The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Dave stepped into the office and quietly closed the door through which he had come. The thick-napped rug cushioned his steps as he crossed the office to the ladder. He went up the rungs to the very top one, twisted himself so that he could use his shoulder to force open the trap door, pushed hard, and the door eased open. It was dark above him. He pulled himself through the door and found himself astride a sturdy wooden beam. Half-turning, Dave was able to reach the trap door. He closed it quietly.

  There was light ahead of him, light that gradually became daylight as Dave inched his way along the beam until the office wall was behind him. When he looked down, he was startled. He was directly above the saloon. There was the open doorway with bright sunshine beyond it, sunshine, the sidewalk and the street. Well up ahead of him was the bar. Directly below him were tables with chairs pushed in close to them. He spotted Doc’s table; he sought and found the table at which the old-timers had been playing. Retracing, his gaze focused on Doc’s table. There, almost against the back wall, was the chair that Doc had occupied, and there, too, were the others’ chairs, Lee Fowler’s on the left and Bill Cox’ on the right.

  Sitting quietly, Dave studied Bill Cox’ chair. He nodded to himself grimly. Whoever had killed Cox had shot him from that very spot on the beam.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were quick footsteps just outside the saloon, and Dave turned his head and looked down toward the open doorway. Two figures appeared in it. One of them, with a broom in his hand, was Jake; the other one, a far bulkier man, was Sheriff Al Spencer. Dave drew up his dangling legs. Sitting in the shadows, high above the saloon and able to move farther back into even deeper darkness if the occasion demanded it, he was in the position of being able to see and hear everything below him without being detected. At a nod from Spencer, Jake stepped ahead of him, a foot or two inside the doorway while the sheriff straddled the threshold.

  “You’ve got company, Moore,” Jake called, trying to make his voice sound casual. “Got somebody here to see you.” When there was no response, Jake looked surprised. He moved closer to the bar, then along it to about the middle. “Hey, Moore!” he called again. “Where are you, partner?”

  Dave smiled thinly when he heard Jake call him partner. “That weasel,” he muttered a little scornfully.

  Jake shot a look over his shoulder at the sheriff. When the latter gestured, Jake moved toward the rear, stopping shortly among the tables. He leaned his broom against one of them, and when it slid off and toppled to the floor, he scowled at it. He walked among the tables, halting every now and then to back off a step or two and peer under one of them. Then, having completed a circuit of the tabled area, he turned and began to retrace his steps. He came up to the bar and stopped. Spencer looked at him mutely.

  “I don’t get it,” Jake said. “He was here a minute ago, lookin’ around.”

  Spencer gave Jake no help.

  “He couldn’t’ve gone very far in a minute, could he?”

  “What was to stop him fr’m boltin’ out of here when he saw you go rushin’ down the street to my place, huh?”

  Jake did not answer. Apparently he could not think of the right thing to say.

  Just then there was a step outside the doorway, and a burly man came up to it. The sheriff turned his head, and Dave saw that it was Ab Wight.

  The deputy appeared to be excited over something.

  “You wanna know something, Al?” he asked a little breathlessly.

  “Awright,” the sheriff answered. “What is it?”

  “I was just talkin’ to Joe Peters,” Dave heard Ab relate. Joe Peters? The name was familiar. Oh, yes, he was the undertaker. “Joe told me that Moore feller was around here. He was with three uv Ed Fowler’s hands; Doak Edwards, Pete Scott an’ Carly Williams. They went into Jess Crowder’s place, that is Moore, Edwards an’ Williams. Scott rode on up the street.”

  “Go on,” Spencer demanded.

  “Well, accordin’ to Joe,” Wight continued. “All uva sudden Moore came bustin’ out of Jess’ place, jumped on his horse an’ lit out like all hell was after him. Carly an’ Doak came runnin’ out, an’ Carly was bleedin’ around the nose an’ mouth like he’d been walloped.”

  “Moore was in here, too,” Spencer told his deputy.

  “I know,” Ab said quickly. “Joe told me he saw Moore come poppin’ out’ve an alley a little while ago. He couldn’t figure it out, ’specially since he’d seen Moore hightailin’ only a little while before that. Anyway, Joe showed me the alley, an’ there was a horse in it, a horse that was still steamin’ an’ blowin’ himself like he’d been doin’ some fast running. It was one of Ed Fowler’s horses. He was wearin’ Ed’s brand on him. Soon as I saw him, I hustled to tell you, but—”

  “Moore came in here an’ was lookin’ around,” Spencer said, interrupting him. “Jake slipped away to tell me, an’ I came back here with him. That musta been the time you came lookin’ for me.”

  “Where’s Moore now?”

  “That makes three of us askin’ the same question.”

  “Oh,” Ab said. “Got out before you got here, huh?”

  “Yeah, he must’ve,” Spencer said.

  “Hey, Al,” Jake said and the two lawmen looked in his direction. “You figger Moore came into town ridin’ that Fowler horse, right?”

  “Looks like it,” the sheriff said. “Why?”

  “Well, if that’s the case, an’ that horse is still where he was left, then it figgers Moore’s still around. Right?”

  Spencer grunted.

  “It seems to me your best bet would be f’r you fellers to keep an eye on the horse, an’ then when Moore shows back for him, then you c’n grab him.”

  “I left Joe Peters watchin’ in the alley,” Ab said.

  “Wait a minute,” Jake said. “Don’t go f’r a minute. I wanna have a look in the back room.”

  Jake didn’t wait for a response from Spencer; he wheeled around and went striding to the rear. He disappeared for a moment. When he returned he was shaking his head. “S’matter?” Spencer asked.

  “Back door’s locked, same as it was,” Jake informed him. “So that means he didn’t go out the back way.”

  “That’s a big help,” Spencer said dryly. He turned to Wight. “Come on, Ab. We’ll go take over for Peters. Maybe we’ll have the luck to run into Mister Moore when he gets tired of stayin’ around Stone City.”

  “Sorry, Al,” Jake said, moving after Spencer and Wight into the sunshine that streamed through the doorway.

  “Forget it,” the sheriff said over his shoulder as he followed his deputy out to the street.

  “Hey, Al!” Jake hollered as he reached the vacated doorway.

  “Yeah?” Dave heard Spencer answer although he could not see him. “S’matter?”

  “I just thought o’ something, Al,” Jake said. The sheriff returned to the saloon doorway. There was no sign of Wight. He had probably gone on, Dave decided, at Spencer’s direction, to the alley. “Al, I understand you’ve been worryin’ that Ed Fowler would get his hooks on Moore, an’ that he might kill him.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Aw, come on now, Al! I didn’t say anybody told me. How d’you know I didn’t happen to hear somebody tellin’ it to somebody else? Happens all the time at a bar. Bartenders get to hear a helluva lot o’ things, y’know.”

  “It wasn’t Ab who was doin’ the tellin’, was it?”

  “Ab?” Jake repeated. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Awright, Jake. Let’s forget that f’r now. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I was thinkin’, Al, if that was what you were worryin’ about, then how come Moore’s not only alive but hangin’ out with Ed’s hands? Kinda funny, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff admitted. “It is kinda funny.”

  “Makes me wonder now if Moore wasn’t in on Bill Cox’ killing after all. Y’know?”

  “I know,” Spencer answered, and his voice
was hard and grim.

  “Looks to me like the only way you’re ever gonna really find out is to make Moore talk. Maybe you were too easy with him when you had him. Maybe the next time you’ll—”

  “Jake, suppose you stick to your bartendin’, an’ leave the rest to me, huh?”

  “Hey, don’t go gettin’ me wrong, Al!” Jake said hastily. “I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do.”

  “You were doin’ a pretty good job of it,” Spencer said dryly.

  “But I didn’t mean to; Al, honest,” Jake said earnestly. “You oughta know me better’n that. I ain’t the kind that goes around tellin’ others what to do. Hell, I’ve got enough to do handlin’ my own job without tryin’ to horn in on somebody else’s.”

  “You always keep that in mind, Jake, an’ you’ll never get your face in trouble,” the sheriff told him. “Well, gotta be goin’. See you around.”

  “Yeah, sure, Al. I’m always on the job, y’know.”

  Spencer strode off. Jake stood in the doorway for a minute, then he stepped back inside, wheeled and trudged to the rear. He picked up his broom and continued sweeping. Dave watched him for a while from his lofty perch. Then he began to move backward along the beam. He reached the trap door, opened it, twisted around and got a footing on the ladder, closed the trap door over his head as he went down the rungs to the office floor. Silently he let himself out of the place through the back door.

  Dave stood for a moment, looking into the yard. It was badly littered, just as the cellar was. He suddenly remembered he had something clutched in his hand. He put it in his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap securely. He patted his pocket a couple of times, then he darted away. Minutes later he was creeping up to a vacant building, one of the two that flanked the alley in which he had left the Fowler horse. He stopped abruptly when he heard voices in the alley and flattened out against the building.

  “So just remember that the next time,” Dave heard a voice that he recognized as Spencer’s say. “A lawman keeps his ears open an’ his mouth shut.”

  “But I don’t remember sayin’ anything I shouldn’t’ve, Al,” a voice that was Ab Wight’s protested.

  “Then where did Jake get it fr’m? He didn’t dream it up, did he?”

  “I dunno,” Ab answered. “But I sure know this much. The next time I want a glass o’ beer, it won’t be in Doc’s place that I’ll get it. I’ll go somewheres else.”

  “Well, wherever you go, just remember what I told you. You do the listening. Let somebody else do the talkin’. Y’hear?”

  “I hear,” Ab said, and he sounded a little grumpy.

  There was a brief period of silence, then Spencer said: “I wish to hell that Moore would come along. I don’t like this waitin’ around.”

  “Me, neither,” Wight responded. “Hey, Al, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go lookin’ for Moore instead o’ waitin’ for him? He’s liable to decide to stay put wherever he is f’r an hour. If you were to take one side o’ the street an’ me the other, maybe we could flush him out between us. What d’you think?”

  “Why not? Anything’s better’n this waitin’ around.”

  “Which side you wanna take?”

  “Don’t make much difference one way or another,” Spencer replied. “They’re both the same.”

  “Suppose I go lookin’ for him across the street, an’ you stay on this side?”

  “Suits me,” the sheriff said. “Only if you do ketch up with him, Ab, don’t take any chances with him. Hold your gun on ’im.”

  “If I see him,” Wight said firmly. “He ain’t gonna get away from me.”

  Dave listened to their footsteps as the two officers tramped up the alley. After they had gone, he spun away from the building and dashed back through the yards, hurdling all objects that lay in his path. There was a wide assortment of crates and boxes, broken chairs, a sofa and an iron bedstead in his way. He skimmed over a couple of low fences that served no purpose other than to mark property lines, ducked low under a couple of clotheslines, just barely twisted away from a flour barrel that was filled with garbage and came panting up to the sheriff’s office. He recognized it by the lean-to. He skidded to a stop in front of the makeshift shelter and whipped back the canvas drop. The horse in the lean-to was his own, a roan mare named Flo. She whinnied softly, nuzzled him, and Dave patted her neck.

  “Glad to see me, huh, Flo? Believe me, baby, I’m sure glad to see you!”

  She nuzzled him again.

  “Y’know something, Flo? Couple o’ times there I thought I’d never see you again, but here we are together again. Just goes to show you, you never wanna quit on yourself. There’s always a chance.”

  The mare whinnied in agreement.

  “Come on, Flo. Let’s get outta here, baby.”

  Dave backed the mare out of the shelter, led her around to the alley through which Millie, Tom and Jed had ridden with him the night the two men had broken into Spencer’s place and captured him. He jabbed the saddle bags with a big finger; they felt as full as he had left them. He swung himself up on Flo’s back, settled himself and rode up the alley.

  Dave pulled up just inside the entrance and ranged a swift look around him. He caught a glimpse of Ab Wight going into a store across the street. He jerked the reins, and the mare plodded across the sidewalk and stepped down into the gutter. A whack of Dave’s open hand on Flo’s rump made the mare bound away. She drummed down the street at a swift pace. Just as they were nearing the corner, there was an angry yell behind them, and Dave, pulling back on the reins and slowing Flo momentarily, twisted around and looked back. Ab Wight was standing at the low curb, and he was shaking his fist at Dave. He yelled again, but Dave paid no further attention to him and clattered away.

  For a time Dave held his mount to the road, following it westward faithfully, but then, slowing Flo to a trot, he wheeled her off the road and into the grass that flanked it and loped southwestwardly. The Fowler hands were somewhere about, probably swinging back to the area where they had surprised him, Dave told himself. Since he was unarmed and, therefore, not too anxious to run into them again, he rode a little more westwardly.

  Mile after mile dropped away behind Dave. Flo was eager to run despite the heat, and he gave her her head. A grassy incline loomed up, and the mare’s flashing hoofs beat up its side. She stopped abruptly, stiffening, a dozen feet from the top, and Dave, raising his gaze, gulped and swallowed hard. Sitting his horse atop the slope and holding his rifle on him was a glowering, tight-mouthed Carly Williams.

  “Come on, Mister Moore,” Carly commanded. “Come on up here. I’ve been waitin’ for you, partner.”

  Dave could not think of anything appropriate to say. He nudged Flo, and she went on. Carly backed his mount as Flo topped the incline, but then the mare suddenly screamed and hurled herself at Carly. There was a sickening thud as the catapulted mare hurtled into Williams’ horse. The latter was taken completely by surprise and caught the full impact of Flo’s mad rush and was bowled over, pinning Carly beneath him. Screaming with pain, the animal struggled to his feet as Williams managed to kick free of the stirrups. But the horse’s left legs gave way beneath him, and he backed clumsily and fell again, squarely on top of Carly who was desperately trying to twist away from him. There was a muffled cry, but that was all. The horse threshed about a couple of times. Flo had done her job.

  Now, wheeling, she bolted away, tearing over the grass with the speed of wind. A rifle cracked, and a bullet whined by harmlessly and lost itself in flight. The rifle exploded a second time, and this time the lead slug ploughed a handful of grass and dirt a dozen feet ahead of Flo, and she swerved away from it and pounded on even faster than before. There was no halting nor even slowing the onrushing mare, and Dave made no attempt to interfere with her.

  After Flo had carried Dave a couple of miles away, he pulled back on the reins, and the mare obeyed and broke stride. Dave stood up in the stirrups and looked back. There was no sign now of the Fowler c
rew. He sank down again in the saddle and gave Flo a chance to blow herself. When she was ready she raised her head and trumpeted. He smiled and leaned forward, patted her and she trotted away.

  From time to time, Dave looked back, but there was no sign of anyone’s following him. The far-flung range appeared to be empty, save for Dave, himself. He halted a couple of times when Flo seemed to be wheezing louder than usual, but each time it was the mare herself who started off again of her own accord. Then, about an hour later, they came in sight of the fences that marked the boundary of the McKeon spread. Dave rode along it, looking for a break-through. He found one after a while, a three-foot wide gap in the fence, and he guided Flo up to it. She stopped and looked at it a little doubtfully. Then she turned her head and looked up at him.

  “Go on, now,” Dave told the animal. “You c’n make it through there with something to spare.”

  Flo wasn’t quite so confident, and she showed it. She hung back, still eying the opening. When Dave nudged her with his knees, she plodded ahead dutifully, sucking in her breath and her sides, and when she emerged on the other side of the fence, she stopped again, looked back and even shook her head. She went on again, first at a trot, then quickening her pace to a lope. Dave spotted a horseman coming toward him, and he wheeled to meet him. When they came closer, Dave saw that the man was Dobie Cantwell.

  “Hi, son,” Dobie called, giving him a half salute.

  “Hi,” Dave responded.

  They came together presently, and both eased back in the saddle.

  “How you doin’?” Dobie asked.