was bored, tired and hungry. He wanted to get out.

  “Look, Sheriff,” Moore said as he sat up. His body had stiffened, and movement made him grimace. “What am I being held for?”

  Spencer looked surprised, even pained. “Nobody’s holdin’ you for anything,” he answered in a hurt tone. “Where’d you get that idea from?”

  “From your deputy,” Dave said coldly, and he jerked his head in Wight’s direction. “If you aren’t holding me for anything, why’s he been sittin’ there with his gun on me?”

  “Aw, you got it all wrong,” Spencer said with a wave of his hand. “Ab didn’t mean anything by that. You take things too seriously.” The sheriff’s grin was a little sad.

  “Yeah, I’m funny that way,” Moore said dryly. “Any time I see a gun pointed at me, I take it seriously.”

  “I told Ab to see to it that nothing happened to you, the sheriff continued, ignoring Dave’s remark. “He musta been afraid you might try to do something to yourself, an’ since he wasn’t takin’ any chances, he held his gun on you so’s you wouldn’t do anything he didn’t think you oughta. That’s all there was to that”

  “Very funny,” Moore said angrily. “I’m kinda tired, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll laugh about it tomorrow instead o’ now.”

  Spencer grinned. “Hey, Ab,” he said. “He’s a right funny feller, y’know?”

  The deputy offered no opinion.

  “How ’bout it, Sheriff?” Moore asked “Is it all right for me to get outta here?”

  Spencer gestured expansively with his empty hands, and Dave stood up at once. Then when Spencer shook his head and motioned for him to sit down again, Dave scowled and muttered angrily. He threw Spencer a look of resentment but sat down again.

  “Just wanna ask you a couple of more questions first,” the sheriff explained.

  “Let’s have ’em,” Moore said bitterly, “and let’s get this fool thing over with.”

  “Let’s see now,” Spencer mused. “Oh, yeah! What brought you to Stone City, Moore?”

  “My horse,” Dave said curtly. “An’ first chance I get, I’ll shoot him for doing it”

  The sheriff chuckled, and his belly heaved a couple of times. “That’s funny, Moore, but I need more than that to go on.”

  “I was passing through,” Moore related. “Now I wish to hell I’d circled around it instead o’ comin’ through this lousy town.”

  Spencer looked hurt again. “Stone City ain’t the worst place in the world,” he protested mildly. “I’ve seen worse, believe me.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m tellin’ you.”

  “I still don’t believe it.”

  Spencer shrugged his thick shoulder. “Awright, if you won’t, you just won’t,” he said and he squirmed back a little in his chair, making it creak loudly again. “Where’d you work last, Moore?”

  “In Colorado. For the Three-Bar outfit.”

  “Uh-huh. An’ what’d you do there?”

  “Rode the line mostly.”

  “The Three-Bar outfit, you say.”

  “Yeah, Sim Tyler’s spread.”

  “Never heard of ’im.”

  “That’s all right,” Moore answered calmly. “Chances are he never heard of you, either.”

  “Why’d you leave there?” the sheriff asked, ignoring the dig.

  “Because I wanted to. There a law against quittin’ a job when you get tired of it?”

  Spencer affected his pained expression again. “I’m only askin’ you questions,” he said. “Ain’t any call for you to get sore.”

  “Look, your deputy asked me the same fool questions. Why don’t you ask him for the answers?”

  “Rather get them from you first hand. Have any trouble with the law in Colorado?”

  Dave’s lip curled, and the sheriff gestured again. “Just a question, y’know, an’ still nothing to get mad about. Moore, you sure you didn’t see anybody shoot Bill Cox?”

  “I didn’t see anybody do anything,” Moore said wearily.

  “Well, somebody shot him besides Doc and Fowler,” Spencer continued, “an’ somebody musta seen who that somebody was.”

  “Then you’d better go find that somebody who can tell you who it was,” the youth retorted. “I didn’t see anything.”

  The sheriff’s shoulders lifted again. “If you say you didn’t see anything,” he said, “you oughta know.”

  “Look, I’m tired. Can I get outta here now?”

  Spencer considered his question for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope,” he said calmly.

  “Why not?” Dave demanded.

  “Because I think it might be better f’r you to stay tonight”

  “What’s the big idea?”

  “Well, it’s this way, Moore. I kinda think that maybe after you’ve had a good night’s sleep, something might come back to you. In the morning your memory’ll be a heap fresher’n it is now, an’ I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you suddenly remembered somethin’ you can’t even think of now. It’s happened before, you know. Oh, yeah, any number o’ times.”

  Dave glared. “There’s nothing the matter with my memory now,” he said angrily. “It won’t be any better tomorrow morning ’n it is right this minute.”

  “Suppose we wait an’ see, huh, Moore? Ab—”

  “Yeah, Al?” the deputy asked as he arose.

  “Ab,” the sheriff said, “Mister Moore’s gonna spend the night here as our guest. I’m gonna hafta leave it to you to see that he’s comf’table.”

  “Y’mean you’re goin’ out again?”

  “Yeah,” Spencer said, nodding. “I got a couple o’ things I wanna check up on.”

  “What about some grub?” Wight asked. “I c’n do with some.”

  “I’ll take care o’ that for you,” the sheriff told him. “I’ll stop by Charley’s place, an’ I’ll have him send somethin’ over.”

  “When do you figger you’ll be back?”

  “Now there’s somethin’ I can’t tell you, Ab. Leastways, not yet. It depends, y’know. Chances are though it won’t be tonight any more. More’n likely tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll bolt the front door when I turn in. You got your key for the back door, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Spencer said, and he pushed back from the chair with both hands and climbed to his feet. His armchair seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Awright, Moore. Ab’ll show you where you’re gonna sleep.”

  Dave stood up, gave Spencer a bitter look and hitched up his levis far more viciously than was necessary.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” the sheriff told him with a thin smile.

  Dave’s lip curled. “I c’n hardly wait,” he answered.

  Wight came past Dave, went to the connecting door, opened it and backed against it, holding it wide. “Awright, Moore,” he said, and he beckoned with hi
s gun. “Come on.”

  Dave glowered at the deputy, too. He gave his levis another hitching up and stalked up to the waiting Wight. Angrily, he pushed past him into the back room, and Wight, wheeling after him, followed closed behind.

  * * * *

  Three man-sized sandwiches that had thick, liberally cut slices of meat in them, a can of coffee that was hot and good, and a couple of cigarettes made Dave feel much better. Still sleep did not come to him when he lay back on his cot in what was obviously a storeroom. There was no fresh air in the place, but it wasn’t that alone that stood between him and the sleep he sought. There was something else responsible for it, some very disturbing thoughts that made him restless. Dave tossed and turned for what seemed like endless hours in his futile efforts to escape them, but they persisted, refused to be driven off. After a while he surrendered completely to their relentless hounding.

  Dave had stumbled into something that he couldn’t figure out, something that had several others puzzled, too, and an uneasy feeling began to form and build within him. Fate had seen fit to connect him with the murders of two men whom he had never seen before. The fact that he had been present in the saloon when they were struck down seemed more than sufficient to involve him up to his neck in the strange mystery that surrounded their double shooting.

  Dave cursed his luck, cursed himself for having stopped at the saloon, and he cursed everyone connected with the affair there. But then, when his rage had spent itself, and he was able to think clearly again, the uneasiness that had welled up inside him began to leave him.

  Obviously, the killings weren’t just ordinary killings. There was something about them that lifted them out of that category. The two men had been partners, and from what Jake had told him, they had made a go of their partnership. Yet, in that climactic moment of gunplay they had turned their guns upon each other, rather than upon the most logical object of their anger. It was Doc to whom they had lost their money. Then why had they not turned upon him? That would have made more sense. That was something that gave him food for thought and conjecture.

  Dave tried to go back in his thoughts to the very beginning, to his entrance into the saloon. There was Jake behind the bar, bald, sweating and friendly. The small talk that had passed between them came back to him; the talk about the smell in the place, the heat, and so on. He saw the four old men quite clearly, and he could even hear Lafe Watkins’ cackling laugh. It had not bothered him then. Now it beat against his ears discordantly.

  Dave was looking at Doc, watching him shuffling the cards and marveling at the expertness with which he handled them. Then two newcomers, Bill Cox and swarthy-faced Lee Fowler, shouldered their way onto the scene. Dave could see himself leaning over the lip of the bar to catch what Jake was telling him about them. Everything was so clear; the game, the players, the interpretive running comment by Jake. Then came the blow-up, the thunderous, stunning roar of gunfire, and the echo of it seemed to carom off the walls of the place and hang overhead like a cloud. A tiny wisp of gunsmoke swirled around Doc’s table, lifted gently and lost itself in the upper reaches of the place.

  Dave saw Lee Fowler topple out of his chair. He saw Bill Cox get up from his, back away and suddenly stop and fall. The scene changed a bit. Doc was standing in front of Dave. He could see Doc’s thin lips moving as he talked, and he could see the look of disappointment come over Doc’s face when he couldn’t tell him with any degree of certainty how many shots he had heard. Then the two husky lawmen, Al Spencer and Ab Wight, came onto the scene, and Doc moved out of it.

  Why was he being held, Dave wondered. He didn’t believe the sheriff’s excuse for detaining him. There was something else, something more to it, something far more sinister and ominous than the lame excuse Spencer had offered. Dave stiffened. Was he being held in custody because the sheriff was afraid the unknown killer might try to turn his Colt on Dave, too? It did not make sense, yet it did. If the killer suspected that Dave had seen him, even though he actually had not, then fear of betrayal might force him to seek to silence Dave. That was a poser, and instantly Dave began to picture himself dodging around corners, looking back all the time over his shoulder, stiffening at the slightest sound and working himself up into a frightened frenzy.

  The uneasiness that had gripped Dave Moore earlier now returned, and a cold sweat broke out on his hands and face. He turned over on his side. He pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes. After a while he slumped over on his back.

  Dave had no way of knowing when it was that he finally dozed off, but it seemed though that he had just fallen asleep when he was jolted into awakening by a heavy knocking somewhere in the darkness beyond him. The knocking was repeated almost at once, a little more impatiently the second time. He heard approaching footsteps, and he propped himself up on his elbow and listened. The steps came closer; then they echoed past the storeroom. It was Ab Wight, he told himself, going to the door. He heard the knocking a third time, and he heard Ab’s voice, too.

  Then, because Dave heard a fumbling of some sort with the lock, he knew that Ab had reached the back door.

  “Where’s your key, Al?” Dave heard Wight ask. His voice sounded a little grumpy now. “I thought you said you had it with you.”

  The door was opened. There was a muffled cry, a gurgling, choking sound, a blow and the thud of a body striking the floor. Dave sat up at once. There were quick steps. They skidded to a stop outside his door, and Dave caught his breath.

  “Moore, you in there?”

  Dave did not answer. A gun butt hammered on the storeroom door.

  “Moore!”

  The door shook. There was no avoiding it now.

  “Yeah?” Dave asked, sleepy-voiced, as though he had just awakened. “What—what the hell’s the matter? What’s goin’ on?”

  There was a ripping, splintering sound, and something struck the floor outside with a metallic ring. It was the lock, Dave knew. It had been pried off the door. He prepared himself for what he knew would happen next. The door was suddenly flung open, and a lantern that was held high flamed with dazzling light from the doorway. Dave turned his head in its direction, shielding his eyes with his upraised hand. Two men, with their hat brims pulled down over their eyes, and with guns in their hands, filled the doorway. The man who was holding the lantern aloft lowered it, and his companion squeezed past him and stepped into the storeroom. He was a big man, bigger than Al Spencer.

  “Awright, Moore,” the stranger said briskly. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s up? Who’n hell are you?”

  “Hop outta there,” the man continued, and he gestured with his gun which seemed to be a part of his hand.

  “What’s the idea? Where are we going?”

  “Haven’t got time now to go into that,” the man answered. “Right now we wanna get you outta here. After a while we’ll get a chance to talk. Come on, Moore. Make it lively!”

  Dave hesitated for a moment, then, conceding that he had no alternative but to obey, he swung his long legs over the side of the cot, pushed his feet into his boots, bent over and pulled them on and straightened up on the cot.

  “Anything around here that belongs to you?” the man asked as Dave got up on his feet. “Got any o’ your gear here?”

  Moore tucked in his shirttail as the man watched.

  “Only my gun,” Dave said, buttoning his levis and hitching them up. “It’s in the sheriff’s desk. In the top drawer.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  The man wheeled and went out, as his waiting companion moved out of the doorway to allow him to pass. Dave smoothed back his hair with his hands, caught up his hat and clapped it on his head.

  The man with the lantern moved back into the doorway. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Moore walked towards the door. The big fellow, who had gone to get Dave’s gun, returned with it just as Dave emerged from the storeroom. Dave could see the butt jutting out of his pants belt.

  “Where we going?” Dave a
sked for the second time.

  “Don’t ask questions now,” the man replied. “Ab’ll be comin’ to in a minute, an’ we wanna be on our way before that. Y’sure there ain’t anything else o’ yours here?”

  “Just my gun.”

  “Awright, Jed,” the big man said over his shoulder to his companion. “You go out first, an’ see that everything’s set. We’ll follow you.”

  The man named Jed wheeled away and marched off in the direction of the back door.

  “Come on, Moore,” the big man said, and together they walked toward the back door. There was a sprawled out figure, half-twisted over on its side, lying on the floor just beyond the door. Dave halted when he came up beside it and looked down. Sure enough, there was Ab Wight. He threw a questioning look at the big man beside him.

  “He’ll be awright,” the man said simply.

  The big man moved ahead of Moore, opened the door and motioned to him. Dave sauntered out. The man followed him, and just as he was about to close the door behind him, he pushed it open again and darted back inside. Dave stopped and looked after him, wonderingly. The lighted lantern had been left standing on an up-ended box about midway between the back door and the storeroom. The man ran to it and blew out the light He came out again, crowding into Dave, and he yanked the door shut.

  It was dark and chilly outdoors and the night air had an unpleasant dampness about it that penetrated the body. There was a squat structure close by, a lean-to, and Dave heard a horse whinny and move about restlessly within its flimsy walls. A hand plucked at Dave’s shirt sleeve, gripped it, and he was led around the building and presently into a gloomy black alleyway. He heard the creak of saddle leather and the impatient ground pawing of a horse’s ironshod hoof.

  “All right?” a voice asked guardedly.

  It was the voice of a young woman, and Dave looked up quickly.’

  “Yeah, sure. Come on, Moore. Over here.”

  Dave was turned around. He collided with a horse, and the animal snorted. Reins were thrust into Dave’s hands. He reached for the saddle horn, gripped it, and he pulled himself up. Deftly he swung his leg over the saddle and settled himself in it.