The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “All set?” a man’s voice asked.

  It was the man named Jed; Dave recognized his voice.

  “All set,” was the response from the other man. Then he added: “Jed, you an’ Millie ride out ahead of us.”

  “Right,” Jed answered.

  There was a shadowy movement beyond Dave, and presently hoofs plodded up the alleyway.

  “Awright, Moore.”

  The big man wheeled into position alongside of Dave. Together they rode up the alley and emerged in the open. The street was dark and silent.

  “Let’s go!”

  A heavy hand whacked Dave’s mount on the rump. The result was a stinging slap that made the animal snort in protest and bound away. The big man quickly overtook Dave, reached out and snatched the reins out of his hands. His horse was pulled up and swung around, and the reins were flung back at Dave. They pounded down the hushed street at a swift gallop, their horses’ hoofs drumming a swelling beat.

  Minutes later, when Dave twisted around and looked back, Stone City had disappeared behind him. He settled himself again in the saddle. The chilly night air tore at his hat, and he tugged at it and pulled the brim down. He whipped up his shirt collar and buttoned it. He wished he had his leather jacket with him. It was in his saddle-bag, and he wondered if he would ever see it again. He wondered, too, if it was his horse he had heard whinnying in the lean-to.

  Dave raised his head, but he could not see anything now of Jed nor of the woman with him. He glanced at the bulky figure riding alongside of him. The man rode slightly hunched forward with his thick shoulders rounded. A couple of times their stirrups touched, and once their horses came dangerously close together and threatened to bump each other.

  “Watch it,” the big man said rather sharply. He jerked the reins and pulled his horse away. The running horses came together again shortly, and again they had to be pulled apart. This happened again and again throughout the ride, the horses converging, unconsciously or otherwise, and their riders promptly separating them each time in an effort to maintain a fairly safe distance between them.

  The miles slipped away into the darkness, and soon the horses began to pant and wheeze. When Dave’s companion suddenly slowed his mount, Dave pulled back on the reins, too.

  The ground was grassless now and hard, and the horses’ hoofs rang out sharply against the hushed night. They clattered along without a word over a stretch of stony ground until a darkened structure loomed up ahead of them.

  “That’s it, Moore!” the man alongside of Dave called out. ‘That’s the house up ahead.”

  The men checked their mounts again, Dave following his captor’s lead as before. They slowed down to a mere jog. They came up to the building and reined in. The horses bowed their heads and stood on outspread, quivering legs and blew themselves. Suddenly, there was light, yellowish and sputtering, inside the house. It steadied after a moment and seemed to come closer, then it stopped. Thin rays sifted out through a curtained window and played over the ground directly below the level of the sill.

  “Awright, Moore, you c’n get down,” the man said. Dave dismounted and stood by his horse, waiting. The man climbed down beside him, nudged him and said: “Come on.”

  As the two started up to the house, a door opened, and a man appeared in the doorway. Lamplight, somewhere behind him, silhouetted his figure. When he backed inside, holding the door wide, and moved into range of the light, Dave saw that it was Jed. Dave and the big man who came crowding in behind him, forcing him to move alertly to avoid being trampled, entered the house. Dave stopped again a couple of steps beyond the door, while his companion halted and whispered something to Jed. They were in the kitchen, a spacious and orderly one, too. It had a warmth and a pleasant charm about it.

  Dave heard the door close. There was an approaching step, and as he turned his head, Jed came abreast of him. “Sit down,” he invited over his shoulder.

  Dave grunted an indistinct response, and Jed went out of the room through a door at the far end. Dave took off his hat and ranged his gaze about the room. Idly he ran his finger around the inside of the sweatband of his hat. On the left, and he took them in in a single sweeping glance, were some cupboards, an iron sink and a small window above it. There was also a stove with a shiny name-plate on it and a water bucket with a long-handled dipper in it, mounted on an up-ended wooden box. Directly opposite him was the door through which Jed had gone, an across the room from the sink was a portiere-covered doorway with a hall beyond it and a stairway of which he could see only a couple of steps and a piece of banister railing. Diagonally behind him was the window through which the lamplight had shone. There was another window on the other side of the door.

  Closer at hand, in about the middle of the room, was a heavy-legged table with a gingham-checked cloth on it, a lighted lamp, and a small, lonely and rather dejected looking vase, whose emptiness was probably responsible for its unhappy appearance. Half a dozen straight-backed chairs were pushed in close to the table. A couple of others stood rigidly against the wall at various points in the room.

  The big man came up to the table, reached for a chair, spun it around and nodded to Dave. “Sit down,” he said. Dave took a good look at the fellow. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet, thick through the chest, broad-shouldered and heavy armed. He wore his gun low-slung, with the open lipped holster strapped around his right thigh. The butt of Dave’s gun peered out at him from the man’s belt. He moved around the table as Dave seated himself. The man pulled out a chair, sat down in it and leaned forward a little over the table on his folded arms. He had an oblong or oval-shaped face, a square and steady jaw, spaced apart eyes.

  The man smiled thinly at Dave. “I gave you the rush outta the sheriff’s place because I was afraid the Fowler bunch’d show up an’ take you away from us. And that woulda been too bad because they’da killed you once they’da got you outta town.”

  Dave’s head jerked. “Huh?” he said in a startled tone. “Why? What’d I do to them?”

  “It happens you’re the only witness to my brother Bill’s killing, an’ since it was one o’ the Fowlers who killed him, they’da wanted you outta the way so’s you wouldn’t be able to point out the one who did it. But I wanna be honest with you, Moore. It wasn’t just to stop the Fowlers fr’m gettin’ their hands on you that I got you away from Spencer’s place. I want you to tell me who killed Bill.”

  “I can’t.”

  The man smiled, but a steady and ominous glint came into his eyes. His mouth seemed to tighten the barest bit.

  “You don’t mean by that that you won’t,” Cox said. “Do you?”

  “I mean that I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”

  “H’m.” The smile vanished. “You were right there when it happened, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure. Only it all happened so fast, I don’t know f’r sure what I saw, or what I think I saw. Y’know?”

  “See any o’ the gunplay?”

  “Nope.”

  “You must’ve seen something, Moore,” the man persisted.

  Dave shook his head. “An’ I say I didn’t,” he answered doggedly. “The sheriff thinks I did, an’ so does that deputy o’ his an’ now you. An’ all I can do is keep tellin’ each one o’ you the same thing; that I didn’t see any of the shooting.”

  Cox was silent for a moment. “Awright,” he said. “Lemme ask you something else. Where d’you figger that last shot came from, the one that drilled Bill through the heart?”

  “Haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Anybody come up behind Fowler?”

  “Nope, nobody. It was just the three o’ them sittin’ together at that table, an’ nobody else near them.”

  “Uh-huh. Where d’you come from, Moore?”

  “Colorado,” Dave answered.

  “What part o’ Colorado?”

  “The northern part.”

  “Around Hastings way?”

  Dave nodded. “About sixty mil
es from Hastings,” he said.

  The man sat back in his chair. “Moore,” he said quietly, “I think you know a helluva lot more’n you’re lettin’ on. My brother was tipped off that Fowler’d hired a killer from Colorado, a man whose name we didn’t get. We didn’t even know what he was supposed to look like, but he was supposed to kill Bill so the Fowlers could have Tri-Star for themselves. What we do know is that the killer hailed from around Hastings, an’ I think you’re him. You were planted at the bar to make sure that Bill didn’t leave that table alive. If whoever it was missed Bill with that last shot, then you were supposed to step in an’ do the job.”

  “You’re crazy!” Dave protested. “I’m no killer. I never killed a man in my life. What’s more, I never pulled a gun on a man, either.”

  There was a disbelieving, scornful smile on Cox’s parted lips. “That so? Then how come all the notches on the butt o’ your gun?” he demanded.

  “I bought that gun from a feller who was broke. I didn’t even know there were notches on it till afterwards.”

  “That’s your story, huh?”

  “It’s the truth,” Moore insisted. “You fellers are tryin’ to mix me up in something I don’t know anything about.”

  Cox pushed his chair back from the table. “Jed!” he hollered.

  The door at the far end of the room opened, and Jed appeared.

  “Yeah, Tom?”

  “Jed, lock him up in the cellar,” Cox commanded, jerking his head in Moore’s direction. “No grub, no water, not a damned thing till he talks. Y’hear? An’ if he don’t talk, the hell with him. Let him rot down there!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The obscuring veil of night had just begun to thin and lift when there was a lusty thump on the back door of Sheriff Spencer’s place. It jolted Ab Wight into reluctant awakening. He stirred, sighed deeply and half opened his eyes. He lay still then, listening and waiting.

  When Wight heard the thump a second time, and this time there was obvious impatience in the knock, he scowled darkly, mumbled something under his breath and began to turn his body and inch his legs over the side of his cot. Suddenly, remembering the wet towel he had wound around his battered head; he stopped, unwound the towel and dropped it into the bucket of water he had placed beside the cot. Water splashed upward, and some of it sloshed over his feet, but he disregarded it. He reached out for his boots, closing his eyes tightly. His head began to throb angrily as he groped for them till he found them and brought them closer to the cot.

  The deputy forced himself up into a sitting position. He moved forward, got his feet into the boots, and with an effort, pulled them on. Slowly and cautiously, because he was afraid that quick movement of any kind might make the throbbing swell, he stood up. He felt wobbly for a moment, and he was motionless till the weak feeling that had held him left him. He hitched up his pants half-heartedly, turned towards the door and trudged away with a heavy-legged weariness that was unusual for him. As he came up to the door, the thump sounded again.

  “Yeah?” Wight asked grumpily. The throbbing in his head had begun to increase, and the pain made him wince. He closed his eyes again and put his hands to his head, pressing gently against his temples in a vain effort to control the ache.

  “It’s me, Ab,” a voice informed him from the other side of the door.

  “Huh?” Wight was not fully responsible for his dullness. He was not entirely awake yet. Then, too, his aching head had a lot to do with it. Suddenly coming to, he asked: “That you, Al?”

  “Who the hell d’you think it is, you numbskull?” the voice roared back at him. “Open ’er up!”

  Ab winced again. He didn’t feel up to being abused. It made his head pound even more. He turned the bolt in the lock and reached for the door knob. The door was suddenly flung open, and he was hurled backward. Three men burst in, swarmed over him and pummeled him, despite the fact that he offered no resistance and attempted nothing more than to defend his head.

  Wight’s shirt was torn out of his pants and yanked upward over his head, and his arms were twisted behind him and tied together with it. Then rough hands grabbed him again, and spun him around and sent him reeling into a corner. He cried out when he collided with the wall and sank to his knees. Someone came up behind him, and a heavy hand drove his head down between his knees. He huddled in the corner willingly, afraid that if he tried to get up, someone might hit him on the head. The very thought made him shudder. He heard quick scampering feet go past him and disappear somewhere beyond him, but he refused to concern himself with anything that was going on about him. There was a brief silence, then the sound of returning footsteps. Presently he heard voices.

  “Nowheres around,” an angry voice said.

  “Somebody beat us to ’im,” a second voice said.

  “Yeah,” a third one said, “an’ I bet I can tell you who that somebody was. Tom Cox.”

  “Uh-huh. Awright. What d’you fellers say we go pay Mister Cox a visit?”

  “What are we waitin’ for?”

  The men trooped out of the place, and Wight heard the door swing behind them and latch. The last he heard of them was a clatter of hoofs that faded out shortly, and then everything was silent and hushed again. He struggled to his feet, turned himself around and lay back against the wall for a moment, fighting off a dizziness that had come upon him.

  After a while, Wight straightened up. He strove manfully to free his arms, but his efforts proved futile. Moving slowly along the wall, and holding his head back stiffly to avoid bumping it, he managed to get back to his cot He tripped over the water bucket, and he felt the water run over his booted feet. He got into the cot and slumped down in it on his face. The whole world, he told himself, could come knocking on the door, and that included Al, too, but he would not answer. Anyone who wanted to come in would have to devise his own unaided means of entrance. He was staying put, right where he was, no matter what happened. The deputy closed his eyes, and after a while the throbbing began to abate. The deep silence lulled his senses. He sighed a couple of times, deep down inside of him, and his whole body seemed to ease and relax. Presently, the only sound was his deep, measured breathing. He was asleep.

  * * * *

  There was a small, iron-barred window in the cellar, high up along the side wall, and by standing on top of an empty and up-ended barrel that he had found lying nearby on its side, Dave Moore was able to peer out and get a limited view of his outer surroundings. He saw a tiny light come into the drab sky and watched it deepen and glow. Then suddenly the sky was filled to overflowing with surging and ever-brightening light, and it was dawn.

  It was some time before Dave heard any activity in the Cox household. Then, somewhere above him, he heard a door open and close, heard footsteps parade overhead, heard another door open and close. This one was a little louder than the first. Then someone came sauntering out of the house and down the path that wound past the cellar window and into Moore’s range of vision.

  It was the man Jed. He halted just short of the window and looked about him idly. He yawned once or twice and stretched himself. There was a barn a short distance away; forty or fifty feet from the house, Dave judged it to be. He could not see very much of the building, hardly more than the junction of the sloping roof and the walls, despite his neck craning and his standing on tiptoe.

  After a minute or two, Jed started off in the direction of the barn. There was a sudden, silence-shattering crack of a rifle. The echo of the explosion hung briefly in the crisp, early morning air; then it seemed to lift into space, dissolve and fade away. Dave reached for the bars, curled his hands around them and pulled himself up till his eyes were on a level with the window sill. He sought Jed eagerly and found him without delay. He saw Jed stagger, come to an awkward, shuffling stop and half bend over with his arms folded and pressed tightly against his stomach. The wounded man turned toward the house and looked up at it pleadingly. A cry burst from Dave’s lips, but Jed did not hear it. He was beyond hearing
anything. He stiffened suddenly and seemed to rise up to his fullest height. Then he pitched face downward into the dirt.

  Dave came thumping down on the barrel top. He spun around, hurdled the wooden box on which he had been sitting earlier, and dashed across the cellar. In a flash he bounded up the short flight of rickety stairs to the door and hammered on it with his fists. He heard a man’s voice, but it was far away, sleepy sounding and indistinct. He banged on the door again, pounded it and shook it, and then he yelled. There was no response for perhaps a minute, the longest minute he had ever known. Then he heard heavy, scuffing footsteps overhead. Presently, someone came up to the door.

  “Goddammit, Moore!” Tom Cox hollered angrily. “What’n blazes are you doin’ down there? You goin’ crazy or something?”

  “Yeah, I’m crazy, all right!” Dave hollered back. “Look out the window, the side window. They got your man Jed!”

  “Jed?” Cox repeated.

  Dave could tell by Cox’ voice that he wasn’t completely awake to the full significance of what he had just heard.

  “Wait a minute!”

  “All right, I’ll wait!”

  Cox’ booted feet went scurrying over the kitchen floor. Half a minute later they came pounding back to the cellar door.

  “Did you see him?” Dave yelled.

  “Yeah, sure!” Cox answered. Then excitement filled his voice. “Who got ’im, Moore? You see him?”

  “I don’t think it was a him. Must’ve been a them.”

  “Awright, awright—them. Where are they? Can you see them?”

  “Nope,” Moore replied. “But the shot came from the direction of the barn, so they must be somewhere around there.”

  “Wait’ll I take another look!”

  Tom Cox bolted away again. The rifle cracked a second time, and almost immediately Dave heard the crash of a shattered window pane. He heard a woman cry out, not in pain, but in startled fright. He had not seen the woman again after that brief moment in the darkness in the alleyway outside the sheriff’s office, and he had wondered about her. But then other things had happened, and he had forgotten about her. She was probably Cox’ wife, he told himself. She and Jed had reached the house ahead of them, and she had probably gone directly upstairs. He heard Cox rush by overhead. He had probably gone upstairs, Dave decided, to see that his wife was all right. The rifle cracked again, ominously, and other rifles joined in, adding their powerful voices to the mounting din.