by Matt Rand
“That’s good, partner,” Doak said. “It always gets a laugh outta me when I hear it. Only now I’m kinda disappointed in you. I think you coulda done even better if you’da tried.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, I was kinda hopin’ you’d come up with something new,” Doak explained. “F’r instance, like the feller you bought the horse offa mighta told you that EF brand the horse is wearin’ were the feller’s initials or something. Get the idea?”
Dave grinned a little sheepishly. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “that’s what did happen. Only I was afraid to tell it to you; I was afraid you mightn’t believe it.”
Pete had halted his mount. When Dave and Doak came abreast of him, he pulled alongside of Dave. “We had that Moore feller figgered for a slicker,” he said. “What’d he do, swap horses with you?”
Dave nodded.
“Remember which way he went after that?” Pete asked.
“Westward,” Dave answered promptly.
“Westward, huh?” Doak repeated thoughtfully. He rubbed his bristly chin with a thick, dirty-nailed finger, then he rubbed his nose with it. “Headin’ into the hills. Hey, Pete, remember me tellin’ Ed that that was where we shouda gone lookin’, too?”
“Yeah, think I do. Only trouble was, Ed had his own ideas.”
“Don’t he always?” Doak said grumpily. He looked at Dave. “What’s your name, partner?”
“Smith,” Dave answered at once. “First name’s John, but most everybody calls me Johnny.”
Doak grinned again. “Smith, huh?” he said. “S’matter? How come everybody who gets fouled up calls himself Smith? How come somebody don’t say his name’s Brown or Jones f’r a change?”
“What’s a feller supposed to do when his name happens to be Smith?” Dave retorted. “Change it?”
“C’mon, now,” Doak urged. “What was your name before it became Smith?”
“This’ll kill you,” Dave told him.
“I’m listenin’.”
“It was Brown. There, you satisfied?”
Doak turned to Pete. “Hey, Pete,” he said. “You know something? We oughta get Ed to keep this feller around just for laughs.”
“Yeah, only Ed ain’t in a laughin’ mood these days.”
“Key, Doak!” Carly called, and both Doak and Pete turned around. “Didn’t Ed say he was goin’ to town this morning? Didn’t he say somethin’ about havin’ some business to take care of in Stone City?”
“What about it?” Doak asked.
“Well, why don’t we head for Stone City, too?” Carly wanted to know. “Instead o’ goin’ all the way out to our place? I’m kinda beat, an’ my mouth an’ throat are all dried up. A glass o’ Jake’s beer sounds awful good to me right now. So how ’bout it?”
“Yeah, but what about this feller? This Smith, or Brown or whatever his name is?”
“Turn him over to Ed, an’ let Ed do whatever he wants with him,” Carly said. “That’s what’s gonna happen anyway, even if we take him straight to our place. What d’you say?”
“What d’you think, Pete?” Doak asked, turning to him. Pete’s shoulders lifted. “It’s awright with me,” he replied. “I c’n always do with a cold beer.”
Doak grunted, settled himself and motioned eastward with his hand. Pete jerked the reins, swinging as directed, and the others followed his lead. There was no further conversation as the horses drummed swiftly toward town. Everyone seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts.
As for Dave, he could only hope for the best. But, he promised himself, gun or no gun, he would be alert to any opportunity that presented itself. He made no attempt to estimate distance or time. Neither of them had any importance to him at the moment. He was thinking of Ed Fowler, and the more he thought of him, the more he became filled with misgivings. Lee Fowler had had a bad name; Ed’s was as bad and probably worse. A troubled, uneasy feeling came over Dave. If he could manage to get by as Johnny Smith, there was a chance for him. But if he were recognized, he knew only too well what it would mean for him. The thought that gripped him made him grim-faced.
The men rode into Stone City through mounting heat, slowing their horses to a walk. There was no activity in the sundrenched street that was the town.
“Sure is hot, awright!” Pete muttered, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve.
“Helluva lot hotter in town than it was out there,” Doak said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“I wonder why?” Pete queried, shifting himself in the saddle.
“It just is, I guess,” Doak answered. “Anyway, it’s too damned hot f’r us to try to figger out somethin’ like that. It’s the kind o’ thing you take or you leave without askin’ how come, because f’r my dough there ain’t anybody who knows the answer to it.”
“I thought there was supposed to be an answer to everything,” Pete said with a thin grin.
“Maybe there is,” Doak retorted. “If you’re so anxious to know, you go hunt around till you find somebody who c’n tell you. But not me. I’m not that curious. Besides, I can work up a sweat sittin’ still. I don’t hafta go out in the sun.”
The men and their prisoner neared a store with the word “Beer” splashed across its single window. A man with an apron around his waist appeared in the doorway. He waved to them and Doak gravely acknowledged him with a nod. He suddenly pulled up, and the others hastily stopped, too.
“S’matter?” Pete asked.
“Wanna ask Jess something,” Doak answered. “Hey, Jess! You see anything of Ed this morning?”
“Yeah, sure, Doak! Saw him a couple o’ times. He’s around somewhere.”
“Thanks, Jess. Hot awright, huh?”
“Hotter’n hell, if you ask me.”
“How’s it in your place?”
“Ain’t bad at all!” was the answer. “Fact is, Doak, an’ I’m not foolin’, but it’s even a little cool in here.”
“On the level?”
“Come in, an’ see for yourself. Guess that’s the best way, ain’t it?”
“Hey, Jess!” Pete called. “How’s the beer?”
“Cold,” Jess replied. “Just brought it up fr’m the cellar. Not more’n fifteen minutes ago.”
“What are we waitin’ for?” Carly wanted to know. He shoved his rifle down into his saddle boot, guided his horse up to the curb and climbed down from him. “What d’you say, Doak? You comin’?”
“What about Ed?” Doak countered. “What about findin’ him first? That was the idea, wasn’t it. Find him, an’ turn Smith over to him an’ then get ourselves some beer?”
“Yeah,” Carly admitted. “But Jess says he’s around. The door’s open. Standin’ at the bar we c’n keep an eye out for him, an’ if we see him go by, we can—
“Look,” Pete said, interrupting him, and Carly whose thirst was still mounting, frowned a bit. “You fellers go on inside. I’ll ride up the street, an’ find Ed an’ bring him back with me. Then he c’n take Smith off our hands, an’ we’ll be free.”
“Awright,” Doak said. He dismounted stiffly. “How ’bout it, Smith? Go a glass o’ cold beer?”
Dave shook his head.
“Come on,” Doak urged. “Don’t go spoilin’ things for us.” Pete wheeled away from them and rode up the street.
“Well?” Doak asked again. “We’re dyin’ of thirst. So be a good feller, will ya?”
“All right,” Dave answered. He dismounted and followed Carly across the sidewalk to Jess’ place while Doak fell in at Dave’s heels.
The saloon was shadowy and surprisingly pleasant. Jess was waiting for them behind the bar. He looked at each one eagerly. “Well?” he asked when he could not wait any longer. “I said it was nice an’ comfortable in here, didn’t I? I wasn’t lyin’, was I?”
“Nope,” Doak said, putting his foot on the rail. “It sure is nice in here. Three beers, Jess, an’ make ’em man-sized.”
The saloonkeeper was looking with interest a
t Dave, who was standing between Doak and Carly. “New hand, huh?” Jess asked.
“Around here, yeah,” Doak answered. “Name’s Smith, Johnny Smith.”
“Glad to know you, Smith,” Jess said. He offered his hand and Dave shook it. Then Jess busied himself. He put three tall, foamy glasses of beer on the bar.
“There y’are, boys,” he said. “Good beer, an’ it’s cold. Give it a home.”
The glasses were lifted.
“A home,” Doak and Carly chorused.
The glasses were drained and put down on the bar. Doak smacked his lips. “Good, awright,” he said. “Fill ’em up again, Jess, like a good feller.”
Doak turned away then and sauntered off to the dark rear. Dave heard a door slam. He stole a glance at Carly. The puncher had taken off his hat. He was mopping his face and head with a bandana when Dave lunged at him and struck him. Carly fell like a poled steer, and Dave whirled and bolted out of the place. He leaped across the walk to the curb, vaulted up on his horse, swung him around, lashed him and sent him pounding down the street. He heard a yell somewhere behind him, but he disregarded it and urged his mount on faster. He bent low against the horse’s neck, in case a shot were to follow the futile yell.
Only when he was out of town, did Dave raise himself up. He lashed the pounding animal, and he responded with a drumming burst of speed. Doak, and perhaps Carly, too, and possibly Pete, would be after him in short order. Hence his only chance lay in his ability to put distance between his pursuers and himself. Half a mile, three-quarters, a full mile, and suddenly Dave pulled back on the reins and brought his panting mount to a skidding stop. He stood up in the stirrups and looked back. There was no sign yet of his pursuers, and he was elated. His alertness had made up for his earlier carelessness.
Dave rode northward then. After a mile, he swung eastward in a wide circle with the town in the very middle of it He passed Stone City, wheeled around and rode back along the arc at a trot. He was deliberately holding back now, anxious to give his pursuers time to get riding. Minutes later, Stone City lay directly southward. He halted his horse, and gave him a chance to blow himself. Then he rode toward the town, cutting into it just below the far end of the street, through a yard that had no fence around it, into an alley that ran between two vacant buildings. He stopped shortly, about halfway up the alley, dismounted and left his horse. Hugging one building wall, he followed it upgrade to within a couple of strides of the street.
Dave’s eager eyes ranged away in search of Jess’ place. He found it almost at once. It was diagonally opposite the alley. The sight that met his eyes was anything but encouraging. There were four men standing together on the narrow sidewalk in front of the place: Doak, Pete, Jess and a fourth man who was big and swarthy, and whom Dave decided was Ed Fowler. Then a fifth man, Carly, holding a water-soaked piece of rag to his face, emerged, and the others turned to him.
Fowler moved toward Carly, pushed the rag away so that he could get a look at his face and berated him. Fowler was angry, all right; Dave could hear his voice even though he could not quite make out what he was saying. Then Doak said something, and Fowler answered, his angry voice booming. His words carried across the street to Dave. “Yeah, you’re the one I’m blamin’ for this mess!” Fowler raged. “You more’n them. You let that mangy kid talk you into believin’ he was somebody else instead of himself. An’ then what d’you do? You go off, an’ you leave him with Carly who ain’t even holdin’ a gun on him, so he hauls off an’ wallops Carly good an’ hightails it. Smith, my eye! His name’s Moore! Only thing that’s different about him now is that he got hold o’ some clothes. Well, all I’ve gotta tell you fellers is this: You found him once, so go find him again! Only don’t bring him back. I don’t wanna see him. Kill him right where you find him!”
“Nice, friendly feller, all right,” Dave muttered to himself. “Just full o’ brotherly love.”
But Fowler had not quite finished. “If you don’t find him,” he continued, “don’t any o’ you come back. Stay the hell away from me. I don’t want any part of any o’ you. In my book I’ve got you three fellers marked down as numbskulls. Show me that I’m wrong. Go on now. Get outta here. Get outta my sight!”
Doak and Pete walked to their horses, and Carly followed them. The three men climbed up on their mounts, wheeled away from the curb and rode off. Fowler and Jess followed them with their eyes. Fowler shook his head after they had gone and walked away. He crossed the street, to Dave’s side, and disappeared.
A minute or two later, as Dave watched, Fowler reappeared, astride his horse. He loped down the street. Jess, who was now standing in the doorway of his place, gave him a half salute as he came abreast of the saloon, but Fowler who was still glowering, did not acknowledge it. He jerked the reins, and his horse quickened his pace, breaking into a swift canter. Presently they were at the corner. In a stride they were out of town.
Dave breathed a deep sigh of relief. He took off his hat, wiped his beaded forehead and his sweaty face with his shirt sleeve. The next time he peered out, Jess’ doorway was empty.
* * * *
The double doors to Doc’s place were wide open, an invitation to whatever fresh air there was to invade the premises. Jake, the bartender, was sweeping the floor when Dave appeared in the doorway. He looked up when he saw Dave’s shadow fall across the threshold. “Hi, partner,” he called, recognizing Dave at once and coming forward to meet him.
“Hi, yourself, Jake.”
“Where’ve you been these last couple o’ days?”
Dave grinned. “Y’mean somebody’s been lookin’ for me?”
“Well, not exactly lookin’,” Jake replied. “Let’s say they were askin’ about you. That’s a nicer way o’ puttin’ it, huh? Friendlier.”
“Oh, I’ve been around,” Dave said casually. “Visiting here an’ there.”
Jake looked surprised. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “I didn’t know you knew ’nybody around these parts.”
“I don’t. That is, till I started meetin’ folks.”
“Uh-huh. Somethin’ you want, Moore?”
“Nope. Just got the idea I’d like to look around. You got any objections, Jake?”
“Nope, none,” Jake answered promptly. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Dave sniffed, and Jake grinned a little sheepishly. “Still stinks in here.”
“Don’t it though? A manure pile would smell sweeter,” Jake said. “Say, the sheriff know you’re back?”
“I don’t think so. Why d’you ask?”
“I was just wondering, that’s all,” Jake said.
“He one o’ those who’s been askin’ about me?”
“The sheriff? No. He don’t come in here any more than he has to. That stink gets him the minute he pokes his head inside the door so he stays out. Look, partner, you don’t mind if I go on with what I’m doin’, do you? I’d like to stand an’ chew the fat with you, but I’ve got a helluva lot to do this morning.”
“Forget I’m around,” Dave told him. “You go on with your work. I’ll look around like I said, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“You don’t hafta rush off though, do you?”
Dave smiled fleetingly. “I don’t believe in overstayin’ anywhere,” he answered. “Don’t like to wear out my welcome.” Dave turned away and Jake trudged to the shadowy rear of the saloon and continued with his sweeping. Tiny clouds of dust boiled up from his broom. Dave sauntered around idly. He looked back at Jake over his shoulder a couple of times, and each time he found Jake watching him. At first, the bartender got a bit flustered, but after that he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was watching Dave with deep interest rather than with idle curiosity.
“Just what are you lookin’ for, Moore?” Jake finally asked, leaning on his broom.
“Can’t tell yet, Jake,” Dave replied. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
Dave’s answer told Jake nothing, and he looked disappointed. He began to ply his
broom again and even turned his back on Dave. Faster and faster Jake swept the floor, furiously, in fact, at times, working his way forward to the doorway. He swept the threshold, and then he stepped outside and began to sweep off the sidewalk. Gradually, he inched his way past the doorway, out of range of Dave’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he slung the broom away and dashed down the street with his long apron whipping around his feet and threatening to trip him.
Dave hadn’t been taken in. He had been watching Jake even though the latter hadn’t been aware of it. The moment he saw Jake rush off, he bolted out of the saloon, whirled around the front of the building and darted into the alley alongside of it. He ran down its length to the back door and tried the knob. He cursed when it refused to open, but then his eyes ranged past it and lit on the cellar door. He ran to it, flung it open and pulled it shut over his head as he made his way down the short flight of stairs.
It was dark in the cellar, gloomily dark, and Dave stood motionless for a moment, seeking to accustom his sight to the darkness. He moved away from the stairs slowly, groping his way with his arms outthrust ahead of him. He bumped into a box, wheeled around it and promptly collided with a barrel that gave way before him. He dug in his pocket for a match, found one after a bit of a search and scratched it on his trouser leg. It flamed into light, flickered for an instant, and finally steadied itself.
The place was a storeroom for boxes, kegs and barrels. They were heaped all around, in disorder. He could see Jake’s hand in it. He probably opened the cellar door and simply slung whatever it was that he wanted to put in there. There was another stairway at the far end of the cellar, and with the dying matchlight to point the way, Dave fairly ploughed through the things that stood before him. He was a couple of strides from the stairway when the match went out. He groped his way to it. Quietly he went up the stairs. A minute later he was raising a trap door and peering into a room he had never expected to find in such a place.
It was an office, with wooden paneling instead of the usual wooden boards or white-washed walls so common to most stores and saloons. There was a heavy, elaborately carved desk and a matching armchair behind it. A couple of straight-backed chairs stood against the walls. There was a rug on the floor, a thick, lush rug of rich blue. There were two curtained windows, almost at right angles to each other. One faced the rear yard, while the other opened upon the alley. There was a door on Dave’s right, but for the moment it had no interest for him. What did interest him, though, was a small trap door high up in a far corner of the ceiling, about midway between the two windows.